(insert picture of signed CD I have that says “Casi Go Fuck Yourself or else Bitch” but I don’t have a camera at work)

When I first started to work in an office I always listened to music while I worked. Back in the day I used to stream online radio all day and download shit from soul seek. Then the tech dudes at my office caught me and sent an email to my boss and they shut down my internet port. So when we moved offices and they redid the computers they removed the audio card from my computer and I don’t even get to hear the Microsoft login noises and shit like that now. Which isn’t all that bad when you sneak into your desk at 9:45 on Wednesday after drinking all night and waking up in your hall way. I used to love our meetings at 10:00 in the morning when I would be getting yelled at the whole time with a stamp from the night before and my body reeking of smoke and my perspiration stinking like beer. It used to be the high light of the day when I finally sobered up enough at 1:00 to do some real work and fix all the shit I had fucked up that morning all hung over.

With so many mornings being all fucked up like this my musical interests at work have really started to change and I have rediscovered my affinity for folk music. Before I used to sit at work and listen to Juke and only listen to folk at home on the porch in my shade garden drinking organic wine but now I see its soothing pleasures while sitting in a 4×6 all day looking at computer screen wondering if the shit I do actually makes a difference in the world or in Philly. Soon my CD collection changed from loads of underground booty house/electro mixtapes, random indy rock promo CD’s, and straight fire backpack rap to Easy Listening bangers and Acoustic Folk battle breaks. (You can’t “clog” better then me, you can’t “clog” better then me. end note sadly there is no wiki on flogging which is basically this South Virginia style of clogging that is pretty dope to see live its a little quicker stylistically speaking since Southern Bluegrass got that two step heat.)

One of my most recent additions is this CD by Jenny Owens Young who blends country, folk, dirty lyrics, songs about fucking dudes and leaving them for her own personal pleasure, and all other types of craziness. She is playing tonight in Philly at the Tin Angel for $10 bucks and its gonna be the raddest show since she generally talks shit on the audience in between songs which is always a good look for an emerging folkstress singing in the city of brotherly love.

Go at 10:30 the show will be over by the time its 12:00 and you can show off your one speed to all the 30 something’s as they realize its going to be an hour and a half drive back to Doylestown.

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(photo courtesy of Finding Philly)

Dear Mama Bear,

I first meet you on a Sunday night sitting on the stoop with d drinking whiskey and Lagers when you came out in your Abercrombie and Fitch men’s pajama pants and Banana Republic tanktop to throw away your perfectly packaged garbage. I hollered “Ay Bay Bay” and you laughed and went back inside only to stick your head back out and ask about the recyclables. So you brought out just one too many cardboard boxes and we made fun of you and like the fire hearted banshee that you is, you came over to talk shit on us. This is when I truly new you were someone I wanted in my life.

Screaming at the top of your lungs how fucked up it was that we were getting drunk at 10:00 pm on a Sunday night, you came over to a pair of stunned dudes who instantly knew this was gonna be the best part of the night. The conversation turned to playful jokes about my age, how old I thought you were, and how much we agreed on Dave Mathews Band is so underrated in the streets right now. I never found out your name that night or you told me and I was drunk and didn’t remember to remember it since I was so stunned by your awesomeness. After repeatedly turning down swigs of whisky from a plastic water bottle,and not wanting a can of beer “since you didn’t trust your self to only have just one” you slipped inside your house for an early evening. The unprecedented mind fuck was well received by the two of us and it didn’t help that we forgot your name so we created your nickname, Mama Bear.

Ever since that night we secretly glance over at your row home just to see if your light is on. One time we even bought schnapps (on some other shit I hate schnapps, like if it’s below 40 proof fuck it) cause we thought we would run into you. Then it happened again. You hurried out of your house into a cab to run off to old city to hang with your yuppie suburbanite friends. It was after that mega downpour that I got caught in riding my bike to get a case of Natty Bohs from Stones and I was sitting outside with a case of beer waiting to go upstairs. You were on the phone, said hello and blew off my calls of coming to the Walnut Room.

Then out of the blue last night it happened again. We were sitting there drinking leftover cans of Colt and warm Seagram’s when we saw you slinking up the street ever so slightly drifting to the right. You had on a new light blue polo vest on with a white collared shirt underneath matched with a pair of off white Benton heel high cut pants that when you turned around really displayed that you had no ass at all. I was feeling it on so many levels. You were drunk, I was getting drunk, and we all were having a good time. You blurted out that you were 33 and tired of all this bullshit and I never felt more connected to you. The majority of the time we spent talking about the most yuppy shit in the world, people from Jersey parking on our block when we pay for a parking permit. It was so enjoyable to watch you run around screaming at the top of your lungs for some one to come down and move their car that was parked illegally and how you were going to call PPA on them.

It was at this moment I wanted to invite you into my world. I wanted to take you to an electro house night where we would be the only people standing around in pastel colors after getting off my sailboat, drink PBR tall boys and do shoots of rail whiskey while the whole time complaining that we can’t get pints of Piels, smoke cig after cig after cig and talk shit on people by generally looking fabulous in a sea of Philly bullshitters. I wanted to wake up in the morning next to you after a night of mayhem and take you to Café Lutecia and sit outside while the spider waitress serves us ice teas and we talk shit on all the yuppies with last year’s Lacoste colors on. I wanted you to sit there and even in your hung over state look at me in contempt when I make you pay for your half of the check even though it’s really cheap for a big ass sandwich.

Then when it’s all over I want you to kick my ass out while you go do you and have to get ready to be a bridesmaid again at some shit wedding in Doylestown that you can’t invite me to since the last timeyou did I got drunk and pushed some one into a pool and ruined his $400 black jack phone.

P.S. To the waitress at Café Lutecia, it sucks you broke your foot…But at least you broke your foot in France. Shit I ran my bike into a grate at 20th and Green Street the other day and fucked my shoulder up, and then I found 20 bucks…

Cafe Lutecia
2301 Lombard Street

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Photo from Emulsion Emotion

So like I’m a big dude. I mean I eat, alot, over a long period of time, repeatedly. For a while I only ate soup all three meals to lose some weight which worked but then I got lazy and started studying every night so I ate real food again. So with all my weight loss I decided it was time to get a one speed since I was transitioning from my Mt Airy Granola ten speed Mountain Bike into my totally grown and sexy mid 80’s racing wheels Peugeot. So the first week I had my bike I left it outside my house and some one stole the front tire. So I get it replaced with this aluminum jawn over at Philadelphia Bikes Inc and two days later I am rolling around on it before I got toe clips and slid my flip flopped foot right in-between the tire and fork. Totally blew the shit out, I end overed my bike, woke up on the ground with a bike stuck on my foot, my arm all fucked up, and like some broken toes. Shit was not fun, so I parked it and went to go get breakfast all fucked up down the street at my super secret spot that some how is being overrun by yuppies which I guess kind of has to happen. So then I take it back to Philadelphia Bikes and they just look at me like, “Dude you just got your bike back from us the other day” and I was like yeah I know I need a new fork. This is also when that dude is there who has the shirt that obviously some bike messenger made for him since its an XL American Apparel that has “Don’t Ask Me For Shit” on it, every time I come in I am like I want this and he is like “No, I am not going to retape your handle bars with neon pink tape. All I wanna do is play on my computer and put a little Gin in my 32 ounce sugar tee from the Chinese spot down the street and sit in front of the air conditioner.” So they hook me up with a new fork after a day or two and then I am rolling around which was bugged out since I was still kinda shook. So then I park my bike outside my house cause I am all tired and then this time the dude steals my back wheel. This I wasn’t all that mad at since it was on one of those European wheels that has that wack nipple. So this time when I go back to Philadelphia Bikes the dude is just buggin out. In two weeks I needed both wheels replaced, trashed my fork, and still was coming back for more shit. So I am on there frequent buyers list now and all I have to do is wait 20 mins for them to do the work on my bike.

So every time I come to that spot I have two options of what to eat. Fairmount 2 “the sequel” now titled Assandros but with the same crappy food and cardboard pizza, or there is the Chinese spot that sells chicken in sugar sauce. I also found out that people in Philly call “soy sauce” suey sauce” what the fuck is that all about? So the other day I am up there asking them to replace this steel rim that I got with an aluminum one cause my fat ass totally bent the shit and I went to go get something to eat and there is a new spot called “Cobre”. I was feeling it. Crazy grimy outside that makes the place really feel like a dive ass restaurant until I stepped in that place. Shit was out of control on some Mexican Yuppster shit. Like I love seedy ass Mexican joints where they are not speaking English and you have to pay market price on your guacamole and you order in Spanish and the girl smiles all cute (I see you Jose’s). This place looked like it was gonna be a weird night club lounge thing for male entertainers but instead they serve Mexican food. I mean I guess they are trying to class it up but the way to do that is not to sell really corny and mad corporate art on there walls, then on the flipside they got that crazy Mexican jukebox that plays all types of crazy songs way to loud. So it was lunch time and inside the place was me and like a small table that was having a party and that was it, yet I still got terrible service. Plus they had that juke box so loud I couldn’t even think to myself. And like since there was no one in the place the shit was just echoing all over. The menu was kinda dope though they had a Puerto Rican side and then there is a Mexican side. I got food from both but I wanted to talk to my waiter a lot about the food and find out what was the real dopeness. He was this 16 year old kid in a White Tee which was really funny to me since I swore I had seen him up the block outside the spot at 17th and Mt. Vernon. So the whole time I keep asking for a glass of water and I am still hung over and keep almost drinking the glass that has a floating candle in it while I am talking to my Mom on the phone. Then I ask for a recommendation and he says “For me, I would totally get the steak with onions and mushrooms. Whoaa thats eating.” I was like dude its Wednesday at like 12:30. Who gets a steak? Give me some soup and like this Puerto Rican Corn meal thing with plantains and flavored pig skin.

So while I am waiting I am start reading that article about gun owners in Philadelphia and it turns out that the girl I am banging who is 23 has also banged this dude who is like 40, repeatedly over a short period of time cause we had to have a little talk about our sexual partners before we could have sex and she told me about him. It was kinda bugged out. I immediately went to call everyone I knew and was like you see that dude in the paper; I am sharing with him, yeah a lot, like every other night. It was really boss, then my food came and I lost my appetite. The soup was dope but that other shit was just out there and tasted like bullshit. Plus there was suppose to be this weird sauce that went with it but it came like half way and by that way I thought I was going to puke. So I have to go since I am on lunch and I walk over and give the dude $10 on an $8 dollar meal and he starts buggin out. He is like are you sure you don’t want to stay for dessert, we got some dope desserts. Again I was like dude its Wednesday at 12:45, who gets desserts. I walk out and go pick up my bike and cruise back to 440 feeling like shit ready for another three hours of being hung over at work. That’s truly some of the best shit like when you’re so hung over that even after you eat you still feel like shit.

Cobre
812 North Broad Street

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This is gonna be a new segment I write called…

“Places Mutherfucking Casi G has eaten”

Basically its gonna be a really salty guide to places I have eaten in Philadelphia that are really real. So basically I am so tired of eating Cheese Steaks and pizza and shit like that, that I am always trying to find restaurants that don’t serve that shit and fit into my budget (el cheapo). So lets do this, and soon I am gonna nerd out on this shit and like figure out how to google maps these places and have places where you can comment. Also I am gonna try and code them to areas of the city. Shit is kinda blogcore but whatever, I just threw on this Iron and Wine track an am feeling like I need to make my mark on the world. Don’t talk to me about this in the real world.

So I try to make it a rule that I never go to South Philly. Like I have no business ever being there, ever. Everytime I go I just feel out of place since I don’t eat pretzels, don’t watch the Phillies, and don’t listen to WMMR. So like a week ago I wake up on the floor of my apartment naked completely dehydrated after sweating for 8 hours and am like this is a perfect day to go to the Italian Market and get breakfast and some Draino. So I call up Dan and we decide to ride down there and get some shit to eat. I basically am thinking I am going to Pats at 12:30 since I don’t know shit else about that area. But we show up and there are like a shit load of cafes on Christian street. So of course we decide to go to the one that has the most fixed gears hanging off a tree near by and it happens to be “Sabrina’s Café” on 910 Christian.

So we walk up and first it’s really awkward. We walk into the first room and it’s really dark, kind of like this blue dark room that is really noisy. I was so not having that shit. So I ask the waitress if we can sit outside which I find out is a 20 min wait and we should just sit in the dark room. Now I am not having that. Like when I go out I am paying for an experience. I want it all and yes that means, coffee, water, juice and for my ass not to be sitting in the dark. Then I start to look around and I see my South Philly indy peoples. I think they are a little more raw then the north sider’s because they were seriously representing them bad tattoos like it was no joke. And that angle haircut? How do you eat your food with that shit.

So the waitress eventually takes us into the other room and its like night and day in that place. I seriously walked out of some dudes basement in to the country bumpkin roadside café in Vermont. Shit was on some yuppie extremist you are not in Philly but straight chilaxking in Maine and you would smoke a blunt but your like 33 now. I loved it. We sat in this raised table that had a family to the right hanging with there kid and we could look at the whole spread of the restaurant. This is always the best since I always want to see what other people are eating and talk shit about them aka figure out what the fuck they are up to.

So its on and our waitress comes over and gets our order. Dan got some Mexican eggs and blue corn thing which is so what ever. So I had to go crazy and order this crazy ass French toast with cheese in it. But while we are sitting there the waitress for the indy side comes over to the yuppie side and it just absolutely floored me. I couldn’t talk about anything else after that. She straight up had some line drawing tattoos, a small round oval face, black hair, tight hair cut, and had a pair of jeans on. She basically looked like my favorite indy girl trainwreck waiting to happen. I found out her name was Kirby and the shit was on. Well really I just talked a bunch of shit about talking to her but I never manned up. Instead I eat almost all my food until I felt like I was going to throw up cause there was so much food. Then the check came and for the food it was really well priced for the area. So I think I hit the girl with a 22% tip cause I was feeling really real and shit just tied my morning together. Before we left Kirby walked by me and I asked her for more coffee and she said she would be right back with it. So I thought this was my time I am gonna holler at her but instead this other girl comes back and I tell her I actually don’t want any more. On the way out we ended up running into Kid Blends sitting there with his girl and this really dope pair of neon Nikes on. Shit was crucial.

Google maps

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