Raging Against the Sky

"Daddy, why are skyscrapers only downtown?"

by Duane Swierczynski

The other day I was browsing at Borders and picked up a book on impulse: The Planning of Center City Philadelphia.

Wow, I thought. We used to do that around here?

Indeed we did. The slim paperback is broken down into eras, from William Penn's original grid plan, through the dawn of the 20th century and the "Decade of Big Ideas" (1920 to 1930, in case you were wondering) until finally the Ed Bacon era and our modern era, "Economic Development to the Forefront (1980-2007)."

Or as I like to call it, "Nearly Three Decades of Absolutely No Idea."

But I'll get to that in a minute. The book is a nice little history-nerd trip through the last two centuries, and reveals why stuff downtown is the way it is. And even weirder, shows you some of the things that could have been. For instance, in 1924, architect Paul Philippe Cret proposed tearing down City Hall, leaving only the tower remaining. There's an illustration of what could have been, and it makes the tower look like a huge raging boner, screaming at the city: YES, I RULE THEM ALL.

Still, you have to admire even radical ideas like these ... because at least it was a plan. As the book admits, city planning was more or less abandoned by city government in the 1970s.

You can see it all around the city. Things go up without much thought. Like, say, the Comcast Center. Go ahead, drive down the Schuylkill Expressway and take a gander. Its tower is tucked in so close to the Bell Atlantic Building, it's like two sophomores at a high school dance. And there ain't no room for the Holy Spirit.

From other vantage points, it's not much better. In fact, it's kind of like Cret's Raging Boner all over again, telling us: YES, THEY MUST COME TO ME FOR BASIC CABLE, ALL OF THEM. MUAH HA HAAAA.

I drove down JFK, right in front of the tower, two weeks ago with my son. He asked, "Daddy, why are skyscrapers only downtown?"

I was ready to say, Well, that's the idea behind zoning. People agree to only build skyscrapers where they'll look right so the city will always look cool.

Then I caught myself.

Hey, I'm not going to lie to the kid.

The Accidental Pet

Editor's note: We suffered a loss here at CP the other day, so let me turn the column over to Patrick Rapa, who offered up this requiem.

I found a Web site that says a goldfish can live up to 30 years, but you'll have to trust me when I say that while Fishtopher lasted nowhere near that long, he far outlived expectations. About two and a half years ago, he — if he was a he — was dropped off in City Paper's lobby around 6 one Friday evening. He was found on the floor, in a bag of water and accompanied by a press release for something called Finding Nemo on Ice. Now, it was probably the unlikelihood that CP would give a crap about such an event that made us the last stop on some poor intern's crosstown fish-delivery rounds that day. But still, somebody figured, might as well give City Paper a fish anyway. If they find a dead fish in a bag in their lobby on Monday morning, so be it.

So that evening, a couple of editors who hadn't yet scurried across the street to the Khyber for happy hour, discovered the hapless fish and took him in. Soon Fishtopher had a name, and was given a place of honor at the far end of the conference room. Food was purchased, a proper aquarium was acquired, a calendar was hung to ensure regular feedings (though he often went hungry on weekends). At one time or another, we all talked to him. He was an idiosyncratic fish, whose odd behavior (like picking random days to swim sideways, or just sitting there with his face buried in the plastic plant) amused and frightened us every once in awhile.

Anyway, Fishtopher died this past Monday after a short bout with an apparently common disease called ick. A small gaggle of us said goodbye and flushed him down the toilet. He was a good fish. So long, Fishtopher.

—Patrick Rapa