Thursday, April 28, 2011
I'll talk about anything that gets me totally psyched to spend half a Saturday hunched over the computer, because really, I ain't turning my spine into a boomerang for something I'm just "lukewarm" about. If it falls under the "rock and roll mania" umbrella, that's even more keen, and probably better suited for a blog unabashedly titled "Rock and Roll Mania." But I really can't make any promises on these sorts of things. "Mania" is a hard thing to capture and bottle.
That being said, I've been inspired. My last entry briefly talked about a local pub/hangout, and in recent months, I've been known to throw in a restaraunt review to spice things up a bit. Truthfully, it's an excuse to get out of the house and pretend I'm doing something of value. Even more truthfully, it's an excuse to get drunk. THAT being said...
I like to go to a place called The Cornish Pasty. An amazing restaurant located in both Tempe and Mesa, AZ. I'd tell you which one I frequent more, but I fear you might stalk me. If I'm being honest, I fear more that you won't stalk me, 'cause having a legitimate, passion-fueled stalker would be so cool. So, you know. Stalk me.
I go there to eat, to socialize and to devolve into an ape-like creature. The good stuff.
I really wanted to take photos of the place. I understand, it makes sense to do JUST THAT, but last Monday, when I made my way in to indulge and proactively supply this blog with substantial, photographic material, I did the worst thing you could do as a rising entrepreneur with a visual-heavy blog -- I forgot my camera.
Normally, I'd cut my losses, delete the blog and plain ol' give up. My life is centered around mild disappointments and screw-ups, it's no big whoop.
Missing camera be damned, I decided I would fight fate and return, once again, more determined than ever before. I would snap and shoot until they threw me out! I would dare not be afraid to fawn over the shiny liquor bottles and delicate chair arrangements! I WILL CONQUER ALL WITH PRETTY PICTURES!
I ended up going back the next night. Didn't need to twist my arm, really, but it still kinda sucked. I hate to think I might be referred to as the "Creepy Regular" and they were out of my favorite beer. And I think I came off as a total sourpuss because of it. No one likes a sourpuss. Oh, and yeah. The digital camera I brought? Dead battery. FML.
Never going back there again. There's something wrong with the place. Bad joojoo. Whatever the case, I still have to keep the initial idea going, even if my first and now second powerful and dominant urge is to push the computer straight into the pool.
I'm gonna draw everything on Paint. Fuck it.
Welcome to the Cornish Pasty! Judging by the outside, you'd never feel inclined to ever walk in without being heavily bribed. It's right in between a store that sells day old food and a bar that absolutely demands you try their hot wings. I can't deal with a place telling me what to do, so I hate this place. Notice how it's represented as "Crap Store."
The Pasty rules, though. I've been there enough times where they know exactly what I want, and when I order a ton of what I want, they're kind enough to knock a few bucks off the bill. It's cool, and absolutely welcome, but can be a bit hectic when trying to figure out a decent tip. I usually disregard the tip in general and add a quick doodle on the receipt. They just love that.
If it helps sell the joint, I've been here to celebrate birthdays, bachelor parties and everything in between. It's the perfect spot to hit up for a simple dinner, a fast buzz or a quick peek into the thriving tattoo culture cuz everyone working here's got sweet tattoos OMG. It's a nice place, really. Here's why:
The inside is fashionably underlit, giving it a creepy glow bordering on depressing and kinda annoying. The low lighting is amazing for romancing a hot date, or trying to completely ignore a gross date.
Also, depending on which one you go to, you're either free and fancy or suffocating a slow death among the crowd of hungry weirdos. Both can be pretty popular, but the one in Tempe is so small and packed, you're better off leaving that "personal space" shit at the door.
You can sit in booths, tables or right at the bar. Sitting at the bar is definitely fun, offering you an eagle-eye view of what's happening "behind the scenes." You can watch the drinks be poured, food be made, dishes be washed, etc. It's a cool gimmick, and perfect for those who get off on seeing sad and sweaty 20-somethings toil away at a minimum waged job. Those people would be me.
Aside from soups, salads and oven chips (secret code for FRENCH FRIES) your main option is a pasty. Did I have any idea what a pasty was before I started going to the Cornish Pasty? Of course not. I doubt anyone really has, but if anyone asks...yes, I did know about it beforehand. Used to eat them all the time. In fact, I invented the pasty.
Basically, it's a super-stylized Hot Pocket. Kinda like the close cousin of the calzone, really. A bunch of ingredients thrown into a pita-pot-pie, cooked up and served with an accompanying dipping sauce. Each pasty is pretty damn good, and can range from a pile of hamburger, cheese and fries mixed together (blame "Pulp Fiction") to a Thanksgiving themed pasty, complete with turkey, yams and cranberry. I love that one the most. Jesus wept for this pasty.
The drinks are pretty great, too. Around twenty bottles to choose from, a few beers on tap, wine, liquor drinks, car-bombs, yeah. Personally, I'm a fan of Kronenbourg, a French born beer with a fancy label. I'll usually order 6-8 pints of this, and then want to die.
When they don't have it on tap, it sucks. Like, it really sucks ass. I'm not sure how this business is run (or any business, for that matter) so it's understandable that, from time to time, a beer keg will run dry. Maybe there isn't a guy in the back, keeping tabs and working the books or keeping them or whatever they do with books.
But I swear, it seems like they hate keeping Kronenbourg on tap. Without fail, it's seemingly always unavailable.I throw away enough money at them to just please, please keep it in stock and flowing into my mouth. I feel this to be a personal attack. This may be the one and only strike against the place, so yeah. Not bad so far. Moving on.
If you're near the toilet, you're good. If not, you're slithering your way to the back, avoiding tables, bar stools and a huge, cramped-in crowd. I do believe that no one likes to make their way through an obstacle course to get to the bathroom. And of course...there's only one. For both the men and women. My life is put into peril evertime I even think about taking a crap. I hate holding up the toilet with a case of mud-guts, especially if there's a line of young, attractive women waiting on the outside. This embarrasment rivals the brief stint in highschool where I wore black nailpolish, and at the corner store near my house, was only ever rung up by, of course, girls in my highschool. I was "buying it for my sister" so many times, I lost count.
So there you have at. Go check it out. Invite yor friends. The first drink is on me.:)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
So Easter this year? Forget about it.
But last Friday, we went out to one of my favorite bars, Casey Moore's Oyster House, which is less of an "oyster house" than an "overcrowded patio full of drunk college kids." It's one of the coolest places to hit up in Tempe, Arizona, where the beers are cold and the influx of good looking people will make you feel like a fat slob. The over thirty crowd need not apply. Sorry.
The place was heavily packed, which I assume is out of the fact that it was a holiday weekend, albeit a pretty lame holiday weekend, but any excuse to drink is a good enough excuse for me. And apparently, a ton of other people. So here we are and there we go.
At this point, Easter wasn't even a legitimate idea in my mind, in fact, if it was never brought up ever again, I would be a happy camper. So I ordered some food, ate 'til I reached a satisfied bloat, etc., etc.
Now, the food is good, and if you actually ventured into the main restaraunt (the place is split into two sections, sitting areas inside or outside) the food is even better. Different menus for different areas, I guess. Classier meals vs. inebriated bar crap. Smokers vs. the non-smokers.
Only the nerds sit inside, BTW.
Long story short, we hung out for a while, only to be shocked into the realization that a woman was hobbling around and allowing people to "pet her chicken." Even if you weren't buzzed, seeing a chicken under a woman's arm in a dimly lit bar is pretty wild. But that's exactly how it sounds. A woman was wandering the premises with her pet chicken. She was allowing people to pet it, shoot the shit, question her sanity. This would be fine if that was the main attraction, but this woman was also handing out the chicken's eggs, freshly layed and packaged for anyone who was interested. I was hooked.
I gladly took charge and said yes to the offer. For one, these eggs were free, and came in a neatly wrapped quarter-carton. Secondly, one of the eggs was green.
I never expected to bother with Easter this year, but this kinda just fell into my lap. And I'm thankful! I have zero desire to purchase anything Easter related, and if I did, I don't think I could handle all the weak, Easter pastels in my apartment. With all the plastic eggs, Easter Bunny cutouts and glass clings, it's just way too many baby blues and soft pinks all up in here. But this is a beautiful, magical addition to my lonely holiday. A stupid, green egg. Yay.
I really wanna eat these (especially that green one!) and for the sake of celebrating just to celebrate, I absolutely will. But unless someone cooks them up for me, they'll forever remain in my fridge until the words "rotten " and "deathstink" come into play. I hate cooking.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Just last Saturday, we played our first ever acoustic show. We've never done this before, and it was never our intent to do something like this at all. Ya see, not only did we rock an acoustic set last Saturday, but we did a genuine, high-class comic book signing. I'm aware that I've gone well over the appropriate amount of italics, but it's neccesary in detailing the fact that we created a comic book and held an event in it's honor.
With us, we had Eric M. Esquivel, the writing mastermind behind the main plot, general character development and rock and roll flow, signing and shmoozing the night away. Somewhere during the signing, though, through questions and conversation, we made mention that Dave Baker (of Modern Mythology) drew this beautiful piece of magic, DW Frydendall colored it and Andrew Barr did the layout and a solid few art pieces.
I quickly and suddenly realized that we, essentitally, didn't do a damn thing. Comic books rule!
We originally were gonna plug it in and crank it to eleven, but since this Atomic Comics was a part of a public mall, the sound barrier was compromised and it was either between fighting endlessly to let us blow down the doors or bust out the acoustic stuff and gently lull the audience into a somber, meditative state. Okay, it wasn't that bad. In fact, the night was amazing.
We met a lot of new people, hung out with a lot of old friends and generally had a fun time. A cool moment was when we were offered anything from Starbucks. A free cup of coffee is always welcome, and just knowing someone went out on a "coffee run" for us, "the talent," is amazing. But then again, anything involving coffee is amazing. And calling me "the talent."
I know I'm ramlbing, but I really can't stop. Just replaying it is making me all giddy and silly! I mean, we played in our favorite comic book shops. It's like rocking a gig in a supermarket when you're starving to death. I wanted everything in that store, and I kinda came close. I walked away with enough JLA and Grant Morrisson crap to officially turn my apartment into a fire hazard.
We played, we rocked and and casually melted some faces. It's hard to go nuts with the soft, delicate sounds of an acooustic guitar, but at least Davey took it upon himself to go apeshit, as witnessed in the photos. I've never seen breakdancing, disco dancing and profuse sweating as I did that night.
Taken by our pal, Andy Hartmark (who's been photographing our ugly mugs for a few years now) you'll now be apart of what may be the best, the last or just the beginning of a flourishing, Calabrese-acoustic career. I would totally not mind going all Tenacious D on your asses.