Wednesday, February 23, 2011


I think this is going to be my most quickest and pointless post ever. Yeah, you can argue that everything I've written up to this point has been uniquely and adequately pointless in it's own way, but this is the winner that takes all. This is my ode to red toys. Because I really like toys that are red.

Enter MANHUNTER, a cosmic robot created by the Guardians of the Universe in the land of all that is Green Lantern and shit. They help the Guardians, but soon turn against them, creating all sorts of dramz and stfu's. I will confess, I'm not entirely too into Green Lantern lore, and would prefer to keep any personal involvement to a minimum. I know, I'm hatin', but as soon as I found out there were millions of Green Lanterns traversing the galaxy, on top of the fact that Earth has, like, a few to begin with (doesn't each planet only get one?) TOPPED OFF by the multiple colored Lanterns now making their modern day grand debut, I just can't be a part of this circus. It's a dense world of endless ideas and imagination, and that's all great and wonderful, but I'm rightly confused and still don't understand a damn thing about it, even after monotonous attempts and long bouts of shameful sobbing. Plus, Ryan Reynolds? Really? ENDGAME, BITCH.

So, basically, I like red colored toys. And robots, but that's a given.

I got this at a Toys R Us, completely searching out something bigger and better than what lies before you. I'm unsure as to what that originally was, because I was blinded by MANHUNTER. All red, bulky and pumped full of heart and soul. He also has these wild blue wristbands and his head looks like those statues on Easter Island. You cannot tell me that you aren't blinded, too.

I'm not sure what the origin story is to my affliction for ruby-hued action figures, and I'm not even sure I could make one up. That's why this post sucks. But you know the Imperial Guard in Star Wars? I've mentioned it before, but I really like that guy. In real life, I'm sure he's a swell dude in rosey robes, but in toy form? Now we're talking.

It's just so red and perfect and highly chewable. The inclusion of soft, felt robes makes it even better, bringing all sorts of happy thoughts and good times to my brain, but that's a whole 'nother secret fetish. Knowing that a double-dose of fun exists in my life and in a glass case that-you-cannot-touch makes me wanna celebrate or something. Just stop typing, get up and head out to the nearest bar to go wildly apeshit over life. If anyone asks why I'm so intent on being intoxicated on a Wednesday night, I will say I got a huge promotion at work. I will also be carrying a socially acceptable briefcase and have a business tie wrapped around my forehead the entire time.

Also, red-lust extends to Shy Guys from Mario video games to anything Akira related. He had such a cool outfit.

Is this Manhunter figure, this glorious sculpture of plastic and power, making a perfect Wednesday Night Toy Party for this lonely, hollow man? Better be. Shit was, like, twelve friggin' bucks.

He comes with a lantern, too, to do all the things that Green Lanterns do, I guess. I kinda like it. In my infinite display of flip-floppery, I've flip-flopped once again. I feel like I've conned myself into liking Green Lantern crap, simply based for my love of this shimmering, magnificent Manhunter. It's all about each superheroes Rogue's Gallery, though, and this guy is a pretty awesome rogue. Part robot, part manhunter and...suspiciously edible.


In the end, I suppose it boils down to the idea that my toys could be eaten one day, or at least look like they could be. Red is such a delicous looking color, and I probably wouldn't mind shoving this into my mouth sometime down the road. I like my toys to resemble Starburst. I like my toys doubling as food. I like toys!

Let's party!

Monday, February 14, 2011

Dunkin' Donuts Grand Opening!

So a Dunkin' Donuts just opened up in my neck of the woods. Almost literally, a few hundred feet away from where I'm at. My life is awesome, you can suck it and die.

The week after it's doors opened, you were offered a free, medium coffee per your request. Hot or iced, it didn't matter. The lines were so long you'd think everyone was waiting to watch a dinosaur egg hatch. The place was madness! Streamers flapping in the wind, massive blow-up coffee cups swaying and and an infinite line of addicts just waiting to get nasty with a hot cup of joe. I was definitely one of those nasty people, and through this entire debacle, managed to walk away with over eight free cups of coffee. I feel I did a good thing there.

That week is gone, but the memory is still fresh. I feel like I am this Dunkin' Donuts. After being one of the first to enter this orange and pink beauty, I feel like I need it to be mine. I want it to be mine. I want it to be my "Cheers," I want to enter without worry, I want them to smile and be glad I've arrived, I want them to know my name but never really use it, 'cause that could get awkward and weird.

So, confession time...

Behind all the celebrating and dancing in the streets, there's a guilt I harbor deep within. Before it bloomed into the beautiful and magic donut shop it is today, it was once a different entity entirely. Well, not really.

It was another donut shop. It's current location used to be occupied by a place called "Cherubini's," and they sold coffee and donuts. It had a warm atmosphere and a surprisingly decent menu. I used to go there a lot, actually, strictly out of it being super close and teeming with caffeine and sugar, all necessary to keep me alive. The service was slow, the owner made it awkward by shaking hands and striking up conversation with anyone who accidently glanced his way, but it was alright. It had a certain charm, it contained a kind of flair you don't usually find in a lot of food chains and big restaraunts. Yes, what I'm trying to say here is that the place was locally owned and operated, AND I DAMNED IT TO HELL.

Every time I stepped in there, I always wished it was a Dunkin' Donuts. Truly, I supported it's cause, because owning and operating a coffee spot would be really cool, but it kinda just sucked. The place had a cool, Italian-villa kinda look to it, but it didn't quite save it from never having enough donuts to serve the general public. Seriously, who owns a donut shop and runs outta donuts? Yeah, global, conglomerate coffee joints are just sometimes better, I guess.

So I'm here! I'm in!

Over the years, me and Dunkin' have had a sinful affair. I love it and it loves me back. It's never bad and it's always under two bucks, assuming you don't go buck wild and order the extra-large. If you're that far deep, you might as well order a few Bear Claws while you're at it. Hell, start looking for a motorized scooter to carry you around, too, you lazy bitch.

I bought a medium coffee.

Beautiful. The color scheme, the potted plant to keep me company, what can be better?

Whenever we're on tour, you can always find me out searching for a cup of coffee. I'd prefer the warmth and flavor of a good ol' Dunkin', but gas stations and taco stands will work just fine. As long as it exists, it will be in my mouth. If we were mega-rich and famous enough to have a rider at shows, I'd say forget the bottles of Cristal and color-coordinated bowl of M&M's. I'd demand nothing more than a pot of Folger's brew and a toilet. The toilet doesn't have to be clean or fancy, in fact, it doesn't even have to be a toilet. A locked room with a bucket and some crumpled up newspaper would work well enough for me. Just somewhere I can sit and relax, chill out and just be. The pain and grief of traveling all over the world is minisculed by the thought of a shitty shitter with no door, no toilet paper or a line of dudes pounding on the walls demanding you hurry the fuck up.

Add the stress and nerves of a show with a cup of're damn right I want a bathroom.

Like I said, it really was a party. Too bad I missed my chance to photograph the giant coffee cup the size of a building. It really was spectacular, rivaling the best inflatable gorillas you've ever seen.

Since it's grand opening, I've only been back twice. Once to take these photos and the other to waste some time. I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make, but it sounded like a fantastic closer to end with.

Anyway, Dunkin' is great -- drink it up!

Monday, February 7, 2011

"Endless Night" Beer. THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES.

My dreams have come true! My life has meaning! The world is mine!

Just last weekend, we played in Anaheim, CA at the always amazing Juke Joint. It's the kind of place where everybody has zero qualms about being lost in inebriation and the toilets are covered in shit. Shit isn't in the toilet, it's on the toilet. Whether it be a case of classic projectile poo or the Hover Technique gone astoundingly afoul, I do not know. The base facts behind the operation is that the place is electric. It's charm runs through it's booze soaked walls and dimly lit bar, the solid selection of spirits, the decent soundsystem allowing for a proper juke in the joint.

It's the kind of place that'll take pride in it's underpriced crap-beer, offering the poor man a chance to escape for a few hours by zapping a slew of braincells. It's wonderful, decent and fun. Also, I almost got felt up by a shemale outside the venue. Really, you should stop by. Classy joint.

Anyway, we played there. It was awesome. Before the show, though, we were given a box of our own brew, complete with backstory and general present-giving happiness. People like to give, I like to receive. It's a win-win situation. I'm unsure, but I'm thinking it was a bribe to help them get into our eternally-postponed video shoot, but I like to think it was out of the goodness of their hearts and into the goodness of my liver. Yeah, they're so getting into our next music video. Filming begins June...of 2017!

This was given to us by a few friends who've been to numerous shows, shown tons of support, etc., so giving us a 24 pack of bathtub-beer was way unexpected. The unbelievable scenario of owning your own brand of beer is just as good as starring in a blockbuster film or beating up a really big, buff guy. In front of a group of hot girls.

We thank you, Bathtub Beer Barons.

Calabrese's "Endless Night" beer, a smoked honey porter straight from the south and into your mouth. Technically, we're currently from the southwest, but "southwest" doesn't rhyme with "mouth." You understand my query and frustration. BECAUSE THIS NEEDS TO BE PERFECT.

I'm so insanely into this. Although I didn't have a hand in making it (in the future, if anyone were to care, I wouldn't mind adding my own special "touch") I'm still overwhelmed. My own beer? It's as if my dream to melt my mind into goo has finally come to fruition, because clearly, owning a beer gives you the right to just get fucked up whenever and however you want, and your mind will turn to goo. This is, like, my own Cabo Wabo. But I'm not as sucky as Sammy Hagar.

It looks so good!

To keep my OCD under control, I would have loved to photograph this with all twenty-four bottles, but Davey nabbed one for our "Shelf of Everything Everyone's Ever Given Us," or at least that's what I really, really hope he did. A single, pink cocktail will get him dancing on tabletops and asking girls if they go to college. A glass of coke just lightly spritzed with alcohol will have him giggling and wobbling uncontrollably. If he drinks that bottle of beer, if he even thinks of drinking that bottle of beer...MAY GOD HELP YOU.

But yeah, this is something I SO hope I'm gonna like. Because this is gonna get really messy and complicated if it blows.

There's no label, which is fine, because if there was, my head would explode. I'm admitting it's current, incomplete form, but beggars can't be choosers. When you have your own beer, even if it doesn't come with a shiny, pretty label, you kinda need to shut the fuck up.

If I had my say, and there was a label made, I'd like to see us in kung fu action. High kicks left, low blows to the right. Maybe chopping up boards of wood and concrete slabs with our hands and heads. If that's not possible, then something way more simple and crisp will do the trick -- Calabrese riding vampire-motorcycles with samurai swords and chainsaws. Duh.

This was ready to be posted days ago, but I was forewarned to wait a few days to let sit, so the carbonation would set in. Could be truth, could be a fancy way of saying, "wait until the poison is at it's peak." Even then, after waiting and wanting for a week, everytime I wanted to top it off with a taste test, I had other things to do, like drive a car, or talk to someone. Bobby dumb when drinks. Bobby type no more and drink for test. Bobby taste. Then Bobby write. Watch:

Delicious! I'd be hardpressed to say it sucked, since my name is attached to it, but honest to's tasty. Definitely has a "smoked honey porter" flavor to it, as promised, even though I'm unsure as to what "porter" tastes like. I always assumed it was salty. Like a sailor.

Overall, super stoked. Even if it did end up being the worst thing I ever tasted, I'd always have documented proof that somebody loved us enough to cook us up some beer. Are you jealous? I really hope I made you jealous.

It's kinda my "thing."