Find out who’s talkin’ greasy now…

[photo credit: Evan Grant]

This Shit Is Bananas!

We promised you a new Talkin’ partner, and it’s no secret. You lot were hungry for more of boy Conrad, so we fixed up a Kelly & Conrad sandwich on Philebrity bread and said grace Timbaland & Nelly Furtado-style:

“If you see us in the club, we’ll be actin’ real nice
If you see us on the floor, you’ll be watchin’ all night
We ain’t here to hurt nobody
So give it to me give it to me give it to me”

Oh, you’re gettin’ it… Conrad would like a word with all of you:

Apparently we hurt some vaginas last week with our smack. Look, I want to give y’all two pieces of advice. One, this is called Talkin’ Shit, not licking rainbows, it’s gonna hurt sometimes. And two, we have Vagisil and Amy Winehouse CDs by the truckload. If you think you might need some just give us a holla.

We saw Popped! off into the abyss, or wherever it is that music fests go for a whole year until they come back to punch you in the ear. Worry not, the condition of our hearing is never better, and mon dieu, did we pick up some dirty laundry.

Hol’ up, f’reals on that dirty laundry. Someone tossed their underwear onstage for Dr. Dog during Friday’s Popped! show at the Starlight Ballroom. And what else got onstage? You may have spotted a girl up there during the Spinto Band. No, they did not recruit a female bongo player for shits and kicks. That was Katie L. Thompson with her camera courage. We advise her to compile a coffee table photo-book entitled “Rock Beards: The Long And Short Of Philadelphia Fuzz”. We believe in you, KThoms.

To all who manned up at the Philebrity Block Party, swell to see you poppin’. Maybe some of you had free Monster still in your system? All you tough guys kept clapping after what, the 2,591 songs that you saw live last week? Don’t stop, get it get it.

For everyone who says you have to be all toasty baked to get rad at Making Time, because you can’t deal with the overpopulation, bar battles, temperature, and complete nonsense, shut up. This is why we flip our shit with enraptured jubilation every time we go. We decline the candy, wrap ourselves around pulsating beats, and watch it all explode into levels of bewilderment unknown. Back and forth, we debate: “This is bullshit. This is mind-boggling. This is bunk. This is never-ending sex.” What this is, is Philadelphia, in a concentrated form. 2/3 of the crowd aren’t even of our zip codes, but the small percentage that is? They’re everyone you need to know. Do you demand a photographer? A stylist? A dealer? A latte? They’re all here, dispensing advice in the bathroom lines, doing business underneath the disco ball. It doesn’t even make sense to leave the party, because what could you possibly require outside of it, food or sunlight or something equally negligible? Get out of our office.

Saturday’s latest installment with the Klaxons and Soulwax looked to be the most epic yet, and while it did renege on its 6 AM offer, a swift 3:30 boot to hangers-on was virtuous. Real VIPs put in overtime at house parties, and we can only imagine the business cards that emerged.

What else can we say about this iconic Philly scene night that hasn’t been said before except maybe Conrad’s Lesson #749: Don’t wear your nice clothes out to Making Time. Yes, that outfit you discovered at Retrospect or stole from Urban earlier in the week may look fly when you’re on your way out. However, 7 hours, 8 PBRs and 3 Sparks later, waiting in the nor’easter of a quarter century for a cab, shit’s a different story. But don’t worry bitches, the lighting is forgiving. And besides, if you were smart enough, people like us saw you at the Philebrity Popped! Block Party earlier. Although, whatever DJ was paying Nirvana at the end there (we think it was Mike Z), that shit was sooo on point. We haven’t seen that many people jump dancing since we saw Linkin’ Park in 9th grade at the Tweeter.

Also, we admit, we probably couldn’t handle the VIP room and the oath you have to swear and sign with nosebleed drops to gain entrance. What if people got all paranoid about sharing their mushrooms, thinking that those skinny fucks that just walked in are with a blog or some jawn. Maybe Kelly has a tape recording vagina and whatnot.

Final consensus: 2manydjs, not enough room to do them justice. We’ll do it all again until they ban us from life.

RedRum at Raven Lounge is the MT pre-game that you MFers should have been at. The new Saturday hang had us at HELLO, badass flyer. DJ Jacci Stallone plays songs with lyrics and actually plans on what to play next that won’t make it sound like you’re at a 17-year-old’s birthday pool party in the Northeast with an iPod shuffle playing in the background. Smooth. Less smooth? We noticed more bad weave action, it’s like we can’t even leave the house now without playing Where’s The Scary Weave? Now can all of you get your finely-styled heads over here next Satnight so we have something nice to look at?

Leave it to Project Runway’s Jay McCarroll to show up at Cantina the one night where every hipshit in town is elsewhere. Wearing all black and a big solid gold chain (not for nothin’ Jay, but boy C had that shit locked first, just sayin’), he was spotted sweet-hearting some fine young unidentified hipster boy and getting sloshed. Good on you, J-bird. Keep it Philly.

H&K’s replacement has been confirmed: Last Nite On Earth at the M Room on 2nd and 4th Fridays. The starter on May 11 with Crimp Yr Hair DJs raises several questions, such as, is everyone gonna act like nobody died? Can you imagine texting your friends? At LNOE bitches whr u @! If you say H&K in the bathroom mirror 7 times, will it come back? And did they cast the parts for the latest blood-sucking party ninjas/M Room Class of ’08 yet? It’s too soon to care.

What Would Doyle Do?

In the words of Doyle, lovable keyboardist from The A-Sides: I don’t do too much that I’m proud of. Wiser words have never been spoken to us in a room full of drunk, attractive people. It was then that we decided Doyle had all of the answers, about life, and death, and what kind of beer to drink. Each week we’ll find out just what Doyle would do…

If a girl wanted you to shave?

NOBODY WANTS A HAIRLESS DOYLE. CAN YOU IMAGINE. SOME HAVE BEEN PRIVY TO THIS AND IT’S NOT SOMETHING THEY PROBABLY WANT TO REMEMBER. THE OMD(ol’ man Doyle) WOULD SURELY LOOK SAID WOMAN IN THE FACE AND ASK HER TO BUY ME DINNER. THEN, UPON COMPLETION OF DINNER WOULD TELL HER TO GO FUCK OFF FOR EVEN THINKING OF SUCH AN ATROCITY.

Confessions On The Dancefloor

“I was afraid they might steal my DJ mix so I didn’t bring it.”

“I have better ringtones on my cell phone than that DJ’s playlist last night.”

“Sal’s is a bunch of wieners looking to play tummy sticks.”

Scene Points

The Three Little Indians
We were trying to watch Illinois at the Popped! banger but we kept seeing a feathered headdress sticking out in the crowd. At first we thought there was one of them redskins but then we kept seeing the colorful featherheads everywhere, and we were feeling very “bad trip”. We saw one of ‘em reppin’ at Block Party HQ the next day. Was it some kind of tribute to Feather Mills? A new street gang of Native American bloods? Mummers? Then we spotted this cute ass girl we know who always recognizes us from Philebrity, and she ’splained it to us. The young tribe are high school baby-scenesters and there are three of them. Yes, they have Indian blood and like whiskey. They are also lily ass white kids who take their shirts off and party hard. Points aplenty, firebirds. What say we take your thunder and start a chain of Indian Apparel?

Trendfucking

We’re gonna go ahead and call this the year of The West Chester Accent. It’s gonna steal your girlfriend. Your trendy Asian Girlfriend. Now, we’ve taken a notice, and the Asian GF is hot this second. We see these lame-o vanilla face pussies with these absolutely flawless Asian femme fatales. We have ruled out money, drugs, and penis size. So where does that leave us? Just trust it like a tofu & teriyaki kinda thing and try not to be jealous.

Hand Marks
Hearts, stars, horseshoes, clovers, and…whatev the fuck you just drew on my hand with that Sharpie. Thank you, doorperson-Picasso. Without your illegibly-scrawled reminders, we would never remember the makings of our weekend. One glance at our hands and wrists, and we can piece it all together, from every party and show smudged onto our delicate skin that won’t come off with one shower. Blue, look, a clue.

Disco Naps
With parties lasting till 6am or at least advertising that, and the after-parties of summer, disco naps are going to be the only way to make it. Future Trendfucking: Disco-napping at Rittenhouse! Be seen even when you’re unconscious, y’all!

Flyering your personal Myspace? It’s on its way, trust.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 19th, 2007 at 1:50 pm.