Micheladas.

It's hot out.  Like, really hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Step 3: Admire and enjoy.

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

I like you, michelada.

Small, Chewy, Green Dude.

Ashley Beach has great taste.  She has great values.  She's a cool person.

She reads this dinky blog and likes it.  She shops at flea markets and recognizes the insignificant junk that I would like.  She puts in the time and effort to then send that junk to me.  Ashley and I should become best friends!

Presents are always welcome at the Calabrese Manor.  So thanks, Ashley, for the box o' fun and for carefully excluding the other two guys by specifically sending only me something.  That takes finesse and a bold style I can truly get behind and support.  We really should be best friends!

Let's pop it open:

Well, well, what have we here? 

Initial reaction: interested, curious, instantly at ease.  In the note, Ashely made clear mention of why I would enjoy this green-thing.  She made a lot of great points, both accurate and undeniable.  I'm like an open book around here, no secrets shall be kept, no story unmentioned.  Basically, I'm totally one sided and she figured me for an idiot who likes tiny, green toys that I can hide in a shoe. 

So it's out of the box and sitting on my desk.  I've been staring at it for half an hour now, doing that "tapping a pen on my lips" move, figuring out it's specific charm and it's magic.  Because there is charm and there is magic.  Can't be certain I'll be able to explain why or how, but I'll give it a shot.  Enjoy your time in the limelight, little dude.

Here are three reasons why this little dude is awesome:

1. Small, Quaint, Collectible.

Perfect for your back pocket, front pocket or in your mouth (we'll get to that later).

It also works for me because it is, obviously, a skeleton in a bathrobe pulling off his own head.  Could even pass as that "ghost face" mask from "Scream," or that screaming asshole from that one painting.  I sense a lot of pain within.  Lots of heavy vibes going around, man.  But rad vibes, too, because it's a crazy bastard pulling off his own, skinless head.

I'm not really sure what this is officially from, or what it does, but I figure that adds to the mystery.  I wanna say an off-shoot of Monsters in My Pocket, but one can't be too sure.  It even looks like some kind of pencil-eraser topper, but it's butt isn't hollowed out for the ass-end of a Dixon Ticonderoga.  Don't matter, baby.  Don't matter at all.

2. Neon Green, Looks Like Candy.

I'm like a bird.  A bug.  I'm a young child in a highchair.  I like shiny, brightly lit and colorful things.  Let me be clear, though: there are two sides of this coin.  Never once did I get into tie-dye, but I was a definite, feverish fan of Lisa Frank folders in grade school.  Soaring dolphins, shimmering sunsets and dogs with their tongues sticking out.  All manner of animal.  It's still really hard to come clean about this.

This is a perfect example of what I'm attracted to in this handheld, miniature goody.  Plus, it looks like candy I'd be inclined to pop into my mouth.  It's rubbery and bendable, so I further the fantasy with thoughts of it being very gummy-like.  I like candy, I like this.

Oh, God.  I need to eat this thing ASAP.

3. Rubbery, Bendable, Chewable.

Chew toys.  This is a chew toy for me.  Almost literally, but not really at all.  Because I couldn't, in good conscious, bite down on this dirty, delicious prize...but I so totally would.  There must be some weird, carnal urge to want to do this (something from my past bubbling up?) or it's because I'm an idiot. 

Yeah.

Thanks again, Ashley!

Coconut Water Tastes Weird.

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

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

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

I've tried it.  I hate it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real good.

I like coconut water now!

Wacky Wall Walkers!

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

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

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

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

An octopus.

There.  That'll do the trick.

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

Introducing Creepeez! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No regrets, baby!