I'm Back, Bitches.

I'm home! We made it!

As much as I like being on the road, I like being at home. Home is where I mindlessly watch TV, angrily disregard the dishes and can and will take full advantage of not wearing any pants. I know our tour wasn't the longest in rock and roll history (eleven consecutive shows in eleven states!) but for us, it was a decent run. Especially when we started in St. Louis, ended in Erie, PA and drove the grueling thirty-six hours back home. I really think we should have planned that out better.

Anyway, I fully expected to detail and log every minute and fascinating moment spent on the road, but Day 1 proved to put an end to the idea when I realized one thing -- I didn't even bring a camera.

In all fairness, between driving around in a van, loading and unloading heavy equipment, taking pictures of all the pretty bars and twinkling toilets seemed like it would just overwhelm me. Then uploading them to this site and writing about it? My head is starting to throb just thinking about it. I know it sucks and in hindsight, I really do wish I had stopped being such a bitch and started taking some photos. Lots of incredible people should be highlighted right here and right now, along with the tons of disgusting diners that should be publicly shamed and put out of business. Only the photos supply the key to this. The key to my maddening and triumphant success. The key I don't fucking have.

But I have this. I have the single snapshot I put all of my energy and enthusiasm in taking:


It was at Asbury Lanes in Asbury, NJ. We just finished everything we had to do and were killing time. I took a photo of Jimmy out of pure boredom, none the wiser that this would be my first and last impersonation of a daring European photog.

Maybe it's a good thing I didn't even bother.

I'm eventually going to go more in-depth with our journey, but right now I wanna get in and get out. As soon as I got home I unpacked, took a shower and went to Toys R Us. I needed to celebrate. I needed to get wild. I needed to blow some cash.

I picked these up because they were cheap, colorful and just small enough to keep in my pocket for long road trips and outside adventurin'. I'm not really sure what I was searching for, but it wasn't necessarily this. So, what are they?

Transformers, asshole.

Truth be told, I'm not the biggest Transformers fan. The idea that these robots from outer space could turn into cars and airplanes and dinosaurs is wonderfully welcome, sure, but it never seized me like it has for so many others. Everything adds up as to why I should love Transformers, so I can only blame my ehh-attitude on the difficulty of actually transforming the damn things.

The ones I bought were rated the lowest, meaning that a dead chimp could figure out how to make Robot Robot turn into Robot Car, and the lady who rung me up was a huge fan, who ensured me I made the right choice. I think I can manage this.

And so in this lies my curse. I will continue to buy and buy and buy until all living space is occupied by Opti-this and Mega-that. I have so many Transformers from throughout the years and I never do a thing with them. But, when I was younger, my favorite Transformer (and one of my favorite toys of all time) was one that turned into a gun. Like, a true-to-size pistol. Shit you can't get away with in this day and age.

I think Transformers only look great fully completed, so don't be surprised if I ever recall stories about my Junk Drawer, a holy sanctuary for broken crayons, dead batteries and mangled messes of Transformer plastic. I need to write about my junk drawer. Anyways:

I picked up Barricade and Bumblebee, part of "Dark of the Moon: Cyberverse" line. I had zero idea that there was a new film coming out, but I'm an instant fan if it means inexpensive robots that I don't really like by the handful. Seriously, the place was jammed with Transformers. And at five bucks a pop, I don't feel that guilty, but still a little bit hesitant about fueling Shia LaBeouf's movie career.

I like Bumblebee because his name is "Bumblebee," and Barricade because he can morph into the ultimate powerhouse megamachine: a police car.

His strength leads the pack, which may or may not mean his actual, physical dominance over the rest of his friends, or just the fact that he's a squad car. Because it's a pretty powerful thing to be seen as an officer of the law. And unbelievably illegal. I like how Barricade just don't give a fuck.

This is the best I could do. I think they only require four motions or less to complete, but it's already beaten me. Bumblebee looks like he never attempted to change (which is true) and Barricade looks like a Wheeler from "Return to Oz."

Well, I was secretly hoping for a pile of WWF Legends action figures (I've got my sights on a Ravishing Rick Rude) but these did alright. I squeezed a little fun outta them. Transformers, I salute you. Now get into my junk drawer.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Indiana Jones. AMEN.

Hallelujah! Praise be, Indiana Jones!


I got this the other day. I'm giddy over it. I'm in awe of it. It keeps me happy and excited and although the picture seems too dark and photographed poorly, you can right well suck it. Because this is a beautiful thing and that's all I have to say about it.

Well, I suppose this at least deserves a bit of a back story.

Got it at my favorite hot spot, Greg's Comics. Duh. It was in a box full of ancient Life magazines and, amazingly, actual stills from He-Man, Bravestarr and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Like, the literal still drawings used in the cartoons. I was assured they were legit, and if I cared to delve deeper, could find the exact episode they were used in. At this point, I feel I made a grave mistake by passing this up, because Lord knows owning a half shot of Michelangelo's head turned slightly left would make me for a helluva conversation piece. But I denied my desire and plowed deeper. The good stuff had to be at the bottom.


Found this, and it was worth it. Kinda tough to measure what's "worth it," but if you're like me, you'll gladly pay over twenty bucks for a piece of over sized paper so magnificently wrinkled and thin. It's a wrinkled and thin poster that has Indiana Jones on it, people. To top it off, it's in a bizarre language I'm not willing to google to find out. I'll stay ignorant and say Turkish, only because that sounds fancy. Hey, I have a movie poster from Turkey! Cool!

Thing is, I love the "Indiana Jones" series as much as the next guy, and can possibly even forgive the fourth installment in around thirty-seven years. Everything that was said, done, blown up and punched has SO forever been burned into my mind you'd half expect me to start wearing brown slacks and a bullwhip around my waist. You know, to hold up the brown slacks.

Growing up, these films were perfect. It boasted the greatest blend of adventure, comedy and life changing weird-fucking-moments. Face melting Nazis? A greasy, grabby hand pummeled through a dude's ribcage? All these things kept my imagination pumping and my dreams totally unsettled. I've kinda realized, through the years, that all of my favorite things have at one point made me want to shit my pants. Yes, kind readers, "Indiana Jones," and the themes and imagery throughout, have made me want to shit my pants.

And that's why this poster is my newest religious relic. Everything that has been built up inside me can be accumulated into an artifact that describes who I am, what I do and what I believe. This is that artifact. It is my little statue of a fat man that sets off a giant, tumbling boulder. It is my personal Ark of the Covenant, inconveniently stored in my apartment's living room. It is my three magical stones that get too hot to handle and are accidentally dropped into the alligator infested waters below. Don't worry, friends, because throughout the scuffle, one single stone is saved. And that stone is mine.


If you've noticed, it's not in a frame yet. Usually, I make it my first priority, but things are different this time 'round. Out of respect for it's holiness, the frame will be made of gold. If gold is unavailable, plastic and thick cardboard from a crafts store will be an acceptable substitute.

We're leaving for tour in a few days, and I'm filled with a warmth and comfort knowing that this will be at home waiting for me. If it could jump off my wall and surprise me with a plate of warm cookies as I walked through the door after a long and arduous two weeks, all the more better. Unfortunately, that won't happen, so I'll have to settle for Shakespearean re-enactments of "Temple of Doom" in the bathroom mirror and a whole lot of bragging. Usually, I never let a single soul into my living quarters, so it'll mostly be Internet or text based.

UR WALLS R BORING LOL.

Ahh, this is gonna be fun.

See you in two weeks!

Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

I don't know how to join the Brown Leather Jacket X-Men Club. But ever since I accidentally put together two members of the same superhero team side by side, I knew my Monday night took a dramatic turn. Imagination ran wild, theories were introduced, questions were asked. Why did Wolverine and Jean Grey both wear brown leather jackets? Did it equate to superhero superiority? Or was it related to their superpowers? No need to answer, because I assume it does and now I need a brown leather flight jacket and I need it now.

I must become a member of the Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

Brown leather jackets have always eluded me. They're neither cool nor uncool, riding a fine line between unnecessary and completely badass. The only time I could think of ever wanting a brown leather jacket was watching Kirk Cameron muck it up on Growing Pains and finding an over sized version in my older sister's bedroom, which I assume is Kirk Cameron influenced. It was covered in patches and fake Army badges, and completely left a bad taste in my mouth. These days, I can't warrant the need to own something so in-your-face. It's a weird statement to make, because a brown jacket isn't that weird, but it is kind of weird. Or maybe it just looks weird on me?

This, unfortunately, goes on my list of clothing articles I'll never buy. Yellow motorcycle gloves, a cowboy hat that doesn't make me look like an asshole and now this, you sexy, leather flight jacket, you.

But since I've noticed a definite pattern in my toys, I'm reconsidering my options. Why not just do it? Why not buy a leather jacket the color of beef jerky? You see, in some outstandingly bizarre way only I can comprehend, why not attempt to, through the ownership of a brown leather jacket, be one of them? ONE OF THE X-MEN.

Okay, looks pretty cool. I can get down with the "rough and rowdy" look. I've already got the slicked back greasy hair and the eyebrows the size of Snickers bars. . What I don't have is the build of a linebacker and blue jeans not ever ever. Wolverine, you win this round.

Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Not good.

I like the cut of Rogue's jacket, where the initial purpose of a jacket is replaced by looking cool and being really uncomfortable. No warmth, just style. My current jacket is kinda in this category, where chaffing is a natural occurrence and lifting my arms above my head is an impossibility. But at least I look good. In constant pain, but still lookin' good.

Like I said, this is pretty much my jacket, though, so I wouldn't be making that big of a leap in fashion. I'm feeling good about this.

Probability of Owning Brown Leather Jacket at This Point: Decent. If I were to personally take charge and dye my duds, I'd be money.

Probability of Creating and Crafting My Very Own Brown Leather Jacket: Yeah fuckin' right.

So what can I do? I've already looked online and swiftly realized how expensive jackets can run. Then realized how futile jacket shopping in Phoenix malls can be. And now I'm so over it. As is my normal plan of action, I'll stand down and just stick with my regular outfit. In my defense, there's a calmness in black. There's a beautiful safety in black.

So goodbye, my X-Pals, for I am not a worthy colleague. Goodbye, dreams of masterful heroics, superhero stardom and punching the total shit out of shit.

Goodbye, Brown Leather Flight Jacket X-Men Club.

Hey, powers that be? It's me, Bobby. I just wanted to say thank you. Fucking THANK YOU.

Sometimes, you're a lucky sonnavabitch. You might be offered generous amounts of money, stumble upon unseen fortunes, fall into incredible wealth and fame. Whatever the scenario, your luck hits hard, hits quick and hits fast.

Today's my lucky day, bitch.

"Willow" is, and forever will be, one of the greatest films I've ever seen. I'm not gonna relay the entire movie as a general intro, rather, I'll assume you've seen it, and if you haven't, get on that shit ASAP. If the above box is any indication as to what the film is about and what you're missing...c'mon. It's more than enough of a tease to get you to go see it. Two-headed monster thing, a guy dressed as Skeletor and Val Kilmer before he turned into Natalie from The Facts of Life.

So get on it.

I found and bought what you see there, with your jealous, tear-filled eyes, last Saturday afternoon, which is a true testament as to how I like to spend my Saturdays, and most days in general -- in a dark, dusty comic book shop.

We went to Greg's Comics, which has been mentioned numerous times before, and is now fully revealed to you, my adoring public. I hate the idea of keeping such a wonderful store under wraps, but I also hate the idea of you ruining my Secret Happy Store. Easily, the place can be described as a garage sale for the confused, disturbed and mentally unstable. It's walls and boxes and shelves filled with the most inane junk you could never possibly care about. But you do care. And then there goes next month's rent down the toilet.

I've always been unsure as to who's actually working the joint, but from what I recently saw, it was about six dudes sititing in the back, shooting the shit and eating fast food. It's insane to think they'd have six guys employed at a comic shop the size of a taco stand, but I love it.

Also, Greg's Comics is owned by a guy named Howard, which makes the entire thing even more wonderful.


Are you in love? I'm in love.


Growing up, I had a few of the little figurines, completely unaware there was more playsets and vehicles and accessories to be had. Oh, you know, like a fucking demon dinosaur. I always hated the figures (they were set on a stand, didn't move, yadda) but I would have LOVED to have owned this. Before I go on...yeah, totally wish I had some more figurines to re-enact what's going on up above. That kid looks ecstatic.

In the film, the fictitious land of Willow-World was infested with trolls. These trolls played little part in the general plot of the film, but were proud and proper in scaring the shit out of you. They looked like skinny gorillas, were unbelievably hairy and demonstrated a fine knack for evil acrobatics. They jumped around, screamed and terrified everyone in the theater under eighty-six years of age.

Anyway, they popped in and out of the film, were mentioned in passing and then, phenomenally, were led up to some seriously weird stuff. You see, in one of the big battles in the film, Willow does the unthinkable -- he knocks a troll into a bog of water. It was all in self defense, so don't worry, gentle souls. Now, apparently, water is the catalyst to unthinkable troll-horrors. And when water touched the greasy fur of that diseased troll...you better run for cover.

If all was well and right with the world, they'd turn into the bad/semi-cute versions of Gremlins. Most people can deal with that. No one is that scared of a lizard with a white mohawk. In fact, most people might even welcome it. But nope. You couldn't imagine what they'd turn into. Unless, of course, you imagined they turned into eight-legged penis whales. And then, of course, you'd be right.

There is no false advertising with the box. What you see is what you get. And what I got is glorious.

It's official name is "Eborsisk," a post-film jab at the not-so-hot reviews from top critics around the globe, or the US, I dunno. I'm gonna on the fly, here. Basically, Siskel and Ebert (mash the names together) got mad punked. And I really doubt they ever gave a shit.

Completely accurate with the film, you're presented with everything from it's red-chin-mouth to the hard sack of football flesh on it's gross head. Don't even get me started on those mysterious six hind legs, which doubles as a neat way for something that big and monstrous to move around to just absolutely disgusting you.

The film doesn't bother showcasing these hind legs, I don't think. So it really is kind of shocking me right now. I don't like lobsters, I don't like spiders and I certainly don't like this. It was in the water, Madmartigan was stabbing it, lots of hustle and bustle going about and around to notice such details...if those details were even presented in the first place. Point is, I'm now even more repulsed by this thing than ever before. I hope my Rancor eats it.


To add fuel to the fire, it's back is covered in a bristly, brown moss. Again, this is something that isn't necessarily advertised, but I sincerely doubt they'd want to go ahead and add pubic back hair to the fold.

Also, note the purple hue. It reminds me of grapes and old ladies legs. Neither one particularly excites me at the moment, but I'm sure will make it's unique mark in the time to come. Amen.

Conclusion: I've inherited a masterpiece of rubber and plastic. It might not look to be that great to some, but for me, I'm the luckiest asshole in the world right now. I either have absurdly low standards or am just really that into...well, that. That animal abomination. That sack of troll-turned-dildo. Man, I love that thing.

Double Conclusion: It looks great on my desk and is even better looking on my nightstand, where me and my Eborsisk can read together before bedtime. Reading lulls me to sleep. Is that weird?

CORNISH PASTY!

I'm super psyched on this blog update. My main direction and goal with everything I write about is to write about anything that I like, whether it be a love letter to the film "Congo," or a complete breakdown of my plastic viking helmet. Here's a snippet: It's awesome.

I'll talk about anything that gets me totally psyched to spend half a Saturday hunched over the computer, because really, I ain't turning my spine into a boomerang for something I'm just "lukewarm" about. If it falls under the "rock and roll mania" umbrella, that's even more keen, and probably better suited for a blog unabashedly titled "Rock and Roll Mania." But I really can't make any promises on these sorts of things. "Mania" is a hard thing to capture and bottle.

That being said, I've been inspired. My last entry briefly talked about a local pub/hangout, and in recent months, I've been known to throw in a restaraunt review to spice things up a bit. Truthfully, it's an excuse to get out of the house and pretend I'm doing something of value. Even more truthfully, it's an excuse to get drunk. THAT being said...

I like to go to a place called The Cornish Pasty. An amazing restaurant located in both Tempe and Mesa, AZ. I'd tell you which one I frequent more, but I fear you might stalk me. If I'm being honest, I fear more that you won't stalk me, 'cause having a legitimate, passion-fueled stalker would be so cool. So, you know. Stalk me.

I go there to eat, to socialize and to devolve into an ape-like creature. The good stuff.

I really wanted to take photos of the place. I understand, it makes sense to do JUST THAT, but last Monday, when I made my way in to indulge and proactively supply this blog with substantial, photographic material, I did the worst thing you could do as a rising entrepreneur with a visual-heavy blog -- I forgot my camera.

Normally, I'd cut my losses, delete the blog and plain ol' give up. My life is centered around mild disappointments and screw-ups, it's no big whoop.

...

NO.

Missing camera be damned, I decided I would fight fate and return, once again, more determined than ever before. I would snap and shoot until they threw me out! I would dare not be afraid to fawn over the shiny liquor bottles and delicate chair arrangements! I WILL CONQUER ALL WITH PRETTY PICTURES!

I ended up going back the next night. Didn't need to twist my arm, really, but it still kinda sucked. I hate to think I might be referred to as the "Creepy Regular" and they were out of my favorite beer. And I think I came off as a total sourpuss because of it. No one likes a sourpuss. Oh, and yeah. The digital camera I brought? Dead battery. FML.

Never going back there again. There's something wrong with the place. Bad joojoo. Whatever the case, I still have to keep the initial idea going, even if my first and now second powerful and dominant urge is to push the computer straight into the pool.

So.

I'm gonna draw everything on Paint. Fuck it.

Welcome to the Cornish Pasty! Judging by the outside, you'd never feel inclined to ever walk in without being heavily bribed. It's right in between a store that sells day old food and a bar that absolutely demands you try their hot wings. I can't deal with a place telling me what to do, so I hate this place. Notice how it's represented as "Crap Store."

The Pasty rules, though. I've been there enough times where they know exactly what I want, and when I order a ton of what I want, they're kind enough to knock a few bucks off the bill. It's cool, and absolutely welcome, but can be a bit hectic when trying to figure out a decent tip. I usually disregard the tip in general and add a quick doodle on the receipt. They just love that.

If it helps sell the joint, I've been here to celebrate birthdays, bachelor parties and everything in between. It's the perfect spot to hit up for a simple dinner, a fast buzz or a quick peek into the thriving tattoo culture cuz everyone working here's got sweet tattoos OMG. It's a nice place, really. Here's why:

The inside is fashionably underlit, giving it a creepy glow bordering on depressing and kinda annoying. The low lighting is amazing for romancing a hot date, or trying to completely ignore a gross date.

Also, depending on which one you go to, you're either free and fancy or suffocating a slow death among the crowd of hungry weirdos. Both can be pretty popular, but the one in Tempe is so small and packed, you're better off leaving that "personal space" shit at the door.

You can sit in booths, tables or right at the bar. Sitting at the bar is definitely fun, offering you an eagle-eye view of what's happening "behind the scenes." You can watch the drinks be poured, food be made, dishes be washed, etc. It's a cool gimmick, and perfect for those who get off on seeing sad and sweaty 20-somethings toil away at a minimum waged job. Those people would be me.

Aside from soups, salads and oven chips (secret code for FRENCH FRIES) your main option is a pasty. Did I have any idea what a pasty was before I started going to the Cornish Pasty? Of course not. I doubt anyone really has, but if anyone asks...yes, I did know about it beforehand. Used to eat them all the time. In fact, I invented the pasty.

Basically, it's a super-stylized Hot Pocket. Kinda like the close cousin of the calzone, really. A bunch of ingredients thrown into a pita-pot-pie, cooked up and served with an accompanying dipping sauce. Each pasty is pretty damn good, and can range from a pile of hamburger, cheese and fries mixed together (blame "Pulp Fiction") to a Thanksgiving themed pasty, complete with turkey, yams and cranberry. I love that one the most. Jesus wept for this pasty.

The drinks are pretty great, too. Around twenty bottles to choose from, a few beers on tap, wine, liquor drinks, car-bombs, yeah. Personally, I'm a fan of Kronenbourg, a French born beer with a fancy label. I'll usually order 6-8 pints of this, and then want to die.

When they don't have it on tap, it sucks. Like, it really sucks ass. I'm not sure how this business is run (or any business, for that matter) so it's understandable that, from time to time, a beer keg will run dry. Maybe there isn't a guy in the back, keeping tabs and working the books or keeping them or whatever they do with books.

But I swear, it seems like they hate keeping Kronenbourg on tap. Without fail, it's seemingly always unavailable.I throw away enough money at them to just please, please keep it in stock and flowing into my mouth. I feel this to be a personal attack. This may be the one and only strike against the place, so yeah. Not bad so far. Moving on.

If you're near the toilet, you're good. If not, you're slithering your way to the back, avoiding tables, bar stools and a huge, cramped-in crowd. I do believe that no one likes to make their way through an obstacle course to get to the bathroom. And of course...there's only one. For both the men and women. My life is put into peril evertime I even think about taking a crap. I hate holding up the toilet with a case of mud-guts, especially if there's a line of young, attractive women waiting on the outside. This embarrasment rivals the brief stint in highschool where I wore black nailpolish, and at the corner store near my house, was only ever rung up by, of course, girls in my highschool. I was "buying it for my sister" so many times, I lost count.

So there you have at. Go check it out. Invite yor friends. The first drink is on me.:)

Happy Easter! Easter Sucks!

I don't like Easter. Growing up, it was a nice way to kill time between the bigger and better holidays, but it was never something I looked forward to. A basket full of candy was welcome, painting hardboiled eggs was kinda fun, but you just didn't get an Xbox for Easter. End of story.

So Easter this year? Forget about it.

But last Friday, we went out to one of my favorite bars, Casey Moore's Oyster House, which is less of an "oyster house" than an "overcrowded patio full of drunk college kids." It's one of the coolest places to hit up in Tempe, Arizona, where the beers are cold and the influx of good looking people will make you feel like a fat slob. The over thirty crowd need not apply. Sorry.

The place was heavily packed, which I assume is out of the fact that it was a holiday weekend, albeit a pretty lame holiday weekend, but any excuse to drink is a good enough excuse for me. And apparently, a ton of other people. So here we are and there we go.

At this point, Easter wasn't even a legitimate idea in my mind, in fact, if it was never brought up ever again, I would be a happy camper. So I ordered some food, ate 'til I reached a satisfied bloat, etc., etc.

Now, the food is good, and if you actually ventured into the main restaraunt (the place is split into two sections, sitting areas inside or outside) the food is even better. Different menus for different areas, I guess. Classier meals vs. inebriated bar crap. Smokers vs. the non-smokers.

Only the nerds sit inside, BTW.

Long story short, we hung out for a while, only to be shocked into the realization that a woman was hobbling around and allowing people to "pet her chicken." Even if you weren't buzzed, seeing a chicken under a woman's arm in a dimly lit bar is pretty wild. But that's exactly how it sounds. A woman was wandering the premises with her pet chicken. She was allowing people to pet it, shoot the shit, question her sanity. This would be fine if that was the main attraction, but this woman was also handing out the chicken's eggs, freshly layed and packaged for anyone who was interested. I was hooked.

I gladly took charge and said yes to the offer. For one, these eggs were free, and came in a neatly wrapped quarter-carton. Secondly, one of the eggs was green.

So cool! A green egg! I never thought "Green Eggs and Ham" could actually be replicated or real, but I've been painfully proven wrong. At a public bar. By a damn chicken.

I never expected to bother with Easter this year, but this kinda just fell into my lap. And I'm thankful! I have zero desire to purchase anything Easter related, and if I did, I don't think I could handle all the weak, Easter pastels in my apartment. With all the plastic eggs, Easter Bunny cutouts and glass clings, it's just way too many baby blues and soft pinks all up in here. But this is a beautiful, magical addition to my lonely holiday. A stupid, green egg. Yay.

I really wanna eat these (especially that green one!) and for the sake of celebrating just to celebrate, I absolutely will. But unless someone cooks them up for me, they'll forever remain in my fridge until the words "rotten " and "deathstink" come into play. I hate cooking.

Color me typical, but I had to. Vampire fangs are so much fun to draw.

Happy Easter!

THE GREATEST CALABRESE ACOUSTIC SHOW EVER.

What a slow, boring month for blogging. So far, April has only brought in one entry. And it's this one I'm writing right now! I suck ass. But I will tread forth, and will write stupid things.

Just last Saturday, we played our first ever acoustic show. We've never done this before, and it was never our intent to do something like this at all. Ya see, not only did we rock an acoustic set last Saturday, but we did a genuine, high-class comic book signing. I'm aware that I've gone well over the appropriate amount of italics, but it's neccesary in detailing the fact that we created a comic book and held an event in it's honor.

With us, we had Eric M. Esquivel, the writing mastermind behind the main plot, general character development and rock and roll flow, signing and shmoozing the night away. Somewhere during the signing, though, through questions and conversation, we made mention that Dave Baker (of Modern Mythology) drew this beautiful piece of magic, DW Frydendall colored it and Andrew Barr did the layout and a solid few art pieces.

I quickly and suddenly realized that we, essentitally, didn't do a damn thing. Comic books rule!

We originally were gonna plug it in and crank it to eleven, but since this Atomic Comics was a part of a public mall, the sound barrier was compromised and it was either between fighting endlessly to let us blow down the doors or bust out the acoustic stuff and gently lull the audience into a somber, meditative state. Okay, it wasn't that bad. In fact, the night was amazing.

We met a lot of new people, hung out with a lot of old friends and generally had a fun time. A cool moment was when we were offered anything from Starbucks. A free cup of coffee is always welcome, and just knowing someone went out on a "coffee run" for us, "the talent," is amazing. But then again, anything involving coffee is amazing. And calling me "the talent."

I know I'm ramlbing, but I really can't stop. Just replaying it is making me all giddy and silly! I mean, we played in our favorite comic book shops. It's like rocking a gig in a supermarket when you're starving to death. I wanted everything in that store, and I kinda came close. I walked away with enough JLA and Grant Morrisson crap to officially turn my apartment into a fire hazard.

We played, we rocked and and casually melted some faces. It's hard to go nuts with the soft, delicate sounds of an acooustic guitar, but at least Davey took it upon himself to go apeshit, as witnessed in the photos. I've never seen breakdancing, disco dancing and profuse sweating as I did that night.

Taken by our pal, Andy Hartmark (who's been photographing our ugly mugs for a few years now) you'll now be apart of what may be the best, the last or just the beginning of a flourishing, Calabrese-acoustic career. I would totally not mind going all Tenacious D on your asses.

Enjoy!