Rollin' thru tha hood

The exception that proves the rule

They say that all is fair in love and war.

I was playing thumb war with my girlfriend on the subway the other day, and while I have size and brute force on my side, I found her thumb to be more nimble and evasive. So in a desperate attempt at victory, I unleashed my index finger to her flank and pinned her that way.

"No fair!" she cried.

And it occurred to me: All is fair in love and war. Just not thumb war. And especially not thumb war with someone you love.

And now, a gratuitous picture of me swimming:

Band Names

As it stands right now, I think it's up in the air between "Alien Hand Syndrome" and "Major Kong and the Doomsday Device," or just Doomsday Device for short.

Comments?

The Mysteries of One Man's Beard

WARNING:
The following depicts scenes of a graphic nature. Viewer discretion is advised.

When you date someone, you learn their peculiarities, emotionally and physically, and Ana has practically mapped the topography of my face. With her help, I learned this weekend, as you can see in the following photographs, there's more going on than might be considered normal for your run of the mill facial hair.

Now, we already know my beard is unusually colorful. There's red, brown and even white, but Ana kept insisting there was black. I did not believe her until she took photographs and sure enough, you could see tiny, thick black hairs... or were they?

Upon further inspection, it appeared that these were not single hairs but rather clusters of tiny, ribbon-like hairs which, with a minimal amount of effort, could be very easily plucked out. And so she did... every single one:

I'm not quite sure what to make of these. Does this happen to anyone else?

And then we come to the Great Red Spot, and I'm not talking about Jupiter. As this photographic evidence reveals, there is a giant swirling pattern forming on my face. What could this mean?

Theories, anyone?

Los Hombres Sin Nombres

My band needs a name. Got any ideas?

And it's on...

Lightman draws first blood in the 2007 Zimpfer Derby, followed closely by Jen P.'s latest post.

If you need pictures:
Here's a good one.
And another one.
And this one's a classic.

Also, if you do post, include a link back to the original:
http://mrcaseysneighborhood.blogspot.com/2007/08/new-mission.html

A New Mission

Jen has a Google rating of 0. There's not a single page, on the WORLD WIDE web, with a mention of this person:

According to Google, this woman does not exist.

Well that stops right now, Jennifer Zimpfer.

Let's see how mentions we can get going. If you have a blog, create an entry mentioning her full name. No blog? Add a mention to your MySpace page. Think of stuff that would look interesting on a Google search, such as:

Jennifer Zimpfer, a 32 year old Eskimo originally from Susquehanna, is hitting the road to promote her new brand of trout-scented perfumes.

or

"Watching Jennifer Zimpfer eat a lobster is a horrifying experience," said friend and longtime companion Wolfgang Puck. "It's enough to make me consider becoming a Buddhist ascetic, wandering the earth and protecting all of G-d's creatures."

You'll be doing a great mitzvah.

Soulja Boy

Rappers and rednecks finally have something in common: line dancing.



Now, let's get one thing straight: I'm from the Dirty South. I grew up around 2 Live Crew, 95 South, 12 Gauge. I know how to ride that donkey-donkayyy, I have listened to the big man holler, and I have looked at them girls with the daisy dukes on. Luther Campbell is like an uncle to me... a very distant uncle, obviously by marriage, but the point is I'm no stranger to this kind of stuff.

But I have to say, Soulja Boy Tell'em is a wake up call. While I have several theories on what this guy is saying, the truth is I have no clue. And though I will always have roots there, this is a reminder that I am a long way from the Dirty-Dirty, and I'm probably never going back. And it chokes me up, a little.

But then I crank dat "Soulja Boy," dat "Superman"... dat "super soaker," dat "Roosevelt." I crank a little "robocop," and it reminds me:

You can take the boy out of the Dirty, but you can't take the Dirty out of the boy.

The Hold Steady in Prospect Park - 8/9/07

Well, well. Looks like we got us a fan:

>Mr. Casey,
>
>Kindly resume your blog.
>
>Sincerely,
>
>The Neighborhood

And so resume my blog I shall, starting with a rave review of the Hold Steady concert in Prospect Park last Thursday.

Unable to Hold Steady for a clean shot

More important than the energetic show The Hold Steady gave at the bandshell is the reassurance they gave me that 40 year old men can become rock stars.

Mike, Diego and I arrived and met up with Special Correspondent Steve and his friend Corey. We caught the final song from The Teenage Prayers and the entire set from the Big Sleep, who rocked my ass off (If anyone has seen it, please e-mail me. Sitting is very painful like this, and there's a $50 reward.). Their vocals were not the best, but instrumentally they made a beautiful, grungy, electronic sound which made me very happy. Mike watched in silence, except for the occasional cry of "This is fucking awesome." Diego sat there and nodded whenever I said anything. Well done, Big Sleep. Well done.

Then, on came the boys from Brooklyn who are actually originally from Minneapolis except for one of them I think. They played the only two songs I knew right off the bat, but their energy on stage was enough to carry me through an entire hour or so of unknown tracks. That stupid Rolling Stone quote you see in every review may have got me there, but it officially made them overrated. Damn you, Rob Sheffield. How can any music critic be this pedantic? Regardless, the band was clearly beloved by the audience, myself included, and for good reason. The music was decent, the performance was excellent, and how could you not love their geeky lead singer, who seemed to genuinely make a move to hug everyone in the audience every 10 minutes.

So there it is, short but sweet as hell. The blog is back, baby. Let there be much rejoicing.

KRS-1 In Prospect Park - 8/3/07

Photo by Special Correspondent Steve

It was reigning so much knowledge in Prospect Park last Friday, honeyz was drenched in epistemology and wrestling in transcendental idealism.

In one of the last shows of the 2007 Celebrate Brooklyn season, KRS-1 reminded everyone why he is one of the greatest rappers of all time. And to ensure this message was not lost in the poetry of his lyrics, he brought a few of his friends to state it directly every five minutes.

But for a rapper who's been doing this since the 80s, it is impressive that the man still has the energy to move a crowd for an hour and come back for two encores (unlike Wu-Tang, who really don't rap so much as they loiter). Throughout the entire set, he had the crowd shouting his lyrics and cheering for, y'know... no police... and... stuff. Just all around "representing," as they call it.

At one point in the show, he told a story about how he and a few other guys used to sleep in that bandshell, dreaming of the day he would return to rock the place. I wonder if he could have dreamed how many white people would be there. I fear that one day, I'll be watching PBS and see KRS-1 rapping to a crowd of 70-year old white folks, sitting in their seats and clapping their hands to what they perceive to be the beat. Actually, I just fear that one day I'll be watching PBS.

Of course, there's no way to avoid the fact that, yes, ok, fine, I'm white too. So to distinguish ourselves from the rest of our popped-collar-polo-shirt-wearing brethren hippie dancing with each other, this is how we set up:

• Alison fingered her bottle of water.
• Special Correspondent Steve checked e-mail on his phone.
• I stood there with my arms folded, even when instructed to put them in the air.
• Sara did a hippie dance, but with a Jamaican.

In conclusion, coming off the total disappointment that was Rock the Bells last weekend, KRS-1 renewed my faith in open venue hip-hop performances. Of course, having clear skies, costing $3 and being only two blocks from my apartment helped.

Restaurant Review - Smiling Pizza

In my opinion, the greatest bands in the world are the ones that sound unlike any others. The originals. So while most people believe that Smiling Pizza tastes like crap, I propose that it is simply unlike other pizzas.

Smiling Pizza is an original.

And like all original works of art, some people can appreciate it and others cannot. Yes, the cheese is flavorless. Yes, the ingredients are sub-par. But once you've gotten past that, you start to appreciate the good things:

•Soggy crust. Not as bad as it sounds.
•Salad pizza. Genius!
•With red pepper flakes, oregano and garlic, it's actually not terrible.

And let's talk about the establishment itself.

Picture this: you're in the city late on a Saturday night. You're drunk. It's 2 am and you're staring into a dark tunnel at the 2nd Ave stop, waiting for the faintest flicker of light to herald the coming of that blessed F train. You spend 20 minutes sitting in a subway car which the MTA, in its infinite wisdom, has painted bright orange and plated with chrome. You step out of the subway, certain that you've left all chances of nourishment behind on Delancey Street when suddenly... what is that...? A neon smiley face? At 3 am?

Could it be?

And what about the delivery guys? What other pizza parlor employs guys who will write down the plate of the fucker who hit your motorcycle?

To those of you who prefer John's, or Roma, or Pizza Plus before it got burned up, I say open your minds, open your hearts, and open your mouth. Not when you're eating, or after you've eaten. But as you're eating. As you're taking down that delicious slice of pepperoni in a drunken, early morning haze. Then close it. Then chew. Then swallow.

Then... smile.

Further evidence that cabbies suck

This poor motorcycle sat in peace for 6 years in Westchester in perfect condition. I get my hands on it and within two months it gets dropped twice, backed into, and now: crashed into by a livery cab.

Last Sunday (7/22), a gypsy cab pulled a u-turn on 9th St and drove right into my motorcycle. Thankfully, I know the delivery guys at Smiling Pizza on the corner who saw the whole thing and got his plate. The guy apparently got out, looked at the bike which he had knocked over (breaking the locking column and brake handle), got back in his car and drove off.

Now I know, and you probably know too... karma is a bitch. I once scraped a guy's Audi in Boston and drove away without leaving a note. Two weeks later, someone broke into my car and stole my stereo. If I don't catch up with this guy, I hope that cosmic justice will.

If anyone saw anything, let me know.

First.

I've been a fan of a lot of the local blogs in and around the Slope and think I have something to contribute. I love my neighborhood and my neighbors, and am anxious to become a greater part of the community. It is my hope that this blog will allow me to do just that.

So spread the word.