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About Philadelphia

Then – bam! – some twat in a beat-up truck cuts us off. “Outta my way, you filthy war boy!” I yell, pissed as hell. Nearly smashed the martini glass I don’t even have. She’s cacklin’, lovin’ the chaos, says, “You’re mad, ain’t ya?” Damn right, doll – mad for ya curves and that hustle. “Shaken, not stirred,” I wink, dodgin’ potholes like I’m dodgin’ Blofeld.

The girls are waiting here for their clients.

My yard of favorite spots? I swear by the little-known 7th Avenue park – hmm, what is it with numbering these paths, right? Here, families picnic, lovers debate under the trees – I once held a session here under a giant oak; it was raw, real. And then there’s the old lighthouse at the river bend, a bit tucked away. Mystery hanging around like a bad joke sometimes.

100 years of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory Association