Thursday, August 26, 2010

DeFalco's! (Food Content Fuck Yeah)


A couple weeks ago, my sister told me about this place. She painted me pictures of authentic, Italian dishes, rivers of delicious wine and a cramped, almost annoying sitting arrangement. Supposedly, the place doubles as a restaurant and grocery store, letting you sit and eat amongst everything they cook and sell. They have take-out, too, in case you don't feel like dining in a small corner of a deli. But in a small corner of your apartment. Let's do this thang!

The place is absolutely stuffed with food, wine, sweets, beer, etc. It's my favorite kind of atmosphere, with so much to look at you almost feel sick. You can spend a hefty amount of time just browsing the aisles, which is great for someone like me, 'cause I was not about to leave this place without a souvenir. Ahh, I'm getting stoked!

Ahh, sugar. From what I saw, there was a lot of desserts, ingredients to make desserts, desserts desserts desserts. Such a marvelous sight! I haven't even ordered yet and I'm being bombarded by Italian candy and chocolates straight outta Rome. So far, so good.

PS -- I'm totally not opposed to eating those plain, unfilled cannoli shells.

Food wise? They got's it all. Everything from giant slabs of lasagna to just ordering a big plate of olives, you've got a pretty good selection. I pussed out and ended up ordering a white pizza, and it was really good. I'm all about the white pizzas these days (no sauce, mainly cheese/toppings) I choose this path because, obviously, it's delicious, but probably because I've been sucking down tomato sauce on my pizza for the last twenty years. I'm sure a lack of variety has swayed my opinion over time. I won't dwell too hard on it, though. Overall...good stuff! Way good. DeFalco's, you win this round.

Oh, and for some reason, I'm unable to snag the proof off of my phone (the photos either disappeared or won't upload) so you're gonna have to take my word on this. It was a decent sized pie, with a nice, golden crust, surrounded by crisp dollar bills and served by a naked midget.

The beer runs freely! Actually, the entire deal is pretty expensive, but since we're in a family-friendly environment, I'll let it pass. The cashier made sure to let me know that two beers equals the same amount as a six pack, though, giving me the option to walk away from the counter looking like an alcoholic, or the classic "80's party guy." Ya know, minus the lampshade on my head and a pool ring around my waist. I chose this option, and while I did become nine dollars poorer, I also became six beers drunkeyer.

Since you're basically sitting among shelves of food, you might be next to the shelves of wine. This sight, while drinking, will actually fuel your party-mode. I've noticed this effect, 'cause as soon as my glass is empty, I demand it to be full. I think the wine is sending off vibes. Party-mode vibes.

The bathroom is...well, a bathroom. I've been so accustomed to the worst bathrooms ever established, so anything that isn't a brick wall or a shit covered toilet, without a door, in a crowded venue full of other people who also wanna use that very same shit covered toilet. So in comparison, this bathroom, with it's red walls and multiple posters of the Rat Pack adorning said walls (unseen at the moment) equates to the greatest bathroom I've ever been in. I'm privileged to have been in there.

Coincendentally, the dark, red walls make me feel like I'm using either a mobster's private crapper, or I'm in the VIP section of a very important club. I feel the owner has dreadlocks, smokes a lot and deals in the business of drugs. I'm thinking cocaine. I'm thinking I watch too many movies.

I guess that's about it! Pretty rad place, I'm definitely going back. I saw some coffee machines in the back that were pretty reminiscent of the ones I saw in Italy, so I'm thinking I may finally get my precious "un cafe" here in the states. Which is, like, a tiny cup of frothy espresso. Or something. I really feel like a badass drinking that stuff.

Rock and roll!

Wednesday, August 18, 2010


Riding the coattails of my last blog, I offer you two things that don't quite belong together. I'd offer you one giant thing, with lots of writing and fun, but it's getting harder to talk about anything worth more than a few paragraphs. Right now I wanna mention this really great cookie I like to put into my mouth, and when a quick and easy picture is essentially all you need to explain it and more, my job becomes a struggle.

Yeah, it's easier to form two dumb ideas into one dumb blog, but I think I have something pretty spectacular locked down for next week's entry, though, so hang in there...I won't disappoint. From what my booze-brain remembers, as well as a catalog of photos on my phone from the night in question tells me, I had a good time. And in written form, one week from shall you. Rejoice! Down to business:

I'm not a huge sweets eater. To be more accurate, I'm not a huge sweets eater around every other week or so. My undeniable hunger comes in random waves, creating a solid, seven days of sinful, bloated binging, followed by seven days of pain, whimpering and denial. I think I've always been this way, but just now recognize the patterns in my madness. I swear, I can go months with being absolutely turned off by the idea of eating birthday cake, then go through a stage of eating Almond Joys and Swedish Fish until I wanna puke and die.

So...I found these.

"Delicious Caramel Bites!" These were found at Trader Joe's, an organic grocery store, for those that aren't in the know. I like going there because it eases the pressures and pain of eating like a pig. With a big ol' "ORGANIC" sticker slapped on to my food, I feel like I can eat more of it, and not feel as nearly as guilty. Instead of one pizza, I will now eat two organic pizzas. Don't deny the logic!

They look like circular waffle cones, too, which is a major plus. Man, I bet these would taste great with ice cream. And two pizzas! Okay, okay...two organic pizzas.

They're good. Like, really good. They're caramel based, but not too sweet, giving you the brash notion of just outright eating the entire Goddamn bag right then and there. No pain, no gain. I did everything in my power to hold off until I finished taking these pictures. As soon as I was done, I devoured them. Angrily. And with power. I am a slave to the cookie.

Yeah, check 'em out. So, moving on...

Sometimes I forget that I only wear black jeans. Not out of any kind of gimmick or denial of anything that isn't dark and evil, but because I swear I look like an ass in blue Levi's. I feel like I'm out of my element, where I'm awkward and confusing to everyone around me, kinda like when you're buzzed in a crowded, sober room and trying to hide it from everyone. You end up looking even worse than you actually are, and are soon labeled an alcoholic. And so is life.

Blue jeans really aren't that bad, they're just not my thing. Believe me, I grew up wearing 'em with my Chucks, leather jacket and ridiculously long hair. In high school, trying to look like Johnny Ramone isn't the most attractive thing to girls, and is probably what contributed to my growing, social retardation. What, you had friends in high school? Fah!

Anyway, I was in a Levi's store recently. I think they're a pretty legit brand of pants, even though my body has been morphed into a size that can't be categorized or numbered. I'm in between the inbetween. I swear I used to be a regular fit, 30 waist/32 length, but with the advent of "skinny" jeans, it seems that sizes are all over the place these days, different from what they once were. Or at least that's my theory. Might be all the cookies turning my body into unshaped, confused goo. Fuck.

Jeans, check. Something stupid? Check below!

These are really neat. Stored right in my face at the checkout counter, just beggin' to be thrown into the purchase. If you know anything about me, you'll know I love to impulse buy. Mint gum, keychains, candy bars, whatever's in my direct line of sight at the last possible second before I buy what I initially decided to spend money on, I'll give it a shot. A few months ago, I even bought a pack of baseball cards, just for the hell of it. I don't give a shit about baseball, unless you count drinking beer and eating hotdogs while watching baseball baseball. I will admit a fondness towards cards, trading cards, whatever cards, though. Obviously, it has that "collectible" nature, which I'm so into, and allows you to keep a giant, obstructive folder full of your paper treasures. Makes for a great coffee table book, as well as conversation!

In all fairness, the wrapper was really appealing and baseball cards smell good. So yeah. In the end, I think I looked at them for all of fifteen seconds, threw it in the backseat of my car and never spoke of it again. Oh, and when did baseball cards get so expensive? Why and how did I actually spend money on baseball cards? I hate you, me.

Sweet color combo. USA! USA! USA!

Labeled with, "Notes Along the Road," I've become intrigued. Interested. Excited! Anything that brings me closer to emulating Indiana Jones' way of life is alright with me. A few "field notes" for treasure hunting, jungle wandering and grocery listing will do the trick just nicely. I'll probably keep one in the front pocket of my shirt, maybe for lyrics, ideas, whatever. I could end up drawing sexually charged images of Ms. Pac-Man all day for all anyone cares, it doesn't matter...'cause I'm a badass with a miniature notepad.

In the end, I'm satisfied. As a sidenote, the dude ringing me up even told me that I was the first person to buy the damn things. Not shocking in the least. Yeah, I'm in a clothing store buying memo books. What do you want from me?


Monday, August 9, 2010

Lebanese Beer and Jurrassic Park.

I kinda wanna rush this through, 'cause I haven't posted in forever. I'm feeling kinda guilty. I wanna keep my blogging skills keen, my typing abilities sharp, and I still wanna make sure people know I'm alive, doing well and absolutely preoccupied by the dumbest things, even though ninety-percent of the comments are futuristic looking spam. It's all squares, dots and thoughtful/eerie sayings. Does this mean I'm gonna die in seven days?

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!