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Here you are—a Philadelphian with an eye toward the world. Panicking about what Brangelina line Namibian houseware item to buy (I like the black walnut cupholders—good for mah Jamba Juice!). Worrying about who should own PNI when you open the paper in the morning. (Brian Tierney 'cuz he's local? Avista 'cuz they owned Spy? Ron Burkle 'cuz he gives gossip scribes cash and dates Gisele? All good. But can't De Niro buy us like The Observer?). What am I doing? Dumping all those Zubaz I bought now that my night job—plainclothes undercover cop—has gone all uniform. And wondering what I'll buy Donald Trump for his James Bond(!)-themed b-day party I'm going to at his Taj Mahal come Saturday. Man, I wish he wore Zubaz. And dressing for Wednesday's trial between unlikely rock 'em sock 'em robots—artisans Tony Smyrski 'n' John Taylor vs. economist Joe Barber? Imagining these fists flying makes me giggle. So. I'll stitch "I heart Space 1026" on one side of my shirt, a John Kenneth Galbraith insignia on the other.

Has the eternally hyperfunky Townhall split? "Yup," says Simon Stanford, whose tasty solo tunes can be heard at www.simonstanford.com. "We dissolved in the past week after having hit a creative wall." Sob, right! But Stanford's new songs—urgent mellow is our mutual consensus—will get its day once recorded in L.A. by Ian Cross (after that Janet record!), in a play written by his cousin (I Am a Terrorist) and May 21 at Tin Angel.

Writer/comic Russell Brand and his sketch chil'run, Chapin's Kids, show there's more to being funny in Old City than guessing when Brownie's is gonna become a panini stand by taking over LoungeOneTwoFive May 20 for fast laughs.

My wife the hero? Patrice A. , jeweler behind the Glamorosi line of tony baubles, thwarted a robbery from the rumored (in Souf Philly parts) bicycle mugger; the guy who bangs into you with his bike, says it's your fault, shakes you down like Gregory Abbott. Driving by the mugging, Amorosi hurled some language too blue for even this column and sent the bicycle jacker on his way. Dag, gurl.

The evil Kenn Kweder? Of course he's celebrating Dylan's 65th. First at a sick solo Bar Noir show May 22 with Josh Olmstead, whose new Brian McTear-produced CD co-starring B.C. Camplight promises to be the tear in the beer for 2006; then the day-of, May 24, at Smoked Joint with a bar-b-qued assortment of arch folkies—Peter Brown, Adam Brodsky, John Francis. "I'm gonna begin the week-of by wearing my Bob Dylan mask at my show at Bar Noir and not taking it off till all the individual performers at the Smoked Joint have each finished their one-song tributes to Mr. D!" says Kweder. That mask's gwaana smell funny.

Skinny legs 'n' all. Weird skinny. Knobby. That's what you got when in the middle of that staining acid green rain, the stars of Sal Mazzotta's filming-soon Mafioso II: The Son came to play some sort of football game at Capitolo Men's Softball Field on 10th Street. Mazzotta's green shirts—Johnny "Roast Beef" Williams, seventh-ring-of-hell dweller Justin Guarini who hugged so many ass-crack bearing chickies I feared his falling in—versus Gervase Peterson's white shirts. To what end other than drumming publicity for their production kickoff party (May 25, Galdo's, 20th and Moyamensing)? Dunno. But Sinatra and the smell of fried sausage filled the air. Howbadcouldittabeen?

What does a Star Group creative director do when he's trying to marry a senior account exec at the same firm? Advertise. That's how Oscar Betancur popped the question to Gina Geis (whose first date at N. 3rd was a year 'n' six months ago to the day)—with a billboard on Route 30 West leaving Cherry Hill: GINA, WILL YOU MARRY ME? LOVE OSCAR. "She said yes!" tells Oscar. Congrats, O. 'Cuz if she didn't and you'd left the sign up all despondent, you would have just made it weird for 10 Oscars and 10 Ginas driving around Jersey.

Grab Owen Kamihira and shake him. Every restaubar's designer—Buddakan, Deuce, Zee—is putting finishing touches on his own first Spanish tapas boite, Ferdinand, for a June opening. O-fucking-lé.

Remember The Rigbees? Me neither. Siike. Philly's sloppypop faves have a new CD, Treading Water in an Angry Ocean, that's neither too pissy nor too damp. Slo-Mo's on it. You can see them at World Café Live May 20.

Is Philly fashion bug and guy with a big hall Sidney Kimmel producing another film? After his United 93, Sid's throwing money at Don Cheadle for his bio-pic on civil rights-era DJ Ralph Waldo "Petey" Green.

Say these names in a big voice—like you're doing an ad for a funny car race: "Blanka Zizka. David Warner. Lou Massiah. Jeff Weinstein. Sam Sifton." OK, stop with the voice. Big names in arts 'n' arts editorial are hitting up the Art Museum during the day of May 20 for a long-ass symposium on "The New Playing Field of Arts Journalism."

Philly wine mistress Marnie Old just snagged a book deal with DK Publishers (or rather her agent, Clare Pelino, did) for She Said Wine, He Said Beer—Old's Mars/Venus book with Dogfish Head brewery owner Sam Calagione.

An out-of-town hostess with a book already, Jennifer Rubell, is doing The Book and the Cook's Caffé Society at Di Bruno Bros.' Chestnut Street May 24. The niece of Steve "Studio 54" Rubell hawks Real Life Entertaining—which, if it had anything to do with 54, would mean silver coke spoons and Dubonnet. Sadly, it don't.

Friday "Evening in the Park" with Arlen Specter is not a lost Stephen Sondheim play. It is the name of this year's edition of The Wellness Community of Philadelphia's annual benefit May 19 at the Suzanne Morgan Center. 215-879-7733.

Did you get to Saturday's second anniversary of Fiso Lounge, or did you, like the rest of the smart world, forget it was still open?

Jazz happy. Jazz sad. While we wish happy b-day to Sun Ra Arkestra hero Marshall Allen—Tritone, May 18, Elliot Levin and Tyrone Hill play for him—we bid sad farewell to Cliff LaMar, Nate Wiley's legendary drummer.