Photograph by Jeff Fusco

Pop Rocks

Summertime, and the livin’s tasty. Here’s the scoop: Grab an Edy’s black cherry or wildberry fruit popsicle and snag yourself some 365 lemonade from Whole Foods. Don’t even sweat the organic shit. Then dip the ’sicle in the lemonade, let it rest there for a count of three, bring it up to your mouth and suck on it like you’re River Phoenix in My Own Private Idaho. It’s pure angelicism. Summer treats squared. It’s two great tastes that taste great together, but unlike that sticky peanut butter and chocolate crap, this one has a serious half-life. Suck that lemonade down like you’re in a Peter North flick while tongueing the ’sicle and you’ll totally get it. If the first taste doesn’t draw you in, try a second. If that doesn’t do the trick, call Larry Flynt because you might as well stack some serious porno Benjamins with that inhumanly super-insensitive tongue of yours. (Joshua Valocchi)

Isabella Soprano on HBO’s Cathouse

On-the-clock lovely Isabella Soprano from Cathouse—the HBO reality show set in a Nevada whorehouse—is an intriguing, appealing dichotomy. She’s a cute, curvaceous Boston gal who—unlike the other botoxed, siliconed trick mommas—is posessed of genuine girl-next-door charm. But as the hidden-camera boudoir shots reveal, she also happens to be the nastiest piece of ass in the place. (One thing the show neglects to tell viewers is that most of the women, including Soprano, have worked in porn.) Because of her talents, Soprano looks likely to become the show’s breakout working girl. The latest episode is practically built around her. “Never Too Late to Learn” sees Soprano serving as the brothel’s resident sexologist, instructing both hos and johns. She may be unlicensed, but who would you rather listen to: Sue Johanson or her? Besides, unlike a certain mob family from Jersey, this Soprano loves to leave people with a happy ending. (Craig D. Lindsey) >> Thurs., June 28, midnight. HBO

Hall & Oates

Hall & Oates are playing the Parkway on the Fourth of July, and there’s gonna be fireworks too. Which is incredibly apt, because our forefathers specifically fought for the freedom to blow shit up while listening to soft jazz. We rule. Wait, don’t tell me—you don’t like Hall & Oates, right? Liar. Everybody loves Hall & Oates. Must we continue this charade any freaking longer? You like the soft rock. You love the blue-eyed soul. You’ll be among the tens of thousands who flock to the Parkway on Independence Day and you’ll try to pass off your attendance as some sort of hip irony. Yeah, right. When our local heroes break into “One on One,” you’ll be right there with me harking back to that significant other who dropped the ax right when things seemed to be going just swell. I opted to nip that shit in the bud last night by getting my girl drunk on whiskey and dancing to Hall & Oates until dawn. It was like pissing into a hurricane. I will be there. My soul will be rent in twain. And I will be purified. (Joshua Valocchi) >> Wed., July 4, 8:30pm. Free. Ben Franklin Pkwy. 215.683.2200. www.americasbirthday.com

Mike Gravel YouTube Commercials

If this was a Hollywood version of the 2008 presidential elections, former Alaska Sen. Mike Gravel—the man who ended the Vietnam draft with a filibuster—would fly from barely-a-blip to front-runner on the merit of his honest and wholesome approach to politics. Or at least get some news coverage. Unfortunately West Wing’s off the air and Gravel has less name recognition than Obama’s third-grade teacher. But Hollywood teaches that crazy strategies can offer high returns. Maybe that’s why Mike’s gambled on two incredibly strange Zen-style YouTube commercials. One features Gravel building a fire, the flame filling the frame for a painful eight minutes. The second shows Gravel staring creepily into the camera, then throwing a rock into a lake. Both are wordless and probably allegorical. In a movie the commercials would be like Howard Beale’s rant in Network. We’d all run into the streets declaring we’re mad as hell and we’re going to vote Gravel. Too bad this is real life. (Alli Katz) >> www.youtube.com

Hipster Country Clubs

Let’s face it: Hipsters are the new establishment. They wear archaic clothes. They’re cultural conservatives, and they have very expensive but completely stupid haircuts. In other words, today’s hip kids are essentially 1950s WASPs with neck tattoos. And now they’ve embraced the ultimate elitist symbol: the country club. Bushwick Country Club opened in the bowels of Brooklyn in 2005. In place of lush putting greens, they boast a mini-golf course built from trash and Pabst cans. Rather than fine wines and brandies, the club serves obscure domestic beer. But don’t be fooled. The aesthetic is different, but the vicious exclusivity matches anything on offer in the Hamptons. You can’t even get served in this establishment if you’re not in a musical collective hailed by Pitchfork. And the hipster country club phenomenon is mushrooming. The H Street Country Club opens next year in Washington, D.C., and there are dark rumors of a similar institution being planned for Philly. Don’t let it happen. Take up arms against this menace. We shall fight them on the beech countertops. And we shall never surrender. (Tom Cowell)