Longreads

[Not single-page] A visit to one of Philly's most iconic summer camps:

"White’s runner arrived at the stage first, and Tyler, a Villanova bunk member who’d been watching older campers do this for years, thrust his face into the dessert topping. A chant rose: 'Eat that pie! Eat that pie!' About five minutes into the munch, the inevitable happened. Tyler lurched a little, and a burst of purple mud seeped out of his mouth, back onto the pie plate.

"I had been told that regurgitation wouldn’t end a pie-eating effort. I never imagined this rule would come into play, that one young man would have to make the ultimate sacrifice for his team. There have been legendary moments in the annals of Philadelphia sports: Chamberlain’s 100-point game, the Flyers’ 1974 Cup championship. I’ll spare the details, but Tyler cleaned his plate first. He won the Apache Relay. His teammates mobbed the stage. Someone shouted 'That’s how to get it done!' and slapped him on the back. Younger boys gaped in awe. Someday, they dared to dream, that’s gonna be me."

With his NBA career over, his marriage in trouble, and rumors swirling about drinking and money problems, the greatest Sixer of his era finds himself playing minor-league basketball in Turkey and spending his nights at a T.G.I. Friday’s in Istanbul. Isn't it, weirdly, exactly how we always thought it would end for Allen Iverson?

He was one of the most colorful characters in the history of the Philly mob — a charming killer who tangled with two Mafia bosses, survived three gunshots to the head, and suffered through the revenge murder of his own brother. Then he went into the Federal Witness-Protection Program — and built a new life for himself that may have been even crazier than his first one.

More than two decades ago, Buzz Bissinger won a Pulitzer writing for the Inquirer, then published his masterpiece, Friday Night Lights. Now he’s rich, and famous. So why is he back at the Inky as a columnist — and why is he so mad?

In 2004, 244 corpses supposedly destined for cremation at a Philadelphia funeral home were hacked apart, their organs and tissue sold for transplantation. It's a gruesome story of betrayal, for both the grieving families and the unwitting recipients of diseased body parts.

Our latest exclusive comes from Sabrina Rubin Erdely, a writer for Rolling Stone. "When Your Therapist Drives You Crazy," first published in 2002 for Philadelphia magazine, is about a woman who enters marriage counseling—but ends up consumed by something much bigger.

"The vibe at Genesis was equally informal and New Agey, from the burbling waterfall machine to the framed inspirational poems, including one that read 'Feel…Feel…Feel….' Even the practice's logo was touchy-feely: two overlapping hearts with a butterfly perched on top. Still, Mansmann didn't seem flaky, and Carol noted with relief that the therapist and John quickly developed a good rapport. Mansmann explained that Genesis Associates—consisting of herself and another therapist, Pat Neuhausel—was a cutting-edge practice with a uniquely holistic outlook. (Both Mansmann and Neuhausel declined to be interviewed.) Its program was so effective, Mansmann added, that clients tended to show rapid improvements.

"'How long do you think it would take us?' Carol inquired.

"'About thirteen months,' Mansmann answered immediately, according to Carol.

"She was surprised at the precision of the reply. 'Thirteen months?'

"'That's how long our program is,' she says Mansmann affirmed. 'Unless you were to come up with something else. Like, maybe, incest.'"

Originally published as "Lips Gets Smacked" in the January 1993 issue of Philadelphia Magazine and later anthologized in The Best American Sports Writing 1994. "It's Lenny F-ing Dykstra. What a mouth on this guy — not just the utterances that pass through it, but the actual physical mouth. Never closed, even when its owner is ruminative or silent, it is the control center for heavy traffic. Things go in (filtered tips of cigarettes and clear liquids and fingers, one or two at a time) and things come out (a stream of profanity and filtered tips and gusts of smoke and fingers and a tongue). His tongue loves his lips. You can't blame it. They are fine lips, bountiful, shapely, ideal for pursing or pouting."