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.

Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Dutch Bros Coffee.

Dutch Bros Coffee.

Sign me up.

I go to Dutch Bros Coffee when I remember that they exist.  In between the hustle and bustle of everyday life, one might overlook this tiny booth that serves up hot drinks and cool smoothies.  They sit in parking lots, in between tall buildings and right in the middle of wherever a coffee-shed can fit.  The outside really does remind me of a greasy food truck, or an independent lemonade stand that OMG SERVED COFFE E INSTEAD OF LEMONAIDE!!11

I really should have taken a photo.

THE BASICS:

It's more expensive than Starbucks.  I don't mind paying an extra twenty cents, though -- the adorable "windmill" motif is well worth the price of admission.

The few that I've seen are standalone buildings, cute little huts that serve coffee and sugary stuff, with a walk up window and a high emphasis on a quick drive-thru.  My only qualm with saying you have a "fast drive-thru" is that, whether you really are super breakneck with pouring cappuccinos and lattes, shit still takes forever if you've got eighteen cars in front of you.  Just sayin'.

I don't think I've ever walked up to the window, I've only ever driven, so that's what I did today in my air conditioned vehicle (it's 800 degrees outside, yay Arizona!)  It's a small place, and it only seems that only two people are ever working inside the little shack of a shop.  Not much to say about that observation, though.  Just stating the facts.

Notice the speed of which I snapped a photo of the drive up menu, narrowly escaping the sights of the cashier/barista.  She almost caught me, for real.  I shudder to think of what THE FUCK I could have said to explain why it looked like I was taking a photo of her ass.

Side note, the people who work here are, without a doubt, the most chipper and animated people running a coffee business.  Unless Dutch Bros strictly hires the most upbeat and positive human to grave this fair land, I assume they're given a few lessons in customer appreciation.  Because, boy howdy, they appreciate the hell out of you.

A lot of places do this.  It's totally cool and a great sales tool, but it's to the point where the happiness is absurd, and the last thing you want are bright smiles and sprightly conversation.  They corner you with their words.  They'll ask, they'll pry, they'll seem genuinely interested in your life, your job and what you've got planned for the weekend.

It's all fake and over the top, but I can totally get why people would love this.  Having a friend serve you a cup of Joe is kinda nice, rather than a raving asshole who hates your face.  I get it's a sales tactic and all is well and people laugh and we all walk away happy, but...it can kinda get weird, ya know?

Side-side-note, rain or shine, it always seems to be run by two unabashedly perky and cute girls.  Good on you, Dutch Bros.  Good on you.

Their coffee is good.  It's ALL good.  Everywhere I go, I can only assume that anything besides a "small with cream" is good, too, because that's all I seem to get.  Aside from plain black coffee, I think it's the perfect prop to test flavor, taste and consistency.  But I ain't doing that shit.

Not sure exactly how the Dutch do it, but they do it well.  I see a lot of pressing and steaming and laboring behind the counter, so I know the coffee isn't just coming from a giant vat of brew that's been sitting on the shelf for six hours.

Pros: "Sippy cup" type lid keeps spillage to a minimum, while maximizing content-to-mouth-ratio.  Which is, essentially, me saying the exact same thing...but twice.

Cons: It looks like you're drinking out of a sippy cup.

I'm buzzed and my fingers are loose.  Time to write about the good stuff.  Time to write about caped crusaders, magical robots and shirtless He-Men.

Time to write about the Phoenix Comicon.

See you soon!

I'm trying to save money.

How?

By eliminating all the junk in my life that I don't need.  Or at least for the time being.

What I'm trying to do is save up for a new guitar, a vintage guitar, a guitar to rule all other guitars.  If being in Flying Blanket Studios has taught me anything, it's that a vintage sounds from a vintage instrument is exactly what I've been missing, and acquiring a Gibson Les Paul from the 80's or earlier is, like...super important right fucking now.

Sucks they cost, like, super right fucking a lot.

So far, I've done everything I could to quickly raise money, which borders on the absurd and far-fetched.  I'm trying to sell some of my other guitars I don't use, but will not bother to post on Craigslist for fear of the Craigslist Killer stabbing me in a deserted parking lot.  I've made attempts to sell everything at a guitar shop willing to buy gear, but was quickly squashed when I figured out I had to talk to someone.  In person.

Now, I've organized all of my dusty and useless toys in a shot to stuff a box, neatly wrap up and sell to anyone willing to buy a lump of broken GI Joe's and porcelain Buddha statuettes.  I figure I'll go straight to the source, pawning off my treasures to Howard, our local buddy who dabbles in the distribution of used toys, comics and  ANYTHING, or maybe hock my wares online to the first five people daring to purchase a mystery bin of God-knows-what.  I'd sell a generous sized package for twenty bucks, sight unseen, filled with...whatever.

Sounds cool, right?

Turns out, I can't bear parting with my stuff, even if you did think my idea was somehow enticing.  It's a dump of dumb and archaic stuff ruining my ability to walk a straight line in my apartment, but it's my stuff. 

I've cut out my daily, useless spending, which ranges from impulse buys on Amazon to the eighteen cups of coffee at Starbucks.  I sometime even disgust myself.

This is all well and fine, and I but I'm starting to lose steam to generate quick cash.  You know when you get so hyped on something, and it seems like it's the only thing you can think about?  Haunting your thoughts, driving you into madness?  And then,out of no where, you just stop giving a shit?  Because I'm there.  I really don't give a shit anymore.

Determination is waning, excitement is dwindling.  I really, really wanna buy all the little things I like in place of the one, big thing I want.  I'm bad at saving, I know, but I'm worse at waiting.  How do normal people do this?

My only hope is to acknowledge that there is no hope.

...or is there?

ENTER:

To curve my cravings, I bought The Essential X-Men volume 1, a giant slab of twenty, black and white issues, all for the low price of twenty bucks.  In fact, it was used, and was only twelve.  By reading an issue a night, I won't be tempted to buy anything other than a guitar for at least two weeks.  It'll keep me grounded, focused and firmly placed into the 1970's X-Men Universe, where Wolverine smokes and Cyclops wears pirate boots.

What's the point of all this?  Do I really expect anyone to care?  Not in the slightest.  My only goal is to highlight the most offensively awful artwork ever committed to paper:

It's just so..."ughh."  I hate this style.  Colossus looks like a pile of rocks and Cyclops needs to be slapped.  Whipped up real quick, meticulously crafted art, who knows?  In my infinite absurdity, I even considered hiding it under my bed, never to be seen again just because the cover bothered me.  Never mind the eight-million pages in between, if I can't get past the front page, it's a no-go with moi.  I'll have to live with it, though.  I'LL HAVE TO GET OVER IT.

Which I did.  Unfortunately, my fussy, thought-out plan to save money went right into the toilet, because last weekend was the Phoenix Comicon.  Hundreds of vendors, hundreds of things to buy, hundreds of things I now own.

Why do I even bother?

See ya next week!

Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Lo-Fi Cafe.

I went to the Lo-Fi Coffee last week.  I went there the week before that, too.  I've been there three times.  I think I like this place.

I first heard about Lo-Fi Coffee during our time recording our new album.  Between bouts of singing and strumming and frantically writing last minute lyrics, I needed to fuel up.  Cold sandwiches and water can only go so far to energize, so as soon as we entered Studio Thunderdome, I was on the lookout for a good cup of black blood. 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel guilty about going to Lo-Fi Coffee.  You see, Bob Hoag, the recording engineer and producer on our record, "Dayglo Necros" (what a plug!) insisted we go to another coffee shop located right down the road.  "Don't go anywhere else," he warned.  "You order up a brew from anywhere but there, you are dead to me!" he screamed.  Turns out, you tell me to not press the red button, I will make absolute sure I will press that red button.  

Actually, it's because of their store hours.  Nameless Coffee Shop (which I won't mention the name, 'cause I'm sure I'll review it later -- don't wanna jump the gun, ya know?) was either open for a tiny bit, inside a window of whatever-hours-they-felt-like-making-up-that-day, or just plain closed.  Granted, the few times I was there, it was most delicious and positively quaint, featuring an outdoor patio and a wood paneled, Hobbit-like den where you could sit back and pretend that you didn't actually just spend five bucks on a latte. 

It is what it is.  When you can't supply the demand, you have to make your way to the next establishment.  Which, conveniently, was right down the street.

Located near the studio near the other coffee place, we have ourselves Lo-Fi Coffee.  It sits aside the Nile Theater, a venue where local and national acts play themselves into a stupor.  Crowds go wild.  People dance and party.  So on and so forth.

Calabrese has only played there once, but in previous, highschool-era bands, I played here a lot.  At any rate, I'm sure anyone could play here.  If you aren't rockin' the upstairs "main stage," you can absolutely play down in the dark, musty basement.  Which I have.  A lot.  

It's not bad, though.  A great spot to hone your chops and to achieve that "intimate" feel.  Believe me, nothing says "warm and cozy" like sweat dripping from the ceiling and into your mouth.  

So yeah, we now have a coffee joint to accompany our live shows.  And if that wasn't enough, the Lo-Fi doubles as a venue in itself.  Set up in the corner, pluck that acoustic and get wired.  Get a cappuccino.  I think I'll get a cappuccino.  

Of course, they have every liquid you'd expect in place that sells coffee -- you know how it goes.  Now, food wise?  I only ever saw food once, ranging from a small plate of vegan-friendly muffins and pre-packaged biscotti.  I felt so alternative and hip. 

Their Secret Weapon, though, is a bizarre science-lab looking device that brews a single cup of coffee in a mere couple of hours.  Priced at ten bucks a pop, you're given a chance to experience...I don't know.  I cup of coffee that took forever to drip.  It's so absurd and unnecessary.  I'm in love.

Honestly, really delicious.  I don't expect much with cappuccinos, since they're either too salty or lacking the right "froth to espresso" ratio, but the Lo-Fi exceeded and prevailed.  I received an abundant amount of creamy foam atop my drink.  I'm addicted to this milky  swirl.  I would die for this globule of lather.

The only thing that sucks is that if you're paying with card, you sign on a converted iPad, with a big, bold TIP OPTION at the end of the transaction.  Tip a buck, tip two bucks, hell, type in 39723 dollars and tip your heart out!  Now, I could be paranoid, but I swear, the three times I was here, I could just feel the cashier's eyes as I ever so gently ignored this route.  I even tried to look quick and hasty, as to give off the impression that I was in such a hurry that, whoops, I didn't even notice that I could tip!  

I understand tipping.  I really do.  It's a topic of conversation I hate to go on about (someone in the serving business, past or present, will always make a stink) so it's best if I keep my mouth shut.  I'm all for it, I get the concern, but at the same time....I REALLY like playing Devil's Advocate on this one.  "What's the big deal with tipping?  Why do I have to?  If it's such a harsh world in the food industry, why don't the employers pay more?  Why don't the employees just quit and get a higher paying job then?"

That stink people make?  I love it.

That red button I was told not to push?  GODDAMN I AM PUSHING IT.

I've tipped in this situation, purely out of an attempt to not look like a douche, but I can't always.  After paying four bucks for a medium cup of hot liquid, I can't live with paying MORE on top of that, every single time I order.  Some win, some lose.  Sorry, barista who lost.  

I'll get ya next time.

...and I think I'll end on that.

Las Vegas Blues.

I don't hate Las Vegas, let that be clear. The sights, the sounds, the erratic debauchery and drunkenness, it's all so magical and unique.

Although, too much of a good thing, as they say, is a bad thing.

When I was younger, our parents took us to Las Vegas for vacation.  Being younger, everything was intense and raw and so adult.  Granted, when you're thirteen, you can't do shit, and the only entertainment lies in grand buffets and the possibility of seeing a pile of smut on the sidewalk.   Through the years, we've played Vegas many times, but it's always show up, play the gig and leave the next morning.  Hell, sometimes we leave that night, with  the constant tease of mild-crime and gambling at our fingertips.  It's ultimately for the best, but damnit, I want my time in Sin City.  I want to experience the scuz and slime and deceit.

Turns out, after my trip, I do not want it ever again.

I spent four days in Las Vegas over the weekend, and midway through the adventure...I simply had enough.  I was beaten.  I was over it.  I was over the scamming, the late nights and the constant yelling and shouting from everyone and everything.

There's no denying it, I went apeshit the first night I arrived in town.  I wasn't yet aware of how much of a gauntlet I'd be running through for the next few afternoons.

I freshened up in a hotel modeled after a castle, grabbed my wallet and hit the streets.  The first thing we did was plain and obvious -- drink until our eyes bled.

Sure, it's an immature way to get your kicks, but where else in this great country of ours can you legally booze it up everywhere and anywhere?  There's no better feeling than to stop in at a Walgreen's for a beer, buy that beer and then proceed to drink that beer in that very Walgreen's.

To further the thrill, we drank in strip malls, alleyways, in front of cops and out of annoyingly large, Eiffel Tower shaped jug.  There was no where we didn't dare disrupt with an open container.  It was as if the city dared us to find a spot where we weren't allowed to have a picnic with a bottle of wine.  We did this with vigor.  We did it with valor.  We did it until four in the morning.

When I woke up, it was game-fucking-over.  No explanation needed, I'm sure.  And I suppose that's where the trouble started.  After such a fun, riotous night in the gutter, the last thing I wanted to do was do it again for three more remaining days.

Las Vegas's patrons are an unruly bunch.  Tourists roam the hotels, gangs of middle-aged XXX dance apologetically to Puerto Rican rap.  Once you've finished wandering through the main drag, there's literally nothing else to do besides being berated by hustlers or over paying to see people pretend they're Elvis and Madonna.  Neither option seemed fun, leaving the table open to watching a Jodie Foster film in the hotel room or chucking twenty dollar bills into slot machines.  At that point, I was already down by a lot, and I don't necessarily need to level up on my Jodie Foster trivia.  I saw the original "Freaky Friday."  I'm good.

But you gotta get up and get out.  You gotta do what's best in Vegas, what's required by law of the land, whether you like it or not.

So I drank until my eyes bled.  Again.

I saw more of the required Things You Must See, laughed at all the Criss Angel's billboards, ate at a buffet that specialized in "stale."  Hey, I hate it, too, but you gotta accept the rules of the game.  Which, apparently, there aren't any, and it's up to you to zig-zag through the maze of wobbling drunk chicks and vomit.  There's a definite charm wafting through the sweaty air, but even that glittering, twinkling charm can wear a bit thin.  See: I wanted to go home and watch the rest of "Game of Thrones."

For whatever reason, I only managed to snap one photograph during the entire trip.  Of a hamburger with an egg on it.



In New York New York, one of the better hotel casinos, lies a stretch of small restaurants for those looking for food that won't force you to miss next month's rent.  I know everything is expensive in Vegas, but wow, don't bother visiting if you're uncomfortable with the idea that a cold, plain bagel will cost you five bucks.  It's true.  Saw it with me own eyes.  Paid for it with me own money.

Looking back, it was fun.  For all much whining and complaining I do, I'll definitely make a return, but with a greater sense of what lies ahead.  I will ignore the passerby, I will never take anything for free from anyone, unless I want to talk about what I just took and how I should, in a roundabout way, pay for it.  Hell, I'll bring my own damn bag of bagels.  SMOTHERED WITH CREAM CHEESE.  TAKE THAT, VEGAS.

So, one night in Vegas is all you need.  Two if you can beat the hangover.  Three if you just stopped giving a fuck.  The Las Vegas Blues ain't gonna kill ya, but it sure is gonna make you feel like shit.

My Secret Admirer.

I'm hungover.

My head hurts, my guts feel rotten and the only salvation is a Vitamin Water and the floor in front of the television. At this point, I'm not good enough for the comforts of a couch. The couch is above me, literally and figuratively, and for me to even consider lying on top of it is an even bigger sin that the ones I've committed the night before. The floor is where I belong. It is my penance.

All details aside, I'm in a bad place. My body, polluted. My money, gone. The guilt alone has caused me to denounce everything I took part in to create this current anguish, but fuck, give it a day and half, I'll be right back at it. I suck.

A friend of mine once called hangovers "The Fear." That slightly depressed, worried and confused feeling. Angry about what you spent, annoyed at ruining an entire day, befuddled and lost and cloudy and upset. It's a twenty-four hour cocktail of regret and sorrow in it's most purest of forms.

Naming it "The Fear" is spot on.

Good call, Friend I Just Made Up.

Will I ever drink again? Yeah. In this current state, I'm even shocked to admit that. But you can't stop a cheetah from being cheetah, am I right or am I right? Does that make any sense whatsoever?

Go-to cures usually involve hot coffee, greasy hamburgers or restless sleep. As we all know, there is no cure, but those specific routines are my only fallback. Unfortunately, my fallback sucks and literally never helps. In fact, I'm sure it makes me feel worse. I will do a lot of moaning and groaning, yes. I will curl up into a ball and rock myself slowly into a sad and sweaty mess. I will receive a fuzzy bear in a leather jacket, complete with peanut-butter chocolates and a helping of sweet, Valentines's Day love.

We got this in the mail last week, and only now have I fully investigated it. I mean, I knew what was inside (I, of course, opened it immediately) but I didn't dig too deep. It was as if I was cool with a simple teddy bear, accepting graciously with a nod and a thank-you. Oh, yeah. There's a bear inside. Duh.

See? This ain't some regular bear, no sir. My Secret Admirer sent a Bad-Ass Bear. Wrapped in a tight leather jacket (could be faux, but we're not here to judge) with balled up fists and a stare that's just begging for a fight. It's exactly like me, minus the whole "begging for a fight" thing. I'm too pretty for that. And I have weak bones. And don't know how to fight. There, I said it, alright?

This helps. This aids in the process of becoming human again. A single tear will fall from my robotic eye, the camera will pan back revealing that, yes, I am an android but with hard, honest human emotions. Then I will blow up in a ball of fire. ARTSY FARTSY.

Oh, and before we go on, I'd like to point out that this gift was sent to me and only me. Serious Secret Admirer shit right here. Jimmy is not mentioned once, nary a word on poor, old Davey. I feel honored, with an overwhelming sense of finality in never-ending band arguments -- I am the favorite of the three Calabrese brothers.

Suck it, Jimmy and Davey. The both of you's.

And I'll refrain from mentioning who this is from, out of respect and privacy and the inability to read cursive.

Strapped to our buddy's chest is a heart-shaped box full of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which, arguably, is the best candy ever made. The fusion of peanut butter and chocolate is not to be toyed with, especially in a Valentine's Day gift. It means it's extra special, or outstandingly discounted since it's two months past Valentine's Day.

Oh, and along with the prize is multicolored packing peanuts. Safety and beauty, all in one. I can't remember if I've ever seen brightly colored foamy stuff before, but I'm glad I did today. I can already feel the headache melt away as I stare into a rainbow of crinkly, crunkly Cheese Puffs.

Bad-Ass Bear, although pants-less, is wearing a customized shirt of what I can only assume to be of me. My widow's peak does reach down between my eyebrows and my chest is wrinkly and or stinky (are those "stink lines?") And those were just the subtle hints, people. My eyes really are lazy/crossed and I'm missing all but two teeth. My God, it's like looking into a mirror.

Thanks, Secret Admirer. My belly is starting to simmer and I've stopped muttering to myself about how I hate my life. The guilt is being absolved, the remorse and grief are but a distant memory.

I feel tons better.

Now send me more stuff!

Raven's Brew Gourmet Coffee.

I've already been blasting this image all over the web, but I'm not about to pump the brakes on horror-themed coffee beans.

Our good friend, Kristen, sent us through the mail and into our filthy hands, just in time for the new album. Her idea was that we'd brew these up during the week and half long session in the studio, providing warmth, energy and that shaky, puke-y feeling you get after too many cups. Her idea is welcome, and will be put to the test. Normally, Hollywood would lead you to believe that "life in the studio" is all sex, drugs and rock and roll. Turns out it's just coffee, mugs and your mouth hole.

"Raven's Brew," the centerpiece of Raven's Brew coffee, is the least of my favorite, but still very loved. The image on the front draws you to the idea that you're drinking ground up raven bones, with the spirit of the raven floating and soaring all up in you. You can do a lot of raven-y things with that information. Like fly great distances over this great land of ours or peck the shit out of someone's eyes.

I like this, because I would love it if a wolf in women's clothing served me coffee. The spookiness adds great charm, even if it's just a dumb Little Red Riding Hood themed packaging. Avoid Dumb LRRH, stare into the eyes of the wicked wolf. Look at the glowing moon. Enjoy.

This is my favorite. It's everything I need in advertising, which, apparently, is a sleepy skeleton in bed. Extra points for the description of "our famous high speed blend," making me think of doing jumps on a motorcycle or the quickness of which my bowels will blow up.

I feel it's a great and simple way to get the point across, too, mimicking nearly everyone's initial rise from slumber. The pained eyes, the gross mouth and the throbbing temples. On the worst mornings, I swear I might be dead, if only for that hibernation-shattering, split second. The only redeeming quality and any inspiration to get the fuck up is, of course, coffee. The smell, the taste, the instant shits. I am that skeleton. I'm looking into a mirror with this. This is the perfect blend of coffee. I've yet to taste any of these, but they're perfect. I just know it.

Totally perfect.

Jungle Balcony.

I love a good patio.

It offers a sunny refuge from dark and cramped apartment living, allowing a breath of fresh air to calm and relax the nerves.

Some balconies suck. It's the way it goes. I refuse to take part in that, though. You're not guaranteed a shimmering oasis while hunting for a place to live, so when life gives you a lemony, outdoor balcony, you make lemonade outdoor balcony. I'm sorry, I suck at anagrams. It's called an anagram, right? ENOUGH WITH THE NUMBERS LET'S MOVE ON.

You know what I mean, though. If you're like me, you enjoy a solid sit outside every so often to break up the monotony of sitting inside, most likely in front of a computer or TV. So we escape to our summer fortress, our humble, nature filled hideout. We like to think, drink a cold beverage, annoy the neighbors with the constant strumming of an acoustic guitar.

My balcony/patio/haven is gated by a large, stucco wall. It hits right above the waist and overlooks the middle of the complex, so I'm completely sealed off from the rest of the world if I decided to sit down on the floor or, coincidentally, take photos of all the crap you're about to see. I have a few chairs, a washer and dryer behind closed doors and spider lights from Halloween three years ago. This is where it all began.

Normally, and originally, I wanted the "tiki" theme. It's a perfectly acceptable theme, but through the years I've never managed to actually do it. Call it procrastination, but I guess I'm unwilling to buy bamboo and hula skirts and hang them on the wall. I tried a Halloween motif, with glowing spiders and billowing ghosts, but why would I want to mirror what was already going on inside my place?

These days, I've created my own version of the tried and true "Hawaiian" theme, but with a little more creative flair. Through manipulation of the objects around me and the continual lack of any direction, I've created The Jungle Balcony.

I do like tropical and I do like Halloween, but both don't involve clever recycling of soon-to-be-trash.

You see, what I have now is a quick and easy way to involve both leftover fake plants from an old roommate and all the dinosaur toys a grown-up doesn't want displayed in his apartment. Also involved: cigarette butts, bottle caps and the occasional, lone sock. I'm a mess.

So let us journey through my own "Jurassic Park," my very own secluded wonderland where I can do laundry naked and spy at all the pretty girls down at the community pool.

That was probably the creepiest thing I could have ever said.

Ahh, yes! The journey begins! What we have here is the entrance to the jungle, loaded with ferns and dinosaurs and nothing that would ever be found in a jungle. Will there be a gorilla involved? What about a tiger? Here's a hint: NO.

Blue Dinosaur guards the entryway, arms in attack position, eyes aglow with either hate or confusion. You're new to him, so he's still a little wary of your presence. He's also at a loss as to whether he's to scale with the rest of his surroundings, or one of those tiny dinosaurs that attack a little girl in "Lost World." He is, altogether, quite confused on a lot of things.

What lies beyond? Who claims the two white-tipped feet? And is that a green dinosaur?

Surprise, surprise. The greenest and the meanest.

I got this at a swap meet. Rather, Davey got it at a swap meet and I either bought if from him or stole it. Whatever the case, it's now a part of my world and will be a constant reminder of "Roseanne," where you can plainly see a Godzilla toy, much like this one, behind their couch in every episode. You don't have to watch all of them to know what I'm talking about, though, just watch the one's that count. Which is all the Halloween specials and the era of Darlene as a comic book writing, flannel wearing rebel.

Past the G-Man is...well, another green dino, accompanied by a hula-girl much intended for the dash of my car and not an empty pot. It was another "one of those things" I never got around to doing, and instead chucked it outside to rot. There is no sadness in this, because I'm sure if I had a dancing, wobbling toy to stare at while driving, I would surely crash and die in a ball of flames.

Oh, and that thing! The thing next to it! My battery-powered fountain!

This was a daring purchase at Walgreen's, and I only use the word "daring" because it's an astoundingly boring story if I didn't. You shove in a few batteries, add a cup of water and press play, allowing the shock and awe of a serene, bubbling geyser to wash over you. Not literally, but figuratively. I hate being wet. And so do you.

I think I've only seen it in action once, but boy, was it beautiful. It now remains as a silent, stoic statue, imagined as a shrine to the part in "Temple of Doom" where Indy and the gang, in the jungle, stumble upon weird statues...covered in blood. The entire scene was horrifying, and has always been a constant image in the back of my mind. I mean, geez, you try to adventure and explore and you're hit in the face with blood-soaked totem poles. Nothing says "bonerkill" like blood soaked totem poles.

I think I might paint streaks of red over it, for the full effect. Or dribble a bit of maraschino cherry juice over the top.

Unfortunately, Jungle Balcony has come to an end. I hope you had a good time, and cordially invite you to any Saturday night parties or holiday themed jamborees to check it out for yourself. Will I really invite you over for fun and games? Do I dare propose my home as your own?

Here's a hint: NO.

St. Patrick's Day, 2012.

I've never celebrated on St. Patrick's Day. If I could overcome the idea of going out and being yelled at by drunk college kids, plans are instantly derailed because St. Patrick's Day probably fell on a shitty day of the week.

Excuses, excuses.

Well, this year, I wanted to go out. I really, really did. There are so many events and concerts and bars with giveaways and prizes and stupid, sloshed weirdos...I almost felt the urge to leave my cave to drink-puke-cry like the best of 'em.

Almost.

I'm staying in. I may have purposely sabotaged myself this year, but I'm gonna spend this fine holiday by lying down because holy shit I'm nursing a hangover and my guts hurt. I know it was only a beer fueled bender last night, but I feel like I ate a giant pizza covered in pollutants and toxins found in chemical dumps and landfills. Oh, maybe it was the actual, greasy pizza I ate at one in the morning that's caused this irreversible pain. All five, wet slices of death and cheese.

If anyone asks, I got too excited. I celebrated early. And now I'm paying the price with Vitamin water that doesn't do a damn thing and Netflix.

But.

I can't not drink tonight. Call it tradition, call it alcoholism, call it a flag-waving salute to fun.

Harp Lager. I like Harp Lager. I'm not a huge beer snob, but I can't stand cheap American stuff and anything you can't read the newspaper through. I'm a sissy, yes, I can't chug sludge. Sometimes IPA's are too much, as well. My all time favorite are sunny, sparkling lagers. Stuff that looks like apple juice and tastes like water from a spring in Germany. I've heard of these springs of endless, flowing beer. They exist. I know they do.

I might make half and halfs, if only because I'm a slave to consumerism and bought a six pack of Guinness. They're a good and tasty, but I think the real charm lies in the idea that you mix two beers together to create a new beer. You use a spoon to drizzle the Guinness into the Harp, fusing the alcohol and hops and all the junk into...well, into science. You're drinking science. And that's a good feeling.

Have fun, dudes!

Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Steve's Espresso.

I think I'm going to start blogging about coffee spots throughout my neighborhood.

I've done it before, but it's never been a solid priority. Between the mixed reviews of dollar store finds and lazily putting together a string of photos to recreate the idea of a "Masters of the Universe theater," I've hit a wall. It was bound to happen, but so soon? So out of thin air? My only excuse is that my mind is on our new record, and instead of type-type-typing I've been strum-strum-strumming, slowly confirming what exactly I'm going to do in the studio. With a month away to record, you'd think the songs would be one-hundred percent complete by now, but nahhh. Too easy. Gotta live under pressure, gotta write on the wire.

What I'm trying to say is to expect a lot of this throughout the next few months. Coffee house reviews? Really? YES, COFFEE HOUSE REVIEWS REALLY GET USED TO IT.
Where to start? From the beginning, duh:

Whether it be to get groceries, go jam with Calabrese or to get a cup of coffee, I always seem to pass "Steve's Espresso." There's nothing necessarily stand-out-ish about the place, but it's always on the way to where I wanna go. It's either a bold sign telling me that drinking a cup of Joe at Steve's is destiny, or that I rarely venture anywhere that I haven't been to a million times. But if Steve wants my business, through my own repetition and curiosity, he's reeled me in. Well, I've reeled myself in, meaning he didn't do shit, but I've already parked and it's hot in the car.

From outside the shop and inside the privacy and shame-free bubble of my car, there you have it. I hate taking photos of anything in public, for fear of God-knows-what. I have this thing when it comes to snapping shots of anything that could make me look like an pervert or a spy. I understand it's a wild leap from "interested food patron" to "sexual deviant," but it's the way my head is wired. No one knows I'm attempting to blog about Steve's Espresso, they just know I'm nervously fumbling around with my phone with my hand possibly down my pants.

I went it, went to the counter and went over the possibilities. They have everything you'd expect, but I'm a no-frills kinda guy and I wasn't planning on drinking whipped cream, so I got a medium hot coffee. Which, for those curious, was instantly less expensive than you-know-who, and was nice and piping hot.

I think it was, like, a buck seventy? Eighty?

Some blogging skills, eh?

Decor was nice, ranging from "hole in wall store converted into a warm, chic coffee den" to "every other coffee shop ever." Not a bad thing, really. You wouldn't want it to look like, I dunno, Burger King. Or the dentist.

This is where I take a picture to show you what I see. Here is that picture:

Was my shot ruined by Captain Blue Jeans? No, not in the slightest.

I've said it before, but I get a total kick out of taking photos of people in random situations and posting it here, on this blog, for the entire notion that, one day, hopefully, that person will recognize their own butt staring at a case of crumpets. I'm entertaining the thought that Captain Blue Jeans will ultimately be interested, shocked then wholly confused.

"Why would anyone take a photo of my ass?" he would ask. I would respond, "Because you were in the way, and because I get a thrill plastering you, unwillingly, on a tiny corner of this great, big Internet." "What an asshole," he would say.

Well, it ain't your ass that's the center of attention, Captain BJ, it's the cute, chalk-written signs and endearing, brown color scheme. Is there ever a coffee establishment that isn't painted some sort of brown? Why can't the walls be colored hot pink? Or, I dunno, purple? Is it because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit? Yes, it is because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit.

Well played, Steve's Espresso.

Which brings us to another high point at Steve's -- fresh, home-baked scones, muffins and sandwich things.

I'm a huge fan of pastries, purposely magnified by the "bite and sip" procedure with a cup of coffee. The taste is elevated with the perfect mix of cake-food and java, nearing an instantaneous cranial explosion. It rivals that of sex, but the comparison is so cliche that I nearly flinched at the thought of actually writing it. I would never commit such a bland, literary faux-pas. Or...would I?

I just did. I just so fucking did.

Now, you might dip your dessert into your drink, as opposed to the act of chomping and slurping, but I think that's weird. Who dips a blueberry muffin? In proportion to the cup, the shape is all wrong. You'd need a saucer, or a gravy boat. Otherwise IT'S ALL WRONG AND YOU'RE GOING TO HELL.

Well, there she is.

There's a sign on the wall stating that all the coffee was done by a French press, which makes me wonder if, every morning, they press a bunch of coffee and dump it into a big vat in the back or have one, giant French press the size of a doghouse. Whatever the case, the taste is definitely different, leaning more towards a smoother and slightly distinct flavor than drip coffee. Mild, definitely. Watery, in a way.

I'm not even sure I like coffee.

Masters of the Uni-Piece Theatre, Episode 3.

The Fortress of Fangs.

I've been holding off on posting this for a while now because...well, because this is the perfect post. I look at the following photos, I reminisce about my childhood and I've realized that this is me. What you see before you in the next lump of convoluted paragraphs and immature gushing is everything I am as an individual, wrapped up in a single chunk of playtime plastic. What is it? Well, unless you've already scrolled down and peeked, you'll see. Oh, you'll sssseeee.

That was a snake joke. Ha.

Growing up, the toys that have always meant the most to me are the ones that have, in a bizarre way, scared me. There's something deeply troubling with that, but I'm not here to scale into dark voids of my mind, I'm here to scale The Fortress of Fangs.

I can't admit that what you're about to see is scary, or even at all intimidating. If you stand it up against the Ghostbusters Firehouse, you'd be full of shit. Because what you're about to see rules. Next to something like, say, Castle Greyskull, you'd be getting warmer. It's the only other play-set that can come close, and even that can be argued. Although Greyskull IS a giant, bad-ass skull, beneath the swamp green exterior and torture chambers within, it's still just a dumb ol' castle. WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO SEE takes Fun Time to a whole new level. What you're about to see can, and will, eat the Ewok Village.

THE FORTRESS OF FANGS!

So, what do you think?

Aside from knowing it was "Dungeons and Dragons" related, it took me forever to figure out what it was truly tied to. Mostly, I remember the miniature figurines you'd collect and paint, and those were sealed up, locked away in Jimmy's closet and off-fucking-limits.

Thanks to the Internet, I find out that, yes, this is definitely tied to "Dungeons and Dragons," and that's really fucking awesome. Because this was definitely not dozens of tiny, die-cast models that I wasn't allowed to touch.

I never got into the role playing aspect of it, the painstaking procedure of decorating your battalion of really expensive metal models, but anything that deals with such an array lineup of horrible and and repulsive characters is welcome with open arms.

And that is where they did things right and perfect and wonderful.

They made toys. Action figures. Legitimate shit to fight against The Thundercats.

Jimmy had a ton of these demon figurines and creepy monsters from the "Advanced Dungeons and Dragons" line, and to say I wasn't enamored with them all is an understatement. These things used to scare me. I'd have actual nightmares over these PVC mutants. It's so weird. I get so misty-eyed just thinking about it.

Frog-men with spears, goblins with swords, evil witches with bright blue faces, etc. And these were the ones that were made of immovable, heavy plastic. More so, the company would release evil warriors and masked sadists with decent points of articulation, furthering playtime imagination with more progressive beheadings and forest plunging.

I really don't know too much of the history of these toys, and when I tried to search-google-hunt, I didn't care. I'd much rather live in my own, already formed memories and, hell, looking at all the pictures of what I don't own is making me dumb jealous. Which is, sadly, a lot. And surprisingly expensive.

Spot me a cool grand for an eBay run?

Obviously, this all used to be Jimmy's -- one of the dozens of play-sets, action figures and artifacts from an era gone by. Through timely manipulation and outright thievery, I've officially inherited them and they've become mine and all mine.

Before, I've wondered why any smart man would give up such treasure so easily, but I'm well on my way to doing the same damn thing. I've yet to pull out a compass and start mapping my way to the nearest Goodwill, but I know, in my heart, a day like that will come. I don't want it to, but who can say whether or not I will tire of owning shelves full of stuff that makes me look like I've never talked to a human being before?

FUCK IT I KEEP DEM ALL FOREVER.

So let's do a virtual tour of this bad boy. In my youth, I've spent hours and re-enacting intergalactic wars and demonic picnics with such play-sets, because it was the only safe haven for Han Solos and Lockjaws. The tub was great for underwater exploration, and the backyard made for some great scenic backdrops, but I always ended up at...say, the Fortress of Fangs.

The only other effort I put into anything during this time was faking sick to stay home from school. It always blew up in my face when I couldn't play Super Nintendo and was stuck re-reading informational books on spiders and snakes. When you had "the flu," it wasn't wise to get caught hootin' and hollerin' over a wild game of Starfox.

And with that, let us pretend we're actually scaling these dark, green walls and losing our minds in bloody caves and hellish mazes. For old times sake, ya know?

Let's begin our journey!

First off, yikes. It's looking at you. The ugly sonnavabitch stares at you. It mocks from across your bedroom, it glares and snarls while you try to sleep. The Fortress of Fangs is a mean sonnavabitch.

Here we go, ladies and gents, the beginning of your expedition! Did you wear appropriate shoes? Wait, you wore flip-flops? You dumb.

There's no real entrance to the FOF, so I picked this specific spot because both other starting points are empty rooms with a blue crayon decorating the floor. As we travel along, you'll be presented with missing pieces, dents made from my teeth and the aforementioned Crayola graffiti throughout, proving that I just did not give a shit about my older siblings' stuff.

Let's get going, shall we?

First up: your average, every day, run of the mill passageway! Pay no attention to the fact that you're gonna be tightly squeezing by a red board loaded with spikes the size of street cones. If you're lucky, they're the size of ice cream cones (it's hard to accurately judge this). Unfortunately, in this situation, it does not matter at fucking all.

...because you're gonna die.

But hey, let's say you do get past this. Let's say you either jumped back in the nick of time, or did some super awesome tuck and roll past this death-device. Who's to say the trap was even tripped and went off? Feeling pretty good about that, right?

Sorry, you just just threw yourself down into a lake of fire.

Without any regard for your success, FOF has immediately killed you. Because you weren't already killed.

Assuming you escaped the painful descent into Hell, that is. Let's just assume you ran past the spikes and, miraculously, decided to take a leap of faith over the abyss. You're good to go!

Now, left or right?

If you go right, you're given the opportunity to once again slide down into the lake of fire you've so recently narrowly diverted. I guess it's for the people who had second thoughts on the matter. Off the top of my head, I can't name a single benefit of tumbling down into a liquid inferno, but I'm sure there's gotta be something radical to it.

So, you decide to go left -- you've made the right choice. Just, ya know, watch out for the dangerous, teetering axe looming over your head. Which, if you've yet to understand the point of this evil snake-dungeon, it is to no doubt fall down upon your skull and kill you. That's all this place is here for. This is all that you're here for -- to die.

You are going to die.

Sorry.

You have to go down. Like, you really, really have to. Unless you want to take a chance and double back through the barrage of spikes and pits and immediate death, your best option is to stay the course and see what lies beneath the madness. I know, I know, I told you that you're going to die, no way around it. Your stamina is weak, your morale is low...so what's the point? You've eaten all the granola bars stuffed away in your backpack and you've stubbed your toe and it really hurts.

Fine, FINE.

You will be rewarded for your suffering and unbelievably good luck. After all, it IS a "fortress," and what good is a fortress if it isn't guarding something? I wanted to keep it a surprise, but if you're going to be a baby about it...alright, yeah. You're headed towards some cool shit.
Yes! A pile of gold coins and other treasures that are yellow!

You've done it, you've made it all the way down into the bowels of sin and evil! And now you're gonna be rich! Load up your Jansport with jewels, stuff your pockets with baubles and gems, do what you gotta do to make this nightmare a success!

Just, um, realize that...you're stuck here. I KNOW I KNOW WHAT I SAID BEFORE. And it's true! You're compensated for everything you've been put through, but...
Yeah.

Again, sorry about this. If it makes you feel any better, the skeleton does look like it's smiling.

Hope you had fun!