iPhones: The costs of our gadget addiction

July 15, 2007
Tom Ferrick Jr.
For The Inquirer

To: My Diary

From: Street

Re: My Week

I waited for days for Joe Grace, my PR factotum, to return from vacation. Finally, I heard him knocking at my office door.

I say, sweetly: Come in!

In he comes, takes a chair and says: I just wanted to catch up. How did . . . Oh, look, I see you got an iPhone. Cool.

I reply calmly: Oh yes. It cost me $643.27, but it's worth it.

Grace says: And how did my PR idea work out? You know, you get in line with the hoi polloi on the first day the iPhone goes on sale. It draws a lot of reporters. You are touted as the with-it, techno-savvy mayor who is also just a regular guy.

I reply, gently: Oh, it drew a lot of reporters.

Grace says: I knew it! They can't resist that stuff. I saw some of the national coverage, and it was great. What about the local media? Did it get big play?

I say: Oh, yes, indeedy, it got a lot of play.

Grace says: Mr. Mayor, it proves my point. You reach out, you do these media events, and you'll reshape your image.

I respond: Oh, it got reshaped all right.

I hold up copies of the papers and read the headlines: "Street Fiddles While Philly Burns." "Clueless Street Lost in iPhone Line." "Mayor Marks Time While Murder Rate Climbs."

Grace says: My gosh, it backfired!

I say: Speaking of fired ...

Suddenly, I hear a voice that says: You can't fire him, Street.

It is Joyce Wilkerson, my chief of staff, who has entered, imparting her usual overdose of candor.

I inquire: And, pray tell, why not?

She says: Because your image is of your making, not Joe's. Look at what you did at that iPhone event: left and had a police officer hold your place.

I defend myself: But, I didn't want to lose my place in line.

Wilkerson says: Mr. Mayor, I must say, you never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity. You are going to have to think of something else to get publicity.

I suggest: How about I name Milton managing director?

She says: I was thinking of good publicity.

I say, reflectively: You are right. Each day I can feel my power ebbing, the limelight fading. There isn't much time left to remake my image. I want to be seen as benign. I want to be thought of as kind. I want to be embraced as a good guy.

Grace says: Mr. Mayor, I'm a public relations guy, not St. Jude.

I say: This St. Jude guy, is he related in any way to Tommy St. Hill?

Grace says: No, he's the patron saint of hopeless causes.

I reply: How amusing! Joyce, take him out back and shoot him.

Wilkerson: Hold on, Mr. Mayor. If you want to do an image shift, you are going to have to work at it, and Joe's good at thinking up ideas, aren't you Joe?

Grace: Right, of course. How about this? Get on a pair of bathing trunks, go to a city pool, and dive in the water with a bunch of kids. Rendell did it, and people loved it.

I say: Now we are getting somewhere. Joyce, buy me some trunks.

Wilkerson says: Hold on. As you may recall, Mr. Mayor, you've proposed closing down a lot of the city swimming pools. And you are going to do a PR event at one? What are you going to say as you jump in: Enjoy yourself while you can kids . . . because I'm closing this sucker.

I ponder and reply: Hmm. A beautiful idea destroyed by ugly little facts.

Grace says: How about this? Nutter is getting a lot of great publicity. You bask in his reflection. Hold a joint news conference. You praise him. He praises you. The jackals in the media will lap it up.

I respond: Two problems with that, Grace. One: I hate Mr. Na Na Smarty Pants Michael Nutter. Two, he won't return my phone calls.

Wilkerson says: You just can't call him and summon him forth. You have to give him a peace offering. Something that shows you are sincere about mending fences.

I ask: Why are you looking at my iPhone that way?

Wilkerson says: Mr. Mayor, give it to me.

I yell: No! I'm not going to give my iPhone to Michael Nutter! It's mine! I stood in line . . . I . . . I . . .

Wilkerson says: Mr. Mayor, you've got to do what you've got to do. Now, give it to me.

I scream: No! It's mine, mine, mine!

Wilkerson says: Joe, you hold him, I'll grab it from him.

And they advance on me.

I will draw the curtain on what happened next, dear diary. It is too sad for words.

Sigh.