Philly Blunt

Freelance writer. Editor and web-video producer. Former Atlantic City Press and Philadelphia Weekly staff writer, City Paper managing editor/columnist and Dougherty for Senate campaign manager. Comments welcome here or emailed to brianhickey9 [at] hotmail. Now on: Facebook (Brian Hickey, in Philly) Twitter at www.twitter.com/brianhickey Flickr at http://www.flickr.com/people/brianhickey/. Be sure to check out Hickey on Divorce Court: divorcecourting.blogspot.com.

28 January 2009

Don't Call it a Comeback

After all, this is only my blog and, well, there are about 815 previous posts on here, proving that, no, it's not all that difficult to keep up with.
But, it was a tad difficult to keep up with after a dirtbag hit-and-run driver left me for dead in the middle of the street, where I was walking to grab the PATCO High-Speedline back to Philly (ok, Krupa's) the night after Thanksgiving.
Now, I really don't remember 1) getting hit, or 2) being taken to Cooper Hospital where two pieces of my skull were extracted to let the swelling go down (I think) and I was placed into a coma to recover. But, and just skip ahead if you've heard this all before since news of the dirtbag hit-and-run driver made just about every newspaper and TV station in the Illadel, I do remember just about everything since the coma.
The pain of being in a near-death situation.
The recovery after clinging to life like there could be no tomorrow.
And the looking forward to getting back to full force so I can help the police track down the coward who did this to me and my family yet didn't have the gumption to man up to what he'd done.


Rego took this picture after the media home-run contest at Citizens Bank Park the year before the Phils were champs. Suffice it to say, I didn't hit any homeruns.

Through my recovery, I didn't let anger get in the way, figuring it'd only serve to undermine myself. But in the time since I've been home, I'm left to wonder what kind of savage can live with himself, knowing he almost made my wife a widow and my father have to bury a son almost three years to the day after we buried my mom.
Make no mistake about it if you're reading this, dirtbag: A lot of people are looking for you. You might just want to make things easier on yourself by turning yourself in. After all, they can't get you on DUI charges anymore. And besides, PATCO is so friggin' inept that they don't even have cameras that would show you staggering from their silver-bullet train to your car in the parking lot. (I think I speak for a lot of people when I say, "PATCO, you should also be ashamed of yourselves. And if I find out you could have made this mystery easier for the cops to clear, well, I hope you have a good lawyer."

Enough ranting for now. I can feel my brain trying to creep through those skull holes anytime I get too angry. (Ok, maybe not)
But the point of me getting back into the swing of blogging was 1) to start sharpening my smarts and 2) to acknowledge the passing of one of my favorite story subjects, 93-year-old Lillian P. Willoughby.
You see, Lillian was an ex-con. I covered her and fellow Grannies Against the War getting arrested after a 2006 sit-in at the Broad Street military recruiting station.



And Lillian, a Quaker, got right on into an unmarked police car and hauled off to a West Philly precinct house for booking. All the grannies were badasses that day, but none more than Lillian, who died Jan. 15, the day before I was released from the hospital. The world's a much better place for her having been on it for more than nine decades!

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