Black Madonna! Begone once more from this place.

JS came home from the thrift store the other day in good spirits, with a small bag. I asked him what he'd bought.

"Authentic Brazilian jeans," he announced, "a hundred bucks," pulling out a slim, sleek bundle, which he then began to unroll. My head swam in a familiar way. The jeans spoke to me of a deep history, as objects sometimes do, owing to my peculiar disposition. Their deep indigo threw me into daydreams.

The most patrician Tropicalist there ever was, pupils blossoming, scaled a tree that grew from warm, wet ground... in these same impossible jeans! He reached the top, straddled the trunk, and the sweet woodwinds seemed to ring out just as he shouted in triumph: "Quero ver Irene dar sua risada!"

"How remarkable. Those truly are Brazilian jeans. Are they the size 29 that you require?"

"28," he replied, as he ran upstairs to try them on. My consciousness exploded with imagery from the legends with regard to Brazilian jeans. Miraculous control over a soccer ball in a man who'd never laced a cleat. Leonine chocolate manes sprouted from a gray, stubbled head after just two weeks. What blessing might be conferred upon my old friend by the bountiful character of Brazil that bolsters those seams?

Five minutes later, he'd yet to return. My stomach wrenched with guilt as I charged up the stairs. I'd left him alone far too long.

Before I could even ram his door, and my face twisted as though I were the stricken Priam. Through the door, plain as day, came the shriek of that old nightmare, the one I thought I'd heard for the last time. I burst in, ears covered, but still heard it plainly:

"CHARLIE, HOW YOUR ANGELS GET DOWN LIKE THAT!"

That obscurant shade, the queenly succubus, had perched again by the bed of my oldest friend. Her otherworldly shout tripled impossibly into harmony with itself. A shitty R&B beat looped like a camouflaged midnight adder beneath JS's feet, which struck the floor on beat with nightmarish precision. The single pulsed sickly under the needle of his turntable, and on his laptop screen danced the Queen herself, in Yellow, clutching the scolloped scraps of her vestments in a way meant to excite the obsessive feral appetite.

He pumped his fists in empathy as she howled, in three distinct and chilling tones:

"CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW LIKE VERIZON! OHH! AND THAT'S THE WAY IT IS YEAH!"

"JS! I squashed the power switch on the receiver and swatted away the hand that shot out by reflex. He looked up at me with dull eyes, and mumbled "... exciting.... anth...anthemic chorus... and hard druh.. umbeats."

I fled the house in tears of grief. There would be no bringing him back this time. The song was nearly over. It had done its Stygian worst.

What happened on that day? I've always thought that the impetuous courage endowed upon him by the Brazilian jeans was to blame. As indestructible as he felt, it is no wonder he decided that he could stand for just one last look at the visage of the Black Madonna herself, the stupefying siren. And he must have found his fix, maybe some B-side I'd never discovered, never taken any precaution...

No mortal man can stand to be entangled with the mad Queen in her tattered mantle. I had reminded him just three hours before.

Sorry We Haven't Been Blogging. We Forgot To Take Our Freakum Dresses Off

Just playin, B

T.P.O.'s "Freakum Dress" Spectacular

I know, you need some explanation. I have not yet listened to B'day. I figured why bother, there'll be videos for all the "good" songs, I'll get what I need from MTV Jams. Kinda liked "Ring the Alarm", not so much the others. (So far I think "Deja Vu", "Irreplacable" and "Upgrade You".?) "Deja Vu", well, indeed. "Irreplacable" is the most misleading song title of all time. Also, its message is way more devilish than any Lily Allen could birth. "Upgrade You" is too cocky, and way too materialistic. To be expected, (yawn), etc. Then I heard "Freakum Dress".

While everybody still trendfucks Justice and new rave and Diplo and sleaze, I'll make my stand here, and say "Freakum Dress" has become my "Best Song Ever" for this week, and right now, I can't imagine liking anything more this year. The video debuted either early last month or very late in March, which for me means 2007 single. Can I talk about the song now?

Thematically, "FD", amazingly, offends no one, and moreover is universally relatable. We all have that one goto outfit. The one that fits perfectly, for your physique and spirit. Mine? I'll tell. It's a dark gray t-shirt that reads "Creature of the Night" and a bullet-hole riddled pair of Diesel's. It's a song about looking, but more importantly feeling your best, and thankfully Beyonce's vocals are complementary: her most confident and powerful yet, even more so than on "Crazy in Love."

Musically, the Rich Harrison production also outshines former standard "Crazy". On "Freakum Dress" the producer deepens the bass, immediately giving the song a more delightfully sinister feel than its predecessor. The muted, synthetic saxes, and understated Morse code beeps, as opposed to the blaring trumpets of "Crazy", wisely defer to, rather than struggle against, Beyonce's brilliant performance.

"Freakum Dress" exemplifies my ideal pop single. It celebrates and empowers, has universal appeal, and does so tastefully and concisely. Hey, Indiedom, the song hasn't blown up like it should. You won't lose face if you get behind it. What you will do though is show that discriminating crossover knowledge and eclecticism you now spuriously tout.

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