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.