[media-credit name=" " align="alignright" width="273"][/media-credit]The front page of the November issue of One Step Away contains a number of accounts about the meaning of Thanksgiving.
The interior of Jody Pollock, Connie Sung, Adrienne Warrell and Harrison Haas’s house in Northern Liberties is fairly typical for recent college graduates.
Four bikes lean against the wall in the dining room.
One Citizens Bank Way is quiet at 7:55 a.m. The door marked “Administrative Office” is locked. In 12 hours the 43,647 blue bleacher seats will be teeming with enthusiastic fans; the broadcast booth and newsroom will be abuzz; the dugouts and bullpens will be filled with pinstriped players and all attention will be focused on the diamond under the currently unlit lights.
The effect is best at dusk, when dramatic floodlighting tranforms the scene in the second story louver window from “display” to “spectacle.” A huge reproduction of one of Andy Warhol’s Marilyns gazes, with sultry nonchalance, out toward the South Street tourists.
You’ve been here a few weeks, freshmen, but don’t get comfortable. That only leads to a routine of weekly Smoke’s and Kappa Whatever visits when there are a million more things to do around Penn and Philly.
It’s 3 p.m. at Mighty Writers and everyone is in motion. Two eighth grade boys are hunched over a computer, fighting over which Pandora station to play.
Our generation as a tendency toward the superlative. You’re taking the stupidest class, your trip was the amazingest vacation ever, and that eager beaver in your seminar is just the worst. Half of us posed for Most Likely to Succeed in our yearbooks when all we really wanted to win was Hottest Hottie.
"A battle cry fills Clark Park."
“WHAT’S THE GREATEST HONOR?” shouts one man, holding a pair of black foam daggers.
“DYING WELL!” replies a group of sixty soldiers.
They split into two teams and retreat to opposite ends of the park.