Our Alycia Lane Coverage

Now that she won't be getting any money shawty's like an 8 tops

I know what you might be thinking: "T.P.O. why are you always so behind on your coverage? This Alycia Lane thing went stale a week ago." Well, excuse me for being too busy fucking. Do you even know how hard it is fucking these glamorous bitches? I'm getting paid for it, too. And what about that Wikipedia? Those Kurt Vonnegut, Ghostface Killah, Spaghetti Western, La Boheme and soup articles-- off the magnet! Do you people know that on Saturday night I was at the same party as a guy who knows Bobby Dabolt? Have you heard the new Herc & Love - "Hercules Theme?" Ten steps behind, Baltimore. Suck my dick!

Pulling a Philly what? Alycia who? I got Tim Tebow's girlfriend emailing me, son! I'll see you motherfuckers in 2008, "The Year of the Don." ©

Dance, Punk, Dance!

Um...


Over the last two years many genres have competed for the hipster dance crown. Disco has made a real comeback, and I have to say that of all the contenders, it's the one that I like best. You can make jokes with disco dance moves and I like that. It also doesn't eschew the word and concept "hipster", which is becoming the new hip, btw, the eschewing. Nothing sleazes things up more than Baltimore house music. It only incites gratuitous grinding with girls, and, as I used to be a fat kid, I still don't feel confident enough to grab some smoking hot girl from behind and rub my dick (and not yet forgotten fupa) all up in her butt crack. There' s also this stuff popularly known as blog house, which sounds more like "power saw fart" house to me. The stuff has become really popular this year, and never wanting to be considered insular (most of the stuff comes from Europe, which btw apparently means infallible in hipster), I gave p.s.f. house a shot.

A Sunday night, at the Trocadero, in my hometown of Philadelphia. This act, Justice, which is p.s.f. house's flagship, was playing live. Man, did some weird shit go down at that show. These guys walked onto the stage wearing robot masks, no robot suits. Instead, they sported altar boy cassocks. The room was almost pitch black. All the sudden, this gigantic cross lit up at the back of the stage and the entire crowd fell to its knees and these really metallic synthesizers began to crescendo and the crowd started to recite the "Our Father" over and over, increasing in volume with the synths.

The robotic acolytes then jumped off the stage and began to administer Communion, which I immediately noticed tasted nothing like the body of Christ. I said, "Hey!, robotic acolytes, this tastes nothing like the body of Christ!". To which the taller one replied (in a robot voice), "Yea, but it is, my son. The Catholic church has been telling you lies your whole life. When Jesus Christ our Lord died he wasn't buried, but rather cremated. His ashes were spread over the entire earth by a mighty hurricane. In the year 909 in what is today Columbia, South America, a farmer named Jesus found some of Jesus' ashes, but he didn't know Them and so being a poor, hungry farmer, he [Jesus] consumed Them and received great feelings of euphoria. Today, you may know the ashes of Jesus by the slang name of cocaine. That's the Communion you've just eaten. That feeling in your heart, that uncontrollable throbbing, that's the everlasting life kicking in." As soon as he finished, this 4/4 bass beat kicked in, and the crowd started to chant, and I saw ten guys having missionary sex with ten girls upon this huge neon altar that appeared out of nowhere on the middle of the stage.

After that, I wanted nothing more to do with hipsters and their p.s.f. house. Funny thing, when I regained my sanity and could resume downloading music, I stumbled across this record, Myth Takes, by the !!!. In spots the record was chintzy, but it does contain two really great songs, "Must Be The Moon" and "Heart of Hearts." After doing some research, I found out that people termed this type of music "dance punk" and that it was the epitome of hipster culture from 2000-2004, and that any attempt at it outside of that time has been universally panned. I found a wealth of really great tunes from the era from bands like The Rapture and !!! (I've listened to "Me and Giuliani..." upwards of 50 times this year.) and Out Hud and the DFA and LCD Soundsystem before they went Funk, and Liars before they got Serious. All awesome dance tunes that made you dance in the most Bacchanalian of ways, made you forget the pretensions of prior hipster generations. Now, for some reason unbeknownst to me, it's sacrilege for a hipster DJ to play one of these songs in the clubs.

In today's hipster scenescape you can't be an out of the closet dance punk. In the time of p.s.f. house, what are we, hipsters, but innate dancers too, who don't want to partake in bizarre religious cocaine orgies, to do? Standing around as if petrified or jumping up and down or wrestling isn't dancing, people. It's like the singer from The Rapture says on that one song, "People don't dance no more, they just stand and pump their fists..." We have NYC Disco, sure, but without dance punk to what do we now lose our shit? Can we even lose our shit anymore, or has our shit already lost us?

My first two records from 2008:

Yeah.

The name Atlas Sound has stuck in my head ever since I first heard it. I found out recently that it is derived from the brand of tape player that Bradford Cox used as a child to make his first recordings. But before that, in my efforts to parse it, I had gotten to thinking that Cox is a man who has upheld a ponderous burden but looks upon the world without malice or jaundice. He is someone on whose shoulders the earth as a whole might weigh heavily, as an outgrowth of what one could call an unfortunate lot, if one were to put stock in that sort of thing. Yet he keeps his mind occupied with wonder and genius, and makes these unbelievable records, so even if this sound is the Atlas sound, Cox is Atlas sound. Unbowed.

Maybe I'm a dildo and he didn't mean for the name to evoke any of that. The point is, I invite you to try to name a person as rad as Bradford Cox right now, and to get in an argument with me about it, and lose. I can't review the record quite yet, but I am going to.

I really like Black Mountain, too.

Interview Week: DJ Khaled

T.P.O.: I want to start by saying what an honor this is for me. DJ Khaled, I think you're the best.

DJK: Listennn! This isn't about me. It's about we: me, you, Fat Joe,



T.I.,



Ross,



Kells,



Jeezy,



50,



Pavarotti,



Donald Driver, Eva Gabor, George Bush, Mariah Carey, Trina, Trick, ZZ Top, Queen Latifah, Plies, Cheesy, Leonard Nimoy-- I don't give a fuck. Man, "We the best!"



T.P.O.: I don't know. I think you're better than all those guys, DJ Khaled.

DJK: I don't want any more of this shit, so let me make myself clear. "Listennn!" "We the best!" And that's all there is to it.



T.P.O.: JHN RDN?

DJK:



T.P.O.: Even Diplo?

DJK:




T.P.O.: Okay. Okay. Sorry, DJ Khaled. We at T.P.O. love you so much. We got you this little token of our appreciation. Here, it's in this "brooowwwnnn paaaaaaaaaper baaaaaaaaag! brooowwwnnn paaaaaaaaaper baaaaaaaaag!"

DJK: "Listennn!" Thanks.

T.P.O.: You're so welcome. Hey, DJ Khaled, I'm kind of confused again. Who's the best?

DJK: We!

T.P.O.: Who?

DJK: "We the best!"

T.P.O.: "Haha!"

DJK: You're starting to get it, JS.

T.P.O.: "A! A! Shawty is da shit! Shawty is a 10! A! A!"

DJK: Now, who's the best, JS?

T.P.O.: We.

DJK: Who?

T.P.O.: We. "We the best!" Man, I never thought I could learn so much from an interview. Thanks, DJ Khaled.

DJK: My pleasure, man. I'm out.

Interview Week: Capitalist Rock Stars!

Today's interview features two stars of the indie and crossover charts. They're part of a growing contingent of music personalities who are biting the bullet and facing the facts of the American music industry, breaking through on the radio, charts and even licensing music to chain stores for use in advertisements, causing much consternation among their indie fans. We have agreed to identify them only by their initials, so that they might speak freely.

T.P.O.: Guys, pleasure to have you. So there's this debate about whether or not each of your bands have sold out for success, obviously. Something about your new records, or career path, or tone, or something, really seems to have shifted, and some people are unhappy. What is so different now? What is it in your old...

IB: I know I'm still not going to fucking talk to any dickhead reporters about any fucking old records. Talk to me about the shit I do now, the shit that made me a multimillionaire.

KB: My older records are a panoply of ecclesiastical carnivals. They were made by a young man who was intent on walling up his Oresteian frenulum in a rocky Alcatraz, you know? I don't want to dwell on times when I worried every day if I was insane. Forgive me, Buenos Aires, but I don't have your Agamemnon.

T.P.O.: It's fine. I'll move on, no problem. So, K----, you seem to be newly converted to, shall I say, a frontier mentality with regard to not only the music business but life itself, society itself. Is that right?

KB: Yeah, I think there are two types of people in this world, those who decide to kill, and those who decide to be killed, by deciding to alienate themselves from the system. There are those who handle all the cocks and get them stuck up their asses are the ones who fail to figure out the workings of it. The fascists who spend their time hating capitalism are the ones who get killed out in the wild. I just got sick of being fucked by the giant dicks and kept isolated in the wilderness in hiding from menacing cocks.

IB: I mean, I grew up on the West Coast but I just want to make sure I say I don't really agree that it's necessary to handle dudes' dicks, necessarily, in the first place. So I can't, like, say I agree with K---- on all of that, but yeah. You are either the predator or the prey. You figure it out and do it or you lose.

KB: Well, it's just the image, but I think that it's, if you want to try to constrain your male sensuality, well, I don't know if you've ever read The Fountainhead...

T.P.O.: Well let me ask, I----, your point all along has been that you can't argue with success. What has been different for you since you became a breakout success?

IB: Now, if I wanted to, I could fuck any girl on any college campus in the U.S.? I'm kidding, of course. I love where I'm at right now. You know what they say. Go ahead and switch the style up. I used to think "fuck the world, fuck these people." Now it's more "fuck everybody who doubted me." I am in a great place, and my music takes people to a good place.

KB: I made a Asklepius Ascending the Venusian Bluff of myself and came out with these records that some people loved so much. But I was always upset that I didn't have any savings. I realized how much I envied those who had a lot of money in the bank and didn't have to worry about that. The truth is, the only truly happy people are the ones with all kinds of extraneous money to spend on whatever they want. I decided no longer to try to pull the ultimate balancing act. I was tired of trying to suck the dicks and then cut them off, so to speak. I decided to allow myself to become commercialized, and not to remain confused and isolated on the paranoid perimeter... Pericles...

T.P.O.: It's like there is a new you, a totally different shift in attitude. Both of you seem to be really getting away from the reputations you'd acquired in your early careers.

KB: And that's because it is an inevitable thing. Everybody gets jealous of a life of wealth and economic success. People thought I was insane, like, I was diagnosed with psychological problems. I thought my life was over. I wasn't getting a lot of what I wanted. The desire for wealth, like, to pass along to your children, to buy nice things for yourself and others, it's a universal human trait, and you can't feel bad about it. Money is and always will be the most important thing. End of story. And rich guys don't have, like, women thinking or saying that they are psychotic and weird. Or any of that.

IB: Yeah, people used to tell me I sounded lonely. I had bad posture and shit. Now, it's like, if you just saw all these beautiful girls trying to grab on me at every show. And of course I am with someone, so it's all just so absurd. Sometimes it is hard to even fucking get away from people who want to hang out with me. I play rugby with one of the local leagues, incognito, like, I just run around try to truck people, like I'm the man, not some kind of scrub. I carry myself straight and wear a watch. I walk into a bar like I own the place and then I only have one drink.

T.P.O.: And both you guys have really been helped by cutting down on the partying and taking antidepressants, am I right?

KB: Yeah, all the time, it's the only way for me to keep from being bitter about having to tone myself down and think about simple things, such as success. Surprisingly... see, I find myself doing things like alliterations, in my head, it's like my mind is wandering away. Probably to start thinking of what someone else wants from me, what someone would prefer that I do. But I can't let it. I need my mind to be focused on me, getting me what I want, doing what I have to do. That is what you call maturity.

IB: Stop asking me about drinking. I'm past that. Yeah, I used to agonize over metaphors. Until they were just so. Like I really worried about making sense to all the people who listened to my music, getting across to them. You know what? Now that I take some medications to calm me down, I don't have to think so hard, I can relax and let it come to me. If I happen to thinking of a ship I'm going to write about something nautical, or water. Fuck what people want to hear me say. Let's say I want to talk about the ocean, or crabs and scallops. People will respond to it, because we make great rock music that sounds good to them, and they like hearing it on the radio. Everything should be this easy.

T.P.O.: So I assume you guys had your idols in the rock world. Now you guys are, to some degree, rock stars yourselves. Do you still have idols?

KB: Back in the day I would have said something about, like, David Bowie. But David Bowie lives in a tax shelter. The social order is capitalism, and it is beautiful, and it's important that we show respect for it. Artists and fans alike. You as an artist have to be an adult, and so do your fans. So I identify myself now with all artists who are fiscally responsible, really, not just Bowie. And the great artists who believe in American capitalism more than in pleasing some unappreciative hypercritical losers. Gene Simmons is a great guy.

IB: My answer was always The Pixies, or The Smiths. And it just so happens that now I have J---- M--- in my band, and K-- D--- texted me one time and said if I ever wanted to get together she was down, I don't know if she meant to fuck or to make a record or what. So I don't have idols anymore so much as people I admire as distinguished peers. My ship sails fast. There are no holes. In the hull! And that's ALL! RIGHT! BY! ME! You see what I mean. And think about that with two drummers.

TPO: So, this question is for both you guys, if there was one thing you could say to the fans who have been complaining that your old records were better, you used to have more to say, and so on.

KB: History is fleeting buffet of Pompeiian parquetry. Some people try to tell me that my lyrics suck now that I have decided to be as honest as I want. They can tell me that I've become blunt and tiresome since I decided I had to grow up and face the facts. They'll never know how awful it is when people think you are bizarre. I used to be so hard to get along with, when I was sucking the twin freakish cocks of alienation and confusion and trying to stab the ones that would have made me happy, the time-honored kind of dicks our parents used to suck. And to anyone who says I have blown my load, just wait until you see what I'm cooking up for my next release.

IB: I'm different now. I don't try to have grudges and problems with people anymore. My music isn't about condemning shit. Life is much better when you don't think about things bothering you. If you're always checking for leaks, you will have nightmares about taking on water, and wake up with an inch of water in the lifeboats.

T.P.O: Thanks again, guys, for your time. It's been great.

T.P.O. Presents Interview Week! Today: Donovan McNabb (A.K.A. 5)

_________________________________________________________________________________

This week T.P.O. will run some interviews that we were able to get with some of our favorite people. Today, it's Eagles QB Donovan McNabb. Stay tuned later in the week for interviews with DJ Khaled, Diplo, and maybe even a few others.
_________________________________________________________________________________


Following the Eagles stunning upset of the point spread last night, T.P.O. caught up with Donovan McNabb for his thoughts.

T.P.O.: Donovan, thanks for taking the time for the interview.

McNabb: Call me 5, man.

T.P.O.: 5?

5: 5, because I'm a quintuple threat. I pass. I run. I make plays. I design clothes (Super 5). I speak for corporations (Campbell's Chunky Soups, AirTran).

T.P.O.: I see. You don't rap?

5: Funny you should ask. Me and my boys Kanye, Chi town connect, you know, and ?uestlove have got something planned for next year.

T.P.O.: That'd make you a sextuple threat. You'd have to change your number and your clothing line. Should I start calling you 6?

5: Nah man. For now, I'm still 5. But when the right time comes, I'm willing to make the change. I also hope to get into movies.

T.P.O.: Horror?

5: Exactly.

T.P.O.: That'd be a good look for you, I think. Plus that'd make you a septuple threat and I could call you "7, that lucky number."

5: I like the way you think around here.

T.P.O.: Well, I like your style too, 5. "We the best!"

5: Man, I feel you!

T.P.O.: What would you rap about?

5: Well, actually some heavy stuff, like haters. Everybody's always hatin' on 5. White people and black people. Everything I do, it's hate. And yet I've had nothing but love for everyone. That's why Kanye's producing it, man. The beats have got to be strong, like me.

T.P.O.: Well, I like Kanye beats, but it sounds like you'd be hatin' on the haters and I think that, according to guys like Lil' Wayne and even Kanye West, you're just supposed to let your money pile up, let the haters hate.

5: But if we let the haters hate then how are we ever going to make a positive difference? That's where I think I have a unique perspective. After all the hate I've endured, my faith has kept me strong. That's the message the record's going to send.

T.P.O: We understand that you sat out tonight's game with thumb and ankle injuries. How are you feeling?

5: Better. There's still some swelling in both areas. But I think I'll be ready for next week's game.

T.P.O.: Hmmm. Your thumb doesn't look swollen to me, but I'm not a doctor. What do you think of AJ's performance tonight?

5: Well, AJ threw three interceptions. They really brought his rating down. I mean 83.9 and what am I at 84.7? That pretty much sums things up. Now maybe all the Philly fans will understand why I fumble so much.

T.P.O.: But what about the 350 passing yards? What about coming back from an early interception? What about 3 touchdown passes?

5: What about AJ not being the play maker that I am, especially at the end of the game, when things matter most? What about the two interceptions he threw at the end?

T.P.O.: Whoa, big guy, relax. You're right. Feeley admits the interceptions were all clearly his fault, whereas, in your case, the guys around you just haven't been making plays. And we all know how clutch 5 is.

5: That's what I've been trying to say all year, man.

T.P.O.: Well, we've been listening. 5, sometimes we get some secret info here at T.P.O., and we heard that the writers for the hit HBO series The Wire have been kicking around an idea for extending the show into a sixth season, an idea that actually centers on you.

5: I love that show, man! I'm boys with Idrus Elba, the actor who played Stringer. He hasn't mentioned anything yet, though. You sure? TV... that'd make me an octuple threat. 8, how does that grab you? It's not as good as "7, that lucky number." I could flash my big smile after saying that. I guess I could do without the horror movies. They'd only just kill me anyway.

T.P.O.: Or you could shut down Super 5.

5: ...

T.P.O.: So, the idea goes like this: Det. Jimmy McNulty (for some unfathomable reason) thinks that you obviously suck, that you obviously are the most inaccurate passer in the history of pro football, that you make horrible decisions, and that you lack the competitive fire to lead anything. It is utterly irrational to McNulty that Eagles' coach Andy Reid continues to start you at quarterback. McNulty feels there's something else going on, so he starts digging up some dirt. He finds out that a judge has called Andy Reid's house a "drug emporium" and maneuvers to get a wire tap up on Reid's home phone. Reid, in a moment of pure hubris, too rapt in celebration of your seventh straight season with an "injury", gives up over the wire that he has to keep playing you, keep you in Philly, because he and you are actually involved in drug trafficking. During that call Reid informs The Head of the Organization (Jeff Lurie) that your (5's) plan to elude police by reupping the stash by means of Andy's son's, Garret Reid's, asshole has been a success. That's all they have so far.

5: This interview is over, motherfucker! (Turns and walks briskly away. No indication of ankle discomfort.)

T.P.O. (chasing after): What did I say? Hey, 5, one last question. We hear that you've been doing some work with the American Diabetes Association. Do you have Diabetes?

(no response)

For All My Real Rappers

like M. Descartes


What do you think rapper 50 Cent and boxing champion Floyd Mayweather Jr. built their friendship on? According to Mayweather it's the fact that "real recognize real." If you're real, then you definitely don't front. Look at 50 and Floyd, they back they shit up over and over: Mayweather continues to prove himself the best hit-and-run pussy fighter and 50 keeps on writing the most uncreative and insubstantial verses. Both men, however, maintain their "real"-ity because no matter what public perception of their products might be, 50 and Floyd get they stacks, and no I'm not talking about the new OS X feature.

We don't quite got our cake, guap, weight, and shine on 50's level yet, but we try very hard to keep things moving, and we feel that at this point we're pretty damn real. Read our most recent posts. We're calling motherfuckers out. We know that as far as Philly goes "we the best"-- we raise the bar every time we write a post-- and we're not going to front about it. Check out the revised "T.P.O. Endorses" list in the sidebar. But let me give you another example of how we don't front.





Sure we've been able to dance a whole song without spilling it, but we also openly admit to spilling it, especially during songs by The Rapture, LCD SS and The Hives. Right now we're spilling it one out of every three songs. Sometimes it's just a drop here or there, other times, well, it's like Riffs taught us, you just have to make your own slip spot. We're doing what it takes to improve though. I'm doing four extra biceps curls a week so that I can keep my arms upraised longer, keep my drink above traffic. CJR did some assisted pull ups this week. We hope to spill it only once every four songs by the Making Time this weekend, and we're not stopping there. We won't stop until we dance the whole night without spilling it. And we won't stop there either, because 1. we can't and 2. this song isn't just about dancing without spilling it, it's a metaphor. Dancing a song without spilling it isn't easy, just like life, but if you make up you're mind, put some time in and learn to fall in line with life's rhythms, then there's no limit for you, soldier.

Letters To The Editors: Philadelphians React To Being Named "Least Attractive"

Over the past few weeks, TPO has received many strongly worded letters from readers objecting to the recent condemnations in the international media of its citizens' taste and culture. Today we are excerpting some of the best of the mailbag, with the aim of covering the whole spectrum of these objections.


"We are talking about a city where in my neighborhood, designated as a resurgent mecca for artists and daring young couples, every single one of the people who live on my block is a tubby balding dumbass who walks around in sweatpants all day with about four huge dogs that get fed ground beef, and all the sidewalks are so covered in shit I'm afraid to wear nice shoes. Every guy who starts a conversation with me is wearing some kind of clothes he got on sale three years ago. The best attended nightlife event is Bloodbath spinning Madonna and Hall and Oates at Silk City, and half the people there look like they listen to metal. But still, do you really believe we're lamer than, say, Omaha?"

Caitlin Bergstrom, Fishtown


"The problem is ladies who had to eat a lot to get their ass that big who do not cover up their chest and stomachs when they go out. Also, it does not help one bit that they wear tight jeans with their tank tops and other little shirts. It does not matter where you are from, Philly to Dubai to France to Senegal, when you are in the Gallery you do not want to see ladies with their big bodies hanging out their shirts, or stuffed into a halter top looking like the girl is stealing ice from the A-Plus. I am not surprised that all over the world people are talking about Philly ladies not knowing how to look good."

Michael Gamble, South Philadelphia


It is no secret that Philadelphia's geographical conjunction with the Tastykake factory, in addition to Entenmann's, Stroehmann, Herr's and Utz production and distro hubs, made it virtually inevitable that we fall prey eventually to an obesity epidemic. And we wonder why so few Philadelphians are "attractive." Whole generations of Philadelphia-born men and women have come to regard Tastykake as an "ultimate" dessert, just as they regard Herr's as "our hometown" chip. Eating these foods, for us, is a way of investing in the community.

Some will go so far as to eat two or three fruit pies back to back, a whole box of Pop'em© donuts, or even an entire pound of thick-cut kettle chips during just one night of television watching, in the course of their laudable but misguided efforts to support Phillies advertisers, help keep factory jobs local, and so forth. The bargain prices and virtual ubiquity of these companies' superior products only worsen matters. In our search for answers in the wake of this epidemic, we cannot overlook the impact of the greater Philadelphia snack empires on our diets, minds and morals.

Bob Iacovetti, Lehigh Valley Professional Park


"I am sure they spent all their time downtown where all the bank ladies are walking around, and all those art school girls with metal in their face and big trees tattooed on their arms and shit. The problem is that all the girls who go to the gym and dress fashionably and all that are from the suburbs and South Jersey, or go to Villanova or Penn State, and I guarantee they did not go out to West Chester and see some of the model hot girls that go there on weekends. No doubt they went to some place in Olde City where everybody is dressed like a vampire and drinking wheat beer. Somebody bring those dudes to Brownie's next time and then they won't have shit to say about where the good looking people are at."

Evan Graveley, Havertown


"I feel that this criticism does not apply equally to every neighborhood and the study is flawed. There is nothing wrong with the health or attractiveness of my children or those of my friends and family here in East Falls. It is not our fault, for instance, that we are able to maintain strong recreational sports programs but other neighborhoods cannot. In communities like here and Roxborough, our volunteer coaches keep our children busy after school. Every hour that my sons spend at baseball practice is an hour that I don't have to worry about him wandering into less desirable areas and their thug lifestyle of Oxycontin drugs and "low-low" prison pants, no steady job, bad eating habits, and no respect at all for our laws and law enforcement. Some of us are doing our part and we deserve respect."

Grace X. Schultz, East Falls


"It's not pretty out here, but it's real. If you act up you are bound to get knocked and everybody knows it. When we are here, we lay low, because you are not going to get hit for something nobody knows you got. I guarantee nobody came and saw us tear up the Borgata like we do. That is when the jewelry comes out, and that's when we bust our stacks, all that snow, everything. There ain't no way they'd talk that way if they saw how we do. Real Philadelphia pimps know that jealous cats in this city will stick you up daily because this is a city where the jealousy and hatred never stops. We save our shine for where peoples can let us shine a little bit, Jersey, NYC, Miami, wherever."

Ryan Wierkiewicz, Andorra

Let's See How Many Times I Can Use H4, Clearly The Best Subheading Size, In One Post. Alternate Title: Freestyle Blogging 2

Waters of Fairmount

On the music concrete tip, which really if you're not on..., anyways I've been trying to attune myself because a lot of not necessarily funny, sometimes it's funny, sure, but at least interesting things are constantly sonically colliding. Here are a few instances I remember well enough to recount.

So the new place that we moved into is right next to a construction site, and in particular my room is nearest it. So every morning sometime between 7:00 and 7:30 I am woken up by heavy machinery moving on rusty treads. And every morning I say to myself "that fucking Justice song." ("Waters of Nazareth)

Now I don't want to come off prejudiced against construction equipment. About a month back walking up Penn. Ave, right outside the Philadelphian, I'm listening to !!!'s "Heart of Hearts" (which by the way I think is going to be my favorite song of the year), right at that part of the chorus when the female vocals fade out ("heart of heart of heart of") and the guitars start going crazy, a fucking power saw turns on right above me and complements the guitars and drums so perfectly that I go back to my room and bang my head against the wall for the rest of the day.

Or take the time when an insomniac me went to the gym at 5:45 in the morning. Everything was so peaceful on what is usually such a frenetic walk that I could actually listen to some Panda Bear. With "I'm Not" playing, I heard these birds start to chirp, my guess would be sparrows or hummingbirds, which I think are only pedestrian singers in the bird world (hey one thing T.P.O. never claimed to know about was ornithology), but they started doing this like harmony part with the "ooh"s that was so pretty that when I finally got to the gym, which was packed (I guess there's either an insomnia bug going around or some people are just way too fucking vain), I spent the entire work out banging my head against the titty bike and crying my eyes out.

But the without doubt coolest instance of this was when I was driving back one night from I have no idea where, when what must have been an accident forced me off the crosstown express and onto Vine St. local at Broad. All the sudden into audio range came this helicopter and it landed on the roof of adjacent Hahnemann Hospital (so there are all these crazy lights going off too (concert stage efx concrete?)) at the exact moment when the guitar switches chords in The Rapture's "Love Is All."

Eureka!

I spent a large part of my recent hiatus doing some serious research, some investigative blogging if you will, and will now reveal my findings at the risk of really pissing off some people in Philly.

You may recall in my recent accounts of nights spent at Silk City descriptions of a character who wears leather pants and cut-off t-shirts, who has a $500 dollar haircut, and who obviously considers himself really good looking. I've found out that this guy goes by the letters Jhn Rdn. If you google Jhn Rdn, the first two hits are a myspace and blog for our man, in which he masks his real name, going by the pseudonym John Redden. But if you just take a look at this guy



clearly you'll see a resemblance to 80s rock icon and Philadelphia native Joan Jett. Now poring over her Wikipedia entry, you'll see that Joan appeared on the hit TV series The Highlander. Everyone knows that show only casted French people. So our man Jhn Rdn, clearly Joan Jett's son, must also be French.

Now, we've all read The Da Vinci Code and we all know that letters (in this case vowels) can be arbitrarily attributed any way we want. Who said that the understood vowels between r and d and d and n had to be e. Now the first name I can't come up with anything else, I mean I could say suppose an a came between the j and h, making this cat's first name jahn, which if you throw a macron over the a could be pronounced jane, but that'd just be ridiculous. But there's definitely something up with the last name-- clearly this guy's name isn't Redden-- Rdn only has one d. Suppose an o came between r and d and an i between d and n. That would spell out Rodin, as in Auguste Rodin, Frenchman, who spent time in Philadelphia, who in that time must have sired Joan Jett, Auguste Rodin being the only French guy besides Lafayette to ever set foot in our city. Joan Jett in turn bears Jhn Rdn, who's last consonant cluster cleverly conceals the fact that he is Auguste Rodin's grandson.

On Solecisms

To sound like a stickler, does anybody over at CityPaper give a fuck about proofreading? Ha, maybe you guys thought there were no mistakes in last week's edition. My bad. I'd gladly lend my services. I'm currently getting sixty a bag.

How Many H4s?

4

T.P.O. Proudly Premiers: Pulling A Philly: That's Gay

From the T.P.O. Lexicon (1st Edition):

Philly [fil-ee]

-adjective, li-er, li-est, noun, plural -lies

-adjective

1. characteristic of that 100% raw shit; belligerently upfront and honest
2. conveying the sense of community as a derivative of the city that is known as "the city of brotherly love."
3. overly unpretentious; lacking tact and restraint; crude, crass, plebeian

-noun

1. colloquialism for a city in the Mid-Atlantic U.S. located between Washington D.C. and New York City
2. a member of an awesome baseball team
3. a blunt
4. an act so in your face it can become stifling

also -verb

1. to freak the fuck out

From the T.P.O. Thesaurus (1st Edition)

Philly

adjective

synonyms: crass, vulgar, plebian, raw, trill, rad

antonyms: patrician, New York (esp. Brooklyn), gay


I've lived in Philly my whole life, probably will too. I love my city. I love it so much that I want to try to make it better, not different, better. I love Philly (adj.). But what first won me over with the raw beauty of its honesty has recently become nauseating. Socially speaking, I remember when hipster Philly kind of got down with indie rock and brit pop and an occasional bit of disco and house and disco-house, all genres that can more than foment an atmosphere of Philly. Now it apparently needs to be relentless blog house or fucking Snoop Dogg or Spank Rock and Diplo, in other words stupid, simple, dirty, slutty Shit. I wonder when exactly our city felt a need to do a 180 from New York. Well, FUCK BALTIMORE! And even though New York will never be as honest and communal as Philly, everybody still trying to one-up everybody, there's something to be said for actual conversation, dancing, dressing up, recreational drug use, and dance floors not covered in puddles of alcohol, sweat, puke, blood, jizz and pussy jizz. Phillying is a fine line: in fitting doses it can be transcendent, but sometimes there's only so much Philly a rational human being can handle.

"That's Gay"

"What do you want to do tonight (Tuesday), Jim?" "I don't know, Ted, I kind of want to relax and watch a movie." "Jim, you're gay. I, on the other hand, am Philly. I am going to my room, breaking out the two mini strobe lights that I got at Home Depot last week, doing a couple of eight balls, putting on some Justice and thrashing against the walls for a couple of hours. I am going to haunt the dreams of the neighbors' six year old daughter. You sure you don't want in, I mean I have four or five eight balls. I could definitely spare one, you faggot." "Fuck you, Teddy, calling me gay. Let's go."

In Philly, once someone calls you gay, you're fucked-- there's been no come back that can surmount it. It has even become emblematic, a sort of badge of honor for the city, as in, "hey, we call 'em as we see 'em, and right now you're being gay." But recently, the phrase has been so overused that any utterance of it is bored and bordering on wistful. It has lost the joie de vive that constitutes a true Philly. And so, let me trump that Philly with one of my own: calling someone/thing gay has become totally gay.

The proscription is thus issued: any use of "that's gay" from this point on will be gay. "But how am I supposed to put people down now?" We should have never been about so facile a putdown, something which in itself (the putdown) is too facile for the primary definition of philly (adj.) (characteristic of the 100% raw). Because really, if someone's throwing some serious New York in your grill, and you want to be true Philly, don't call them gay, punch them in the face.

T.P.O. Coming Back With Dour Dour

This Is My M.I.A. Post

Just when you may be thinking that we're done, I come correct with the following oh so strong a post and you know we still here. I thought I'd give ample time to see if someone else would pick up the torch. Allow me. Because really people this isn't dissension for its own sake, this is just truth. Strapped in? Kala isn't good, it's mediocre, and M.I.A. isn't cool, she's just Sri Lankan.

Upfront, let me deal with the record. I admit liking "Bamboo Banga", "20 Dollar", and "The Turn" especially the latter two. They are about something more than the Third World and self-proclaimed terrorism (the only thing Maya's probably ever blown up was Diplo's ego (Ohhhhhhh!)). I like hearing Maya recount her childhood and her favorite artists in "XR2". I even appreciate "Jimmy" for also not being about makeshift bombs. Musically, "Paper Planes" is the only other worthwhile cut in addition to the ones above (minus "Jimmy" of course-- a top ten worst production of the year). Is it just me, or isn't the rest of the record nothing more than a cacophony of whistles and gunshots and booty bass and at best third world repping ad nauseam and for the most part prattle?

Why all the love for Kala then? Shit I could drop no fewer than thirty records from this year that I know are better than Maya's. Why am I so worried that her record is going to be bestowed the crown of Record of The Year by the venerable Pfork, Sty, VV, etc? Could it be because things are so fucked up that the trend has become more important to an unquestioning society than the aesthetically beautiful?

M.I.A. is the epitome of the trend: Indian, hot, rapper, absurdly dressed to ex/impress, I hate America, I am woman hear me roar. You see her look and attitude beginning to run rampant among the youth in the "cultured" northeast part of our country. She's a fucking gold mine. Critical outlets such as Pitchfork, for example, who have also financially reaped the benefits of the trend, could never go against their flagship act and covergirl.

Maya and her new record produce a glib notion of cool. To me it's cool when people think that being white, dorky, into indie rock, partially prudish, not so far as conservative, but moderate, i.e. themselves, can be cool in its own way. I think it's cool when people show interest in their own canon and culture first, try to find the good in it, rather than spring for that which is other. What I am trying to say here, people, is that, if you stop and consider for a sec, I am obviously cooler than M.I.A.

She who reads the meters twice a day eats eagerly four times along the way...

And now, our hearts press hard against our vests
alarmed by the approach, with leaden steps,
of hefty women heaving heavy breaths
and badly straining seams of sky-blue chests
of shirts whose vast expanses often dwarf
a cloud-occluded face devoid of warmth
that never meets the gaze of passers by,
though neither you nor I evade her eye.

Her puffy, gloating glower prophesies
ill-omened bolts striking intrepid guys
who dare to stop in Fairmount or nearby
compelling them to park briefly beside
some curb cut, dumb dumpster, construction crane
or other oddball obstacle that plagues
the parking on each street that runs one way
or has numbers or letters in its name.

She scribbles up the charge upon her scrip
and slaps a scrap right on his windshield, with
sweet dreams of the rewards she's sure to reap
today to grab a fork, though, keep it neat,
not to be forced to scoop it out in clots
on corners of a large Mike and Ike box
with far too few small napkins as defense
so grease gets on her pants and all her pens.

When it begins to rain upon our land
Tickets leave inky stains upon on our hands
and every plate ends up upon the lists
kept by those self-perpetuating cysts,
except for those who've drawn that blessed lot
that designates a dedicated spot
and frees them from the suffocating squeeze
that buys the ladies' Wawa mac and cheese.

It can storm on any beautiful day
it can cost fifty dollars just to stay
for sixty seconds next to some gray tank
that takes up all the spaces at the bank
And eight days later, time to escalate
the state's claim on your wage to eighty-eight
and then begin the incessant requests
that you, not she, cut out a pound of flesh.

But If You Try Sometimes, Well You Just Might Find, You Get What You Need

Things I Learned By Going Out With Old High School Friend Matt Tinari To Monday Night's King Britt's "Back to Basics" Party @ Silk City

1. That no matter how many Ricardo Villalobos songs and Canadian Indie Rock records I listen to, I will never be able to say "jazz is dead."



2. Corona Light is just as good if not better than Corona extra.

3. That when you ask for a Corona at Silk City, you get a Corona Light. It's like they're taking it on themselves to inform you about Light. That at Silk City, which I also realized is just another name for Utopia, they know better than you-- "hey, we know the customer is always right, but just try this and tell us it isn't better." I wish I could, but really, I can't.

4. That the guy who owns the Silk has worked really hard, not to mention has also spent a lot of money, perfecting his fake Jeffrey "The Dude" Lebowski look, and has succeeded unlike any I've seen before. A 10.




5. That, while we're on the topic of fakes, that Miss Kathy Diamond is definitely a Universal Donor.



6. That everyone who was 16-20 circa 2000 in going to this party is desperately trying to capture one last remnant of the awesomeness of the Philly Neo Soul movement that they were too young to experience at its prime.

7. That this is still very much possible in our city, either because of those that were responsible for the movement in the first place, like ?uestlove, showing up and still clearly supporting the scene, or because going out en masse on Monday nights is just how we do.

8. That ?uestlove likes talking on his cell at Silk City about 1/16-20 as much as Diplo Pentz, and the fraction's only that large because it's a way out of dealing with the entire white portion of the crowd that still feels obliged to give him props.



9. That ?uestlove and I have something in common: we both love putting tons of Tobasco in our soup.

10. That if you go to this party there's a chance that DJ Jazzy Jeff will swing by and you'll get to watch him play the drums.

11. That DJ Jazzy Jeff can really play the drums.

12. That you're allowed moreover encouraged to bring your own instruments with you to the party and air play along with the band.

13. That doing so will get your dick absolutely shredded by the hottest girl in the place.

14. That that $500 leather pants and haircut guy that I was only sorta enviously ripping in that Bloodbath post goes to Silk City every night of the week, solo if he has to.

15. That even when this guy shows up without any friends I still dislike him.

16. That there's something that I have yet to understand about Silk City as to how it can draw a steady crowd every night of the week, and that it has to be more than just the location.

17. That the enormous bouncer from Fluid hangs out at this party. The very same man who once had to carry a stupefyingly drunk and dislocated-kneed me from the floor of the Vitalic live show.

18. This:



(Pharrell's "Can I Have It Like That?" has to be the best song for this.)

19. That Matt Tinari went to elementary school with a girl who does it.



20. That it's kinda stupid. That dancing in the same manner without the hula hoop would be much funnier. That hula hoops can be too serious.

21. That the awesome bum who works the Silk City/Transit beat, the very same bum who once saved me from a $75 parking ticket before a Making Time, who by the way wins without doubt Best of Philly Bums 2007, goes by the name Freddie ("like Freddy Krueger") Lloyd.



22. That bums have email accounts.

23. That bums like Freddie who are genuinely polite about the whole thing-- Freddie struck up a good 15 minute conversation with us about hula hoop girl before blessing us and asking us for some CHANGE-- deserve some cash, and that you'd have to be an extremely cold person not to throw him a buck or two.

24. That there weren't any cold people attending this party. That one person described the night as "good vibes."

25. That if your alternator/starter/battery dies while at a Silk City party, Freddie Lloyd would be more than happy to set up your jumper cables.

Just another in a long series of despicable Patriot acts... (oh shit)

What, you mean the team with the raging neocon Republican QB is violating the "civil rights" of its opponents through "illegal surveillance?" I blame that goddamn FISA vote-of-capitulation. Next thing you know, you'll be reading in the Wall Street Journal that the Jets defense was getting their plays directly from hardline Sunni and the "surge" in the Pats' offensive production is for the greater good.

"Brady speaking. Yeah, sure, Dick, I'll write you guys whatever check you want, just let me borrow one of those cameras y'all have, you hear?"

TPO's Lowered Standards Gazette Presents: The Hold Steady

In case you haven't noticed yet, the Hold Steady is some pretty vapid, mediocre crap. If you have any taste with regard to the written word, you'll join me in being disgusted by the unanimous praise that has been spouted at this band, congratulating them for their potent, high-concept slice-of-life humor/poetry. This guy writes absolute bullshit songs. If you really give them the benefit of the doubt, you might pick up, as if through a thick wall, faint cries of an infant good observation shrieking in its crib due to malnourishment. The consensus on the Hold Steady as one of the most kickass bands in America is the equivalent of giving a high school freshman the Pulitzer for his paper on Rabbit, Run.

This is a perfect example of our climate of degraded expectations, which is the new hot issue in the TPO office; it's had us buzzing for a month now. WXPN loves to play The Hold Steady every day, Pitchfork massages Craig Finn's cock a couple of times a month, and people putting Hold Steady records on at parties and play air guitar, and I can only wonder: what the fuck makes anyone think these guys merit this much attention?

It would be easy enough to correct this sad state of affairs, too. Every time they're thinking about playing some monotonous Hold Steady Song about how awful the kids are (hmm), WXPN could instead choose to put on some Will Oldham, which people really need to hear (Days in the Wake or Viva Last Blues, especially). Pitchfork could let everyone know that they should listen to The Bees all the time. And as everybody knows, the only record that should ever be put on at a party is either that new Aesop Rock. I'm kidding, of course, as it's actually Piper at the Gates of Dawn, or maybe A Saucerful of Secrets.

The City Is Rusting Itself Away
lyrics: Craig Finn

And I met her at a party on a Friday, we were both seeing double
Five feet nothing, but when she's drunk she's trouble
She said she...
wanted to cuddle
And she was snorting up cocaine and she had tattoos on her arm,
"I Don't Need Your Advice"
But she was very... nice!
And I didn't think twice, I took her to the heights
And we spent the whole goddamn night
Sprawled out in the back of a cheap car,
And then the next morning we went straight to the bar, because

The kids are all on drugs
Oh the kids are all slugs on drugs
It's a world full of slugs and sluts
Sluts on drugs!

And it was 4 AM, and she'd been passed out for 4 hours plus
And she was so out of it she didn't care what I touched
Even though we were on the bus
And we were both broken from the weekend but we had a good time
And she wakes and asks me where she got that new tattoo
it looks kind of your like a picture of your face... hey, is that you?
I'm starting to worry about her attitude

Because the kids are all on drugs
And they're all gonna die
And this whole town is gonna collapse!
Because of all the sluts on drugs!

Worth The Wait