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The good peoples over at McJawn hip me to a party outside of Fishtown. And although their promo units lack the display of booty and bottles on a high gloss 5 by 7( like who’s idea was it to think outside the box), I might go. The lineup includes, obviously, well-dressed talents minus that hooch Amanda Blank.

Most fresh, their promotions:

mcjawn flyer

Throwing a jam the progressive way…their video too:

note…people from jersey, love yous, this isnt a nitrous party though.


I must admit, this post was inspired by the seminal street styles of Manhattan, my dude (booty). My man, Scott Schuman, is a genius as all people who dress right know.

The ladies on his blog in their fits are always schwing and the guys possibly attract a lot of gay mens out there with ease. So triggered by the thought of capturing sartorialist in Philly and finding a model jawn that shared similar interest in the finest of linens…I went out and caught some flicks that ultimately came out like tags. Center City is as classy as tucked in shirts:

street stuff

street stuff

note…Schuman just came out with a book recaping all his top shelf shit from over the years and also, I remember thinking the beauty on the cover was sexy, not pretty, but sexy:



Like a prostitute, you never know what you’re going to get with it, but it wasn’t worth the risk this time. So I guess this post could really be titled Whartscape/Artscape 2008: Philly, Titties & Beats 2009:

chilling in front of some ovaries in the 08

chilling in front of some ovaries in the 08

my favorite shitty band of 08

my favorite shitty band of 08

love at first sight it was.

love at first sight it was.

When I go to sleep Thriller, when I wake up Billy Jean, every fucking day, Thriller Thriller Thriller. This was peace from tacky tees and repetition though:









It’s a crazy world we’re living in! Like I was just here cooling out listening to Questlove spin all the goodies. Who knew then, that in those apartments over yonder, above the semi-tacky hula hooper (the camera makes it look EXTREME, it wasn’t that dope), that there would be 4 kilos of coke and $100,000. And later, 2 people would end up slain mob style. Read and actually see video of the drop here. Keep your eyes open, kilos only sound cool, and don’t promote ghetto parties(***unlike the one above).

Turned the corner, boom…two fights, two days in a row. Violence on the risethe official mark of summertime in Philly or could it be rolls on Chestnut sliding out cutters with “Pink” on the back? Either way, I saw that shit, and not down with either. Fresh baked cookies and mild sunrays are more my speed:

coolout cookies

Captain coolout all over again:

frederick knight

A book. Add in a robe and a pipe, and that would be an all around good look. Perhaps though, that look along with a visage likened to that of Frederick Douglas or just as easy, the chubby one from TOTR, is only how I view being an old head with kids:

role model

All wise looking and shit. Hmm, but I digress, you should get the old man a book…And may I recommend this one:


So you’re thinking your sperm donor wouldn’t bother cracking open a book with such a snazzy cover…Like a, “fuck a Hoegaarden, I’ll go with the Miller Light” type scenario. Well that’s plausible, but it’s also likely that he would give you the “thought that matters” bit with the book back. And if you’ve ever slid into the dingy dive in Philly known as McGlinchey’s; you want this book. If you haven’t :

 Sarah Stolfa was a bartender before she became a photographer. “The Regulars” is a book of the photographs she took of her customers at McGlinchey’s, a hole-in-the-wall bar in Center City, Philadelphia, where she worked for ten years (“or maybe it was eleven, I can’t quite remember,” she writes.) Not all of the peopleare as beautiful as Joanna O’Boyle, pictured on the cover, but all of them capture the strange mix of intimacy and distance that can come with serving drinks. Here, Stolfa writes more about the distance bit:

McGlinchey’s is known for its surly bartenders. How could we be anything else after so many nights of customers vomiting, fighting, screaming, swearing, leaving without tipping, snapping their fingers, or just generally being rude? I was probably one of the surliest, or so I have heard over and over. In my mind I wasn’t paid enough to be your friend or make you feel special. If you wanted that, you needed to go to the fine-dining restaurant around the corner where a beer was $7.00, not under $2.00.

Sounds kind of fun, yet a bit depressing, no? Droves of young, cool low-lifes mixed in with some of the most story baring faces to exist outside of ghettos and such: