For the first time in the 14 or so years I've lived in the city, I planted a tiny vegetable garden.

It was odd, as we all stood there, sort of amazed and sort of befuddled. "The neighborhood is changing," said someone glumly. "Good thing grandma didn't pick this weekend to visit," laughed another.

In Prism is part comeback and part unified field theory for a sound born of two restless guitarists who met in a college Spanish class.

Sure, this one was a wee little guy, but the first thing they teach you about bears is that where there's a little one, there's probably a big protective one lurking. They also teach you to not surprise bears and to accomplish this by making a lot of noise. So we started whistling "76 Trombones" (just popped into my head) and marched off to eat dinner.

Don't lump in The Most Serene Republic with Arcade Fire, Stars and Broken Social Scene and then call it a day.

Sept. 6 is the day, should organizers have their way, that hundreds of Philadelphians will shed their clothes and bike naked through the city streets.

If it's a formula, it's a weird one, and one that Krug's managed to keep fresh because manic hysteria is rarely boring.

"People in cars are promised everything and they get less than ever. Car ads promise you high speed, easy parking spaces, nothing ever in your path. The reality is that in Center City, driving a car is just a stupid thing to do most of the time."

That it took me years to make the decision speaks to the level to which television — and 24-hour access to hundreds of crappy channels, news, entertainment and otherwise — had infiltrated my life.