Remember, there’s no sex in the juice-box room. (Tosh.0 video to follow)… Tosh.0
Christ almighty, can I go one week without listening to some hussy complaining that the man she married is a “mama’s boy”? I mean, seriously. Shit’s old. Shit’s played out. If they didn’t see it before the Wedding Day, they as blind as a blind bat. Fo’sho. Thankfully, the matter of Tillman Versus Tillman had…
… Ever since that whole “4:20, the most dangerous time of the day for your children” expose on the local NBC affiliate, I’ve monitored who buys all the Visine at the Rite Aid around the corner. I will not let them anywhere near my yet born child, a yet born child that I’m pretty sure…
I’ll tell you what: Elizabeth Giran knows how to dress, looking all soft porn when she strolls up in Judge Toler’s courtroom. She also knows how to shop to dress. Because her Indian-American husband of a year, Sunny, says that she went out and bought the same dress in 12 different colors. She says she’s…
One way I can tell a band is going to suck 99 cents out my swine-bank with the quickness is if, upon hearing them the first time, I can pick out elements of other artists I totally dig. That’s what happened with The Cave Singers‘ At the Cut. And Leap. And Dancing on our Graves.…
So, last night I hit the Metro‘s 10th anniversary party. Good times, good people. We also hit the Metro’s 10th anniversary post-party. It was at Jolly’s, the piano bar that moved from 17th and Walnut (across from the Philly Weekly office when I was a staffer there; also why I can’t get the “Jolly’s NOT…