Pop Rocks

Unicorns have a bad reputation. We picture unicorn lovers hunched over drawing boards creating cryptobestiality. And we see the beast itself on pink rainbow folders mass-marketed for over-feminized girl-children and sad old women. How a proud and noble animal obviously designed to impale became the plaything of girlie-crap-mongers like Lisa Frank is beyond comprehension. Unicorns have freaking horns, and horns are made for disemboweling, stabbing and being phallic symbols, but definitely not for adorning school supplies. Philly-based T-shirt company Ghosticorn is winning one back for the uberhorses. The flagship shirt, a grinning dead unicorn missing a tooth (as first seen in PW’s very own Sketchbook) is the beast Casper would ride if he weren’t so damn friendly. If that’s not edgy enough, Ghosticorn also has a shirt that shows what parts of the unicorn are good for eating and another that features unicorns as bling. The designs are printed on form-fitting American Apparel shirts, and some even glow in the dark. (Alli Katz) >> www.ghosticorn.com

The existence of so many tight-pants-wearing knit-nazi smugster chicks all semi-ironically making their own scarves and hats is great and a testament to the American spirit and all, but all they’re really doing is smelly old crafts. Emily Barletta knits art. Her exhibit “My Biology” at Art Star features reimagined close-ups of life-science structures. Cells, fibers, organs, blood and bacteria are all created with yarn and small objects. While other bitch-and-stitch stuff is built for shock value, the works in “My Biology” are a cross between seventh-grade science class and your great aunt’s living room. They require no skulls, no glitter and no felt eyes, nor any wispy sparrow-and-branch bullshit to prove handiworks can make for high-end art. (A.K.) >> Through Nov. 18. Art Star Gallery and Boutique, 1030 N. Second St., unit 301. 215.238.1557. artstarphilly.com

In Rittenhouse Square drifters and outpatients mingle with millionaire widows and chess geeks. And the Pennsylvania Jedi Knights. From 6 p.m. on Wednesday nights they gather in the Square to practice their tightly choreographed light saber fight routines. Many are trained martial artists and stage combat experts, and they all wield carbon steel/polycarbonate sabers that can break bones. Jedi are encouraged to create their own characters and back-stories. Ringmaster Jeremy Webb fights as Gen. Kalius A’Dar. His ally? Enigmatic poet-Jedi (and 37-year-old fencing instructor) Cyran Oghma. Star Wars-obsessed kids can enroll in a less intense youth fighting group, the Padawan Academy. Leave your Jar-Jar life behind and embrace your inner Mace Windu. Just remember: Do or do not do. There is no try. (Tom Cowell) >> www.pajedi.com

When the apocalypse comes, Pop Rocks plans to be armed with serious firepower. Unfortunately most hardcore weaponry is pretty drab. Gray, black, dull silver ... yawn! That’s why we’re trading in our firepower for something a little more distinguished. Like GlamGuns.com’s Hello Kitty Assault Rifle, featuring a hand-crocheted pink kitty-adorned muffler. GlamGuns also offers a My Little Carbine complete with night-scope, Motha T shoulder-fired rocket launchers (named after Mother Theresa) and Martha (Stewart) landmines. For real? Probably not. But so what if GlamGuns aren’t actually on the market (yet)? The concept itself is deadly—to heteronormative worldviews. Ka-freaking-boom. (A.K.) >> www.glamguns.com

Reggaeton—it’s not just about big asses, tan titties and boys riding around on shiny bikes anymore. Not since Puerto Rican half-brothers Residente and Visitante started injecting the sexy rum ’n’ bass genre with talk of FBI homicides, Puerto Rican political status and now Latino solidarity with undocumented Mexican immigrants. Their new single “Pal Norte” is an homage to the indigenous “guerrillas” who leave their pueblos to head north across a most unfriendly border. With guest vocals from Cuban hip-hop expats the Orishas, the catchy chorus is enough to warm even the most conservative immigrant-hating hips. (Kate Kilpatrick)