Nick Sylvester: Come Back To Us, Holmes
Here at Philebrity, we genuinely love us some Nick Sylvester. No, really. Yes, it’s all Bangsian, I-was-there-honest-I-was, and sometimes it’s in such deep Sylvester-ese that the language is, yes, fucking impenetrable. We don’t care. We can relate. Take a look at his wild Philly weekend in yesterday’s RiffRaff. He hangs out with Man Man, goes with some old buds with Making Time, and you know the drill: He’s supposed to be the hot-shit New Yorker on the scene, all Mr. Pitchfork/Village (Snarf) Voice and shit, you know, he’s supposed to be over it, but dude simply cannot help from keeping it real. (He even gives props to G. Love, which is keeping it so real as to be the guy at the party where everybody is like, “Whoa, dude. For real?” And he’s like, “Bitch, yes!”) He wonders if the so-called provincials (read: you and me) are just an accident of time and style, and you can’t help but wonder if he isn’t wondering the same thing about himself:
Maybe you see this coming here: More than any of the others though, the Making Time party visibly underscores the differences between Philly and New York. The latter may have the most nighttime options and the newest shit, but to my eyes, New York’s grown bored from overexposure, more trend-conscious but more likely to turn their back on things they love. Blame the price of booze, but it takes a lot for a New York crowd to freak out at these types of things.
Either way, we don’t care. We can relate. Another county heard from: It’s better in the Sixth Bahamas.
RiffRaff: I’m Paying Insane Rent And Working At The World’s Most Fucked Up Weekly For Why Again?
