Poor Richard's Scorecard

Because Into Every Life a Little Change Must Fall

The freelance life is wonderful, full of flexibility and autonomy and hunkering down at cool coffee shops to work. It is also personally and professionally isolating. Not only does one spend large swaths of time alone; the nature of the work--project-specific and exceedingly tactical--is such that what one does often goes from one's laptop to the client and is never heard from again. For these reasons I made the difficult decision last year to return to in-house employment.

In Which the Author (Sort of) Explains His Absence

The last time we spoke, Cliff Lee was the Phillies' best pitcher, the Eagles were trying to find themselves, and Allen Iverson and Peter Laviolette were new in town. Much has happened since then, and not simply on the sporting scene, which is why things have been sparse around here lately. Details on that soon; the good news is that the new year will bring a renewed commitment to the kind of trenchant Philadelphia commentary you have come to know and love. Until then, Happy New Year! | PRS

What I'm Thankful For on the Fourth Thursday of November 2009

Happy Thanksgiving, all! In the spirit of the day, I'd like to pause among the eating, the drinking, the pecan pie, and the football games to offer a short list of things I'm thankful for:

Same Great Coverage, Now In More Places Than Ever!

Time for a little shifting around here at Poor Richard's Scorecard. Recently I became aware that Examiner.com, a national blogging network that's developing a presence in various regions around the country, was in need of Philadelphia sports bloggers. I applied and, lo and behold, they brought me on board. So for the foreseeable future I'll be posting most of my sports-related observations there, but linking to them here just to keep you aware of things. Non-sports posts examining the silliness we know as Philadelphia will continue to appear here.

Back Open for Business

Catching up on Philadelphia's busy week after returning from vacation

What the hell?

I go on vacation for just one week -- one goddamn week -- and the Phillies go in the tank, 3 cans Mendte, the Sixers draft a coaster, the Flyers resign a key young player, and Daulerio takes over Deadspin.

It's enough to make a guy want to stay home.

Until he remembers the taste of the lobster roll at the Sesuit Harbor Cafe, the view teeing off under the windmill at the Highlands in Truro, the sight of his daughters dipping their feet in Cape Cod Bay, the experience of actually reading, cover to cover, a work of fiction containing not one illustration, and the smell of the water while strolling through the lapping tide at 10 at night. And then he realizes that the world can go to hell in a handbasket so long as he can swig Smuttynose Shoals Pale Ale while cleaning up in the beach house's outdoor shower. | PRS

Welcome ... and Welcome Back

If you're here from Shallow Center or any other corner of the blogosphere, welcome. Poor Richard's Scorecard aims to be an ongoing conversation about that most exhilarating and maddening of cities, Philadelphia. In the spirit of Mr. Franklin, from whom this blog takes its name, I hope the conversation is an eclectic one, touching on any number of topics in and around 39 degrees, 57 minutes, 12 seconds north latitude, 75 degrees, 10 minutes, 12 seconds west longitude.

Join the conversation, won't youse? E-mail me (tom [at] tomdurso.com), leave comments here, or find me on Skype, AIM, or Yahoo! Messenger (screen name "twdurso" for all).

Talk with you soon. | PRS

Talk About the Passion

After five-plus weeks, a rekindled desire to find my voice

"You know you want it," she said, twirling her hair seductively while she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.

"No," I said with far more conviction than I felt. "No. I don't."

"Oh, please." She leaned in close, and I could feel her breath teasing my ear. "You've tried to quit me before, but you've come back every time. A week, two weeks ... more ..."

"Yeah, but this time it's been more than a month," I said weakly.

"Mmm-hmm," she purred. "So why are you talking to me tonight?"

I took a long slug of my drink, to buy time more than anything else. It didn't work.

"Because I miss you." It came out as a harsh-sounding whisper.

She smiled and tousled my hair. "Damn right," she said. "Damn right."

"I don't even have time to be with you," I spat. "I don't even know why I'm here."

"Time, schmime," she said. "You're a writer, sweetie. You write. And when you're not writing and there's serious shit happening -- the Phillies are farting crooked numbers every night, the mayor is hosting Sex and the City parties, the cops are realizing how shitty it is to be judged and punished without due process -- it's tough to find yourself sitting on the sidelines."

"Yeah. I ... miss it."

"Of course you do. Sounds like maybe you're looking for something new."

"Yeah," I repeated. "Something new ... The voices claiming to speak for the city and the region ... I think I can be one of them. I ... want to be one of them."

"Welcome back, slugger," she said. | PRS