By Alex MulcahyMy pockets are empty. I am free. I have, at least briefly, escaped modern life.It wasn’t easy. I’m on vacation, writing you from Camp Common Ground in Vermont.It’s a 400-mile trip, an especially long one when made with a 6-year-old and a 3-year-old. There are stops at gas stations, where my children pluck
MoreI’m pleased to announce that Grid reached its goal of 500 subscribers by June 30. Woo-hoo! On behalf of everyone who works on Grid, I’d like to express our sincere and complete gratitude for the support. So many people coming out of the woodwork in our hour of need. I’m speechless. This is a great
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By Alex MulcahyWe can all breathe a sigh of relief upon hearing the news that the Philadelphia Energy Solutions refinery in Southwest Philly will be closing. And after we exhale, it might finally be safe to inhale again, too. Make no mistake, this is a huge victory for the residents of Philadelphia. PES has been
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Every day when I bike home from work, I pause at the corner of 11th and Spruce and look at the all-white "ghost" bike placed there to memorialize Emily Fredericks, who lost her life while biking at that intersection. It's a place where I momentarily reflect on the fragility of life and remind myself not
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There are few tasks I will dodge more willingly than cleaning out an empty peanut butter jar. It’s tedious and yucky, and I don’t want to do it. Yet when it’s time (or maybe a day or two later) I grab a butter knife and sponge, and scrub the bottom and the sides of the
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Several days ago, our neighbors gave birth to a baby girl. My wife and I were discussing our newest and tiniest neighbor with our three year-old daughter, who suggested that we should bring a gift. “We could give her one of our books that we don’t like,” she suggested. Her unguarded offer, at once both generous
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It was a few hours after a meeting with Grid contributor Constance Garcia-Barrio that I had a realization that startled me. Her hand, the same one I had shaken earlier in the day, had been touched by someone who was born a slave. Our handshake connected me to Constance’s great-grandmother, Rose Wilson Ware, born around
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I came to publishing magazines as a result of the intersection of three personality traits. First, I love to share things that excite me. I get that from my dad, who is always pushing something, using hyperbole to describe a horseradish sauce, a sugar cookie or a TV show. He doesn’t rest until he’s cornered
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There are two letters from readers sitting on my desk, each one tugging at me, competing for my mood and mindset. I may be an optimist, but I’ll start with the more negative of the two. It comes from a reader in Oreland, a response to editor’s notes I had written about the ill-conceived idea
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Around 20 years ago, I was in San Francisco, attending a music conference as a publisher of magazines for independent record stores. The music industry was awash in money, and Warner Bros. was famous for throwing the most decadent parties. This particular year, they had rented the entire island of Alcatraz, the infamous prison, and
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