Dayglo Necros Fan Art.

With the release of our newest music video for "Coffin of Ruins," it simultaneously reveals the outcome of our brave, daring heroes (us, Calabrese) and that weird, lime-green vampire (that weird, lime-green vampire, Dayglo Necros) while laying to rest the era of DAYGLO NECROS.  Ya know, that album we put out last year.

It's both sad and freeing, I suppose, 'cause it lets us move on to new heights of musical magic, without the lag of past endeavors...but saying 'goodbye' is hard.  I think Dayglo Necros is one of our finest albums, so it's gonna be a lot of fun to show you what else we have up our sleeves with the new stuff.  What new stuff?  The new album in October, of course.  You ask for new tunes, you demand for new jams, you angrily shake your fists...so we come bearing rock and roll gifts.  The Legend of Dayglo is behind us, blown apart in an explosion of stock footage insanity.  So let's move forward, mah friends, into newer, grander territories.  Like space.  Or something with motorcycles WHILE in space.  Hell, maybe a creepy lizard-man can attack and terrorize us, as long as he's decently green enough.

But, still...I'm gonna miss that guy.  That super green vampire guy.

Which brings us here today.

I love Dayglo Necros.  I love the character, the idea, the image, etc.  It's a fun little  mascot we've been fooling around with for a year and half, and although it's cool just to have us fight a super villian, I think it's even better that the super villian is just so outstandingly green.  I can't get over how green he is.  I really just like the green.  I like drawing that green beast even more!

So rest in peace, dearest Dayglo.  We've had a good run and I'll always cherish the memories, through old YouTube videos and cruddy, online art.  So...mind if I contribute?

SO GREEN SO GREEN I LOVE THE GREEN.

Now it's your turn!  Post any of your fun (and very green) Dayglo fan-art on our Facebook page, do what ya gotta do and have some fun.  Have that swampy bitch battling Calabrese, biting Calabrese, serenading Calabrese under the moonlight...whatever!  Because any Dayglo Necros is good Dayglo Necros!

www.facebook.com/calabrese666

Micheladas.

It's hot out.  Like, really hot.

I don't know what to do!  I want to leave the house, but I don't want to die.  Admittedly, I enjoy the summer.  I like hot dogs and pools and wearing cool sunglasses.  I like inflatable palm trees and beach balls and hot pink bikinis.  A fantasy of mine is to be in an 80's, summertime house party.  I want there to be big, drunk jocks with short cut football jerseys that show their greasy bellies (why did they even do that?) and girls with big hair doing that weird, spazzy 80's dance.  The one with the flailing arms and that kind of skipping thing.  You know what I'm talking about.  Just think about it.  You know exactly what I'm talking about.  There has to be a guy wearing a lampshade, too.  Oh, man, never forget Lampshade Guy.

I don't know where I'm going with this so I'll get to the point ehhh:

I really want to try a "red beer."  What exactly is a "red beer?"

Well, it varies and depends on personal taste, but from what I've gathered, it's a Mexican lager beer mixed with hot sauce, lime and anything else that doesn't sound too appetizing in a beer.  It really is like a Bloody Mary, whereas you substitute vodka for beer. 

Today, I want to try a variation of this concoction -- I'm going to make myself a michelada.  It easily falls under the "red beer" umbrella, featuring a heart helping of hot sauce, beer and little, green limes.  I went with a michelada because the preparation is a little more thorough and delicate than, say, dumping a glob of salsa into a Coors Lite.  Plus, I really like saying "michelada."

Online recipes dictate that to make a michelada, you'll need hot sauce, Worcester sauce, soy sauce, salt and lime.

I want to play bartender, but I don't want to play "guy who buys the stuff for the bartender before the bar opens."  A role like that is too much to handle.  I can only imagine myself lost in the supermarket, aimlessly wandering the aisles, a hollow, shell of a man as I try to figure out what the hell Worcester sauce even is.  So I'm gotta cut a few corners and skip a few steps, blah blah.  It'll still be good.  TRUST ME.

Step 1: Pour beer into a chilled glass.  Preferably, a Mexican lager.

I got Dos Equis.  I like Dos Equis.  My older sister once told me that she thought Dos Equis tasted like tires, which has always made me think of drinking tires when drinking Dos Equis.  Which, oddly enough, hasn't deteriorated my consumption.  I suppose I like the taste of tires?

Step 2: Add a dash hot sauce, or, like...anything that would make the beer red.

I'm gonna use this V8 Spicy Hot, because I want something with a little more oomph than a few drops of hot sauce.  Plus, I don't have any hot sauce on hand. 

I've always been hesitant with V8 (tastes like shit) but the spicier version adds a whole new level of excitement.  It's not as shitty.  The spice masks the shit.  Overall, though, V8 does have it's merits.  In fact, I like knowing that if I drink a small can of the stuff once every six months, I'll absorb all the vitamins and nutrients I'll ever need.  Because that's what it does.  That's what it does for your body.  V8 is magic.

Now, I've seen people use Clamato before, too, which would be nice, but I've already hit my Diarrhea Limit for the week.  Sorry.

Actually, I think that would taste kind of...fun.  An interesting test of taste, if you will.  Hell, Budweiser offers their own "Budweiser and Clamato" in a can, so it can't be that bad if an idea.  But probably is.  I'll save it for next time.

Step 3: Admire and enjoy.

Well, there we have it.  I, of course, didn't bother with Worcester sauce, soy sauce or a salted rim.  It would absolutely make this more interesting and exciting and delicious, but the priority wasn't high enough, I guess.  Fortunately, as is, it tastes pretty alright.  Sure, it's like sipping on watered down, fizzy pizza sauce, but it has a merry, summertime feel to it.  I only use the word "merry" because I'm getting a distinct Christmas vibe with this drink.  I like that.

I like you, michelada.

Coconut Water Tastes Weird.

I've been hearing about the benefits of coconut water for a while now.   Everything from profound claims of extreme re-hydration to making your entire insides a perfect, moving machine, one might think this was the untarnished solution to all of life's problems.  Every one's problems be damned.  All I care about is one thing:

Apparently, coconut H20 is really fucking awesome for a righteous hangover.

We all get the Hangover Blues.  It's an essential part to drinking, and one must truly understand and acknowledge the ying and yang of this exchange to overcome this obstacle.  I'm at a point where anything can give me a headache or an upset stomach, so once I throw booze into the mix, it's game over.  But I understand this.  I accept this.  I take full care and extra precaution in avoiding the shitty yang to my happy time ying.  And so enters coconut water.

I've tried it.  I hate it.

Yes, there is a semi-distinct flavor of coconut, which, by all means, should equal deliciousness.  Unsure if it's the fact that it's composed of water, too, that dilutes the taste or that I've never really had true and blue coconut before.  It's such a shock to my delicate pallet.  I'm confused, embarrassed and mentally beaten.  Is this what every one's been raving about?  Could this actually be the almighty Water de Coconut?

One of the worst attributes of coconut water is that it's absolutely the weirdest and grossest color I could ever imagine a drink to be.  For the love of God, for all things holy...the damn thing is milky.  Never shall a drink be called "milky."  Never shall that adjective be brought up in any conversation ever, now that I think about it. 

If you can get over that, though, you've won.  You win the coco-contest.  You rule!

All cons aside, let's focus on the pros.  Does it actually hydrate more than, say, Gatorade or actual water?  Does it beat all competition in the impossible hangover category?  It's hard to say, or to really judge, because I don't want to be a grump.  My gut reaction is to answer "HELL NO IT DOESN'T WORK," because, well...hell no it doesn't work.

But let's not be unfair.  The hangover is a tricky beast, and we all pretty much know there ain't no solution, so yeah...there's that.  Buuuuut I still want to whine:

Because this is coconut water!  The savior of us all!  Am I doing it wrong?  I'm probably doing it wrong.  Maybe I should have drank two?  Three?  Poured in a little bit of vodka, V8 and topped off with a stick of celery?  Would that have helped?

Well, fuck it. I'm led to believe that it does something, by God, so I'm going to drink it.  Even if it does taste like dirty water and looks like jizz.

To my surprise, a trip to 7-11 has confirmed my belief in that all good things good come to those good and those who whine.  Is that the phrase?

This couldn't be more right for me.  Coco Café brings us a "cafe latte coconut water espresso."  All the superstitious notions of otherworldy and powerful benefits of coconut water combined with coffee!  The magic juice that doesn't taste like poop!

More importantly, it ain't milky.  In fact, it's the color of a chocolate milkshake.  Hell, it tastes like a chocolate milkshake with a hint of coffee.  And I like coffee, so, yeah.  This is good.

Real good.

I like coconut water now!

Wacky Wall Walkers!

The search is endless.  The treasure unattainable.  There was a time in my life, a simpler time, of all things wacky, wally and crawly.  Where has my life led me?  Whatever happened to you, Wacky Wall Walkers?

Wacky Wall Walkers were an instant hit in my household growing up.  It's not hard to understand why, once you factor in the main selling points:  One, you get a sticky octopus that can fit in the palm of your hand.  Two, you get to throw it at a fucking wall.

We always seemed to have a never ending supply of the damn things, or at least a constant flow of varying incarnations of the idea.  At the time, every company seemed to have their hand in the "sticky thing that tumbles down walls" pot, so it was only fair we snatched up every single thing that would do the trick.  As long as we got to watch something hang from the ceiling for a few seconds, we were golden.  When will it fall?  How long will it stay up there?  The suspense was maddening, let me tell you!

Wacky Wall Walkers, I believe, were outstandingly popular.  I only say this because I didn't know a soul who didn't own eight-thousand of 'em.  They were cheap, fun and shaped like a baby octopus.  I don't know how to put more emphasis on that.  That bulbous, brightly colored head is just really cool. 

An octopus.

There.  That'll do the trick.

Throughout my life, I've been attracted to that moment in time where the plain joy of pitching an underwater sea creature against your closet door was the greatest show on Earth.  I crave for that wonder.  I've been craving for it, and today, things have whirled into a cacophony of bright, new opportunities.  I've found my wacky, walky Holy Grail.  I'm on the brink of personal salvation.  I'm primal!

Introducing Creepeez! 

Sticky, tumbly fun!  We're here!  We've made it!

Yeeeeah, there already exists a thousand of these things today.  I'm sure the trend has never let up, and in fact, a quick Google search has guided me to sites that sell retro, easy to buy versions of the original beast.  So he (she?) never really left my life.  I just haven't really cared until...well, right now.

But that's alright!  I can't let the energy come to a grinding halt!  I can't undersell these exclamation points!  It's too late to turn back!

The packaging has dubbed him an "Outlaw Alien."  He ain't no octopus, but he comes close.  Harboring six legs, two of which are really teeny and cute, and a single, leering eyeball, he certainly can pass as one of you squint just right.  The eye is a nice touch, though, which seems to be looking up.  Perhaps he's scared of heights and this is his trick to overcome his fear.  I'm in the same boat, pal.  Fuck heights.

I even like the idea of this guying starting off as an innocent eyeball ripped from some one's innocent face, thrown into a vat of mutant goo and transformed into a walking, crawling monster from space.  Maybe he was originally an astronaut.  A scuffle ensued, things went sour, eyeballs were snatched.  I think I've done over thought this thing.

I like how he's green, too.  If you're a bug, you should be green.  They've excelled in this requirement.

So soar, my little friend!  Stick to the surface of my kitchen cupboard!  BE WACKY!

Pictures don't do it justice, but he crawled.  It was actually pretty cool, and brought back a lot of memories.  It's hard the explain why I care, and what Wacky Wall Walkers mean to me, so you'll have to excuse the gushing.  Wacky Wall Walkers and the like are good natured fun, unbeatable in their ability to turn something pretty stupid into an enjoyable experience.  If you weren't there, you don't know, man.  You just don't know.

So go out and buy one.  Feel what I feel.  Check the end sections of Toys R Us and the cheap-o toy area of Target that sells plastic dinosaurs and crappy puzzles.  Buy it and don't look back.  Revel in it's stickiness, marvel at it's...whatever.  It's a bug that walks down your walls! 

No regrets, baby!

Auto Outfits.

Auto Outfits.  Auto Outfits?  You betcha.

The idea is easy enough, the execution an exercise in costuming simplicity.  Car meet costume, costume meet car.  Basically, the Auto Outfits company provides a cutesy costume for your boring ride during Halloween, or for when you want to look like an even bigger asshole during the other eleven months that don't host Halloween. 

Unsure if they come in different varieties, but mine is a kit to transform your vehicle into a giant, spooky bat.  So you get two bat wings.  Two glorious bat wings.  These are bat wings for your automobile.  See how easy this is?

They're fuzzy, too, and if we're being totally honest, kinda adorable.  I think an old lady on her way to the grocery store during the last week of October would look great with these pinned to her car.  Or a group of kids being chauffered by mom to Little League practice.  But definitely not you or I.  We'd look like idiots.

My loving, caring parents gave this to me for Christmas.  Instantly, I wanted to hide them under the nearest bed, but I'm glad I've held on to them.  The shame and embarrassment has dissipated, and I've been reformed.  I've judged these wrong!  They're so gaudy and loud and perfect and weird.  The "weird" stems from the idea that these are specifically meant to bring your Volvo into the Halloween spirit (is that possible?) and that my parents would ever believe I'd use these in any way, shape or form.  I know it's probably meant to be a gag gift, but I don't know, parents.  You're still weird.

Fortunately, knowing that I've misjudged these, we can move on and start fresh.  It'll be a mini-Christmas in late March.  And as a sidenote, I don't even know what a "Volvo" is.  Cars are weird, too.

Yes, there's a happy ending to all of this.  Somehow, in some way...this gift is actually pretty cool.  They'd be a hell of a lot cooler out of the box, but, well...ya know:

I don't have the time.  I lack the energy.  It was an odd moment in my life to realize I didn't have the will power to push through this obstruction, but life's made up off odd moments.    I've learned a lot about myself since writing this post.  I've learned that I really can't stand those twisty-tie things.

Honestly, they're a hassle.  One could even say that, when given a tough go, they'd even hurt your fingers, too.  I know I've really dug into these things before, so it's not an entirely possible claim.  I'm looking out for you guys.  Mostly me, but you guys, too!

But just imagine them out of the bag.  Big, fuzzy bat wings are now at our disposable.  What can we do with them?  Besides the obvious intent of dolling up your Nissan (is that a car name thing?) it wouldn't be to crazy if...

1. You wore them.

Excellent for raving, clubbing and those creepy "fetish balls" with loud dance music and people hanging from hooks.  I can only imagine you'd fit right in with a set of these wings, firmly strapped to your back.  Chicks wear them, dudes wear them...why not you?  I have no firsthand experience with this culture, but I do know that if you're looking like a go-go dancing fairy from Candyland, you're fucking golden.  So go on, give it a shot.  Trust me, you look great.

2. You can, like, use them as a pillow enhancer.

They're soft, and the button-nose portion is a squishy little ball of cotton.  It's a bit of a stretch, but I wouldn't mind adding them to my collection of couch pillows.  Throw it in the mix of blankets and crumbs and grandma's lovingly knitted throw.  Come movie night, when you've got your big bowl of popcorn and are snagging reinforcements for a comfortable viewing, I'm sure you'll be using a baseball sized bat nose to prop up your head in no time.

3. You can use them on anything BUT YOU DAMN CAR.

Put them on your computer screen.  Tape them up to your bookcase.  Put them on the damn elliptical machine collecting dust in the back room -- just don't use them on your automobile.  The Dork Factor is so unbelievably high with this that it would spin the heads of those over at the Cool Factor offices.  Believe me, they're a tough nut to crack, and this certainly doesn't help the matter. Unless you're a mom, a little old lady or just absolutely just eccentric enough to pull this off...don't do it.  Cut them up into tiny pieces, sauté them in a nice glaze and serve them to your friends, family and loved ones for a warm, candle lit dinner.  JUST DO ANYTHING ELSE WITH THEM PLEASE.

Or not.  I don't care.

:)

Sneak Peek at the Upcoming "Coffin of Ruins" Music Video!

So this is our script:

Over the weekend, we'll be filming a music video for "Coffin of Ruins" in a sweaty, stuffy warehouse building.  We have the song.  We have the ideas.  We have a lot of green makeup.

Now, to explain the above.

We figured actual story boarding and general direction was too much to handle, so instead, we're simply following a crudely drawn collage of everything and anything.  Ideas, characters, scenes and props, all mashed up into a singular mess of shit.  I figure we'll print a bunch of these up, paste them throughout the set and refer back to it when needed.  Kind of like a road map to our destined success.  It can even serve as a type of inspirational poster, if you so prefer that inspirational junk.

To figure out what goes first, who fights what and who dies where, we'll throw darts at the thing.  However it hits, however it shall be filmed.  There's a certain brilliance billowing here.  I know you can feel it.  You can feel it, right?

On Saturday (assuming we ain't too bombed) we'll keep you updated over Facebook, Twitter and tumblr with silly anecdotes and revealing photos, so be sure to follow along as we adventure forth to musical Mordor.  Imagine that eagle's eye view shot of the Hobbits walking along mountain terrain.  That'll be us.  Cue the soaring musical score.  Cut to tough grimaces.  Oh, yes.  This is gonna be good.

Can't wait!

March, 2013 Update! Rock and Roll Pick Power Deal!

We're back from tour and, boy, do we have a lot of stories for you! Firstly, we'd like to thank Wednesday 13 for taking us on the road with them, and for Cold Blue Rebels rocking the stage with us, each and every night. Thanks to our fans, friends and family! Secondly, we'd like to mention/herald/congratulate that one guy who got really drunk, then used one of those orange street cones and a tube of toothpaste to...oh, you had to be there to truly understand!



Oh, and hey!  Snag yourself a double-dose of rock and roll guitar picks (personally sweated, blooded and spitted on by Jimmy and I) with any order over twenty-five bucks over at www.CalabreseRock.com!

Kidding about the blood, spit and sweat, if you were wondering.  There might be a small trace of pizza grease, though, but that's to be expected.  C'mon!  What's a matter you?

"Ghostwolves!"

Please, whatever you do, don't venture out into the desert by yourself. Without any food. Or water. Or a natural sense for direction and general survival. Because shit gets weird when the moon reveals itself.

Watch your back! Watch your front!

It's time to get wild with "Ghostwolves!"

New T-Shirts! New Tour! Same Old Fun!

Next week, we embark on a pretty rad tour with Wednesday 13 and The Cold Blue Rebels!  There will be fun, excitement and, naturally, a diabolical attempt to get you to buy more Calabrese junk!

We're printing two new t-shirts, both of which will only be sold at these shows, specifically for these shows and absolutely no where else besides these damn shows.  It's a bold statement, especially coming from us, but if need be...yeah, they'll eventually be sold online through our web store.  But you never know!  We're turning over a new leaf, working new angles, etc.  Besides, we've got a truckload of other designs we really, really wanna show you, and are running out of space at the Calabrese Manor.  Out with the old, in with the new.  Even if the new is, like, two weeks old. 

So act fast!

 

We don't have specific name for this one yet, aside from "8-bit Dayglo," but I'm taking creative liberty and christening it "Ninten-glo Necros."  I feel crazy clever for thinking that one up, and only right now have I been able to share it with the world.  Applause.  Take a bow.  You're welcome.



"The Dead Don't Rise" was drawn by our pal, Andrew Barr, who fully captured our smirks, pursed lips and stoic, statuesque bravado.  He also drew a handful of the weirdo monsters from the music video, which is one of the better reasons to buy this t-shirt.  'Cause weirdo monsters are cool.

See you at the shows, Universe!

I Like Hamburgers, Diners and Coffee.

For whatever reason, I've always been fascinated with diners.  Right off the bat, I should state that I don't mean any of the hokey shit, the "5 and Diner" teenage sock-hop junk, the kind you'd find in a movie about a fast car, prom night or a group of jacked-up hooligans looking for trouble.  No, no, I'm talking about the dumps, the dives, the places where people look for a quiet place to sit before they commit a grand heist.  Or a diabolical murder.  Or just want to drink some stale coffee.

I suppose it stems from "Twin Peaks."  Or maybe even episodes of "Roseanne."  I'd like a diner with wood paneling, waitresses in uniform and a whole hell of a lot of friendly banter.  I want to eat a fat, juicy burger followed by a slice of cherry pie.  The cherry pie has to be sitting in a revolving glass container.  Ideally, I'd like a cloud of cigarette smoke to infiltrate my entire personal space, too.  It completes my vision.

Denny's?  IHOP?  It's close, but it ain't ever gonna be the same.  No big names, no chain restaurants.  I want the real deal, the whole sausage.  Whatever that means.

I think I like the stuff from the 70's and the 80's, or at least what's portrayed in the movies during those eras.  Any movie with a scene where truck drivers are eating breakfast?  That's the diner I wanna be in.  What about the scene where the neighborly waitress knows the main character's order before they even order it?  Because that's the one.  That's the diner.

I'll even settle for the diner in "Groundhog's Day" or "Wayne's World," even if they did only seem to sell doughnuts.  They have to sell hamburgers, though.  It's important to my dream.  It's the staple in this scenario.  A cup of hot coffee, a burger and a slice of grandma's apple pie.  It's the quintessential trio of diner dining.  It's classic, it's required...it's professional.  There's professionalism about it. 

Which gets me on to hamburgers.

Cheeseburgers.  Double cheeseburgers.  Whatever floats your boat, it's all the same to me.

Normally, I hate greasy food.  Well, overtly greasy food.  It has nothing to do with health, diet or moral conviction, but rather a large disdain for the "greasy aftermath."  My fingers and hands are covered in goo, my clothes on the constant verge of being forever-stained...it's just altogether quite stressful.

But in moderation?  Sure.  Fried selections as an appetizer is alright, but something like a big bucket of KFC?  Or a Philly Cheesesteak?  I can't do it.  I JUST CAN'T DO IT.  There's a small list of guidelines I follow, and a vat full of wet chicken parts is off limits.  Now, a vat full of wet cow parts?  That's a whole different story.

If a burger is just absolutely dripping with grease, in my bizarre, calculating mind, I can somehow justify putting it into my body.  Sure, ya eat too much greasy foods you'll feel like shit, but other than the insane fear of sticky, gross hands, I pretty much eat what I want to eat, even if I'm cramping up on a toilet an hour after.  So if I'm gonna chomp down on a nasty, artery cloggin' selection of shit, I'm gonna do it and I'm gonna do it right.

Somehow, magically, with a magnificent hamburger at play and in hand, I've found that "the grease isn't that bad."  Color me psychotic, but it's the way I think on the situation.  Just total and complete denial.  Maybe I'm bi-polar?  Maybe I just really favor hamburgers over all, and can figure them to be healthy addition to my diet?  Oh, that last one sounded good.  I'm gonna write that one down.

Well, damn.  Now I gotta mention this "magnificent burger."

I intended for this to be another long winded, aimless post, but I might as well turn it into a review, too.  Maybe, like, a mini review?  Yeah, a Mini-Review!

There's a place in town called The Chuckbox.  A total hamburger heaven, with a menu consisting entirely of what else you want to put on your hamburger.  The list is endless and robust, which is just a clever way of saying that I can't remember any of it besides what I ordered.

For me, I went with the "Tijuana Torpedo," a near pound of delicious meat topped off with a green chile and pepper jack cheese, I think.  There was cheese, no doubt.  Let that be known.

I wanted to take it home and at least take a photo of it, but when I got to the place, I noticed it wasn't quite the "take out" kinda joint.  You order, you wait, you're given a hamburger on a paper plate.  The charm, I suppose, is that the place is as simple as simple gets.  You get to see the dudes grilling up your patty, you see the guy tenderly working the fries into a vat of oil.  The place is adorned with painting of cowboys, cattle skulls and anything else you'd find in a western movie.  It doesn't seemed forced, though.  Almost as if the guy running the cash register really liked cowboy junk and decided to bring in his own collection of memorabilia.  I dunno, it just feels right and good and wholesome, pardner.

Seeing as there's no visible option for takeout, I totally kinda freaked.  I mean, who the hell goes to a place to eat alone?  What would I do?  Be that douche staring at his phone the entire time?  There was a TV playing football, and unless I could feign interest in the most outstandingly boring thing to watch on TV, I was screwed. 

Well, I was already in, so I couldn't back out.  This, unfortunately, led to two problems:

I had to eat fast and I couldn't take a photo.  Eating quickly wouldn't be a problem, but busting out a phone, alone at a table, to take a photo of my food?  Nuh-uh, no way, not gonna happen.  My face feels hot just thinking about it.  So I gobbled it down in record time, with no regard for grace nor immediate heartburn.  In my infinite idiocy, I tried to imitate a man on the run.  Someone who needed to be somewhere important, but had to stop in to grab something to eat.  No fuss, no muss.  It would be the only way to substantially excuse the creepy, lone gunman in the corner.  Whether my ruse worked or not, the burger was delicious.  Totally greasy, totally satisfying.  The damn thing was absolutely dripping.  So into Paint I went, pulling together a rendition and ode to my love of hamburgers.  I like how the grease looks like slime.  Pretty cool.

Set in the middle of the place is a condiment bar, too, with all sorts of extras.  Jalapenos, onions, ketchup, mustard, etc.  Nothing of interest to report on the matter, just stating the facts.

Chuckbox décor: Check
Football dilemma: Check
Condiment bar re-cap: Check

Sadly, the "Tijuana Torpedo" kicked my ass.  Unsure if it was the quick entrance into my guts, the sheer amount of meat consumed or a combo of the two, but I was instantly bloated, all-over-hurting and doubled over in a post food orgy of pain. 

I loved it and I cannot wait to eat another one again.

Self Portrait.

Me like!

Me look good.  Like a Hugh Hefner.  If me girl, me be a playboy bunny, but me a goat instead.  Me think that sounded weird, now that me think about it.

What you think of portrait?  Charming?  Charismatic?  Stern and powerful?  Me think so!

Wednesday 13, Calabrese and Cold Blue Rebels!

Well, this is it.

Next month, we tease you with a trailer for the new music video ("Ghostwolves" officially out March 1st!) and officially hit the road with Wednesday 13 and Cold Blue Rebels.  Where are we going?  All over da place.  When are we going?  Well, I'll be glad to tell ya:

Those are the dates.  I'm sure venues are subject to change, since they've been changing for the last month (whoops!) so the San Antonio show is now at the White Rabbit and the El Paso show is...somewhere in El Paso.  If anything, we will be in those cities on those nights, and we will be playing a show.  In an exciting twist of events, it's up to you to figure out where!  Kind of like those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books, but with music and detective work. 

But definitely keep hitting up www.CalabreseRock.com for updates and info on any last minute changes.  Don't worry, we got ya covered.

This tour comes at an exciting time, too.  Big stuff coming from the Calabrese Camp this year, which we're thrilled to fill you in when the times comes.  Besides this tour, working on another music video for "Coffin of Ruins," we'll be recording another full length for 2014 and we WILL be stopping by Atlanta, GA to say hello.  Yes, the rumors are true...Calabrese returns to DragonCon!  We say we like to play DragonCon because of the fun show and the great opportunity to meet new and old fans alike, but it's really because of all the cool toys and hot cosplay chicks. 

We'll be there!  So you should, too!

Over and out.

I Watch Too Many Movies.

What's your favorite movie? 

I can't answer this question.  There's too many to choose from.  Just last week, I was hell-bent on crime thrillers.  If there wasn't an impossible heist, somebody getting double crossed by an ex-lover or absolute rivers of palm-sweating suspense, I didn't want anything to do with it.  This week, I can only get into comedies.  I hate crime thrillers now.  I only watch comedies.  Always have, always will.

See?  It's impossible to answer that question.

I really do watch a lot of movies, though, but I don't think it's as crazy as one might think.  With the rise of Netflix, I've been given the opportunity to watch an outstanding amount of garbage and nonsense.  Specifically, the wonderful world of the "Instant Queue" feature.  Now, I sometimes get the feeling they really don't give a fuck what they put up.  But that's alright with me.  Sure, there's a few good things here and there, and a bunch of decent new releases pop up every other month, but it's all around a total pile of junk.  But that's fine.  I'm not sure where I'm going with this.  I think it's that I will gladly pay a measly, insignificant eight dollars a month for that junk.  You could sell me a pile of chewed up carrots in a dirty shoebox if it was cheap enough.

It seems that a lot of people watch TV shows on Netflix.  I think that's great, but it ain't my bag.  I hate the idea of committing to eight thousand episodes of Sons of Anarchy.  I'd rather watch a damn hour and half movie and be done with it.  So I plop down and watch a single movie once a night, whether it's total crap or cinematic bliss.  Ain't too bad, right?

I used to buy a lot of movies (still do) but it's definitely taken a dip.  Good for me, monetary wise, but I'll still snag the good stuff.  Netflix has certainly given me an opportunity to taste-test films before the big purchase, which I like, even though it's kinda like taste testing a turd to see if you wanna buy a whole dozen of them.  I know I'm being harsh, but c'mon.  There's a lot of filler.  Just admit.  You'll feel better.

I'm also a huge advocate in watching the stuff I've always wanted to watch, or have always been curious about, but wouldn't spend a dime to do so.  If anything, Netflix is GREAT for that reason alone.  Like, "The Good Son" with Macaulay Culkin, or "Cutthroat Island" starring Geena Davis.  Both came out when I was young, and have always been swimming around in the back of my mind for a decade and a half.  I've played out entire scenarios of what they could be about, given all the information from passing reviews and references in pop culture, but it will never be the same as actually watching it for myself.  Basically, I feel left out.

So, finally, with the help of Netflix's seemingly untold input of choices, I had the chance to see what dis shit was all about.  "The Good Son" was, surprisingly, pretty decent.  It held a definite suspense throughout, and had a genuinely creepy vibe, which, in part, I'm guessing was probably provided by Macaulay Culkin's outstandingly cherry-red lips.  Yikes!

"Cutthroat Island," on the other hand, was horrible.  Against everything anyone has ever said about this flick (that it's God-awful) I've always held such high hopes for this one, which, in part, is due to the promise of swashbuckling pirates and my odd crush on Geena Davis.  Double yikes!

I'm getting sidetracked, but...

When I was in high school, I hated watching movies.  I never liked going to the movie theater, and the idea of renting something from Blockbuster was outrageous.  It wasn't an outright hatred for movies themselves, but for the idea of sitting down and locking into one, singular thing for two hours.  It was maddening.  I just felt like there was something better to do with my time.  I have no idea what that was, but it was probably to go sulk in my room like a creep.

Of course, I'd watch horror movies.  It's inescapable.  "The Lost Boys" and "Near Dark" were both my go-to favorites, which helped me in neglecting human relationships outside of my house, as well as my pursuit to becoming a full out, bona fide vampire.  I think I talked about this before, but yeah.  Through endless viewings of bloodsucker flicks and a week long hibernation in a darkened bedroom, I really and truly tried to become a vampire.  It wasn't the best plan (all I did was block out the windows and hoped I grew some cool fangs) but at least I gave it a shot.  Unfortunately, it didn't work out.  I'm still mad about it.

Besides watching movies for pure entertainment, there's still a sliver of business about it.  When we first started Calabrese, I did what any fan of the Misfits would do and watched monster movies in an attempt to form a string of lyrics for the greatest horror punk song ever written.  I remember, on a few occasions, I'd hunker down in front of the TV with a guitar in my lap, watching anything by John Carpenter, just waiting and strumming and hoping for something magical to happen.  Can't say it didn't work entirely, but it certainly wasn't the path I was chosen for.  Too obvious, too forced.  Now, I gather most of anything I ever write about from creepy, Richard Laymon/Stephen King books and old, superhero comics, but when I see a film that hits me just the right way, I feel almost forced to write a tune about it.  I feel obliged.  Lyrics aside, if anything, I go for the vibe and the action and the pacing of the film, ya know?  I try to capture it in musical form, however that happens and whatever that actually means (there is no easy formula to follow, unfortunately) but I still go for it. I like the stuff that's more insane and ludicrous than the rest, though.  Action, action, action.  That being said, there is one hell of a hefty amount of references to Quentin Tarantino's work on DAYGLO NECROS.  Whoo boy.

What was the point of all this?  I don't know.  Maybe I just wanted to talk about movies.  Because I like movies. 

I watch too many movies. 

The Calabrese Crypt with Bobby Calabrese.

Along with this current blog, I'm thinking of doing another "web blog," where I sit and talk into a camera until things get awkward and I stop talking into the camera.  Characters from the Calabrese past might show up, I'll occasionally be drunk and I'll finally be able to show off my collection of porcelain, Buddha statuettes in full, cinematic fashion.  Sounds thrilling, no?

We've done this kind of thing before, so there's no trouble figuring out how to go about doing it.  I have a backdrop (my apartment) and a main subject (me) but that's about the extent of it.

Problem is, I don't know what to do.  Like, what do I do?  What can I feature, mention or pay tribute to to make it worth watching?  I figure it'll literally just be me doing what I already do now, but in YouTube form.  I just don't want it to end up with me eating Mexican food on film for ten minutes.  Because that could very well happen.

Already have a few legitimate ideas, too, but I'm looking for some input.  A little guidance, if you will.  The entire internet is clogged with people who think they're more clever than other people, I understand, so that's why I want to make this good.  What do you wanna see?  What will get you to check back every week?

I'm willing to throw out all morals and self respect to accomplish success.

Know this.

Thanks!

Goat-Man Want Me Time in Spotlight!

Last last Halloween, I bought a monster mask from a local costume shop.  Every year, I try to make it a tradition to plop down some cash for a gruesome piece of wearable plastic, but that year was SO special that I didn't have to worry about last year.  I politely skipped tradition, because this particular monster mask is so spectacularly creepy, that I'm solid for years to come.  This will lead me well into 2019.

Hell, even Davey is outright disturbed by it.  I don't even think he can even look at it without squirming.  That's so cool.

Now, if you've kept up with this blog, you've noticed that Goat-Man likes to pop up every so often.  Whether it be of a toy review or admiration of his own face, he's here and he ain't leavin'.  This helps the workload, and relieves a bit of the pressure when I'm not feeling up to the task, but unfortunately, things have...well, they've taken a life of it's own.

You see, Goat-Man has grown a little too big for his britches.  Goat-Man is his own goat/man.  In the last month, he's been whining about lack of face-time and demands a little respect.  I guess he's feeling a bit left out, which is understandable, since I leave him tucked behind a stack of DVDs for eleven months out of the year.  Whether I like it or not, he wants some time in the spotlight. 

"Goat-Man want me time in spotlight!"

See?

For whatever reasons, he demands an audience.  Constant solitude and the accidental missed feeding can do that to a goat-thing.  But believe me, I'd deny this request if I could.  He's just too...weird and wild.  I can't control what he says half the time, his sentences run off into crazy tangents, his huge horns are constantly in danger of poking some body's eye out, etc.

But looking into that dead, soulless stare and that wet, mangled mouth, I fear for my life.  Plus, I don't want him to be all pissed off when I try to wear him next October.  I scratch his furry back, he scratches my furry back.

Yeah, that was gross.

BUT FEAR HIM.

He is his own entity.  His own path of hairy destruction.

I'm not sure what exactly he wanted to do, but he's at least agreed to do a little Q&A.  I figure that's fair, and the more time he spends on the computer, the better.  He's a bit out of touch in today's world.  And kind of talks weird.  There's a charm to his ways, but be warned: he's kind of a butthole.

Well, have at it, folks.  Don't say I didn't warn ya!

 

Me Goat-Man!  Ask Goat-Man anything! 

 

Me like you!

 



I'm Addicted to Board Games.

Well, only around the holidays.

When the family comes to town, there's only so many things you can do before you get sick of looking at their face.  With my siblings, we're on a constant roller coaster of bar hopping, excess in food and an onslaught of board games that could tear apart even the strongest bond between a brother and a sister.  This year, things certainly did not stray from our yearly agenda.

We only play a certain few games, if only because we get stuck on them and don't bother to find anything else to play.  As soon as someone introduces a new tournament of kings, we might keep it cycling in the mix, but it's been the same, endless loop of entertainment for at least four or five years now. 

Bloated, drunk, covered in cookie crumbs and stinking of coconut flavored, Malibu rum. 

LET'S PLAY SOME GAMES.

No Monopoly, though.  Nothing of the sort.  I hate Monopoly.  It's the worst game to bust out when you're already buzzed and wanting to just throw around some dice or act out a farm animal.  Essentially, the Family Rules of Board Gaming rely on a strict regiment of values and procedure deters against this.  We've counter-struck and have weeded out any bologna that would suck out any fin to be had.  There are as follows:

1. Any and all board games must be quickly and easily played.  There is no time to dawdle over instructions, and no one has the patience to play a whimsical round of Risk, unless Risk were magically transformed into just throwing away all the pieces and using the board as a drinking game prop.  Where there's a will, there's a way.

No Life, no Axis and Allies, no Scrabble.  Hell, I actually like Scrabble.  But these are the rules.  Sorry.

Oh, yeah.  No Sorry, either.

Sorry.

2. No game shall be played that won't get so out of whack when someone decides to leave.  At any given time, not everyone will have the tolerance, willpower or energy to give a shit.  Through the course of the night, someone might forget that they signed up as a soldier 'til the bitter end and decide to vacate the gaming premises in pursuit of a really cool movie on TV.  And that's fine, that's expected.  As long as the game doesn't fall to pieces because of it. 

3. When the opposing team wins, thou shall not get butthurt when thou decides to brag like an asshole.  When we play, it's rough.  It's oftentimes just scattered and wildly cruel.  It can even get emotional.  That's where the fun is, my friends.  Deep down, through all the madness and friendly socialization of friends and family through Milton Bradley, you really want to kick your brother-in-law's ass at Clue. 

With that said, these are the select few games we are addicted to:

Catchphrase

Not photographed (it's hidden in there somewhere) is Catchprase.  It's hot potato mixed with Password, where the idea is to get your partner/team to guess the word you're given.  Without ever saying the word, you pass along the game in a counterclockwise fashion (clockwise, if you prefer) acting out the word, phrase, celebrity, movie title, etc. until your game-gang answers it correctly.  Of course, there's a timer, elevating the stress and general inclination to throw the damn thing against the wall.  As soon as the buzzer goes off and you're left holding the game in your hands, it's chaos.  You feel like such a loser.  You've let your teammates down.  It's awesome.

Cranium

A great fusion of every-game-ever, you try your hand at charades, Pictionary, brain teasers, interpretive dance, etc.  It can be unbelievably fun if you're winning, and of course, terribly frustrating if you're on the losing side.  Just like Catchphrase, this is totally partner based, so do not pick your younger, dumber cousin and stay away from the uncle who's been chugging Miller products like it's going out of style.

I like the mini-game where you get to mold clay in an attempt to get your team to guess what you're molding.  Of course, the clay is always dry and unusable, so I retract my statement with a new statement: I hate the mini-game where you get to mold clay.

Trivial Pursuit

There is nothing better than trivia.  There's just something about it that thrills and exhilarates.  Well, it does for me, anyway.  There's always the one person who hates it, and will be sure to mention it at every chance available.  I understand, most of what you're trying to remember is pointless and trivial (hey, duh!) but c'mon, be a sport.  Just play the friggin' game and shut up.

There is at least one thing everyone hates about Trivial Pursuit, though: any category that isn't general pop culture, from any era in which you weren't alive in.  Fuck the rest.  That's why we have the "greatest hits" version, with nothing but trivia from the 80's and 90's.  We've really just made the whole game our bitch.

Times to Remember

Not personally photographed as well (stolen off of a Google search) this one came at us as a surprise.  Not sure who brought it into the mix, but it's been a welcome addition.  Straight from the dusty corner's of my parent's closet comes "Times to Remember," a journey into picking exactly what date any given event in the past has happened.  Sounds fun, right?  Well, it is, but there's a catch.  The game is from 1991, and all these glorious "times to remember" are so fucking old it'll make your head spin.  Split into two teams, your objective is to figure this shit out from the last 50 years, pre-1990.

Even better, you're given these specific brackets to choose your answer, which range from a seven year span to a one year span, which, essentially, makes you guess exactly and perfectly right in one try.  As soon as your brackets are gone, you win the game, fourteen months later.  For me, I'm kinda screwed on politics and rare and unheard of television shows from the 40's and 50's.  I just don't know, ya know?  So this is where strategy comes in...

Pick mom.  Get dad on your team.  Assuming they're older, wiser and have a sophisticated amount of grey hair, they're the wild card.  They know this junk. 

Well, that's about it.  My only parting words are to just remember to win.  I understand this is family, but be sure to win.  For the love of God, you must win. 

THIS IS NOT A GAME.

Christmas Comes Early at the Calabrese Manor!

Well, hey, check this out!

Nestled ever so sweetly behind the counter of the post office lied a package for the Calabrese Bros, which was quickly brought back to the manor and savagely torn open.  Full of goodies and fun and exotic smelling soaps, Christmas had come seven days early! 

I spy with my little eye a Pokémon dish towel, oversized comic books and personalized mini-coffins for eraser tops and GI Joe weaponry storage (that's the plan, anyway)  If there's one thing Bobby Calabrese loves, it's a total immersion in gift-giving randominity. 

Sent from our pal, Carissa from Minneapolis, we knew we struck gold when the box actually smelled something fierce.  Sight was fancied, the sense of smell was tickled, what other senses would be stimulated?  Let's find out:

Soaps.  Homemade soaps.  Spider-sense tingling.  What did this mean?  Immediately I questioned my hygiene, wondered if I started a chain of events stemming from playing a sweaty show and hugging an unsuspecting fan.  They'd begin a descent into madness, forging together the finest cleaning products into chunks of soap-rock, sprinkled with blood and poison (one of the soaps actually says "poison!") maniacally sending it off our way in hopes of us using it and having our skin melt off and...oh, I just read the letter.  It's because she's nice and it's Christmas and not to worry, although we do smell like shit, these soaps are actually really good and good for you.  Well, cool! 

Pizza smell would have been fun, but I figure the process would have been too greasy.  Instead, we have patchouli. 

My, oh my.  Patchouli.

I often joke about how much I hate patchouli, patchouli users, patchouli cultuer, etc., and in any roundabout, bad juju scenario that ever existed on Earth....we get a big ol', stinkin' pile o' patchouli.  I think something got lost in translation, because Carissa mentioned that I was a fan.  Yeah not totally.

I can't complain, because this is a gift from the heart, and I'd be an asshole to not be gracious.  And all the soaps are vegan friendly and good for your skin and all that jazz, so thank you, Carissa from Minneapolis.  We love you. 

Buuuut if my grandma gave me socks on Christmas morning, I'd smile, give her a hug and stealthily dump the pack into another sibling's present pile.  Looks like Jimmy will be walking away with not one, but three bars of soap!  Merry Christmas!

Also included is a Pokémon towel (for Davey) and GIGANTIC "Star Wars" and Batman comic books.  I've already called dibs, so even if they weren't meant for just me, they're all totally mine now.  I'm blatantly disregarding the obvious (there are three of them) which can easily be distributed among us, but this is Christmastime, pal.  There are no rules and social graces during Christmas.  Oh, didn't know the holiday rule of "no rules?"  Because it's a rule.  Or is it?  I thought I said there are no rules?  JUST DO WHAT I SAY AND QUIT TRYING TO CONFUSE ME.

"Bobby," "Davey" and "Immy."  She didn't forget the "J," I just forgot to photograph it.  "Immy" sounds more fun, anyway.

These will be used for guitar picks.  Maybe even as a carrying case for interesting articles and pictures I find in any of the thousands of magazines and catalogs I somehow get sent to my mailbox.  The scenarios run deep with a coffin the size of a cell phone.  WAIT.  Hold the phone.  Stick with me here, but...what about a cell phone casket for when your phone dies?  You can bury it in the backyard and say a few words in internet slang, too.

u will be missed u were a gr8 phone, c u on the other side ttyl:(

Oh, sweet baby Jesus on Christmas morn, this idea is gonna make me a millionaire.

Thanks again, Carissa!  Merry Christmas!

Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Cartel Coffee.

There's a spot in Tempe, Arizona where I like to go.  A strip of road that holds the three best establishments that currently drain my pockets and suck my wallet dry.

The far end of the street is occupied by Casey Moore's, a bar/restaurant that has hosted many drunk nights, and the beginning holds Ash Avenue Comics, which has, like, a lot of comics.  I like that.  And snuggled in between the two is Cartel Coffee Lab.  Small, quaint and always bringing to mind more than just coffee.  Walking by, I've always asked the questions, "What makes it a lab?" and "is there some sort of science going on in there?"  Some kind of coffee craziness only reserved for those in the know?  These are the questions at hand, and today we answer them.

First off, the place is wild.  Well, as wild as a coffee shop can get.

A while back, on certain nights of the week, they'd play episodes of Twin Peaks while you worked your way through a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.  The place has a gnarly atmosphere with great service and a lot of charm, and holy shit, anything even remotely involving "Twin Peaks" is so very awesome by me.

I've only been here once, and right off the bat, I've noticed that there's a certain presence to the place.  Very hip.  Very indie.  It's almost overwhelming, and almost of a turn off.  You almost feel like you don't belong, and if there were rules implanted that one had to be hip and or indie to order drinks, I would certainly be out of place.  Unless "indie" was an Indiana Jones reference, then I might be able to apply.  I have a souvenir bullwhip and I've seen the movie, like, a million times.

Great place, though.  I remember they had it modeled to look like a metal shop or something, with metal-y fixtures and chairs or something.  This could very well constitute as laboratory fare, completing the mystery of the shop's name.  It looked classy and cool and fun.

But what do I mean by "remembered?"

Well, this is where it gets kind of...tricky.  As mentioned, I've only been here once.  And it was at least over a year ago.  At this point, I still wanna write about it, but don't want to go back for specific details and solid information.  I think it's a fine place with great Joe (I think) but I'm already halfway through this post and when I attempted to make a re-visit, I vaguely remembered that it was cash only.  I didn't have any cash on me and didn't wanna stop at an ATM.  I still don't even know if this is true or not, but I didn't want to take the gamble.  I'd have to walk up, order, find out it's cash only, look sheepish then quickly make my way to the exit, excusing myself and apologizing profusely.  Even the possibility of such a minor blip on the Socially Awkward Moments Scale is terrifying to me.

So this TRULY is one of the crappiest reviews I've done.  But here's a tasteful image of coffee clip-art, if it helps at all:

Here's what I remember about the night in question:

I ordered.  And this is where we do the science!  Or at least where we get to choose some stuff and feel all cool and sophisticated, because you get to pick what kind of beans you want to be ground up and used for your beverage.  I was intrigued, but the last time I was here, I ordered a cappuccino.  Apparently, you can only get a cappuccino if you're planning on staying (maybe they don't have the right take-out cappuccino cups?) so I doubled back and stuck with a small coffee.  Don't remember what kind of beans I got, but I'm thinking they were really tiny and brown.  Just the kind I like!

And it was delicious.  I ain't no snob, so my opinion means nothing.  I could have been served dishwater with a scoop of instant coffee and I would have sung it's praises.  Not to take away from Cartel Coffee's services, though, because the place really is rad with great coffee.  And because I'm scared they might read this, find out who I am and make it even more embarrassing the next time I actually do go in (read the last entry for the full, sad and creepy details of what I'm talking about).

So a 10 out of 10.  As high and mighty as one can get.  Bravo!

And that has nothing at all to do with tipping the Socially Awkward Moments Scale.

I swear.

My Guitars.

Someone recently asked me about what kind of guitar I play.  I get this a lot, and I never really delved deep into the dynamics of this question.  I've never bothered with guitars on any level other than making sure it sounds loud and doesn't look too douche-y.  So why do I play what I play?  And what the hell do I play, anyway?

I'm the kind of guy who doesn't care about the technical stuff.  I seriously have zero interest in what's shoved inside an amp or what those weird wires and metal-y things are wrapped up in a guitar.  I'd rather play the damn thing than study it, ya know?  It's a mixture of laziness and a controlled ignorance.  If I even bothered with any of that shit for a second, I'd save so much dough on hefty repair bills and overpriced tune ups.  Oh well.

Now, recently, the two guitars I've been playing for ten long years were stolen.  It was always a black, Gibson Studio and a Les Paul Jr.  So yeah, I would have answered this question way differently if it was two months ago.  But since then, I've had the task of replacing them, which has brought me to this here subject.  I immediately wanted to get the same gear, but thought to myself...should I?

Neither guitars were THAT expensive, but it would make sense to avoid the same route and to start fresh.  Because now I'm a new man.  Now that I'm in the position to start from scratch, I've decided to keep it cheap.  SUPER cheap.  I've taken years of inexperience and incompetence, thrown it out the window and have decided to construct together decent guitars for minimal amounts of cash.  I think it's better this way.  I think it's better for rock and roll.

I know I know nothing about anything, but my only requirement is that the guitar has to be black.  Or white.  I'll even settle for that aged-looking "cream" color.  Maybe a "tobacco burst," too.  Chicks dig that.

I ended up with this:

I bought it off a buddy looking for extra dough, and here we are.  Thank God for that, because we immediately had shows after the Great New York Guitar Heist, and I would have been totally screwed.  It's a Mexican made Telecaster with the pickups switched out with I-have-no-idea-what-these-pickups-are.  But it sounds like a monster, and although I've been rocking a Gibson for a full decade, Teles really do have a great feel to 'em.  At least to me, anyhow.  And a solid pair of pickups really do make a difference.  I've been playing around with a few variations for a while now, mixing and matching and testing and cranking, coming up on some gnarly tones I wouldn't have imagined coming from a used Mexican Tele (but what do I know?  Nothing!)  Yeah, I actually went in to my guitar and did some science/welding/crazy shit.  I feel like a champion!

So, yeah.  The answer to the question, "What kind of guitar do you play?"

Anything cheap, loud and bitchin'.

And not, like, colored green or something lame.

Bacon Waffle.

The bacon waffle.  The bacon WAFFLE.  The BACON waffle.  The bacon waffle.

However you annunciate it, a hefty waffle with chopped up pieces of bacon and smothered in maple syrup is the best.  The best in ANTHING.  It's a total "last meal" kinda deal, too, where the only appropriate thing to follow up after eating one of these is to die.  And if not actually dying, you'll definitely feel like death.  "Portion control" is not a term I adhere to.

This was at a diner called Harlow's Cafe in Tempe, AZ.  I mentioned this place a while ago, and although it's no big deal to mention it again, I now understand the power of which I hold.  It's a weird kind of power.  Kind of an awkward power, really.  Let me explain:

A few months ago we played Rapture Con, a horror convention in Mesa that prided itself on zombie walks, zombie defense soldiers and Jake Busey.  It was pretty fun.  But like any other day, I craved some coffee.  So we headed off to Lo-Fi Coffee down the street.  Now, I mentioned this place before on my blog.  That's a vital piece of information in this story.

I got a cup of coffee.  The owner knew who I was.  How did he know who I was?  Not that I was in a band that sung about skeletons and stabbing people in the face, but he recognized me for having a blog.  A blog that mentioned my really-boring-adventure into his very own establishment, Lo-Fi Coffee, and the semi-review I gave the whole experience.  Half the time, I have no idea what I'm writing, how I write it or altogether what the hell I just wrote.  I quickly scanned my brain for information.  Did I write something shitty about Lo-Fi Coffee?  Did I say something dumb and immature, as per usual?  Did I say one of the girls working there was super cute, and would now be slapped with some kind of lawsuit?

Thankfully, none of the above.  In fact, the dude loved what I wrote and even took some advice from it.  I kinda went off on the "tipping system," which gave you an option to tip on their iPad after using any kind of card.  I complained that they held the thing in front of you, glaring, watching, waiting.  It's quite a mess for a neurotic guy like me.  Never in my life have I feigned an optic disease more than at that point.  Whoops, forgot my glasses!  Didn't see the tip option!  Sorry, bro!

Anyway, he said they did away with that.  Or at least respectfully turned their backs to wash some mugs or something.  I dunno.  It's awesome that I could influence any one's business, and that businesses are even reading this damn thing, but still.  Totally wild.

"With great power comes great responsibility."

But back to Harlow's Cafe (hello, Harlow's!  Are you reading this?) and their massive bacon waffle.  It's beyond good.  I hate when people merge food for the sake of being extreme or inventive in a culinary way, but this joint union is something I can get behind.  It's just a waffle.  And a side of bacon.  But now in an easy to eat package.  If they could throw some hash browns and eggs in the mix we'd all be better off as a human race.

I know I should have quit halfway in, but ya know when some thing's really good, and it's almost impossible to quit?  Near the end, you're eating for taste alone.  Your stomach hurts, you start breaking out in a cold sweat and you can actually feel the food sitting in your esophagus.  You know that feeling, right?  Isn't it great? 

So I spent the next four hours on the floor in front of the TV watching movies, trying to keep my body from falling apart or just melting into the floor altogether.  The evolution of man, man. 

Saturdays rule.