HENRY & GLENN FOREVER.

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

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

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

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

"Henry & Glenn Forever."

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

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

I got this book!

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

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

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

Look how cute he is!

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

Love on, my brothers.

Retail Therapy.

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

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

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

Ta-da!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank God it's Wednesday.

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

Dear Blog, I hate you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

COOKIES IN MY MOUTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to crack this bitch open:

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

Underneath...salvation!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Lexy. You rule.