Saturday, April 24, 2010

Tiger Beer! Devilman! AND MORE!

Yes! One of my favorite pastimes can easily be chalked up to drinking new beer. It's probably the worst things to get into when, down the line, you're pretty sure you don't want to look like a pregnant man.

I found this particular libation while checking out an asian supermarket, either looking for Japanese cigarettes or really cool toy robots on a really boring Saturday night. It's been an obsession of mine to smoke what Guitar Wolf smokes, and to litter my place with authentic, straight-outta-Japan goodies. I've found neither in the course of manymany years, but I'm still holding out for that one, big jackpot of pants-wetting fun. I think it's kinda illegal to sell the smokes, and the general, Phoenix area doesn't quite feel the need to run a Robotech ring, hocking robo-dolls and boxes full of Gundams. Ooo, I shoulda went with, "run a Gundam Wing Ring." Woulda been more fun, and kinda cute. Eghh.

One of these days, my luck will turn. Because I know you're out there, Asian Store That Sells Cool Japanese Shit. I just know. Until then...I choose you, Tiger beer.

I can pretty much get down with anything, save for chocolate beers and coffee beers and anything that's added to beer to kinda dillute the taste of beer. Oh, and the cheap shit. I've said it before and I'll say it again -- if I'm gonna desecrate and destroy the insides of my body, it's gonna be going down with quality.

This ain't cheap. Well, it's probably piss over in it's native land, but what can you do? I think this is about eight bucks and isn't Milwaukee's Best. We've got ourselves a winner! So anyways, this is from Singapore, is a pale lager and comes in pretty bottle with a cool Tiger logo. I really hate to say I'm prejudiced, and just bound to enjoy this, simply based on the fact that it's called Tiger beer, as if an unpronouncable, German brand is less superior to that of a drink named after a giant, orange cat. But I'm a simple man, with simple tastes. I also like to think this is alcoholic tiger-blood. What? You don't?

The taste? Ah, the taste. In past posts, I've tried to describe beers before, and it never really works out in any way I'd hope for. I'm terrible at it. My go-to buzz words/phrases are always "nutty," "golden brown perfection" and "I got nasty fucked up on this one." I'm not gonna win any awards, I know, but I still like to take a small, tiny amount of pride in my work. I could compare it to other beers, but that's kinda like cheating, and sometimes even more confusing. Say I compare it to...oh...Guiness, but you've never had Guiness. We're back to square one, daydreaming about tigers and stuffs.

I say go for it. It's pretty delicious, light on yer guts and will help strike up any mild conversation with the domestic drinkers and annoyingly curious.

This kinda fits in with the theme:

During our two week, east-coast rock and roll stint a month back, we played the HorrorHound convention in Indianapolis. Mainly, we hung out at our merch table and sold our shit for an entire day (yes!) and had an opportunity to stare at hundreds of things we could have easily spent hundreds of dollars on (yes!) I made it my goal to at least get something, and I decided on that. A Devilman bottle opener.

Between Danzig and White Zombie's fascination with Devilman and my always growing fascination anything super-Satanic, I knew I had to have this. Maybe it just emanated off of me, 'cause as soon as I asked the lady behind her booth, "how much for this badda boy?" she replied, "Ehh, just take it." Christmas miracle in March. Good thing, 'cause it turns out it was fifteen bucks. I'd probably end up buying it, anways, but I'm jus' sayin' -- I really want you to know I've got my priorities straight.

I still have no idea who or what a Devilman is or does (besides looking so cool) but it does what it ultimately promises...which is to open beer bottles while emitting a loud, screeching wail. Yeah, Devilman screams when you pop the top off a cold, frosty one.

As a sidenote, and ultimately some great filler, I remember the day of the event, we decided to stop at the diner across the way. It had been a few days since we actually had any solid, warm food, so it was a welcome site. It was one of those places kinda like Denny's fused with an IHOP, with no actual direction in decor. Felt like you were in someone's empty furniture store, that kept the rug on, the chairs up and served you greasy food. I dunno, it was weird. And that feeling absolutely turned into pain, when soon after eating only a few bites of my BLT, I realized it was gonna be one of those nights.

The thing is, touring in a band and playing shows is absolutely the greatest and the worst thing you can do. Everything outside of being at the show, and actually playing that show can be a wild pain in the ass. Seeing the world is great, sleeping in a van can be fun, whatever. My main enemy, my arch-nemesis in the world of the bathroom. The Goddamn restroom. The toilet. The shitter! Well, more specifically, a dirty bathroom. Hell, no bathroom is a bigger problem. If the place just ain't outta toilet paper, the place simply doesn't exist. A double edged sword, except one side of the sword is a bit longer and sharper, 'cause you're crapping behind a dumpster. Put that in your pocket. So it's always a gamble, from venue to venue, to find a decent, private and moderately clean bathroom. It's unnerving, painfully stressful and yeah, the Goddamn worst subject matter to be talking about on a widely accessible, easy to find blog on the internet. Cool!

So I'll wrap this up: basically, got kinda sick. Thank God, we played in a hotel with enough bathrooms to make a day out of testing each ones crap-ability. I base this out of toilet paper available, the seat's warmth and general feng shui of the room. The place was stocked up and ready for my hard-hitting, news editorial. So basically, don't go to that diner place in the same complex as that hotel. Or if anything, don't play a show directly afterwards. It's a matter of life and diharrea.


Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Tale of Two Jawas.

Take a look at the above photo. What you see is my youth, in two, single Star Wars toys.

Recently, I've been hell-bent on collection as many vintage Star Wars toys as possible. To ease the quest's severity, I've decided to skip the vehicles, playsets and generally anything over the size of my index finger. Obviously, there's gonna be exceptions (see: rancors and wompas) But hey, I've got my limits. Gotta have limits.

One of the reasons I'm so into Star Wars is because of the huge impact it had on me growing up. The movies fused a subtle amount of horror, adventure and a weird, underlining creepiness that you can truly blame on life-like puppets and realistic masks. Something about it all, combined with a universe so vast and in-depth, really struck a nerve in Young Me. Don't even get me started on E.T.

Anyway, growing up, I essentially stole all of the coolest shit from my older brother, Jimmy. I begged for the current toys and I pilfered from a sibling's room. I had the best of two worlds, and nothing was gonna stop me from gaining access to the Treasures of the Universe. Which was any action figure made to have devil horns, a demon face or a skeleton head, really. Lots of the that stuff was flying around in the 80's.

So Star Wars. Had a lot of them toys, still do. It's like my comfort food, except you can replace deliciousness with hard plastic. Yes, I just admited to chewing on Uncle Owen's head to calm myself thank you very much. But that aside, I'll wholly admit to never truly understanding what the hell happened in any of the movies. I do know, jus' sayin', but yeah. As far as I was concerned, all three films were about snake-monsters and robo-men shooting (and missing) laser guns while flying huge, galaxy shattering space craft. It all went into my head, jumbled up to varying degrees, and made it's way into my young mind's conscious, allowing me to run the story to my understading. Things that were absolutely untrue were, well...truth.

Take that photo for example. I saw the movies countless times, I kinda new what was going on, right? Wrong. I really have no idea why I wanna blog about this, but hey, it's all I got. Plus, I, for some reason, just thought of this and was pretty amused at my Past Me:

You can blame the similiar outfits, but I really thought Obi-Wan was a taller Jawa. I thought he made it out of Jawa World a larger, more normal looking dude, while the rest of the pack was left behind in the dust and under three feet. I really thought they were connected somehow, as if the Jawas and Obi-Wan were best buds in the desert landscape of Tatooine. I really hoped they had a good relationship, kept in touch with eachother and worked out a pick-pocketing racket, with those nimble, delicate Jawa hands. I really do.

Man, I love Star Wars.

'Til next time!