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A little bit of pre-work urban spelunkage (spelunkage the equivalent of walking through the caves on cement paths with railings and colored floodlights, but STILL) means that I finally know what I'm talking about when I direct people up to the women's basketball office or the third floor weight room. It also means that I have a desperate urge to become one of those cutthroat stockbroker racquetball-playing fuckheads. The RACQUETBALL COURTS! Are HOT! Industrial green half-doors in a chilly wide concrete corridor. Like your very own little insane asylum/prison colony. I'm in loooooooove.

Of course, the sexy worn-down utilitarian-ness of the whole thing might be a bit diluted by the WHANGING and aggressive grunts. Who knows?

FUNERAL PARTY! TONIGHT!