Christmas Shopping RULES.

For the last several years, the Calabrese Clan have evolved their gift exchanging tactics into an easier, more efficient and less money-wasting way. With sisters, brothers, spouses, boyfriends and soon to be hated ex-girlfriends littering the general area under the Christmas tree, trying to buy everyone a suitable, unembarrasing gift would be similiar to lighting your wallet on fire then crying softly in the shower. Because you just lit your wallet on fire.

Way before, we had to individually buy for one another, including parents...so it kinda sucked. I don't think anyone walked away with anything they actually liked, because with so many people to buy for, everything given was usually from the Dollar Store or something you found tucked away in the darkest corner of your closet. Like a bundle of used paper, or a Garfield wristwatch from 1989.

So here we are now, new and improved, and we've been drawing eachother's names from a hat. Pretty much a Secret Santa kinda deal, minus anything secretive. Which, now that I think about it, is totally stupid. I like the secret part. I want the secret part. I need the secret part. I'm Facebooking my immediate family NOW.

Now, whoever gets me...their options for a present are endless and varying. I can find joy in pretty much anything, from a bag of walnuts to posters of tropical fish. If it ends with "tar wars" or "oney," your task is made that much more simpler.

Same goes with Jimmy or Davey, whom have the same tastes and desires to own anything monstrous or covered in ooze, and in the past, I've been lucky enough to grab their name out of the Christmas Santa Hat. This year, not so lucky.

I got my brother-in-law. The guy who's into political documentaries and obscure, European techno. Everyone has that person in their family, the guy who either has it all or is impossible to pin down what exactly they're into. European art-rock and a docu-dramas about how much everything sucks paints a broad, confusing picture as to what someone will be into. Is a Rolling Stones album too blase? Will a "Step Brothers" DVD be too juvenile? Should I set him up on a date with Michael Moore?

These were the questions running through my mind, these were the unanswered scenarios haunting my dreams, the pros and cons of every single gift ever, blaring through my heart and soul.

Actually, he's not that bad of a present receiver. I just have a terrible time figuring out what people like. Unless I've known you for twenty years, I still have to make educated guesses around the holidays. When getting presents for anyone in my family, you'd swear I was an orphan who's never met anyone outside a wild pack of dogs. In this situation, I'd be a cool street orphan, chimney sweep and all. This is my curse. My Curse of Being an Asshole.

I had to go out and just pick something, anything to wrap up and shove under the Christmas tree for the guy. Giftcards are always easy, but it just screams, "I really didn't try," and the ol' six-pack standby is both old and overused. I had to go to the mall, go to Target, go to the other stores surrounding the Target, just GO ANYWHERE AND PICK SOMETHING. Which I did.

But to keep my sanity while shopping, I did what anyone else would do in my situtaion -- completely ignore the task at hand and buy stuff for myself.

Yeah, I went out to a few stores, took a look around, did what I had to do. Along the way, I bought a lot of stuff for myself. I really feel like I've sinned against Lord Santa Claus. Sorry, man.

I recently went to a party that had a huge, immaculate setup of Italian fingerfoods - prosciutto, pasta, various cheeses, artichoke hearts and olives stuffed with jalapenos. Which I've fallen so in love with (is it even italian?) and have never forgotten since. Granted, the party was last weekend, but my memory has never been the greatest. While browsing around, I at least had enough brainpower to remember that I craved jalapeno olives and immediately needed to put them into my mouth. Yes, they were over five bucks and I completely regretted the purchase once I realized I coulda bought something better, like, I dunno...ice cream. Ice cream is so much better than olives.

So far, my only complaint is that they're wet. Like, totally covered in their pickled juice to warrant a happy face from me. I kinda like them dry, as if they've been sitting out for a while. Clearly, the only way to remedy this is to drink all the pickle liquid and throw the olives into some kitty litter.

This is awesome! When I first came across it, I tossed it aside like it was just another set of chattering teeth in baby-blue packaging, but before I could move on to bigger and better things, I realized that I just possessed a mini-box of chattering teeth. The most absurd, widely recognized gag gift that not one Goddamn person owns.

The general purpose of chattering teeth is above me, and is my belief that it's sole existance is to be the perfect movie prop for scenes involving pranksters, party animals and any wide, open shots of 1980's dorm rooms. It's as if just watching chattering teeth chatter in a film is good enough for us, prompting zero interest in ever owning a pair for yourself. Up until now, I would have sworn I owned some. Hell, with my shopping habits, a whole shoebox full. But no, I never have, but thanks to avoiding my X-mas duties...now I do!

I don't think anyone owns chattering teeth, and when they say they do, I dare them to produce some proof of their ownership. Finding 'em is above finding or owning a Slinky, and right under a pack of Silly String. It's somehow in that weird, gag-limbo of no where. Okay, you can definitely find it, and you can surely own it...but will you? NO. Because nobody gives a shit about creepy, chattering teeth. Case closed.

I didn't have to buy anything for Davey or Jimmy, but I ended up in a comic book shop. My bro-in-law is not really into comic books, but I felt that I should at least look around, rummage through the small confines of a room stacked with dusty toys and collectibles, and maybe something would pop up.

Naw, totally lying. I just really wanted to buy something rad.

The Resident Evil games have had a huge impact on my life, ranging from being the first "real" videogame I've played to the one video game that has granted me horrific nightmares and emotional stress. I remember even the most minute details, which still drive my imagination of terror and insanity, which, really, is just a fancy way of saying that it totally fucked me up.

I found this among the masses, and I love it. I have a few toys from the various series, and I love them as my own children. Best monster toys around.

They say the girl is named Ada Wong, and the Tree Thing is named Ivy. I have no idea who or what these characters are, 'cause I've only ever played the first game and just hobbled along through the second, only to realize I never wanted to play video games again. I was going through one of me phases, I think. The one where I wanted to avoid all females while building my room into a Hawaiian, tiki paradise. It was a personal life choice, I swear.

Her dress looks to be made of a red, felt material, so I'm dying to bust this out and have my way with it. I know that sounds gross, but I love this on toys. The only other example I can provide is the cape on the Emperor's Royal Guard, but that's good enough, because that thing is awesome. Have you seen his helmet? It really is awesome. And the thick pool cue resting nonchalantly on his shoulder? Even better.

All in all, a pretty great haul. I ended up getting my sister's husband the game of Scattergories, which doubles as a decent sized gift and something I'm gonna want to play as soon as he opens it. Christmas > everything.

Well, the big day is only a day away, so have fun! In the week to come, I'll either post my Christmas haul or thoughts on the current administration and general sociopolitics. Probably my Christmas haul.

Rock and roll!

People Send Me Things. I Like That.

It's near Christmastime, so I think this is a fitting idea to explore -- people buy me things, and I like that.

As I've mentioned in previous entries, being in a band has it's perks. No, we're not being fed drugs and whores...more along the lines of monster masks and anything you'd find in a third graders backpack.

People buy us things, send stuff to us, etc. And really, it's the ultimate compliment and good hearted gesture. It's hard to not sound like a douche when talking about all the wonderful, expensive things people throw our way, but I'm trying. Lots of handmade stuff, artwork inspired by our music (an amazing feeling, by the way) so on and so forth. And honestly, we still have everything anyone's ever given us -- each and every trinket to massive paperweight, from small to large, is put in our band room on one, magnificent shelf. We draw power from this shelf. This shelf is magical.

Now, we're loaded down with so many goodies for so many reasons at so many seemingly random times, but we really hit paydirt when one of our birthdays comes up. See how douchey this all sounds? Fuck.

Getting off track a bit, I love birthdays. This statement should and will be etched into my tombstone. Well, let me be more clear -- I love my birthday. So much that I demand a week before the date, as well as a week after the date of b-day inspired partying. If I'm not drinking and eating at fancy restaraunts and spending money I don't have on things I don't need, I'm not satisfied. I kinda take it to an extreme, but hey, we're all dead in 2012, right?

So birthdays and Christmas. How perfect? This blog entry is about the items that people have recently given me, simply because both Santa-Jesus and I were born. I finally got off my ass, snapped a few pics and set up an online shrine for the fine, fine people supporting me and not Calabrese. This is PART ONE of our journey (the second half will be out next week) of all the personal gifts solely to me. I'd spend the rest of my life if it was everything we ever got, so I had to narrow the playing field down a bit.

This is my ode to you, people -- FUCKING THANK YOU.

I know, it's supposed to be the season of giving...but ah, suck it. Gimme them presents.

This is from a Melissa Gonzalez, who has been feeding me with enough gifts and suprises over the last few months to make me feel like the Queen of Sheba. This is just a handful, but truly the best. Plus, I was uncertain as to how to successfully photograph anything more than booze coffee and bobbling Wolverines. It would just make the photo cluttered, and I really can't have that on my conscience.

Wolverine Bobblehead: This is cool. I know Wolverine's usual garb is a tank top and jeans, but I can't help shake the feeling he looks more like a wife slapping guido than a superpowered mutant. Either way, his head moves like he's in a Will Smith music video and he sits on top of my fridge. You really do need to know that.

Bobbleheads, really, are inherently fun. It's easy entertainment! No work on your part, save for a good table pounding or a sharp gust of breath. So make a fist, lay off the Pall Malls and have some fun.

Also:

Dollar Store "Wild West Action Figure": This will go nicely in my Castle Greyskull, combining the past with oiled up muscle men with really big swords. Also, it will fit quite well in my "Probably Offensive to Someone" pile.

Jack Daniel's Gourmet Coffee: I think she knows me too well. Like, seriously? Booze flavored? I don't know whether to jump for joy or puke in my mouth a little bit. It's all too much to handle, yet I'm no doubt going to try this. Lord help me from just enjoying the bags they come in, too. They just look...good. If anyone asks, I'm gonna say it's BBQ sauce and ketchup flavored coffee.

This was given to me by a young lad in San Marcos, CA. It was a pretty quick exchange that went something like this:

Dude: "Hey, man! You like Japanese stuff, right?"

Me: "Totally!"

Dude: "THIS IS YOURS NOW."

I'm a little reluctant to take anything that looks like I'll be brought down to the police station under charges of child porn, but hell, I'm a taker of presents. It's what I do.

This is cool, though, even if it's not under my usual umbrella of comfort. Truthfully, my mind was racing towards vintage robot toys from the 70's, not pink-haired, vixen statuettes usually reserved for innocent young girls into harmless manga and that other guy. You know that guy. He's the guy who's into Sailor Moon for all the wrong reasons. He's the guy who has a shelf full of pink-haired, half-naked female manga shit. I hate that guy and I hate all that shit!

In all fairness, I like it. See how fast I flip-flopped? Man, I'm good.

I'm not sure what this is or where it comes from, but it's Halloween flavored and the pentagrams and jack-o-lanterns fit my general world views. I also favor the box art of swirling colors and swishy designs. If you can't find peace in knowing that your action figures now have a wonderful backdrop for their prom night photo booth, you're better off dead.

This is an interesting one right here. People send me stuff for special occasions, yeah, but every now and then I'm offered a piece of material to be written and yammered about, specifically for this silly blog of mine. Well, it's only happened once. By a close family member. Case in point: my older sister.

I feel important, like I have a purpose now. I finally feel justified in owning this blog, in providing a closer look into everything and nothing. I feel all shimmery and bubbly now! The sun is out, my outlook is new and I'm now the prized owner of a postcard with three heads on it.

So she sent me a card from 1994, something she made sure to point out, and a quick blurb on how I should mention this gift of hers (a postcard featuring escaped prisoners from Alcatraz, most famously brought to light by the film, "Escape From Alcatraz") This is all fine and whatever, but little did she know that I fucking love that movie.

Maybe it's the absolute futility of prison and the "what would I do in that situation?" question that draws me in, or maybe it's how Clint Eastwood dumps the dirt from his pant leg to get rid of the excess escape-hole-rubble. There's just something watchable and curious about the film. Did I mention the dirt part? 'Cause I really like that part.

But this is pretty cool! Tilt it a little over on it's side and there ya go:

If you haven't seen the film or read up on the escape, you should. Because I'm not about to summarize it. And, really, I can't remember anything other than "they escaped from Alcatraz." Sorry.

Not the easist thing to photograph, but you get the picture. When turned this way and that, a horrifying, terrible lineup of three papier-mache heads is at your disposal. I had no idea arts and crafts could turn anything seemingly innocent into such frightening fare, but it does, and now I want to immediately take arts and crafts. First order of business: papier-mache kittens and pullover sweaters.

Also, for this recent birthday, she just sent me a Burger King giftcard with the demand to "enjoy some crappy food!" You're the best, Favorite Older Sister Who Is Making Me Eat Diabetes.

Next up:

Alexis and her boyfriend, from California, came to a show in Santa Cruz and suprised me with a little somethin'-somethin' for my b-day. To show how slow and dated I've become, this was from a full year ago, and Alexis and her boyfriend have long been broken up. I don't know why I know this.

At this point, I think it's one of those things where neither one will ever go to a Calabrese show in fear of seeing one another (haven't seen 'em since) and I don't blame them. I'm the exact same way. I'm experienced in avoiding ex-girlfriends, former high school friends I haven't talked to and don't ever want to talk to again and really big insects.

I also have a feeling that it may be weird that I'm writing so blatantly about them, too. I'm also excited to think that they might find this blog, see the shirt, read their names (and minimal dating history) and be completely fucking disturbed (hi, guys!)

So yeah, they got me a t-shirt with myself photo-engineered into a scene from "Twilight," with the bold proclamation of "I'm in Twilight" to boot. This is easily the most thought out, well executed and gravely insulting birthday present I've ever got. Naw, it's not bad, in fact, it's pretty amazing. I take no prisoners when it comes to being the best at looking like "that vampire guy!" I've had everyone call me everything from Edward Cullen to Bill Compton to Blacula. That was a bad summer at the beach.

I wish they didn't choose a photo of me making such a pervy face, but a quick scan of my facebook and myspace would prove that in all of my photos I'm making a pervy face.

Thanks, guys.:)

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!