1/30/2007

My Hustle 2


Jack Bauer has just dived through their window


A few new things I discovered this weekend:
  • Matt Tinari is really intense when it comes to "Scattergories." But the intensity in no way rivals his brilliance at the game. He also knows all about pussy jizz.

  • Georges Duboeuf's Merlot is awesome and it only costs ten bucks for the big bottle.

  • Everybody should snag the edit of Panda Bear's "Bros" if they have a sec. The album version clocks in at over 12 minutes, with the final seven minutes doing that sprawling jam thing, so its nice to have the catchy part of the song at your disposal.

  • While we're on the subject of music, because it had linked T.P.O. (thanks btw), I found a crit/mp3 blog with really good taste in dance music. I fully co-sign the Killer Mike critique.

  • The bar between 2nd and 3rd on Market, the one that is only identified by the stained-glass window above the door which reads "Tavern", has as much of that Nietzschean "relaxed/content man in a Dingey during a hurricane" appeal as does The Khyber, maybe more. We went there on Saturday night. While having a cig, we were able to make fun of all the people waiting to get into Red Sky. Later that evening, a dj came in and played Konk's still amazing "Baby Dee."

  • London Broiled lunchmeat and Emeril's "Smooth Honey Mustard."

1/27/2007

Ma'am: Shush (or, The Motherfucking Car)




First, a word about Roxborough. Roxborough is fucking terrible. It's the most asshole neighborhood I've ever spent a lot of time around, even worse than lacrosse suburbs in Baltimore. Guys from Andorra can turn out all right, I guess, but it seems like the further one wanders from Andorra, the more fat hardass white kids are dressing like Fat Joe and walking around with their eyes 3/4 closed, looking for Oxycontin or their bookie. They were the kids whose dads came to baseball practice in Eagles sweatpants and tried to taunt the coach into a fight from the back of the bleachers, while smoking Black and Milds. They turned into kids whose actual favorite thing to do, no exaggeration, is to punch each other, in a practice known as Roxboxing. They're also the kind of dickheads who break into cars, but most of them are too pussy to do anything more dangerous than selling shitty weed. Roxborough kids have the worst possible taste in movies (Rush Hour 2), music (Tupac and radio rock) in the world.

Oh, and then there are Roxborough girls. I would rather kill myself than marry a girl with a Roxborough accent. They wear Nautica fleece pants, big earrings and big perfume.

T.P.O. performed a study, and determined that it has been 7 years since the last time that anyone who lived in Roxborough uttered a sentence that was not, in some way, stupid.

With that out of the way, here's the best Philadelphia argument I've heard since I was a kid, from the other day, noted on location in Roxborough:

(Big, young, cornfed, douchey looking dude appears with a puss on his face)

Angry Man: "Jim, get out here and move this motherfucking piece of shit fucking car you got sittin right in front of my fucking house!"

(Jim, older man, appears)

Jim: "What you mean, you don't own the spot there, get away from my car."

Angry Man: "Jim, fuck you, you don't move your fucking car I'm gonna, it's gonna, you're lucky there's no sticker on that car because you motherfucking never move your fucking CAR RAH RAH RRRHRHAHRHAHRHARHHH"

Jim: "Asshole, get outta here"

Angry Man: "Jim, you've got a garage and a driveway, you've got two cars, there's twoaya, you never use this motherfuckin car and you always, you got people in this street, you got neighbors, they have... spot, you need spots for when... you gotta start to think about your neighbors RAHAHRHAHHh

Jim: "You're an asshole."

"If you don't move that motherfuckin' car it's gonna get moved, Jim!"

Jim: "Get away from my car."

"Think about your fuckin' NEIGHBORS! RAAAHRARARARARRAHRH"

(Older lady emerges onto her porch, next door)

Lady: "(something I couldn't hear, but which sounded really stupid)!"

Angry Man: "Ma'am! Ma'am! Shush, Ma'am!"

Lady: "(skreeeeeeech)"

Angry Man: "MA'AM! SHUSH!"

(Dogs start barking)

1/22/2007

"Who was that hot guy you took home last night?" "Girl, that was T.P.O!"


Haha, Haha! T.P.O. keeps it moving.

Girl Talk
Johnny Brenda's
1/19/07


When we heard that Pitchfork upstart, Girl Talk, aka Greg Gillis, was playing Johnny Brenda's we nearly passed out. As hipster currency goes, this guy is 2006-7's Diplo. It's not so much the music, but the spectacle, the event that is Girl Talk, that consumed us. We heard that this guy had discovered the perfect formula for inciting total hedonism at his shows: gangsta trash-infused Nirvana mash-ups + lots of coke + taking your shit off = every possible kind of sex other than missonary. But that description more than understated what we witnessed at JB's.

Most of the show was improvised, or at least it seemed that way. Thus, Girl Talk as an act can play entirely to the crowd. At JB's he immediately picked up on the Philly "ecstasy now or death" vibe, and threw together a rabble-rousing "House of Jealous Lovers"-"10 Dollar"-"Smells Like Teen Spirit" jawn. Lots of Houston rap verses over sped-up rhythms, which birthed disturbingly awkward quick-paced grinding, which looked exactly like stand-up, clothes-on fucking, later, Gillis closed with a masterpiece blend that was too "Philly" for Philly. He let the mix wind to a close and shouted to the crowd, "Hey Cats, you ready for the one I like to call "The Super Soaker?" Then he took his shirt off. Then everybody took their shirt off. Then Spank Rock's "Bump" began playing. Everybody started fucking, clothes-off. He blended in Lil Kim's "Magic Stick." Jesus Christ. Then it happened. Gillis slammed on Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven Is A Place On Earth" and pussy jizz started spraying everywhere. There was so much of the stuff no one could keep their footing, not even those observing from the balcony, i.e. T.P.O. And that was how the show ended, hundreds of naked hipsters, lying devastated in puddles of female ejaculate.

The show, the event, it has changed T.P.O.'s entire philosophy on things. If "trash" can produce SO MUCH sex, gallons and gallons of it, then why not swim in it?

1/20/2007

Please don't watch 24.




People who like 24 also like:

The Eminem Show
Cost-Benefit Analysis
Velvet Revolver
Comparing interest rates
Classic Family Guy
Sister Hazel
Miller Lite
Diddy
Mitshbishi Eclipse
the Yankees
Management Methods
Stupid women
U2
Maxim
Tom Brady and/or the President
Ludacris
Wingtips
2Pac
"Dre's beats"
Subway sandwiches
Shareholders
Hair restoration
Church
Batman Begins
Dunce Capping
Kazooing

1/19/2007

Too Much Love (For YouTube)

Ed. Note: This may be the longest blog post ever. But we like it enough to recommend you set aside 20 odd minutes and experience it in its entirety.

Let's start the perfect Friday post off right, by exercising:



Next, some school (Warning!: serious ripping to follow):



Then some after school recreation:



Followed by a night on the town with Lcd Soundsystem:



After that, late night chillin' with some old friends:





Lastly, some introspection:

1/17/2007

"Hibachi": Lenny Kravitz - Are You Gonna Go My Way?



I was ripping the exercise bike pretty hard yesterday when I peeked this video on the TV above me. It totally pushed me to burn an extra 10.

Maybe you, like I did before yesterday, have forgetten how awesome this video is? Allow me to refresh. First, its setting is either an enormous three-tiered hole in the ground, into which both psychedelic and disco light are poured, or its the innards of a gigantic, again three-tiered, disco ball, or it's the inside of an alien's butt, or it's a combination of the three. Cut it any way you like, it's J. There are hott rock & roll chicks dancing. Its run time is 3:33. EVERYBODY has long hair. Kravitz sports a sleeveless, red, velvet, bell-bottom jump suit!? There's 360 degree paning during the solo. There's a blurred-out tit shot, and the bass player is wearing a cape.

Jesus, fuck, ladies, I would totally get into "Brad Pitt" shape if I had one of those video iPods and could run this video on repeat. Can't afford one right now, but if you're a lady, you can leave a comment to set up a donation.

1/14/2007

And You Thought Hurricane Katrina Ruined New Orleans, It Just Razed Philadelphia



Let's get right to it. Clearly the Saints and the Eagles are the best two teams in the NFC. Clearly their game determined our conference's entrant into the Super Bowl. Clearly either of them could play with Baltimore or Indianapolis. Maybe the Chargers are that much better than everyone else this year, but at least the Saints will get that shot, while we, a city that needed the celebration even more than New Orleans, are left to suffer another Rocky story, while we are left the guy who threw it all on the line, the guy who should have won, but now will simply be another loser. With Donovan Fucking McNabb coming back next year, there'll be no sequel, and that is the worst part of this loss. The fact that now Jeff Garcia, a man who needs to be honored as a hero of the city, is now finished. This was it, a singular moment in time, that has now passed us by. And why? Because of that fucking hurricane, because of the fact that poor officiating still occurs in the NFL (not even the false start, but the phantom Dhani Jones holding call, the lack of which would have forced the Saints to punt and kept the score 21-20) and the fact that our nation is entirely too maudlin.

1/11/2007

How To Steal A Banana From The Last Drop


Want some?

True Story

Look like "The Oracle" from The Matrix.

Smell like egg farts.

Place two "looseys" in your left hand. One between your index and middle fingers, the other between ring and pinky fingers.

Pace around the coffee shop uneasily.

Approach the counter, say absolutely nothing, take two steps left to where the bananas are located. Stare at them. Leave.

Return. Ask for a cup of water. Be told, "there's a pitcher of ice water on the server in the middle of the floor. Help yourself." Leave water-less.

Return. Ask for a cup of water. The counterperson gives you one. Take two steps to the left. Stare at the bananas. Leave.

Return. Approach counter. Say absolutely nothing. Do a few laps. Re-approach counter. Say nothing. Take two steps to the left. Stare at the bananas. Leave.

Return. By now you'll have pissed off / scared the counterperson sufficiently that he / she'll want to get rid of you. Approach counter. Be told to leave. Leave.

Return, smelling like egg farts and the ocean. Approach the counter. Take two steps to the left. Stare at bananas. Leave before being told to.

Return. Approach the counter. Be told to leave for good or face the cops. Stand still for a couple seconds as considering. Lunge for bananas. Snag one and make a break for it. Run two blocks.

Return, causing everyone there to think that you are harmless, just completely off your rocker. Be forced out of the shop. Enjoy banana.

1/09/2007

Call Me Apocalypto



The following scenario:

Jeff Garcia scrambles on 4th and 6, chased by two defensive linemen. He turns the corner, angles toward the sideline. Just past the first down marker, Garcia is tackled by two players directly into Andy Reid, wiping out the ol' Coach and causing him to drop his famous laminated chart of shitty plays. Garcia gets up and dusts himself off, unharmed. Meanwhile, Donovan McNabb, while moonwalking on the sidelines to impress Jevon Kearse, slips on the slick chart and destroys both knees forever. Reid shrieks "MY BOY, MY SWEET BOY!" and dies of a broken heart. Marty Mornhinweg is promoted to head coach, the Eagles draft a QB to develop behind Garcia, and we all live happily ever after.

Bonus Coverage: (Actual, non-satirical) quote from Wilma McNabb, on the subject of Jeff Garcia's popularity in Philadelphia, thanks to Deadspin.
It's kind of bitter sweet for me as my son, the quarterback sits out on injured reserved watching the game during his rehab. I polled my family too and they feel the same. We want our team to win and even go to the Superbowl and win it in Miami especially if they continue to play as they have. But oh oh, if they win the Superbowl without my son, what would be the real outcome with the fans? Will they crucify him? Maybe ... Bitter sweet.

1/02/2007

Why I Like The Mummers


Gigantic, dancing cacti

My full name is James Stanley ("Stosh") Smosinski. I am 31 years old. I have no woman, no kids, no car. I live in the Bustleton Gardens area of Northeast Philadelphia with my parents (who are now getting pretty fucking old), Mary and Fritz Smosinski. 364 days out of the year I come home from the Bud Plant, cause the overtime is too good to turn down, and I gotta catch the same shit from my folks. "Why did I waste all that money sending ya to dem parochials? Didn't ya learn anyting when ya went to Cardinal Dougherty? Everybody always said how smart ya was, how much potential ya had, how we should be real proud. Now look at ya. Ya turnin out just like ya father." You believe I catch this shit from my own mother. Fuck Me.

But the first day of every year, for one day, I become a hero. See, there was some things that I learned at Dougherty. I learned how to play alto sax real good. My music teacher said she'd never seen that kinda talent. She said I was going to be the next Kenny G. I found out that guy played soprano sax, though, and my boy Charlie down the other end of the block told me he was half a fag. So I almost quit. But I did love to play. It was the one thing that kept me from throwin in the towel all these years. And since everyone tells me I'm so good at it, and since there's some big shortage of musicians in our city, and since it was the one thing that I could do once a year to get my fuckin folks off my back, I decided a couple of years back to join the Fralinger String Band.

See in Philly, the annual New Year's Day Mummers Parade is sacred. It's the one thing that the city still has that is about family. It's the one thing, that as the city is becoming all modernized and yuppied to high, holy hell, that the hardworking neighborhood folks can still enjoy, still take their families to without worrying about getting shot. Wonder why crime is going up so much in the city? I'll tell ya why. Just look at downtown, all these condos and foreign foods and shit, no more neighborhoods. This isn't New York. This is a town of blood and sweat and loyalty and devotion and gettin up for work when you gotta. But hey that's just the opinion of one Northeast Philly schmuck.

So yeah, my cousin Teddy, was in real tight with one of the dancers of Fralinger. He said that he could get me into the troop no prob. So I said "Sure." Man, I have to tell ya, there's no feeling like the one ya get marching down Market St., blowing ya brains out on that horn. You're the center of attention. And it's like everyone needs ya. You're putting big smiles on all their faces, and it's like for just one second, all the past gets erased and you think that you can start new. That's the power of the Mummers. It also helps being in a band that's one of the perennial contenders, not like Polish American or 2 St., cause nobody cares about those guys.

I remember the time when we won two years ago. I came home and Ma had cooked my favorite dinner, Chicken Parm with spaghetti and meatballs. I remember walking through the front door and being hugged real tight by dem both, being told how proud they were of me. I remember eating till I was real stuffed and throwing back a few brews with the old man that night. I remember taking the best two hour nap of my life, before pulling a shift and a half the next day.

Man, I can't wait to get out there this year. God decided that we needed some rain, so things got pushed back a week. Everyone round here was real upset. Things just won't be the same with the parade not on New Years. But we got a plan to cheer everyone up. We're going to play "When The Saints Go Marching In."