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!