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?

Loyola Deesh League: Draft Wrap

Team: Pale Fire
Manager: CJR

Who are you? How long have you played with these guys? How have you done?

I am a young professional and freelance intellectual from the Cradle of Liberty, Philadelphia. I am the most estimable baseball authority that I know of, and my scouting reports are generally considered nonpareil. Last year, Utley and Howard (Rounds 2 and 6) kept me in first for most of the season, but my pitchers shit themselves in the second half and I did not contend for the title.

I am known for my innovative progressive fantasy baseball platform; for example, a moral imperative in the team code of ethics specifically interdicts the signing of athletes from the Yankees and Braves, as well as any players who are Texas dickheads. My teams are always racially integrated; bilingual players are given preferential consideration in all drafting procedure. A proposed amendment to team ethics that would ban Colorado Rockies players on grounds of excessive Christianity was nearly adopted, but was determined to be in violation of the team charter and dropped before the draft.

We've had this league going for six years, and I have heroically battled through stints of Baltimore deesh fatigue and improved my ALUMP, or average lineup updates per monthly period, from 2.3 for 2000-2004 to 40.26 in last year's season. My status swelled to "serious contender" for the first time last year, following a legendary and coup-heavy draft, but even this was spoiled by Matt Holliday's decision to play the first few months of the season with his dick in his right hand at all times, resulting in his swift release, as it were.

I've known Matt Kraemer, Chris Lucas, Rob Selby, Rob Donlan, Tom Croskey, Kevin Ellis and Mike Zuidema since 2000, and I consider them nothing but an indistinguishable swampy pit of reptilian Reagan-dick-slurping protofascists whose spiteful, righteous capitalistic solipsism roars off their interactions with the world around them like hot and sulfurous gas. Each one can be considered a veritable embellished emblem of today's slipshod American college education system, commemorating its unconscionable failure to instill discernment in even its purported brightest talents.

I am something of a personal hero to each of these men, a beacon of idiosyncratic ideological brilliance and taste. In addition, the merest memory of my achievements on our various intramural teams can reduce any one of them to blushing, fist-pumping reminiscence, and they speak of me only in only the most respectful and deferential terms.

Who's your biggest competition this year?

Selby and Donlan, without a doubt... sike. Dead Coyotes are scary. He's got a lot of good players. Ramrod has good hitters but dogshit pitching, same with Doobs. Vasco's always in the hunt, and his team looks okay. Ellis had a good draft and is dangerous. I think top three is me, Croskey, Ellis.

What was your draft strategy?

I picked only players who I consider a lock to produce what I need from them in designated categories, barring injury (and I chose not to count on any players that I consider injury-prone). For hitters and pitchers both, a bad supporting cast made some players all but undraftable in my book. I want to thank Buster Olney for his amazing work this past year, too; now, better than ever, I know who sucks and who doesn't. My only real blind wager, Matsuzaka, broke the heart of everyone in the room. But mainly I just wanted to make sure I represented as many cultures as possible on my team, and drafted accordingly.

Best pick?

10-Verlander/11-Frank Thomas/12-Lugo. I can't decide.

Worst pick?

Hard to say, but I was quite close to having Hamels instead of Myers, so I think jumping on Wells may have cost me slightly, even though he is going to hit.

Any holes you need to fill? Do you prefer to trade to improve your team? Work the waiver wire? Pray?

I need to get an outfielder, and I have excess quality pitching to trade. Brad Hawpe should be rotting on my bench like 2004 David Wright, while some poor schmuck is platooning Corey Koskie and Pedro Feliz. Pray not, for there is no God, and your prayers will not prevent your going under.

Any secrets to your success?

My main advantage over this big box of dim bulbs is my exemplary intrinsic brilliance, which shines through to light my efforts in most everything that I attempt, and such limited and agymnastic individuals as Matt Kraemer cannot even comprehend in theory the astonishing breadth of the spectrum that I perceive. Also, this year I went so far as to ignore one of my team's traditional ethical roster restrictions and draft a motherfucking Marlin with my second pick, just so Vasco wouldn't casually walk off with the SB like some linen-clad Euro cutpurse. That is how serious I am about winning. Also, I have Ryan Howard, the best player you've ever seen.

Die Album Die or Long Live Singles and B-Side Comps

Ed. Note: I was on my last leg. I couldn't take the purity of the indie rock coming from SXSW any longer. Even in the nut house, I kept hearing it. Then, one more head butt against my cell walls away from killing myself, I heard what sounded like LCD SS "Sound Of Silver." The song was getting louder and I immediately started to pull myself together. Next thing I knew a wrecking ball crashed through my cell, and almost instantly, another crane snatched me away. Assman and Crazy Carl, thank you guys. Also, big ups to cranes and disco music.-- JS

It has become hot for artists to include only a few new songs in their "albums". Hey, I call it like I hear it, they're releasing comps.





Be honest with yourself and your audience, fellas. And ponder this: shouldn't you allow the old material to stand as it was originally released, on its own. Give us new music or at least follow the lead of artists from the good old days of 2006: record new versions of the singles for the album.

Ditchfork (Part 1)

Ed. Note -- Jake is still in the insane asylum in Austin. We're currently forming a rescue operation though. Hopefully, we won't be too late. This piece was something he'd been working on for a while. We thought he'd want us to go ahead and run it. -- CJR

I remember the days when Pitchfork would cover new trends. Now it seems they just defend the old ones. They turned me on to artistis such as Deerhoof, The Rapture, Black Dice, and Madlib. Some of this website's staff had realized that young people might and should want to listen to something other than indie rock. But it seems that a new faction has seized the power at Pitchfork. Now that indie has become the new yuppified mainstream, and the powers that are have realized that they have a product from which they can make millions, Pitchfork clearly has set up shop in the sadsack world of mostly shitty indie and has begun persuading its audience to do the same. Forward thinking has been sacrificed for the availability of the dollar.

Now let me just say that I think Pitchfork still does some good. Look no further than Tuesday's LCD review. You'll find the best review of the year so far. And while sometimes days behind a story, and while clearly subversive in tone, in the sense that they're pushing asshole language and opinions as the only cool, the News section is so comprehensive that one must use it. For the most part, my problem is with the new section, Forkcast.

I know that you might think that I'm biased, because for a very brief time early last year, I reviewed a few dance tracks for Pitchfork, but I say this honestly, that before, during, and for a brief time after I wrote for the website, as a regular reader, the old Track Reviews (RIP) section, which Forkcast has replaced, was undoubtedly the highlight of the website for me. I could get an idea, quickly, about diversity in music. The format also allowed for some of the site's more colorful reviews, and yes, I mean the ones that would shit all over their songs. That doesn't happen much anymore in the almost all-positive Forkcast section. What about the material? The new Pitchfork has overlooked so many recent, non-indie tracks. What about Depeche Mode - The Sinner In Me (Villalobos Conclave Remix)? Shit, they have the biggest Ricardo freak on the planet, Phil Sherburne, writing for them, and they didn't have him review Villalobos' best remix? Or take Stephen Marley's "The Traffic Jam." How are the non-MTV Jams-watching indie kids going to find out about this gem? Also, the hip-hop coverage, that allowed the site's best writers to deal with what they know best, has all but vanished. So many Lil Wayne tracks. Why can't I get some Dombal/Fennessey/Breihan/Macia on "Army Gunz"?  Two of these writers jumped ship because Pitchfork was, in their minds, never going to be a friendly place for writing about hip-hop. Believe me I could go on for hours listing tracks. Instead, I get banal indie. 75% of the section is devoted to some form of indie rock, most of which is shit, but, hey, it's all available for download! The half-assed music garnering shameful praise is breeding half-assed reviews. Take this Mary Onettes one from a corporate News guy:

Too many revival acts get the spirit but lose the feeling, and even more fall short the other way around (What?). So raise a glass to Sweden's regrettably named Mary Onettes, who manage to pull all the right strings (har har) (fart noise) on "Lost". It's a soaring throwback epic ready-made for the wallflower protagonist of a film, from an era where (when) pop stars wore frills, mascara, and bleached hair.

The Onettes' first single for indie pop powerhouse Labrador sounds familiar right away and will have you mining your mixtapes and grey matter for the precise 80s act these four are mimicking so lovingly. For starters, those opening notes nail "Age of Consent" (which they don't) hook, line, and sinker (then why would you have to mine your mixtapes?); feel free to fill in the blanks from there.

While it sounds lost in translation at first, titular refrain line "When lost is all you have" reveals these Swedes to have a more nuanced understanding of their second language than one might think (How so?  I dare someone to convince me that 'And I know you feel / the weight that's ***on*** your back / can get you through / when lost is all you have" really means something.). Vocalist Philip Ekström saves the high notes for "If I could dream a way," as concisely wistful (indeed) a pop sentiment as any.

"Lost" doesn't have the vicissitudes that distinguish spiritual forbearers like "If You Leave", "Bizarre Love Triangle", and "Take on Me", but it nonetheless stands tall among these and other romantic pop milestones. Your innovation-craving mind may be skeptical, but your nostalgic (a song's being nostaglic alone is not enough for such high marks) heart will grow fonder with every note.

Of the remaining 25% of the section, Pitchfork gives a good portion of the ink to new, but facile and low-b Girl Talk/Diplo type remixes. Read this (and be sure to check the link, it's to the Pfork review) critique triggered by another Forkcast entry. To take it one step further, I have to think that a lot of the blame for the increase of these shitty remixes belongs to PF for bestowing them with good reviews. It's mutually advantageous: the artists get their 5 minutes, and the site not only gets to appear to keep in touch with The New, but also to lavish it on their audience.

This may seem trivial, but I honestly know Pitchfork has huge influence. I actually learned the number of daily hits sometime in 2004 and was stunned. I can't imagine how many times that number has multiplied by now. And the thought deeply saddens me, that if I'm still alive 30 or so years from now, my kid may only get to listen to new "I'm From Barcelona" records and tell me how they've changed his life, entirely due to the agenda pushed by one of, if not the, main authority on alt music of our generation.

This Is My SXSW Post

The Diarrhea Faces

I've institutionalized myself in the musical utopia of Austin, Texas.



The bands were so good, I knew I needed to be restrained. I don't know when or if I'm getting out, Philly. Things are so awesome here that the doctors only grant one opportunity to blog about it. So, I am insanely pleased to give to you perhaps my final blog post:

T.P.O.'s Top 50 Discoveries from this year's SXSW (So Far)

1. The Prep
2. The Gay (Best New Band '06? Can't wait to hear their debut, Smarties: Yum, Yum, Yum!)
3. John Vanderslice
4. The Wtfs
5. The Erections
6. The Asps
7. Tortoise
8. The Chicagos
9. The Deesh
10. Girl Talk
11. The Sad Sacks
12. The Sadnesses
13. The We Are Sads
14. The Blues
15. The Quaint
16. The Coquettes
17. The Old People
18. The Esoterics
19. The Mary Onettes
20. Beirut
21. The Blenders
22. The Pineapple-Coconut Smoothies
23. The Skateboarders
24. The I Feel Sads
25. The Cougars
26. The Sad Mohawks
27. The Sads
28. The Dads
29. The Chores
30. The S.E.C.s (Sausage, Egg and Cheeses)
31. The Farts (noise music)
32. The Words
33. Block Party
34. The
35. The Bravery
36. The We Shit Ourselves and Now We're Sads
37. The Chia Pets
38. The Lovely Sunsets
39. The Poetic Backdrops
40. The Conifers
41. The Spruces
42. The Beeches (In case you couldn't already tell, the tree is 2007's wolf)
43. The Larks
44. The Polar Bears (Ok, I know these guys should be Top 10, but they were just a little off when I heard them)
45. The Coys
46. The Fawn
47. The English Bulldogs
48. The Vanna Whites
49. The Tears
50. The Rivers of Sadnesses

Mims the Word

My computer is an iBook G4. My homepage for Safari is apple.com/start. For the last two weeks, each time I open the browser, I have to see that Mims' "This Is Why I'm Hot" is topping iTunes downloads.

You can read this, and I could tell you that I gave Young Jeezy's "Go Getta" 3 stars for my iTunes rating, to understand that I have clearly become one of Hipsterism's best apologists for main-stream hip-hop. But there's no way I can pardon Mims' climb to the top. Songs like "This Is Why I'm Hot" are the reason that pretentious stalwarts of bush league indie rock still think they have a point.

First off, the song contains the most egregious use of guap to date. Then there's the whole "I'm hot cause I'm fly, you ain't cause you not" business, or in other words, "You're not hot, I'm not you, here are 500 ways I differ from you, thus I am hot." Well apparently Mims must not know bout us! T.P.O.'s official hotornot.com rating is 9.4. Clearly, there's no way that Mims would do any better than 9.2.

But on a serious note: the rhyme pattern blows, the diction is stale, and according to Mims he is hot for the same exact reasons that every rapper in the history of rap has been hot. Not hot.

And really, if Mims were hot, wouldn't he be doing a little better on Google Image searches?

Youtube Essay: Serious/Serious?/Not Serious

The following Youtube Essay contains some serious content. Not all videos are ideal for at-work viewing.

SERIOUS











SERIOUS?











NOT SERIOUS











BONUS CRO COP HIGHLIGHTS

TPO's Beautiful Philly Roadshow presents The Manayunk Project

The #1 most common complaint about Philadelphia: low fucking culture. No offense to those who do their best to keep us out of the toilet tank. For example, Philadelphia is way less grim than Baltimore. However, Philadelphia is inferior to New York, because there are too many dickheads fucking everything up. Now, how can there be progress without protest?

The municipal zoo for douchey behavior in Philadelphia is Manayunk. There are some joints there where the rock music that people listen to in Iowa and Montana and Iraq plays all night long, and other places where the DJ has just mixed In the Club into a Bow Wow song for the 82nd Friday night in a row. Every live band plays a Sublime cover. Sometime later tonight, the shittiest college kid this side of the Mason-Dixon line will finger a Northeast girl who will drive 45 minutes home while blackout drunk and then smoke weed with her 33-year-old dad. Everybody loves McNabb in every single bar in Manayunk.

One night in the near future, representatives of The Publications Office will be coordinating Project Manayunk. Participants will dress, and prepare to act, like they are going to Medusa Lounge or Fluid, but instead they will convene in Manayunk. T.P.O. wants to take, let's say, everybody who knows Dave P, and try to get something going on the dance floors at Kildare's.

T.P.O. will capture video from several perspectives and edit it into a coherent feature. Designated security will accompany the project, and female participants will be shielded at all times from Manayunk date rapists. Desirable prizes will be awarded in the following categories:

-Best photo of a Manayunk dude who has got his ass up
-Best photo of a dumb slutty bitch
-Best 1 minute of footage
-Best homophobic reaction induced
and/or
-Best dancing

More info to come; in the meantime, please refrain from washing your hoodies.

New Look, But The Same People Can't Stop Staring

How I feel about TPO's new layout, as expressed in terms of Rowdy New York Bitch myspace emblems:







And, I ain't bragging, I'm just the fucking best, you know it, and when you talk about me you show it. This layout and me are two raw ass bitches with a hearts of gold, and we will straight up end you if you fuck with me or say shit behind my back. Me and my chicks are hard as bricks, we drink till we fall down but we puke till we rally! You already know... tHAt's whY MY NamE iS On YOUR LIPS... AND WE'VE NEVER EVEN MET... SO YOU DON't KNOW mE!


----------------------------------------------------

I'd also like to thank our sponsor for the new format, Big Spendas Lifestyle Entertainment, throwing the hottest parties all over the greater New York area, featuring the hottest girls from Westchester to HOBOKEN serving up $6 test tube shots of Jager, featuring DJ Aaron Ruiz spinning the hottest new Billy Joel-Tiesto mashups on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. This is why we're hot!

Help support TPO, buy an official Big Speezy bumper sticker!



Also, we are proud to offer for sale our first TPO Lifestyle Series T-Shirt, in partnership with American Apparel:

FRONT:



BACK:

Coldplay's Chris Martin Writes Quote The Perfect Song Unquote? I Write The Perfect Blog Post, No Quotes, No Question Mark

Read this.

According to the journalist, Martin "called" the song "quintessential." Though nowhere in the shown quote does he use the word quintessence, there is an ellipsis, and it seems like that would be the perfect place to drop the word or its concept. So grant it that Martin did call the song "quintessential."

quin·tes·sence [kwin-tes-uhns] –noun
1.
the pure and concentrated essence of a substance.
2.
the most perfect embodiment of something.

dictionary.com

Did you get a good look at the picture? I don't think this guy is fucking around. I think Martin may have actually made THE PERFECT SONG.

I don't even know where to begin, this would be so fucking awesome. "The Song" would be all that I'd ever have to listen to, all that I'd ever want to listen to. I wouldn't have to feel guilty about file sharing because it would stop. No longer feeling guilty about free music, I wouldn't have to buy hundreds of records a year (hey those singles from Juno add up) as penance. I would save so much money that I could finally invest in some biotechs and junk bonds and really boost the economy. So much of my time would be freed up. I wouldn't have to waste hours out of my day searching for Radio Slave and Ricardo Villalobos remixes. I would begin to write an Extras script. I would do community service. I would become a DJ-- "The Song" would surely be able to accomodate every dancefloor need. Great cultural divides would be bridged: Hip-hop hand-in-hand with twee, house with classical, jazz with blues, indie rock with indie pop with shoegaze, disco with space disco, Phish with Dave Matthews. All of your iPod hard drive space could be used for movies, and best of all, the iPod Shuffle would be so fucking small!

I wonder about the length of the song. If I had a guess, I'd say 4:55.

Are You Havin A Laugh? I Am

Another Friday with T.P.O.

Got a really strong response for the last one, so here's another perfectly planned Friday for you, our readers, as only we can bring it to you.

Start off by taking care of business:



Next, hit the links:



Get a date:



Finish the night by impressing your date with some new moves:

T.P.O. Records To VH1's Ego Trip's The White Rapper Show's John Brown: We'll Put Your Record Out

John Brown on that dime shit!

This Just In: White Rapper John Brown Robbed of VH1 Show's Top Prize

Needless to say that most of this show was unfunny, over-scripted, and banal, but it did have some bright spots. Most of these moments were authored by a wide-eyed youth calling himself John Brown. I'll face facts: right now I could give two shits about rappers that get their philosophical/social-consciousness asses up, which were half of the show's contestants. The rest were either haters (Persia) or bitches (Sullee). On the other hand, Brown crafted a unique and original persona, "The King of the Burbs", accompanied by his "Hallelujah Hollaback" catch phrase, which gave his songs freshness. On the song that he performed for the finale, ingeniously titled "Car Wars", Brown raps about a necessity for rich suburban kids to have the dopest rides. Initially, it seems a light topic, but the wordplay captivates the listeners, and reveals the song as having underlying meaning, informing us that black rappers/hustlers aren't the only people that want to stunt, that the priviliged white suburban youth also feels compelled to do it. Brown lost to Shamrock, whose song was about hating on people that hated on him. Eghck! Ultimately, Shamrock won because throughout the show he displayed the greatest work ethic and also the most obsequiousness to host MC Serch and the guest judges. Republican bullshit! JB, you deserved to win.

And In Other News: VH1 Show Reveals Hip-Hop Producer/Mixtape Mogul Clinton Sparks Is White

With that name, who would have thought to Google Image it? Unless, of course, you knew about this mixtape.

Hey, Apples In Stereo, Shame On You

The Fonz successfully jumping over the Apples In Stereo @ The North Star:



Me, not so much:



The Apples In Stereo
The North Star
2/16/07- 2/17/07

John Vanderslice's live show sucks because he takes way too long to set up, demurely talks to the crowd way too much, and doesn't do anything.



The Applies In Stereo put on a worse live show than John Vanderslice. The Apples In Stereo put on the worst live show I've ever gone to.

They also did a terrible job of pulling a "The North Star": devising an imaginary obstacle that the headlining band needs to overcome before they can start their set, thereby holding the audience hostage at the North Star for an entire Friday night and forcing them to drink overpriced beer. Apples' excuse, the lead singer all the sudden got a sore throat, but assuredly after a few cups of hot tea with lemon, which took an hour and a half to drink, he was just fine, and they pressed on, and as they promised during the wait, they "rocked us out." If, by "rocking us out", they meant doing this



to us, then they succeded.

Pulp Diction

That easy, huh...


I think it pretty safe to say that a majority of people under 40 would admit to at least liking Pulp Fiction. The movie epitomizes our generation's notion of cool. The characters talk fast and dirty and sharp, and they all live extraordinary lives, killing, doping, dancing-- no nine-to-fivers. When we watch this movie, we satisfy a repressed curiosity and yearning for the distasteful. Decorum (and i think rightly so) demands nearly all of our time, but eventually you feel the urge to tell decorum to go fuck itself, and that is when you pop Pulp Fiction in your DVD player. Well, I think that listening to certain coke-hop can also satiate that appetite.

Take this mixtape by Juelz Santana and Lil Wayne, Blow: The I Can't Feel My Face Prequel. I got my hands on it about a week ago, and since then it has completely seized me. It's not what Elz and Weezy are saying, it's how they're saying it. This is poetry at its finest, new and elegant. It's just like listening to Tarantino's Vincent and Jules for the first time. I could quote the record ad infinitum to hammer the point, but a few examples from Santana should do the trick:

"I cook good, make it look good, damn straight. / Put coke in the pot, take out pancakes. / Double stacks, triple stacks, why not? / I got that syrup too, jus call me IHOP."

"... fiends go to work, after the work you sell 'em. / They know they got to buy more, they head hurt, they eyes sore. / You sellin' that cheap rock, sheetrock, drywall /... I be chef, the chef / you never have to rechef what I chef. Comprende?"

"Now let me introduce the world to my girl. / She white, she bright, she shine like a pearl. / And I ain't talkin' 'bout Lindsey Lohan / I'm talkin' 'bout that sniff, that blow man."

I know that this kind of Rap can be misunderstood, and that it should in no way fall upon the youth. But it would be a great mistake to eradicate such creativeness and polish of language. It does serve a purpose. It does create a fanciful world for adults, just like the world of Tarantino's Pulp Fiction, in which we can safely transgress the restraints of ordered society and briefly don the costume of a bad ass. I think that listening to Blow or watching Pulp Fiction can be healthy activities if we use them to cathartically purge our frustrations and fulfill our fantasies, not establish them.