Like a cheap whore, Septa might not smell pleasant, but it gets the job done.

So Septa? They kinda suck, right? I mean, everyone knows that Septa blows. And what about that guy who attacked someone with a hammer on the subway? That was pretty creepy right? (Watch the video here. Yes, it is actually available online.)

I won't share my stories about the time I got stuck in a tunnel for 35 minutes on the train, or waited for the 40 bus for approximately 2 and a half hours before deciding it was never coming (you've probably had similar experiences yourself), but I will say this: Septa might be shitty, but at least it's CHEAP.

When I lived in West Philly, it took 45 minutes on this guy to get to Old City for work in the morning.

The other day I took NJ Transit to visit the fam in New Jersey. A one way, off-peak ticket to New Brunswick, NJ from Trenton, NJ (gotta take Septa to Trenton, than switch trains and get on NJT to get to NB) costs $12. It's an approximately 25 minute ride. A one way ticket on Septa, from Philadelphia, PA to Elwyn, PA (out near West Chester) costs $4.00. It's an approximately 40 minute ride. On Septa, there's a $2 fee for buying your tickets online. On NJT, it's $5.

Road Champs

NJ Transit...wtf? I mean yes, they just dropped a lot of dough on super sweet new trains. But for those prices, I'll take shitty Septa any day.


Public transportation: so frustrating...but at least you don't have to buy a car!

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Best New Alias: Condo Fucks!

The Condo Fucks. Sounds racy (or maybe pretentious.) Who are they? Yo La Tengo in disguise, apparently, and they've just released a wonderfully gritty, fuzzy record of '60s and '70s covers (think: the Beach Boys, the Kinks, Small Faces, Electric Eels), recorded, YLT-style, in some basement somewhere.

The name Condo Fucks apparently stems from some fake album notes in 1997's I Can Feel the Heart Beating as One (this article does a pretty good job explaining it) and Fuckbook, the name of the album, is a play on 1991's Fakebook, a YLT record of acoustic tracks from Cat Stevens, Daniel Johnston and the like.

Here's the video for the first single, "What'cha gonna do about it?"

Preview the entire album at Matador Records...

Webisodes: Short Story Part 23

Thomas Sandleby, Bree Dawson, Rachel Lubovitch and Cass Ingels stood awkwardly around the entrance to the Sandlot a few minutes longer, until Cass decided to take charge of the conversation.

"I love your boots!" said Cass Ingels to Bree, gesturing towards the latter's red seude ankle boots. "Those are Marc Jacobs, aren't they?"

Bree smiled. They were, and she was grateful to Cass for pointing it out. The boots were one of her signature items....AND they made her look classy in front of Rachel, who she gathered was Thom's longtime ex. She nodded.

Cass Ingels squealed. "Ohhh, I am so jealous!" she said. She smiled at Bree warmly. "I really wanted to get my degree in fashion, but Mom and Dad said they wouldn't help out unless I did something 'with a future'... so I ended up in law school." She laughed, and hung her head. "I'm totally a sellout," she said.

Bree Dawson chuckled appreciatively. "Hey you know, you go into law and sometimes you get to defend celebrities. Or you know, look into a man's eyes and ask him if he killed someone. It's exciting stuff!"

Bree smiled even wider -- even though she knew she would rather burn her Marc Jacobs boots and clothe herself in flannel for all entirety than get a law degree. But she had already decided to be nice to Cass -- because she was a fan of MJ, and possibly even the Meatball -- but mostly because she was standing with Rachel, and Bree figured if she was super nice to Cass, it wouldn't matter if she was a little rude to Rachel...even though she was going to try her absolute hardest to be nice.

Pharrell, MJ, and Kanye West -- to quote Gawker, "Oh, wow, is it spring
already? Must be, since the seasonal "Marc Jacobs is getting MARRIED!"
rumors are now upon us" (Read it here.)

As Cass and Bree struck up a conversation about fashion and law, Rachel Lubovitch turned awkwardly towards Thom.

"So...Thom. What's up?" she asked. She laughed nervously.

"Uhhh..." said Thom. His heart was racing. This is what you've been waiting for! he thought, to show Rachel up; to show her you're better than ever, but her very presence was making him feel weak, and uncomfortable...he had worked for so hard for so long to get over Rachel, who had basically told him he was a worthless, lazy asshole...and here he had bought a bar, and was well-respected among his friends and in the community...and all of a sudden, with Rachel around, those feelings of inadequacy came flooding back...

"Nothing, nothing's up." He shook his head rapidly. "Um, I am the owner of this bar...and I work part time for this little indie zine." He looked around frantically, then grabbed Bree, and pulled her towards him.

"And THIS..." he said, hugging her tightly. "This beautiful chick here is my girlfriend, blogger extraordinaire, Bree Dawson. Isn't she lovely?"

Bree pulled away and attempted to give him a glare, but really she couldn't help smiling. She was glad Thom was paying attention to her, and had identified her as his girlfriend in front of Rachel...she was worried he would slough her off or ignore her, like many of her exes had done in the past.

Meanwhile, Rachel Lubovitch faked a smile. "Well, you always did have good taste in women," she joked. She turned towards Cass. "I think Cass and I going to check out the beer selection you got going on here," she added. She took two steps towards the back, sat down a bar stool, and gestured for Cass to follow. "Come tell me more later tonight, when you're not busy running this place."

"Ok," said Thom, relieved the conversation was over.

Jud Mongell, former business partner of the late, great, Heath Ledger,
at Five Leaves, in Brooklyn. Ledger and Mongell planned on
owning the bar together. Photo by Trevor Collens for WAToday.

Everyone in New York City was getting laid that night except for Marilyn Morrissey. Thomas Sandleby and Bree Dawson would have amazing sex later that night (their first time! how precious!) and Rachel Lubovitch would return home to Harris and take her frustrations and aggressions out on him. Josh Stadt was fucking Marcus Roy, and Sazz Tuttle was soon to be fucking Jesse Milkovich...and only Marilyn was alone, as always.

Later that evening, after moping around watching Project Runway re-runs (These designers suck, thought Marilyn; I could do better myself), she knocked on Patrick McKee's door for benzos and a pick-me-up. She had been McKee's tenant just over 2 years, and as much as she assumed her landlord was a dirty no-good-nick, who probably didn't shower, and was only looking out for his own interests in the end, she had grown quite accustomed to the old scuzzball, and looked forward to his bits of jaded wisdom.

Tonight was no exception. McKee answered the door, shook his head, and nodded her in, handed her a baggie of 10 pills and grunted, "what's up kid?"

"Oh, nothing," moaned Marilyn. "Just wallowing in my own perpetually single misery."

McKee guffawed. "I hear you darling. The dating pool out there is a fucking disaster zone." He paused, as if deciding whether or not to continue, then went with it. "You know kid, my buddy, who I met through this uh, online poker game that I do...he got me hooked on this online dating service, and let me tell you: that shit fucking WORKS! I must've went out with 5 women in the past month or something..." He smiled, then looked down quickly. "Anyway, you should give it a try."

"Heh," said Marilyn. "Maybe I will."

The dating pool is a fucking disaster zone...just like the bus station.

Thursday evening, Reid Pinkin approached his cousin Weinstein Pinkin, and tried to quit as job as righthand man.

"I don't want to do this shit nomore," he said, slamming down his baseball cap on the couch. "Ever since this fucking kidnapping, I'm so goddamn nervous. Plus I don't want to be in the drug business nomore...I want to go back to the silver screen, and my wife."

"What the hell has gotten into you?" asked Weinstein incredulously. "Are you on smack again, you fool?" His shook his head towards Reid. "Your wife left you years ago, and you can't go back to the silver screen. No one's gonna hire a convicted drug addict who DOESN'T have mass Hollywood appeal. You're just a pain in the ass to work with." He gave Reid a look; Reid knew he was right.

"You're stuck with me, making a buck or two the hard way. It's not an easy job, but someone's gotta do it."

"I don't know man, I feel like I hit a wall," replied Reid. "Plus, people are on to me. I gotta go make an honest living or something..." He trailed off.

"Aww, listen to me Cuz," said Weinstein, patting his cousin on the back. "Us Pinkins have always had it tough. But we survive because we stick together. Look at your poor, stupid brother. He'd be in prison years ago, if it weren't for us. And you yourself were in jail -- I pulled you outta rehab and gave you an opportunity because you're my family. I need you man. And no more kidnappings -- I promise. Although that was your stupid fucking idea anyway, you vapid actor," said Weinstein, giving Reid a stern look. He could never trust anyone to stick with it, he thought to himself.

"Yeah, alright," said Reid. "But once we find this damn rat, and get Milkovich's source, I'm outta here, for good." He looked at Weinstein briefly in the eye, and then away. "I'll help you pick a good replacement," he mumbled, then stumbled out of the room.

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Like this post? Read the whole thing (so far) here.

The Ting Tings: Chatty!

I interviewed the Ting Tings last night before their show at the Starlight Ballroom...check it out!

Update: Part 2!

Scoop up my review and photos here.

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Confessions of a (second-hand) smoker

I'm not a smoker. I never have been. Ok, maybe for like, 2 weeks at some point in college I smoked Turkish Golds (the fault of my friend Ray)...and Camel Lights...annnnnd Parliament Lights (it was a quick transition) but I never really was a smoker. (Of course, that didn't convince my mom one summer when she found an empty pack of P.L.s in my bedroom...which was unfortunate because I was [mostly] telling the truth. Stupid nosy parents.)

Anyway, despite never actually having been a smoker, I've always loved the smell of cigarette smoke. That's right -- you heard me. I've always been a convicted second-hand smoker.

Toothpaste for dinner has plenty to say about smokers. (Click to enlarge.)

It probably started in college. No -- that's not right. It probably started before I was even born -- around 1955, when James Dean made Rebel Without a Cause. Why is he so sexy in this movie? I don't know. But it definitely has something to do with cigarettes -- and mystery, and general bad-assery. Oh James Dean, you perpetuated the stereotype that years and years of D.A.R.E. could never overturn...that cigarettes are cool, and that smoking cigarettes will make YOU cool, and sexy, and mysterious, and bad-ass.

Mmm, dreamy.

But let's not blame it all on James Dean, ok? The truth is, I didn't think about cigarettes that much at all until I got to college, and every greasy-haired, Foucault-reading, Elvis-Costello-listening, guitar-playing, Converse-and-messenger-bag-wearing post-punk/hipster/hippie I met (and this was the Ivy League underground, so there were a lot of them) smoked cigarettes. Obsessively. To the point where you'd go to a party, drink a little, stumble home and pass out in your bed, only to wake up the next morning and smell cigarettes everywhere -- on your clothes, your hair, your fingernails and jacket -- and you'd drag your ass to history recitation anyway without showering, and sit in the back row, projecting that very special (and especially grody) scent of mystery and party.



Anyway, the truth is...I loved it. There was no feeling more satisfying than rolling over in the morning, catching a whiff of your hair and breathing a deep sigh..."Ah...what a night." I had plenty of reasons for not smoking myself -- too expensive! too habit-forming! too hard to hide from Mom and Dad! -- but mostly that I didn't love the act of smoking, as much as I loved the smell. To me, that smell of cigarettes in your hair represented debauchery, and truly living life to the fullest.

Over the years, there were many, many guys I fell for because they looked sexy smoking a cigarette (read about "Shane" here) and many, many afternoons I pissed away sitting on college green, trying to "get work done", while my friends (artists, musicians, writers) spread out their Bali Shag on a notebook and rolled cig after cig, making fun of the sorority girls and frat boys as they walked past.

Riffy and I, in a smoke-filled basement, circa October 2004

Nowadays, I'm out of school and smoking is banned almost everywhere in PA, except for random punk-rock houses (like my college abode) and a few bad-ass dive bars -- Locust Bar, Sugar Mom's (although I hear not so much anymore), the Handlebar, Oscar's. Still, whenever I suggest visiting these places, my friends, who are not so into the scent of cigs as I am, balk and squeal, and we end up at joints -- like the K, or Natty Mechs -- where the smokers are lined up outside, like clockwork, inhaling fumes and giving off vibes.


I suppose this is a good thing. I understand that not everyone shares my love of nicotine/ash smell, and it's probably best for pregnant woman and whatnot who might be susceptible to its dangers. (Although really, the pregnant woman probably shouldn't be in the bar in the first place. What's more dangerous...a fetal alcohol baby, or a nicotine-addict baby?) Still, there are mornings, after a long night of partying especially, when I wake up yearning for that sweet smell...then thanking God the smoking ban went into effect, because it's 7:15 in the morning, and the last thing I want to do is climb out of bed and take a shower before work. 20 more minutes of sleep, you say? OK! I'll take it.

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Best New Music: Gentleman Jesse (not Milkovich) & his Men

Gentleman Jesse & his Men are an Atlanta, GA-based garage rock band who play gritty punk rock with powerpop chords, for a sound that's somewhere between the New York Dolls (in sound only) and Nick Lowe, tempered with a little dash of the Carbonas, singer Jesse Smith's other band. I first saw GJ&HM a week and a half ago opening for the Black Lips at Johnny Brenda's (read my review here!) and was immediately hooked. Live, they sounded awesome--better than the Lips for sure -- full of toe-tapping rock beats and energy.

Gentleman Jesse (né Smith) and his guitar

After the show, I went home and downloaded their album, and turns out...THE ALBUM IS EQUALLY AWESOME -- a loose, galloping ride through 13 playful tracks, barely pausing to catch its breath, and offering chorus after chorus of catchy rock riffs. It's poppy music without being TOO poppy, punk-y without being too punk, and pretty much makes me want to kick off my shoes and dance, '7os style.

I couldn't find a decent vid of GJ&HM, so here's the Buzzcocks instead.
Practically the same thing. Also, is it just me, or is the singer's tongue
green? I wonder what that could mean. Anybody?

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 22

Wednesday night, Ronald Harris had a "seminar" in the evening, and so Rachel Lubovitch, who usually went over to his place for dinner and Law and Order (educational AND dramatic), found herself with some free time.

"Go do something fun!" insisted Harris, and Rachel initially recoiled, then decided, you know what, I will, and called up her classmate Cass Ingel (6 years her junior, and one of NYU's only down-to-earth freshman) and said "Bar-hopping tonight, my treat?" and prayed Cass, who seemed always busy, would accept. She did.

"Where are you headed?" asked Harris, getting ready to head out himself, and Rachel just shrugged and replied "Beats me!"

But after Harris kissed her on the cheek and closed the door, she picked up her phone and dialed Cass again, imploring "So, I know it's kinda out of the way...but how do you feel about riding the J Train tonight? There's a bar I'm itching to check out in Brooklyn..."

le train J. by Aya Rosen

When Rachel Lubovitch and Cass Ingels sauntered into The Sandlot Wednesday evening, Rachel wasn't sure what to expect. For one, they had a hell of a time finding the bar (Brooklyn can be overwhelming if you've never been there before) and Rachel was nervous that the scene would be dead, or that Thom wouldn't be around, and that she'd feel awkward and out-of-place.

Really, she wasn't sure why she was even going in the first place -- she had no real interest in Thom, or Williamsburg -- but the same forces perhaps that drove Todd Braje to come see Marilyn, or Sazz to hook up with Jesse drove Rachel as well, and she found herself traveling across the city to Thom.

As she headed for the door, her heart was beating wildly, and she tried to calm it, telling herself, Relax. It's just Tom. (He still had no 'h' in her mind) You've talked to him a million times about nothing in particular...he's not an intimidating or even particularly special guy.

Still, Rachel knew, people change, and this time was different. The last time she had talked to Thom he had been begging her to take him back...now she had come seeking him, and more than anything, she was afraid he would completely reject her.

Luckily for Rachel, she didn't have too much time to ponder such thoughts, because as soon as she opened the door and stepped inside, she immediately spotted him, sitting on a bar stool next to a petite blonde.

"Still, Rachel knew, people change"...sometimes morphing into animals!

"Rrrrrrachel?" stuttered Thom, upon seeing her walk in. It had been 6 years since he'd seen her last, but he would recognize that face anywhere...the face that had taunted him for years.

"Tom!" said Rachel. There was an awkward silence. "Um, I read about you and this bar on the internet, and I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop in." It was only half un-true, she told herself.

"Um...wow" said Thom. He could feel beads of sweat popping up on his forehead "When did you move to New York?" he asked nervously. He glanced instinctively at her finger to see if there was a ring. There wasn't.

"About a year and 8 months ago," said Rachel. There was another silence; Rachel broke it.

"Umm, Thom!" said Rachel, gesturing towards Cass, who stood behind her. "This is my friend Cass." Cass reluctantly stepped forward.

"Hi Cass," said Thom, reaching to shake her hand. He nodded towards Bree, who was beside him, silently fuming about this chick who seemed to render Thom speechless...

"This is Bree," said Thom.

Rachel recognized her right away as the girl from the photo.

"Nice to meet you Bree," said Rachel. She giggled. "Is that Brie like the cheese?"

Bree smirked. "Exactly like the cheese," she remarked.

A tree grows in Brooklyn...with brie leaves.

When Jesse Milkovich rang the doorbell at Sazz Tuttle's apartment Thursday night, he half-expected her to answer clad in lingerie, or holding a riding crop. Yet she was fully-clothed, looking lithe and summery in a white tulle top and brown shorts.

"Jesse!" exclaimed Sazz, rushing forward to hug him. "I'm so glad to see you! I hope you are hungry, because I have a vegan chili just coming out of the oven. There's a pinot noir open on the counter; help yourself to a glass. Are you feeling political? I rented Dr. Strangelove from NetFlix. I figured you'd appreciate the anarchistic messages."

Jesse smiled. It was just like Sazz to make a huge ordeal out of everything.

"Well don't just stand there, pour yourself some wine!" said Sazz, flashing him a huge smile. She tapped him lightly on the butt.

"Come on! Chop chop!" said Sazz.

And Jesse helped himself to some wine, and vegan chili, and sat on the couch next to Sazz and watched Dr. Strangelove and spooned...and about 20 minutes from the end, when the Doomsday machine is about to go off, and all 3 of Peter Sellars' characters have begun to go crazy, Sazz Tuttle peeled off her shirt and turned towards Jesse with an even bigger smile and said "Take me!"

And Jesse Milkovich did.

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Like this story? Read the whole thing (so far) here.

Neighborhood Watch: Beer Week

As if Philadelphians need ANOTHER excuse to drink (we're not called the City of Boozerly Love for Nothing) all last weekend, and this week too, marks the second annual Philly BEER WEEK, a 10-day (because drinking too much makes you lose track of time) celebration of brewskis and bevs, occurring in various locations throughout the city.

Philly mayor Michael Nutter apparently feels the need to bust open
the first keg with a GIANT SLEDGEHAMMER (because you know,
just using the tap wouldn't be totally BAD-ASS) while Ben Franklin,
who probably did not even actually say that stupid quotation about
beer being proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy,
looks on. Only in Philly people.

The full schedule of events can be found here (note: I totally swiped the above photo from this website) -- conveniently organized according to day. I wandered into Beer Week accidentally on Friday, when they were giving out Wild Turkey shots and paraphernalia (not beer at all, but whatevs) at my fave happy hour spot (don't ask me -- ask the $1 High Lifes probably causing tons of internal damage to my liver) and on Sunday, it was back to said spot again as my friends and I partook in the annual KHYBER CHILI COOK-OFF.

Riff arrived early, and had had about 3 beers before the damn thing
even started...at 2 o'clock in the afternoon! The slightly blurry photo
quality replicates what the world probably looked like to Riff
at this very moment.

Our chili was derived from a recipe Riff cooked up (literally) last September at our "Summer of Fun" picnicbash...here's the first derivation:

Riff Darling, you're an internet star.

This delicious concoction, as you can probably venture from above, is in fact, WHITE CHICKEN Chili, enhanced with Blue Moon for the c.o. (K rules said you gotta use beer) and absolutely, incredibly (if I do say so myself!) AH-mazing.

The judges agreed (as if they could disagree!)...but ultimately decided that "white chicken chili" did not constitute enough of a chili-like chili. As one giant, balding, ruddy-faced manjudge remarked: "this tastes like a burrito." (the most delicious burrito in the world!) We were bummed...until the people next to us had their chili thrown against the wall, at which point we felt slightly, but not entirely, vindicated.

The "judges" if you will, were recruited from the local tattoo shop, and
looked vaguely like this, only dirtier, hairier, and much, much uglier.

Now for some reason, which I now for the life of me can't fathom, going into the cook-off, my friends and I just sort of assumed that the judges would be skinny, bike-messenger types, into organic foods and staying fit, and that they would appreciate our unique, low fat chili. This type certainly frequents the Khyber when I'm there. But I forgot about the OTHER Khyber demographic -- the one I generally try to avoid -- giant, burly dudes who eat T-Bone steaks for dinner and listen to the MEATMEN -- and like things like bacon, and cheese, and lots and lots o' beef.

If I had thought about it for more than 2 seconds, I would have figured out pretty quickly that only the latter type could eat 18 different varieties of chili without vomiting, and judge them REASONABLY intelligibly (I only managed to get through about 5 myself) WHILE pounding down cans of Budweiser and shots of Jagermeister and coming up with witty remarks like "What did you make this in? A crock pot... or a CROTCH POT?" and "You're almost there. It's like walking into the bathroom and shitting in your pants. YOU'RE SO CLOSE!"



In the end, we didn't win, but we had fun engaging in debauchery on the Holy Day. As Beer Week crawls on, I'll be sure to make the most of it...my history, after all, demands it.

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Best New Music: It's Blitz!

Is it just me, or are there tons of amazing albums being released these days? The Black Lips, Brakes, I Monster, Dan Deacon, Bat for Lashes, Boy Least Likely To, Neko Case, Wavves...late winter is an indie rocker's bliss. But can anyone come close to the lovely and provocative Karen O., who was born with a rocker's voice, a fashionista's aesthetic and the ability to contort her body into such...unusual positions and still hit all the right notes?

Live in Reading, UK, 2006; image via BBC

The answer, obviously, is no: there is no one like Karen O. And the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album, It's Blitz (not actually out for another month, but all over the internet), proves it: the band departs from their usual brash, in-your-face, guitar-and-drums sound, adding more synthesizers and (god forbid!) an electronic beat...yet still manages to be everything the YYYs have come to represent: sexiness, energy, attitude and aggression, mostly thanks to Ms. O's rough, visceral vocals.

Listening to It's Blitz at work, I find myself drumming on my desk with correction pens, getting my groove on (my "stationary groove" on) to the driving pulse of first single "Zero" (click the link to watch the video!) and the skull-bashing rock of "Dull Life." This is a great session album, particularly if the session in question involves beer-drinking, and celebrating. I'll be playing It's Blitz at my buddy's 25th birthday party this weekend -- what will you be doing when you listen to it?

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 21

Not far from Brooklyn, in a small apartment in Chelsea, Rachel Lubovitch was getting ready for dinner with Ronald Harris. They had been dating for about 8 months now and Rachel, who was used to taking charge in romantic situations, was beginning to feel frustrated. At 29, she certainly wasn't getting any younger, and she wished more than anything that Harris would just hurry up and propose already.

To some extent she blamed Thomas Sandleby for her maiden status -- if only he hadn't been such a deadbeat for so many years -- but mostly, she blamed herself. Looking back, Rachel regarded her 3-year relationship with Thom as dull and non-stimulating -- and now, she felt she needed to make up for lost time.

Nevertheless, a week didn't go by where Rachel didn't think of Thom -- he was her biggest mistake, and she wanted to learn from him. Still, when Harris forwarded her the photo of Thom at the Sandlot opening, she couldn't help but feel jealous -- she didn't know anything about the Sandlot, but gathered from the photos that it was gathering spot for the young and the hip. Thom had always been cool (much cooler than herself) and staring at the photo, she found herself yearning for that lifestyle...even though law was infinitely more practical.

"a gathering spot for the young and the hip" -- I Love Factory NYC; image via lastnightsparty.com

In yet another part of town, Reid Pinkin was also longing for a lover: his ex-wife, Lisa. (Villians have feelings too you know.) He had met Lisa in 1994 while an extra on the set of Hackers --she was a wardrobe assistant who gave him one of his favorite hats -- and from then on out, it was true love.

He was a mere 25 years old at the time; Lisa was even younger. They were both poor, and from struggling families, and together they explored the "glamor" of show biz (not so glamorous at all, it turned out!) and were married in a ceremony that included many hats...and gloves, and necklaces, and cuff links, and for 5 years it was bliss, until Reid led his curiosity get the better of him and tried smack...then quickly morphed into a degenerative addict.

Now, he was ashamed of his past, and ready to move on, and displeased with the situation at hand. There was no future, he knew, in working the blow business with his dopey brother and ruthless cousin...and Reid Pinkin wanted more.

"many hats...and gloves, and necklaces, and cufflinks"

Meanwhile, back in Williamsburg, Josh Stadt had just returned from the Urban Saloon and was sitting on his couch making out with Marcus Roy. His heart wasn't in it 100%-- his head was clouded with thoughts of Marilyn, and solitude -- and more than anything, he wanted to prove to himself he did like Marcus -- or at least was willing to give him a chance.

Luckily, this wasn't too difficult. He was drunk, and Marcus had a face that was instantly kissable, and a body that was lean and toned, like a tennis player. Josh turned his brain towards the sexual, and was all over Marcus -- who made love like an angel and overwhelmed the thrill-seeking rock star's sense of feeling, and self-control.

Marcus was a notorious bottom, who frequented clubs like Barracuda and Phoenix, and got off on sleeping with semi-celebrities like Stadt. Yet even Marcus could feel something more in the encounter -- Josh made love with such passion, as if he were literally pouring himself into the moment...

"a notorious bottom, who frequented clubs like Barracuda and Phoenix;" photo by Dan Singer

Jesse Milkovich and Sazz Tuttle agreed to meet the following Thursday to "watch movies" and "talk" -- although really, both knew it was just a fuck date. A spontaneous dude in general, Jesse somewhat resented having the occasion mapped out -- where was the thrill in that? -- but he also knew that Sazz was a planner, and calling her up randomly one night and asking for a quickie would most likely bring on shrieks, hysteria, and way too much overall confusion. If he wanted to play ball with Sazz, he had to play by her rules.

Sazz, meanwhile, viewed their date as a conquest -- she had convinced Jesse Milkovich to kowtow to her wishes -- and felt delightfully in control. Sazz liked to think of herself as an independent woman, but Jesse, more than a year back, had made her feel crazy -- like some overactive, overjealous, overplanning bitch -- and she didn't want to feel like that at all. Sazz needed closure -- and she was fairly certain one last fuck was all it would take.

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"Team-building"

Many companies in this day and age like to practice what they call "team-building." Generally, this includes activities such as "trust falls", "fun runs", and cube-decorating contests. In my company (a large publishing company) it includes competitive sports.

Now of all the possible college majors from which to recruit strapping athletes, English seems one of the least likely, being that most English majors are generally: 1.) dorky, 2.) skinny and 3.) girls. (Not that Shakespeare chicks can't be feisty.) Nevertheless, publishing companies are chock full of literary chicks, and so, on a semi-regular basis, I find myself begrudgingly participating in softball, mini golf, and beginning this weekend, paintball.

Scenic Jim Thorpe, PA: the site of our demise. Photos by Stacey Bridgeman. Click any to enlarge.

This was my first-ever paintball excursion, and I must admit: I had no idea what I was getting myself into. My boss (more athletic than myself for sure) is somewhat of an aficionado, not to mention skilled in the art of persuasion, and thus under his guide, 31 of us (about 20 employees, plus significant others and friends) willingly awoke at 6.30 on a Saturday, traipsed all the way up to the Poconos, donned what can only be described as large camo jumpsuits, and ran, jumped and scurried through the woods, being careful not to slip on ice or land on lethal mudslides.

Preparing for battle.

Two days later, I can barely move (shoveling snow this morning was AWESOME!) and I have bruises on places I didn't know could bruise. But I must admit: I'm somewhat proud of my tenacity, even if I spent most of the game trying to snipe people, rather than charging full speed ahead and rescuing flags from enemy turf, à la my boss.

Matt and myself: nothing makes love flower like a good old-fashioned shoot-em-up.

Looking back, I'm not quite sure that ambushing your coworkers with hard, round little pellets counts as "team-building" (although I'm sure lots of pent-up aggression was released), but I will say one thing: nothing brings employees together Monday morning like nursing old war wounds (as we hobble through the corridors) and recounting that time when -- wait a minute? Did we really spend 6 hours on Saturday running through the woods playing paintball? Why did we do that? And next time: can we get off work to do so?

Team photo: the few, the proud, the tough. Ohhhh yeah.

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