ICE STORM 2002

There’ve been two ways to go in the last 12 months: tragic or stupid. Unfortunate victimhood due to surrealistic but unsurprising circumstance (child murders, terrorist snipers, corporate greed) or deliberate ridiculousness. Thankfully, Philly has erred on the side of the stupid -- a series of bungles and tangles that’d make a Herzog film seem well-combed in comparison.

The Bad

The scam: "Heiress" Tereza Solomon Demoody. Her claim to fame before bilking some of Philly's toniest totems was dating a trumpeter for The Four Aces in the '70s. (Not even an Ace!) Warning: Six Degrees of Separation was a great movie, not just a Kevin Bacon game. See it.

The lingo: CNN Headline News GM Rolando Santos tells the San Fran Chronicle he'll mix "the lingo of our people" -- "wack," "ill" -- into newscasts to attract young people. Prediction: NBC-10 weather people get weirdly urban nicknames -- John "Big Daddy Dis-Affiliated" Bolaris and Glenn "Yo Bow" Schwartz -- and start "capping our asses" in between talk of wind and winter.

Most unfortunate use of the lingo: Mayor John Street's "brothers are running the city."

Indie rock quote of the year: "Oops, my bad. I thought you were somebody else." Maxx Incognegro to The Strokes' Julian Casablancas after Maxx poured one full beer over the Strokes singer at their post-gig party at the RUBA club.

Worst idea for a restaurant opening: Salt. David Fields, a.k.a. Daniel Bergman, the Philadelphia magazine critic who savaged Susanna Foo, Morimoto and many more, is opening his own fooderie.

Least hip radio moves: A tie. WXPN's "special interest" given to Marah's latest CD pre-release, and everyone oohing and ahhing over Interscope's faux-annoyance at Y100 for playing the "unreleased" Nirvana song. More than anything, it's simply unhip that people still think Nirvana is hip enough to care about.

Weirdest hire: Novelist/journalist Solomon Jones becomes City Councilman Wilson Goode Jr.'s legislative aide after writing a book about killing a City Council member.

Most hated local TV theme music: Comcast everything -- especially, ironically, for their music programming. Nothing says blues or alternative rock like slick Seinfeld-esque theme music.

Most welcome farewell: Neal Pollack. Though I'll grant his 215 lit/music fest was the juiciest thing to hit Philly, it's much better he's not here to enjoy it. Basically he came, griped (dogging Carmen's Country Kitchen is an affront to many a fine diner) and whined with the same dullardness he applied to his schticky NPR writing. Duh.

Almost fave idea for a radio show: The Club Kama Sutra Experience Hour, every Wednesday from 5-6 p.m. on 900 KHZ AM. The "secret" swingers club off 10th and South hosts one hour of masturbatory chatter.

Possible reality series: The Iversons. Join in on the fun of basketball's hip-hoppingest misfit, Allen Iverson, his wacky uncle, his always-in-a-hurry missus and their crazy alternative-lifestyling cousins as they go about the business of feudin' and fightin'.

Dumbest feud: It'd have to be either the tedious thing where the little boy from Marah bumped heads with every music critic in town (me included), or the one between phillykaraoke.com and Locust Bar's karaoke crew. Did no one see Duets? And I don't like the idea of pop quizzo either, so I'm really a fucking grouch.

Tired of: Marc Howard. Whoever thought of bringing the doughy-faced one to young-up KYW is ridiculous. That's like bringing in Roger Daltrey to help The Rolling Stones find a kid market.

Continued bad ideas/pet peeves: The scores of local sports guys running rap labels; the dead buff firefighter calendar of 9/11 NYC heroes; Rosa Parks saying "I'm glad I stayed in my seat"; that more people voted during American Idol than in national elections; color-coded e-mails; Carlota and Chumley "uninvited" to Gay Bingo.

The Good

Best diner with big style and real napkins: Jones (which also wins The Brady Bunchest Award). Leave it to Stephen Starr to undecorate.

Most welcome visitor: Director/comic book kid/Sonic Youth fan Kevin Smith. Stop back anytime. (Special mention to Jennifer Lopez and Cher for buying tchotchkes and making stops along Pine Street.)

Best moonlighting bartender: Former Rouge/Striped Bass (now Magazine) Chef Peter Dunmire running his own nightly party at the back of Bar Noir.

Most undervalued expatriate: Composer/player Skip Heller continues to make music as magically Los Angeleno as it is funky and Philadelphian (check out his new organ-trio-influenced Homegoing).

Brightest local rock/hip-hop hopes we’re still waiting for: Silvertide, Kindred. While Clive Davis plots J Records' first hard-rock hit with Philly's own soda-fizzy rockers, Hidden Beach still waits for that perfect moment to release the long-in-studio debut from Aja and Fatim. But when?

Hardest-working promoters/ bookers: We know about Sean Agnew's venue victory after getting kicked out of First Unitarian Church. As good, but getting less attention, is Robin Parry's Club Nostradamus, which saw a N.J. mom with little booking experience not only put together the most diverse musical/perf-art palette this side of Tritone (my fave space to hear live music), she did it with attitude. Then she moved her base of operation to new digs at Ulana's.

Best-dressed’s best CD: Sartorial Philly fave Vikter Duplaix's haute-couture house CD, International Affairs, for Disney's Hollywood label.

Most welcome returns to local luminary-dom: Jamaaladeen Tacuma (DNA Galleria), Sic Kidz, Azusa Plane, Herb Johnson, Chris Unrath (Gentlemen 4, Str8Razors).

The Ugly

These looks I witness on a daily local basis have got to go: The telecommunications overload of BlackBerry/cell phone/pager (unless you work for a phone company); the Av-Lav (skinny tie, no collar); Lee Press-On bindis (unless you're Indian); pink hair (unless you're Kelly Osbourne or Nikki McKibben); faux nose rings (if you're going to do it, bleed for it); the Justins (no corkscrew 'dos ˆ la Guarini or stumpy fedoras ˆ la Timberlake); big belt buckles (unless you're a surviving member of Lynrd Skynrd); '80s Lycra T-shirts with no sleeves (let the music of the era do the talking, not the dress code); over-whitened teeth; hair that's styled in the front but not the back (the latter two only work if you're Farrah Fawcett); men in short shorts; women without flat stomachs wearing belly tops; girls showing ass cleavage (these last three are only for people with dancer bodies -- sorry); guys over 22 years old wearing over-washed, stretched-out, new-band shirts. (The Strokes haven't been around long enough to warrant fading. At least not as a shirt.)

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