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!

BREAKFAST RULES.

I love breakfast. Not only is it the most important, but it's the most delicious meal of the day. Despite rumors and misconceptions, I really do like mornings. And by that, really, I mean I like the morning on my own terms. If I'm told to wake up at 7:00 AM, fuck no, I hate you and the morning. You can go die for all I care. If I wanna wake up at 7:00 AM, I love the crisp, clear air, the shining, energizing sun and the breakfast buffet of all things hearty and healthy.

Well, sorta.

It's hard to justify why eating greasy crud after waking up can be a good thing, but that's neither here nor there. Why do people eat biscuits and gravy (Goddamn gravy!) in the morning? I'm really not sure, but I'll lend my intellect for the cause: the protein. It's great protein, what with all those eggs and meats and what-have-you. And yes, this is my main, go-to stock answer to eating badly. Why am I shoving BBQ brisket into my mouth like it's the key to eternal youth? Why am I beating a four pound burger and fries into my face like it owes me money? FOR THE PROTEIN.

So.

Have you heard of Harlow's Cafe in Tempe, AZ? I have. Ever since hearing of Harlow's Cafe in Tempe, AZ I've been craving it, wanting it...being an exclusive, breakfast only diner, I knew I had to go. Now I just had to make sure I was up, showered and human looking before noon. Well, 2:00PM. Let's not split hairs here.

So I made the trek over to Harlow's, hell-bent on getting my fix. C'mon, I know you're intrigued! Read on, baby birds, I'll feed ya.

The place itself is kind of like a mixture between an old, 70's diner and a woodsy lodge, or like a backroom to an even better restaurant. It's covered in photos of ancient celebrities, giving it a Hollywood/cinema type theme, with extra, random-yet-fun shit thrown in for spice.

The place reminds me of the diner in Twin Peaks. At least that's what I'm pretending it reminds me of. It's something I've been wanting since I've seen Twin Peaks, so if I can eat pie and drink coffee in the most Agent Cooper way imaginable, I will be a happy man. 'Cause I like coffee and pie, too. Oh, and Twin Peaks! I like Twin Peaks. Did I mention that already?

I really kinda wish I snapped more photos, but it's always hard to try to make it look like you're not taking pictures, while taking pictures. If I'm outright with it, I can maybe come across as someone of importance, someone who's just dripping with bravado and confidence. If not, I look like an asshole taking creepy, unwanted shots of the guy in the back booth eating bacon. Hey, in my defense, it would have been a really cool photo. The dude had a killer mustache.

I ended up with a plate full of chorizo. I'm slowly gettin into the Mexican-styled breakfasts these days, probably since it's so easily accessible over here in Arizona, and so veryvery filling. Maybe I'm just burnt out on waffles and pancakes, ya never know. But it came with a nice helping of warm tortillas, further proving my ignorance when near the end of the meal, I realized they even existed, tucked away in bundle of tin foil.

I was never totally sure what "chorizo" was, but over time, I've come to realize that it's delicious. Turns out it's meat. Spicy meat. Or something. You expect me to know what I put into my body? Fah!

Overall, me like.

Oh! The coffee! How can I not mention the coffee? Well, it was good. Enjoyable, actually. But to be honest, I've never been too picky of a coffee drinker. Truck stop brew is good, local gas stations aren't always the best (but acceptable) and Dunkin Donuts is liquid gold. I'll even say that I like Denny's and IHOP's coffee, but I'm thinking that I can absolutely like any coffee that comes in an off-white mug. It somehow fools me into thinking it's a delicious, unstoppable force that keeps getting filled despite by upset stomach and sweaty face. I need it, I crave it, I AM COFFEE.

You'd think, after tasting and experiencing fine, Italian coffee, while in Italy, I'd mature my tastes into a more sophisticated, adult palate...but no. I sucks.

Also, the wait staff is hot. They seriously must hire only attractive women to run the joint. This is a bit disconcerning, yet simultaneously applaudible. I'm at a moral crossroads here. Really, I am.

I give Harlow's a sexy, sexy B++.

KAMEN RIDERS!

I make it no secret that my tastes can sometimes border on ridiculous. Avant garde, I like to say. Of course, it's hard to keep something secret when you blast your weekly travels across the realm of the interwebs, but I at least make an attempt. Well, not really. But you know what I mean.

It's been a long tradition of mine to buy something. Anything. A piece of nothingness that will further my descent into hording and knick-knackery. I'd totally start labeling me diseased and weak minded, but I have some sorta boundaries to control myself -- anything that's cool. Maybe something I can fit in my palm. Collectable. Whether it be miniature, Animal Crossing cell phone accessories or a pile of baseball cards I have zero interest in whatsoever, I'll pick it up. I'll happily throw it into my life and then unhappily realize the uselessness of my purchase at a later, awkward time. What would I ever do with baseball cards? What could I do? Pretend they were Pokemon cards?! That just ain't right.

So one lazy Saturday, I stumbled into a Toys R Us. It's not unusual, and by no means shocking to anyone close in my life, to be galavanting in a department store meant for proud parents and 3rd graders. It's like the family not-so-secret, the sweaty, unshaven uncle who's always drunk, but hey, that's our Uncle Bob! Just replace booze binging with an addiction to make my desk, dusty shelves and coffee table look damn cool. Less terrible of an affliction, overall, but Goddamn you'll have a hard time making room for your ice cold beverages. Keep 'em close to you, and don't spill on the carpet. I hate that.

While making my nightly tumble into another game of Let's Throw Away My Money, I found something to throw away my money on:

Kamen Riders, from BANDAI. Not totally sure when this started existing, but I can get into it. BANDAI always has some pretty neat stuff, even though I never understand what I'm liking. I found them in the clearance aisle, behind the wall of WWE figures that no one ever buys (when the"F" in "WWF" took a hike, so did I) and the curtain of Star Wars swag. I willingly breeze by it these days, knowing full well that I don't need another Max Reebo, or the nondescript, plain looking guy running around in the background on Cloud City. Yeah, that guy. He's got his own action figure. Fuckin' weird.

I got two. Might as well, since I'm stepping up and braving the task of purchasing toys from the young, attractive chick working the cashier. I find it always helps to ask for a gift receipt. It insinuates that you're buying for another (your nephew, buddy's kid's b-day) and that you aren't a grown man buying robots at night. Always seems creepier to be in there late at night. Just screams, "I'm not wearing any underwear under these sweatpants." Oh well. Made my way out unscathed and here we go.

Story goes, these are warriors from Ventara, a parallel dimension from Earth, which you can access from the other side of any mirror. Their world, fabulous Ventara, is full of Advent Decks, the prime source behind a Kamen Warrior's abilities. Which is paying rent on time, or jumping really really high in the air. You choose!

But hey, the evil General Xaviax stole their Advent Decks. Now they're screwed. Except these Kamen Riders? Absolutely unfuckwithable. Somehow, some way, they've got their Decks intact, ready to elbow drop and katana slice their way to the top.

Man, all this typing of "Kamen" makes me think I'm really saying, "common." Or a slurred, drunk and horny version of, "come on." You choose!

"Blank Knight," on the left, looks like a fencing badass, if fencing were at all cool, and "Wing Knight," reminds me how well blue suits a coat of armor. It's intimidating, yet calming. The perfect match in a deadly battle of robotical nature and giant swords...which each figure comes with yay!

I really dig it! It's been a slow moving goal to amass an army of rad looking robots (anything authentic Japanese, really) so this helps. I think I'm now up to...four. Not counting any Transformers and only counting this huge, clunky plastic thing resembling a Gundamy Wing thing I got at the dollar store...it drops it down to one. One that doesn't even count, but it'll have to do. Clearly a Power Rangers meets any-fighting-robot-ever rip, but fun, nonetheless. It was discounted, easily fits into my life, and will soon fit into yours. And soon as you just let it into your heart. B+

So I'm gonna try to sneak in another post before I disappear into the cold, dark streets of Europe, so check back in a few days. After over sixty hours of flying, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna wanna hide in my cave when I get back, next to the warm glow of candlelight, shaking convulsively, sobbing ever so softly. Uh. What?

So tell your friends. And party hard!

Dreams Really Do Come True -- I Got a Castle Greyskull.

There's a few things everyone wants out of life. Maybe a real classy car. A jetpack. Hell, maybe even a million bucks wrapped around bars of gold like bacon. Me? I'll take any three of those, actually. But I'll have to settle for what's a tad bit lower on the list. And, you know, actually affordable. And plausible.

I got a Castle Greyskull that's cool too yeah!

I can't claim to be a kid of the 80's. The closest I came was at least being able to register my own existance in '89, allowing everything before that time to come in as hallucinogenic, dreamlike visions and confusing, life-defining moments. No, I'm not working up the courage to admit to being touched, but giving you all the sense that my mind has been warped and shaped by the stupidest, most inane shit. I can still remember getting the Max Rebo Band playset, complete with big, blue Rebo himself, and a hippo playing a flute, for one of my earliest birthdays. I'm still weirded out by my older brother's D&D toys and "Choose Your Own Adventure" books, all these years later. Something affected me at a young age. I'm gonna blame it on the constant flow of amazing yet oddly mature toys for young kids. I can't tell what's going on today with the youngsters, but it semmed that back then, everything was either based in talking skeletons to witches with giant swords to twelve year old spies shooting commies in the face.



I picked this up at a local, secure location I'm not yet sure I want to reveal. Whereabouts unknown kinda stuff, ya know? But the place in question doubles as a comic book shop and a yardsale, specializing in loose, superhero action figures and everything else a 4 year old boy would go nuts over. My kinda place, really. I'm sure you could find this magical hole-in-the-wall-treasure trove if you really cared, but that would require caring.

I usually end up with superhero junk and all that I can be tempted with that's buried in the glass case near the register. It's mostly anything old-school WWF or outright bug-like. Big, insectoidd eyes and those gross, feeler things are a plus. I do appreciate the bagging technique, though (all your purchases are thrown in either a used Target or random grocery bag) giving you the perfect camouflage to resume the day in un-embarrassed peace. Nerdcrap is a whole lot less stressful to deal with when it's hidden behind a disguise of normal consumerism. Don't worry, ladies! I was only shopping at Sharper Image! Or the weight lifting store! You may now resume loving me.

But this time! This time...I struck gold. Plastic gold.

I fondly remember waging battle upon battle inside these walls. It was never any He-Man figures doing the damage, it was usually GI Joe or Robocop versus a GI Joe. Robocop would always win, due to his exterior being made of metal, but maybe it was because I just favor shiny things. Either way, the Greyskull was Jimmy's. At least I think so. And at least I think he even owned one. It may have very well been a knock-off, or a chapter in one of my complete, dillusional and made up childhood memories. Which is possible, because as time goes by, I think I'm slowly starting to create my own backstory. I figure I might as well start making up some good shit then.

But either way, I still like to think fondly of this beast, or at least I like to think that I thank fondly of it. Thunked? Thankeded?

And the reason a Rancor sits atop the highest peak of Greyskull is a simple one -- because it looks cool. I totally picked that up, too, at the Mysterious Shop of Shame. Davey was over, decided it must be done, did it, and there ya go. The most sexy thing you've ever seen. It's just so beautiful. Tears of love.

I also picked up a crapload of figures! I finally got Hordak (yes!) and most of the Horde, including Captain SuckMouth, shown above. I'd picture them all, but I fear a complete blog implosion when the allowed, free bandwith runs thin. I've gotta be choosey when it comes to posting pictures. And I choose to showcase Captain SuckMouth. Captain SuckMouth, meet your destiny.

Best thing about having a blog? You can end it whenever you want!

Later, guys!

Oh, and check out the latest installment of Davey's late night, video-editing obsessions:

If you like straightforward, in your face Calabrese propaganda...you're gonna love this!;)

Tiger Beer! Devilman! AND MORE!

Yes! One of my favorite pastimes can easily be chalked up to drinking new beer. It's probably the worst things to get into when, down the line, you're pretty sure you don't want to look like a pregnant man.

I found this particular libation while checking out an asian supermarket, either looking for Japanese cigarettes or really cool toy robots on a really boring Saturday night. It's been an obsession of mine to smoke what Guitar Wolf smokes, and to litter my place with authentic, straight-outta-Japan goodies. I've found neither in the course of manymany years, but I'm still holding out for that one, big jackpot of pants-wetting fun. I think it's kinda illegal to sell the smokes, and the general, Phoenix area doesn't quite feel the need to run a Robotech ring, hocking robo-dolls and boxes full of Gundams. Ooo, I shoulda went with, "run a Gundam Wing Ring." Woulda been more fun, and kinda cute. Eghh.

One of these days, my luck will turn. Because I know you're out there, Asian Store That Sells Cool Japanese Shit. I just know. Until then...I choose you, Tiger beer.

I can pretty much get down with anything, save for chocolate beers and coffee beers and anything that's added to beer to kinda dillute the taste of beer. Oh, and the cheap shit. I've said it before and I'll say it again -- if I'm gonna desecrate and destroy the insides of my body, it's gonna be going down with quality.

This ain't cheap. Well, it's probably piss over in it's native land, but what can you do? I think this is about eight bucks and isn't Milwaukee's Best. We've got ourselves a winner! So anyways, this is from Singapore, is a pale lager and comes in pretty bottle with a cool Tiger logo. I really hate to say I'm prejudiced, and just bound to enjoy this, simply based on the fact that it's called Tiger beer, as if an unpronouncable, German brand is less superior to that of a drink named after a giant, orange cat. But I'm a simple man, with simple tastes. I also like to think this is alcoholic tiger-blood. What? You don't?

The taste? Ah, the taste. In past posts, I've tried to describe beers before, and it never really works out in any way I'd hope for. I'm terrible at it. My go-to buzz words/phrases are always "nutty," "golden brown perfection" and "I got nasty fucked up on this one." I'm not gonna win any awards, I know, but I still like to take a small, tiny amount of pride in my work. I could compare it to other beers, but that's kinda like cheating, and sometimes even more confusing. Say I compare it to...oh...Guiness, but you've never had Guiness. We're back to square one, daydreaming about tigers and stuffs.

I say go for it. It's pretty delicious, light on yer guts and will help strike up any mild conversation with the domestic drinkers and annoyingly curious.

This kinda fits in with the theme:

During our two week, east-coast rock and roll stint a month back, we played the HorrorHound convention in Indianapolis. Mainly, we hung out at our merch table and sold our shit for an entire day (yes!) and had an opportunity to stare at hundreds of things we could have easily spent hundreds of dollars on (yes!) I made it my goal to at least get something, and I decided on that. A Devilman bottle opener.

Between Danzig and White Zombie's fascination with Devilman and my always growing fascination anything super-Satanic, I knew I had to have this. Maybe it just emanated off of me, 'cause as soon as I asked the lady behind her booth, "how much for this badda boy?" she replied, "Ehh, just take it." Christmas miracle in March. Good thing, 'cause it turns out it was fifteen bucks. I'd probably end up buying it, anways, but I'm jus' sayin' -- I really want you to know I've got my priorities straight.

I still have no idea who or what a Devilman is or does (besides looking so cool) but it does what it ultimately promises...which is to open beer bottles while emitting a loud, screeching wail. Yeah, Devilman screams when you pop the top off a cold, frosty one.

As a sidenote, and ultimately some great filler, I remember the day of the event, we decided to stop at the diner across the way. It had been a few days since we actually had any solid, warm food, so it was a welcome site. It was one of those places kinda like Denny's fused with an IHOP, with no actual direction in decor. Felt like you were in someone's empty furniture store, that kept the rug on, the chairs up and served you greasy food. I dunno, it was weird. And that feeling absolutely turned into pain, when soon after eating only a few bites of my BLT, I realized it was gonna be one of those nights.

The thing is, touring in a band and playing shows is absolutely the greatest and the worst thing you can do. Everything outside of being at the show, and actually playing that show can be a wild pain in the ass. Seeing the world is great, sleeping in a van can be fun, whatever. My main enemy, my arch-nemesis in the world of touring...is the bathroom. The Goddamn restroom. The toilet. The shitter! Well, more specifically, a dirty bathroom. Hell, no bathroom is a bigger problem. If the place just ain't outta toilet paper, the place simply doesn't exist. A double edged sword, except one side of the sword is a bit longer and sharper, 'cause you're crapping behind a dumpster. Put that in your pocket. So it's always a gamble, from venue to venue, to find a decent, private and moderately clean bathroom. It's unnerving, painfully stressful and yeah, the Goddamn worst subject matter to be talking about on a widely accessible, easy to find blog on the internet. Cool!

So I'll wrap this up: basically, got kinda sick. Thank God, we played in a hotel with enough bathrooms to make a day out of testing each ones crap-ability. I base this out of toilet paper available, the seat's warmth and general feng shui of the room. The place was stocked up and ready for my hard-hitting, news editorial. So basically, don't go to that diner place in the same complex as that hotel. Or if anything, don't play a show directly afterwards. It's a matter of life and diharrea.

Laters!

Tale of Two Jawas.

Take a look at the above photo. What you see is my youth, in two, single Star Wars toys.

Recently, I've been hell-bent on collection as many vintage Star Wars toys as possible. To ease the quest's severity, I've decided to skip the vehicles, playsets and generally anything over the size of my index finger. Obviously, there's gonna be exceptions (see: rancors and wompas) But hey, I've got my limits. Gotta have limits.

One of the reasons I'm so into Star Wars is because of the huge impact it had on me growing up. The movies fused a subtle amount of horror, adventure and a weird, underlining creepiness that you can truly blame on life-like puppets and realistic masks. Something about it all, combined with a universe so vast and in-depth, really struck a nerve in Young Me. Don't even get me started on E.T.

Anyway, growing up, I essentially stole all of the coolest shit from my older brother, Jimmy. I begged for the current toys and I pilfered from a sibling's room. I had the best of two worlds, and nothing was gonna stop me from gaining access to the Treasures of the Universe. Which was any action figure made to have devil horns, a demon face or a skeleton head, really. Lots of the that stuff was flying around in the 80's.

So Star Wars. Had a lot of them toys, still do. It's like my comfort food, except you can replace deliciousness with hard plastic. Yes, I just admited to chewing on Uncle Owen's head to calm myself thank you very much. But that aside, I'll wholly admit to never truly understanding what the hell happened in any of the movies. I do know, jus' sayin', but yeah. As far as I was concerned, all three films were about snake-monsters and robo-men shooting (and missing) laser guns while flying huge, galaxy shattering space craft. It all went into my head, jumbled up to varying degrees, and made it's way into my young mind's conscious, allowing me to run the story to my understading. Things that were absolutely untrue were, well...truth.

Take that photo for example. I saw the movies countless times, I kinda new what was going on, right? Wrong. I really have no idea why I wanna blog about this, but hey, it's all I got. Plus, I, for some reason, just thought of this and was pretty amused at my Past Me:

You can blame the similiar outfits, but I really thought Obi-Wan was a taller Jawa. I thought he made it out of Jawa World a larger, more normal looking dude, while the rest of the pack was left behind in the dust and under three feet. I really thought they were connected somehow, as if the Jawas and Obi-Wan were best buds in the desert landscape of Tatooine. I really hoped they had a good relationship, kept in touch with eachother and worked out a pick-pocketing racket, with those nimble, delicate Jawa hands. I really do.

Man, I love Star Wars.

'Til next time!