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!

Blue Beast Blue Beast Blue Beast.

Oh, my.

You're blue.  Very blue, actually.  If one were to categorize your physical features, one might consider you to be a little "too blue."  Your blue-ness is shocking.  It numbs the senses.  You're a bright, shining star in a sea of infinite, never ending darkness.  A sparkling jewel in a pit of a thousand black holes.  You are just fucking blue, man, and you are everything I need right now.

UGHH YOU'RE SO BLUE AND I LOVE IT. 

I can't explain the caps.  I can't explain the grunt.  There's no explanation for me to give on anything right now.  You're just gonna have to play along.  You're blue and beautiful.  Be loud, be proud.

Why are your eyes yellow?  Have they always been yellow?  Are you sick?  Don't mean to be rude, but it seems to throw off the blue.  I don't think I like it.  I like your belt, though.  Wear did you get it?  Abercrombie and Fitch?  Macy's?  That weird hip hop store?  Hot Topic?  I really hope not, 'cause I'm afraid of Hot Topic.  Too many tattoos, too many stretched earlobes.  I feel like an outsider, an outcast, a socially stunted...beast.

Wow.

We're like one in the same.  But you're blue.  And I'm not.  So fucking jelly about that, man.

Why are you so blue? Wait, don't tell me. I don't need to know. I just need to feel. I want to eat you.  You look like candy.  You resemble a Jolly Rancher.  The blue one, of course.  You blue, Jolly Rancher, you.

What color is your blood?  Don't you dare say it ain't blue.  It must be blue.  It needs to be blue.  IT WILL BE BLUE.

Sorry for the weird photo angle.  It was quick and, sadly, outcome = odd.  So much crotch.  It's deafening.  At least your crotch-pouch is blue, too.  A different, darker blue, but blue just the same.  I wonder what you'd look like in blue jeans.  Would it still look like you weren't wearing any pants?  How do you get your thighs to be so big?  As a whole, your muscles are really quite extraordinary, if I may be blunt.

Do you like blue cheese?  Do you get the blues?  Do you blew your nose?

Mondays ruin me.  How's your Monday?  Mine sucks.

Goodnight.

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.