Coffee and Beer -- My Liquid Loves.

It's no secret that I love coffee. It's one of those constants in my life that I can always look forward to and always know I'm gonna get a kick out of. Fuck energy drinks, forget soda and all the in-between bullshit that'll blow your heart out of your chest and eat away your liver. Granted, I'm unsure of the side effects when consuming enough coffee to give a herd of horses a buzz, but I'll take my chances.

Ahh, Extreme Bean. Located in Mesa, or Tempe or somewhere, this is a pretty neat place to pick up some black blood. I will admit, this isn't a real hotspot for me, probably because I don't like going anywhere with "extreme" in it's name, but it's here, and I'm there. The front of the building ain't spectacular, but they're not opposed to putting up flyers for shows, which is pretty cool and non-threateningly hip.

I've been here before, many moons ago on a date, I believe. It was more of a get together, since I don't think I've ever been asked or initiated a "date" in my life. I'm more of a, "I'll be there, you be there" kinda guy. Easy, unconfrontational and a little bit sleazy, but that's how I roll. It's a lot easier to check your watch, make up an excuse and run on outta there when it's not under the "date umbrella." Anyway, in my infinite weirdness, I've never been back, 'cause in a cramped corner of my mind, I always thought I'd see the date in question here. It would be, like, awkward. Six years later. I suck.

Well, I'm glad I'm back, 'cause this place is pretty classy. They have a cool diner area, nice atmosphere and a decent, laid back feel. I assume this is a great hangout for swank college kids, 'cause everyone here was really attractive and young. Nothing like young, golden-haired college girls to make you feel like a dirty, pervy old man.

I wanted to get a shot of the main room, where there's a bunch of tables, chairs and couches set up for whatever you wanna do while you drink your coffee (very nice) but ever being the wussiest cameraman alive, I had to do it in secret. Which was trying to look like I was texting, but ended up looking like I was texting, but at an impossibly odd angle. Or had really awkward, short arms. It's hard to paint the picture, but ya know what I means.

The guy in the shot swayed any curious naysayers, 'cause who would be taking photos of a guy staring lovingly at his own weiner? Not I, I say!

I find it really interesting to think about that very guy somehow stumbling on this blog, only to see a photo of himself just chilling out, drinking an iced mocha latte, minding his own business. It's not like he's just in the background, or accidently walked across the shot, and is now invariably just kinda visible, but he's right there. The dude is nearly the Goddamn focus point. I think it would be creepy, confusing and kinda unnerving to go through that scenario. But still, very interesting, indeed. Here's to you, Weiner Guy.

There's even an outdoor patio, where you can snag your sweet nicotine fix in 115 degree weather. Probably best for the colder months.

Man, just take a look at this bad bitch:

I have no idea why, but I'm totally ghey for iced lattes right now. Sure, I once went down the dark, "caramel machiatto" pathway, and swore I wouldn't tread those waters again. But I feel this to be different. It's sweetened, yes, but only by milk, as opposed to cream, syrup, sugar, spoonfuls of diabetes, etc. There's logic and reasoning in there somewhere, I swear. Plus, the color is just really appealing, in a brown, dirty water kinda way.

Like everything in life, coffee and beer (I'm gettin' there, I'm gettin' there) there's always a ying and yang to pleasure. I think if I drink too much coffee, my brain feels super insane for a good hour, then take a huge divebomb into depression. Nothing I wouldn't kill myself over, but I feel nervous, odd and perpetually ready to do everything in my power to not feel like that. Which includes drinking more coffee and boy howdy! That never works out the way I want to.

There must be something to say about smashing on a drink that'll get you jittery and focused, and going nuts on another that'll slow you down and make you dizzy. But what can I say? I love me some beer. Hey, I'm a man of many brain altering substances. Watch:

I've mentioned Four Peaks before, one of my favorite restaurants, hangouts and local brewery, supplying this great town with delicious, delicious beer. Kiltlifter is classic, but Sunbru is magical. Ah, not really. It's decent. Why must I build things up like that?

I never really drink canned beer, it just seems cheap and kind of gross, like all I can taste is the tin can. It's made of tin, right? Aluminum? Either way, I kinda expected bottles, but ended up with cans. I should have realized this upon purchase, 'cause the box is super tiny. And perfectly rectangular and cute. So gonna use this as a fort for Mumm-Ra and Nien Nunb. They're best friends, you know.

Overall, good stuff. I guess I kinda do like canned beer, 'cause it makes me think I'm, like, a tough guy. Who works on cars and lifts weights. To justify this as a "review," really, the beer is quite tasty. Kinda light, almost like a Peroni but zero skunk. It also has a stylized, original name spelling which is confusing while charming. I would have gone with "Sunbrooo," with an image of a ghost at a bar eating peanuts, but that's just me. Copyright laws might be infringed, 'cause I'd really want it to be one of the ghosts from Pac-Man. It's my way or the highway.

Rock and roll!

DeFalco's! (Food Content Fuck Yeah)

Defalco's!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rock and roll!

COOKIES AND NOTEBOOKS.

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

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

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

So...I found these.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeans, check. Something stupid? Check below!

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

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

Sweet color combo. USA! USA! USA!

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

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

Rock!

Lebanese Beer and Jurrassic Park.

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

So with that...I've got nothing. Well, sorta. I have a few pictures on my phone, either intended to use for another article I haven't got around to, or just plain 'cause. No, no dong shots or heroin pics will be popping up shortly, just beer and toys. Hey, I can do that. Whip up a few paragraphs and yeah-there-ya-go. I think that'll work. I know this will work. Story time:

For the last couple of summers now, the extended Calabrese Family will make it's yearly hike to the grand landscape of Southern California, trekking across the familiar sites of dirty beaches, Medieval Times Fun Times Explosions, greasy restaraunts and yes, Disneyland. We shed our badass exterior in favor of shorts and flip-flops. Leather jackets are gone, sunscreen is in. Ah, the non-greasy kind. I hate the greasy kind.

You'd be interested to see the Calabrese Brothers looking like dorks in the happiest place on Earth, but we're so surrounded by various wives, nieces, friends, in-laws and the stench of a thousand churro stands you'd hardly even notice us. Besides, I usually just end up wearing a mask. Of a gorilla. In a top hat.

When not being burnt alive under the sun during these family events, I like to spend a lot of my time in the hotel room. I love hotel rooms, and will boldly proclaim that the hotel room is just as important as the vacation itself. When I was younger and on vacation with my parents, my main goal was to watch as much HBO as possible, devouring the worst/current films available at the time. I'd gladly fake an illness to skip out on Gettysburg to skip in to a delicious marathon of film. When you don't have it growing up (okay, I still don't have it as an adult) it pretty much becomes the channel of legends. An area of TV cyberspace that is only reserved for the few and privileged. Plus, I was absolutely certain I'd be seeing a lot of female nudity. You know how that goes.

Overall, it was an innocent goal, not at all similiar to my modern day "hotel room-must do list." Which, ranking numero uno, is to get drunk. Stinky, filthy drunk. Yes, I will watch movies only granted to those with enough money to actually wanna watch True Blood forty times a day, and I will shower freely, eat Twizzlers in bed and secretly wish I could get room service. Like, for free. But what I must do, without fail, is to get loaded. It's not as if the hotel room experience just simply elevates your buzz to a whole new level, it merely...adds to it. Unless you're a rockstar or a millionaire, most of the time you're in a hotel is during out of state vacations. Who doesn't like drinking on their vacations?

Almazo beer is a beverage I found at the nearest liquor store. Compared to glass rifle full of booze, this is neither exciting nor pretty. But it's from...Lebanon! That's kinda cool, right? I like to entertain the idea that eventually, I will be smashed on every beer from every country in the world. Personally, I'd like the be in that country I'm drinking the beer from, but I'm not sure Calabrese will be touring Lebanon anytime soon. I will cross my fingers we shall see yes.

Oh, and the beer was good. I classify this under the "tastes like Heineken" category, which shits all over my ability to review beer. I have a few more go-to blurbs, so I kinda have a legitimate system going. It's either "tastes like Heineken," "better than Budweiser" or, "it's like I'm drinking a fucking wedding cake." We all ended up raging 'til three in the morning, as it always seems to happen. Some bailed, some barfed, the rest stayed the course.

Okay, what's this?

For reasons I'm too lazy to deny, I was in a Toys R Us recently. Jurrassic Park crap was being sold. Did we time-travel back into the mid-90's? Are these leftovers from over fifteen years ago? No, Jurrassic Park toys are, in fact, being sold right now in 2010...for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Do I care? Not exactly, but I guess I did end up buying a "Dino Tracker," complete with nameless-guy and mini-dinosaur, so maybe I do care a smidge. 7 dollars worth of smidge, actually. But I was, and still am, a huge fan of the movies. Well, the movie. I can deal without the sequels, and prefer thinking that they don't even exist. But I still have that love for the film and anything involved around it. I'm lying when I say I care about dinosaurs, because I don't. I couldn't care less. The movies are great because you get to see them chomping people up and spitting poison goo into a fat guy's mouth hole. Granted, they are giant monsters that once roamed the Earth a super-fucking long time ago, and admittedly, that's pretty neat. If any of them had creepy hair covering their body, giant spikes coming out of their hands or multiple eyes smashed into their face...tickle me pink, I'd be a fan for life. But overall, I'm more of an observer, a sideline critic that will occasionally pound the table to make my glass of water do that ripple-effect thing, always check electric fences and be absolutely terrified of Sam Jackson's bloody limb gripping my shoulder.

The closest I come to just barely caring about dinos is when I, from time to time, casually dream of what it's like to own one, or how awesome it would be to punch a T-rex right in their scaley face. I imagine it to be pretty awesome. If you say anything about it being "epic," I'll punch you in the face. Fuckin' hate that word right now.

Opened, posed, stashed in the closet. I like it. I mean, it's not too hard to muster up any kind of love when you're offered the fantasy of wranglin' up a crazy, froth-mouthed dino. It's kind of like punching, but in claw form. A claw that's pretty much the size of you. I'll agree with this. All of this.

Beer and toys yeah!

Back East Bagels!

Food is awesome. I love food.

It would be rad to eat a live octopus in Japan, a still-beating cobra heart (saw it on Anthony Bourdain!) or the hottest peppers known to man. I wanna try everything I can at least once, even if it causes a slight headache or massive stomach pains. I wanna sample the food and wine of every country, I wanna eat the sick shit, I wanna be the sick shit. Because food is important. Food is delicious, entertaining and demanding. It's a carnal pleasure, a simple yet required activity. An absolute must. So why not make it fun?

Am I gonna review something kick-ass? Did I just stuff a kabob full of barbequed shark into my mouth? Not really. I went to a bagel shop recently, they had good bagels and coffee, and that's about it. Stay with me, folks!

There's a few cafe and coffee shops around, so I like to take advantage of one when I can. There's always Starbucks, gas stations with stale coffee littering every corner and a few hidden gems, independently owned and operated. I'm not living in a giant mecca of amazing food, but I am living in an area that has some decent stuff. Plus, I'm finding that reviewing food is so very easy. If I'm gonna make my goal of "one blog a week," I better find something quick and simple. Next topic: drinking Lebanese beer and watching bad movies on HBO in a dirty hotel room. True story.

I heard about this place from a friend, and I'm always one to scope anything out involving...well, coffee. I got a coffee cup to go, and loaded it down with some kinda hazelnut-vanilla-kinda brew, and it was great. For some reason, it reminded me of summers during high school, where I'd stock up on at the local Circle K coffee, head out to the skate park and shred it up. I'd then spend hours and hours playing video games at home after realizing that hot cement will burn through your Vans in under twenty minutes. Summers suck.

They also have a ton of bagels (yeah, duh) that range from being covered in varying flavors of cream cheese to breakfast-food-loaded bagels, with meats and eggs and cheese. Everything I ordered over three visits was pretty good, so it's safe bet that, food wise, this place will be up your alley in some way. I'm not from the east coast, so I can't comment on whether or not these are truly "back east bagels," but we recently played shows in Jersey and New York, so I guess I feel I have a bit of an opinion. My opinion is unwarranted and doesn't make sense (all I ate on tour was Wheat Thins and peanut butter and jelly) but I'll say it's like being back at home. Ahh, the delicious bagels of nonexistant, made-up home.

I might have to score the whole experience a little lower than I want to, since it seems to close pretty early. I had to make the walk of shame one afternoon, after demanding a hot, burning liquid be entered into my body. I did that thing where you walk up to the door slowly, making sure to look like you think it's open, but just to be safe, making it look like you're still curious about it's store hours. Just so you won't have someone passing by see you tug on the door handle like the only thing in the world that mattered to you was a bagel lathered in fish. The thought of someone thinking, "HEY! He thought it was open but it was really closed he fucked up ha ha ha!" is not only mentally shattering, but completely asinine and insignificant. These are the things that haunt me.

I wish I got more pictures, but I'm finding it harder and harder to publicly take photos of the stupidest things. I think I need a giant "PRESS" laminate draped around my neck to overcome my shameful relucatance. Or balls. Yeah, it would be nice to have some balls.

Overall...B+!

OUTTAKES 2.0!

Oh, man. I love this kind of blog entry. Where I rely heavily on pictures and only a small sprinkling of fluff-filled sentences, just to even it all out. A few entries back, I posted a sampling of unused promo photos, taken from our first shoot for the new album. Mainly consisting of dusty backdrops and squinty-eyed, off-in-the-distance type staring.

A few entries before that, I uploaded enough live shots to kill my computer and yours. Just 'cause. What I'm trying to say is that I'm gonna post more photos. Like, right now. Like, right now right now.

So. It's been an outlandish and lofty goal to transform myself into a superhero. Not literally (unless you know how to?) but more so in picture form. In rock and roll form. Obviously, a comic book (coming soon!) and a grip of action figures (got ten grand I can borrow?) would shoot this notion into a legitimate reality (there are way too many parenthesis for one paragraph in this paragraph) but my current pathway is a simpler pathway:

To become a superhero...I must look like one.

Our buddy, Andy Hartmark, took these shots. We wanted something very comic booky, with huge emphasis on looking like the Avengers with instruments. For our next shoot, I'm demanding even more of this, with possible kung-fu moves and high-flying karate chops thrown in the mix. I'm kinda on a Bruce Lee kick right now. Let that be known.

I will admit, there's nothing too different or crazy from the original set we chose, but I'm running low on blog updates and I really want more of myself plastered on a site dedicated to myself. You love it!

Enjoy!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

BREAKFAST RULES.

I love breakfast. Not only is it the most important, but it's the most delicious meal of the day. Despite rumors and misconceptions, I really do like mornings. And by that, really, I mean I like the morning on my own terms. If I'm told to wake up at 7:00 AM, fuck no, I hate you and the morning. You can go die for all I care. If I wanna wake up at 7:00 AM, I love the crisp, clear air, the shining, energizing sun and the breakfast buffet of all things hearty and healthy.

Well, sorta.

It's hard to justify why eating greasy crud after waking up can be a good thing, but that's neither here nor there. Why do people eat biscuits and gravy (Goddamn gravy!) in the morning? I'm really not sure, but I'll lend my intellect for the cause: the protein. It's great protein, what with all those eggs and meats and what-have-you. And yes, this is my main, go-to stock answer to eating badly. Why am I shoving BBQ brisket into my mouth like it's the key to eternal youth? Why am I beating a four pound burger and fries into my face like it owes me money? FOR THE PROTEIN.

So.

Have you heard of Harlow's Cafe in Tempe, AZ? I have. Ever since hearing of Harlow's Cafe in Tempe, AZ I've been craving it, wanting it...being an exclusive, breakfast only diner, I knew I had to go. Now I just had to make sure I was up, showered and human looking before noon. Well, 2:00PM. Let's not split hairs here.

So I made the trek over to Harlow's, hell-bent on getting my fix. C'mon, I know you're intrigued! Read on, baby birds, I'll feed ya.

The place itself is kind of like a mixture between an old, 70's diner and a woodsy lodge, or like a backroom to an even better restaurant. It's covered in photos of ancient celebrities, giving it a Hollywood/cinema type theme, with extra, random-yet-fun shit thrown in for spice.

The place reminds me of the diner in Twin Peaks. At least that's what I'm pretending it reminds me of. It's something I've been wanting since I've seen Twin Peaks, so if I can eat pie and drink coffee in the most Agent Cooper way imaginable, I will be a happy man. 'Cause I like coffee and pie, too. Oh, and Twin Peaks! I like Twin Peaks. Did I mention that already?

I really kinda wish I snapped more photos, but it's always hard to try to make it look like you're not taking pictures, while taking pictures. If I'm outright with it, I can maybe come across as someone of importance, someone who's just dripping with bravado and confidence. If not, I look like an asshole taking creepy, unwanted shots of the guy in the back booth eating bacon. Hey, in my defense, it would have been a really cool photo. The dude had a killer mustache.

I ended up with a plate full of chorizo. I'm slowly gettin into the Mexican-styled breakfasts these days, probably since it's so easily accessible over here in Arizona, and so veryvery filling. Maybe I'm just burnt out on waffles and pancakes, ya never know. But it came with a nice helping of warm tortillas, further proving my ignorance when near the end of the meal, I realized they even existed, tucked away in bundle of tin foil.

I was never totally sure what "chorizo" was, but over time, I've come to realize that it's delicious. Turns out it's meat. Spicy meat. Or something. You expect me to know what I put into my body? Fah!

Overall, me like.

Oh! The coffee! How can I not mention the coffee? Well, it was good. Enjoyable, actually. But to be honest, I've never been too picky of a coffee drinker. Truck stop brew is good, local gas stations aren't always the best (but acceptable) and Dunkin Donuts is liquid gold. I'll even say that I like Denny's and IHOP's coffee, but I'm thinking that I can absolutely like any coffee that comes in an off-white mug. It somehow fools me into thinking it's a delicious, unstoppable force that keeps getting filled despite by upset stomach and sweaty face. I need it, I crave it, I AM COFFEE.

You'd think, after tasting and experiencing fine, Italian coffee, while in Italy, I'd mature my tastes into a more sophisticated, adult palate...but no. I sucks.

Also, the wait staff is hot. They seriously must hire only attractive women to run the joint. This is a bit disconcerning, yet simultaneously applaudible. I'm at a moral crossroads here. Really, I am.

I give Harlow's a sexy, sexy B++.