Not sure what anybody did to deserve this - chalk it up to the cocainesexjam stars aligning just so - but on Friday, November 3rd, Philadelphia will be hosting what probably qualifies as one of the best shows taking place anywhere all year. In a story that only gets better the longer we follow it, the Making Time party at li'l old Pure will be hosting both 'Stamps faves
Hot Chip and everybody's favorite - say it with me - disco band,
The Rapture. As if that wasn't enough, knowers in the know know that a third set from UK nu-rave flag bearers
Klaxons (pic'd) is also in store on this enchanted evening, which is quickly exiting the realm of "party" and taking on full-blown "fest" proportions. Tickets aren't on sale yet, but the wheels are already turning to set up some box office action at the only game left in town, AKA Music, maybe as soon as next week. Stay tuned.
More immediately, the September incarnation of Making Time is no slouch either.
Soulwax have put out a new CD,
Nite Versions, chock full of new tunes, remixes, and even a Daft Punk cover. Next Wednesday night, September 20th, they'll be bringing the whole thing to furious, sparklemotiony life at Pure, and BadmintonStamps would like you to bear witness, all free like. If you're interested in winning pair of tickets to the gala, as well your very own copy of
Nite Versions, just send an e-mail with your full name and the subject "WAX ON, WAX OFF" to
contest@badmintonstamps.com. We'll break out the dowsing rod to pick a winner by midnight Monday.
This afternoon at the World Cafe Live, WXPN's work is your leisure and recreation. They'll be broadcasting a solo accoustic performance by once-and-again Lemonheads frontman Evan Dando, followed by a full set from The Dears, who are currently touring in support of their new album Gang Of Losers. Free for you and me. Show up at high noon, flash those pearly whites, and you're in, cuz. Or 
The Girlfriend Track is a song that SkinnySlim deems sexy for a lady
to feel. We're talking about songs where, if my girl said "Yo, turn
this up", I would be turned on.
Two shows worthy of a blog blurb tonight in Philly. Menomena sits in the middle of an otherwise bland indie line-up at 
God bless Simian Mobile Disco. Just when you thought you'd have to make a choice between listening to their peerless club thumper "Hustler" and watching lesbian porn, they go and whip up a veritable mustardaise (or mayosturd, if you will) of 
More on that in a bit. As regular readers may have noticed, I'm fascinated by the term "gay", meaning "lame". The West Village native, conscious-to-the-plight-of-homosexuals side of me feels the term is offensive. The libertarian badass, don't-be-so-sensitive side feels it's just a word and people should lighten up. This angel/devil war has raged inside for many a moon, with the latter side winning the majority of the battles. Still, I feel a pang of guilt saying gay in a
pejorative context. That's why I was so pleased this weekend when I eurekaed the best way to use this popular put-down. Instead of saying something is gay, I now remark, "The homophobes would say that's gay". This kills two birds; I'm putting down anti-homo assholes while also getting away with calling something gay. Just as I came up with the brilliant solution, I passed my genial African-American doorman. He said, "Hey", and I let out a, "What up, homie?" This is a standard
SkinnySlim greeting. If you are male, I don't know your name, and I like you, I will call you homie. If you're a female, I will call you baby. If I don't like you or have no opinion I will call you "guy" (regardless of race or gender). But I wondered if my doorman was uncomfortable, thinking I was trying to "act black". I doubt it, mostly because I'm the SkinnySlim, so I let loose my "homies" with such suave elegance that it must put everyone at ease. And to be honest, if anyone is offended, the homophobes would say that's pretty gay.
As speculation continues to grow over who will join in the race for the White House in 2008, pressure is increasing on Presidential possibilities to either confirm or deny their candidacy outright. The latest question mark to be addressed: George Clooney. The worst of all Batmen reassured a grateful nation on Monday that he would 
Comin' atcha first thing every Monday morning, it's The Pony Track, a super-fantastic long distance dedication to BadmintonStamps Collective founding member Aaron "Pony" Child. No fancy links, no clever write-ups, 'cause these awesome songs don't need no splainin'. So c'mon, ride the pony!
Beyonce Knowles 
Anybody who didn't get their full freaky electro-grind on at last night's bonkers Soulwax performance (and if you didn't, I'm kinda suspect, to be frank) can work out whatever's left to Kasabian (pic'd) 
Yesterday afternoon I was in a taxi cab accident. My cab sped through a green light, smashing and totalling a van speeding through the opposite red light. Thankfully, excluding a little "shock n' whiplash" (note to self: great country album title), I'm fine and my good looks remain intact. Janet Jackson, whose family's 
Good news, everybody! Pat yourself on the back and leave work early today, 'cause we've solved world hunger. Just last week, scientists revealed that the number of overweight individuals on Earth 
Local pony-wave purveyors Pony Pants go on their first tour, and damned if the content-starved Clog ain't gonna milk that guitar-thrashing cow for all it's worth. Fortunately, they do this one right, as the 
DJ Ben writes in, "Can you put Bobby Short's version of 'I Happen To
Like New York' (as heard in Woody Allen's Manhattan Murder Mystery) up
on 'Stamps?" Sure, Ben. This great version of the song perfectly opens
Allen's film. And here are Cole Porter's lyrics, featuring a very special
photo link essay ode to the place that Bobby, Ben, Woody, and I all love...
I realize that many of the loyal readers out there were tremendously disappointed with the lack of a proper Friday Freakout last week. My plan was to post it that night once I had returned home from watching 
Friday night was Fight Night, as 'Stamps fave and boxing promotor extraordinaire S.S. Stein treated SkinnySlim and Philabuster to ringside seats at the 
R5 Roundup: 
G'day g'day
Mister Mister
Doing some charity work together, 
Something familiar, something peculiar, something for every blog at 
Okay, so I'm stretching the definition of "diss track" a little bit, but just go with me here. 
Jeff'ry Baum of 
Leave it to the unabashedly up-their-own-asses indie yuppie filth of the world to try and rain on R5's parade. No sooner does a post titled "
Oh, what a night! Saturday began inauspiciously with a hangover, some 
Friday night, your options are thusly: Pela bring their plaintive driving guitar rock out for a spin at 
If you're headin' out tonight, it's all about the turn-tables. Upsatirs at the Khyber (and really, when does a sentence that starts out with that ever lead to anything less than unadulterated awesomeness?), there at least six - six! - different DJs throwin' down everything from Wu Tang to The Rapture for the monthly 
The nerds are having themselves a busy week, yes siree. First off, the fierce competition at user-driven news site 
You know when older people are telling some stupid story and they go, "Jesus, me and [person's name] used to work together at the lunch counter back in nineteen-" and then they mumble and cover their mouth? It's meant to humorously indicate that the event took place many moons ago, so far back that the person probably can't even remember the specifics and is embarrassed (but not really) by just how long ago it was. Well, let me tell you, I find this adorable. Sure it's corny and over-the-top, but sooo endearing. What's even adorabler is when a really young person does it, like my nine year old brother. Just the other day we had the following conversation:
Franz Ferdinand are taking some 
It's no secret that the rappers love to be flagrant with their money. They lavish their entourage with absurd gifts, spend thousands of dollars on champagne at clubs (usually pouring the bubbly onto girls' backsides), and literally throw hard cash around at concerts and video shoots. It's gotten to the point where wasting money is actually a matter of pride with these hip-hoppers. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, SkinnySlim has outdone the entire hip-hop community yet again, this time to the tune of vanity plates. You know, those custom license plates found on your Bentley or Escalade. But for my new whip, I didn't pick no standard rap vanity plate, like num1rapper, beatking, ihaveajewishlawyer, or pimp4life. No, I went went with the absolutely arbitrary W32S92L. Why? Cause I'm flagrant like that. It's like, I don't care what my license plate says as long as that shit costs some money. And the more the better. This is the kind of playa move that separates the 
I always expected it to be, you know, a crocodile that eventually did him in. Or at least an extraordinarily venomous snake that he deemed "a real beauty" as it swung menacingly from his out-stretched arm. Actually, fuck all that. As much as it seemed like the inevitable and obvious outcome of his profession, none of us really expected Steve Irwin, TV's Crocodile Hunter, to actually be killed by one of the incredibly dangerous animals he chose to associate with. He was the unexplainable exception. Harry Houdini. Evil Knievil. That one-in-a-million dare devil that the laws of common sense and probability seemed to roll off of like water from the back of an extremely poisonous, carnivorous duck. We could sit around and joke that, boy, one day he was gonna get it, because deep down we knew he never would. Unfortunately, somebody forgot to tell all this to the stingray that shoved the business end of its barb through Irwin's chest this morning in the coastal waters of Northern Australia, 
As we prepare to set sail on this 72-hour oddysey known as Labor Day Weekend, the 'Stamps would like to leave you with some questions: Have you checked the Khyber's 
The mediocre B-list actress 
The blue radioblog at top left is long overdue for an update. This time around, it's nothin' but Philly's own. This summer - you know, the one that's pretty much been erased from your memory after the past week of near continal darkness - has been all about the homegrown grooves. Spinto Band ruled the pages of NME, Mazarin got covered by our new neighbors The Walkmen, Dr. Dog is being billed as one of this year's CMJ royalty, 'Fork shout-outs sprang up like pot holes on Chestnut Street, and more new talent crept up out of the primordial band ooze than you could shake a pointy stick at. So press play and rediscover some of the best shit goin' on in your own back yard. Some of the tracks, like the instrumental joyride from Shout Magic, will be familiar to regular readers. Others, like the new hotness from Dr. Dog's forthcoming EP, are obsessions in waiting. And for your downloading pleasure, what has no doubt been my number one song during this lazy hazy last month of summer: an effortlesss, washed-out lullaby coo from Brown Recluse Sings.
