Brilladelphia - Animals Reacting to Farts

Yes, I AM ten years old. But, if you think about it, so are you. So go ahead and check out the rest of the collection at Urlesque. No one will know.

Footing the Billadelphia - A Word, If I May.

I'd just like to talk for a second about Eric Brooks from Bryn Mawr, PA, and the AIG bonus fiasco. Earlier today, I moseyed over to the NYTimes' site, as I usually do at the beginning of my shift in an effort to not slip completely into blissfully ignorant oblivion (emphasis on completely). I had just been spouting off to my roommate about how I thought the recent vote for a 90% tax on the AIG bonuses is both amazing and hilarious. Amazing, you know, politically, because frankly the idea that millions of dollars of taxpayer-funded bailout money was going straight from our pockets into the pockets of the executives who helped cause this recession is A F*CKING OBSCENITY, but also just amazingly hilarious.

So naturally I had to check out today's Letters "An Overreaction to A.I.G. Bonuses?"

Now let's take a moment, just a little momentito here to talk about some of the opinions expressed. Because I can accept that some might consider the vote a vindictive waste of time when there are, arguably, more important matters to attend to. Personally, I'm of the belief that vindication is almost never a waste of time, but hey, I can respect the opinions of others in this domain.

I also don't see how the government reclaiming millions of dollars of taxpayers' money intended to alleviate the recession from the hands of private citizens is a waste of time, but whatever. That's not what I'm here to talk about. I'm here to talk about the letter written by Eric Brooks, winner of the First-Ever Adelphia Stories Exclusive "Tw*twaffle of the Week Award."

Presenting Eric's letter:

To the Editor:

The bill to tax A.I.G. employees is indicative of the venom and frustration felt by many Americans. But A.I.G. entered into legally enforceable contracts with individuals who have not been convicted, or even charged, with wrongdoing. Years from now, history will view this extraordinary act as similar to the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II and the Salem witch trials, an embarrassment to our great nation. Many of us support today’s government-led mob. But who among us will be tomorrow’s witch?

Eric Brooks
Bryn Mawr, Pa., March 20, 2009

Still not perturbed? Let's review, shall we?

...history will view this extraordinary act as similar to the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II and the Salem witch trials...

So, if we try to place ourselves in the mind of Eric Brooks, then...not allowing corporate executives to use federal funds as personal bonuses...is the same as imprisoning people based on their nationality...is the same as burning women alive.

And it kind of makes me feel like this.


I just..I have no words. What does one say to such a comparison? How does one process that? Moreover, how is one to get the head-explodey stains out of the carpet? It's all over.

So, congratulations, Eric Brooks, for earning the honor of being Adelphia Stories' very first Tw*twaffle of the Week. Thanks to you, I can never read the NYTimes again.

Swilladelphia - Happy St. Patty's Day

This post has nothing to do with alcohol, really, but what is St. Patty's Day if not an occasion to throw around Irish stereotypes? It's also a great time to be a WASP frat boy who appropriates Irish national pride in order to justify getting sh*tfaced before lunch. Ironically, it's not really a great time to be Irish.

Ahh, St. Patty's Day. That magical time of year when the sweet scent of privilege on Penn's campus is transformed into the acrid reek of partially-digested beer. A time for playing "Spot the Lush" or starting one of those "March Madness" pools to see which wasted Wawa patron will hurl in the bagel basket.

Personally, to honor the day I will be spending tomorrow slurping up bowlfuls of delicious corned beef and cabbage (which is hands-down the best thing about St. Patty's Day, for the record). For now, I just thought since we're on the subject that we could use this opportunity to review, in photo essay form, the varying definitions of Irish national pride in America versus Ireland. Shall we?

(Images courtesy of philly.com's article on the rioting in Northern Ireland and Google image search, i.e. equally reputable news sources.)

America:




Ireland:




America:




Ireland:




Do you need another one? All right.

Ireland:




Annnnnnnd America:




You're welcome. So on this auspicious weekend, let's give a shout out to those whose cultural values include staying strong in the struggle against occupation. Erin Go Bragh!

Brilladelphia - Barbie L Word

In case you hadn't heard, one of television's great abortions, The L Word, has recently ended its reign of terror. And in case I haven't made it clear, I hate that show. Hate. It makes me want to keep a stock of ipecac in my pocket so that I can spontaneously projectile vomit at the mere mention of the show, just to make a point.

Because it is that godawful. Rather than ramble on in an anti-L-Word rampage, let me just share this video. After watching the first season of the show, which merely foreshadowed the suckage sh*tstorm that was to come, a friend and I decided we clearly needed to make an L-Word parody using only dolls.

Well, being much more about sh*t talking than about action, we didn't. But these folks did. And it is amazing. And if you're still wondering what could have formed the smoldering turd of my hatred for The L Word, you need only watch the video to understand. Because, my friends, watching this video...

is exactly like watching an episode of The L Word. And just as NSFW.



Now imagine it with more melodrama, whinier actors, and less script, and you'll pretty much get my drift.

Footing the Billadelphia - Trash Tax

Do we even need to talk about this? Because I'd rather not. By now I'm sure you've heard about the city's (thankfully) ditched idea to start charging residents to have their trash collected, but if you haven't Ronnie P's Tuesday column in the Daily News pretty much sums up the head-explodey.

I was under the impression that all those city taxes I pay were supporting my weekly trash collection. And a per-bag fee? Are you KIDDING me? Because it isn't bad enough my dumb-ass neighbor left A COUCH ON MY STOOP for 2 weeks until I finally had to put it out with the trash myself?

Okay, who even does that? If you had a spare couch you needed to get rid of, would your first thought be to just push it up against your next door neighbors' house and forget about it? Anybody? Anybody. Seriously.

Oh, the little joys of living in the city. But anyway, re: the mayor's latest dumbass idea, here are a couple things I'm not even going to bother discussing, that's how painfully obvious it is that a trash fee is ridiculous:

1) The city doesn't provide sanitation services good enough that I would pay for them even if I didn't get them for free in the first place. (How about collecting trash TWICE a week in a city with more than a million people? I mean, they JUST started collecting recyclables once a week, so after 2 years my kitchen will finally not be overflowing with soda and wine bottles for 10 days at a time. Why don't you focus on providing a service that anyone in their right mind would ever choose to pay for?)
2) The already-rampant illegal dumping problems in Philly. (Because a trash tax is bound to improve THAT whole situation.)

All right, so I discussed them a little. It's 7am and I've been awake for 4 hours, so don't hold me responsible for anything I say. In fact, you should probably just follow that rule in general. Less zombie-like posts to follow. But in conclusion:

Dear Next Door Neighbor,

A couch? On my stoop? For two weeks? Are you kidding me? Are you f*cking kidding me.

Sincerely,

Don Bito

P.S. I will smash your face into a jelly.

Thrilladelphia Throwback - Plain Old City Living

The following is an excerpt from a personal blog entry I wrote at the beginning of the year. The tension between my high-octane wanderlust and my codependent relationship with Philadelphia is a favorite topic of mine. Every once in a while I indulge my nostalgia and egomania and read through past blog entries like an old journal, and I thought this one might be worth sharing. Please feel free to append your own love/hate moments with our fair city.

it's funny living in the city. sometimes you feel like it's beating the shit out of you, days coming down on you like fists, hunching lower and lower trying to stay conscious, sane, something.

thoughts of escape only come at night. you remember the last time you left, that dry summer day, and the euphoria of feeling the gears shift with the skyline in your rear view, the marlboro 100s you bought that day to keep you busy while you sat in traffic outside of DC listening to "man in the mirror." remember that sunny balcony in south carolina, the leather couch, sleeping late into the day and listening to ABBA's "take a chance on me" when you woke up. eating spinach and tofu for breakfast, watching arrested development on your friend's laptop in front of the fireplace.

you remember the little pool in the sun and the shady lounge chairs and reading sonia sanchez and floating there for hours a day. the beach in savannah with the killer jellyfish, grey goose pear and tonics and pool tables and broke-ass bars and the big gay boy with the blue striped shirt who could pop it, lock it and drop it.

but mostly you remember the giddy feeling of seeing your own Philly skyline over the horizon again at the end of it all.

you've got a sick symbiotic bond with this cruel lover, full of an uncrackable mystique. you keep going back because it's splitting you open wondering what she's still withholding from you after all these years. the swelling inside you knowing that she's hiding someone from you in the basement of a dark bar, luring you in and out of her twisted alleyways with a promise on a string, a dollar, a whisper, a puff of smoke. you return and she's raining down on you, flakes of ash and shattered glass.

that's what it was, you realize, the force that pried open your lungs and your mouth on your rooftop that first night, under the full moon, on top of your world and wailing.

Eat Your Filladelphia - Royal Tavern

Like grocery shopping, writing this blog is something I probably shouldn't be doing on an empty stomach. Then again, perusing the NYTimes' Dining & Wine section is probably not something I should do to comfort myself when I forget to bring lunch to work. But such are the complexities of being Don Bito.


Complexities like this.

And so it is with all the vigor and gusto of a menial office-worker waiting out an interminable shift so that she can get the eff home and microwave her leftover broccoli and meatball pizza that I bring you this blog. Shall we call it a review? That probably requires a more objective opinion. And I have very little use for such things. In the interest of honesty, let us instead call this "an ode to Royal Tavern."

Oh, Royal Tavern.

The first time I visited Royal Tavern I was, shall we say, not sober, and starving. A friend of mine, a culinary connoisseur in her own mind, was carting us to South Philly in her gray Volvo asswagon, listing in mouth-watering detail every single ingredient in Royal Tavern's nachos. Every. single. ingredient.

And while this trip would have been memorable for the sole reason that it was the first time I was prepared to eat upholstery, even more amazing was that these nachos lived up to every luscious image my friend had conjured in my mind.

To stroll through Royal Tavern's heavy wooden doors is to stumble into Nacho Shangri-La. As you find a seat among the candlelit mahogany tables, your eyes begin to dart this way and that, anxious to catch a glimpse of those nachos, just for a moment, though they be destined for the table of another. You attempt to distract yourself by poring over the impressive beer list, but to no avail. The apparition of nachos lingers even as you order yourself a rich, local draught.

And then the moment arrives. The glow of the little colored lights positively gleams off of the cheesy peaks. Before you is a mound of nachos bigger than your head. At the summit sit glorious dollops of guacamole and sour cream. Fresh pico de gallo, crisp shredded lettuce and sliced jalapeno abound. But it isn't until you dig in that you realize the true magic of this magic mountain: the perfect marriage of soft melted cheese and crisp tortilla in every crevice and grotto.

You probably think I'm just being verbose. Okay, first of all, I would never do that. Second of all, I challenge you to taste these nachos, and then look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong. Here's how that will go:

Me: So, skeptical reader, what do you think of those nachos?

You:
...

That's what I thought. But seriously, folks. It's not just the nachos or the dreamy draught list that make Royal Tavern great. Literally everything on their menu is a taste extravaganza. Their macaroni and cheese will make you want to quit your job and eat it full time. But it will be too late, because you will already have quit your job when you saw the specials board. And I'd love to rave about their desserts, but alas not once in all of my visits have I been able to save room.

And before I conclude my babbling, let me just say that I would patronize the Royal Tavern for the ambiance alone. I'm a sucker for the warmth of the dark wood and candlelight.



That is all.

A Brew Review: Killadelphia

Hey readers, listen to your uncle Bits and give a warm welcome to Will Sleep With Your Ex-Girlfriend as he spins this harrowing tale of hop(e)s crushed.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

I was relieved a little while back, despite the split that temporarily took Yards away from us (but gave us Philadelphia Brewing Company, for which I am thankful), to hear that Yards was brewing again and that the currently bare shelves would once again be stocked with a selection of their heady brews. You can imagine the look on my face when I saw the Yards Pale Ale tap suddenly reappear at work last weekend.

What you couldn't possibly imagine is the horror that followed.

I ordered one as my shift beer, having just worked relatively hard for a Saturday morning and feeling like reminiscing over a familiar brew. What greeted me was only somewhat familiar.

A tall pint glass spilling over with a pale yellowish liquid greeted my eyes. My nose recognized a familiar bouquet, but something seemed amiss. I figured at this point that I had just forgotten an old standby due to it's recent absence.

First sip - strong attack: bitter like an ale should be, but not aggressively so. Balance. Expected. Then…

NOTHING.

A moment after it started, it was all over. The taste simply died in my mouth. I didn't order water. Shef, did I order water? MY MOUTH IS WET, BUT I CAN'T TELL IF THERE'S ANYTHING IN IT!

A second sip had remarkably similar results.

Whatever you did to your pale ale, I would kindly ask that you undo it. You took a perfectly good thing and…and…well, you killed it. In my mouth. YOU KILLED IT.

Considering this, and the fact that Limp Bizkit is actually reuniting and recording a new album, I would not be the least bit surprised if the entire universe decides to euthanize itself some time in the near future. Consider yourselves warned.

And for you, brewers of the "new Yards"…you will be the catalyst.

Go straight to hell. Do not pass "Go". Do not collect $200.

Chilladelphia - Secret Places

Greasy food and Netflix are great for winter hibernation. But in spite of the snow and the persistent cold, spring is almost here. I know it. I can smell it. I can't wait.

And I'm always the dumbass who wears shorts and a t-shirt out of the house the first day the thermometer hits 60. Not because I'm a vapid frat boy, but because I always feel like, somehow, if I just start acting like summer is finally here, then the weather miraculously won't get chilly again.

That's fine, laugh. Go on. But you Philadelphians know in your hearts that the weather here in spring can be such a tease. One week it's sunny and warm and after a few days you finally decide to break out the flip-flops, and the next week there's a freak April blizzard and you're waiting for the bus in the driving snow with no jacket. So really, if you think about it, I'm just getting a head start on the inevitable.

Anyway, even though the weather hasn't begun to change yet, just knowing that spring is only a few short weeks away has gotten me thinking about spring things, and summer things, wine on the roof and beer on the beach. And, maybe because March is such a meteorological mindf#ck, the moment the warm weather finally rolls in, Don Bito becomes an outdoor maniac. All of my slacking, lolly-gagging, and general languor becomes an outdoor activity.

I. love. Philly's parks. And I say that knowing full well that I haven't seen even half of Philly's parks, that if I lived a hundred years I would never be able to say that I knew my way around every acre of park the city has to offer. There's something unbelievably chill about being surrounded by lush grass and feathery trees, being lost in a wash of green in the middle of a grey steel city.

And, no, I am not talking about playing frisbee with my labrador in Rittenhouse Square, you yuppy twit.

There's so much green space inside the city that you can get lost in it. Even driving (yes, I did). So in my experience it's best to find a few scenic, secret places and emblazon the ways there in your mind. I personally have several secret places in the city. You can find me there when the weather turns.

I know a place where I can dangle on the edge of a cliff and watch the rowers slice the Schuylkill, fairy brake lights dash across the river.

I know a mossy rock like a sheltered grotto where I can sit and listen to the Pennypack slide by, where geese make their nests, invisible to the joggers on the paved trail above.

I know a place where I can stand beside the skyline, or tilt back my head and see all the city lights like a reflection in the deep, black pool of the sky.

I can't tell you where they are, of course, because they'd no longer be secret. But if you wander long enough you'll stumble on them someday, anyway. And that's the beauty of secret places: they're so transitory. One day you'll run into someone else who has been returning there, harboring the same secret all along. Then the dream of seclusion will be broken and you'll be forced to go exploring for another perch. Everyone in the city becomes implicated in this constant recycling of secrets.

You can tell the cold weather has addled my brains. Without assuming we actually have a readership of any kind, I'd like to invite you all to share your secret places in the comments. You know, in an irritatingly vague way so that no one who doesn't know it will be able to find it (see above). And please, if you recognized one of my secret places, do the right thing and don't shatter my little delusions. What else do I have, really?

Swilladelphia - The Gayborhood

Hey all, for some redonkulous reason Blogger posts all entries in the order in which you started writing them, rather than the order in which they were published. Which means that today's new post showed up as having been published on February 16th (LIES!!!), but never fear, for I have published this new post for the sole purpose of linking you into the "old" one. So if you're too lazy to scroll down (and who isn't?) you can click on the title of this post, or here to read today's blog.

Which if I say so myself is a riveting piece of cyber-journalism.

Swilladelphia - Hittin' the Bars

-Plan Ahead

Before you run around Philly for the great bar scene, make sure you know your situation. Do you have the cash? For a night of heavy drinking, prepare to drop upwards of 75 dollars. Add in to that any transportation costs. Make sure you’re not throwing your budget out of whack for just one night.

-Know Your Scene

What kind of night are you looking for? Are you up for a party or some quiet drinks with friends? Are you a beer fan, or do you prefer your drinks with little umbrellas? Different bars offer different specialties and ambiances. For example, if you’re looking for a quiet night with a few beers, consider Bridget Foy’s or Jon’s. For more of a party, hit up Wooly Mammoth’s or O’Neal’s. Do some research ahead of times for things like Happy Hour specials and bar specialties.

-Dine Well Beforehand

Before a long night of the sauce, make sure you have a good meal. Bar food is expensive (unless they’ve got great happy hour specials), and can kill a good buzz. If you must eat while on the go, indulge in light fare like appetizers, and nothing that might turn your alcohol-laced stomach. On the other hand, make sure to drink plenty of water while on a bender. There ain’t nothing worse than a hangover, my friends, and some good old agua can allay that from happening.

-Make a TouchTunes Account

If you’re anything like me, a good night at the bar is topped off by great music. Many bars around the city are now equipped with TouchTunes digital jukeboxes. A far cry from the disk-spinning, neon behemoths of old, these little guys usually hang unobtrusively on a wall. By visiting MyTouchTunes, you can sign up for a free account and make a playlist of your favorite tunes to enjoy whilst you indulge. To enjoy some of my favorites, visit my profile.

-Know Your Ride

Finally, make sure you know how you plan to return to your domicile after your night of debauchery. Put a cab fare into your budget, and make sure everyone ponies up some for the ride. Know the local SEPTA routes, or keep a well-sobered DD on hand so that everyone gets home safely. Also, remember to warn the cabbie to stop before you puke out the cab door.

Footing the Billadelphia - The South Street Bridge

There are two things in this life at which Don Bito excels: the English language (disagreement unwelcome) and driving.

I'm not going to get all cliche and sentimental and tell you my car is an extension of my being or some crap like that. My car is my stalwart companion. She keeps me warm, dry, and on the move. She's my second home and, like my first home, she smells of tobacco and is often teeming with old Diet Coke bottles and food containers. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

We've been through a lot, my car and I. Hardly a day goes by when we don't spend at least a couple hours on the road, commuting to and from work or my parent's house in the far Northeast. We were each other's only company on the long haul from Philly to South Carolina and back, and together we've toted innumerable friends to the beach. We've been to Hunlock Creek and Sunbury, New Hope and Ocean City, and she is the only one who hears my spectacular car karaoke.

But it wasn't always peaches and cream between us. As is true in any good relationship, we've been through rough times. Our first couple of years together were spent begrudgingly giving people rides home and suffering the hellish commute down Roosevelt Blvd to Temple every day. Like the unrecognized genius flipping burgers at Mickey D's, we were better than that and we knew it. And sadly, as one is wont to do with their closest friends, we sometimes took our frustrations out on each other.


My car and I having one of our lovers' spats.

While we didn't always delight in each other's company during this time of hardship, it's safe to say that I, at least, came away with a greater appreciation for our bond and, more importantly, a more intimate understanding of city driving.

And of myself.

I forgot where I was going with this. Or at least forgot my clever segue. So let me just direct your attention to this article from The Inquirer.

In it, Inga Saffron (hippie?) discusses the current reconstruction of the South Street Bridge. She criticizes the city planners for their lack of vision, and who can blame her? The Schuylkill waterfront(not to even approach Penn's Landing) is perhaps the part of the city with the most lost potential. A walk across the Walnut Street bridge, for instance, provides what could be a stunning view of the river, were the bridge itself and many of its surroundings not so strictly utilitarian. The park on the river's east side, just south of Walnut, might be a beautiful place to dally or picnic were it not so architecturally desolate, and frankly far too inaccessible to pedestrians.

The whole area is a sad milieu of lost opportunities.

But as much as I want to agree with Inga Saffron (hippie?) when she expresses her disappointment with the proposed SSB construction, I am halted by her closing point:

The engineers may be right that South Street Bridge traffic backs up. But just because a bottleneck exists doesn't mean a city is obliged to fix it. It's a matter of priorities.

Indeed it is a matter of priorities, Inga Saffron (hippie.) I'm just not convinced that your proposed priorities are any better than the city's.

I, too, desire more and better pedestrian thruways in the area. I love my city perhaps even more deeply than my car (I'm sorry, baby, I don't mean it)and want nothing more than for visitors to be able to recognize the beauty in her lush parks, winding alleyways, stunning skyline views, and the delicious array of cultures that coexist here. More tourism = more money = good things for Philly locals. I get that.

But a struggling tourism trade is only half of Philly's problem. The other, I would argue, more pressing issue, is the fact that we are constantly hemorrhaging the population we have. Of course there are many factors contributing to this, but as a young veteran of city driving I can tell you there is little about city life that frustrates me as much or as often as the traffic situation.

And as much as we would like to be forward-thinking and express our architectural creativity, there's no point in shooting ourselves in the foot in the process. Would I enjoy meandering along a more beautiful, pedestrian-friendly SSB? Absolutely.

Would I start a bloody revolution if the city spent $50 million reconstructing a major traffic bridge without improving the flow of traffic?

Hells to the yeah. Hells. to. the. yeah.



PS - It occurs to me that this post is a tad schizophrenic, but you guys are hardy, I think you can handle it. Expect more tales and tips from me and my car in the upcoming series "Skilladelphia - Driving in the City."

Swilladelphia - The Gayborhood

It's time I finally wrote this blog. There is no part of the city I have more of a love-hate relationship with than the Gayborhood. Now as you all may have guessed, Don Bito is not really what you'd call a "joiner." In fact my friend groups tend to be made up of people so different from one another that none of usual banal, incestuous drama has any damp, dark place to grow.

Contributing to my "outsider" status with almost every known grouping of humans are 1) my misanthropy, through which I naturally assume that very few people are worth interacting with and 2) my megalomanic facade, through which I quiet those nagging insecurities that arise from not belonging anywhere. To illustrate what I'm talking about, I'll give you a glimpse into one of the Bits' high-school experiences (as long as you promise not to sh*t yourself with excitement).

In 10th grade, which was the year I came out, I found myself a partner in crime - let's call him "Joe" - who also came out later the same year. Together we were a true force of misanthropy and megalomanic facades, feeding off of these energies in each other, alienating all those who dared enter our sphere of scathing sarcasm and affected superiority. Which I'm pretty sure is actually what everyone in the world is like in high school.

Anyway, one day we thought we'd stop by a meeting of the "gay club" as we called our high schools' gay-straight alliance, since we were newly-minted queers and thought we might benefit from associating with others in our situation. Needless to say we wandered within 20 feet of the classroom where the club was meeting, realized that the few people attending were all kids we found insufferable, and decided to throw snowballs off the roof and talk sh*t about them rather than join their stupid club.

Thus ended my association with any traditional concept of queer community.

Nonetheless, as a dyke and a genderqueer I can't help but love being out in the Gayborhood. (To be fair this may be because I have the soul of a gay man, but I'll let you draw your own conclusions on that one.) I love being in a place where I can give breeders dirty looks instead of the other way around, and where no one is agog when I use the women's bathroom. But I'm not going to go into a dissertation on visibility right now. Suffice it to say, in spite of my disconnect with a sense of queer community, the Gayborhood feels like home.

Which isn't to imply that it is not, in many ways, deeply flawed. Anyway, let's cut right to the chase and take you on the whirlwind virtual tour of my love-hate relationship with the Gayborhood.

Let's start with Sisters. Known amongst my friends as "the nightclub of sadness and haircuts," Sisters is the only dyke club in the city. Their Thursday night drink specials are the toast of the dyke town, because apparently the dyke town can't get enough Banker's Club vodka and almost supernaturally sh*tty music.

Seriously, you would think that out of a set of 10, one of the songs, JUST ONE, STATISTICALLY, would not suck. Well, the braindead DJs at Sisters have found some sort of cosmic loophole. Also in defiance of statistical probability, it has been shown that everyone who goes to Sisters has the exact same haircut.

"Maybe they should have a hair parlor on the side," my friend Szophey says of the dismal establishment, "take out the middle man and drum up more business." And not that you would, but don't ever venture into Sister's on a night that is not Thursday/Pridefest. It will get a little awkward when you discover that the only other person there is the bartender.

When to go to Sisters: At 1:45am on a Friday morning. By this time it will be too late to pay cover, and you will be so drunk that you can't hear the music you're dancing to anyway.
What to do at Sisters: Stand outside and smoke with the dykes, then go back to the bar you're actually drinking at.

Next up let's visit Woody's. Woody's is basically the gay man's version of Sister's, except without all the suckage. An old-school bar and nightclub, Woody's mixes strong drinks, plays decent music, and is dependably stocked with a diverse and energetic crowd. They also feature a "College Night" on Wednesdays for 18+, which is amazing if you're underage, but which I would avoid otherwise. I object not so much to the mobs of youth, but the disproportionate number of straight kids the offer attracts.

But we'll talk more about my territoriality some other time.

When to go to Woody's: Any time you want to dance. For me, Woody's is a reliable second bar, the one you retire to after hitting your stride at one of the more low-key bars in the surrounding blocks. But salsa nights on Thursdays are a lot of fun.
What to do at Woody's: Find the Asian bartender with the cutoff flannel shirt. He mixes the strongest drinks. Oh, and dance.

12th Air Command was my favorite gay bar for a long time while they ran their Thursday night special ($5 cover and $1 top shelf drinks until 11pm?!?! Ugh, my heart still goes all aflutter at the very mention of that glorious time). Alas, probably due in large part to my friends and I, they stopped offering the special a long time ago. Since then 12th Air has fallen out of my gay bar repertoire, but it remains a great place to play pool. They also have a dance floor and competent DJs, although never having been there on a Friday or Saturday I can't testify as to how full the club really gets.

When to go to 12th Air: 12th Air depends a lot on their weekly events and happy hours. Check out their website and decide for yourself.
What to do at 12th Air: Play pool on their crooked tables upstairs.

I've never been to BUMP. Okay, that's a lie. I went there one Friday afternoon with a couple of friends, hoping to cash in on what I hear is a spectacular $3 martini happy hour. By the time we got there the whole place was so packed with twinks that we were forced to abandon our pursuit and look elsewhere. I suppose I've never been motivated to try again, for whatever that's worth.

When to go to BUMP: Not in the middle of happy hour on a Friday.
What to do at BUMP: Not get trampled by hordes of overly excited preppy twinks.

I have, on the other hand, been to the Bike Stop. On more than one occasion. Known for being Philly's premier LeatherDaddy bar, there is an upstairs lounge that captures the uber-butch-dive atmosphere without all of the chaps and ball gags that might make some uncomfortable downstairs. The multiple flat screens blare all number of sporting events and a serviceable pool table sits by the old wooden bar.

When to go to the Bike Stop: When you are dragged there by your gayboy friend who has a weakness for older men, OR: if you are a leatherdaddy.
What to do at the Bike Stop: Play pool, drink cheap pitchers of lager, and try not to imagine how quickly any one of the patrons could undoubtedly beat you to a bloody pulp if he so chose.

We're almost done with my whirlwind tour now, and you may be wondering why I've shown, at best, relative indifference to these establishments, and at worst I avoid them like leper colonies (Sisters). Why, then, would I so strongly proclaim that the Gayborhood "feels like home?" Well, cherished readers, it may be cliche, but I have indeed saved the best for last.

Feel free to listen to this song as you read the following lines. Perhaps then you will approach a true understanding of the feelings behind my unreserved declaration of love for this place.


Dearest Tavern on Camac,

If only it were enough to say "I love you." Oh, if only that could ever be enough.

Even were I possessed of the genius of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, counting the ways of my love would not be a sufficient expression of my affections. But let's face it, you're a bar and I'm supposedly writing this blog to be informational (commentary on that topic is unappreciated). So know that though mere words could never speak the depth and breadth of my love for you, TOC, still I shall compose them and hope that you receive them as a token, however insufficient, of my undying devotion to you.

Let's start with the downstairs. Your piano bar both relaxes and delights me every time I stumble in. There is something special, something warm and homey about walking into a bar and feeling compelled immediately to add your voice to the many crooning away to "Downtown" or "You're So Vain" or whatever predictable standard your piano player is pounding out. Perhaps the piano bar is what attracts all of the older gay men, causing Szophey to refer to you exclusively as "Tired Old Queen." But I don't care, TOC. I love the old queens who debate with me about musical theater and bum cigarettes from me and buy me drinks.

And your bartenders, oh! Your bartenders! They mix the strongest drinks in town. They keep up the banter, fill me in on the gossip, and when I order a Stoli and tonic, damnit, they bring me a gloss of Stoli with spritz of tonic and a wedge of lime.

Just like god intended.

Your upstairs has proven itself to be more than just a swanky neon lounge and a great place to drunk dance; it is also one of my favorite places in the city to people-watch. And your specials! What can I possibly say about your specials?

TOC, you have been a haven for me. Long have i listened to your trembling grand piano, partaken of your most excellent drinks and made drunk-friends with many of your patrons. I hope to see much more of you in the years to come.

With my love always,

-Don Bito.

When to go to TOC: Any time. But for those of us who love vodka, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are $4 flavored Stoli and Absolut nights, respectively. Be prepared to wake up 3 days later in a dumpster next to a complete stranger.
What to do at TOC: Become a regular.

Well, readers, I hope this brief and extremely biased guide helps you streamline your next visit to the Gayborhood. I will, of course, be covering more individual bars and clubs in the "Swilladelphia" segment in the coming weeks, so stay tuned. And feel free to quarrel with my assessments, or suggest new locations to review, in the comments.

Brilladelphia - Skittles Vodka

Check out this tutorial for homemade Skittles vodka from MixThatDrink.com.

I feel a theme party coming on. Not sure what the theme is (suggestions welcome). But, seriously, in what universe do bottles of sickeningly sweet booze in every color of the rainbow not spell theme party?

A universe that makes me sad.

(via BestWeekEver)

Cheap Thrilladelphia - Talking Sh*t

Bito: What would I do if I didn't have judging people?
Bert: I don't know, maybe have a soul.

This snippet of one of many instant message conversations with my friend Bert (another judgment champion who I keep begging to blog for us on pop culture) basically defines every one of my interpersonal relationships. Ever.

It's true, I take great pleasure in judging people. You do it too. Everyone does it. We walk around burning with quiet anger knowing that others are probably judging us every moment, and comfort ourselves by judging others and finding them inferior. Don't deny it. It's a survival tactic. It's human nature.

It's a friggin' hoot. Especially on the occasions when you get to judge hordes of frumpy strangers. I think you know what I'm talking about. Don Bito usually tries to avoid capitalist cesspools, but every once in a while you inevitably get sucked into one. I'm talking about a mall, of course.

Philadelphia is surely home to some of the most repugnant malls in the nation, whether you're starting to feel like an android walking along Franklin Mills' prescribed consumption track through overpriced outlet stores and being screamed at by the HD advertising from every surface, or reflecting on your mortality as you are slowly crushed to death in the throngs at the Gallery. And on these unavoidable occasions I find harsh and indiscriminate trash talking is the only way to preserve my sanity.

So today, when I found myself wandering the mall I was forced to don my self-appointed Judge of Humanity hat (see below). And at 11am on a Wednesday, though the mall was far from crowded, I nonetheless found many opportunities for sh*t-talking.


I present some of these sightings to you now in a new segment I'll be calling Personal Fouls.

Personal Foul #1 - Stretching the Definition of Good Taste
Frequent Foulers: Youth-Obsessed Mothers
Penalty: +10 Varicose Veins

Listen to me, people. I'm not the first one to say this, though I've said it many times. And I'm sure I won't be the last. In fact, I bet someone somewhere along the line has expressed this concern to you directly, but you probably ignored it, sure that you knew more about fashion that your friend/lover/drooling stranger. So warm and fuzzy are you in your how-can-I-go-wrong-with-Fashion-Bug? fantasy world that you have become completely oblivious to the plain facts of good sense, not to mention taste. So let me lay it down for you:

Tights. Are. Not. Pants.

I don't care how much weight you lost after that last baby. I don't care that you can fit into your eight-year old's rhinestoned jeans from the Limited Too. I don't care that you wanted to really showcase that retro minidress you inappropriately trolled the Sears junior department for 3 hours to find. Tights?

They are not pants.

I could tie some tights around my head, but that would not make them a turban. Similarly, just because you have managed to squeeze your cellulite into them in the manner of a freshly-cased sausage does not mean that they are pants. Because tights. are not. pants. mmmmmTHANKyou.

Personal Foul #2 - The "Yeah, Bro, I Totally Just Came From The Gym"
Frequent Foulers: Overly-Muscled Meatheads.
Penalty: +15 Steroid Moobs.

All right, buddy, I get it. You work out. You know how I know that? Because I have eyes. Yes. I have eyes, and your arms look like the faces on Mount Rushmore. After all, that is the point of getting into shape, right? To look good? Seriously, it's not actually necessary for you to have that kind of muscle mass unless you work on a construction site...as the crane. So I'm guessing that you went all Incredible Hulk because you wanted to show off your body. So please.

Please explain to me why you're dressed like you're at the gym.


I, for one, have never possessed the body shape for which I would most love to buy clothes. In fact, I carry an unfortunate amount of weight in my midsection, making it almost impossible to purchase the kind of ridiculously fly apparel I dream of owning one day. So you can bet if I had your body I wouldn't be wearing fraying sweatpants and a 10-year-old Adidas t-shirt. For real, Mutton, it's like you're a homeless person that woke up with a Bally's membership in his change cup.

Maybe when your biceps get so big that your skin physically starts to split open it's time to sell of a couple of your weight sets and buy some actual clothes, you jackass.


Ugh. Whatever, I'm over it. I don't know if anyone out there is reading this blog yet, but if you are please be sure to include your own observations of Personal Fouls in the comments. I feel sure that with a little team work we can compile a tome that should save our fellow humans from further embarrassment, and also my head from exploding.

In the meantime, if you want more on how I sit in judgment of all those around me at all times, you can check out my guest blog on PhillyGrrl's site.

Brilladelphia - Candy Heart Generator

Maybe you're just murdering time at work. Or maybe you're looking for more creative ways to tear down your friends (everyone's favorite pastime!) (see exhibit a, below, a care package I crafted for my friend/arch-nemesis Szophey's use). What you should be doing is spreading the love with the ACME Candy Heart Generator.



Happy Valentine's, everyone. Ugh, I swear I could do this for hours.

(via April Winchell)

Chilladelphia - HiberNation

First of all, I'd just like to say to all future readers and contributors:

Haha, bitches, I'm writing the inaugural post! Don Bito FTW.

So there's that. I'd like to open by discussing a topic very near and dear to my heart, thus claiming once and for all the category of Chilladephia for Bito. Because, readers, if only you knew of my superhuman capacity for chillage there would be no contest. ever. again. Others may try and capture the utter lethargy it takes to live my life, but they would fail.


Me at my most energetic.

So let's talk about that special time of year called winter. The time when magical white flakes flutter to earth and become putrid crud-colored slush that makes everything more difficult. The time when you wouldn't leave the house even if you had any money (which you don't because your hours have been cut back at work) because it's too goddamn cold to walk anywhere, too icy to drive anywhere, and none of your friends are leaving their houses either.

When you spend 90% of your waking hours in your favorite chair (oh, the chairs I have known!) and the other 10% in the bathroom, when your house is full of half-empty liquor bottles, 3 day old coffee, take-out containers and ashes on every surface...you, friend, are hibernating.

And let's face it, as much fun as it is to patronize our city's many watering holes and entertainment venues, nothing heals the soul like a couple weeks of justified sloth and gluttony. So let Don Bito show you how to kick it old school.

Step 1 - Scoping Out Your Sustenance Options

Wherever you live in the city you're surrounded by amazing culinary (read: greasy delivery) options. Now, obvies, Don Bito can't give you recommends for everywhere in the city, but if you live near center city or in the south of South region (most recently featured in the Tina Fey sleeper hit "Baby Mama")(Tina, if you're reading this, my love has only grown stronger with time. Please marry me.)I'll throw a few ideas out. These places are amazing for those times when you can't even be bothered to get up and microwave that packaged Trader Joe's Indian cuisine.

Pizza - Old Towne/Sanna's - You won't find a better quick-and-dirty pizza joint than Sanna's. They have affordable specials, a sh*tload of options, fast and friendly delivery guys, and online ordering. That's right. You don't even have to talk to anyone. Recs: Meatball and broccoli pizza, Meat Lover's pizza, grilled chicken wraps, hummus and baba ghanouj.

Sammies - Gusto - Gusto is probably the most expensive place in my delivery repertoire, but it is sooo worth it. Their hoagies are made on plump, crusty bread with delicious imported meats and cheeses and fresh vegetables on top. A Traditional Italian will change your life forever. Also rec'd: Oven-Roasted Turkey Hoagie, Cheesteaks, Pesto-Zucchini pizza.

Mexican - Los Jalapenos - The reason the roomies and I initially started ordering from this place on a regular basis is because in this broken world they provide the amazing service of delivering cigarettes and other groceries. You had me at hello, Los Jalapenos. You had me at hello. Recs: Guacamole, Chimichanga platter, Mole Chicken burrito, Pork and Plantains Burrito. And personally I could live on their rice and beans alone. And cigarettes.

Chinese - New South China - I'm gonna be honest, there's nothing special about this place other than that it's 3 blocks from my house and has helped me through many hangovers with delicious pork fried rice. And the delivery guy rides a little vespa. Recs: Pork Fried Rice (preferably by the quart), Sweet and Sour Chicken Combo, Steamed Chicken and Vegetables, Sesame Noodles (Only $2!!).

So now that you've managed, with minimum effort, to feed yourself, it's time to take a hard look at your entertainment options. Remember, your biggest enemy this time of year is cabin fever, and there's only one surefire way that I know of to stave that off:

Step 2 - For the Love of God, Order Netflix

Now the Bits isn't one to encourage capitalism, but every once in a while a company offers a service that I just can't refuse. Netflix basically makes my life. With the Instant Play option I still feel like I'm pulling a fast one over on them, I watch so very many movies for that same flat monthly fee.

I kid you not when I say you will never run out of viewing options. It's better than cable.

It's better than crack.

If you're balling out of control I'd say your other entertainment option should be investing in massive amounts of TV on DVD. Have you seen the entire series of Arrested Development? Weeds? Six Feet Under? Firefly? House? 30 Rock? It's Always Sunny [Here]? Why not?

My guilty pleasure is my FRIENDS: The Complete Series(holla Keiks!), and trust me, nothing has come in more handy during the winter months than having 100 hours of guaranteed viewing delight at my fingertips. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Which brings us to...

Step 3 - Alter Your Consciousness

I'm going to assume this is self-explanatory. You like drinking? Keep a jug of Jim Beam (that Philadelphia classic) on hand and order some Mexican Coca-Cola from Los Jalapenos (best. bourbon and cokes. ever.). Crank up the heat and pretend you're sipping that lager on the beach. Etc, etc. In my humble opinion, nothing - nothing makes the hours drag worse than sobriety.

All right, young grasshoppers, I release you into the world knowing that you now possess all you need to survive this winter. After all it's only another month before Chilladelphia means hitting the hippest happy hours and sunbathing on the roof, so soak it up while you can.

Happy Hibernating.