Grip the raven lives in a glass case on the third floor of the Central Branch of the Library. Grip got his name from Charles Dickens, who raised him as a family pet and taught him to say, among other things, "Keep Up Your Spirits," "Grip the Knowing" and "Never Say Die." When he died, Dickens had him stuffed for his mantelpiece, and immortalized him as a character in Barnaby Rudge. When Dickens died, Grip was sold at auction and eventually ended up in the hands of Edgar Allan Poe, who used him as a model for the raven who quothed "Nevermore, Lenore." Grip can be seen by appointment at the Philadelphia Library Special Collections. Rumor has it he'll be the guest of honor at this November's Borrower's Ball fundraising event. Nevermore, my ass.

Dear Sammy Hagar,

I have to admit I'm not much of a fan of your music, but I am totally obsessed with your tequila! For years I had been trying to stomach that drain cleaner Jose Cuervo puts out (by the way, I bet he can drive 55) just to find the fastest route to oblivion. But I realize now that 100-percent pure agave makes all the difference and that the cheaper tequila has some kind of chemical that only approximates the flavor and causes that unpleasant burn. Your Cabo Wabo tequila, however, is smoovelation: When I mix it with a little peach Fresca and sit back for an hour's worth of Judge Judy, I am in blue agave heaven.

Provincetown, my own seaside hideaway at the end of Cape Cod, with its drag queens on skate boards hawking nightly performances to an endless parade of ice cream-toting humanity, is my own Amarcord, with its village characters every bit as odd, marvelous and unbelievable as those in Fellini's best, movies without name actors or fancy soundtracks. Here the silver light graces a town as defiant of gravity as any Fellini village, where the town council continues to approve nuclear free resolutions, and the world and its problems are not nearly as pressing as finding mules and a matching dress that can fit a tall man of mid-life girth trying to be fabulous for a late summer cocktail.

Confession: I still watch ER. When Dr. Green died of a brain tumor several seasons ago, I assumed it was all downhill from there. But no! Soon after, prick-surgeon Dr. Romano had his freakin' ARM SAWED OFF by a hospital helicopter! And then he crushed to death by same helicopter the next season! But that's not all! ER left us hanging last Spring: After the umpteenth shoot-em-up in that cursed waiting room, poor Dr. Abby reaches between her preggo legs, pulls out a bloody paw and slowly slides down the wall just in eye-shot of gorgeous Luka who is, now get this, TIED TO A GURNEY WITH A VENTILATOR TUBE SHOVED DOWN HIS THROAT so he can neither speak nor move but watch the horror outside his window. Now that's dramedy!