We must give props where they are due: We don’t know if A.J. Daulerio has slipped his co-workers some prime doses of GHB or what, but the Nov. ish of Plastic Surgery Digest features two — count ‘em, two! — slam dunk poems to Old, Weird, SEXY Philadelphia. First up is Victor Fiorillo’s study of The Forum Theater at 22nd & Market, which is now, unfortunately, Center City’s last great Whack-Off Palace. Sample:

It was so dark inside that I had to wait a few minutes for my eyes to adjust before I could find a seat. There appeared to be only a handful of men in the theater — ­maybe a dozen — but there was plenty of action in the room, judging by the grunts and heavy breathing, not to mention the, uh, slurping sounds. Within five minutes of my arrival, a handsome young ­linebacker-type with a baseball cap and an Eagles jersey approached me and asked, “Can I help you out?” I said something like, “No, I’m okay, but thank you.” [...] As the scene played out endlessly onscreen, a couple of other guys approached me and lingered in the aisle, but nothing was said, and they walked away. Then a man, probably in his 60s, sat in the row behind me, one seat to my left. It quickly became obvious that a certain part of his body was no longer contained, and he leaned over and whispered something near my head.

Heynow! Not to be outdone, Amy Donohue Korman delivers a love song to Rittenhouse’s randiest apartment building, The Dorchester:

It basically comes with the deed to your condo: You will get laid. “I had my regular boyfriend, but I was fooling around with another guy in the building the whole time,” says a mom of three who lived there circa 1992. “One night the doorman let my real boyfriend upstairs without calling from the front desk, and I was naked on the couch with my Dorchester boyfriend. My boyfriend was banging on the door. I had to pretend I wasn’t home, and when he went back downstairs to call up, the other guy snuck out and went back to his apartment on the service elevator.

It’s like I keep telling you people: We need to rescue Rittenhouse and send it back to its porn-ier days. It’s like they always say: “When they came for Perry Milou, I said nothing. For I was not Perry Milou.”
PhillyMag: Watch Out For The Full Blown AIDS Though, Bol
PhillyMag: He Shoots, He Scorechesters

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 14th, 2007 at 4:57 pm.