So with that...I've got nothing. Well, sorta. I have a few pictures on my phone, either intended to use for another article I haven't got around to, or just plain 'cause. No, no dong shots or heroin pics will be popping up shortly, just beer and toys. Hey, I can do that. Whip up a few paragraphs and yeah-there-ya-go. I think that'll work. I know this will work. Story time:
For the last couple of summers now, the extended Calabrese Family will make it's yearly hike to the grand landscape of Southern California, trekking across the familiar sites of dirty beaches, Medieval Times Fun Times Explosions, greasy restaraunts and yes, Disneyland. We shed our badass exterior in favor of shorts and flip-flops. Leather jackets are gone, sunscreen is in. Ah, the non-greasy kind. I hate the greasy kind.
You'd be interested to see the Calabrese Brothers looking like dorks in the happiest place on Earth, but we're so surrounded by various wives, nieces, friends, in-laws and the stench of a thousand churro stands you'd hardly even notice us. Besides, I usually just end up wearing a mask. Of a gorilla. In a top hat.
When not being burnt alive under the sun during these family events, I like to spend a lot of my time in the hotel room. I love hotel rooms, and will boldly proclaim that the hotel room is just as important as the vacation itself. When I was younger and on vacation with my parents, my main goal was to watch as much HBO as possible, devouring the worst/current films available at the time. I'd gladly fake an illness to skip out on Gettysburg to skip in to a delicious marathon of film. When you don't have it growing up (okay, I still don't have it as an adult) it pretty much becomes the channel of legends. An area of TV cyberspace that is only reserved for the few and privileged. Plus, I was absolutely certain I'd be seeing a lot of female nudity. You know how that goes.
Overall, it was an innocent goal, not at all similiar to my modern day "hotel room-must do list." Which, ranking numero uno, is to get drunk. Stinky, filthy drunk. Yes, I will watch movies only granted to those with enough money to actually wanna watch True Blood forty times a day, and I will shower freely, eat Twizzlers in bed and secretly wish I could get room service. Like, for free. But what I must do, without fail, is to get loaded. It's not as if the hotel room experience just simply elevates your buzz to a whole new level, it merely...adds to it. Unless you're a rockstar or a millionaire, most of the time you're in a hotel is during out of state vacations. Who doesn't like drinking on their vacations?
Almazo beer is a beverage I found at the nearest liquor store. Compared to glass rifle full of booze, this is neither exciting nor pretty. But it's from...Lebanon! That's kinda cool, right? I like to entertain the idea that eventually, I will be smashed on every beer from every country in the world. Personally, I'd like the be in that country I'm drinking the beer from, but I'm not sure Calabrese will be touring Lebanon anytime soon. I will cross my fingers we shall see yes.
Oh, and the beer was good. I classify this under the "tastes like Heineken" category, which shits all over my ability to review beer. I have a few more go-to blurbs, so I kinda have a legitimate system going. It's either "tastes like Heineken," "better than Budweiser" or, "it's like I'm drinking a fucking wedding cake." We all ended up raging 'til three in the morning, as it always seems to happen. Some bailed, some barfed, the rest stayed the course.
Okay, what's this?
For reasons I'm too lazy to deny, I was in a Toys R Us recently. Jurrassic Park crap was being sold. Did we time-travel back into the mid-90's? Are these leftovers from over fifteen years ago? No, Jurrassic Park toys are, in fact, being sold right now in 2010...for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
Do I care? Not exactly, but I guess I did end up buying a "Dino Tracker," complete with nameless-guy and mini-dinosaur, so maybe I do care a smidge. 7 dollars worth of smidge, actually. But I was, and still am, a huge fan of the movies. Well, the movie. I can deal without the sequels, and prefer thinking that they don't even exist. But I still have that love for the film and anything involved around it. I'm lying when I say I care about dinosaurs, because I don't. I couldn't care less. The movies are great because you get to see them chomping people up and spitting poison goo into a fat guy's mouth hole. Granted, they are giant monsters that once roamed the Earth a super-fucking long time ago, and admittedly, that's pretty neat. If any of them had creepy hair covering their body, giant spikes coming out of their hands or multiple eyes smashed into their face...tickle me pink, I'd be a fan for life. But overall, I'm more of an observer, a sideline critic that will occasionally pound the table to make my glass of water do that ripple-effect thing, always check electric fences and be absolutely terrified of Sam Jackson's bloody limb gripping my shoulder.
The closest I come to just barely caring about dinos is when I, from time to time, casually dream of what it's like to own one, or how awesome it would be to punch a T-rex right in their scaley face. I imagine it to be pretty awesome. If you say anything about it being "epic," I'll punch you in the face. Fuckin' hate that word right now.
Opened, posed, stashed in the closet. I like it. I mean, it's not too hard to muster up any kind of love when you're offered the fantasy of wranglin' up a crazy, froth-mouthed dino. It's kind of like punching, but in claw form. A claw that's pretty much the size of you. I'll agree with this. All of this.
Beer and toys yeah!