Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Gold Bar.

I've never been to the Gold Bar coffee shop. It stares at me from the sushi joint across the way, from the pizza shack or the other coffee shop right behind it. Fortunately, with all the restaurants and gas stations surrounding the area, there's a lot of traffic to be had for the Gold Bar, raking in a new and thirsty clientele at any given time. Unfortunately, that other coffee shop right behind it? Fucking Starbucks.

But the Gold Bar tries, Goddammit. They really do. I did a little research, found out they existed since 1994, so it's not their fault they've been cornered and pooped on by the biggest coffee conglomerate in the world. Wait, the world? Is Starbucks really that big? I already did my research. Through with the research for today.

If anything, the name alone is peculiar. It brings to mind an entire room molded out of gold, or instead of the building made of brick, bars of gold line the walls. Hell, the name makes you think it's a bar. There's so much confusion and disorientation, how can you not wanna stop on by?

Which I did, of course.

From the outside, you're not given much to go on, save for the fact that I'm a terrible photographer. If it's any excuse, I'm inside the safety of my car, and the angle was hard and all sorts of fucked up. Because there is no way I'm going to stand in front of the place and actively snap a photo, with thousands of gazing passerby looking in my direction. What passerby? That passerby:

Two dudes sipping on a cup of Joe. Not even sure if they're even doing that, but it doesn't change the fact that they're there, minding their own business, and NOT being bothered by a weirdo with a moderately modern smart phone.

Plus, the bald guy looks tough. In a "cut-off blue jeans" sorta way.

I went in, stood at the counter and carefully went over the menu. Coffee, standard mix of baked goods and desserts, whatever. I waited for a good five minutes, carefully deciding and planning.

And I waited some more.

Normally, the wait would be absurd, which it was, but the game instantly changed after that. Time was of no concern. 'Cause shit just got real.

My barrista, late and nonchalant, finally made her appearance...and was super cute.

I was taken aback. You can't expect everyone you run into to be a slob like yourself, but nothing makes you feel more like a slob like a hot girl in a coffee shop taking your drink order. I instantly thought of my clothes, how they weren't cool enough, my unshaven and pube-like facial hair -- it was a blast of instant regret for the last three weeks of personal grooming procrastination.

What-the-fuck-ever. I'm an adult. A grown man, I say! Someone like me doesn't revert to high-school antics by stammering and stuttering when face to face with a pretty girl. It's absurd! It's outrageous! It's exactly what I did!

Oh, well. I ordered a small coffee to go, loaded it with cream and walked out. Good thing I was befuddled enough to totally forget to take photos of the inside, right? Right!

Not sure what I did, or how I came off looking, but I decided the best route was to walk back in acting like "a guy who changed his mind on where to sit." Did a lot of "hmm" faces, looked left and right, stroked my chin and took a seat in the back, which was kinda the worst idea ever. From that vantage point, I couldn't get a single image of anything besides a wooden post and a tray, which also looks wooden. I was flustered, annoyed and getting the overwhelming sense that people thought I was up to no good.

Not pictured: comfy couches and many chairs in the corner, a section for a band to set up to play soft, coffee accompanying music, books and paintings and stained glass windows lining the walls. A total nook in every sense of the word, like a library you'd find lonely detectives and anyone who smokes from a pipe.

You can blame the lack of pictures on that girl, or the fact that I label this review as "quick and crappy." If there's one thing about me, it's that I stay true to my word. Crap is what I offered, and crap is what you'll get.

And is what you just got.

Oh, and the coffee was alright.  I mean, it was good, but it's just coffee.

Am I right or am I right?

I LIKE MONSTER MODEL KITS...sort of.

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

AWESOME MONSTER MODEL KITS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Directions, thank God.

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

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

Nothing In Particular.

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

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

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

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

First up:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ, this is not good.

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

Backstory:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DEADSHOT IS COOL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Floyd Lawton, DEADSHOT.

So good I need two!

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

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


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

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

Christ, I need to get out more.

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

It's because I'm lazy.

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

You can count on me, world!

PHOTOS 3.0!

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

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

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

Sorta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

Over and out!

WELCOME TO MY SECRET MEAT PALACE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah! HOT DOGS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just thought ya should know.

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

Dollar Store Finds: ALIEN SHIT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coffee and Beer -- My Liquid Loves.

It's no secret that I love coffee. It's one of those constants in my life that I can always look forward to and always know I'm gonna get a kick out of. Fuck energy drinks, forget soda and all the in-between bullshit that'll blow your heart out of your chest and eat away your liver. Granted, I'm unsure of the side effects when consuming enough coffee to give a herd of horses a buzz, but I'll take my chances.

Ahh, Extreme Bean. Located in Mesa, or Tempe or somewhere, this is a pretty neat place to pick up some black blood. I will admit, this isn't a real hotspot for me, probably because I don't like going anywhere with "extreme" in it's name, but it's here, and I'm there. The front of the building ain't spectacular, but they're not opposed to putting up flyers for shows, which is pretty cool and non-threateningly hip.

I've been here before, many moons ago on a date, I believe. It was more of a get together, since I don't think I've ever been asked or initiated a "date" in my life. I'm more of a, "I'll be there, you be there" kinda guy. Easy, unconfrontational and a little bit sleazy, but that's how I roll. It's a lot easier to check your watch, make up an excuse and run on outta there when it's not under the "date umbrella." Anyway, in my infinite weirdness, I've never been back, 'cause in a cramped corner of my mind, I always thought I'd see the date in question here. It would be, like, awkward. Six years later. I suck.

Well, I'm glad I'm back, 'cause this place is pretty classy. They have a cool diner area, nice atmosphere and a decent, laid back feel. I assume this is a great hangout for swank college kids, 'cause everyone here was really attractive and young. Nothing like young, golden-haired college girls to make you feel like a dirty, pervy old man.

I wanted to get a shot of the main room, where there's a bunch of tables, chairs and couches set up for whatever you wanna do while you drink your coffee (very nice) but ever being the wussiest cameraman alive, I had to do it in secret. Which was trying to look like I was texting, but ended up looking like I was texting, but at an impossibly odd angle. Or had really awkward, short arms. It's hard to paint the picture, but ya know what I means.

The guy in the shot swayed any curious naysayers, 'cause who would be taking photos of a guy staring lovingly at his own weiner? Not I, I say!

I find it really interesting to think about that very guy somehow stumbling on this blog, only to see a photo of himself just chilling out, drinking an iced mocha latte, minding his own business. It's not like he's just in the background, or accidently walked across the shot, and is now invariably just kinda visible, but he's right there. The dude is nearly the Goddamn focus point. I think it would be creepy, confusing and kinda unnerving to go through that scenario. But still, very interesting, indeed. Here's to you, Weiner Guy.

There's even an outdoor patio, where you can snag your sweet nicotine fix in 115 degree weather. Probably best for the colder months.

Man, just take a look at this bad bitch:

I have no idea why, but I'm totally ghey for iced lattes right now. Sure, I once went down the dark, "caramel machiatto" pathway, and swore I wouldn't tread those waters again. But I feel this to be different. It's sweetened, yes, but only by milk, as opposed to cream, syrup, sugar, spoonfuls of diabetes, etc. There's logic and reasoning in there somewhere, I swear. Plus, the color is just really appealing, in a brown, dirty water kinda way.

Like everything in life, coffee and beer (I'm gettin' there, I'm gettin' there) there's always a ying and yang to pleasure. I think if I drink too much coffee, my brain feels super insane for a good hour, then take a huge divebomb into depression. Nothing I wouldn't kill myself over, but I feel nervous, odd and perpetually ready to do everything in my power to not feel like that. Which includes drinking more coffee and boy howdy! That never works out the way I want to.

There must be something to say about smashing on a drink that'll get you jittery and focused, and going nuts on another that'll slow you down and make you dizzy. But what can I say? I love me some beer. Hey, I'm a man of many brain altering substances. Watch:

I've mentioned Four Peaks before, one of my favorite restaurants, hangouts and local brewery, supplying this great town with delicious, delicious beer. Kiltlifter is classic, but Sunbru is magical. Ah, not really. It's decent. Why must I build things up like that?

I never really drink canned beer, it just seems cheap and kind of gross, like all I can taste is the tin can. It's made of tin, right? Aluminum? Either way, I kinda expected bottles, but ended up with cans. I should have realized this upon purchase, 'cause the box is super tiny. And perfectly rectangular and cute. So gonna use this as a fort for Mumm-Ra and Nien Nunb. They're best friends, you know.

Overall, good stuff. I guess I kinda do like canned beer, 'cause it makes me think I'm, like, a tough guy. Who works on cars and lifts weights. To justify this as a "review," really, the beer is quite tasty. Kinda light, almost like a Peroni but zero skunk. It also has a stylized, original name spelling which is confusing while charming. I would have gone with "Sunbrooo," with an image of a ghost at a bar eating peanuts, but that's just me. Copyright laws might be infringed, 'cause I'd really want it to be one of the ghosts from Pac-Man. It's my way or the highway.

Rock and roll!

DeFalco's! (Food Content Fuck Yeah)

Defalco's!

A couple weeks ago, my sister told me about this place. She painted me pictures of authentic, Italian dishes, rivers of delicious wine and a cramped, almost annoying sitting arrangement. Supposedly, the place doubles as a restaurant and grocery store, letting you sit and eat amongst everything they cook and sell. They have take-out, too, in case you don't feel like dining in a small corner of a deli. But in a small corner of your apartment. Let's do this thang!

The place is absolutely stuffed with food, wine, sweets, beer, etc. It's my favorite kind of atmosphere, with so much to look at you almost feel sick. You can spend a hefty amount of time just browsing the aisles, which is great for someone like me, 'cause I was not about to leave this place without a souvenir. Ahh, I'm getting stoked!

Ahh, sugar. From what I saw, there was a lot of desserts, ingredients to make desserts, desserts desserts desserts. Such a marvelous sight! I haven't even ordered yet and I'm being bombarded by Italian candy and chocolates straight outta Rome. So far, so good.

PS -- I'm totally not opposed to eating those plain, unfilled cannoli shells.

Food wise? They got's it all. Everything from giant slabs of lasagna to just ordering a big plate of olives, you've got a pretty good selection. I pussed out and ended up ordering a white pizza, and it was really good. I'm all about the white pizzas these days (no sauce, mainly cheese/toppings) I choose this path because, obviously, it's delicious, but probably because I've been sucking down tomato sauce on my pizza for the last twenty years. I'm sure a lack of variety has swayed my opinion over time. I won't dwell too hard on it, though. Overall...good stuff! Way good. DeFalco's, you win this round.

Oh, and for some reason, I'm unable to snag the proof off of my phone (the photos either disappeared or won't upload) so you're gonna have to take my word on this. It was a decent sized pie, with a nice, golden crust, surrounded by crisp dollar bills and served by a naked midget.

The beer runs freely! Actually, the entire deal is pretty expensive, but since we're in a family-friendly environment, I'll let it pass. The cashier made sure to let me know that two beers equals the same amount as a six pack, though, giving me the option to walk away from the counter looking like an alcoholic, or the classic "80's party guy." Ya know, minus the lampshade on my head and a pool ring around my waist. I chose this option, and while I did become nine dollars poorer, I also became six beers drunkeyer.

Since you're basically sitting among shelves of food, you might be next to the shelves of wine. This sight, while drinking, will actually fuel your party-mode. I've noticed this effect, 'cause as soon as my glass is empty, I demand it to be full. I think the wine is sending off vibes. Party-mode vibes.

The bathroom is...well, a bathroom. I've been so accustomed to the worst bathrooms ever established, so anything that isn't a brick wall or a shit covered toilet, without a door, in a crowded venue full of other people who also wanna use that very same shit covered toilet. So in comparison, this bathroom, with it's red walls and multiple posters of the Rat Pack adorning said walls (unseen at the moment) equates to the greatest bathroom I've ever been in. I'm privileged to have been in there.

Coincendentally, the dark, red walls make me feel like I'm using either a mobster's private crapper, or I'm in the VIP section of a very important club. I feel the owner has dreadlocks, smokes a lot and deals in the business of drugs. I'm thinking cocaine. I'm thinking I watch too many movies.

I guess that's about it! Pretty rad place, I'm definitely going back. I saw some coffee machines in the back that were pretty reminiscent of the ones I saw in Italy, so I'm thinking I may finally get my precious "un cafe" here in the states. Which is, like, a tiny cup of frothy espresso. Or something. I really feel like a badass drinking that stuff.

Rock and roll!

COOKIES AND NOTEBOOKS.

Riding the coattails of my last blog, I offer you two things that don't quite belong together. I'd offer you one giant thing, with lots of writing and fun, but it's getting harder to talk about anything worth more than a few paragraphs. Right now I wanna mention this really great cookie I like to put into my mouth, and when a quick and easy picture is essentially all you need to explain it and more, my job becomes a struggle.

Yeah, it's easier to form two dumb ideas into one dumb blog, but I think I have something pretty spectacular locked down for next week's entry, though, so hang in there...I won't disappoint. From what my booze-brain remembers, as well as a catalog of photos on my phone from the night in question tells me, I had a good time. And in written form, one week from now...so shall you. Rejoice! Down to business:

I'm not a huge sweets eater. To be more accurate, I'm not a huge sweets eater around every other week or so. My undeniable hunger comes in random waves, creating a solid, seven days of sinful, bloated binging, followed by seven days of pain, whimpering and denial. I think I've always been this way, but just now recognize the patterns in my madness. I swear, I can go months with being absolutely turned off by the idea of eating birthday cake, then go through a stage of eating Almond Joys and Swedish Fish until I wanna puke and die.

So...I found these.

"Delicious Caramel Bites!" These were found at Trader Joe's, an organic grocery store, for those that aren't in the know. I like going there because it eases the pressures and pain of eating like a pig. With a big ol' "ORGANIC" sticker slapped on to my food, I feel like I can eat more of it, and not feel as nearly as guilty. Instead of one pizza, I will now eat two organic pizzas. Don't deny the logic!

They look like circular waffle cones, too, which is a major plus. Man, I bet these would taste great with ice cream. And two pizzas! Okay, okay...two organic pizzas.

They're good. Like, really good. They're caramel based, but not too sweet, giving you the brash notion of just outright eating the entire Goddamn bag right then and there. No pain, no gain. I did everything in my power to hold off until I finished taking these pictures. As soon as I was done, I devoured them. Angrily. And with power. I am a slave to the cookie.

Yeah, check 'em out. So, moving on...

Sometimes I forget that I only wear black jeans. Not out of any kind of gimmick or denial of anything that isn't dark and evil, but because I swear I look like an ass in blue Levi's. I feel like I'm out of my element, where I'm awkward and confusing to everyone around me, kinda like when you're buzzed in a crowded, sober room and trying to hide it from everyone. You end up looking even worse than you actually are, and are soon labeled an alcoholic. And so is life.

Blue jeans really aren't that bad, they're just not my thing. Believe me, I grew up wearing 'em with my Chucks, leather jacket and ridiculously long hair. In high school, trying to look like Johnny Ramone isn't the most attractive thing to girls, and is probably what contributed to my growing, social retardation. What, you had friends in high school? Fah!

Anyway, I was in a Levi's store recently. I think they're a pretty legit brand of pants, even though my body has been morphed into a size that can't be categorized or numbered. I'm in between the inbetween. I swear I used to be a regular fit, 30 waist/32 length, but with the advent of "skinny" jeans, it seems that sizes are all over the place these days, different from what they once were. Or at least that's my theory. Might be all the cookies turning my body into unshaped, confused goo. Fuck.

Jeans, check. Something stupid? Check below!

These are really neat. Stored right in my face at the checkout counter, just beggin' to be thrown into the purchase. If you know anything about me, you'll know I love to impulse buy. Mint gum, keychains, candy bars, whatever's in my direct line of sight at the last possible second before I buy what I initially decided to spend money on, I'll give it a shot. A few months ago, I even bought a pack of baseball cards, just for the hell of it. I don't give a shit about baseball, unless you count drinking beer and eating hotdogs while watching baseball baseball. I will admit a fondness towards cards, trading cards, whatever cards, though. Obviously, it has that "collectible" nature, which I'm so into, and allows you to keep a giant, obstructive folder full of your paper treasures. Makes for a great coffee table book, as well as conversation!

In all fairness, the wrapper was really appealing and baseball cards smell good. So yeah. In the end, I think I looked at them for all of fifteen seconds, threw it in the backseat of my car and never spoke of it again. Oh, and when did baseball cards get so expensive? Why and how did I actually spend money on baseball cards? I hate you, me.

Sweet color combo. USA! USA! USA!

Labeled with, "Notes Along the Road," I've become intrigued. Interested. Excited! Anything that brings me closer to emulating Indiana Jones' way of life is alright with me. A few "field notes" for treasure hunting, jungle wandering and grocery listing will do the trick just nicely. I'll probably keep one in the front pocket of my shirt, maybe for lyrics, ideas, whatever. I could end up drawing sexually charged images of Ms. Pac-Man all day for all anyone cares, it doesn't matter...'cause I'm a badass with a miniature notepad.

In the end, I'm satisfied. As a sidenote, the dude ringing me up even told me that I was the first person to buy the damn things. Not shocking in the least. Yeah, I'm in a clothing store buying memo books. What do you want from me?

Rock!

Lebanese Beer and Jurrassic Park.

I kinda wanna rush this through, 'cause I haven't posted in forever. I'm feeling kinda guilty. I wanna keep my blogging skills keen, my typing abilities sharp, and I still wanna make sure people know I'm alive, doing well and absolutely preoccupied by the dumbest things, even though ninety-percent of the comments are futuristic looking spam. It's all squares, dots and thoughtful/eerie sayings. Does this mean I'm gonna die in seven days?

So with that...I've got nothing. Well, sorta. I have a few pictures on my phone, either intended to use for another article I haven't got around to, or just plain 'cause. No, no dong shots or heroin pics will be popping up shortly, just beer and toys. Hey, I can do that. Whip up a few paragraphs and yeah-there-ya-go. I think that'll work. I know this will work. Story time:

For the last couple of summers now, the extended Calabrese Family will make it's yearly hike to the grand landscape of Southern California, trekking across the familiar sites of dirty beaches, Medieval Times Fun Times Explosions, greasy restaraunts and yes, Disneyland. We shed our badass exterior in favor of shorts and flip-flops. Leather jackets are gone, sunscreen is in. Ah, the non-greasy kind. I hate the greasy kind.

You'd be interested to see the Calabrese Brothers looking like dorks in the happiest place on Earth, but we're so surrounded by various wives, nieces, friends, in-laws and the stench of a thousand churro stands you'd hardly even notice us. Besides, I usually just end up wearing a mask. Of a gorilla. In a top hat.

When not being burnt alive under the sun during these family events, I like to spend a lot of my time in the hotel room. I love hotel rooms, and will boldly proclaim that the hotel room is just as important as the vacation itself. When I was younger and on vacation with my parents, my main goal was to watch as much HBO as possible, devouring the worst/current films available at the time. I'd gladly fake an illness to skip out on Gettysburg to skip in to a delicious marathon of film. When you don't have it growing up (okay, I still don't have it as an adult) it pretty much becomes the channel of legends. An area of TV cyberspace that is only reserved for the few and privileged. Plus, I was absolutely certain I'd be seeing a lot of female nudity. You know how that goes.

Overall, it was an innocent goal, not at all similiar to my modern day "hotel room-must do list." Which, ranking numero uno, is to get drunk. Stinky, filthy drunk. Yes, I will watch movies only granted to those with enough money to actually wanna watch True Blood forty times a day, and I will shower freely, eat Twizzlers in bed and secretly wish I could get room service. Like, for free. But what I must do, without fail, is to get loaded. It's not as if the hotel room experience just simply elevates your buzz to a whole new level, it merely...adds to it. Unless you're a rockstar or a millionaire, most of the time you're in a hotel is during out of state vacations. Who doesn't like drinking on their vacations?

Almazo beer is a beverage I found at the nearest liquor store. Compared to glass rifle full of booze, this is neither exciting nor pretty. But it's from...Lebanon! That's kinda cool, right? I like to entertain the idea that eventually, I will be smashed on every beer from every country in the world. Personally, I'd like the be in that country I'm drinking the beer from, but I'm not sure Calabrese will be touring Lebanon anytime soon. I will cross my fingers we shall see yes.

Oh, and the beer was good. I classify this under the "tastes like Heineken" category, which shits all over my ability to review beer. I have a few more go-to blurbs, so I kinda have a legitimate system going. It's either "tastes like Heineken," "better than Budweiser" or, "it's like I'm drinking a fucking wedding cake." We all ended up raging 'til three in the morning, as it always seems to happen. Some bailed, some barfed, the rest stayed the course.

Okay, what's this?

For reasons I'm too lazy to deny, I was in a Toys R Us recently. Jurrassic Park crap was being sold. Did we time-travel back into the mid-90's? Are these leftovers from over fifteen years ago? No, Jurrassic Park toys are, in fact, being sold right now in 2010...for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Do I care? Not exactly, but I guess I did end up buying a "Dino Tracker," complete with nameless-guy and mini-dinosaur, so maybe I do care a smidge. 7 dollars worth of smidge, actually. But I was, and still am, a huge fan of the movies. Well, the movie. I can deal without the sequels, and prefer thinking that they don't even exist. But I still have that love for the film and anything involved around it. I'm lying when I say I care about dinosaurs, because I don't. I couldn't care less. The movies are great because you get to see them chomping people up and spitting poison goo into a fat guy's mouth hole. Granted, they are giant monsters that once roamed the Earth a super-fucking long time ago, and admittedly, that's pretty neat. If any of them had creepy hair covering their body, giant spikes coming out of their hands or multiple eyes smashed into their face...tickle me pink, I'd be a fan for life. But overall, I'm more of an observer, a sideline critic that will occasionally pound the table to make my glass of water do that ripple-effect thing, always check electric fences and be absolutely terrified of Sam Jackson's bloody limb gripping my shoulder.

The closest I come to just barely caring about dinos is when I, from time to time, casually dream of what it's like to own one, or how awesome it would be to punch a T-rex right in their scaley face. I imagine it to be pretty awesome. If you say anything about it being "epic," I'll punch you in the face. Fuckin' hate that word right now.

Opened, posed, stashed in the closet. I like it. I mean, it's not too hard to muster up any kind of love when you're offered the fantasy of wranglin' up a crazy, froth-mouthed dino. It's kind of like punching, but in claw form. A claw that's pretty much the size of you. I'll agree with this. All of this.

Beer and toys yeah!

Back East Bagels!

Food is awesome. I love food.

It would be rad to eat a live octopus in Japan, a still-beating cobra heart (saw it on Anthony Bourdain!) or the hottest peppers known to man. I wanna try everything I can at least once, even if it causes a slight headache or massive stomach pains. I wanna sample the food and wine of every country, I wanna eat the sick shit, I wanna be the sick shit. Because food is important. Food is delicious, entertaining and demanding. It's a carnal pleasure, a simple yet required activity. An absolute must. So why not make it fun?

Am I gonna review something kick-ass? Did I just stuff a kabob full of barbequed shark into my mouth? Not really. I went to a bagel shop recently, they had good bagels and coffee, and that's about it. Stay with me, folks!

There's a few cafe and coffee shops around, so I like to take advantage of one when I can. There's always Starbucks, gas stations with stale coffee littering every corner and a few hidden gems, independently owned and operated. I'm not living in a giant mecca of amazing food, but I am living in an area that has some decent stuff. Plus, I'm finding that reviewing food is so very easy. If I'm gonna make my goal of "one blog a week," I better find something quick and simple. Next topic: drinking Lebanese beer and watching bad movies on HBO in a dirty hotel room. True story.

I heard about this place from a friend, and I'm always one to scope anything out involving...well, coffee. I got a coffee cup to go, and loaded it down with some kinda hazelnut-vanilla-kinda brew, and it was great. For some reason, it reminded me of summers during high school, where I'd stock up on at the local Circle K coffee, head out to the skate park and shred it up. I'd then spend hours and hours playing video games at home after realizing that hot cement will burn through your Vans in under twenty minutes. Summers suck.

They also have a ton of bagels (yeah, duh) that range from being covered in varying flavors of cream cheese to breakfast-food-loaded bagels, with meats and eggs and cheese. Everything I ordered over three visits was pretty good, so it's safe bet that, food wise, this place will be up your alley in some way. I'm not from the east coast, so I can't comment on whether or not these are truly "back east bagels," but we recently played shows in Jersey and New York, so I guess I feel I have a bit of an opinion. My opinion is unwarranted and doesn't make sense (all I ate on tour was Wheat Thins and peanut butter and jelly) but I'll say it's like being back at home. Ahh, the delicious bagels of nonexistant, made-up home.

I might have to score the whole experience a little lower than I want to, since it seems to close pretty early. I had to make the walk of shame one afternoon, after demanding a hot, burning liquid be entered into my body. I did that thing where you walk up to the door slowly, making sure to look like you think it's open, but just to be safe, making it look like you're still curious about it's store hours. Just so you won't have someone passing by see you tug on the door handle like the only thing in the world that mattered to you was a bagel lathered in fish. The thought of someone thinking, "HEY! He thought it was open but it was really closed he fucked up ha ha ha!" is not only mentally shattering, but completely asinine and insignificant. These are the things that haunt me.

I wish I got more pictures, but I'm finding it harder and harder to publicly take photos of the stupidest things. I think I need a giant "PRESS" laminate draped around my neck to overcome my shameful relucatance. Or balls. Yeah, it would be nice to have some balls.

Overall...B+!

OUTTAKES 2.0!

Oh, man. I love this kind of blog entry. Where I rely heavily on pictures and only a small sprinkling of fluff-filled sentences, just to even it all out. A few entries back, I posted a sampling of unused promo photos, taken from our first shoot for the new album. Mainly consisting of dusty backdrops and squinty-eyed, off-in-the-distance type staring.

A few entries before that, I uploaded enough live shots to kill my computer and yours. Just 'cause. What I'm trying to say is that I'm gonna post more photos. Like, right now. Like, right now right now.

So. It's been an outlandish and lofty goal to transform myself into a superhero. Not literally (unless you know how to?) but more so in picture form. In rock and roll form. Obviously, a comic book (coming soon!) and a grip of action figures (got ten grand I can borrow?) would shoot this notion into a legitimate reality (there are way too many parenthesis for one paragraph in this paragraph) but my current pathway is a simpler pathway:

To become a superhero...I must look like one.

Our buddy, Andy Hartmark, took these shots. We wanted something very comic booky, with huge emphasis on looking like the Avengers with instruments. For our next shoot, I'm demanding even more of this, with possible kung-fu moves and high-flying karate chops thrown in the mix. I'm kinda on a Bruce Lee kick right now. Let that be known.

I will admit, there's nothing too different or crazy from the original set we chose, but I'm running low on blog updates and I really want more of myself plastered on a site dedicated to myself. You love it!

Enjoy!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!

CALABRESE - Believe in Rock and Roll!