Local Rumors Clearinghouse: Man Man Edition!

• Man Man have a record deal. Let's just say they're label mates with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!



• Man Man's members like to clap their hands and say yeah.



• Man Man despises Cherry Coke.



• Ryan Kattner owns CityPaper.



• Joey Sweeney is Man Man band member Cougar. (Let me get serious for a moment. Guys, can't we all just get along? T.P.O. offers its services.)



• Ryan Kattner and partner (Joey Sweeney) now own Philadelphia Weekly.



• Man Man is gay and loves butt sex.



• The band's studio lineup includes ex 76er great, Eric Snow.



(Might not look like Eric Snow, but trust me, it's him)



• Man Man's new record doesn't mention unrequited (gay) love.



• Man Man's new record is going to be available for free download via pitchforkmedia.com, get an 8.4 rating from the site and the coveted "Best New Music" tag. The review will say shit like, "On this record, Man Man refines its sound and grows lyrically and structurally." As a result Man Man has already been booked to play PMF and Lollapalooza '08.



• Man Man hates polar bear cubs.

"The Virginia Polytechnic Institute slaughter forces American society to once again examine itself, its violence, the obsession with guns of part of its population, the troubles of its youth, subjected to the double tyranny of abundance and competition." --France's Le Monde newspaper.

Philly Heroes: Our friendly service

The cautious countermatron from the shop
Stopped slinging seven shades of stringy slop
For several seconds, staring at her screen
With consternation fit for a cruel queen
For, though her store is ratty, crude and mean
It's surveilled by systems such as you'd see
On some sort of top secret submarine:
It's said that in her culture, women must
Never be placed in positions of trust.

A look askance from crook'd italic eyes
As suspicious intentions she descries
Request for rolling papers met with such
I neither goggled, bobbled, grayed nor blushed
Instead I grabbed a can of bakéd beans
Three Trojans, Mach 3 razors, shaving cream
Meanwhile watching her watch me on the screen
Expecting me to stuff these in my jeans
Smoothing my jacket o'er distended seams
Just like the finest feckless Fairmount fiends

The total comes to seventeen odd quid
But this bitch still squints at me like a squid
Just for my wish to twist up a quick spliff
And pay fucking tuition for her kids.

At least I can skip out on CVS
That cluttered, venal, spirit-sucking mess
Though closer by a mile to my address
Presents the most unconscionable distress
Of asking a young lady to cut short
A heated phone call in which she exhorts
Some big playa who think he way too fly
And think he get to hit it on the sly
He don't know bout how I stay focus, B
And she was like you must not know bout me
And where he think he gon get some head at
And find some otha trick ass bitch to tap.

While I tap on the counter, bitter brain
Boiling and burning with impending shame
The old woman behind me is immersed
In some circular from some Catholic church
And meanwhile I'm about to say 'He-aaaaay,'
Stop squatting on that copy of B'day
Ain't hatin, just get out here, I need help
Please open up that sliding condom shelf."

And worst of all, I'm still always the one
Willing to wait until she thinks she's done
While trying not to grit or grind my jaw
Beyonce will be first against the wall.*

*figure of speech, not proof of fascism

Philly Heroes: John Barlow

John Barlow as Brad Pitt as Achilles in Troy

Philadelphia sports history was made this past weekend in the Hill Top Flag Football League. I don't know if that's the right name, but it's the league that plays its games in front of Memorial Hall. I can't believe Inquirer Sports hasn't covered this story. It's a story about... about balls, big balls... really big balls... Balls. Here's my account of it, a first person account, utterly exaggerated and untrue, and as I retell all things, in egregious, fake epic language. But that's beside the point.

Saturday, April 7, 2007. Imagine a morose afternoon, cold enough to unleash the hounds of hell, cold enough to ruin many a sack, that is unless your name is John Barlow. Barlow and I were in the Red Belts With Devices for Attaching Flags That Don't Fit Size 30 Waists or Less reserve core together, preparing for duty. Daily, he was running laps around the country. For my part, I had begun overhearing sports talk shows on ESPN while doing the crossword puzzle. Two soldiers had fallen in a prior engagement, and the Commander in Chief of the "Red Belts", 6 star General H.C. Rogers IV, had to activate us for Saturday's game.

Jesus knows, he didn't want to. John and I were as green as a bad case of the frozen Green Giant spinach shits. This was going to be our first battle. Of course, the enemy that day was to be the most difficult yet, the Norristown Blue Spandex Thingy Clad Boppers. They boasted of a champion, Papa Shango,


(This is truth btw. One of the guys on the opposing team was fucking enormous and had his face painted exactly like former WWF wrestler Papa Shango.)

that could defeat the champion of any other team in single combat. As in olden times, they offered to decide the contest in such a manner. Until that day the strength of us Red Belts had been our intellect. We were known for the labyrinthine stratagems of our Commander Rogers, and thus our ability to outmaneuver as a unit. But now that had changed. Now we had... Balls.

The briefest interval of silence, then from the rear of our camp, a voice bellowed back, "I accept your challenge, you bunch of pansies", John Barlow's voice. The two combatants stepped onto the field. Papa Shango chose offense. Barlow was to stop him, either strip him of the ball, or strip him of a flag. They began at breakneck speed, driven by an unseen motivation, just as two rams vying for an ewe in heat.

They clashed at the center of the field like Olympian thunder. Shango, up to that point, had been the strongest warrior in the league. He certainly could not fathom a scrawny 135lb white kid being as strong as he. But he had no idea of John's Balls. Shango suffered demoralization and confusion. Barlow had seized Shango in his vice-like grip, and was driving Shango back toward his goal-- Barlow was seeking the ultimate victory, one that never occurred to any of us, the safety.

However, Shango regained composure somewhere around the 15 yard line, and realizing how more diesel Barlow was, he resorted to treachery. As a smaller sumo wrestler will draw his larger opponent to the end of the ring in hopes of using the larger opponent's strength and momentum against him, so now did Shango lead Barlow on. John, catching sight of the goal line, drove Shango back with all his strength. This was Shango's chance. He fell backwards.

Barlow, still raging like an untamed lion, immediately tripped over Shango's feet. John prepared to break his fall with his hands. He did not anticipate however, the velocity with which he had been driving Shango back, and his right hand hit the ground a split-second before his left with such force that his right wrist exploded on impact.

Shango unravelled his feet and took off for our end zone. His touchdown dance was a combination Unk's "Two Step" and Crime Mob's "Rock Yo Hips." Only seconds before he realized the superiority of his opponent. Already, he had forgotten it, and was arrogantly stomping in our end zone and calling himself "The Shit."

Oh Justitia, how you so reliably smite such hubris! Running up to Shango, the league official held a blue flag, a blue flag missing from Shango's blue belt, a blue flag that the hand of John Barlow, Red Belt, ripped from that blue belt. John Barlow had defeated Papa Shango. You see, all along, Barlow, the paragon of both cunning and humility, had Shango's flag in hand. When John tripped, Shango's flag came with him.

Shango cried and cried for hours, as did his teammates, and they were so ashamed that they would never play flag football again. Barlow, with the legend of his strength and courage preceding him, is currently being hit on by hot nurses across the Delaware Valley.

Get Well, Dude

Best Fern In Your Cappuccino Foam

Spent the day in my old neighborhood in Williamsburgh yesterday... ended up leaving my favorite winter hat in my favorite old coffee shop, and had to turn back. Before I left the asshole "barrista" and I had words,

"Um, excuse me. Do you have my hat? Um, I left it in here a little while ago."

"Um, excuse me... do you have, like my hat?" Copious eye-rolling.

He pissed me off and my orange hat was lost to the universe, so I grabbed his small brown leather unruled diary. (I had seen him writing in it in a corner while I drank my coffee about 30 minutes previously)

Here's an excerpt from November 17th 2006:

"Had a pretty decent day yesterday. Got up early, did some body cleansing Pilates. Ate soy sausage and tofu scramblers with sage.

Screenplay Idea: A man writing a Dostoyevsky novel using only clowns. Theme/Tagline: Insert comma where you wish...

Sometimes when I'm handing out tourists their coffee I just freak out about the state of America. Why am I serving coffee to some Republican from Illinois when I should be writing lyrics???

Toxins:
The night ended in cocaine and jukeboxes. Then I became depressed and self-concious when a blue-eyed chick across the room yelled out, 'I can just TELL this playlist was made by a loser.' "

------
Actually, I ran back into the shop, got the eyeroll and sass, and then spotted my hat on the floor in a corner.

Masters 2007 Recap: It Is What It Is

If you didn't already know, before being struck by the hand of The Hipster Almighty, some of us at T.P.O. used to be really into golf. There you have it, Philly. I'm out.

I couldn't find the video footage on YouTube of an interview with Tiger Woods in which he uses the phrase "it is what it is", but it's somewhere on The Golf Channel's website. Add another name to the growing list of douchebag athletes using this one. "It is what it is", Tiger. How does it feel to be a loser?


Watch your step, big guy

Some no-name won because he hit the ball straighter than everyone else, and with the course being dry, the distance advantage was nullified. As part of the majority of golfers that isn't 6'6, 250 it's always nice to see the accurate little guy get one. It just sucks that this guy really, totally loves Jesus. Zach, if you are such a good Catholic, you would've checked this thing they do in the Phillipines out




instead of playing in the Masters. Jesus didn't help you win, because Jesus would've been against competition. However, your desire to crush may have had something to do with it.

And let's not forget about T.P.O. affiliate Riff Market's favorite, Vijay Singh, who also played in this year's Masters. You'll want to crank up the volume for this one.

For All His Talk Of BJJ Training, I'd Bet James Murphy Still Couldn't Take The Juan

With Silver taking the world by storm, you might forget about the rest of DFA, which would be a seriously bad idea. Seems like it could be a big year for not only the label's flagship act. The Juan Maclean and Black Dice should release new records some time soon. Tim Goldsworthy's thrown down some amazing remixes. Tim Sweeney keeps improving as a DJ. Shit Robot is probably brewing another single. Hot Chip-- well, whatever. Most importantly, it appears the label is growing. First off, there's the reported debut from Prinzhorn Dance School. Next, there seems to be connections between DFA and a couple chic as fuck acts, Holy Ghost!, whose "Bell & James" is going to be on everybody's year end lists, and Hercules & Love Affair. Finally, not 100% sure, but DFA may have picked up The Shocking Pinks, whose Dance the Dance Electric showed lots of discopunk promise. Xmas 2007: Compilation #3?