It's big, fat, indoor-outdoor block party time! And now, thanks to the good people at InLiquid.com, your cheap-ass ticket to arty bliss lasts two days.

If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Robert "Mero Cocinero" Karimi has the recipe for world peace.

Sensitive types, take cover — Finn Andrews is nothing but a heartache.

Push, breathe, push, breathe, God damn it, breathe. It's a tender gesture — albeit a futile one. After nearly 25 minutes, Barton's hamstrings tremble under the strain. Snap, snap, snap — lights flash everywhere. Then, silence. "OK, thank you! That's a wrap!"

If I'm going to face my fear — giving up vegetarianism after nearly seven years — I'm going to do it right. I make reservations for Friday, 8:15 p.m., at Capital Grille.

She watches Fabio scoop a woman off the ground and flash a sparkler for a row of cameraphones. She squints. Do her eyes deceive her? A nearby butler whispers, "He can do that to you, you know."

What makes a Phila-delphian sexy? Is it power? Money? Fame? Heroin-boy-skinny, razor-blade hip bones?

Mystery menage at a no-tell motel. Extreme submission. Cubicle cuckolding. Rape ... and that's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Philadelphians' wildest sexual fantasies.

Robby, a 26-year-old lighting designer, vaguely pinpoints his fantasy as having something to do with "corsets and trapeze acts." More specifically, a redhead dressed in a corseted Strawberry Shortcake costume kicking it on a sex swing.

Some are passable, pretty even, but most look exactly like what they are: men in dresses.