I LIKE MONSTER MODEL KITS...sort of.

You know, everything I've been posting over the last year has, admittedly, been a poor excuse for a blog named "rock and roll mania blog!" I rarely talk about music, I never talk about anything outside of Pokemon and Christmas joy, and I'm always either complaining or flip-flopping by the end of the article. I'll hate something as soon as my fingers hit the keyboard, and fall magnificently in love with it when I'm done. There is no exception today. It's the perfect fodder for this blog, and yet...I hate it. I hate it so much that I love it.

AWESOME MONSTER MODEL KITS!

Ya see, I am very so-so with monster models/kits, or anything you have to actually build with your hands, for that matter. I'm on the edge of abnormal gushing and absolute disdain with this kind of shit. I think it's a fear of commitment, or absolute failure of never coming close to what it needs to end up as. I want it to look exactly like what's on the box. In fact, I practically demand it. But my common sense and reasoning tells me NO FUCKING WAY. Thank you, sir, may I have another?

A friend of mine works at a used media store (books, games, DVDs) and every once in a while, some desperate dude might come in to sell his last, worldy possessions to probably pay for stupid things, like food or rent. I hate to stomp all over people's misfortune, but sometimes something comes in that would tickle my fancy. And, my friend, being the best friend he can be by fueling my horrible addiction, will usually pick this stuff up for me. Weird comics here, robot toys there, whatever. This time, he hooked me up. He did me a Goddamn SOLID. Two amazing monster model kits, a slobbering werewolf and that thing from "London After Midnight," which I had no idea was a vampire until right now. I thought it was, like...something else. I guess I should have known, what with the sharp teeth, cape and papery, pale skin. Ha.

Jimmy used to (or still does) build a lot of monster model kits. I've always liked the idea and, really, there's nothing cooler than building your very own mini-ghoul in a poorly lit garage. Complete with swinging lightbulb, those magnifying glasses that jewelers wear and a lit cigarette dangling from your mouth, of course. It all sounds great, right? But as any idea goes, just the idea is sometimes better than actually doing it. That makes sense, I swear.

So when getting a prize package of this sort, I'm uneasy, cautious and reserved. Do I even bother opening it up? I let my buddy know I was ecstatic, yet ready to point out that he just granted me a task. Thanks, man! Now I'm stuck in a happy/guilty limbo.

Should I just let it sit on my kitchen counter, only to be noticed when all the dirty dishes don't have any room to sit and not be washed for weeks? Because there's no way I'm going to attempt putting those two kits together. Zero patience = bad things happen.

Fuck it. You can always count on the box. Fucking kick-ass box art, baby.

Shivers. I'm actually trembling right now. I'm partial to the werewolf, given that the werewolf is way more menacing, while the vampire seems to be shocked, or grabbing the invisible tits of the world's tallest woman.

I'm looking at the intricate paint job done on the teeth, and the fucking sparkle in the damn thing's eyes, and I'm positive I'm never going to allow myself to abominate this with crayons and Sharpies. I'm certain they're using Sunglow or Laser Lemon for it's teeth. Good choice, box-art-painter-person.

I had to open it, I had to know what I was dealing with. Given that I've never actually seen a model before it was meticulously handcrafted into what it will become, I was kind of...shocked. Is that what model kits look like? The plastic is hard, which I assume ups the dollar amount and, at the same time, the sexual innuendos this blog needs to maintain a healthy level of sass. Hehe, he said "hard."

I like the heaviness, though, 'cause if I can imagine myself using anything I buy as a weapon to bludgeon other people with, I know I've done a good thing.

The limbs almost look like you just snap the shit together! Is it really that easy? Nope!

Directions, thank God.

Apparently, you use the sharpest X-Acto knife you have to shave and trim the extra plastic off, then snugly glue the pieces together. I'm uncertain as to why that's a step you even have to take, when they could have, oh, I don't know, not added the extra plastic. As if painting it wasn't hard enough, now you have to test your skills with a midget's spear. Nerves, I do not have them.

Overall, awesome. Although I won't make 'em pretty, they sure do look great on my shelf. If anyone asks why I haven't built them up, I'll tell them I gave up the dangerous Model Kit Making Game for safety and family, and haven't looked back since. Or to get the hell outta my house, jerk.

Nothing In Particular.

As mentioned in my last post, here's a bunch of random photos, taken with my beautifully new and stylish camera. See: cheapest one at Target.

I like it 'cause it's better than using the camera on my cell phone (even a dead monkey can figure out this new camera -- that's good) and has always been awkward to manuever in public, trying to look inconspicuous while snapping photos of all sorts of shit. I think I'm a pretty meek and mild photographer. I have no balls. I always feel someone's gonna turn around and accuse me of being a pervert when I'm taking a photo of a national monument. When I wanna snag a shot of a good looking plate of food (for the occasional restaraunt review) I can only imagine that someone's going to take offense or I'm gonna be questioned. How do you weirdos do it?

No need this time around, 'cause this time around...I never left the house.

With these "random" pictures, I really tried to get random. Seeing as how I never leave my place unless I have to, I'm left with going all papparazzi on my living room and any hallway closets. It kinda defies the purpose and general idea of "random," but what's done has been done. I should have written, "random shots of a one bedroom apartment." I'm not sure how magnetic and enthralling that description is, but the truth is the truth -- this may not be the greatest post, but it certainly won't be the worst. Maybe, like, second to worst.

First up:

For a brief moment in high school, I was infatuated with religious relics and icons, mostly of Buddha, and mainly in statue form. You can argue this, maybe even deny yourself my embarrassing revelation, but I was also into taking baths while pouring through Sears catalogs and drinking Coke until I pissed purple. I go through phases. Weird, confusing phases.

With this picture, I wanted to showcase my bathroom, which has taken on a much more grander, larger form than, say, a collection of wet hair piles and acne creams. That aside, you'll notice my "Asian theme," complete with dragons, sumo wrestlers, sushi wind-up toys and a wildly weak collection of Buddhas. While low in numbers, the main lot succeeds in quality over quantity, and is well justified, 'cause they can probably hurt if dropped on your foot. That's gotta count for something. Also, a blue shark. From Joe's Crab Shack. Duh.

This is a pile of DVDs. Stacks and stacks of movies overcrowding my little apartment. I've explained my problem before, but yeah, it's almost pointless to analyze it. Too much money thrown down the toilet, I will admit, but I absolutely love watching movies. In my mind, I have this ultimate goal of being able to watch every single film ever, or somehow coming close to it. My thinking is that the only plausible way to accomplish this is to single out specific genres or eras. I think I can call it a wrap on "80's horror flicks," closely seconded by "anything I've ever been in."

There's a few theories on how I can manage this, and here's one:

With the advent and rise of Netflix, OnDemand, whateverthefuckelse, it's almost pointless to actually buy anything these days. Pay your standard fee and get on with it. Nearly anything you want all up in your face. I have a hard time coming to terms with that, because...I don't know. I still feel the need to buy everything I watch. Sure, I'll go nuts over RedBox every now and then, but in my mind I have this nagging insecurity. I think it has something to do with the horrid thought of never finding that specific movie on DVD again, and everything with being haunted by never owning "Ghoulies 3" on DVD. My theory is full of holes, yeah, when you figure you can buy anything on the internet, from fluffy pillows to penis snowglobes for bachelorette parties. I'm readily able to admit my need for instant gratification, so my transformation into a conservative spender will have to be put on hold. You know what's not being put on hold? "Ghoulies 3," bitch.

Wait, did I not even mention how I'd feasibly watch every single movie ever? Ahh, too late now 'cause we're moving on here we go:

This is one of my favorite wall decorations, and believe you me, I've got plenty. From Van Gogh replicas to posters of a half-naked Danzig, I'm an advocate of anything that'll disguise boring white walls covered in oddball stains.

This "Camp Crystal Lake" plastic cutout/wall thing does just that. I'm not the biggest fan of the "Friday the 13th" series, but this is so amazingly cool. I've always liked fake set pieces to movies, like a Magneto helmet on your fireplace mantle or a group of plastic bananas from "Congo."

Good stuff.

It's no surprise that I'm nuts for coffee. I've also made it pretty clear that I'm stupid over Christmas, too. Dunkin' Donuts' "Mocha Mint" coffee combines the two in a cute, forest-green package, offering up enough holiday cheer to make it seem like you're not jumping the X-Mas gun, but not too little to pass up as another bag of beans. "Mocha mint" isn't entirely Christmas related, but it comes close, and keeps me from killing myself after an endless bout of post-Thanksgiving depression.

The snowman can sway opinions, but it's fine. I'm all for celebrating Santa Day as early as November first. I do not give a fuck that "thanksgiving isn't even over yet" before I put up the tree and it's billion, breakable ornaments. I do not give a fuck.

I've yet to actually taste it, but I'm sure it's pretty good. If it was based in categorization, I'm in the category of being too lazy to even press start on the Mr. Coffee, so this will probably sit on the countertop until June, or until it becomes a nuisance and gets in the way of something even newer and shinier. I'm still confused by flavored coffee, though, but I love it. Do they add sugar beforehand? Is there even sugar? Are they literally just coating beans in some minty, chemical infused syrup? Since it's sweet enough, it cuts down on half and half usage, and that's a good thing. Usually, my coffee looks like liquid piano keys. Now it'll look like dirty piano keys.

Ahh, a pile of Star Wars. Something like this (in my kitchen) is the type of thing that keeps life livable. It's like my go to Happy Place, a place of zen and good vibes and other hippie shit. Whenever I'm feeling down, I grab a beer and stare lovingly at a mess of Bossks and Gamorreans. It's dominating a nice portion of my shelf space, but I don't mind giving up such precious room for Star Wars. Did you know that I like Star Wars?

I spent a while trying to individually buy all characters, and over time, I came close. There was a few I could never find, those that were always overpriced and the red, Imperial Guard. That mother is so hard to get a hold of.

Again, I could have easily bought everything and more over the internet, but the chase is better than the catch, I 'spose.

When we played the Phoenix ComicCon, me and Davey spent that Saturday roaming the aisles and kiosks and upside down cardboard boxes full of comics and toys. It's pretty amazing, really, knowing you can close your eyes, spin around and run into anything that, when bought and taken home, will make girls never, ever like you again.

I found a guy selling loose figures for, like, a buck each. That was a Goddamn great deal, and I walked away with a grocery bag stuffed full of shit I didn't own, and shit I wanted multiple copies of. It was pretty amazing. I finished my collection in under five minutes, and all it took was warbling through one of the longest shows of my life. There is nothing worse than playing live with the beginning stages of a flu. Turns out it was just a regular, everyday cold. I'm such a pansy.

Hey! I guess that's it. Pretty fun, no?

"Androidz" Action Figures -- UGH I'M SO IN LOVE.

Christ, this is not good.

I found what I was finally looking for. Like, honest this time. Everything else has been a sham. Everything I've said that I loved on this blog has been a lie. Because that was all bullshit, and this is all ANDROIDZ:

Backstory:

I usually spend any day that I'm doing nothing exactly that -- nothing. I'll try to pick up a videogame controller, fuck around on youtube, whatever. It never seems right at the time. It feels awkward and confusing. If I had anything important to do, I'm glued to the PS3 like a motherfucker. But when I'm one-hundred percent free of any obligations, having fun sometimes seems...not so fun. I think that's kinda masochistic. I feel weird now.

But I was watching TV, and a commercial came on for these mobile, brightly colored...things. Tghey were moving, forming army alliances and smashing into eachother. What was it? Why was I so consumed with what was happening? Why did Androidz fuck my shit up?

As I do with anything day to day, I quickly forgot about it all.

Fastforward a week later, I find myself in a Toys R Us. Surprised, you say? Shuttayoumouth.

Anyway, I'm there. I see them, nestled in between questionable UFC toys and the always strong and infinite line of Power Rangers shit. Kids like intergalactic space-police in shapeshifting machines as well as near-naked dudes grappling and thrusting on top eachother, apparently. There's something to the fact that parents even let their kids watch UFC, but that's neither here nor there.

But then again, I'm a twenty-five year old adult still shopping at a toy store. For myself. I'm gonna guess there are others out there doing the same thing. And actually, now that I think about it, there's always that other guy in the store. A bit older, either unshaven or shockingly clean. You might guess he was shopping for his son or daughter, maybe for a birthday or a simple "better get your grades up" bribing. But there's always something...off. Why are they looking through the Transformers section so intently? Do they really need to rifle through the Star Wars figures so feverishly?

We never make eye contact. We always stay at least five feet from eachother. Because we know. We know what we both really are. We're both fuckin' dorks.

Alright:

I am a slave to anything that can fit into a coin purse. A fucking slave. If it can fit into the palm of my hand and come in seventy other colors and shape variations, I'm so sold. "Androidz" does exactly that, and with an "alien race exploring the galaxy" backstory and a whole lotta robot shit going on, the entire situation is golden brown. Collectible, cute as a button and questionably/maybe cheap, too. Six bucks for a pack of two? I ain't gonna shout my love for all things robo at the peak of a mountaintop just yet, but I will kiss them all. Quite lovingly.

So aliens are searching the universe for life. They end up on a dead planet, to refuel and maybe stop in for some beef jerky and Vitamin Water. Soon, they start picking up signals from a strange and mysterious planet called "Earth," and to understand these messages better, begin to replicate life in robotic form. Through this and through that, you now have yourself "Androidz," mechanical versions of life on Earth.

It's kind of a weird way to set up a toy line of tiny robots on wheels, but I like it. I like thinking that before their current version, they were slug-like or maybe even gaseous forms, like a ghostly fog from outerspace. Hell, maybe they were originally human beings, then they went into space, then they forgot they were humans, and then without knowing they were replicating human life (remember, they're already humans) they replicated humans. Ah-ha!

To be honest, I'm overjoyed right now. It'll soon be eclipsed by reality and the daily dregs of human existance, but for now, I've got a desktop covered in thumb-sized robo warriors. It's like Micro-Machines mixed with Monster in My Pocket and a helicopter. Did you see that one up there? It's a Goddamn helicoptobot!

Names like "Devil Dog" and "King Commando" really add to the charm, too, giving them an individual personality and something to have your Jawas curse the night sky with. You best believe those two are gonna be at war.

My favorite. Probably because of the Twizzlers colored arm-rocket, but who knows? And yeah, you can argue that they all look like miniature Robotechs, which I find that to be a win-win situation. I'm not even gonna pretend to understand what the hell is up with Robotech, what Robotech does or even what a Robotech is, but they look cool and have super awesome gun-swords. Now I can have a Robotech of my own, but not as shelf-consuming. Or do they more closely resemble Gundam Wing? I think I should buy a few more packs to be on the safe side.

Overall, a lot of fun. I barely even scratched the surface, 'cause I can go on and on about their personalized bunkhouses and playsets, each sold seperately. It almost makes the Ewok Treehouse seem obsolete. Almost.

Oh, do ya like my new camera? In some DIY fantasy of mine, I really liked the idea of always using semi-shitty, grainy cellphone pics to plump up my ramblings, but once that kicked the bucket (hello, toilet water!) out of necessity, I used an actual camera. I was gonna go back to my old ways, but I think it looks damn good, and using something with actual buttons and settings was a lot easier to manuever and toy with using my spindly, skeletal hands. My next blog is sooo gonna be of pictures. Of everything.

DEADSHOT IS COOL.

I really like comic books. It's been a growing obsession since I can remember, and even now it still seems to be getting larger and more monetarily sinful. I try to hold back, but nuh-uh. I'm in it to win it.

Okay, in high school, I was never a fan of the superhero stuff. Fittingly, I was way into any and all indie comics, local shit and everything that was about how much life sucked. It was my boring way of trying to be cool by trying to be depressing, minus the fact that it was neither cool nor all that depressing. Sleeping a lot and continuous spins of any Smiths record woulda been better, but that's just boring. I was more a part of the "active sad-goth lifestyle."

Eventually, I gained an appreciation for superheros and the multiple universes they live in, however tremendously pointless that all is. I really do feel knee-deep in the world of DC, mega-hellbent for Marvel this-and-that. I'm all consumed with following and understanding character storylines and individual, extensive backstories. I need to know every X-Man around, I have to fully grasp as to what makes Clayface who he is, or my life won't have any meaning to it. I'll walk endlessly through time and space, unaware and afraid, sick and lonely.

But in all seriousness, you ever wish you were a superhero? Like, seriously? I'm pretty sure I run through this scenario in my mind at least five times a day, but now let us indulge this idea together. It's easy to imagine being a "Batman" type guy (yay, he's just a regular dude!) but I'd totally wanna have invincibility, flight, super strength, whatevs. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than knowing I can throw my forehead into a brick wall, fly to Russia for cocktails and visit the girls locker room for some xxx-ray vision naughtiness. Yeah, I so just outted myself as a perv.

I lied. It's not only easy to imagine yourself as Batman because he's a regular guy, but because it's the only logic you and I have -- if you really want to consider yourself a candidate for superhero-dom, you have to look at the facts. You have to account for what isn't and what is. Question:

Do you have superpowers or have been given temporary superpowers through wearing a specific object or objects or through magic you've mysteriously or not so mysteriously have encountered? No? Well, you're fucked.

That's why you're given, as you have with Batman, a semi-logical excuse to maybe be a part of something that's impossible. Joker's human, too, right? That's cool. Wildcat, Punisher, Catwoman, Green Arrow, they're all human. Just a couple of nutjobs with big guns and even bigger balls. But my favorite...my sweet, sweet favorite:

Floyd Lawton, DEADSHOT.

So good I need two!

Yeah, all theorizing goes go to hell when you figure that Superman can vaporize your bones from across the planet or even Swamp Thing...fuckin' Swamp Thing...can kill you dead before you even notice it. But hey, that's the fun in comics. ENDLESS AND MINDLESS DEBATING.

So, Deadshot is a mercenary for hire. He works for the likes of Suicide Squad and the Secret Six, always taking any job as long as it pays some decent moola. Can't blame him there. He's somewhat bad, sometimes good and always an amazing marksmen with any and all weaponry. He's fought some serious heavyweights, metahuman and nonmetahuman, so he ain't no puss. He's got a cool mask with a red sight thing, a badass gun-thing on his forearm and a really sweet mustache. Thingy-thing.


Not gonna lie, I really want yellow leather gloves now.

Also, Deadshot smokes. Now, I'm not gonna sit here and tell you how cool smoking is, or why it makes you look like a genuine rebel without a cause, but it works for this guy. It works for this character. Ya see, along with being a regular shmuck with fantastic aim and no hesitation to kill, he's a regular shmuck with fantastic aim and no hesitation to kill who smokes. By smoking, it makes it seem plausible to do what he does, charred lungs included. If he can go up against the entire DC Universe as a chain-smoking, average Joe, why can't I? It makes me feel like he's one of us, like one of the people.

Christ, I need to get out more.

Oh, yeah yeah. I've totally been missing for, like, a month now. I know this, and I know that I suck. So because of this suckiness, I feel I need to address this issue. I need to make a statement:

It's because I'm lazy.

But hey! I'll try to SUPER BLOG this entire week, which could either mean that it'll be so-so good, or shamefully dissapointing.

You can count on me, world!

PHOTOS 3.0!

Ahh, it's that wonderful time again! My absolutely perfect, go-to-when-out-of-ideas, cheap and effective post! I practically don't even have to try! I've done it before and I'll do it again:

PHOTOS WE HAVEN'T USED BUT TECHNICALLY NOW ARE BEING USED.

Ever since I finally found out how to add tags to my posts, I'm pretty psyched about this ongoing, blog-tradition. These aren't the greatest photos ever, but I like the idea of someone googling "satan evil star wars" and happening upon a page full of Calabrese glamour shots.
Also, this is kinda the most perfect month for updating with all the nonsensical updating I do. What better time of the year that October? A month totally tailor-made for me and my obsession with loopy paragraphs and blurry cell phone pics. I mean, c'mon. It's Halloween. Fucking Halloween, people. This is me, man. THIS IS ME.

Sorta.

Truth be told, Halloween isn't my favorite holiday. Yeah, confession time all up in this shit.

In theory, and in practice, Halloween is amazing. It's unstoppable. It's fucking legit. Monster masks, candy, spooky decorations, it's all there and perfectly molded to fit any mood and situation I'm ever a part of, inside the month of October and out. It's all encompassing, full of peanut butter cups and costume party sluts. But hold on there for a sec...what about...what about Christmas?

I fancy myself a lover of all things. DVDs, booze, anything that'll clutter my entire living space, you name it and I'll enjoy it. So don't be surprised when I say that I enjoy receiving things, too. Yeah, a pillowcase of sugar is always nice, but all that work involved just ain't cuttin' it for me. How about let's get a tree, full of lights and popsicle stick ornaments, loaded with presents underneath that are actual fucking presents and not just Almond Joys and Starbursts? Yeah, Xmas > H-ween.

Either way, my blog will feel pretty damn cheap if I don't cram as many posts in as possible during the Halloween season. It's my time to shine. It's my thing, you know? So with that, expect around one and half more posts and a lot of backtracking and excuse making in November. But here's a start:

These are photos we have locked up and hidden in various folders located in folders buried in other folders on my computer. It's like hiding porn from your parents back when the internet first started and you didn't dare think of deleting all your thumb pics. Not just yet, anyways. Wow, did I just out myself?

First three. Can you feel the rage in this? Can you taste my darkness? And yes, that will be the title of my upcoming solo album.

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

Over and out!

WELCOME TO MY SECRET MEAT PALACE.

Whoo boy! Lobby's! Have you heard of it? Yeah, me neither. But there it is...and here I am. This is going to be delicious.

Not sure where I first heard of this place, but I think I must have googled it after continuosly driving by a place called "Lobby's." Wasn't it a hobby shop? A long, empty lobby? I had to find out...and finded out I did!

Judging from the storefront, you know what you're getting into. Well, besides a triple-bypass. From reading my findings through extensive googles searches, this is a Chicago style joint specializing in...you guessed it: the worst foods on earth!

You're entering a meat paradise! A hot dog heaven! A cheesesteak hullabaloo!

But before I go on, I must get this off of my chest:

I wouldn't call myself a "foody," but my blog has certainly been painting me as one in the last few months. I just really like to eat. I enjoy putting new things in my mouth (hey, watch the dirty humor, buddy, watch it...) trying weird flavors and consuming as many animals still left in the Kingdom. I've been told I should sign up for yelp or urbanspoon, where I can review restaraunts and greasy diners in all the well categorized/organized glory I can handle, but naw. I'd rather do it here. Ya see, I don't ever wanna be a "foody." I hate the bougie way people describe wine, I shiver when someone makes a pile of oysters seems like a nerve-shattering orgasm. Granted, oysters are absolutely delightful, but you don't need to close your eyes, delicately moan and then buck in your chair as soon as it hits your tongue. It's food. Sexy, sexy food. Where was I again?

Oh yeah! HOT DOGS!

I walked in, scanned the area and made my decision -- "I will eat here," I told myself.

"I will bust my gut," I promised to the Gorge Gods*.

"And I will enjoy it," I dramatically whispered as a closer.

Along with everything from hamburgers, cheesesteaks, bratwursts and the you-always-gotta-have-'em-everywhere-you-go french fries, they serve hot dogs. I've never been to Ted's, I have no idea what a Wienerschnitzel looks like on the inside and aside from ballgames and American holidays, I rarely eat the damn things. You can cover them in chili and drench 'em in ketchup, but it's never right with me. It doesn't appease and delight me the way it should. Why? 'Cause it ain't Chicago style.

Yeah, I'm sure you can get them anywhere (probably the above mentioned fast food spots) but fuck, there needs to be some drama for yo mama in here. But the only other place...the only other legit place I can find Chicago styled hotdogs is in a little shop next to a venue we play at in Flagstaff, AZ and in...well, Chicago. I'm uncertain on the origins of the glowing-green relish and the giant slice of pickle just thrown on top of it in what I wanna assume is lazy anger, but I absolutely love it and wouldn't have it any other way. I could have picked anything, but I chose you, Hotdogemon.

And it was great! Cheap, too. Like, 2 bucks and change for one. Recommended.

Okay, out of respect for not looking like a fat slob on brightly lit stages, two dogs is my general limit, and was set in place during this week's adventure. But I totally would NOT mind another one for the road. But hey, don't worry, I'll be seeing them again in two hours time.

The place ain't too shabby, I mean, it's not gonna win any awards but c'mon, their biggest selling point is a giant slab of greasy beef. The dude seen above was totally going to town on the Italian sub, I think, and seemed to be enjoying it. It was my second choice, but I'll spiritually and vicariously live through him and his feeding. He sat alone and in total silence -- you could almost hear his delicate, poignant chewing. Really kinda creepy, once you think about it, but once he was done and throwing away his papery remnants, he offered the most amazing bit of clarity and calm in this wacky, upside-down world we live in.

The lady behind the counter asked, "How was it?" in reference to his meal, and without missing a beat, he goes, "Ahh, it was alright." Nothing seemed more honest and perfect in all of restaraunt dining critiques. Not too brash, definitely not an opinion hidden behind niceties, just right there and in the open, take it or leave it. I certainly took it. And laughed.

*"Gorge Gods" is a term I just came up with for this bit. It's ridiculous, but "gorge" and "gorging" has been a pretty hilarious term for me and my siblings while growing up. In the early days, our parents used to take us out to the Old Country Buffet, an excercise in overconsumption and angry accusations of being a puss and not eating enough. We used to laugh at others eating like pigs, at us eating like pigs and the general insanity of seventy-five people going nuts over crab legs and buckets of ranch dressing. They even had a giant machine that dispensed milk chocolate! Fuckin' aye.

Anyway, we always used to joke about us being a group of bloated-belly maniacs, never giving up and never leaving a plate of food full. This was before we were aware of the other weirdos in the world who had the same idea and got into competetive eating, but we were a crew, a posse, a TEAM. We even had idea's for a team jacket, with a picture of a deep, cavernous hole. Ya know, a gorge. We were Team fucking Gorge.

Just thought ya should know.

Oh, the bathroom at the bar across the street. Thought it was funny. Ha.

Dollar Store Finds: ALIEN SHIT.

Ahh, the Dollar Store. My go-to quick fix for something cheap, stupid and mildly exciting. Combs, pens, toys, fruit, weird movies and always a lot of folders (what's up with all the folders?) you'll enter bummed but you'll always leave happy. I'd like to compare it to the quick, buzz-inducing nicotine fix ya get while smoking, but I was never a big smoker. Only when I'm drinking and on the weekends. Mondays through Thursdays and sometimes Friday, too.

Known to some as the Dollar Tree, the 99 Cents store to others...it's all the same to me -- one great excuse to buy shit, guilt free.

Well, that setup was kind of bullshit. I haven't stepped into the place for a while, Davey totally just hooked me up with something straight from The Church of Dollar himself. I love it when I don't do things!

Ya see, I like to play this little game where I ask for anything and everything. Not really a game, more of a challenge/gamble to see what I can accumulate with nothing more than a, "can I have it?" Maybe during lunch, I'll point to a friend's sandwich and go, "can I have that?" or when a buddy's wallet is open, I look in it and say, "can I have that?" Most of the time it absolutely never works...but sometimes it does. And it's usually with Davey. We have a common bond with terribly pointless collecting. We'll go to our Secret Comic Book Shop (mentioned in a previous blog, and yes, I hate sharing and won't reveal the location) and spend serious bank on superhero toys and maybe a Star Wars pillowcase from 1977. It reeked of cigarette smoke, I had to regretfully pass.

"Alien Power" was one such gamble. He recently showed me his dollar-store haul (which included an arsenal of plastic weapons, weird) as well as a green packaged alien just absolutely glowing from his plastic bag full of goodies. He showed me this terrestrial treasure, and I fell in love. Now, it's easy to barter with action figures. We have so many and so much it's kind of like a currency at this point. So with this, I totally pulled the "can I have it?" routine and here I am, one creepy alien richer. I wanna feel like Davey was being an honest, loving brother, but I have a feeling he bought, like, eight of 'em already.

Yeah, it really looks like the alien from the video game, "Destroy All Humans," which adds to the necessity of owning this. With any dollar store toy, you can bet the entire thing will be hollow, frail and highly breakable. Totally understandable and cool with me, since I'll probably look at it once and never look at it again. Hell, I've already taken the pictures and I've begun putting words into paragraphs. I can't even begin to pretend I know where this shit is right now.

Yup, I like aliens, so this is actually pretty cool. I'm no fanatic when it comes to the things, but "Fire in the Sky" was totally creepy and I'll be damned if I don't find some attraction to those bulbous, bulging heads. To me, the people into aliens are on par with the weirdos who think mediums and psychics are dead-serious real, so I try not to blatantly advertise my average/lukewarm obsession. I ain't no weirdo.

Look at that face! Just look at it! Magnificent. And very piranha-y.

But yeah, this is the perfect time to hit up the ol' dollar store. Everyone seems to be jumping the gun these days, so even though it's mid-September right, it's pretty much Halloween season right now, too. So this is a totally great start with hoarding cheap decorations, props and costumes without throwing your wallet in the toilet. Sure, it's pretty dumb stuff coming from the dollar store, but it's not without it's charm. If you're like me, your severed hand collection will increase tenfold. And that's a good thing.