Results tagged “wheni”

Dear Philadelphia:

Phillyist VIP: Matt Nelson

There's a reason why I don't fry things, and it has nothing to do with health.

Meteorologist John Bolaris

For thirty-five minutes, I sat on a loveseat in the dressing room of Ciaran McFeely, who performs under the moniker Simple Kid, and simply shot the proverbial shit. With legs crossed and hair hanging in his face, he thoroughly answered any query that I spewed his way. Follow-up questions were unnecessary; everything was answered.

We'd heard Matt Duke's name before (like when Phillyist Meghan's sister covered him for us), but this Phillyist's first encounter with the young Jersey-bred singer-songwriter was a few months ago at the WXPN-hosted Philly Local Lonely Hearts Club Band. Duke, in a pair of crazy patchwork-embellished stovepipe pants (each leg was probably wider than his whole body – you can kind of see them here), completely stole the stage with his performance of "When I'm 64." We left the World Cafe Live that night sure of two things: that we'd had an awesome time, and that we needed to see more of Matt Duke.

When I was younger, I wanted to study abroad in Ireland because I wanted to pick up the accent. That dream was never to be, but my love for the Irish accent lives on. And so that, combined with my affinity for the work of Martin McDonagh, led me straight into the arms of Lantern Theater Company's new production of McDonagh's , directed by David O'Connor.

Dear God (go with me on this one – if someone can sue Him, I can sure as hell write Him a letter):

By Bill Hayes and Pencopal

That is not a hyperbole.

This one comes straight from Ma Phillyist (aka Mamaist, aka Mommy, aka Mom, aka Mother, but only when I'm mad at her), who's been visiting the past few days. She's the one who always stressed the importance of manners to me. She also thinks that, in spite of my weekly manners column, five years of living on the East Coast has taught me a few manners that she wishes I hadn't picked up.

When I first saw that SEPTA was conducting a campaign to cut down cell phone conversation on their trains, I have to say I was skeptical. No amount of pandering, I thought, would stop passengers from making incredibly urgent calls to talk about the prior night’s debauchery or the conflict at work that only a complete narcissist could spend more than five seconds thinking about. But, alas, I have to say the signs with the juvenile clip art seem to be working. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve definitely heard less high-maintenance drama queens whining about why the demise of their one-month relationship is the end of the world. Makes me think that SEPTA might want to get the five-year-olds at their advertising agency started on some other ideas. Campaign slogans have been provided.

Phillyist is quite the fan of Shakespeare, but I took quite a while to warm up to the old guy. I maintain that making high school students read any of his work out of context is not the best introduction to the Bard. In fact, it was not until I saw a live production of Romeo and Juliet at the Philadelphia Shakespeare Company a decade after duly reciting its lines in freshman English class that I "got" it. And that's not surprising, seeing as how plays are meant to be performed. I've been fond of Shakes (and that play) ever since.

When I go to the ballet, or really to any other dance performance, I must admit that I often get bored watching the pretty, dainty women dance across the stage en pointe. I'd much rather watch the men: for them, dance is a sport as much as it is an artform – and when they jump, they seem to stay suspended in the air forever. I never get tired of watching men dancing. Which is why I was so excited that the theme of the first week of this season's was, well, "Men Dancing."

Sunday night I was proud to call Philadelphia my home. The audience at the Keane concert was electric. The lead singer of Keane, Tom Chaplin, even commented several times that "The audience in Philadelphia rocks!" and asked "Why didn't we come back here sooner?" That's a good question. Why didn't you come back sooner, Keane? Your show was incredible. I was there to see the opening act, Rocco Deluca and The Burden and was...

When I told you about ?uestlove's event at Bubble House this Sunday, it totally slipped my mind that things at Bubble House would be popping off just blocks from where various schools at Penn were celebrating their graduations.

As I write this, I've just returned from dinner with friends at Bistro Romano. I almost didn't go, because the restaurant's menu on MenuPages indicated that its prices didn't mesh so well with the Unemployment Diet, which I am still on. (I've lost twelve pounds, though!) Fortunately, my buddy Tom, who chose the restaurant, told me about Bistro Romano's Pasta Night on Mondays: a salad and any pasta dish off the menu for less than the cost of one of the pasta dishes alone. I ordered the lobster ravioli, because it's something I love and don't get to eat too often.

If people ask me, I definitely self-identify as Jewish. But if you know me, you know that I'm not terribly observant. I remember the Sabbath, but certainly don't keep it holy. I light candles on Chanukah. I even go so far as fasting on Yom Kippur and pretty much cutting carbs out of my diet for a week every spring. But that's the extent to which I keep kosher. I don't hesitate to combine meat and dairy on my matzoh sandwich. I shellfish. I've broken the fast on at least one occasion with a barbecue bacon cheeseburger.

You know that can't-get-enough-of-each other, can't-stop-touching-each other, stop-in-the-middle-of-the-street-to-kiss, oh-my-god-isn't-the-world-a-beautiful-place, P.S.-I'm-so-horny phase of a new relationship? Yeah. As half of a newly-formed couple, I'm finding myself there. It goes against my inner cynic. But I've got to admit, I'm kind of enjoying the ride. When I'm not throwing up a little in my mouth.

Venue: Starlight Ballroom

Dear Readers:

News Anchor Kerri-Lee Halkett

This weekend, I caught a couple of films at the National Constitution Center. It was cold, but since it's technically spring, and it was a holiday weekend, the tourists were out in throngs on Saturday.

, I know I'm going to have fun. I'm intuitive, what can I say? Similarly, when I approach an employees' bathroom and it takes concerted effort to open the door without ripping it in half, I feel justified assuming I'm in trouble.

Dear Philadelphia Arts Scene:

When Wincing the Night Away dropped last month, we lamented its winter release date. From the initial notes of the opening track, we knew it was the album of our Spring. By rights we should've been unwrapping the plastic casing joyfully and popping it into our CD player while the sun was out and our windows were open enough to let the warm air in. Whether it's the ukulele on "Australia" or the shake-your-ass bass line of "Sealegs," this album was made for that drive from our best friend's house to the nearest sidewalk cafe serving martinis on a Saturday afternoon. After playing it a few times, we saw the bright side: listening to it made us feel like the last vestiges of winter had disappeared.

When I was eleven years old, my parents and I started spending a week every summer in Topsail, North Carolina, with my best friend, “Zoe” and her family. Our parents had an extra special knack for taking us places where nothing was going on and there was no one under the age of 60 within a seventy mile radius. This, however, did not stop us from wondering whether or not we’d meet guys in our travels.

Martha Graham Cracker

When I first saw the ads for The Astronaut Farmer, I suspected that it would be pretty corny, but I also found the concept - a farmer and failed astronaut trying to build his own rocket to launch himself into space - intriguing and fascinating. After having seen the film, I can say that it is indeed an intriguing and fascinating story, as well as heartwarming, uplifting, and funny - but it is unfortunately also quite corny, laughably unbelievable in various ways, and possessed of a questionable message.

Singer/Songwriter Matt White
Photo by maryatuab