The sidewalks were slicked with spilt wooder ice. Happenings in Philadelphia were being dusted left and right. Insouciant paramours crept out-of-doors, where they met rain as it backed up, uncurled its lips, and clapped hands for them.

This Shit Is So Krispy

Woody’s is a club sandwich that beats with a purple heart, and on a Tuesday night called Snacks, all major components were assembled and pierced with cocktail toothpicks. It was not the flurry of promos and gentle proddings that brought out our main characters. Moreso, it was the lure of a community, a town meeting of clubheads who understand you on a level of movement. Only 20% of communication is ever verbal. They know your satiety, whether you’re full or if you’re still loading.

Plastic Little gave what we call a floor exercise in gymnastics, never in one spot long enough for a verse to curdle, working the room like an equal-opportunistic employer of space. At last, the DJ booth swallowed them in.

People came out in a force, and many there were already, it must be said, out.

Philadelphyinz continue to draw an assortment of white chocolates to Medusa. It boxes in the smooth with the I’m-only-smooth-on-the-Internet. There are always cherries that have been squished and stuck back, the Rittenhouse wanderers. I was drawn between two pieces of scene, one which featured a goofy man of delayed intelligence as he slipped tongue to a faceless recipient wearing unfortunate denim. His out-of-control was wrapped in an ill-fitting hoodie with no shirt underneath and suggestions of chest hair. From this to that, I wandered steady, where a duo had accidentally deleted the memo that banned Daft-Punkian robotics to any other music. I was crippled at heart to witness it. The only help for this is to undo all injustices by dancing over them. There really are no rules beyond battling the part of you that should care too much and notice too intently.

Even further back in time, there was House Party Friday. Every other block was shopping one. These end in two ways: The host calls the cops on his own party, or people forget that a house is not a bar and decide to smoke outside, thereby drawing the cops to the party with open arms.

DO WANT/DO NOT WANT

Rihanna Satin Stick Umbrella/Translucent Raincoats
Disco Pizza/Txt Pizza

Confessions on the Dancefloor

“I’ve got an iPhone, I can look it up.” (Reasons Why I’m Still Hearing This, Chap. 1)

TrendFucking

Gettin’ Money

Does the White T’s White Belts gang deserve props/checks because a T-Mobile commercial showed a text with their Feb. 1 party info? The rights/wrongs/weight in gold avatars get knocked out over on Low-Bee.com… among SOPHISTICATES ONLY.

And although it’s a trend, yes, to “gets paid,” and it’s always in your best interest to get notice, there’s one get that should stay low, as we can simplify this board’s purpose and that’s Trying To Get Your Black Card. Not even all of the paperwork/online research in the world can tell you how to move your ass proper and make figures roll.

There’s a lot more shit to be talked: If you have a mind to, visit the Talkin’ Shit archive.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 14th, 2008 at 4:08 pm.