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.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
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.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
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:
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."
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."
Monday, February 16, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2009
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)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
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)
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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.
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.
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