Bobby Vamp Calabrese

Comic Books I Will Never Read.

2012-01-26T17:14:00.000-08:00

...because they're in Italian.

And because I can't read.

This post takes me back to a time of wonder and awe, pleasure and ultimate paradise. Today, we travel back to a foreign land of pizza and lots of Peroni. Today, I take you back to our two week tour/vacation/international playboy-ing in beautiful and scenic Europe!

When we played in Europe, I was born anew. Let me preface this by saying that "Europe," to me, only really means Italy and Germany. We drove through Switzerland, which was nice, but the best review I could come up with is "that they sell hardcore porno mags in their gas stations." Italy and Germany were the money, baby, and I was their to pluck a guitar, sign a few autographs and just soak it all in.

I cannot begin tell you how amazing these two countries are, and how my passion and desire to go back grows each and every day. I may be talking out of my ass here, but I think I'm going to proclaim, Germany withstanding, that Italy is The Greatest Place on Earth.

Germany has it's perks, mind you, and I even went back a year later to hang out, sight-see and be continually inebriated for days on end. So there's no denying I'm a fan, but Italy? Italy, man! Mama mia! Pizza calzone! Bafangul! Shabba-dabba-ding-dong!

I think I like it because it was so new at the time. Nothing is too different, but every now and then it felt like you were in Bizzarro World. Why do people drink coffee out of miniature teacups? Do people really eat cheese and tomato paninis, like, every day? And is that a jeans ad with a tasteful amount of nude boob?

I understand we were on tour with a group of heavy drinking, chain smoking scoundrels, but I couldn't help get the vibe that everyone was a heavy drinking, chain smoking scoundrel. Also, I understand we never went anywhere outside of a major city, so what may seem like a party in Milan may not have been the case in...well, the outside of Milan. I need to brush up on geography.

I liked Italy. A lot. Good food, great coffee and everyone looked like a well-tailored supermodel. I know, I know. We were in crowded cities where shopping for expensive clothing seemed to be the only available activity, so my perception is more than a little skewed. It just seemed like everyone was really relaxed and joyful in eating bricks of Parmigiana cheese, drinking a bottle of beer whenever it felt right and sucking down packs of cigarettes like students in a high-school bathroom.

But alas, as they say, the grass is always greener.

OH WHO CARES IM MOVING THERE NOWW!!1!!

I don't think we had any real time in between shows to check anything outside of the venue we were playing at, let alone even dare hunt for souvenirs, but I managed to haphazardly count out a fistful of Euros to pay for a few funny books.

As seen above, you have Dylan Dog.

Ahh, yes. My first look into popular Italian comics, thanks to a missed flight and a few hours spent in the airport terminal. These were in a gift shop, which is amazing to think you can find a comic book about a paranormal crime fighter next to Vogue and everything else that looks like Vogue.

"Amazing" might not be the right word. More along the lines of "pleasant." But still, Italian airport > US airport. In the states, unless you really, really like Sudoku or People, you're shit out of luck for the flight over. Lord knows the tears I've shed over the loss of Mad Magazine (I haven't seen one on store shelves in years) which was the only tried-and-true option for an entertaining flight that doesn't involve blasting music in your ears for six straight hours.

I've read a few Dylan Dog comics months later, when they released a fat volume in English. It's actually kind of a bizarre read -- Dylan Dog's sidekick is Groucho Marx, endless scenes of moodiness and despair and Dylan Dog sleeping with any woman he comes in contact with. It's a lot like James Bond, but super fucking goth.

Did you see the movie? The one that reinvented the phrase "sucks ass?" I'm not one to judge a film by horrible reviews and online jeers, so I've taken the first step to forming my own opinion by adding Dylan Dog to my Netflix Instant Queue. And in there, it will wait to be played, until I'm just drunk enough to not give a fuck.

I picked up some Diabolik, too.

I know little of the character, save for the fact that he wears a really cool body suit and does a lot of mysterious and sexy things.

Admittedly, these have been tucked away in a bookcase for a while now, but looking at them today, I really wish I picked up more. If I could pick out something from underneath a pile of literary rubble to represent me, my life and who I am as a person, this would be it. Close Second:

The "Choose Your Own Adventure" book where you stole floppy discs containing top secret blueprints to sinister and nefarious deeds of destruction. Your character was a kid, which was easy to relate to as Young Me, except the harrowing fact that you were, without any other option, shot and killed. Not sure what the title of the specific book was called, but that's neither here nor there. I've read that damn thing so many times without surviving, it makes me question whether or not there's even an option to win. You read along, made choices, took baby steps to surviving the game and BAM. You die and you die hard. The Bad Guys who want their devious plans back pulled no punches in achieving their goal. Bullet holes through your gut, thrown over a bridge, blown up in a rigged car, whatever. YOU WERE A LITTLE KID AND YOU DIED FOR DAMN FLOPPY DISCS.

It haunts me to this day. And that's why I love it so.

Now, I could open them Diaboliks up and at least look at all the pretty pictures, but I don't wanna ruin the beauty of such a presentation. "Diabolik" goes above and beyond, offering a trinket of good fortune with each issue.

I scored a paper key-chain, a knife-wielding Diabolik hologram and...that. My heart says "switchblade," but my good sense says "not a switchblade."

How cool would it to get a plastic switchblade with this issue? The endless possibilities, the imagination on overdrive as you re-enact brutal stabbings! As far as I'm concerned, that IS a switchblade, and that means that Diabolik rules, the airport I bought these in rule and Italy rules!

Yay Italy!

The Best of the Rest.

2012-01-15T07:07:00.000-08:00

Try as I might, but I cannot stop talking about Christmas. I can't stop thinking, dreaming or wondering about my favorite season of the year. Such a great time for everyone, filled with gifts and joy and getting blitzed into unconsciousness. It's like Halloween, but instead of candy there's video games and DVDs. Instead of pumpkin flavored soda, there's disgusting eggnog. Instead of monster masks, there's scratchy white wigs and reindeer antlers. It's not much of a selling point, but fuck you. Christmas rules.

This is my attempt to close the book on Christmas, allowing no more blogs, whining or crying over it. Christmas is over, and I accept it. I can't extend it any further, and by the time I truly give it up it'll be Thanksgiving. So let's just end it, shall we?

With that, these are the Best of the Rest, 2011. The gifts I love the most, and will lovingly cherish until I remove them from the kitchen table so I can use the kitchen table.

What? What is this thing? Oh, it's just a little something called "Sushi Panic." I think.

The woman gave this to me, knowing full well of my deep love for sushi and anything colorful and confusing. All I could surmise was that this above was indeed a game, where plastic pieces of sushi were going to be shooting up and around and all over.

Without any English, the only instructions were detailed on the back via an image of an angry, shouting man. Tell me all your secrets, Shouting Man.

You're given a pack of tiny cards with a picture of each piece of raw fish. The logical answer is that a player deals a card, palms their sushi and ever so carefully sets it on the rigged table. Yes, the table is rigged to explode when too much weight is applied, where a steady hand and pure luck are the key elements to winning this game. The yellow piece weighs more than the grey one, the tiny ones are the lightest, etc. There's no strategy, and everything is based on what crappy card you draw, which is both fun and infuriating at the same time.

I like the guy above. We have a connection. I don't feel like my expression is too far off from his when the shit explodes, because I really, really hate cleaning up after myself.

I think the best part is that the pieces of sushi look like actual pieces of sushi. I refuse to take them all out of the box to show you, as that would require taking them out of the box. But believe me when I tell you that because of this game, my Asian-themed bathroom has never looked better. If it wasn't for Sushi Panic, I never would have truly realized that I'm slowly turning the place where I shit into a full blown Japanese nightclub.

Marvel Comics' Wolverine Headphones!

I've never understood the fascination people have with outrageous and bedazzled headphones. I feel it's one of those things where you're perfectly fine with any pair as long as music comes out of them. Unless you're a DJ or a douche, you don't need these.

...but these have Wolverine on it, so yeah, you need these.

I feel like if I wore these headphones and became merely a quarter as cool as what I see above, I'm safe. Though, truthfully, I don't see myself using something like this, even if they are emblazoned with the coolest comic book character ever. I like the cover art, I like the idea, but wearing tiny ear buds with Wolverine's face on it is something I'm gonna try to avoid in this lifetime. The last thing I need to do is draw attention to myself with Wolverine headphones, especially when I look like I'm desperately trying to look like Wolverine, assuming Wolverine grew his hair out and was called "ma'am" on a regular basis.

Not pictured is the actual product, I know. I tore it open, lost a few of those rubbery cushion things and in a fit of rage, dumped the entire thing in Junk Drawer #12.

My niece, knowing full well as to what Uncle Bobby likes, tops off the list with Ninja, an artful combination of dollar store craftsmanship and shockingly vague packaging.

She hit the nail on the head with this because I love it. I think most children under twelve can pick out an incredible gift for me, and if this was a Zhu Zhu Pet I would have upped and died. I kinda-sorta-maybe want a Zhu Zhu Pet. I kinda-sorta-shouldn't have put that on the Internet.

Loud, proud and with really, really toned leg muscles.

I suppose, to be a ninja, you need to work on your calves and quads, because how else to you scale walls and do triple flips into abandoned warehouses?

My ninjas are based in modern times, mind you. I'm still debating whether they're the "good guys" or the "bad guys," but all I know is that they go up against mobsters with ponytails and the owner of a seedy strip club with gold rings and frosted tips. So by that description, I'd have to assume that they are, in fact, good ninjas. Good job, ninjas!

My favorite would be Red Ninja, equipped with everything an up and coming ninja would need -- kabuki mask, fashionable "three lined" belt and an unbelievably red sword.

Yellow Ninja, seen in the back, is hurt over this, and refuses to have his photo taken. He's jealous and acting out, not unlike a young child. Yellow Ninja needs to accept that his sword doesn't resemble a lightsaber, and that the mere notion of a lightsaber being yellow is outlandish and ludicrous. Yellow Ninja is in denial, and needs to be reprimanded for his insolence. Sorry, Yellow Ninja, but you suck.

And with that, a final Merry Christmas!

Well, until next Christmas.

Guhh, I can't wait.

"Monstrous Menagerie" Mask!

2012-01-09T20:20:00.000-08:00

Me like!

Cheap rubber mask is fun and thrilling, good to wear or use as a small brick in the house of junk you've built in your tiny apartment. Me think it more like mansion, which is dumb thing to say, 'cause how can mansion fit in apartment? Me brain hurts.

Point is, me think hoarders got nothing on me. Me now have smelly mask to dance around and be wild and carefree while dancing around, making the dance all the more fantastic because there's a troll face on me face. Me favorite thing to do today, even though me think it's not holiday-appropriate.

You see, me want to show more of me Christmas haul, but me take side route into mask wearing and picture taking. Me feel like sexy model! Can you deny me sexy model time? Who does you think you are, anyway?

Me no worry, though. Me no cheat on Christmas. Me live a vicarious lifestyle that blends holidays together. One day it Easter, the next day it be Thanksgiving. Today? Today is January 9th, Hallow-fucking-ween.

Me know absurdity run rampant, but me also know that all the holidays are gone and me left with boring January to comfort me through these tough times. Is it Valentine's Day next? When is Labor Day? Do people eat cake and get drunk on Columbus Day? This is all me have, don't take it away from me. Say me, "Let us rejoice! Let us indulge in a monster mask!"

I like me "Monster Menagerie" mask because it makes Mondays so much more fun. Me know it's cliche, but me hate Mondays. If I won the lottery and high-fived Johnny Depp tonight, this Monday would still suck. Me think it's somethign in the air, a natural doom and gloom mood you're stuck with until Tuesday morning. Oh well.

If I could run errands with this on, me life would be all the more entertaining. Unfortunately, me do have errands to run, but me would much rather sit in me apartment, face buried inside this rubbery Fortress of Solitude. Me think groceries will have to come another day. Me have no shame eating old teriyaki sauce and Raisinettes for dinner tonight.

Me not sure why this need another picture. Me think one would be enough to get the point across, but one cannot question the beauty and triumph of this mask. Look at the droopy eye, the cherry-red tongue, the snarled and crooked teeth. It's like wearing a mask of me own face! Double Halloween Surprise!

Tommorow comes soon, me had me fun. Thank you, Monster Menagerie Mask. Maybe see you next Monday.

Merry Christmas to me, I got a Jerry Only.

2012-01-03T07:21:00.000-08:00

I rhymed, and it was awesome.

This Christmas, I beat the system. I barely bought anyone anything and I walked away with presents and gifts and happiness. That might paint me as an asshole, but if you were to spin it in any way possible, one could say that I, through goodwill and grace, let everyone look better and feel better about their gift-giving. Kind of like taking one for the team, ya know? People are happier with themselves, cheer is in the air and we can all sleep better at night when we all have a common disgust to be all disgusted about.

I'm a jerk, but it's for the greater good.

Now, I understand it's the new year. I started writing this before then, but...you know how it goes. Directly after Christmas I melted into the couch and New Year's Eve physically and mentally ruined my body and soul. Still, I feel we're under the "Christmas umbrella," where we can keep on talking about it days past without feeling weird and pathetic. I think it ends tomorrow, though. We'll all hate Christmas tomorrow.

A good friend of mine, for the past few years, buys me a gift for Christmas. This is the same guy I never buy anything for, which definitely follows my Holiday Business Model but really, really makes me look like a douche. I know this. I'm starting to feel guilty, but I can't right now because I got a present and that's all that I can think about let's open it up yay!

To my surprise and delight, it was Jerry Only!

Actually, it wasn't that much of a surprise. I'm the type who actually pokes and gropes their wrapped presents to identify what's inside, as if collecting toys and trinkets wasn't childlike enough. Point is, the shape I felt through this blind and calculated examination was like, well...it was like a coffin. Something good and Misfits-y was surely afoot.

Now, the dude who gave this to me offered two options in a game of Christmas Chance. While being the greatest dude in the world to even bother getting me something, he let me choose my ultimate destiny, too.

Two equally wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree, two exact looking presents nestled ever so lovingly under the branches of a plastic pine. One was to go to me, the other would go directly to my mortal enemy: Davey Calabrese.

And the choice was mine to pick, right here and right now.

Prize A? Prize B?

I chose Prize A, and I got Jerry Only.

Obviously, I love this. When they were first introduced, I missed the boat and am now left with wishful thinking and eBay lurking. They ain't too expensive to get a hold of, but I'm in the majority that would rather get this (and anything else) for free.

One Christmas, years ago, I was Jimmy's Secret Santa, and bought him Jerry and Doyle for his gift. Looking back, that was the nicest thing I have ever done. Looking back still, I'm shocked I didn't buy a pair for myself, too. I wonder if it was during my "I hate everything" stage?

I opened this up and had myself a few different scenarios play out through my head. Because of Jerry Only, I could only surmise that what was hidden in Secret Present Number 2 was, in fact, Doyle.

Did I want Doyle over Jerry? Was Jerry the right choice? I could easily tear open Secret Present Number 2, re-wrap both gifts and have Davey none the wiser.

I think I'm good. The other package did contain Doyle, but I'm satisfied with the outcome.

I like Jerry's custom bass guitar (look at that one-eyed skull thing!) and the neat looking vest. Both Misfit brothers sport equal amounts of wrestling and football accessories, but only one sibling has that gnarly vest. Oh, and dangly arm tassels.

Friggin' arm tassels.

SHAMELESS GOOGLE INFILTRATION (oh, and Merry Christmas!)

2011-12-26T18:48:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

Your present? A truck-load of me!

Yeah, that's right. A slew of photos specifically designed to thrill and entertain your innocent and virgin-like eyes! Pictures to hypnotize and mesmerize! Images to instantly click out of and punch the computer because this was a shitty Christmas gift!

I know, it's not the best, but what else can I do with the resources at hand? If it was at all physically possible, I would literally jump through the internet, pop out into your kitchen and make you breakfast. It would have to be instant oatmeal and toast, because that's the extent of my charity. No orange juice or jellied jams allowed, though. Way too sticky.

Now, what you see below is a massive pile of photos featuring me, Davey and Jimmy. I wanted to post these because...well, the reason isn't necessarily a good one. Or a sane one. Let me explain:

Whenever you search "Calabrese" in Google images (I automatically exclude all inferior search engines) you're offered a buffet of Calabrese imagery, art and photos. Where's the problem? This imagery, art and photography isn't controlled. It isn't the best of the best. Where as I want recent promo photos or thrilling artwork from the last album, Google gives random Italian stuff and old images of us as goth cowboys.

For whatever reason, knowing that I can't manipulate what comes up when you type in our name is a harrowing thought. It makes me feel belittled, shamed and slightly confused. Why can't I get the good stuff up there?

I add simple and obvious tags, I name all the photos "calabresebandhorror," I watch old reruns of Golden Girls and cry a good lot in the shower. Isn't that enough?

It must make sense, through whatever system and design they're running with, I can't feel too bad. I have a feeling that Google knows what they're doing, even if it paints me as a brocolli loving fat dude. You play with fire, you get burned. Does that make sense with what I'm talking about? No?

I keep an updated Tumblr on deck, which helps in the process of clogging the Google pipes up with our faces. So far I've seen a few changes (which is actually kind of surprising to know it actually worked, yay!) but nothing too dramatic has happened so far. Rome wasn't built in a day, people.

So here it is, a hot pile of steaming Calabrese! Live stuff, promo stuff, whatever. This is my grand attempt at truly molding my own online destiny. Soon these images shall be burned into the world wide web, stuffed down the internet's throat, dominating the online universe and showcasing our ugly mugs! Yay!

Merry Christmas! And suck it, Google!

Christmas with "Willow."

2011-12-23T07:32:00.000-08:00

Christmas is almost here, and I'm starting to feel the heat. I'm getting an overwhelming sense of "blah" and I just don't like it. Don't get me wrong, I've still got holiday spirit coursing through my veins, but when you don a Santa hat and a "somewhere not in the US" accent for twenty-five days of X-mas fun, you start to get a bit burnt. I wonder if the Santas in the mall begin to truly hate their lives after mid-month?

At this point, I need something to grasp on to that'll keep me sane and solid until after New Year's. I'd like to say that I found a great book to read or have started painting desert landscapes, but no. I can't read and paint is so paint-y.

In this dark and trooubled time, there is always "Willow."

I speak of "Willow" a lot. I quote from "Willow" and bring the film up in conversation where a magical land of spritely awe is absolutely unwelcome. It's almost threatening, to be fair. My "Willow" agenda be pushed hard.

What are you, dear Willow? What is it about you that brings me strength through the holiday season? All of the presents have been bought, all of the eggnog has been hoarded and subsequently shunned. Why doesn't anyone like eggnog? Is it the "egg" thing?

You keep me sane, Willow. You have a magical aura about you that keeps me on track. You are my rock. My stick wielding, cloak wearing rock.

Where did you get that cloak, by the way? I may or may not want one. My wardrobe is usually dictated by how much people will laugh at me, but it's below seventy degrees in these blistering, wintery months, and me bones be cold. Cloaks are lame, I know, but capes are worse. I think. Right? Arguing online with myself about cloaks and capes. This is what my life has become.

But it's all good, it's all well, it's all so beautiful and nice and wonderful. Because you're you, Willow. You hold me together with that twig magic and that cloak and that tool belt packed up full of goodies. Which begs the question...what exactly do you keep in there? Besides acorns that turn trolls into stone, of course.

Is that a knife? Do you hold onto a ball of yarn? It seems like you would. What about a pouch of Tropical Starburst? If you had some, I'm sure you'd share. Because that's what you would do -- because you're you.

Whenever I'm in a bar, no one seems to know who you are, Willow. People are confused as to what you do and what you've done. I feel embarrased to mix and mingle with ignorant slobs who don't know what true royalty you really are. Were your adventures too obscure and indistinct to remember? Were you out-shined by bigger and better fantasy films of the 80's?

It's fine, though, because you're a legend and you shall live in my Legend Cave. Which is the back packet of my jeans. Whenever I'm feeling down and out, I'll set you up and stare into your big eyes and at your brown tuft 0f lovably goofy hair. Ahh, ya see? You did it again, Willow!

Stay sane, people. We're almost there. I know I'm the first one to lose their edge, but I'm still stoked and thrilled for Christmas, even if it means being fried on the Big Day.

But once we're through, though, we can then post pretty pictures of all the pretty presents we got and didn't deserve. It's a time of receiving and receiving, right?

Did I get that right?

Christmas Burger.

2011-12-20T06:08:00.000-08:00

Recently, I've been getting way into the art of "the hamburger." Not sure why I put that in quotes, but I feel it elevates a certain flair I'm going for. I need something solid to grasp onto with this post. This is gonna be all over the place.

I've mentioned the place before, but I like to go to Four Peaks in Tempe, AZ. It's a typical bar/restaurant that doubles as a legitimate, full-blown brewery. When most places say they brew their own beer, they're full of shit. Because this place actually does. Unless most places do? I'm not sure how that works.

They really do create their own beer there, though, which is awesome to imagine jumping into one of those gigantic, metallic vats full of hops and barley and sticky stuff.

Four Peaks also has chicken burgers, nachos, sandwiches -- typical bar fare, but in my opinion, a cut above the rest. It ain't a chain restaurant, so I feel good about that. I feel like I'm supporting the community by supporting my insides with meat and cholesterol. My only complaint is that it's always packed. There's no way around it and there's no discernible conclusion as to why that it is, but Sunday nights, Tuesday mornings -- just jammed full of people. I know it says a lot about the great tasting food and drink, but I like a little elbow room every now and then, ya know?

Plus, it's a sports bar. Not as bad as most, but multiple TV's blaring football and baseball is not that great for a guy who barely knows what "sports" is. A fungi of sorts, no?

I usually drown it out. It helps when there's a family of eight with two crying babies to help you along, which is a common occurrence. Also a common occurrence? College kids. Don't even get me started on college kids.

What's my point? Hamburgers are good and it's Christmas so let's eat a hamburger.

It's a Christmas Burger! Because I have nothing else to talk about!

What's so Christmas-y about it? Not a damn thing. There's nothing to indicate holiday cheer and good tidings, but that's alright. If anything, I'll pretend the lettuce is mistletoe, then throw away the mistletoe because mistletoe makes everything slide around.

It's a Southwest Burger, one of my favorite selections off the menu. I always order it, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of ordering something that sucks ass. Stick to the classics and go with what you know, people.

The Southwest Burger is a juicy cut of beef topped off with a roasted, Hatch green Chile and a generous slathering of their fine, fine "secret sauce." To say that it's good is an understatement. To say that it's JESUS CHRIST THE BEST BURGER ON EARTH is an overstatement. To say that it's pretty delicious is an about average statement.

I usually substitute fries for a side salad, too. It helps ease the guilt, and is surefire display in dazzling food mathematics. Fresh salad + greasy meat patty = body of an Olympic champion.

Merry Christmas! Eat a hamburger!

For Christmas, I adopted a Tamagotchi.

2011-12-10T11:38:00.000-08:00

I found this egg-like trinket in my endless pile of debris I've purposely left to die, but as soon as it was discovered I was shocked and insulted I even considered the thought.

This is a Tamagotchi. From 2004. The reign and popularity of these virtual pets hit their peak way before, I think? It's a question I'm not too bothered to resolve, because the bigger question is why I even bought this seven years ago.

I think I was bored. Or curious. I can't imagine being that desperate and lonely in my life where a digital animal would bring cheer and well-being, but you never know. Damn things are too cute.

Tamagotchi is a digital pet. You control, feed and entertain your pixelated pal with a few commands, the main goal in point being to keep it alive and healthy. It'll walk back and forth, jump a few times, shed robotic tears, etc. It is, essentially, a large and annoying task you've willingly created for yourself.

For anyone under the age of twelve, owning your own computer critter sounds like a blast. Hell, at twenty, I fell for it. Who wouldn't want something to love and to take care of? The perk is that you can throw it in your closet once the love runs out! Awesome!

Does kids like these things today? Not so sure. With handheld video games allowing you to play with dogs or shoot your friends in the face, it's pretty obsolete. Although the idea of covertly carrying around and keeping your New Best Friend by your side is comforting at best (for the good times and the bad) I don't think there's quite the demand anymore for a pixelated mutt you can keep in your pocket and be stressed out over.

Since encountering this lost treasure, I've been carrying it around with me on tour, just in case I got the wild urge to pull the tab and bring this beast to life. Say what you want, snicker and guffaw if you must, but when you're in a van for seven hours straight, tired, bored and crazed, a Tamagotchi is the greatest Goddamn thing on planet Earth.

Well, the tab's already been pulled. You know that tab I'm talking about, right? The one that keeps the battery from touching the other electronical parts and I hope you know what I mean because I can't for the life of me explain it. I'm not troubled enough to keep pushing the matter, but for all intents and purposes, it's the LIFE TAB. It's the piece of plastic that seperates you from mortal men. Once you take the step to become God, there's no turning back. Tamagotchi is born.

It's been bouncing around in my bag long enough to have the tab be pulled by itself, actually. And because of it, I feel like it's a sign. I feel like Tamagotchi wants, needs to be brought into existence. It needs me, as proud father and trusting, supporting confidant. We'll throw around a football and I'll let it drink a sip of my beer on it's birthday.

Also, it's Christmas. And in the spirit of Christmas, I'm doing all that is good and beautiful and saintly -- I'm adopting a virtual pet. I'm nearly on par with Mother Teresa.

So, hello, nice to meet your acquaintance. Ah, I see that you are still an egg. You aren't a mammal, and that's fine, because I never had a pet lizard or snake growing up. Which is fine, too, because lizards and snakes are scary and disgusting.

For the love of all that is holy, please be a Yoshi.

To make things more personal, you can enter the date, time and your name. Since there's only three buttons two sizes two small to punch in data, I had a hell of a hard time typing "BOBBY." I got far from close, which got me frustrated, which then allowed me to negotiate with myself and reluctantly settle on "COI." This, I swear, took about forty-five minutes. Which is about the same amount of time it takes for the little bastard to hatch.

I waited. I waited some more. I all but gave up on this entire update until...

...he was born!

Good thing Tamagotchi told me it was a BOY, otherwise I might've dressed him up in training bras and scrunchies, and that would be a plain ol' mess.

What is it? Hard to say. Right now, I understand that this is the beginning stages, and soon it'll start morphing into an animal of sorts. Now, if it does grow into anything more than an ink drop, I'll never know, because this has already weighed too much on my nerves and I haven't even fed it yet and it's going away from my face right now.

Oh, and for what it's worth, I named him "CHOOB." It's a cross between "poop" and "boob." Please don't let me explain myself.

Anyways, you press buttons. I think you can play with it, keep it company and yes, feed it, but I don't know how. It might be obvious, it might not be. All I know is that it beeps. A lot. When it's not consistently beeping, it's beeping. There is no end to the beeping. It's on a keychain, too, for beeps on the go.

Beep this, bitch:

That? That's my junk drawer. It's where CHOOB lives now. Don't feel sorry for CHOOB, he's next to the fridge and it's not like I won't visit him from time to time. He's in a drawer next to the bottle openers and forks, so there's more than enough reason to check in on him, even if I don't want to. Which I don't. But I guess that's the name of the game with Tamagotchi. You didn't come with a "reset" button for nothin', CHOOB!

See you next Christmas, little buddy!

It's a CVS Christmas.

2011-12-05T17:33:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is over, and it kinda sucks. I'm not beyond crushed, since I feel Thanksgiving is a bridge to a bigger and brighter new era of fun, but still. Knowing that it's over convinces me that Christmas will soon be over, convincing me that I need to learn to grow the fuck up. Ughh.

My glass is half empty, and to make matters worse, I'm on a tight schedule, too. The strange and eccentric Richard Sucker has been confirmed as a major nuisance in my life, and I must attend to the desperate needs of stopping this bloodsucking menace.

You question my sanity, I understand. But have a look for yourself. Stare deep into the eyes of uncontrolled madness. Stare into the face of SUCKER:

You've seen him pillage the Calabrese Manor in hopes of recreating his own, personal Christmas, and will continue to do so for the duration of the holiday season. This will be stopped. Because now it's time to see me and the bros do some damage on that sparkle-faced twit. We're taking back our shit and we're doing it with force.

In essence = less writey, more fighty.

But hey, I ain't too swamped. In preparation, I've pumping iron and learning to not wince at loud sounds, and, naturally, to let my muscles and reflexes to grow, I'm awarded a break. Break be now. So here's something to tide ya over:

A normal trip to CVS for toilet paper has proven that I cannot leave any single stretch of area without a souvenir for the ride home. I could easily be in and out without a hitch, but the burning desire of worldly goods pushes me down dark and tinsel-y aisles. The warm glow of red and green lights offer a welcoming...glow of red and green lights. I'm trying to say that I'm gettin' down with Christmas, people.

And, yeah, it's December, so now's the time to start hoarding Santas and Rudolphs and Grumbles before I remember that rent is due. I live on the wild side.

Today, a CVS Christmas. Found in the $2.99 end cap, I was drawn to the simplicity of the piece. Price, razzle and dazzle -- it's all trivial to what gets at you on a personal, emotional level. For me, that would be a tiny train and plump, para-trooping snowmen.

Like I said, I'm a bit busy with other things, so I'm gonna half-ass it today. I take no shame in this, for all the shame has been substantially used up by dressing up in a Dracula cape and calling myself "Richard Sucker." I suffer for my art.

So, enjoy.
Words words words words snowmen words words words look at those mittens! Words words green mittens words words words words words scarves are for hipsters and anyone born in the era of "A Christmas Carol." I think it was the mid-1970's.

Words words words words words words words how could this not work? Words words words the math is correct, the science is solid, what's stopping Frosty from free falling into mindless, Christmas joy? Words words words words here we go words words:

WORDS WORDS FUCK.

Blah blah blah blah the perfect size for a cockroach to take a joyride around the kitchen. Blah blah blah blah blah wish I never mentioned cockroaches blah blah blah nightmares for a week.

Blah blah blah blah blah ride around a tin full of cookies blah blah blah blah blah blah happy thoughts blah blah blah blah blah I can't believe the damn thing takes batteries, which I have none of blah blah blah blah blah blah blah CHRISTMAS IS RUINED.

Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah I like to think this is Opposite Santa, where instead of coal to fuel the train, he uses gifts and presents and teddy bears. Then, naturally, Opposite Santa leaves coal under every body's Christmas tree blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah sounds like a shitty Vince Vaughn film.

Merry blah blah blah Christmas!

Happy Thanksgiving, 2011! Don't worry, this is still Star Wars related.

2011-11-24T08:15:00.000-08:00

I'm hesitant to say that there's not a whole lot to report today, which is fine for me, and fine for...well, me. In fact, I may be outta the Blogging Game for at least a solid month. The reason? What may look like laziness is actually a secret attempt to create a unique batch of quick and exciting Calabrese webisodes, all which will be presented on December 1st, ending on December 25th, Christ-fucking-mas.

What am I hinting at? Well, for starters (and obviously) it will be Christmas themed. There is no secret or cover-up of any kind to shy away the public's attention towards my love for the holiday. In the past, I've even dared to say it's better than Halloween, and if perking up and giggling over just saying the word "Christmas" is any indication, I do not take back what I said. At all.

The wide cast of Christmas characters (Santa, Rudolph, Bumble) the terrible songs, the presents. It's all just so perfectly tuned in to what makes me who I am -- a greedy kid who likes a fat man to bring me toys once a year.

Also, the fabulous return of Richard Sucker!

I don't wanna get too detailed about the whole thing, but yeah, he's there. The weirdest vampire we know, all lined up to help us out on what may be our biggest and best webisode adventure yet. And by "biggest and best," I mean "short and satisfactory." I'm already not wanting to do it 'cause it's Thanksgiving and during Thanksgiving I don't like to do anything. Blame Thanksgiving.

So. I'm busy and not-busy. Lots of talking and being weird in front of a camera there, but not a whole lot of typing up words about things I like for an afternoon here. I think we'll all survive.

With that out of the way, I recently had a birthday over the weekend. We played a show in Las Vegas, which is both an example in perfect timing and damning frustration. You will not believe how bad I wanted to rage it up. But, we gambled a bit, ate at a buffet and didn't actually start playing until 1:30 in the morning, so I was so over Las Vegas I didn't care about pouring booze down my throat anymore. It wasn't my first priority. That, of course, was given to a mysterious bag with LEGO Darth Vader plastered on the front. Happy birthday to me, bitches.

I love Mysterious Bags. The cover art might have been a dead giveaway, but I was too caught up in what was inside the damn thing. It was bulky, medium in hardness and made the sound loose change would make if loose change was made of soft plastic.

A bag stuffed with original Star Wars figures!

"Fkhkdhvighds" is the only suitable word to describe this sight. I think it's Cantonese.

I've mentioned it before, but I love me a big pile of Star Wars toys. I purposely keep an unorganized, messy heap of 'em on my bookshelf just so I can see it the way it must be presented -- large and chaotic. For some reason, it puts me in a certain mood. Relaxed, calm and serene. Limbs shooting this way, cloaks and capes shooting that way. The colors and smell are all so intoxicating, it's by far my favorite mountain of George Lucas mind-babies ever.

I just admitted to smelling my toys. I accept this.

Oh! And hidden among the madness was a few Micro Machines, or something pretty similar to Micro Machines. I was never that big of a fan, but then again, I've never been a fan of automobiles and anything else that have something called an "engine" in it. You can add football and lifting weights to that list, too.

Overall, a great birthday, and soon to be an even better Thanksgiving. I've already got enough food lined up to corrupt at least three vital organs, and as soon as I wake up from my coma, we will hit "record" and sail off into the webisode sunset on December 1st. Stay tuned, dudes.

And Happy Thanksgiving!

Tales of the Monkey-Wolf, a Halloween Adventure!

2011-11-11T12:42:00.000-08:00

Well, here I am. Eleven days after Halloween, blogging about Halloween.

Don't lie, you know you love it.

Anyway, today, I'm letting you in on a little secret. You see, I now own a creature that's neither monkey nor wolf, but a delicate hybrid of the two. Yes, the rumors and accusations are true -- I'm the proud papa of a glowing demon-dog!

Now, let all of what I just said sink in.

Now, back story:

I usually buy a lot of stuff in preparation for October 31st, but what I'm about to unveil is the clear favorite of the pre-season/post-season lot. It's one of the better things I snagged on Halloween day, in a rush to pick up last minute decorations I won't take down until March. I feel like I didn't overindulge like I wanted to, so I went out and...well, overindulged. I bought extra candy I won't eat, more cobwebs I'll never open and 800 pumpkin pails for our Halloween show extravaganza. We filled these buckets with all sorts of candy, threw them out into the crowd and punted them into people's faces. Yep.

You see, both Davey and Jimmy were behind the unintentional, pumpkin pail violence, both events happening exactly in line with each other -- one was batted by a bass guitar and quickly and I mean quickly right after, the other was a makeshift soccer ball and the crowd was the goal. It was as if the whole world had stopped and all that was left was two, brightly orange bombs blasting through time and space to reach their ultimate and final destination. Which, ya know, was a little kid's head.

If I had any good left in my soul I would dare not say that it was the funniest damn thing I've ever seen.

But that's neither here nor there.

Because I got myself a "Lighted Werewolf," and all is glorious:

"Lighted Werewolf" is exactly as it says. A luminescent lycanthrope you can stake into the ground to either scare or bewilder all passerby. Ten dollars for this monstrosity ain't too bad -- add into the idea that you will soon own the weirdest looking werewolf holding a bloody heart and it's a friggin' steal.

I don't have a front yard to actually use this, but I love these things. I like the simplicity of it -- the idea of zombies or witches or a werewolf crawling out of your garden is wholly welcome and actively applauded. It's never a bad thing to get the morning paper, give a quick wave to your neighbor and dangerously trip over a pile of silver fuzz and plastic. It'll make gardening more of an adventure, and taking out the trash is coveted instead of despised when you have the chance to say hello to Marty the Mutant Mutt.

When I first saw this, I couldn't believe my eyes. I mean, we've already established that the thing as a whole is just plain weird looking -- it was now down to how weird it actually was.

Oh, it's weird alright.

If that image above doesn't speak to you on a personal level, you're not my friend.

Guardian of the Record Player, arise!

Out of the box, it looks even more impressive. Like a super-baboon baboon. More baboon than baboon, if you will. Because it looks exactly like a baboon to me. And that's quite the feat, considering this is supposed to be a wolf. Or a werewolf, or whatever, I dunno. I LIKE THIS AS A BABOON BETTER.

The fur is a dingier, grosser looking grey and my God, the heart actually beats! True, it's creative use of the classic "flickering light" effect at it's peak (no photo available, sorry) but there's nothing wrong wit dat.

All I expected was a fugly mutant, and now I have a fugly mutant who blinks a whole lot.

It's a true favorite in my household, and is still burning bright to this day. I'll add a red cap and a beard next month and I can squeeze even more time out of him. Because time is precious with this beauty. I've accepted my fate as keeper of the beast, and keep the beast I shall.

Anyway.

A "Big Bag of Bugs." I got a big bag of bugs, too:

In one's life, everyone deserves a chance at owning a big bag of bugs. You say you don't like bugs? Well, fuck you. You're getting a big bag of 'em.

They were intended to be thrown out at our Halloween show, but I didn't have the heart to get rid of them so easily. One minute they'd be in my hands, and the next minute they'd be thrown haphazardly into the darkness of a rock and roll show. I liked the idea that, mixed with all the candy we were dumping on people, a few of those nasty looking spiders and long worm things would end up in people's hair well past the show, and offer up a post-Halloween show trick, courtesy of Calabrese. However, I liked the idea of keeping them on my kitchen counter top even more.

It was a Halloween trick double cross!

BAM!

Me like the Goat-Man.

2011-11-02T20:42:00.000-07:00

Me like monster heads. Me like wear rubbery constriction over nose and mouth. Me think is fun!

Me went to Bubbles of Joy, a Halloween goofy shop catering to goofs like me. It's no Spirit, but that's a good thing, because me think Spirit sucks. Way too many dumb clown things and evil babies. Me want something raw and powerful and furry.

Me found monster mask to end all monster masks. It be really spine-chilling and unnerving, and makes you question your belief in God. It's the greatest Halloween disguise in the world!

There be no love like the love I have for the Goat-Man:

Even me be scared! It's a shocking sight of teeth and horns and wet stuff covering outer layer of nose. Like Goat-Man sneezed and didn't wipe. Me understand that Goat-Man is busy, but hygiene and cleanliness is very important around my place. Number Three Rules in Me Apartment: wash hands after pooping, cover the mouth when you do the coughing and sanitize your entire body after eating at Subway. Me think Subway smells annoying.

Some might say the mask be overkill, but me say it's perfect Halloween trick to haunt little kids' brains while they sleep. I want to hurt people mentally and linger in their minds well past the season of the Halloween. Me just watched a lot of the Freddy Krueger movies, so me very excited by all this idea.

Time to put it on my head and become a part of the beast! Let the animal inside of me go wild and do the things that are crazy! Me be one with the Goat-Man!

Good to go! Halloween, here I come!

Me almost got nervous for beer -- it almost didn't make it into my mouth hole. Being super smart I found a way to doctor problem, as well as a way to spill half of bottle down my shirt. Goat-Man was not made for partying, only frightening the young and easily alarmed.

Me even got hairy gloves to seal the deal, but most people think they're me regular hands.

Me sweaty and hot and uncomfortable, but me have the face of Satan and things couldn't be better. Halloween do not suck this year! Halloween cool!

Yay Halloween that happened two days ago!

Happy Halloween, 2011!

2011-10-31T18:43:00.000-07:00

It's Halloween! It's here right now!

I didn't get to post everything I wanted to, but at this point...who cares? It's Halloween! Besides, my entire life is pretty much Halloween based, so I think I'll manage blogging about evil candy and bloody masks in late January. No worries.

Now, I've already eaten way too much junk food and drank way too much monster themed alcohol, so today I'm taking it easy. Both aren't inherently wrong activities, but mixed together over hours and hours of Halloween socializing, day in and day out, the gooey things inside my body have started to go a teense bit sour.

Because of it, I feel altogether very lazy and homely tonight, but it's not to the point where I can't get off the couch to answer the call of the trick or treater.

I'm not feeling guilty about it, though. I did my time, I put in my creepy hours. I've done way more than I initially thought I would, and it's been a blast. I wanna say that I'm sad that tomorrow is the end of the Samhain season, but eh. Halloween and I are kind of sick of each other.

We played a great show, I bought an insane Halloween mask that intimately disturbs anyone who comes in contact with it and I just quickly carved up a pumpkin tonight. Like, really quick.

So if I were to die tomorrow (which I won't, because I refuse to die) I will die a happy man.

Oh, yeah, that pumpkin? Check it out!:

This is the first time I ever used one of those "pumpkin carving kits," which uses a lot of tools that poke, prod and saw. Normally, I'd free hand my creation, but with a little patience and a flimsy, paper guide, simple pumpkin carving turns into serious art.

I chose the "floating ghosts" design, if only because it looked the simplest and quickest. I had to clean, cut and proudly show off my prized pig before Halloween was over. Which is, ya know, tomorrow.

Way spooky!

Kind of looks like Arizona cacti, or pickles. Not sure where I'm getting that, but yeah. Pickles.

Happy Halloween, guys!

The Trash Pack!

2011-10-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

Curious? I am, too. But before that, this:

Halloween festivities are going well. I've yet to scoop pumpkin innards or secretly watch "The Craft" when no one else was looking, but the season has offered up plenty of pleasant surprises. Mainly, the thing above.

Secondly, the Halloween show is fast approaching and I'm down to the wire with everything I need to do and get done. With shows, I throw everything aside and only concentrate on the task at hand, and since this show is a really big show, I've been too nervous and preoccupied to truly treat the way this holiday should be treated. We're running out of days, people! I need to watch more horror films. I have to eventually leave the house to buy a latex mask that mats down my hair and makes my face awkwardly wet!

But alas, time is not on my side. All hope has run dry. Or at least that's what I thought. See: thing above.

Introducing The Trash Pack, an assemblage of dirty critters hibernating in your local trash bins, ready to jump out do critter things. Twelve distasteful miscreants to collect, trade and use as legal currency in My Perfect Future.

"The Gross Gang in Your Garbage" is such a great tag line, too. Who wouldn't want to make friends with an amorphous, indescribable blob? Or a dead rat?

Essentially, these acorn-sized pencil toppers are nothing new or too inventive. In fact, a few months ago I mentioned Squinkies, an almost exact mirror image of what we have today. Squinkies, though, are more family-friendly, with dinosaurs and Captain America's and cute puppies. The Trash Pack, on the other hand, are rotted pigs and vomit.

Each "Trashie" is conceived by the love-combination of sinister germs and leftover pizza boxes in a dirty trash can, and it's your job to help birth it into this world. I kind of just made that up.

Anyway, you get the point, right? Bunch of little nasty animals/bugs/goo that inhabit an army of old-school trash cans, and it's your job to break 'em free and let them loose.

Basically, kids love this junk. Basically, I love this junk.

The back of the package is great, because each Trashie is individually named, adding to the obsession. These aren't just dumpster freaks, these are your FUTURE FRIENDS.

Unfortunately, there's, like, a lot of them. Over a hundred, in fact. It bothers me that I won't be able to own them all, but it also boggles the mind as to what I would even do with them. Computer desk is cluttered, Castle Greyskull is occupied by WWF heroes and my mouth is already full of Tropical Starburst.

Included is a manual/instructions on how to play various games with your Trash Pack. Nearly all the games are different variations on throwing your trash-pals into the trash can, but they still went down Route Obvious and included a game called "Throw it in the Trash Can."

I'm not sure I'd ever use this guide, but I still like the small notion of actually meeting someone to stack electric-green, toy trash cans with. Would they be cool? Or a total fucking nutjob? The possibilities and scenarios relaying through my head actually sends chills up my spine.

So, let's tear open the lids and have at it!

Ahh!

In no particular order, there they stand. The colors are astounding, and probably one of the main reasons why I really, really like this. If I was smart, I'd pass this off as a hip, independent art piece, but no one would believe I even knew what an "independent art piece" was.

I love every single one with all of my heart...but that pig, man. Top three, for sure. He looks equally wired and drunk, spilt bile covering his large, bloated stomach. He's either stoned out of his mind or staring at that purple thing on his head. Which looks to be nothing short of a purple banana peel. Why not?

And, of course, that thing on the left deserves a quick mention. More puffed out eyes, more vomit floweth. The theme is obvious, but obviously, I like the theme. There's something so very precious found in spew.

Oh, and I really like the red rat with, of course, the toxic slime-puke. Honestly, I really only like the rat because he was on the front package, cheery and cherry. It's as if he was the first one to welcome me to the shit-filled world of Trash Pack and it's inhabitants within. And because he's the color of Twizzlers FINE YOU GOT ME.

Original Rat was blue, and the one I'm stuck with is red. I've already accepted this fate (the color red is preferred, really) but I've also accepted that I won't get a good night's sleep tonight because of it. Consistency issues, I guess.

You also get a big trash can, which initially came filled with the other secret seven Trashies, but you can store all twelve of them in there for safe keeping and to hide from your girlfriend. But I guess at that point you're better off throwing the entire thing in the actual trash. There's poetry somewhere in what I've just said.

Empty:

Sad. Depleted. Desolate. Completely barren and altogether lost. The image above puts a hole in my heart. Full:

Abundant. Jammed. Crowded and stocked. All is aligned with the universe.

All is aligned with Halloween!

Gummy Sushi.

2011-10-21T17:50:00.000-07:00

Every year I check out the current season's Halloween offerings, whether it be a long stroll through Target or a quick gallup around CVS, I'm perpetually on the hunt. If I don't make the rounds, I'm well into a funk by November, knowing I might have missed out on the newest Halloween something. I own enough paper ghost cutouts, yes. My closet looks like a Spirit went and died, I understand. But it's, like, what I do.

With that being said, honestly, most of the time I'm not necessarily looking for anything in particular -- if anything catches my eye, I'm game. Something unique, bizzare and maybe even a but slimey. If I had a choice, I'd prefer my Halloween stuff to be slimey.

Within these Halloween Hunts, I'm rarely surprised nor dazzled by what's offered. Things are different to an extent, but there's only so many ways you can doll up a Jason mask.

I wish that every ten months we're granted a new wave of orange merchandise and party favors and creepy candy, but, truthfully, it's really just the same damn stuff. I wish, I want, I wander. And with gummy candy, it's no different.

(Sorry for the abrupt switch -- it was really hard to segue into gummy candy.)

You've got Coke bottle this, you have blue sharks and colorful worms that. It's all so blase. I tip my hat to "It's Alive," though, for releasing what may become my favorite Halloween gummy ever.

For today's adventure, I hit up the local Walgreen's. It's one of my favorite places to haunt during this ghoulish fall, because you don't really have to do much to get your fix. With Walgreen's, every now and again you'll find more than just green cobwebs and wall paques that yell at you. In fact, you might even find a plate of gummies in the shape of honest-to-God sushi.

I've seen these heralded and praised on the internet already, but it deserves another pedastel to sit upon. I mean, c'mon, that one in the middle really looks like friggin' salmon.

"It's Alive Diner" (I think that's what the company name is) offers a plateful of horror-themed gummy madness. Everything from spooky sandwiches to evil, chocolate sundaes, you name it. Gummy body parts have made a decent run the last couple of years, and "It's Alive Diner," thank-you-so-much, stretched the premise into new and grander territories. They got all Land of the Rising Sun on our asses.

By all means, this is some seriously fun stuff. Most of the time I'm a chocolate kinda guy, and on occasion will go for the extreme sour goods that'll make your tongue and burn, but this month I'm strictly gummy. With 4.3 ounces of gummy raw fish, I've been converted.

My favorite? Well, firstly, they all smell good. That needs to be said. Secondly, the eye looks fun. Could even pass for a slab of overpriced sushi in a fancy restaraunt. The rest of the "human body part collection" look nice, too, but I'm still stuck on that "salmon" piece. I realize now that it isn't representing salmon, because salmon, by all means, is not a body part. Now that I think wiser and squint harder, it's as if it's supposed to be "skin," which is wholly disgusting and unbelievably nauseating to even think about. I'm not sure how biting into what looks like a human fucking ear doesn't seem so bad, but chewing on pink, peeled skin is horrifying to me. They're all made of gummy so it's a moot point. Hell, I'm just really excited!

(Edit: the logical explanation, as it's been pointed out, is that it's supposed to be a tongue. Which makes, like, a lot of sense, given the shape and color. What the fuck was I thinking?)

Best part? Besides it looking near identical to the real deal (well, as close as they could make it) it even comes with chopsticks.

Yes.

This is the type of gimmick that can shoot this precious holiday from a Hallow-weiner to a Hallow-winner.

Really, this is the finest display of gummy I've seen in a long time, even rivaling that of the hulking glob of bear-shaped sugar goo I found a year back.

It was one of the first things I blogged about. I was captivated by the enormity of it all, and the transluscent, glowing behemoth ultimately played a big part to give my life over to all things gummy. The fact that it's shaped like a Teddy Graham is all the more better. Which brings us to the here and now.

The Body Parts Sushi Roll is a must have.

But lastly, I'd like to point out that since I am the one and only martial artist guitarist, I like to think of this as possible fuel and energy during my training. A go-to snack for endurance, power and undeniable rock and roll skills.

"Kung-food," if you will.

...

Ha.

MST3K!

2011-10-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

Tuesday is awesome. Because Tuesday, this Tuesday, I have received a gift. A "Happy Halloween!" kinda gift. Good timing, too, because Halloween is coming up. Did you know that Halloween was coming up?

What are you? What secrets do you hide behind your hard, plastic exterior?

I already know. And it's unbelievable.

Nestled within the confines of suppressed data and science-y stuff, every friggin' episode of "Mystery Science Theater 3000!" The Calabrese Manor will be lit up with joy and cheer. A celebration will be had!

Katie Lynn, a great pal o' mine, sent this to me. I don't really deserve such nice things, but I will have you know, I am the greatest gift receiver. I'm just so natural when it comes to these kinds of abilities, and I'm sure that, in the end, it surely must count for something.

Now, we talk online and around Facebook, about this and that, so on and so forth. Mainly, we talk about "Mystery Science Theater 3000." We bonded, she took time and effort to offer a token of our friendship through a brick of burnt DVDs and I've been smiling since.

I will, no doubt, return the favor.

Just give me, like, nine years.

I can't wait to watch this. It might take up the rest of year, but it puts me in just the right mood for Halloween. "MST3K" isn't necessarily Halloween-ish, but at this juncture in my life, I stopped caring about all that. Anything I like while in the thirty-one day time frame of October is now, by law, considered Halloween-ish -- life is way more fun while in this mindset. Why, just the other day I took the best Halloween Nap of my life! Did I also mention that I Halloween Flossed my teeth last night, too?

I don't understand the technical process behind this creation, nor the legality of this bundled up, copyrighted mess, but I thank you, I thank everyone behind this and I thank them with all of my heart. And truly, I promise to visit you in jail at least once a month when you're caught, prosecuted and locked up for the crimes you've commited.

Included was a vampire poppet, who looks to be made of papier mache and is missing his legs. This doesn't pose a problem, because without his legs, his pants/shoes are free to dangle wildly. He will sit and eat popcorn with me, floppy limbs and all. This is his function. This is his life.

Also, I'm glad I got to use the word "poppet." I like that word. Poppet.

And if all that wasn't enough, I'm rewarded with bloody fingers, too!

I fancy myself a connoisseur of the fake hand, a triumphant gag gift that can either be really mundane and goofy or sick and fucked up looking. It's just a whole lotta fun, whether you lay one out on your coffee table for guffaws or use it to practice hip, urban handshakes with. The fake hand is unique, versatile and multifaceted. Now, fake fingers? It's a whole 'nother beast we're screwing with.

I like them. There's at least that. I get a more sinister feeling with fake fingers, though, which is great for when Halloween is turning into too much of a pussy. The broken bones, blood streaks and life-like fingernails really add to the Halloween horror, so suck it up and grow a pair, boys, this is the real deal. Lay 'em out in your front yard or throw them into your friend's Mountain Dew, the world is ours!

It's weird, getting fingers sent in the mail makes it seem like a loved one has been kidnapped and tortured. If you notice, there's only four fingers presented, too. Makes me wonder...where's the fifth and final finger? To me, it looks like the ring finger is missing, which might generate an even deeper meaning behind the Case of the Four Fingered Hand. Is there something behind all this tomfoolery? Is this the final piece to the puzzle? Chew on that, dear readers.

Coming up next:

Monster masks! Creepy toys! Wet pumpkin guts FTW!

Stay tuned!

"HACK JOB!"

2011-10-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

A few months back, a one James Balsamo e-mailed me. It was a proposal of incredible measure, bathed in secrecy and confidentiality. If I were to accept, fortune and glory would very well be in the palm of my hand. You see, it was an offer to lend a track in a new film called "Hack Job," a horror/comedy about a couple of dudes who get a script from Satan to make the best friggin' movie ever. And so enters a healthy helping of unrated nudity, repulsive gore and the kind of juvenile zaniness you'd expect from a Lloyd Kaufman film. Who, of course, is in the film.

WE ACCEPTED NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

Many months later we get this:

Ta-da! James Balsamo, that kind fellow that he is, sent us a bunch of copies and other swag to keep my Halloween season running smoothly. The movie is out, the movie is going into DVD players across the world and yay!

If owning a horror flick featuring my band's music on it doesn't revive the weak Halloween mojo in my apartment, I don't know what will. The bragging rights alone can last well into Thanksgiving.

Being a part of any film, however small or large, is awesome. But this is awesome because of two very special reasons:

First off, and most importantly, this means we're that much closer to becoming international playboys. My current playboy status is only country wide -- I seek global. I demand planetary. And with one more movie soundtrack under my belt, I'm slowly building my empire and slipping into my role as degenerate philanderer.

Secondly, I really like having my band name on the same billing as Gwar. Yes, all the other bands make me giddy and happy, but Gwar is a personal win for me. Their giant masks and rubbery monster dongs have both been captivating and delighting me for years, and if I wasn't afraid of online rumors and continual harassment from my peers, I'd say I was happy as a schoolgirl right now. A sexy, buxom schoolgirl.

What? Don't believe my loudmouthed rumblings?

See? Right THERE!

In truth, I didn't really need to show you that, as the name "Calabrese" is well apparent in the first photo. I kinda had this photo floating around as a backup, and in my heart, I know I simply cannot waste it. I also realized I only had two photos to work with...so yeah, you understand. But, if anything, you get a zoomed up/in-depth photo of a big, drawn boob. Kinda cool, right?

Speaking of that drawn boob:

Jeffrey Zornow, the dude who did our "Devil Goat" t-shirt a while back, is also the man with a plan behind creating the cover art/t-shirt design of "Hack Job." Looks great, Jeff. I love it like my own child.

He did our art, he did "Hack Job's" art, we mixed, we matched, beauty unfolded. It's a mentally balanced thing, and because of this, I feel even more connected to the universe right now. If I knew what "chi" was, I'd say I had a load of it bubbling up inside of me right now. "Chi" means "fart," right?

If you're wondering if this was an attempted review of the film or a simple task in taking photos of all the pretty things people send me, I really can't tell you. It's kind of a cocktail blend of the two. Plus a boob and stuff.

Dig it.

Let's Get This Halloween Party Started.

2011-10-06T18:57:00.000-07:00

Every Halloween season I'm going to buy black and orange crap. It's just the way it is and there's no way around it -- it's a cold, hard fact. As soon as I was able to muster the courage to buy socks with tiny ghosts on it, my life was changed. The doorway to my own personal hell was blown wide open.

In my world, the grand tradition of hunting and gathering all the best and worst Halloween decorations rivals that of a ritzy cruise on a large boat, or finding a really cool hat that actually looks good on you. A comfortable one, too, mind you. BASICALLY IT'S JUST REALLY GREAT.

Usually, this is a month of spending way too much and not regretting a damn thing about it, but I've noticed that things have changed over time. These days, I'm not sure I need any more porcelain in the shape of a pumpkin, or the many different and unique versions of a severed hand.

I dunno, now I'm starting to sound like a grump. Maybe the Halloween Spirit hasn't hit me yet, or maybe it's because I've yet to even bother. I haven't been to a costume shop yet, I've procrastinated the planning out of my annual scary movie marathon and there hasn't been a single appearance of any kind of popcorn ball.

My life is in shambles.

And I need an intervention. I need to get off my ass and get going before it's the beginning of November and I wish I was dead. I love to complain, but the best thing I can do at this point is to hike up my pants, put on a pot of strong coffee and do. Do it all and do it fast. Get all Halloween-y all up in my shit.

So, that being said, I'm starting a new tradition this year.

Carving jack-o-lanterns, scanning daytime television for any Roseanne Halloween episodes, wishing it was colder outside, etc. All are well crafted and established traditions, but the idea of starting my own? It's already lifting me out of my funk.

For about a year, I've been collecting my loose change in a bright orange pumpkin pail. A few cents here, a handful of quarters there, whatever I could spare. You know how this works so I'll shut up now.

Well, the other day I decided to officially bag them up, rolled 'em into their wiener casings and took them to the bank. Normally, I'd chuck them into the automatic change counters, but I don't wanna pay the fee for their services, and I dare not donate this to whatever charity they're pushing (they give you a last-minute option to be a saint) but this is fuck-you Halloween, not good-Samaritan Christmas, SO NO THANK YOU.

Here's my plan:

I cashed in my year of hard work, and will now use all the money from this Great Pumpkin to enhance my docile Halloween mood. If there's one thing I know, it's how to work some magical retail therapy. It'll be my Happy Halloween Good Time Bucket, granting devilish wishes and desires all under the predetermined price range. I will instantly want towring, commanding gifts, but will have to settle for bent cutouts of Dracula's face, and that's a-okay with me. Take me to a better place, HGTB.

First off, I couldn't hit up the big stuff right off the bat. I had to ease into my HGTB adventure. I had to start small, naturally, then go nuts. But since my change exchange didn't drop that much money into my lap, and I had some time to think with a clear mind, I figured I'd go for the stuff I've had my eye on for a while. All the non-Halloween and completely unrelated things to what I'm bloggin about this very moment, basically. HGTB, lead the way.

Now, my Amazon wish list is huge. I've been addicted to this site ever since my first stint took me to a glorious new world a scant eight months ago, when I realized what a beautiful marketplace for junk it is. To me, it seems like a less confusing eBay, which I like. And almost every week I add terribly unimportant things to it, in hopes that one day I'll be able to cross everything off. Playing "I Want This" is a great game to play.

So I bought that thing above! But what is it?

A Guitar Wolf poster! It's not the biggest poster around, which I tried to hide with such a zoomed in angle, but it gets the point across. Cool dudes looking cool. It's from their "Planet of the Wolves" album, which sounds like crap but it's called "Planet of the Wolves," so all is forgiven.

If I had to base my entire life around something, it would be this poster. If you know me, you know my love for Guitar Wolf. They're just so...so cool. It's all I can ever say.

For ten dollars, I now have a new deity/inspirational mantra. "Planet of the Wolves" will be chanted for no warranted reason, but I know it'll make me feel all good and merry inside. I'm going to hang it up in my closet and lay out lit candles in honor, awe and exaltation.

I know it's October 6th, and although that may be early for some, it's damn late for me. So, without further adieu.

Let's get this Halloween party started.

Myspace Memory Lane.

2011-10-03T18:02:00.000-07:00

Happy October! I know, with a name like "Bobby Vamp," you all expect some Halloween happy-time blog posts from me, and honestly, your expectations are expected. How many times can I write the word "expected?"

Clearly, this sexy month is prime for the H-ween picking, but this month is also dumb busy for yours truly. We always have shows during the year, but this month we have shows. Like, tons of 'em. And with these shows plaguing the entire month, the only times I'm free to sit down in front of the computer is to casually let everyone on Facebook know what movie I just watched and to do...like, band stuff. I just don't have enough time to write about my favorite things during my favorite month as much as I like to, and for that, I apologize. But any other year, I swear, I really do make October my bitch.

But I promise to get more Halloween-y in the weeks to come. How can I not? The aisles of Target call to me, the dollar store beckons! As a member of Calabrese, it is my duty, and, really, how can I pass up a really great excuse to spend the rent on pumpkin plushies and spooky candles?

Anyway.

The other day I had to update something on myspace, which, by all accounts, is no easy task. The once massive forum for personal messaging and sharing personal photos is now a deserted wasteland that just really slows the fuck outta my computer. The small task of adding pictures is painful, creating social events is confusing and generally just navigating the entire forum is mind numbing. Basically, everything that was relatively easy on myspace is now Goddamn impossible.

Whatever self-destructing reasons or conspiracy theories are behind myspace's creeping decline, I don't know. But somehow, Calabrese still gets most of our traffic directly from myspace, so I'm still forced to update just as much as I used to. It's weird to think this online bloated corpse pushes an audience our way, but it is what it is. I guess I'm a slave for life.

Granted, things like commenting and messaging are so dead and gone (our last real, non-spam comment was from over a year ago) but it's still a pain in the ass. As soon as I'm logged on, sadness quickly ensues and I'm trying to get in and out as soon as possible.

All is not lost with myspace, though. If anything, it provides an interesting look into the past, into what once was, into all the junk we were, like...really fucking obsessed with.

Remember band banners? AIM icons? Customized "add me" boxes? I do. Because you had to. Because if you were a band and didn't have these marvelous tools you weren't shit.

These were the days of crappy websites and a boring myspace layout. The greatest thing to do, as a band, was to have a ton of incredible images jumping around and promoting whatever crap you were promoting. Near the end of myspace's run, it certainly was essential , and we took it seriously.

The point of this post is to honor the long lost tradition of flashy, moving band ads. In this day and age, there's no place for such frivolity, but I'm not the kind to bow out of the game that easily. I miss these things, if only because they looked really darn cool. And because they're being hosted by us and I'm never letting them go. Ever.

Let's start!

This was a part of our first batch of banners, as evidenced by one of our earlier and mildly embarrassing photo. It was created and designed by one of our friends, who, at the time, daringly wanted, and awkwardly attempted, to film a music video for us. We sang in front of a green screen for a few hours and had our buddy run around his living room couch with a machete...and then the whole thing was scrapped. Probably for the best.

Keep in mind, there's a lot more from this era, which you can find by clicking a few links near the bottom of this blog. If you love me, you'll stay the course and keep on reading. But if you hate me, you'll skip on ahead and your computer will burn up and explode.

But look at that thing! Man, we really thought this was cool. You were the cream of the crop if you cared that much about your band, or at least pretended to care. Hell, we didn't even have to have music at this point, this banner made it look like you not only had a few hit albums out, but were touring the globe and making heaps of money. Which is just the lie we were looking for!

Don't be fooled, dear readers, because this was just the tip of our online juggernaut. Much more to come!

Our next album, "The Traveling Vampire Show" ushered in bigger and better banners (which isn't obvious from the above) but we had everything whipped up for us. Giant headers, side things, miniature things that flashed and popped, etc. It was incredible, and we took full advantage of over saturating the online universe with our crap.

We even had a grip of "add me" images made, too, which is beyond obsolete these days. For those that aren't privy, they were used to spice up the average myspace profile, and only just a minor touch to our incredible online enterprise. Man, we were kings of over-doing your band profile. I mean, you had to go above and beyond, and we did. We had it all. WE RULED THE INTERNETS.

But, as they say, all things must die. Especially these banners. Unfortunately, I really like the way they look, and the wasted effort and energy spent creating and learning the bare minimum of .html is heartbreaking. They're all just WWW trash at this point -- but I ain't getting rid of them just yet. Forever they will stay hosted online, immortal and untouched.

For the next album we did more of the same, which is to say we now tripled our database of offensive eyesores. I have a feeling we contributed to myspace's destruction.

We got our buddy, Eric Blair to do these (I think he did 'em for the previous record, too) but this run of ads are my favorites. Lots of neat colors, radiating eyes, words commanding your money. It was a beautiful thing that a select few had the privilege to witness, and although our myspace is still up with these exact banners flapping in the online wind, it just ain't the same. It's hard to rationalize or even wonder why, but I miss it. I miss those wild and exciting days of beautiful, simple and extraordinary myspace. Let us pray.

Anyway, check it out if you're curious as to what we were up to in the last eight years! Or, if you're busy, check back in another eight, because they'll still be hosted in a eternal online limbo. Trust me.

www.CalabreseRock.com/banner and at www.CalabreseRock.com/banners!

A Collection of the Worst DVD Covers Ever.

2011-09-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I was hungover. Like, seriously hungover. One of those hangovers you absolutely swear up and down that you don't deserve. You boozed all night, sure, but you didn't booze that hard. Or did you? Hell, it's all a blur and I'm gonna puke.

These days, my body can't handle itself anymore after a night of boozing. Anything more than a few drinks and I can expect the next day to be a full twenty-four hours on the couch in front of the TV. I practically set my shcedule by this. And usually, if it hits the hardest, I can feel the after-effects well into the second day of my Party Redemption. My skin is tender to the touch and my bones ache, but at least my brain is kinda functional.

Damn. What the hell am I putting into my body?

Now, I really can't explain my hangover. I try to act special and unique by complaining that my hangover is worse than your hangover, but I'm sure it's all the same. Do you feel like you have the flu? Is your stomach rotting from the inside out? Do you swear to all that is pure and holy that you'll never drink again?

Through all this praying and whining and crying, nothing is ever gained. My experience is quickly disregarded as nonsense sas soon as I feel better and I'm always back to square one. "Square one," of course, meaing "the bar." Oh well. At least for all the partying leading up into near dying, I can always find comfort and solitude in the next chapter of this horrendous cycle:

MOVIE DAY!

When I'm hungover, I pretty much cut myself off from the world. My apartment is my fortress, no one enters, no one leaves. I'm eternally camped out and you will not see or hear from me in those painful twenty-four hours. I feel like I'm some kind of caterpillar, wrapped up in a cocoon for a whole day, just waiting to emerge as a beautiful butterfly. Unshaven, disgruntled and greasy, but beautiful, nonetheless.

Point of my rant? I like to watch movies when I'm sick with the booze. Well, let me rephrase that: all I can do is watch movies. I'm sure everyone who's ever been hungover can agree with this, because watching movies doesn't take a lick of skill at all. It's the perfect plan in helping you to alleviate the sadness while curled up on the floor. My only hangover cure, thus far, has been time, so popping in a grip of DVDs is my only hope. And last weekend, I managed to do just that. You know what else I managed to do? I watched two films with the worst cover art ever.

First up: "The Gate." A total classic, and our first glimpse into the acting world of Stephen Dorff. I can only ever recall seeing him in "Blade" years later, which, really, means nothing to you and not even really to me. Am I still hungover?

Take a look:

Now, if you've never seen the film, this means nothing to you. So for those who have seen it, I respectfully ask...WTF?

"The Gate" was one of those films that only existed on VHS for years. The only times anyone's ever seen it was at a friend's house when they were younger or years later on late night TV. Until "Monster Squad" gained such a huge following, this was a solid film to one-up cheesy film buffs. If you haven't seen it, you weren't total shit, but, like, you were still kind of shitty.

It's about two friends who uncover a portal to hell in their backyard, allowing weird creatures to pass on through to mess everything up. It's fun, entertaining and heavy on keeping it completely un-PC. There's nothing like a ten year old muttering "fag" to his older sister's jerky friends. It's just so raw. I like it.

Well, finally, they put it on DVD. Pretty accessible and simple to find, so everyone could shut the fuck up already. I remember it had a decent cover, which is to say, original cover art idea that tied in to the film. This? This is an abomination.

This new version, their "Monstrous Special Edition" came out pretty recently, years after the last, making it's way into bigger and better stomping grounds like Target and Best Buy. "The Gate" has finally garnered some steam! Everyone will be able to see this!

I can't argue with that, because every fun and almost forgotten film from the 80's deserves a second chance. Now, unfortunately, they decided to muck it up. I assume they're catering to the clueless and impulsive buyers, because with it's flashy new art, you may think this was a fairly modern film, or at best, another film altogether. Looking at the cover right now...hell, it could be anything.

I'll try to break it down.

You see those weird little monsters surrounding our young hero? They were in the film. You see our young hero holding whatever the fuck kind of flashlight in his hand? The little fucker was not in the film.

Everything about it is so wrong and bizarre and a little bit insulting. Assuming they had zero promo photos of little Stepen Dorff, they could have at least attempted to find some teeny dude that looked vaguely like him, right? Well, I gotta hand it to them for being so ballsy, but yeah, they decided to go the exact opposite route.

Hip new haircut, plaid shirt from Mervyn's, cargo shorts that only Charlie Sheen wears on "Two and Half Men," and the worst...sandals. Not regular sandals, oh no. But those hideous kind that...that I don't even know who wears! Business savvy hippies? Beach bums? Dads? Fuck!

Whatever. The movie is still great, but with my unconventional embarrassment, I'll definitely have to hide it behind all the other crap littering my shelves. Which, today, will be a Boglin.

Next up: "Maximum Overdrive."

Earth falls into the path of a meteor, machines go apeshit. I love it! Let's watch it! I'm hungover!

I'm more hungover now. Right now.

Why? Why did they do this? I understand it's tactical trickery, but the computer designed shit is too much for me too handle. This is a little less offensive, since the film is about killer big rigs running people over, but yeah. It gets the point across, but...I dunno. It looks like a crummy film with a crummy cover. Not to say "Maximum Overdrive" is going to move you in ways you never thought possible, but again...yeah. I dunno. Am I just being cranky?

At least the back of the DVD keeps you up to speed. If you had no idea before, you now knew that yes, this was "the movie with that truck that looks like Green Goblin." For years I thought this film was related to Spider-Man. Seriously.

Actually, watching this again, it rekindled my love with Emilio Estevez. "Repo Man," "Mighty Ducks," hot damn.

Do two movies count as a "collection?" Because that's all I've got. I'm sure if I start combing through my junk I'll find equally disturbing covers that will keep me up at night, but I don't wanna do that, 'cause it'll keep me up all night. Seriously.

My Big Fat Vampire Book.

2011-09-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

Through my life, I've experimented with a wide range of the worst fads and obsessions the world has ever seen. Most can be blamed on age, the others are the fault of no one but my own. I grew up and wore the lamest clothes, collected the most uncool toys and my hair, for a short and regrettable time, could only be described as "the penis haircut." Like Harry from "Dumb and Dumber." That was a bad time in my life.

For example:

During my preteens, I remember I liked Garfield one year. There was absolutely zero interest in Garfield, but I think I liked how his fur was orange. I bought little figurines, a hideous wristwatch and the Sunday comics were considered prime gold. Another year I really thought tie-dye was cool. Turns out, through vigorous trial and error, that no, tie-dye was not cool.

Don't even get me started on Beanie Babies.

Though, the worst I've sunk was when I actually and legitimately attempted to become a vampire. Of course, the height of my experiment never reached a point of actually going out and drinking human blood, but I still did a lot of stupid stuff.

For one, this was a time of witnessing my favorite and most lasting impression of vampire flicks. In my mid-teens, I was enamored with "Near Dark" and "The Lost Boys." At this time, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to become one of these characters. Because, secondly, everyone was always having a good time, doing whatever they wanted to and, yeah, getting really hot chicks. I wanted to be this. I wanted to hang out with a bunch of dudes doing wild and crazy things. This was the ultimate fantasy for any male youth, and once you threw in the neck-biting violence and rad motorcycles, well, you can see the appeal.

My first step was to complete the look. Now, my wardrobe doesn't usually consist of tattered pirate vests and gaudy jewelry, and it didn't back then, either. So off the bat I was failing.

My next best bet was to invest all of my time in finding the coolest sunglasses and perfecting the stoic, deep stare one must acquire to fully bring a sense of vampirism to a crowd. I probably looked like I was having a stroke, but behind my shades I was an animal. A fifteen year old beast of a man, just ready to pounce. I looked good.

The look, or at least half of the look, was only just the beginning. My transformation would only be complete when I was to completely and utterly become deathly pale.

It's an absurd notion, I know, but it entered my head and I couldn't shake it. I was, and still am, very pale, but I needed to goth my shit up times ten, people. I wanted to see the veins in my face. In comparison to my ghostly flesh, I wanted my lips to look Kool-Aid red, pouty and desirable.

I really cannot believe I just wrote that.

So, during this one summer, my carefully laid out plans would dictate that I was never to leave the house. It's not too hard living in the Arizona heat, since everyone hides in their caves anyway, but the months spent in secluded hibernation was to be of utmost importance, and not because I didn't have any friends.

This time, isolation was for keeps.

See, I wanted to reverse the effects of the evil sun by dying my skin with eternal darkness, morphing my body into the ultimate Dracula Machine. Which really means I hid in my bedroom, lights turned off and watched movies all day. It kinda makes sense, but yeah, it was pretty dumb, and I quickly realized this after about two days in. I watched enough viewings of "The Lost Boys" to realize Kiefer Sutherland's lily-white skin was truly unattainable, and the best I could ever do was keep a fine layer of stubble and make really weird grins after everything I said. Easy enough for me.

I never got over the vampire stuff, which, I assume, is pretty apparent to all. It's impossible to not find a fun fascination with the monster, which I've totally and undeniably carried into music and beyond. I've since given up trying to look the part, but every so often I get the urge to buy a cape or own a pair of those really solid and legit looking vampire fangs. Goth chicks dig that kinda stuff.

So, to my delight...a got a big fat vampire book.

Our good friend and regular attendee at nearly all of our southern California shows sent me this in the mail over the weekend. It might be out of love for the band, or a carefully laid out book-bomb laced with anthrax, I dunno. But her name is Shasta, and she's totally awesome.

Not gonna lie, I thought it was one of those vampire role playing books that you'd take to the graveyard, act out a dramatic vampire scene and kill your friend over. Turns out...it's so much more!

I skimmed though it (I don't know how to read) and found that it's an incredible encyclopedia on all of the best and greatest vampire films of all time. They missed a bunch of rare and hard to find flicks here and there, but you can't necessarily blame them on that. They did manage, however, to include an incredibly elaborate and in-depth section dedicated to "Twilight."

STRIKE ONE, BOOK.

Ah-ha! Just the kind of book I like...a book with more than meets the eye!

Included on every other page is either a small poster, various postcards or fake letters from vampires to other vampires. Something like that. There's enough junk to thumb through it's almost intoxicating. It makes for a really great coffee table book, assuming you don't mind people bending and tearing everything up inside to take a look at. Which I do mind. So it has forever been firmly placed in the closet.

Um, I guess that's about it. I kinda left it all up to the opening paragraphs to get me through this, since I don't have too much to say about a thick book I only sorta looked at. But I like this book. I like it a lot.

But if the book truly and utterly ended up sucking (har-har), all was not lost:

The box-cover-thing makes for an excellent fort. I'd like to call it a "home base," but a handful of Luke's deserve a better home base than that. At the very least, they'd need a kitchen. And at the very most, a delicately laid out Zen Room.

Thanks, Shasta. You rule!

My couch has stains on it and I hate it.

2011-09-09T16:15:00.000-07:00

Take a look at my couch:

There's nothing fancy about it, really. It was purchased from IKEA, not nearly big enough for me to lay horizontally on and strikingly inoffensive. It's neutral, safe and moderately effective. I pretend to use it while watching movies, because I much prefer the floor two feet from the television. It's a couch. It's my couch. But give me a few big fluffy pillows in place of it and I can throw the damn thing in the trash.

But since other human beings occasionally enter my living space, I figure a general seating area is a good idea. Unfortunately, it's horribly uncomfortable and no one likes to sit there. I've seen it with my own eyes. To put sole blame on the couch is unfair, since the coffee table is so close to it, it forces you to maneuver your way through, only to have your legs bunched up and cramped. Very impersonal and frustrating, almost as if it was planned that way. Maybe I purposely positioned the coffee table in that manner? Maybe I booby trapped my own apartment in a clever way to fend off social gatherings and get-togethers? The world may never know yeah I did it on purpose. Stay outta my shit.

And do you know why I did this? Do you know why I cringe every time people come over to hang out and converse? Why my biggest fears lie in someone carting over food and drink into my secret hideout?

BECAUSE OF THIS:

That. THAT THING. I hate it and it drives me up the wall.

I hate stains. It really bothers me to know that what once was is now all wrong. I remember going to the movies when I was younger and partaking in what is known as "a giant tub of greasy fucking popcorn." This experience has since evolved into my current phobia, because ever since then I haven't been the same.

You see, movie theater popcorn is wet. Wet with grease, butter, salt, whatever. Blame it on age or lack of experience, but I never failed to lose control of this buttery beast and spill at least a few popped kernels on my clothes. You can wipe away the initial evidence, but as soon as I got home...stains were present. It ruined my self confidence, toyed with my emotions and turned my wardrobe into leopard skin. And this is just example #1.

I can go on forever, but it would be quicker to let you know that all these experiences and more, through my life, have transcended into a greater and grander neurosis. Which really just means I hate it when someone drops burrito juice on my couch.

Looking at my poor couch, I can't quite tell you what each individual stain's origin is and what it represents (aside from crippling pain and infinite sadness) but I'm positive that they're all food related. If you look closely, you'll see they even come complete with an outer stain-shell created by all the weird chemicals and stain removers I've doused the infected area in. In my eyes, it's even worse than the stain itself, but during those fervid moments of frantic scrubbing, I truly thought I was doing the right thing. I was drunk with rage, eyes and mind blurred by tears and violence! It's not my fault!

Today, things would change.

What could I do? I can't very well start over with a new couch, nor am I about to run out and buy replacement cushion covers (well over a hundred bucks, if you can believe that garbage) so my mind raced to the next best option.

Blankets. A great and grand blanket the size of a circus tent that can be draped over the couch, concealing the sins and follies of the last two years.

I went out. I hit all the stores. I surfed the web, did the research and tweeted help. Surprisingly, not a whole lotta cool blankets floating around these days. I was only lucky enough to find what I found on a "rock and roll" website, amidst Bob Marley gear and U2 junk. I did not choose either one of those options, for I chose this:

A KISS blanket!

Authorized and approved merchandise by KISS themselves! And only twenty bucks! Say it ain't so!

Well, I can't say I'm a big KISS fan, but I like to live my life in bewildering lies, so yeah, if anyone asks...I'm a big KISS fan.

To be fair, I like KISS's aesthetic. I like the act, the stage show, the merchandise, the look and feel of it all. Now, the music? It's tough to say. They have, undoubtedly, some incredible songs, but the rest of their catalogue is so far removed from anything that can be remotely "cool" it's ridiculous. Don't argue with me, people. Because I seriously have no defense against these claims. I've only heard two KISS songs. I can shut up now.

In all seriousness, I really do like the idea of having a fuzzy blanket of all four members in colorful attack-mode. My couch was once covered in pizza, but today, will now be covered in pizazz.

SUCCESS!

I feel calm inside. Knowing that deep down underneath Paul Stanley's ass lies a buffet of food shit is mind numbing, but Paul Stanley's ass eases this pain. I'm truly an "out of sight, out of mind" kinda guy, so for the time being, I'm satisfied with this solution.

I think what sucks is that I bought this online, only to find it with a cheaper price tag in a used record store a week later. Oh, and it didn't smell like cat piss. Because the one I got smells like cat piss.

Hey, at least I have something new to complain about.

KAIJU.

2011-09-03T05:07:00.000-07:00

KAIJU PARTY!

THE END.

"Cappuccino" is a weird word to spell.

2011-09-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing I want the world to know about me it's that I love coffee. It's been a passion of mine for years -- the constant goal to achieve the perfect cup has, for a very long time, been pursued and thoroughly sought out. I think about coffee all the time. The simple smell of a classic roast can set a wild animal loose inside of me. The way it makes me feel, think and move are all intoxicating. I'm just plain ol' addicted, people.

There's hundreds of other things I don't want people to know about me, but out of all the weird and creepy things I say and do, this one is pretty acceptable. Because no one needs to know I really like the way chalk feels.

I'm not sure when I became so interested in coffee, but I know it was definitely at an earlier age. Maybe I was around fourteen or fifteen, so it's not that young. But movies have always painted coffee as the go-to morning ritual, the first thing you must do after rolling out of bed. It looked so calming and relaxing, I couldn't help wonder what miracle liquid was being consumed. It looked and felt like hot chocolate, too, so, naturally, we were off to a pretty good start.

Growing up, my mom drank a lot of coffee, as well as my older sister, but I vaguely remember my older brother, Jimmy, drinking coffee, too. Which pretty much sealed the deal.

Older brother > everyone else.

So I had to do what I had to do. I had to emulate the best, evolve into a higher lifeform and totally load my weak and frail body with heart pumping caffeine. People on television and film drank coffee. The people around me drank coffee. I had to have it. IT WOULD BE MINE.

Old Memory Alert:

In high school, I really dug indie comics. Anything about depressed and gloomy loners was great reading, but one series in particular, though, really hit home and made me do stupid things.

It was called Too Much Coffee Man. I kinda stumbled into it when I found a few copies at a used bookstore, took them home and got hooked.

In accordance to my reading agenda, it was sorta depressing and maybe just a teensy bit gloomy. Not really sure. Because even back then I didn't really understand what I was reading, but I'll try to sum it up -- it was about a chubby dude in spandex with a coffee cup for a head. Lots of sarcasm and dry humor with what I assume to be a hopped up superhero based around coffee, but I'm not sure why I read it or what I found entertaining in it. A lot of it seemed abstract and artsy, but if it did anything well, it was to make me want hot coffee. The comic transformed me into a maniac craving this unique brown water. I needed it and I needed it bad.

So, one night I decided to steal my mom's coffee maker, set it up in my room and had at it. I shoveled in spoonfuls of grounded up Folgers, pressed "on" and never looked back. Of course, it was disgusting. I listened to music, read comics and did not go to bed at fucking all. Although everyone else in my age group were dry humping and smoking pot at the park, I learned the power behind coffee during this strange teenage experience. I learned to vaguely comprehend the bewitchment of caffeine. I also learned that, because of this late night undertaking, I truly did not have any friends. At all.

I really did stay up all night, thoughh, completely wired and plugged in. It was pointless and absurd, but it was, like, really awesome.

So here I am today! Time has passed and I've become more mature in my quest for coffee. I've been around the block a few times so I know what's good and I know what I want. Example:

A fantasy of mine is to own one of those massive contraptions that pump out the grandest cup of brew one could ever imagine possible, usually reserved for classy coffee joints and Italian playboys. You know those ones? High end, completely immaculate and destined to create a solid cup of coffee every single time. I'm looking and pining for the kind of beautiful appliance that's the size of a gumball machine and costs over five thousand dollars.

Well, fuck if that's ever going to happen.

In the past, I've tried different versions of Mr. Coffee coffee makers, French presses from all over the Internet and anything that's inexpensive and will easily replicate the silky smooth flavors of an overpriced tower of chrome and steel. So...

I found this:

First off, "this" is that thing above, a Bialetti Mukka Glass Stovetop Cappuccino Maker. I found it online and thought it looked like a direct route to my Happy Place. The name is Italian based, the reviews are favorable and "mukka" sounds playful and fun. Actually, a bunch of reviews complain that the entire product has a high tendency to blow up all over your kitchen, but that's neither here nor there. Because I already spent a hundred bucks on the damn thing.

With all the negative feedback behind us, this looks pretty fancy, like a cross between a teapot and a lantern you'd bring on a camping trip.

It comes in three pieces, which is just the right amount of assembly for me to not be on the edge of tears every time I had to wash it. You add water to the black thing, espresso in the middle thing and a bunch of milk in the glass thing. Through my travels, I suggest you use good espresso beans. I'm unable to point you in any sort of direction in acquiring these great and powerful beans, for I simply use the ones that come in a really shiny can. This technique works for me on so many levels.

I'm not sure how the Bialetti Mukka Glass Stovetop Cappuccino Maker actually works, but you set it up on the stove to heat up, hit that switch in the center and in under a few minutes, the sounds of loud popping and sucking noises hit the air. It's all quite dramatic, and completely unnerving after literally just reading product reviews of "watch out it blows up in your kitchen."

Within a flash, you've got cappuccino! The milk is flooded by cooked up espresso, topped off with a small helping of foam, all in one flick of the switch. Truthfully, now that I think about it, it's more of a latte, but it tastes good and I didn't do a lot of work. Also, to create the perfect balance of taste and flavor, I've been experimenting with using half-and-half versus whole milk, which has done nothing to further my desperate research and everything to make me fart like a motherfucker. At least me bones be strong.

Besides the foam not being that foamy, I suppose my only complaint it that it only makes a single cup, and even then, it's the smallest version of any cup I've ever seen. Yeah, I know it's meant to be sipped from those cute little espresso cups (and a quick Wikipedia check reveals that cappuccino, or "Capuchin," literally means "small cap," ha!) but I'm too used to pots of coffee and mugs bigger than my head. I can always get used to smaller portions and practicing moderation, but then again, I can always starve to death. You'd like that, wouldn't you?

Anyway, check it out. If you like cappuccinos that aren't, like, the best in the world but are still pretty damn good, then the Bialetti Mukka Glass Stovetop Cappucinno Maker is for you. Affordable and easy, you can't go wrong.

Well, unless you used decaf.

Seriously, never use decaf.

EVER.

I went to England. And it was pretty cool.

2011-08-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

So here we begin our wild and occasionally mixed up adventure. If I were smart, I would have buckled down and written this way earlier, fresh from the journey with every detail still lingering hard in my mind. But, no. Took me two weeks to finally upload some photos, assess the situation and force myself to recall things that happened fourteen days ago.

Now, shockingly, for a guy who likes to travel, blog about nearly anything and show off everything he owns, I took a drastic turn for idiocy and just barely took photos while abroad. At some point, I realized the opportunity was rare and important, but to hell with it. Somehow it was just too much to reach for the camera and to care, so from here on out, you won't be seeing too much. I went to a different and wild country, saw countless local landmarks and saw dozens and dozens of amazing bands. What, you wanted more than four photos?

Oh, maybe the crippling diarrhea had a hand in my newfound apathy.

Read on, yo.

So this is where we begin -- the airport. No accompanying photos (sorry!) but while reading along, occasionally close your eyes and imagine the atmosphere and background I'm about to describe. I'm in a Starbucks, luggage crowding my feet, bitter coffee pissing me off. Already, I'm off to a bad start when my coffee tastes sour and weak. I hate to be "that guy," but c'mon. Don't fuck with my coffee.

I went with a few friends and the woman. We all huddled around waiting for the flight, desperate to get to the main destination without totally curdling our spines in the fourteen hour flights.

Well, we finally boarded the plane and made it to Philadelphia, halfway to the Promise Land. Layover time, baby. Of course, while cruising the airport's luxurious stores and snack shops, I did the worst thing I could do by eating the worst thing I could eat.

My initial intent was to eat something fresh and light, a complete contradiction to any and all food in airports across the US, but I still gave it a shot. Maybe I could have eaten an apple, or a few lightly toasted bagels. Looking back, eating Goddamn fast food would have been a better choice.

I ate warm, pre-packaged sushi. YES I KNOW THIS WAS STUPID. But I swore it looked like a vegetable roll, and where's the harm in that? Well, the harm hit nine hours later and it hit hard.

We got there. I made it. Semi-alive. You can't tell, but I really felt like ass. It was as if someone had socked me in the stomach and decided to put laxatives in all the food I was about to eat. I don't know how it's possible...but I think I came down with a solid helping of Beaver Fever. Did you hear me, world?

I HAD CONTRACTED AN INTENSE SLICE OF BEAVER FEVER.

Let that sink in, dear readers.

The human body demands a cycle of "what goes in must come out," but not in a matter of a few seconds. I'll tell you, after four days, though, I've never felt lighter. Thanks, weird food poisoning thing.

Behind me, though, was a local pub across the street from the hotel. Two things:

1. The hotel room was the size of a closet. I know I over exaggerate a lot, but literally...a closet. Also, the shower doubled as the entire bathroom, meaning you did everything in the shower. It was cramped, confusing and yes, wonderfully cheap but so not worth the extra pounds saved. The entire stupid thing was always covered in water and to brush your teeth meant you had to know four different types of yoga. Fail.

2. I quickly learned that beer cured all ailments. Jet lag and stomach-death were swiftly alleviated by pint after pint of anything I could get my hands on. That bar served as my immediate trek into feeling semi-normal, and I took advantage any chance I could get. When on vacation, it is absolutely and perfectly acceptable to drink at breakfast. Especially if you have gut-rot.

Saw that thing, pictured above. Kinda looks like honeycombs and I swear I completed a puzzle of it once, too. Very important stuff. I think.

Big Ben! I couldn't muster up any real excitement since my insides were crumbling, but looking back, it was pretty cool. It's a clock. A really big clock!

Thank God I went with responsible, sober friends, because if it wasn't for them, I'd be drunk in a gutter crying myself to sleep every afternoon. So, with the help of these friends, they at least guided me into museums when I was guiding myself into pubs. Truth be told, I was getting sick of sitting in a bar watching soccer and weird British sitcoms, so it was a nice change of pace. Yeah, I rocked the British Museum.

Not a lot of photographic evidence to back that up, but hey, there's a mummy! There was a dozen mummy hands, heads and other various body parts littering the museum, but none could compare to the real deal. Full body, fully dead and extra crispy. I thought I took a photo of Creepy Mummy, but I did not. This one looks pretty badass, but Creepy Mummy had gross brown skin and a completely viewable, shriveled up ballbag. Creepy Mummy was my favorite.

Our second stop was in Blackpool, the Wildwood, New Jersey of England. I must be living in such a bubble because I had no idea Blackpool looked like this. Ferris wheels, giant boardwalks, arcades, etc.

In all fairness, I also have a tendency to research nothing on where I'm going to, so my surprise isn't that shocking. In time, you will learn that it's more fun in life to be painfully oblivious.

Also, fish and chips. Lots and lots of fish and chips. I tried a batch a few times, a bold move for a dude who had crippling case of the bubble-guts, but it was worth it. Delicious stuff, sure, but I kind of set up home base at an Italian joint across the way. It had non threatening pizza and other food items that weren't fried.

Obviously, one of the reasons I hit the road to Blackpool was to see Rebellion Fest, a four-day punk rock festival of some of the coolest bands alive. And as mentioned before, is an incredible feat because some of these bands are ancient. Like, mummy-picture-above ancient. Luckily, everyone I saw (The Boys, Anti Nowhere League, Slaughter and the Dogs) were all really good, so I didn't feel ripped off and cheated because I flew from fucking Arizona. And since there were so many bands, I didn't bother taking too many photos. On one hand, I was into the moment and the rock and roll and having a hell of a time. On the other hand, my leather jacket is so stiff and tight I can barely lift my hands above my head to even take a photo.

But I did get a shot of Dave Vanian as Timmy Lee Jones in the "Men in Black."

Right after the fourth night of ringing ears and sticky clothes, we quickly hit the trail to Manchester. By this time, I was so bloated and out of focus with the real world I could barely stand. I wish I wanted to do more than be horizontal, because I heard there are some great comic shops, watering holes and restaurants to be seen in Manchester.

The shitty thing was that since we were all hungover and feeling like death, the hotel wouldn't let us in until two in the afternoon. It was seven in the morning. Completely dropped the ball on that one. Luckily, there was a coffee shop in town that didn't mind me sucking on a cappuccino for five and a half hours. I then ate a full English breakfast. Then I really felt like death.

Took a nap, woke up and hit the streets. I ended up eating Chinese food 'til I was in a coma, so going back to the hotel who I hated so very much for not letting me in early didn't seem like such a bad idea. Took a shower to wash away a full week's worth of sin and debauchery and went to bed.

Hey, I found a cure for Davey and Jimmy!

Went home the next day, safe and sound. Overall, it was a great trip. I learned a lot about myself, too, and how I should, as a responsible adult, control my dumb and ignorant eating habits.

Naw, fuck it. We all gotta poop sometime.

SQUINKIES ARE COOL.

2011-08-14T17:07:00.000-07:00

Before I start uploading photos of boring landmarks and funny looking mummies in British museums, I gotta get this out of the way before my head explodes. The jet lag may be to blame for my finger-flopping sloppiness, and the subsequent gushing over such idiocy, but I love Squinkies. And before I'm done, you will love them, too.

I was introduced to these when one of my nieces received a batch for her birthday a few months ago. My gift was easily and embarrassingly upped, because my gift wasn't a grip of tiny plastic balls filled with tiny plastic toys.

When I saw what she got, it was whatever. No big whoop. Until I pulled it away from her like any butthole uncle would do, I actually kinda liked it. Albeit a treasure trove of trinkets for young girls, it was charming and unbelievably addicting. Are these the new hit toy making waves through schoolyards across the states? Is Zu Zu out, Squinkies in? What the hell are Squinkies anyway? Quick summary:

Overpriced vending machine toys, sans vending machine. Although you might argue the money wasted on vending machines, it's my true belief that everyone loves vending machines. You might have felt disappointment in your shitty rub on tattoo, even downright angered over a weak offering in your Homies Mania phase, but you're never really that bummed. You put in money, you get something tangible and entertaining. It's a slot machine for people who hate losing. And slot machines. But more importantly, it's for people who like fun.

Hell, there's even some mild fun to be had in the see-through bubble container. Ugly coin purse or worlds smallest aquarium, your pick. The world is yours, people.

Squinkies, I thought, were solely girly based. From what I saw, the pink packaging and shiny dazzle shit was a dead giveaway, but have faith, true believers. There is, in fact, a whole line for boys wanting in on the action, too. The usual lineup of standard puppies and goldfish are replaced with manly men and dinosaurs, a surefire way into any young lad's heart. Out of loyalty, I opted for the special Marvel version, but now that I'm at home and ten dollars in the hole...and I'm not entirely sure why...but I think I shoulda passed on mini-Magneto for the T-Rex the size of my thumbnail. It's an odd feeling of regret, but then again, I'm an odd man. In time, you learn to accept these things.

Not shabby. Cutesy, fat-faced versions off various hard hitting characters in the Marvel Universe makes any Sunday a little less Sunday-y. These will look great next to my laptop, helping me write, socialize online and curve my spine into a giant boomerang. God, I hate Sundays.

Mentioned before, these are damn expensive for what they are. You already lose the thrill of the V-machine gamble, and the plastic pod isn't even standard regulation size. You get the three mystery marbles, which heightens the experience, but yeah. You really are paying ten bucks for this. Worth it? Perhaps. But there better be a genuine moon rock in one of those secret eggs or I quit.

I wanted to get a full shot of the main haul, but it was way too hard to capture a handful of ant sized jellybeans without it looking like a handful of ant sized jellybeans. So I took a special shot of our more mysterious friends. Looks better than what I initially wanted. Trust me.

So, these are the Secret Three. To the left, Captain America has a jellyfish-ish, see through hue, and in the middle, Thor looks like he stole Mickey Mouse's shoes. On the right? Spider-Man's just Spider-Man, but that's still cool. And since all three are made of a squishy plastic, all three are completely chewable. So it's all very cool.

Also, the first two look like the exact same guy. Same pouty face, same squishy chub body. I ain't complainin', just observin'.

I wish I could go on, but at this point, it would just be pandering. Just know there are a bunch of little toys in little balls invading the aisles of your Target/Toys R Us near you. All is right in the world.

Later!

London, Bitches.

2011-07-29T06:07:00.000-07:00

I never imagined this blog hitting a point where the best I can do is give an update on my life in the last week. I hate the idea of it, but god help me, I kinda like it. I know, overall, it's a lazier approach in comparison to what I've written about in the past, but if I can effectively write about anything without giving up halfway through, I'm golden. Plus, I kinda like how I feel like Doogie Howser when I'm relaying my thoughts and detailing all daily adventures. Sometimes like Carrie Bradshaw, too.

Secrets revealed all up in this bitch.

You see, I'm leaving. No, not forever, but for the next week. I'm traveling abroad, seeing the sights, tasting the grand cuisine of another country. Yeah, I'm going to London. Why? I'm going to Rebellion Fest in Blackpool, a three day music festival full of all the bands that will make you seem better than everyone else for seeing. Bands like Eddie and the Hotrods, The Boys, Menace, The Damned, etc. A lot of British punk that must be seen whenever and however, by any means necessary. 'Cause some of those dudes are fucking old.

Lots of American bands, too. Bands from all over the globe, really. I'm really stoked to see some of these guys, which rivals the second reason (arguably, the first reason) as to why I'm actually thrilled to sit in a plane for sixteen hours.

Truthfully, this trip is as much of a music festival adventure as it is a reason for me to drink. Which, even more truthfully, is main priority number one. Everything I've seen in films and on TV paints the classic pub as the greatest place to be in or around. There's something really charming about the "British pub," and I want my pants charmed right the fuck off.

I figure I'll see what I need to see, check out the dungeons here, look at the royal stuff there, I dunno. I really do just wanna sit in a pub, pretend to enjoy whatever sporting event is playing and be one with the crowd.

If I'm not poisoned by mid-week, I will have failed.

I wish I could write more, but I decided to sit down on the laptop exactly one hour before I'm off to the airport. Ridiculous, I know. I wish I could keep in touch with all you people living in the area to hang out, shoot the shit and grab a pint (OMG! I can't wait!) but my phone doesn't work in your wacky country and I'm not about to check my online persona at random Internet cafes throughout the area. Ehh, I might. Totally addicted.

So that's where I'll be and that's what I'll be doing when you notice the Facebook updates run cold and the tweets die off. I'm not being lazy, you see, I'm being lazy in another country.

See you soon, dudes!

IT'S WRESTLEMANIA ALL UP IN HERE.

2011-07-20T18:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, I blogged about my return to my normal, dull life. Yeah, I'm acting as if I was living out an actual call of duty overseas or drilling oil in the snow for months on end, but it was a little less demanding and gooey. I was on tour playing the rock and roll music. Kinda the same thing, right?

That blog entry was my cold and hesitant jump back into the game, baby, where I was still weak and delirious from a two week east coast tour. I mainly wrote about a bundle of Transformers aiding me in reaching the lazy comfort I'm primarily used to, where a hot pizza pie comes first and a six pack of cold beer immediately comes second. Then, naturally, number one out of my number two comes third. Diarrhea joke FTW.

Within my words, I, as I mostly do, complained about the lack of interest I have in Transformers. It's not that they're bad or inherently unfun, they're just not my bag. Maybe throw in a felt cape or a blaster rifle to spice things up, guys.

Anyway, they were a gift to myself to help me feel normal again, to have fun once more, to wash away the emotional trauma of sleeping in truckstops and nursing a hangover every other morning. I'm not complaining, really, but I was left living in a hollow shell of the man I once was. Only time, money and oily, beefed up men would set me straight.

I mentioned I was looking for WWF shit. I felt it was the only thing that would piece my together my shattered existence, and at the time, it kind of felt right. Like paying for that extra shot of wheat grass in your fruit smoothie. That bullshit wheatgrass gets you every time.

Seeing as I haven't watched any kind of wrestling or have been vaguely interested in wrestling in over a decade, the urge happened unexpectedly. I accepted the odd interest, let it pass around in my mind and moved on. And I totally did move on, I swear.

Well, here we go.

It's "Ravishing" Rick Rude, bitches, all up in your face and you can't do nothin' about it.

In some way, I feel that I forcefully asked the universe for this, and I'd be a fool to pass it up. The universe might make me crash my car on the way to the grocery store or something. This is my logic.

Yeah, I haven't watched WWF/WWE/whatever you wanna call it since Stone Cold Steve Austin made Vince McMahon piss his pants in front of a live audience and Chyna was a household name. I wouldn't say this was the ultimate peak for the franchise, nor my favorite few years of leg-dropping debauchery, but it's right where I ended and that's all I know of the sport. You ask me what's going on in the world of wrestling today and I feel the only thing I can come up with is, "there's a really pale redheaded guy." I don't know who he is, and have only caught quick glimpses at the magazine racks in Barnes and Noble, but I hate him. So very much.

During my run as a fan, I collected the second incarnation of figures (think smaller than the original bricks of rubber from the 80's) had the ring to battle said figures, watched religiously on Monday night and even got to attend a live and in your face wrestling match extravaganza. Although it wasn't to be taped for live television and didn't count in WWF storytelling continuity, it was still a lot of fun to hear the classic slap of every chop, slam and choke in extreme sight and sound.

And although my wrestling experience ranged from the mid-90's to a screeching halt when I entered high school, I was lucky enough to have an older brother who taped matches off the TV from the time I was born, giving me the chance to witness the top contenders in their prime, well after it originally happened. And I thank him, because this was the good shit. This was the real shit.

This was the era of Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake, Andre the Giant, The Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase. This was when there was no "over-the-top." You came, you saw, you had a talking parrot or giant scissors and you were always protecting your wife/girlfriend from getting hit on by the other wrestlers. Seriously, guys? Leave the chicks at home.

Who's to argue what "over the top" really quates to in the wide world of wrrestling, but I've always fancied myself an advocate for the especially over-the-top guys. Guys like Doink the Clown, Undertaker, even the androgynous Goldust, who did nothing but paint his face and sparkle. Anyone who looked weird, acted weird and made me feel weird when I closed my eyes in bed at night was golden in my book.

"Ravishing" Rick Rude has always been one such oddball favorite. There's no doubt that you're gonna be a fan of the bigshots like Macho Man and Hulk Hogan, but every now and then a star shines. Just so happens that this star liked to be ravishing and rude. What a prick.

I can only ever remember a few matches, but it always consisted of "Ravishing" being an asshole, taunting the crowd or flexing his muscles to the groans of men and the delight of women. I wanna say you loved to hate him, but that's probably not the best description because you just hated him. He pissed everyone off, picked fights and Goddamnit, he gyrated his hips and that was just not cool.

There's something to be said about having one of my favorite wrestlers be the guy that makes kissy-faces at the audience while grinding and humping the mat, but I refuse to think beyond that. Please, don't think beyond that.

When I found this is the aisles of a Toys R Us, I was completely sold. I literally asked and I have received. Remember that universal karma shit? It was about to hit hard if I didn't act fast.

My only nervous thought was the idea of taking it up the cashier to be rung up. A simple task of buying goods in a perfectly respectable manner in a perfectly acceptable establishment became the most embarrassing act of the night.

Picture this: A lonely man buying what may arguably be the gayest action figure ever, walks amid the shadows, eyes ablaze, no words uttered. I might as well be buying a fucking dildo.

Now, asking for a gift receipt wouldn't cut it either, because really, if I was backed into a corner and had to explain myself, no one would believe my "younger nephew" was begging for a sweaty action figure of a wrestler who existed in the 1980's.

So I had no choice, I had to buy something else. I at least had to make it look like I was buying my "younger nephew" birthday presents, and a scattered assortment of this and that might do the trick. Who's to question a grab bag of wrestlers, Pokemon and some stupid Green Lantern crap? Could look legit, as if I'm the coolest uncle for spending such a pretty penny, or could look like a terrible ruse to cover up a creepy fetish. So off I went...

...right back to the same shit. I've denied it in the past, but yeah, I'm a dumbass. I bought Jake "The Snake" Roberts. I couldn't bring myself to waste any more money on junk I didn't really want when good ol' Jake was staring me in the face. This ain't junk, trust me. When anything you buy comes with a toy rubber snake, you better snatch that up ASAP.

To an outsider, I figure I look like an enthusiast now. It's a good word to hide beyond in a situation like this. The illusion being that I was born and bred in an era of 80's wrestling and just couldn't go on any longer without a plastic reminder of days gone by. Like I'm reminiscing about my youth, living out my retro fantasies, etc. From the outside, there's nothing weird about it.

I feel good about this scenario. Real good.

Actually, yeah, I really like Jake "The Snake," but I like the idea of recreating one of the greatest storylines in wrestling even more. You see, one of the tapes my brother had let us watch featured, of course, Rick Rude in all his glory, but also featured Jake "The Snake" doing his thang, too. Body slam here, off the top ropes there, they did what they did and it was a beautiful thing. Life only got a little bit better when these two heavyweights went head to head in an all out battle of wits, strength and pulling your pants off to reveal the face of your opponent's girlfriend.

I'd summarize, but it's so much easier for you to check it out yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfG_jIOqdXY

God, I love this.

And there you go! I feel full and rich with life, a zest only two fist-pumping musclemen can provide. They'll live in Castle Greyskull and invite Mumm-Ra over on Sunday nights to watch Breaking Bad, occasionally work on their abs and argue over wheather Corn Nuts are, in fact, actual nuts.

What a wild Wednesday night.

I Love the X-Men.

2011-07-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

I love the X-Men. I love everything about them. Aside from the obvious overwhelming strength and magical powers from beyond, this group of nutjobs wield an intense fashion sense. Through all the adventures and battles...I like their clothing. Everyone on the team has their own look, a unique and personal statement through colorful spandex to really cool looking gloves.

If anything, I want to own a jumpsuit with a big, bold "X" on the chest. Hell, anything with that damn X on it. It's so gang-like and intimidating. Chicks totally dig that kind of stuff.

Now, I know that throughout comics, everyone and every thing has had some pretty cool get ups. My only defense is that it's just not the same with the X-Men. Who else looks like Jubilee? Who else can get away with that weird outfit Wolverine wears on the daily?

One of the things I simultaneously love and am frustrated by is the ever changing cast of characters. You'd think I'd be all about this, but ehh.

On one hand, it's nice to see some fresh, new faces enter the ranks, ushering in a whole new dynamic and feel to the comic. On the other hand, most of these characters suck ass. There's only so many superpowers one can have without aping someone else's superpowers, so any new mutant abilities and charms will usually seem pretty weak. At least to me, I guess. Give me the classics like Beast and Cyclops and I'm just fine. Stick with what you know. Stick with anyone who's a dark and furry blue or can shoot red rainbows from their eyes.

But every now and again, I'm intrigued by the newest weirdo jumping around and picking up cars and throwing them through buildings.

In fact, I become enamored with these characters. What was once a cheap excuse for a new spin on things becomes my favorite part of reading comic books. Who or what will show up next? What kind of magical shit are they gonna be doing? What color is their hair?

I guess I'd better state that although I'm a fan, I don't think I'm the biggest fan. There's a lot of story lines and crossovers I've generally skipped over, and entire decades that seem so far beyond what I'm into. See: anything from the 90's.

So really, this is the last ten years we're talking about. I've been giving it my best to stay up to date by correctly leading my way through the chronological trades. It's kind of sad to think of all the money I've spent collecting comics could have probably bought me an apartment that isn't the size of a phone booth, or at least some really fancy guitars that everyone can be jealous about. Chicks totally dig that kinda stuff.

That being said, one of my favorite these days is a young gal by the name of Hisako Ichiki, Codename: ARMOR.

Her backstory eludes me, and doesn't really serve a purpose in my obsession with this pint size powerhouse, but since I'm already cheating by having her Wikipedia page wide open, might as well run through the basics:

Armor firsts appears in Whedon's Astonishing X-Men, is a student at the Xavier Institute and uses psionic body armor for strength and power.

I so nearly copied that word for word.

This storyline was some top notch shit, but truthfully, my main attraction lies in that psionic armor. Even more truthfully, I like how it's bright pink. Observe:

Look at it! It's like an astronaut suit and marshmallows all rolled into one!

Okay, I hate using images off of google for my blogs, since it's a solid cop-out and completely unoriginal on my part -- another blogging Cardinal sin I can't be a part of. Just copying and pasting assaults and offends me, and I imagine it does much of the same to you.

Instead, as in the past, I'd rather like to paint a picture in your mind with my words and my thought provoking art skills. I like to have the brushstrokes tickle your brain, opening up a flood of imagery and imagination. Today? Not so much. I'm lazy, it's hot outside and I'm all outta Rocky Road. Wait, do you capitalize "Rocky Road?" Or no? MY NERVES ARE ON EDGE, MAN.

Her pink armor is awesome, though! It can form and shape in various ways, from a big bubbly Michelin Man looking thing to a claw-equipped Wolverine motherfucker. I have no idea what kind of fake science and mysticism is behind this, but it's a superpower I absolutely want so very bad. I know everyone immediately jumps on the "I wanna fly!" bandwagon, but this guy right here wants super strength and invulnerability. Most of my life is spent doing things to not be on the fast track to instant death, so it would be an amazing feeling to know that nothing will harm me, whether I'm in a catastrophic plane crash or a simple bar fight, complete with broken bottles and rusty knives. Hell, I'd probably be the one who started these scenarios. I'd go all "Unbreakable" on your ass, blowing shit up, derailing trains, kicking the crap out of all the UFC freaks trolling the streets. Oh, that would be feel so good. And damn, it would look good.

Because chicks totally dig that stuff.

Not sure where I was headed with this, but there ya go. Hisako Ichiki is kinda in the background most of the time, only to pop up every now and again to do some pink, bubbly armor stuff. Occasional jab there, cute little banter there. But every time she makes an appearance, I'm there, in awe and wonder, just imagining that wonderful gift to be mine. That candy-colored armor enveloping my body, daring me to jump off the nearest cliff into a lake of alligators. And I would take that dare. I so very much would.

Bobby vamp Calabrese 2011 Summer Party!

2011-07-09T08:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure what to blog about, but I'm blogging right now. I'm not lying when I say I've been wanting to post something of legit value for the last week, but I've yet to muster up the strength and energy to do just that. I have these grand ideas of posting about my favorite X-Men, or detailing in all in all of my most sensational word wizardry my most favorite wrestler in the WWF. Both of these subjects, by the way, will be presented to you very soon. Lots of crude Paint art of pink haired mutants and oiled up brutes from the 1980's are sure to follow, paving the way for my blog to be the most scattered diary of any musician ever.

Maybe it's the above one-hundred degree weather that's been sucking my energy dry, perhaps it's the fact that every time I squat down to write a damn thing I lose all interest because I'm hungry and caveman must eat food yes. I demand a quiet, solemn atmosphere to write and in the last week, I've yet to achieve such a state. I'm not sure how that is, since I've created my living quarters to parallel that of a dark and musty cave, but it has, and all of my juices have run dry.

All is not lost in the way of creative outlets, mind you, because at least, if anything, I've been spending a lot of time writing songs, watching mindless Godzilla films and trying my best to just relax. I feel like an asshole when I say that my life is so demanding and stressful, that even eating junk food and playing video games isn't relaxing, but even for a guy who strums a guitar and sits on the Internet on all day, even that can become inane and monotonous. Every now and again, I need to just be one of the people. I need to enjoy life in the fullest, I need to grab a six pack and bake my shimmering, chalk-white skin in the hot Arizona sun. I need to sit by the fucking pool and be a party, baby.

And I did just that.

To say that I'm writing this buzzed might be an understatement. What's "being buzzed," really? How can one judge your level of intoxication when everyone has their own limits and regulations? Needless to say, I'm a tad bit loopy, my fingers feel sporadic and I'm just dying to see what I wrote, while I write, in the sad and lonely hours of the morning. Yeah, I'm totally drunk.

There's a lot of spellcheck to be had, I will admit that, because even if I'm the biggest boozer around, I demand proper spelling punctuation. Grammar, too. Everything, really. I have my standards.

But I want to write to you, dear friends, what I've been up to, even if it's not smothered in toy reviews and sensational meals I've had at the local pub. Even though I'm not including any fun photos or crappy drawings, I need to update. It's the least I can do, since, ya know, this is all I do. My life is awesome.

So. Where to begin?

Over the Fourth of July weekend, I went to Disneyland with the family. This includes all of my brothers and sisters, mom and dad, wives and husbands, kids and friends, etc. Our group has become almost humorous in it's absurd amount, but in the long run, it's way better for the guy stuck in the middle of it all. Sick of one side of the family? Hang with the other. Tired of the picky eaters? Hang on, trooper, just skip to the other side of the group. Bored of the complainers and whiners? Jump right back into the middle and out of sight, soldier, where you're obscure and out of the limelight. It's a delicate game of balancing who you can tolerate at any given time, but it is my family, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Hell, I'm too used to the weirdness. I practically crave it.

We did everything one could do in Disneyland, even if that secretly meant paying for overpriced beers in California Adventure just to past the time. If you could win a record for being the most nauseous and loopy on the California Screamin' roller coaster ride before you even rode the ride, I would win.

I'm not gonna lie, I love the place. It's not a love I'd wholly admit to, but just being there is nice. It's a good thing. I'm sure, in my age and current state of mind, things would be different if they didn't have the roller coasters and beer and whatnot, but overall...I dig it. The rides can seem a but outdated, the food can make you feel like you just ate the last thing thing you will ever eat before your heart gives out, but it's fun. The atmosphere is nice, the staff is dumb with friendliness and yeah, overall, you're just pleastanly pleased with whole experience. Plus, you're greeted with people who know who you are!

Yeah, I'm rich and famous. Not so much rich, and actually...not so much famous. But it's not commonly unknown for us Calabrese brothers to be spotted out of a crowd. Even us lowlifes can be recognized from time and time!

While we were rocking Space Mountain for the first of many times, we just so happened to be in front of a lovely couple who knew who me and Davey were. We may have looked greasy and slobby and agitated, but it was us, in all our Calabrese glory. Completely flattering, and although we tried to make appropriate smalltalk, I can't help but wonder if I blew the whole situation completely. You see, upon meeting these fine folks, I decided to, in my infinite hilarity, demand the young man give me his food. He was holding a half eaten carton of what appeared to be a Disney approved, plastic container of fruit, and, apparently, I thought it was kind of a funny thing to say. I don't know why, and looking back, it doesn't even make sense. No wonder they stopped talking to us thirty-two seconds in.

Usually, in such situations, I want to be the most hilarious and outgoing I can be. While growing up, I always imagined meeting the bands I liked and yeah, I wanted them to be normal, but what I really wanted was for them to be the part they portrayed on stage. Be the wild man, be the joker, be whatever! Just don't look like you got off of work at Wal-Mart and sufficiently hate your life. I know it's all an illusion, but it's what made famous people famous. If you're in a band, and for whatever reason you wear nothing but cowboy hats and bright red Nike sneakers, you can never be seen in a baseball cap and flip flops. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. It's not your thing. Stick with your thing! Anyway, I did what I could, and if I have failed you, Two People Behind Us in the Line for Space Mountain...I apologize.

We also saw Trent Reznor walking down main street. I'm not admitting to becoming a total fanboy, but I did kinda goad Davey into following him in the bathroom. I just wanted to know what was up. Fuckin' Trent Reznor, right? In Disneyland! It was damn precious.

My older sister got a photo with him, which I'm totally jealous of. I will fully admit, I pussed out, but now I wish I had some more snapshot taking balls. I could have had a wicked sweet Facebook profile picture.

So now we're here, today. I went to the pool earlier, which is shared by a large apartment complex, offering the finest in nutjobs you're always pairing up with. I'm already nervous and self conscious by even being next to water, under the sun and with my shirt off, so by even looking in my general direction you've dramatically elevated my heightened sense of nervousness. I won't bother you, and you won't bother me. Yeah, I'm talking to you, guy with the awkwardly-mismatched-to-the-rest-of-your-body face tan. Seriously, work on your back, bro. Even that shit out.

I also brought down a six pack of Peroni, which was awesome, but is now quickly dismissed as the worst idea of the night. That is, until I decided to keep drinking well into the night, bringing Worst Idea Number Two to life. It lived, it thrived, it hurt.

My lounging time was heightened by getting a sweet drunk on, but now a fervid guilt and an oncoming fear of a hangover is ever present in my mind. I can't enjoy anything right now. My entire day of rest and relaxation has been ruined by a mixture of gluttony and sadness! So I think this is the time for me to say goodbye, dear friends. I'll see you in the morning. Have the Advil ready.

UPDATE:

Hungover, yeah, but not as bad as I expected. My head feels like something out of "Scanners" and my guts feel muddy, cruddy and gross. Oh well. Was it worth it? Yeah, I guess so. My greatest fantasies in life would be to tromp around in the jungle with Indiana Jones, or to be on the beach in any scene with the Karate Kid. Despite not having the massive bonfires, the actual big blue ocean and half-naked high schoolers dancing and drinking from the 1980's, I feel like I made headway into completing a tiny section of my bucket list. With my bizarre and lonely pool party, I have vaguely achieved somewhat of this scenario. Now get me that fucking Advil.

Anyway, I also did some post-editing. I added a bit of dash and spice with my lame banner, because I could NOT let this post go by without some color and pizazz. That's a straight up Cardinal sin, yo.

So enjoy your summer! Do something fun. Go buy some Godzilla toys or eat a bag of marshmallows. I know I will.

KOTSU ARTWORK RULES!

2011-06-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Next month, we'll be pushing one of our classic Calabrese deals, where if you purchase over twenty-five bucks worth of swag at our online merch store, you'll get yourself a signed tour poster of our last...well, tour. The east coast one, where we hit up St. Louis to New York to Erie, PA and then all the way back across the country to Phoenix, AZ. I'm still fighting off the crippling boredom endured during that time. The entire trip was beautiful, and I wouldn't change anything about it. We met incredible people and played some sweaty shows. But my life has straightened out, I've returned to a normal change of pace and I'm here to keep your bedroom walls covered in Calabrese junk. Keep reading...

So a friend of ours, by the mysterious and mystical name of Kotsu, has immortalized us in the world of artistic immortality. She's done so much for us, and we love it. SHE IS THE SHIT.

All around, Kotsu is a great gal who's done us an insane amount of awesomeness by drawing a bunch of cool stuff, everything from us surfing the galaxies in/on an automobile, to us looking buff as shit. That's the magic with band artwork. Through everything you've ever seen of Calabrese drawn, animated, etc., I'm positive you all think I'm a ripped and sexual beast. And that is absolutely accurate in every way imaginable.

Kotsu, in real life, is super shy and cute as a button. She's been to a handful of our shows and I've been charmed every single time. She speaks low, accurately and to the point. I like that. No bullshit, all killer and no filler. She's smart, fun and one hell of a gal. Am I gushing? I'm gushing. Check her out, folks:

http://kotsu-direngrey.deviantart.com/

So I wanted to show off everything she's done for us, whether it be out of pure love or through shadowy threats in dark alleyways. I really like the style, the color, everything she pulls out of her back pocket. I like how it's super manga-fied, which is bad-ass because I really, really like how I totally resemble the dude from Cowboy Bebop with pointy ears. Don't worry, this blog all connects because we will be selling one of her pieces, which turns out to be the greatest poster ever.

Someone mentioned at a show once that the first poster (seen down below, the one we're selling) reminded them of classic monster cereals, like Frankenberry or Boo Berry. I love this connection, because I love it when food makes my teeth hurt.

Yeah, I'm showing off. I know this. I'm not ashamed. I want this bizarre world of ours to be more prominent in Calabrese-ness. I want the smear and stain of Calabrese to be in your face and online. I love the idea of clogging up the internet with all things Calabrese, whether it be insane art, photos or music. I've mentioned it before, but it deserves to be said that all the chubby Italian dudes and broccoli shots filling up google searches will be replaced with horror-rock album covers and me and my brothers' ugly mugs. In a perfect world, it would also replace the photos of us six years ago, where I looked like Robert Smith and our main choice of dress was "cowboy." But not cool cowboy. Trust me. It was bad cowboy.

So check it out. Kotsu rules. Our new poster will be made available first thing next month, so keep your eyes out for that. Get psyched. Get stoked. Get wild.

She makes us look good and the Internet is now a better place because of it. A place full of prank videos, hardcore pornography and of course...Calabrese. Yay!

Dear, Birra Moretti.

2011-06-26T07:10:00.000-07:00

You are my friend. A long distant chum imported from Italy. A premium lager in six shimmering bottles. You don't pride yourself on quantity, for even though you're a .8 ounces away from a solid 12 ounce bottle of beer, you make up for it in golden power and taste. You can only be described as a magical elixir that can cure all ailments and diseases. Or ground up, liquefied leprechaun bones.

You wear a fedora, and I like that. Your suit is green, which so beautifully matches said fedora, and I am pleased by that, too. Your mustache is fun, and can only be elevated in hilarity once you get it smothered in beer foam. Which will most definitely happen, because you are awesome.

You've taught me so much, Birra Moretti. You've given me strength to learn a foreign language, for now I know that "tradizione" means "tradition," and "qualita" means "quality." And I will take this knowledge and use it wisely and and in the most intelligent way imaginable. Like naming my firstborn female child "Qualita." It's got a certain flair to it.

The mystery of who you are and what you do only adds to the appeal, Birra Moretti.

Are you a puppet maker? Do you design and fashion wooden shoes in a cramped and dusty store? Are you all alone while you work, Birra? Are you a widower? Did you lose a child to a gang of gypsies? Is that what's driving you to drink?

Is "Birra" your first name? Is your name the way "beer" sounds in an overblown Italian accent? Or am I that stupid to just realize, while writing that last sentence, that "Birra" simply and obviously means "beer?" Me dumb. Me so very dumb.

But what about Moretti? Is Moretti your last name? Why, upon closer inspection, do you start looking so mysterious and sinister? What are you hiding, Birra Moretti? Check below, you'll be surprised to notice a clenched fist being made. Hiding something, Birra? Or am I mistaking it for rage?

Everything about you is an enigma, and I wouldn't have it any other way while getting drunk. You're an absolute delight with a dark and tortured past, or a fun loving party animal with heavy stock in goofy beer bongs and inflatable palm trees.

And that's that.

I love you, Birra Moretti.

I LOVE YOU.

"Congo" is My Favorite Movie Ever.

2011-06-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

"Congo," a film released in 1995, is one of my favorite movies to watch. Based entirely around a talking monkey and diamonds the size of plums, there's nothing this movie won't do to entertain and delight. I've seen it enough times to know that it's a pretty awful turd of a flick, but with anything, my love is compiled of fond memories and deep emotional attachments to a gorilla with a Nintendo Power Glove. Oh, and Tim Curry. Tim Curry is great.

Now, I'm not sure what could be said right now, how to plump this up outside of a simple "me like." I thought about summarizing the movie, detail upon blissful detail, completely out of pure delight for no one but me. I even entertained the idea of drawing my Top Three Favorite Scenes in Paint, but my heart, as you will soon find out, just ain't in it.

You see, my computer died. It didn't live a happy, healthy life and finally and peacefully closed it's eyes for all eternity, rather, it fried so completely and irreversibly, your apartment dumpster just gained a new friend. I'd like to imagine they'd be buddies, but truthfully, I know the dumpster is glad for the food. My dumpster is evil.

At this point, my computer has been reduced to a mess of strange clicking sounds and whirring noises. The monitor is showing a screen full of confusing text, with options and pathways leading you no where, everywhere and back to the beginning all over again. System error this, system failure that. Silver lining? Kinad looks like something out of TRON.

Right now I'm using a laptop, which is not my favorite thing at all. No immediate mouse, continual and painful hunching, fat fingers mashing tiny keys, etc. The thought of using this shitty device has been keeping me away from my fragile and delicate life online. The first days were total hell, where the thought of not returning semi-important e-mails and updating my Facebook with what color my underwear is was my surefire descent into madness. I get the shakes, I feel nervous, confused and agitated that I'm not able to see what the fuck is up.

Thankfully, I got over it and returned to reality. I'm now more in touch with human emotion. I've adopted a new outlook on living a green life and have given up gluten cold turkey. When all three of these are combined and added up, it means I'm better than you. Sorry.

To get through the tough time, I turned to all outlets for an answer. I boozed 'til I couldn't see straight, I ate until I was bloated, I watched endless amounts of terrible TV to fill the lonely void. I also popped in my "Congo" DVD.

It helped me keep sane, which is a lot to do for a guy who's life is based entirely around the size of his itunes library. Which, of course, is so dead and gone my main priority at this point is to buy and spend and cry my way into happiness. The thought of re-entering all of my CDs is a harrowing thought, people. I know I can pick and choose the best of the best, to keep the task to a minimum, but I want everything on there. I like the idea of knowing it's all there. I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT NOW.

Nevermind the fact that all of my stored photos have been erased and now cease to exist, where the last five or six years of Calabrese's existance is now null and void. It's a good thing, though, but I suppose you'll never see the elusive pictures of me when I wore massive black creepers, had painted fingernails and thought I was, through and through, an actual vampire. FML.

I don't know why, but the film is great. It's just the right amount of terrible acting, plot and setup to keep you watching. To be fair, though, the jungle scenes can get a bit tedious, but as soon as Amy, beautiful, ridiculous Amy, uses her robot-hands to speak in a creepy robot-voice, everything is just bettter. Life is divine. The world is sublime.

So there you have it. That's why I haven't been around in a while. At least "Congo" saved me. I'll update a bit more as soon as I get used to these laptop jitters, and as soon as I own up to the fact that the next thing I'm dying to write about is, once again, Pokemon. C'mon! I started putting them in my Castle Greyskull as they're personal cave/hidden hideout/swank clubhouse! It's fucking precious!

I'm Back, Bitches.

2011-06-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

I'm home! We made it!

As much as I like being on the road, I like being at home. Home is where I mindlessly watch TV, angrily disregard the dishes and can and will take full advantage of not wearing any pants. I know our tour wasn't the longest in rock and roll history (eleven consecutive shows in eleven states!) but for us, it was a decent run. Especially when we started in St. Louis, ended in Erie, PA and drove the grueling thirty-six hours back home. I really think we should have planned that out better.

Anyway, I fully expected to detail and log every minute and fascinating moment spent on the road, but Day 1 proved to put an end to the idea when I realized one thing -- I didn't even bring a camera.

In all fairness, between driving around in a van, loading and unloading heavy equipment, taking pictures of all the pretty bars and twinkling toilets seemed like it would just overwhelm me. Then uploading them to this site and writing about it? My head is starting to throb just thinking about it. I know it sucks and in hindsight, I really do wish I had stopped being such a bitch and started taking some photos. Lots of incredible people should be highlighted right here and right now, along with the tons of disgusting diners that should be publicly shamed and put out of business. Only the photos supply the key to this. The key to my maddening and triumphant success. The key I don't fucking have.

But I have this. I have the single snapshot I put all of my energy and enthusiasm in taking:

It was at Asbury Lanes in Asbury, NJ. We just finished everything we had to do and were killing time. I took a photo of Jimmy out of pure boredom, none the wiser that this would be my first and last impersonation of a daring European photog.

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't even bother.

I'm eventually going to go more in-depth with our journey, but right now I wanna get in and get out. As soon as I got home I unpacked, took a shower and went to Toys R Us. I needed to celebrate. I needed to get wild. I needed to blow some cash.

I picked these up because they were cheap, colorful and just small enough to keep in my pocket for long road trips and outside adventurin'. I'm not really sure what I was searching for, but it wasn't necessarily this. So, what are they?

Transformers, asshole.

Truth be told, I'm not the biggest Transformers fan. The idea that these robots from outer space could turn into cars and airplanes and dinosaurs is wonderfully welcome, sure, but it never seized me like it has for so many others. Everything adds up as to why I should love Transformers, so I can only blame my ehh-attitude on the difficulty of actually transforming the damn things.

The ones I bought were rated the lowest, meaning that a dead chimp could figure out how to make Robot Robot turn into Robot Car, and the lady who rung me up was a huge fan, who ensured me I made the right choice. I think I can manage this.

And so in this lies my curse. I will continue to buy and buy and buy until all living space is occupied by Opti-this and Mega-that. I have so many Transformers from throughout the years and I never do a thing with them. But, when I was younger, my favorite Transformer (and one of my favorite toys of all time) was one that turned into a gun. Like, a true-to-size pistol. Shit you can't get away with in this day and age.

I think Transformers only look great fully completed, so don't be surprised if I ever recall stories about my Junk Drawer, a holy sanctuary for broken crayons, dead batteries and mangled messes of Transformer plastic. I need to write about my junk drawer. Anyways:

I picked up Barricade and Bumblebee, part of "Dark of the Moon: Cyberverse" line. I had zero idea that there was a new film coming out, but I'm an instant fan if it means inexpensive robots that I don't really like by the handful. Seriously, the place was jammed with Transformers. And at five bucks a pop, I don't feel that guilty, but still a little bit hesitant about fueling Shia LaBeouf's movie career.

I like Bumblebee because his name is "Bumblebee," and Barricade because he can morph into the ultimate powerhouse megamachine: a police car.

His strength leads the pack, which may or may not mean his actual, physical dominance over the rest of his friends, or just the fact that he's a squad car. Because it's a pretty powerful thing to be seen as an officer of the law. And unbelievably illegal. I like how Barricade just don't give a fuck.

This is the best I could do. I think they only require four motions or less to complete, but it's already beaten me. Bumblebee looks like he never attempted to change (which is true) and Barricade looks like a Wheeler from "Return to Oz."

Well, I was secretly hoping for a pile of WWF Legends action figures (I've got my sights on a Ravishing Rick Rude) but these did alright. I squeezed a little fun outta them. Transformers, I salute you. Now get into my junk drawer.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Indiana Jones. AMEN.

2011-05-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

Hallelujah! Praise be, Indiana Jones!

I got this the other day. I'm giddy over it. I'm in awe of it. It keeps me happy and excited and although the picture seems too dark and photographed poorly, you can right well suck it. Because this is a beautiful thing and that's all I have to say about it.

Well, I suppose this at least deserves a bit of a back story.

Got it at my favorite hot spot, Greg's Comics. Duh. It was in a box full of ancient Life magazines and, amazingly, actual stills from He-Man, Bravestarr and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Like, the literal still drawings used in the cartoons. I was assured they were legit, and if I cared to delve deeper, could find the exact episode they were used in. At this point, I feel I made a grave mistake by passing this up, because Lord knows owning a half shot of Michelangelo's head turned slightly left would make me for a helluva conversation piece. But I denied my desire and plowed deeper. The good stuff had to be at the bottom.

Found this, and it was worth it. Kinda tough to measure what's "worth it," but if you're like me, you'll gladly pay over twenty bucks for a piece of over sized paper so magnificently wrinkled and thin. It's a wrinkled and thin poster that has Indiana Jones on it, people. To top it off, it's in a bizarre language I'm not willing to google to find out. I'll stay ignorant and say Turkish, only because that sounds fancy. Hey, I have a movie poster from Turkey! Cool!

Thing is, I love the "Indiana Jones" series as much as the next guy, and can possibly even forgive the fourth installment in around thirty-seven years. Everything that was said, done, blown up and punched has SO forever been burned into my mind you'd half expect me to start wearing brown slacks and a bullwhip around my waist. You know, to hold up the brown slacks.

Growing up, these films were perfect. It boasted the greatest blend of adventure, comedy and life changing weird-fucking-moments. Face melting Nazis? A greasy, grabby hand pummeled through a dude's ribcage? All these things kept my imagination pumping and my dreams totally unsettled. I've kinda realized, through the years, that all of my favorite things have at one point made me want to shit my pants. Yes, kind readers, "Indiana Jones," and the themes and imagery throughout, have made me want to shit my pants.

And that's why this poster is my newest religious relic. Everything that has been built up inside me can be accumulated into an artifact that describes who I am, what I do and what I believe. This is that artifact. It is my little statue of a fat man that sets off a giant, tumbling boulder. It is my personal Ark of the Covenant, inconveniently stored in my apartment's living room. It is my three magical stones that get too hot to handle and are accidentally dropped into the alligator infested waters below. Don't worry, friends, because throughout the scuffle, one single stone is saved. And that stone is mine.

If you've noticed, it's not in a frame yet. Usually, I make it my first priority, but things are different this time 'round. Out of respect for it's holiness, the frame will be made of gold. If gold is unavailable, plastic and thick cardboard from a crafts store will be an acceptable substitute.

We're leaving for tour in a few days, and I'm filled with a warmth and comfort knowing that this will be at home waiting for me. If it could jump off my wall and surprise me with a plate of warm cookies as I walked through the door after a long and arduous two weeks, all the more better. Unfortunately, that won't happen, so I'll have to settle for Shakespearean re-enactments of "Temple of Doom" in the bathroom mirror and a whole lot of bragging. Usually, I never let a single soul into my living quarters, so it'll mostly be Internet or text based.

UR WALLS R BORING LOL.

Ahh, this is gonna be fun.

See you in two weeks!

Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

2011-05-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to join the Brown Leather Jacket X-Men Club. But ever since I accidentally put together two members of the same superhero team side by side, I knew my Monday night took a dramatic turn. Imagination ran wild, theories were introduced, questions were asked. Why did Wolverine and Jean Grey both wear brown leather jackets? Did it equate to superhero superiority? Or was it related to their superpowers? No need to answer, because I assume it does and now I need a brown leather flight jacket and I need it now.

I must become a member of the Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

Brown leather jackets have always eluded me. They're neither cool nor uncool, riding a fine line between unnecessary and completely badass. The only time I could think of ever wanting a brown leather jacket was watching Kirk Cameron muck it up on Growing Pains and finding an over sized version in my older sister's bedroom, which I assume is Kirk Cameron influenced. It was covered in patches and fake Army badges, and completely left a bad taste in my mouth. These days, I can't warrant the need to own something so in-your-face. It's a weird statement to make, because a brown jacket isn't that weird, but it is kind of weird. Or maybe it just looks weird on me?

This, unfortunately, goes on my list of clothing articles I'll never buy. Yellow motorcycle gloves, a cowboy hat that doesn't make me look like an asshole and now this, you sexy, leather flight jacket, you.

But since I've noticed a definite pattern in my toys, I'm reconsidering my options. Why not just do it? Why not buy a leather jacket the color of beef jerky? You see, in some outstandingly bizarre way only I can comprehend, why not attempt to, through the ownership of a brown leather jacket, be one of them? ONE OF THE X-MEN.

Okay, looks pretty cool. I can get down with the "rough and rowdy" look. I've already got the slicked back greasy hair and the eyebrows the size of Snickers bars. . What I don't have is the build of a linebacker and blue jeans not ever ever. Wolverine, you win this round.

Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Not good.

I like the cut of Rogue's jacket, where the initial purpose of a jacket is replaced by looking cool and being really uncomfortable. No warmth, just style. My current jacket is kinda in this category, where chaffing is a natural occurrence and lifting my arms above my head is an impossibility. But at least I look good. In constant pain, but still lookin' good.

Like I said, this is pretty much my jacket, though, so I wouldn't be making that big of a leap in fashion. I'm feeling good about this.

Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Decent. If I were to personally take charge and dye my duds, I'd be money.

Probability of Creating and Crafting My Very Own Brown Leather Jacket: Yeah fuckin' right.

So what can I do? I've already looked online and swiftly realized how expensive jackets can run. Then realized how futile jacket shopping in Phoenix malls can be. And now I'm so over it. As is my normal plan of action, I'll stand down and just stick with my regular outfit. In my defense, there's a calmness in black. There's a beautiful safety in black.

So goodbye, my X-Pals, for I am not a worthy colleague. Goodbye, dreams of masterful heroics, superhero stardom and punching the total shit out of shit.

Goodbye, Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

Hey, powers that be? It's me, Bobby. I just wanted to say thank you. Fucking THANK YOU.

2011-05-03T17:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, you're a lucky sonnavabitch. You might be offered generous amounts of money, stumble upon unseen fortunes, fall into incredible wealth and fame. Whatever the scenario, your luck hits hard, hits quick and hits fast.

Today's my lucky day, bitch.

"Willow" is, and forever will be, one of the greatest films I've ever seen. I'm not gonna relay the entire movie as a general intro, rather, I'll assume you've seen it, and if you haven't, get on that shit ASAP. If the above box is any indication as to what the film is about and what you're missing...c'mon. It's more than enough of a tease to get you to go see it. Two-headed monster thing, a guy dressed as Skeletor and Val Kilmer before he turned into Natalie from The Facts of Life.

So get on it.

I found and bought what you see there, with your jealous, tear-filled eyes, last Saturday afternoon, which is a true testament as to how I like to spend my Saturdays, and most days in general -- in a dark, dusty comic book shop.

We went to Greg's Comics, which has been mentioned numerous times before, and is now fully revealed to you, my adoring public. I hate the idea of keeping such a wonderful store under wraps, but I also hate the idea of you ruining my Secret Happy Store. Easily, the place can be described as a garage sale for the confused, disturbed and mentally unstable. It's walls and boxes and shelves filled with the most inane junk you could never possibly care about. But you do care. And then there goes next month's rent down the toilet.

I've always been unsure as to who's actually working the joint, but from what I recently saw, it was about six dudes sititing in the back, shooting the shit and eating fast food. It's insane to think they'd have six guys employed at a comic shop the size of a taco stand, but I love it.

Also, Greg's Comics is owned by a guy named Howard, which makes the entire thing even more wonderful.

Are you in love? I'm in love.

Growing up, I had a few of the little figurines, completely unaware there was more playsets and vehicles and accessories to be had. Oh, you know, like a fucking demon dinosaur. I always hated the figures (they were set on a stand, didn't move, yadda) but I would have LOVED to have owned this. Before I go on...yeah, totally wish I had some more figurines to re-enact what's going on up above. That kid looks ecstatic.

In the film, the fictitious land of Willow-World was infested with trolls. These trolls played little part in the general plot of the film, but were proud and proper in scaring the shit out of you. They looked like skinny gorillas, were unbelievably hairy and demonstrated a fine knack for evil acrobatics. They jumped around, screamed and terrified everyone in the theater under eighty-six years of age.

Anyway, they popped in and out of the film, were mentioned in passing and then, phenomenally, were led up to some seriously weird stuff. You see, in one of the big battles in the film, Willow does the unthinkable -- he knocks a troll into a bog of water. It was all in self defense, so don't worry, gentle souls. Now, apparently, water is the catalyst to unthinkable troll-horrors. And when water touched the greasy fur of that diseased troll...you better run for cover.

If all was well and right with the world, they'd turn into the bad/semi-cute versions of Gremlins. Most people can deal with that. No one is that scared of a lizard with a white mohawk. In fact, most people might even welcome it. But nope. You couldn't imagine what they'd turn into. Unless, of course, you imagined they turned into eight-legged penis whales. And then, of course, you'd be right.

There is no false advertising with the box. What you see is what you get. And what I got is glorious.

It's official name is "Eborsisk," a post-film jab at the not-so-hot reviews from top critics around the globe, or the US, I dunno. I'm gonna on the fly, here. Basically, Siskel and Ebert (mash the names together) got mad punked. And I really doubt they ever gave a shit.

Completely accurate with the film, you're presented with everything from it's red-chin-mouth to the hard sack of football flesh on it's gross head. Don't even get me started on those mysterious six hind legs, which doubles as a neat way for something that big and monstrous to move around to just absolutely disgusting you.

The film doesn't bother showcasing these hind legs, I don't think. So it really is kind of shocking me right now. I don't like lobsters, I don't like spiders and I certainly don't like this. It was in the water, Madmartigan was stabbing it, lots of hustle and bustle going about and around to notice such details...if those details were even presented in the first place. Point is, I'm now even more repulsed by this thing than ever before. I hope my Rancor eats it.

To add fuel to the fire, it's back is covered in a bristly, brown moss. Again, this is something that isn't necessarily advertised, but I sincerely doubt they'd want to go ahead and add pubic back hair to the fold.

Also, note the purple hue. It reminds me of grapes and old ladies legs. Neither one particularly excites me at the moment, but I'm sure will make it's unique mark in the time to come. Amen.

Conclusion: I've inherited a masterpiece of rubber and plastic. It might not look to be that great to some, but for me, I'm the luckiest asshole in the world right now. I either have absurdly low standards or am just really that into...well, that. That animal abomination. That sack of troll-turned-dildo. Man, I love that thing.

Double Conclusion: It looks great on my desk and is even better looking on my nightstand, where me and my Eborsisk can read together before bedtime. Reading lulls me to sleep. Is that weird?

CORNISH PASTY!

2011-04-28T17:01:00.000-07:00

I'm super psyched on this blog update. My main direction and goal with everything I write about is to write about anything that I like, whether it be a love letter to the film "Congo," or a complete breakdown of my plastic viking helmet. Here's a snippet: It's awesome.

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.

...

NO.

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.

So.

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.:)

Happy Easter! Easter Sucks!

2011-04-24T18:07:00.000-07:00

I don't like Easter. Growing up, it was a nice way to kill time between the bigger and better holidays, but it was never something I looked forward to. A basket full of candy was welcome, painting hardboiled eggs was kinda fun, but you just didn't get an Xbox for Easter. End of story.

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.

So cool! A green egg! I never thought "Green Eggs and Ham" could actually be replicated or real, but I've been painfully proven wrong. At a public bar. By a damn chicken.

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.

Color me typical, but I had to. Vampire fangs are so much fun to draw.

Happy Easter!

THE GREATEST CALABRESE ACOUSTIC SHOW EVER.

2011-04-14T16:08:00.000-07:00

What a slow, boring month for blogging. So far, April has only brought in one entry. And it's this one I'm writing right now! I suck ass. But I will tread forth, and will write stupid things.

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.

Enjoy!

POKEMON POWER!

2011-03-31T21:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not really sure why I bought this. I've never really played any Pokemon related videogames and I'm certainly not one to ever admit to "playing Pokemon related videogames." My main experiences with Pokemon have been through high school, and, naturally, was the lamest thing you could ever be into while trying to dress cool and learning how to smoke. I had to hide my curiousity, out of necessity and in achieving an overall badassness.

PS -- I never achieved it.

Of course, as I do with anything I'm into, I spent most of the time vocally expressing how stupid Pokemon was and then not leaving my house until I secretly got at least two episodes under my belt. Preferrably the one's with Bulbasaur. If it was Meowth heavy, I didn't feel right. Team Rocket is kinda weird.

I'm not sure when the switch happened, but I basically went from cynical, hate-filled butthole to a guy who may or may not mind getting a tattoo of a Pokeball. It wasn't the greatest or the coolest hobby to get into while finishing up a high school career, but once you actually sit down and watch what's going on...you're hooked. You can't not fall in love. And I did. Hard. My fascination, as I'm sure many others can agree, comes from nearly every facet of the show. Every new question and desire to know more and more opens up a floodgate of even more questions and concerns.

What's in a Pokeball? Is it larger than it looks inside? Is the capturing, training and fighting of Pokemon accepted by animal rights groups? Are Pokemon even considered animals? Could they be another being entirely? These are the questions that keep me coming back for more. These are the questions that start up awkward, babbling drunk-talk at the bar. It's pretty uncool to touch base on all these points while inebriated, especially in a crowd of twenty-somethings. So unless those twenty-somethings are secret Poke-fanatics, then you are, unfortunately, an asshole.

I'm still stuck on the first 150 Pokemon. The best of the best. The fucking classic stuff, man. These were the first to initially be introduced, and I can't for the life of me accept anything that's come after. None of the newbies have been personally explored and dreampt about, and although it's heartbreaking to think of all the treasures I'm missing out on, I feel that I can live past my failure to accept this ultimate overhaul. Plus, c'mon, do you know how hard it is to memorize 150 different fake species of animal-alien-things?

Now, at this point, I'm so far behind Poke-lore it's embarrassing. I've at least seen a few of the movies and occassionally glance at the overpriced packs of cards in Toys R Us. If we're talking about video games? Count me out. The last game I played involved taking photos of Pokemon, and that was just plain stupid. In hindsight, it kinda sounds fun to snap photographs of Pokemon in their natural habitat. Stupid, but fun.

So, I just felt...inclined to pick up Pokemon's latest DS game, Pokemon Black. It just felt good and right. The comforting thought of once again jumping headfirst into the Poke-Universe seemed welcoming and warm. This is a beautiful thing, people. And as they've been doing for years, there's another version (White version) that features another hundred or so Pokemon to catch throughout the game, and for us completists, forces us to buy both of these two damn versions. There is zero warmth in that. I take it all back. Alright, let's get to it:

Wow. I have no idea what this is about or who those absolutely hip kids are, but from the back of the game alone, I'm promised a pig-thing and a Poke-adventure in a thriving, city landscape.

From what I've gathered, Pokemon Black is set in the city, while Pokemon White takes place in a more green, forest-y atmosphere. I had to get Black.

You see, I love videogames set in a big city. Just love it. Maybe it's because I never grew up in a large, city landscape, or the violent realization that actually living, commuting or stepping foot in a big city totally sucks ass and has turned me off of cities forever. I don't actually wanna be in a real city, and much prefer the fake kind. Gimme a week long bender in New York and I'm fine. I'll check out a few bars, hit up a few museums and watch some free HBO in my hotel room. Anything past those seven days, though, I'm the guy in a New York alleyway eating cats. So far, I've been playing it for thirty minutes. I've already been introduced to my new friends, have been given a brand new Pokemin (the pig-thing!) and went through each room in every house in the neighborhood trying to find secret stuff.

Turns out, I've yet to advance past that neighborhood, and said neighborhood held zero secrets. In any videogame where you're encouraged to move over furniture, rummage through dumpsters or wander aimlessly through the grass for clues and hints, I will do it. And I will waste so much time doing so. I've realized that anything that's become inane and monotonous, I become fervid and obsessed. Even the most mundane tasks in any game (and this game is just loaded with bullshit) will become the only thing I can and want to do. There was a time, in my darkest days, where catching every fish and bug in Animal Crossing was a key element to the continuation of my life. I was nothing without returning all letters sent to my house, I was a fool not to plant as many apple trees to be picked and sold for new household goods and accessories. I had to see that Goddamn dog strum a banjo in the cafe on Sunday nights.

Seriously. I kind of made it my "weekend thing."

Your main objectives are smothered in endless walking around, searching and adventuring (which is fun!) but the only thing I don't like is the turn-based fighting engine. I've always hated the idea of being attacked, then attacking, then waiting to be attacked again. It's a bizarre version of actual fighting, and I never understood it. It really is the only low-point of the game, where I'd much rather battle my Pokemon Street Fighter style. Hell, let's do it up like Mortal Kombat. I'd love to rip out Clefairy's stupid spine.

It's so cute! So square! So BLACK!

Overall, it's a good game. I mean, I don't understand what I'm doing besides the obvious (gotta catch 'em all) but it's fun. It's most excellent for long tours with the band and long dooks on the john. Call me disgusting and unhygeinic, but I do my best work while on the toilet. Ever wrangle a feisty Oshawott while taking a dump? It's exquisite.

THESE MASKS ARE AWESOME.

2011-03-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

Superhero masks?! Superhero masks!

Superhero masks!

This is from Marvel's "Superhero Squad" line of toys, a line tailor-made and intended for the younger Marvel fans. I always thought this was a cool route for Marvel, featuring all your favorite characters in small, cutesy form, spanning the most beloved characters to the more obscure. Already a TV cartoon and a videogame, I don't think it's doing too bad. I know kids must love these, and although it seems like it's all there is the way of modern, accessible Marvel merch these days, I can love it, too.

Now, I've always wanted to be a superhero. The closest I've come to making that an actuality is owning a ton of crappy Spawn shit and having the ability to sleep for a good eleven hours at a time. The Justice League may turn up their nose at my resume, but I'm certain there's a spot for me in the Justice Society. Way more liberal over there.

I can definitely see these masks going over well with any kid. As a full grown adult, I find the idea of parading around as an X-Man to be fun and rousing, so anyone under the age of twenty-six is bound to get down. Just thinking about slapping on Captain America's trademark identity invokes and incites a desire to fight and kick. I'm just begging for a world where supervillians existed and karate-chopping them in the chest was both invited and awarded. It's a solid testament to the theory that if you put on anything that implies heroism via violence, violence will be had. Even wrapping a towel around your neck makes you want to jump off the roof in attack mode. You can look up to the Green Lanterns' moral code and healthy, happy way of protecting life and all that is good and wonderful as much as you like, but you can't deny the fact that they're still ramming skulls into brick walls and bodyslamming people in supermarkets.

Davey bought a bunch of these (Iron Man and Spider-Man are available, too) and acted only as Davey would -- by attempting to rub his newly prized goods in my face. I was, as per usual, heavily hungover, and the idea of covering half my head with hard plastic didn't see too thrilling to me at the time. Davey walked away defeated, and I crashed out on the floor to "Prayer of the Rollerboys."

But something happened that night. My dreams were more vivid that usual, featuring an intensity I haven't experienced in a long time. Between the usual dream-topics such as waking up late for something important, being stabbed in a dirty alleyway or of Corey Haim and I teaming up to take down drug-peddling Nazis, I dreampt of costumed heros. I dreampt of those damn masks.

The next day, I went out a got a pair for myself. I would have bought all four, but Iron Man is played out and I'm not entirely convinced that a Spider-Man mask is equal to what he usually wears, which is, like, a face-hood or something. And it's more of a fabric as opposed to a plastic. We can argue all you want, but in my opinion, it's plausible that Wolverine and Captain America's masks are made of a plastic-like material. Therefore, these Captain America and Wolverine masks are superior to Iron Man and Spider-Man's masks. My money went to the right place.

Although I would have bought them anyway, I tried them on, and surprisingly, they aren't too snug and don't look THAT bad on my huge head. Figuring that the ideal head-size is that of an eight year old, I feel like I won this round. Round Two: Cheap Material Test.

It's actually made of a decent plastic! I feel like can at least take a softball to the dome, or a light judo-chop. Also, play-time will not be halted by anything breaking or falling apart when your buddy gets too into his role and socks you in the face. As required, you will be punch him back, 'cause that's what superheroes do. This is a good thing!

I'm really digging the Captain America mask over there, man. It's nice to have some Cap in my life. The blue is bold and the wings are just plain cool, and can easily be snapped off in a tribute to Ant-Man. I know Ant-Man doesn't have a giant "A" on his forehead, but just go with me. We're in the middle of some playtime here.

The Wolverine mask, though, is tops. All nice and pointy, perfect for snikting and bubbing and trying to look like a bad-ass. Kinda hard, though, since you're wearing a bright yellow Halloween mask. It's also tough to achieve a sense of bad-assness when you're recreating the biggest bad-ass in Marvel comics, I realize. You're better off pretending to be a low level character, like Toad. Or Jubilee.

I take that back. I love that raincoat. So much.

Alright. I know and am well aware that I've got the sideburns, and God forbid, I'm actually thinking about adding a bright red "X" to the arm of my leather jacket. But please, guys, please don't bring me down to such a sad estate of affairs by having me post a photo of myself in this mask. It's weak, it's sad and I don't want to end up on the internet like the "Tron guy." I'm already half-retarded on YouTube, and my Facebook posts paint me as a drunk, confused man. Anything is possible these days.

But then again...what if it's the opposite of my expectations? What if it all just...works out? What if I become an important, high profile internet celebrity? What if I'm seen by a casting director and hired to play the lead role in a new Wolverine film? What if?! OH GAWD WHAT IF!!!

Oh, yeah, baby. Oh yeah.

Meow!

Verdict: FUN. Get 'em, wear 'em, jump around and do a lot of kicking! Rock and roll!

"Peanuts" Shower Curtain & Me.

2011-03-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

This is absolutely pleasant.

I picked this up at Target last night, which was supposed to be a trip to ONLY buy the immediate essentials, and ended up being a grandiose display of gluttony. It's no secret that at Target, you're guaranteeed to spend at least over a hundred bucks at any given time, on everything you do not need at all. Obviously, essentials will be damned, 'cause the black-hole of Target is wide and wholly accepted by the immediate masses. No one seems to complain, or is alarmed or worried at the fact they just spent all their money on toilet paper and a few jumbo bags of Reese's Pieces. This is the problem with Target and mega-marts in general. It's a conniving, bizarre maze of commercialism and overconsumption, a constant bully of bullshit being pumped into the meek and innocent and poor.

Naw, I dunno. People just like to buy stuff.

Without Target and it's continual flow of unique and needless junk, how else would I be able to own a set of elegant AC/DC pint glasses? Or a dorky shirt I thought looked cool but soon realized it wasn't at all and is now in my "Never Ever Wear Section" of my closet? Tell me, where would I be without a Peanuts themed shower curtain? On second thought, don't tell me. I may cry.

There's not much to say, really, except that I love this. Over the last twenty-four hours, I've become enamored with this bright, red and white masterpiece of fabric (yes, it's made of cotton and is very legit) and I'm drawn to use the bathroom at any chance I get, now more than ever. And with my current turd track-record, you'd swear I was off doing heavy drugs in the bathtub or recreating the episode of "Roseanne" where DJ learns how to jerk off. That was a good episode.

Admittedly, I never understood Peanuts. For a young kid, it was never really all that funny, and when compared to the then current Far Side, Calvin and Hobbes, etc. littering the funny papers, you'd think Peanuts was trying to tell you something deep and meaningful only the brilliant or painfully disturbed could possibly understand. Or it was just telling you to "fuck off."

Maybe it was a highly sophisticated brand of comedy, with the humor and laughs based in the intricate art and detailing? Who knew?

Turns out, I love and have forever loved Peanuts. Maybe more the idea of Peanuts, as lame as that sounds. I like it to just BE there. The television specials have forever been a part of all my favorite holidays, and that damned Charlie Brown Christmas Tree is just the cutest thing ever. There's a certain calming nature to Peppermint Patty and Pigpen and Linus, a sensation of wonder and magic, a "gang's all here" mentality keeping you on track, a smooth joy and certainty that everything will be alright.

Okay. You're absolutely right in saying that nearly all of the newspaper's comics are total shit, but to me, it's not about chuckles and knee-slaps. It's somehow transcended past making you giggle and guffaw. It's about buying that huge Sunday paper at the end of the week, it's about throwing away all the coupons and electronics store crap, it's about knowing Garfield will be there to help you skirt away the Sunday blues. Both B.C. and Haggar the Horrible will give a wink and a nod and Blondie will both delight and charm. As shitty as your life is, the Peanuts crew will make everything better. All these comics will suck MAJOR ASS, but they're there for you. Your friends are fucking there for you, man.

I need to stop drinking. Anyway.

For a while now, I've been trying to locate the fabled "sushi shower curtain," a full, plastic triumph showcasing the art and wonder of all that is sushi. I've only seen it once, in a hip, cool-dude clothing store, and online. Of course, online, they are currently and seemingly forever sold out, and I refuse to buy online, 'cause that's cheating. It was to complete the Japanese theme I had going in my bathoom, which has now mutated into something else entirely. I've gone from "everything green" to "everything red" to it's now current state, "Peanuts curtain, green bath mats and I don't give a fuck." It's all around freeing, but utterly chaotic. Someone with a hyper-intense fear of dissorder may or may not have their head explode in my bathroom. I guess Buddha statuettes and William Shatner posters will just have to get along. Sorry, guys.

Uggh. See? It just doesn't feel right.

But while in Target, I actually needed to buy a shower liner thing, so adding another twenty bucks to the bill for a curtain covered in dog gags and rain jokes didn't seem too excessive. But you know the shower liner thing? It's that other piece of plastic that sits behind your classy curtain and helps ward off a wet bathroom floor. I hate a wet bathroom floor. I also hate when that piece of plastic gets super cloudy and slimey. I'm to the point where I dare not set foot near the bottom of that liner, in fear of being infected by that discolored mess. I'd like to just stock up on plastic liners, changing them out every few weeks or so, but that's so unbelievably wasteful that I oh fuck I bought six of them. Al Gore is going to kill me.

I know it's just the aftermath of a soapy lifestyle, but it's still pretty brutal. All I know is that when my toe rubs against something that feels like a jellyfish, I'm out, game over. It feels like a jellyfish, people. Can you not feel my pain through my words?

For the good of all that is happy and pure and hypnotically boring, this is an absolute must-have. My wildly hodge-podge bathroom and it's refusal to be cohesive with any pattern or direction has now been pushed into an even bigger mess, but if you're like me, quick and confusing snippets of Peanuts comics will delight and amaze, even on the worst of days. I shower in peace now. And I love that. Generation after generation of mildy entertained newspaper comics enthusiasts can't be wrong, this Peanuts shower curtain is an absolute steal! Well, if you can't find that sushi one. Or anything with a robot on it. Or Pokemon themed.

I feel ya, buddy.

Los Favoritos Taco Shop!

2011-03-08T16:23:00.000-08:00

I'm sick. And it sucks.

You see, I'm into getting sick. I'm actually a fan of it. Through my years of highschool, I have been honing my delicate craft, and have grown to quite enjoy it. At first, it was out of necessity, a school paper was due, a big test was headed my way, wasn't in the mood to go to fucking school, etc. Over time, it became a tradition, a wonderful game of faking and purposely getting sick just to stay home. I'd have more luck with the former than the latter, but every now and again, my throat was vaguely scratchy, my nose slightly twitchy and BAM, I'm staying home. God bless my mother for believing my lies, but at least I graduated and now I have a fine appreciation for taking a step back and enjoying life. I'm treading dangerously close to "Ferris Bueller" shit right here, I know, but it's true. Why spend so much time at school? Why work your life away? Coniving and scamming my way outta class was a perfect chore is achieving a "mental health day," where I'd do nothing but play videogames and read trashy crime novels. It was pointless and annoyingly square for a high schooler, but it sorted my brain out and kept me from losing my cool. Also, I watched a ton of The Wonder Years and The Facts of Life.

These days, there's no real point in faking sick. I can do pretty much what I want, with my usual highest priorities being in "writing a new album" and "waking up before noon." But every now and then, I really just wanna escape. I want an excuse to throw my phone under the couch, I want a reason to not jump on Facebook every forty-five minutes. And I do get my reason. In a crippling, shitty flu.

Yeah, I'm the type of guy who absolutely begs and pleads to get sick, just for an opportunity to lay on the floor for a few days and not give a fuck about anything. If you're coming down with a cold, I will make sure you at least breathe into my face for a minute and if I catch wind of "something going around," I will harbor that thought until that "something" is magically manifested and is mine. I train my mind like a ninja-warrior.

Thing is, every time I've intentionally put myself in a position to catch something, it never works. As is life, it does work when I least expect it, and when I least want it.

Right now, I have the flu. In two days, I'm going to see Motorhead. I might be sick for this. Then, we will be playing a few shows. Even worse, I might be sick for that, bringing down a whole new world of shame and anger into my life. You see, we never cancel shows. The only time I can really remember was for family reasons, and another where Davey had a massive case of the shits. Seriously. It was, like, years ago, and we were supposed to play New Mexico. He must have eaten a troft of mayonaisse and pickles or something, because we had to wrap that show-cancellation up quick.

Point is, we'll usually trudge through and play while loaded with viruses and disease, not a problem. The only problem is attempting to sing decently, because when you're a three-piece band, you do NOT want to have one of your two lead singers blow his voice. Which I usually tend to do whilst sick. It's become a fear of mine, and absolute "dark place" when thinking of that possibility. I hate to croak, crack and garble on stage. I hate to think that people will walk away dissatisfied and pissed off. What will I do? How will I defeat the obstacles laid out in front of me? What route shall I take in beating the odds against a beat up throat and gnarled up singing voice?

Burritos.

I figure, throughout my singing career, nothing has ever worked in prevention and defense. I've tried teas, honey, cough drops, lozenges, you name it. This good ol' boy just doesn't wanna play that game no more. This good ol' boy is tired of throat tyranny and homeopathic hullabaloo. This good ol' boy is gonna get himself a delicious burrito at Los Favoritos Taco Shop in Tempe, Arizona.

Huzzah!

Los Favoritos is a pretty fantastic place. Centered in the middle of strip mall containing a music venue, blood donating bank and an army recruitment center, you better believe the clientele is broad and unique. It's right in the middle of a college town, so yeah, it can also double as a pretty hip, Saturday night taco shack frequented by the painfully cool tattooed kids and tipsy party chicks. I know and claim that the food is good, but I'm becoming well aware that the food is even better drunk. I know, because I've been there. It's so much better.

It really does go from being a youth hotspot to a decent family restaurant, raising the place's credibility and success in pleasing everyone in town with chimichangas and quesadillas, despite any sorta built-in demographic you'd imagine they'd have. Everyone likes this place. The service is quick, the food is cheap and filling and you're bound to at least see one person walk in without a shirt.

They have all the authentic, Mexican cuisine you can imagine, even upping the ante with avocado burgers, cheeseburgers and fries. Wash that shit down with some horchata, son.

But their secret weapon? The one thing that will keep you coming and your gut busting? THE LOS FAVS BREAKFAST BURRITO.

Yes, yes I will try you, breakfast burrito.

Roll up, place your order, party down. Like I said, they've got it all when it comes to Mexican food. The portions are huge, so even if you order something that stinks, you can eat the barrel of rice and beans on the side. So good.

I know it's not the greatest move to eat anything but chicken noodle soup and green tea when you're sick, but like I said, there's no hope for me these days. Nothing really helps this singer's torn throat, save for a greasy burrito and a hilarious, uplifting movie. I'm going with "Animal House" tonight.

But while you wait, why not enjoy some horrendously outdated arcade games?

I haven't seen a Cruis'n' USA in years, let alone the "Exotica" version. I'll always remember how half-naked women in bikinis would wave a checkered flag at the beginning of each game, signaling the start of the race. Also, how "exotica" was amazinlgy close to "erotica." That was pretty cool. I was a perv.

Killer Instinct! And Area 51! Both were always pretty decent, but I'd say Area 51 garnered more of my attention. They combined real-life actors and so many exploding oil drums you couldn't resist. At the time, it was pretty Goddamn realistic looking, and a game where your sole purpose was to shoot people in the face was all the more perfect. It satisfied your bloodlust and your extraterrestrial curiosities. I remember Killer Instinct as being like Mortal Kombat, but with more monsters. Skeletons with swords, cyclops looking freaks, oily dudes with boxing gloves, everyone was represented in a bizarre arena of pain. I recall renting it for the N64, but instantly regretting the move, because I KINDA HATE FIGHTING GAMES. See: previous blog entry.

Doesn't really matter now, though, 'cause the entire area was shut down and turned off. Kinda makes me sad. I really could have gone for an erotic shootout with boxing skeletons.

This, my friends, is what we like to call a "donkey dick."

It really is amazing, and although the picture doesn't do it justice, the weight of it alone could probably put a knot on someone's head, a true testament to it's power and glory. If you're in the area, definitely check this place out. If you're ever drunk, hungover or bored, this is the place to be. If you're trying to overcome a mild cold, with an achey back and a sinus headache, this is definitely not the place to be. But it sure does feel good. Rock and roll.:)

Marvel vs. Capcom 3!

2011-03-03T00:31:00.000-08:00

Well, it's that time again.

Every few months I go through a phase where I like to just...stop. Not necessarily meaning I'm gonna completely abandon reality, but just kick up my heels and disappear. I will eat, but only out of necessity. I will talk and communicate with others, but behind these dead, glassy eyes there's pure, black nothingness. I won't answer a single phone call, the sacred, wonderful and best-friend-internet is fully deserted and avoiding what's outside my apartment door becomes perfectly natural and sane.

...

Yeah. Videogames, man.

I fell into the trap, I bought Marvel vs. Capcom 3.

Let me just start off by saying that Marvel vs. Capcom is one of those games that I'm dying to wanna like. Everything works for me -- characters from the Marvel Universe mixed with characters in the world of Capcom (the usual suspects are adequately represented) coming together to offer up a face full of fists. The hyper-intense speed and graphics make it enjoyable to anyone who can paw at four buttons and a D-pad, and the pure value lies directly in beating the tar out of your friends and soon to be enemies. Shameless victory dances and hurtful gloating are encouraged, but not essential. Celebrate at your own risk.

Everything sounds good, right? Yeah, I guess so, since I spent sixy bucks on this bitch. But I figure my problem lies in the fighting game genre. Which, ya know, totally fucking sucks.

Okay, in all fairness, fighting games can be awesome. I just mentioned that the pure gold is a night of drunken, multiplayer madness, where nothing can come close to the electricity of beating "the guy who knows all the moves" by closing your eyes and throwing the controller against the couch. Button-smashers are a thrill-a-minute, and I've had my fair share of weekends ruined and friendships dissolved. My main complaint is that playing a game like this is so inherently boring, you might as well have bought a book. It's best with buddies, no doubt, and the only way to truly enjoy the game these days is online, but that's nerd shit, so avoid it at all costs.

But Marvel vs. Capcom is still, by default, a winner in my eyes. I was never big into the arcade game, but watching people pound at the controls to have Magneto pile-drive Wolverine was incredible. I've always liked this game, and could easily bypass all the fighting-game prejudice and hesitation I've harbored up over the years. The line to play was always too long and the winners were intimidating, though, so I never actually manned up and joined in. Who wanted to throw in a pocket full of change just to be publicly beaten and humiliated? Enter the videogame series in the privacy of your own home...enter Marvel vs. Capcom on Playstation.

I missed the first two, but not this time 'round. I've never played it, so my chances are pretty rockin' these days. Since most copies of MVC are around one-hundred bucks, with the sequel clocking in at a good seventy new, forty used...yeah, uh, no.

But here I am, ready to jump back in! New zest for life, newly acquired weeks off to blow, new videogame purchased, etc. It's true, my love and excitement for gaming rises and falls every two months or so, and it's a well known fact that I rarely even open up half of the things I buy, but at least I opened this, and that's the first step to recovery.

So with that...I got the third version, and so far so good. Packaging is nice, the game itself looks alluring and the checkout person at Best Buy wasn't a cute girl, because anytime it's a cute girl I'm either buying toys or black mascara. It's for my girlfriend, I swear.

Story:

Videogames and I have had a longstanding affair throughout my formative years. I respect videogames, and videogames destroy my life. It's a complicated relationship. But no other pasttime has united and brought together friends and family like videogames. No other activity has formed and molded my dull mind, sparking intimate memories from childhood and teen years.

I can remember losing my shit over the NES. Gameboy was the Essence of Life and Nintendo Power Magazine was absolute law and rule. Super Nintendo was brought to existance, and Star Fox and Doom were now my Masters. I remember being lucky enough to rent a Playstation from the local Blockbuster, crippling my dreams with Resident Evil and showing me the light with Destruction Derby. It was all so unbelievably real looking. Everything changed in that instant, man. THE FUTURE WAS NOW.

Enter N64, enter Goldeneye, enter the void. Don't lie, we were all onsumed by Goldeneye. When I should have been caring about school, making friends and talking to girls, I played some Goddamn Goldeneye. Multiplayer with anyone I could wrangle into my room, not allowing anyone to leave until proximity mines were a permanent household word for you, your family and your co-workers. You know Oddjob? Remember multiplayer in the Facility level? And how you could secretly spin around in the bathroom stall to get sucked up into the air duct, offering you the best hideout and aggravating shooting point until someone threw a bag of grenades up there? I LOVED THAT.

PS2 evolved, Xbox was created, everyone was happy, we all love life. I slowly weaved in and out of videogames throughout the remainder of highschool, rather choosing a path of 18+ goth nightclubs and "sitting at Denny's until 2:00AM."

Well, here I am right now and the game is incredible. Yeah, all you do is jump around and kick people in the throat, but the colors and speed is just outstanding. The Soulcaliburs and Mortal Kombats of the world have displeased me, but this is the dawning of a new era, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I assume it's like the last two, but more three-dimensional and fuller looking. Gameplay is quick and easy, and despite my initial quick-to-point-out-how-boring-games-like-these-are, it really is fun to claw, stab, maim and kill a bunch of comic book shmucks. I've been bested. Also, it stands to show that any game that can make She-Hulk attractive is a game you gotta play. Nothing makes you feel more creeped out and confused than getting a semi over a manly, muscle-bound superhero chick. Speaking of The Hulk...

Seriously, zoom in on this shit:

I have no idea who's idea it was to turn The Hulk into the weirdest looking Hulk ever, but it's oddly welcome. I don't hate it. It instantly struck up conversation among friends and was one of the initial details that pushed me into purchasing. He's just so unique and alive. He's a cross between Moe from the Three Stooges and an eggplant. He's just so human looking, and I'll be damned if he doensn't have the prettiest set of teeth I ever did see.

Verdict = FUN! Best with friends, but not too bad on a day you decided to call into work. I much prefer the Grand Theft Autos and first-person shooters, but this is definitely worth it. Recommended. Now grab your chums, snag a six-pack and party hard.

MANHUNTER.

2011-02-23T16:31:00.000-08:00

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.

SOLVED:

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!

Dunkin' Donuts Grand Opening!

2011-02-14T11:06:00.000-08:00

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 coffee...you'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!

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

2011-02-07T19:28:00.000-08:00

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 goodness...it'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."

HENRY & GLENN FOREVER.

2011-01-27T15:39:00.002-08:00

I'm back. Already. My records indicate that I'm either struggling with writer's block or overflowing with inspiration, unable to put any thoughts into any tangible order. Tonight, I overfloweth.

Nutshell = this is too good to not blog about RIGHT NOW. I've been thinking about it all day, smiling and singing and gushing. I don't usually gush. It's usually reserved for teacup pigs and dollar stores, and neither one is here. Probably a good thing, 'cause the combo would no doubt be really smelly.

But today? Today, I have a new gush-worthy fun-thing.

Today, an act of fiction is brought to life. Today, an act of art is alive. Today, my two, male musical idols fall in love.

"Henry & Glenn Forever."

I was gonna include this in my next post, which will be paragraphs upon paragraphs of how amazing Amazon.com is. I never thought I'd be so behind the times, but the site is...beautiful. I never realized it's been morphed into a wonderful mix of ebay, craigslist and everystoreever. I figured, since it really was just a giant megastore of bullshit, they sold everything from books to clothes to toys. That was it. Now I find out that you have an option in searching for what you want, then selecting which price you'd rather pay, from sellers all over the US. When did this happen? How did I not know about this? I LOVE THIS.

I found movies I couldn't track down in years, music that was seemingly rare and untraceable on record, toys that were cheaper than I could ever find...and I so totally had myself a little shopping spree. It was gluttonous and absolutely undeserved, but I walked away with enough horrible movies and Guitar Wolf junk to shame even me, and I'm the guy who's got a full corner of my house dedicated to nothing but "things I haven't opened yet." Nevermind that. Mind this:

I got this book!

There's not a whole lot to be said about a flimsy book of punk rock romance, so don't mind me blowing through this. It found it's way on my Amazon wishlist and some dude was selling it for a few bucks. Shit got real, real fast, right there.

It's about a fictitious love affair between Henry Rollins and Glenn Danzig, illustrated by what I assume is multiple artists, each adding a slice to the liaison pie. The damn thing can be read in under five minutes and most of the drawings are crude and confusing, but there's definite humor in a lot of gags. Lots of lyrical jokes, puns and fake diary postings. I'm not sure how I feel about Fake Glenn writing about how mad he is at Fake Henry, how Fake Henry is advising Fake Glenn to be himself, etc. It's all so sexual yet heartfelt. Like I said, I'm not sure how to feel, but it doesn't feel bad. Weird, kinda. But fun. Mostly weird.

I've already lost interest. I'm throwing it away now. I hate you, book.

Look how cute he is!

Pretty great find, even if the greatest part is simply the cover. I can live with never opening this up again in favor of framing it for my living room wall. What a conversation piece. That and the 983 toys scattered about.

Love on, my brothers.

Retail Therapy.

2011-01-26T15:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I had a serious case of the Mondays. I'm in a position where I don't have too much to be bummed about on a Monday afternoon, but I started the day strong and I ended it in uncomfortable sadness. I blame the permanent scar of school and forever ruined Sundays by way of forced church attendance. The only way to turn things around was to move around and get active. I had to get up, I had to set out, I had to spend.

In all seriousness, I had to go grocery shopping, and as it goes, grocery shopping can suck a dick. There's nothing ever fun about it, and the most joy I get out of the situation is thumbing through the magazine racks and candy aisles. Now, I love food. I love to eat and get fat and all that shit, but I'm hardly ever pleased with the whole time-consuming ordeal, aimlessly pushing around a cart until my mind is urned to mush. Also, I absolutely demand to be entertained where ever I go. So, in theory and conclusion, grocery shopping can truly suck a dick.

So, to counteract my own personal descent into anger and boredom, I bought a little something. A little something to make all the hard work of supplying food for my face worth it.

Ta-da!

Truthfully, this was at the Target down the street. I forgot to pick up toilet paper, and there would be no way I'd circle back to once more confront my worst enemy. I'd feel betrayed, defeated and outright enraged if I had to go back and do it all over again, even if for one essential item. So I trudged forward, secretly wondering how many hand towels I'd blow through until I was forced to return for the Sacred TP.

Thank God for Target. It eased the anxiety and offered a unch more pretty things to look at. Mainly, "Power Rangers Samurai."

When I was a young kid and Power Rangers were at their peak, Power Rangers were not cool, and any kid who was a fan, were generously made fun of and berated on the daily. Maybe an older brother though it was decent, so then you thought it was pretty decent, too. Looking back, I wish I was into it more, 'cause I can really pick up what was being put down. Underneath the guise of such horribly dorky teenagers battling inside animal robots, the show was pretty cool, featuring scenes of giant fighting monsters in what was clearly shot in Japan. I'm not sure when I realized that the show was varying shots of American actors acting like idiots, cut in with Japanese actors doing tumbles and highkicks. I have no idea how I didn't even notice that Rita Repulsa was clearly Japanese! And had her voice dubbed over the entire time!1!111!!

Anyway, I kinda dig this thing. My choice out of the gang was based on the quantity on the shelf ("Modger" was the rarity out of the rainbow colored crew, I assume he's more awesome) and obvious betterness of the lot. Even though I haven't a clue as to how Power Rangers have become samurai, who does what or who does whom, I do believe an eyeless face-guy with giant teeth beats out the chick with the pink helmet. See:

It was cheaper than most modern action figures, but still lacked any kind of oomph to set me and my credit cards ablaze. I knew I had to have it...but I wasn't sure why. Was it the samurai influence? The fish-like head? My love affair with Japan might have helped the cause, though. Bandai, I assume, is Japan based and the creator of many fine toys, most notably the Power Rangers line, and many more of which I have no interest in whatsoever. It's all Ben 10 and Kamen Riders and Tamagotchi. My claim that "Bandai is Japan based" is entirely based on nothing, and entirely on assumption, but that's good enough for me. I want my Japanese toys to be the real deal, man. I want them straight from the source, or at least sorta from the source. Example: POWER RANGERS.

It's not the easiest thing in the world to collect Japan based goods, I'm sad to inform you. Most Godzilla toys under five inches in height cost over a hundred bucks a pop. How's a Joe Blow like me gonna amass a collection of Devilmen and squidgirls? I need something that my friends will be jealous of, something that looks imported and rare and magnificent!

The magic revealed itself to me. This would be it, the source of my power in beating the Mondays. I bought it and I love it. I'm so far behind Power Rangers lore that this could have been labeled "Dog Poo Warriors," and I wouldn't have doubted it, but it still looks cool and that's all that counts, man.

I started to read the back, maybe learn a thing or two as to how samurai's have infilitrated Power Rangers lore. I read the first sentence, "A new generation of Power Rangers..." and called it quits. All I needed to know. Which is that anything goes when a "new generation" of anything is ushered in. Why do I even care? Do I even care? I have no idea. I love this and it loves me.

The directions are amazing, too. Amazing that there are even directions included, really. Obviously, it's a drawn simulation in how to apply his death-sword to his death-hands, but I like to imagine it's telling you how to make him summon shit with his mind. Particularly, his sword. Or maybe a lightsaber. While hanging upside down in a Wompa cave.

There's already been enough photos to get any point I'm trying to make across, but I added this because I thought it looked cool. Kinda artsy, ya know? And I'm so gonna leave it at that.

Thank God it's Wednesday.

"A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2" Poster Power!

2011-01-16T19:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Blog, I hate you.

I'm usually full of ideas and inspiration when it comes to keeping this blog up to date, but I'm totally lost right now, and am pretty much wingin' it right now. My fingers are Goddamn dancing over this keyboard. All form and technique is thrown out the window and my brain is taking over. It's pretty magical, really.

I'm really trying to post something at least once a week, but when I put a goal and timeline on anything I do, seven days seems like the quickest seven days in history and all creativity has disappeared. Knowing I have to write something sucks the writing-fun-juices right outta me.

So here's the deal. I'm just gonna write about a really rad poster that just fell into my life. It's all I can do at this point, since it's the only thing running through mind and the only thing my eye wanders to when staring off into one-bedroom-apartment-space. The title of the blog pretty much reveals the source of my newest happy thing, but that still won't stop me from writing it in menacing caps and italics:

"NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2, FREDDY'S REVENGE" POSTER!

Man, it's really hard to photograph a shiny, reflective poster frame. My apologies.

But yeah. This is really cool, man. I mean, okay, I do realize that I talk about how something is "really cool" a lot around here, but this time it's for real. This trumps everything I've ever written about and drooled over. I've sailed through action figures and blown over movies like a freight train, but this objet d'art is special to me and this world it resides in. This is the single most fascinating and wonderful thing that has entered my life.

Wait, I just noticed a small rip near the the left hand corner -- I'm gonna burn this pile of shit.

Now, I'm a pretty casual fan when it comes to the "Nightmare..." series, relying on marathons during Halloween and a universe of merchandise to carry me through most of the finer points. At this stage in my life, I've seen all the films over a random period of time that it's all blended into one giant and confusing film. For a million bucks, I couldn't relay a single storyline from any of the flicks, relying more on my lengthy wordplay and charming wit to win that cool mil. Now I'm depressed that I don't have a million dollars. Can I have a million dollars?

The truth behind this poster is that I had no hand in obtaining it. Like a good older brother, I used and abused Younger Brother Davey to do my dirty work. Ahh, sorta.

Yesterday, one of our favorite go-to comic book store hotspots was having a one day only/do or die/"everything for one dollar" sale. This place shall still remain unnamed, for fear of it being pillaged and abused by all you weirdos reading this. We go there to rummage through everything from loose and broken toys to massive bundles of coffee-stained comics. We walk away with so much junk, you'd think we were convinced that He-Man figures and Jawas were currency in the near-apololyptic future. To most, this can be an intense waste of money, and in all sense of the meaning, it completely is. It's shameful, actually. I absolutely DO NOT need some of the stuff I throw money at, but what's the point of money if you can't spend it? This is my bullshit excuse for when the rent's due, I have zero money and I'm gettin' the sweaty, OHSHIT shakes. I hate it when I get the OHSHIT shakes.

Anyway, they had a sale, Davey went and I missed out. We've been planning this for weeks, but I completely messed the entire plan up by pouring copious amounts of alcohol into my mouth. It was one of those lazy, boring nights that turned into a party that wouldn't stop until we closed out the bar. Also, completely not worth it. You know how you can sometimes look back and think, in the harrowing depths of a killer hangover, that the previous night was worth it? It was fun and intense and all the pain and suffering you're currently going through is nothing compared to the incredible time and experience. Well, not this time. In fact, I wish I could take it all back, but I'm still unsure as to what even happened. To fix the past, you must remember the past, and right now, all I remember is visiting various bars, lots of money pumped into dirty jukeboxes and cold appletinis. I have sinned.

Basically, he was kind enough to pick this up for me, which is code for "sold it to me for five bucks."

But I love this. I love the way Freddy's face looks, I like the color and presumed texture of the fedora, I dig the "vagina thing" he's doing with his knife-glove, etc. It's magical, enlightening and full of life. His demon-eyes and snarled, yellow teeth will either ruin my walls or make them happy. Yes, this is kinda terrifying and awesome at the same time. I'm such a wuss.

Completely satisfied with this wheel-and-deal. My insides are still bleeding from the liquid sludge I gladly put into it, but this eases the ever-burning. Too bad I'm still kinda scared to look at this, though. Fuckin' weirded out by that Silly Putty face, but hey, I finished a post before the end of my seven days, so I'm just tickled pink. And it's all because of you, Freddy and Davey. You know, you two do kinda look alike. Just sayin'.

COOKIES IN MY MOUTH.

2011-01-10T18:01:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year! I'm hoping 2011 will bring you good tidings, happy thoughts and winning lottery tickets. May all our heart's desires come true and yeah yeah. Just stay away from me and we'll be cool, alright?

I mentioned it before in one of my last blogs, but we get things. Whether it's sent through the mail or at a show, we're always gracious and humbled. It's not every day that someone hands off their treasures and goods just because you strum a guitar like a sweaty gorilla.

Now, I've blogged about some of the cool shit I've been able to swindle, but there's a whole 'nother world when it comes to what Calabrese gets. Artwork in blood, customized Calabrese Ouija Boards, etc. It's amazing and oftentimes delicious. Case in point:

A mystery box of cookies. Yeah, it's not much of a mystery when last month I was messaged, "I'm gonna send you cookies, what's your address?" and I already knew they were gonna be cookies, but my life is boring and I demand mystery. So for now, I have no idea what lies in between the confines of this red-tin-prison.

I know it's gonna be hell having to stretch four sentences into twelve paragraphs, but I'm gonna give it my all. Alas, there's a lot of pictures. That helps. Let's roll:

Well, there you go! If I was somehow still baffled, my eyes have now been opened and I see the light. The chocolate chip, gingerbread, coffee/kahlua light. In bold, attitude filled words, we're told we've just been offered a grand lump of homemade edibles.

This is from our pal, Lexy Monster, a fan and friend from the grand state of California, who knows just how to tickle us pick. Well, me pink. The bit about her letting us know that there wasn't any arsenic baked into the cookies is in reference to our uneasiness about eating unmarked food sent throught the mail. I can understand the apprehension, but at least 2/3 of Calabrese will puss out half of the time when it comes down to shoveling gamble-food into our mouths. Math whizzes, you figure that lest sentence out.

Personally, I can disregard any second thoughts when it concerns my general health, so food is a nice surprise I welcome home with open arms. I like the idea of eating food and desserts and booze made for us from our fans and friends -- it's like gathering and storing and consuming some kind of rock and roll energy from around the world. Or I just like the idea of eating cookies, anytime, anywhere. Probably that one.

Davey likes to throw Jolly Ranchers into the purchases we get from CalabreseRock.com, and when he's in one of his moods where fan-food is tainted and we're about to have our own "Selena moment," I point this out. I argue that those could be tampered with, those tiny chunks of artificially flavored nuggets (which can be easily dipped into any poison and sealed back up) and that eating someone else's food will only balance out the karma he presents. Even if it's just a single piece of wrapped up candy...if he's gonna play, he's gotta pay.

The natural order of life will be in immediate jeapordy, the universe that was once alligned will be knocked out of orbit and into complete disaster and doom. The sun will explode, planets will cease to exist, life will be obsolete. If he refuses to eat these mystery cookies, WE WILL ALL DIE.

Time to crack this bitch open:

Not gonna lie, this is horrifying. I first saw the bats, I saw the black mass of Halloween plastic-stuff smashed in there, too, and was turned off. Like, a total blast of uncertainty and moral uneasiness. For that instant where I first opened it up, it looked like a big, black mess of shit. No offense, Lexy, but you had me scared for a moment. Like I was being punked with dog crap and licorice puke. I just kinda expected to see nothin' but cookies, all up in my face, like I owed it money. But this...this was an abomination! A grab bag of nonsense and hate! Good thing I like digging through animal crap on the weekends, because I stayed the course, I heeded forth, I dug deep.

Underneath...salvation!

Yeah, upon further inspection, I was delighted and thrilled to see a bunch of toy bats to go along with my upcoming sugar intake. I really should stop jumping to conclusions.

Also, the bats are now on top of my fridge. They are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vampire Unit. These are their stories. DUM DUM.

Okay, I'm not sure what they're intended to look like, but I'm guessing and secretly hoping it's four, overworked stunt-doubles on the set of "Sean of the Dead." I initially thought, "Hey, it's Calabrese!" but soon realized there's one extra brother on hand. I wouldn't mind that scenario to be true, though, 'cause it would be awesome to have a second guitarist on stage. Bigger sound, powerful backups and someone else to berate and push around.

Also, unlike the cookies, we don't wear pocket protectors. Well, not to shows, anyway.

Oh, and top of that, these cookies are on top of another pile of cookies. They're faceless and boring, but they're still cookies, and that's alright with me. Plus, they make the previous layer of cookies all that more appealing. There's a certain ying and yang to it all. I feel like a ninja.

In the end, I'm stuffed and in a state of abdominal pain and discomfort, where the only thing I can manage is the DVD player and an extensive coma.

Thanks, Lexy. You rule.