St. Patrick's Day, 2012.

I've never celebrated on St. Patrick's Day. If I could overcome the idea of going out and being yelled at by drunk college kids, plans are instantly derailed because St. Patrick's Day probably fell on a shitty day of the week.

Excuses, excuses.

Well, this year, I wanted to go out. I really, really did. There are so many events and concerts and bars with giveaways and prizes and stupid, sloshed weirdos...I almost felt the urge to leave my cave to drink-puke-cry like the best of 'em.

Almost.

I'm staying in. I may have purposely sabotaged myself this year, but I'm gonna spend this fine holiday by lying down because holy shit I'm nursing a hangover and my guts hurt. I know it was only a beer fueled bender last night, but I feel like I ate a giant pizza covered in pollutants and toxins found in chemical dumps and landfills. Oh, maybe it was the actual, greasy pizza I ate at one in the morning that's caused this irreversible pain. All five, wet slices of death and cheese.

If anyone asks, I got too excited. I celebrated early. And now I'm paying the price with Vitamin water that doesn't do a damn thing and Netflix.

But.

I can't not drink tonight. Call it tradition, call it alcoholism, call it a flag-waving salute to fun.

Harp Lager. I like Harp Lager. I'm not a huge beer snob, but I can't stand cheap American stuff and anything you can't read the newspaper through. I'm a sissy, yes, I can't chug sludge. Sometimes IPA's are too much, as well. My all time favorite are sunny, sparkling lagers. Stuff that looks like apple juice and tastes like water from a spring in Germany. I've heard of these springs of endless, flowing beer. They exist. I know they do.

I might make half and halfs, if only because I'm a slave to consumerism and bought a six pack of Guinness. They're a good and tasty, but I think the real charm lies in the idea that you mix two beers together to create a new beer. You use a spoon to drizzle the Guinness into the Harp, fusing the alcohol and hops and all the junk into...well, into science. You're drinking science. And that's a good feeling.

Have fun, dudes!

Quick and Crappy Coffee House Reviews: Steve's Espresso.

I think I'm going to start blogging about coffee spots throughout my neighborhood.

I've done it before, but it's never been a solid priority. Between the mixed reviews of dollar store finds and lazily putting together a string of photos to recreate the idea of a "Masters of the Universe theater," I've hit a wall. It was bound to happen, but so soon? So out of thin air? My only excuse is that my mind is on our new record, and instead of type-type-typing I've been strum-strum-strumming, slowly confirming what exactly I'm going to do in the studio. With a month away to record, you'd think the songs would be one-hundred percent complete by now, but nahhh. Too easy. Gotta live under pressure, gotta write on the wire.

What I'm trying to say is to expect a lot of this throughout the next few months. Coffee house reviews? Really? YES, COFFEE HOUSE REVIEWS REALLY GET USED TO IT.
Where to start? From the beginning, duh:

Whether it be to get groceries, go jam with Calabrese or to get a cup of coffee, I always seem to pass "Steve's Espresso." There's nothing necessarily stand-out-ish about the place, but it's always on the way to where I wanna go. It's either a bold sign telling me that drinking a cup of Joe at Steve's is destiny, or that I rarely venture anywhere that I haven't been to a million times. But if Steve wants my business, through my own repetition and curiosity, he's reeled me in. Well, I've reeled myself in, meaning he didn't do shit, but I've already parked and it's hot in the car.

From outside the shop and inside the privacy and shame-free bubble of my car, there you have it. I hate taking photos of anything in public, for fear of God-knows-what. I have this thing when it comes to snapping shots of anything that could make me look like an pervert or a spy. I understand it's a wild leap from "interested food patron" to "sexual deviant," but it's the way my head is wired. No one knows I'm attempting to blog about Steve's Espresso, they just know I'm nervously fumbling around with my phone with my hand possibly down my pants.

I went it, went to the counter and went over the possibilities. They have everything you'd expect, but I'm a no-frills kinda guy and I wasn't planning on drinking whipped cream, so I got a medium hot coffee. Which, for those curious, was instantly less expensive than you-know-who, and was nice and piping hot.

I think it was, like, a buck seventy? Eighty?

Some blogging skills, eh?

Decor was nice, ranging from "hole in wall store converted into a warm, chic coffee den" to "every other coffee shop ever." Not a bad thing, really. You wouldn't want it to look like, I dunno, Burger King. Or the dentist.

This is where I take a picture to show you what I see. Here is that picture:

Was my shot ruined by Captain Blue Jeans? No, not in the slightest.

I've said it before, but I get a total kick out of taking photos of people in random situations and posting it here, on this blog, for the entire notion that, one day, hopefully, that person will recognize their own butt staring at a case of crumpets. I'm entertaining the thought that Captain Blue Jeans will ultimately be interested, shocked then wholly confused.

"Why would anyone take a photo of my ass?" he would ask. I would respond, "Because you were in the way, and because I get a thrill plastering you, unwillingly, on a tiny corner of this great, big Internet." "What an asshole," he would say.

Well, it ain't your ass that's the center of attention, Captain BJ, it's the cute, chalk-written signs and endearing, brown color scheme. Is there ever a coffee establishment that isn't painted some sort of brown? Why can't the walls be colored hot pink? Or, I dunno, purple? Is it because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit? Yes, it is because it would throw you off and make everything feel like shit.

Well played, Steve's Espresso.

Which brings us to another high point at Steve's -- fresh, home-baked scones, muffins and sandwich things.

I'm a huge fan of pastries, purposely magnified by the "bite and sip" procedure with a cup of coffee. The taste is elevated with the perfect mix of cake-food and java, nearing an instantaneous cranial explosion. It rivals that of sex, but the comparison is so cliche that I nearly flinched at the thought of actually writing it. I would never commit such a bland, literary faux-pas. Or...would I?

I just did. I just so fucking did.

Now, you might dip your dessert into your drink, as opposed to the act of chomping and slurping, but I think that's weird. Who dips a blueberry muffin? In proportion to the cup, the shape is all wrong. You'd need a saucer, or a gravy boat. Otherwise IT'S ALL WRONG AND YOU'RE GOING TO HELL.

Well, there she is.

There's a sign on the wall stating that all the coffee was done by a French press, which makes me wonder if, every morning, they press a bunch of coffee and dump it into a big vat in the back or have one, giant French press the size of a doghouse. Whatever the case, the taste is definitely different, leaning more towards a smoother and slightly distinct flavor than drip coffee. Mild, definitely. Watery, in a way.

I'm not even sure I like coffee.

Masters of the Uni-Piece Theatre, Episode 3.

The Fortress of Fangs.

I've been holding off on posting this for a while now because...well, because this is the perfect post. I look at the following photos, I reminisce about my childhood and I've realized that this is me. What you see before you in the next lump of convoluted paragraphs and immature gushing is everything I am as an individual, wrapped up in a single chunk of playtime plastic. What is it? Well, unless you've already scrolled down and peeked, you'll see. Oh, you'll sssseeee.

That was a snake joke. Ha.

Growing up, the toys that have always meant the most to me are the ones that have, in a bizarre way, scared me. There's something deeply troubling with that, but I'm not here to scale into dark voids of my mind, I'm here to scale The Fortress of Fangs.

I can't admit that what you're about to see is scary, or even at all intimidating. If you stand it up against the Ghostbusters Firehouse, you'd be full of shit. Because what you're about to see rules. Next to something like, say, Castle Greyskull, you'd be getting warmer. It's the only other play-set that can come close, and even that can be argued. Although Greyskull IS a giant, bad-ass skull, beneath the swamp green exterior and torture chambers within, it's still just a dumb ol' castle. WHAT YOU'RE ABOUT TO SEE takes Fun Time to a whole new level. What you're about to see can, and will, eat the Ewok Village.

THE FORTRESS OF FANGS!

So, what do you think?

Aside from knowing it was "Dungeons and Dragons" related, it took me forever to figure out what it was truly tied to. Mostly, I remember the miniature figurines you'd collect and paint, and those were sealed up, locked away in Jimmy's closet and off-fucking-limits.

Thanks to the Internet, I find out that, yes, this is definitely tied to "Dungeons and Dragons," and that's really fucking awesome. Because this was definitely not dozens of tiny, die-cast models that I wasn't allowed to touch.

I never got into the role playing aspect of it, the painstaking procedure of decorating your battalion of really expensive metal models, but anything that deals with such an array lineup of horrible and and repulsive characters is welcome with open arms.

And that is where they did things right and perfect and wonderful.

They made toys. Action figures. Legitimate shit to fight against The Thundercats.

Jimmy had a ton of these demon figurines and creepy monsters from the "Advanced Dungeons and Dragons" line, and to say I wasn't enamored with them all is an understatement. These things used to scare me. I'd have actual nightmares over these PVC mutants. It's so weird. I get so misty-eyed just thinking about it.

Frog-men with spears, goblins with swords, evil witches with bright blue faces, etc. And these were the ones that were made of immovable, heavy plastic. More so, the company would release evil warriors and masked sadists with decent points of articulation, furthering playtime imagination with more progressive beheadings and forest plunging.

I really don't know too much of the history of these toys, and when I tried to search-google-hunt, I didn't care. I'd much rather live in my own, already formed memories and, hell, looking at all the pictures of what I don't own is making me dumb jealous. Which is, sadly, a lot. And surprisingly expensive.

Spot me a cool grand for an eBay run?

Obviously, this all used to be Jimmy's -- one of the dozens of play-sets, action figures and artifacts from an era gone by. Through timely manipulation and outright thievery, I've officially inherited them and they've become mine and all mine.

Before, I've wondered why any smart man would give up such treasure so easily, but I'm well on my way to doing the same damn thing. I've yet to pull out a compass and start mapping my way to the nearest Goodwill, but I know, in my heart, a day like that will come. I don't want it to, but who can say whether or not I will tire of owning shelves full of stuff that makes me look like I've never talked to a human being before?

FUCK IT I KEEP DEM ALL FOREVER.

So let's do a virtual tour of this bad boy. In my youth, I've spent hours and re-enacting intergalactic wars and demonic picnics with such play-sets, because it was the only safe haven for Han Solos and Lockjaws. The tub was great for underwater exploration, and the backyard made for some great scenic backdrops, but I always ended up at...say, the Fortress of Fangs.

The only other effort I put into anything during this time was faking sick to stay home from school. It always blew up in my face when I couldn't play Super Nintendo and was stuck re-reading informational books on spiders and snakes. When you had "the flu," it wasn't wise to get caught hootin' and hollerin' over a wild game of Starfox.

And with that, let us pretend we're actually scaling these dark, green walls and losing our minds in bloody caves and hellish mazes. For old times sake, ya know?

Let's begin our journey!

First off, yikes. It's looking at you. The ugly sonnavabitch stares at you. It mocks from across your bedroom, it glares and snarls while you try to sleep. The Fortress of Fangs is a mean sonnavabitch.

Here we go, ladies and gents, the beginning of your expedition! Did you wear appropriate shoes? Wait, you wore flip-flops? You dumb.

There's no real entrance to the FOF, so I picked this specific spot because both other starting points are empty rooms with a blue crayon decorating the floor. As we travel along, you'll be presented with missing pieces, dents made from my teeth and the aforementioned Crayola graffiti throughout, proving that I just did not give a shit about my older siblings' stuff.

Let's get going, shall we?

First up: your average, every day, run of the mill passageway! Pay no attention to the fact that you're gonna be tightly squeezing by a red board loaded with spikes the size of street cones. If you're lucky, they're the size of ice cream cones (it's hard to accurately judge this). Unfortunately, in this situation, it does not matter at fucking all.

...because you're gonna die.

But hey, let's say you do get past this. Let's say you either jumped back in the nick of time, or did some super awesome tuck and roll past this death-device. Who's to say the trap was even tripped and went off? Feeling pretty good about that, right?

Sorry, you just just threw yourself down into a lake of fire.

Without any regard for your success, FOF has immediately killed you. Because you weren't already killed.

Assuming you escaped the painful descent into Hell, that is. Let's just assume you ran past the spikes and, miraculously, decided to take a leap of faith over the abyss. You're good to go!

Now, left or right?

If you go right, you're given the opportunity to once again slide down into the lake of fire you've so recently narrowly diverted. I guess it's for the people who had second thoughts on the matter. Off the top of my head, I can't name a single benefit of tumbling down into a liquid inferno, but I'm sure there's gotta be something radical to it.

So, you decide to go left -- you've made the right choice. Just, ya know, watch out for the dangerous, teetering axe looming over your head. Which, if you've yet to understand the point of this evil snake-dungeon, it is to no doubt fall down upon your skull and kill you. That's all this place is here for. This is all that you're here for -- to die.

You are going to die.

Sorry.

You have to go down. Like, you really, really have to. Unless you want to take a chance and double back through the barrage of spikes and pits and immediate death, your best option is to stay the course and see what lies beneath the madness. I know, I know, I told you that you're going to die, no way around it. Your stamina is weak, your morale is low...so what's the point? You've eaten all the granola bars stuffed away in your backpack and you've stubbed your toe and it really hurts.

Fine, FINE.

You will be rewarded for your suffering and unbelievably good luck. After all, it IS a "fortress," and what good is a fortress if it isn't guarding something? I wanted to keep it a surprise, but if you're going to be a baby about it...alright, yeah. You're headed towards some cool shit.
Yes! A pile of gold coins and other treasures that are yellow!

You've done it, you've made it all the way down into the bowels of sin and evil! And now you're gonna be rich! Load up your Jansport with jewels, stuff your pockets with baubles and gems, do what you gotta do to make this nightmare a success!

Just, um, realize that...you're stuck here. I KNOW I KNOW WHAT I SAID BEFORE. And it's true! You're compensated for everything you've been put through, but...
Yeah.

Again, sorry about this. If it makes you feel any better, the skeleton does look like it's smiling.

Hope you had fun!

Masters of the Uni-Piece Theatre, Episode 2.

A Small Cup of Coffee at Dunkin' Donuts is Perfect.

I'm sure you're wondering, "Why a small? I thought you were a big boy and actually drank coffee?"

There's many reasons why I stick with a small cup at DD. We all have our bizarre habits, our confusing way of how we go about doing certain things. Call it a nervous tick, call it a low dose of obsessive compulsive behavior, but it is here, right now, where I'm going to pointlessly explain the perks (ha, coffee joke!) and benefits of a Small Cup of Coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.

ACTIVATE LISTING SEQUENCE NOW.

1. Cute Factor

I don't think you can deny the precious dimensions of a small cup at Dunkin' Donuts. No where else can you order a small and actually get something that looks like it won't give you a heart attack.

There's no hiding the fact that sizes in everything have become increasingly larger over the past few decades, but a small at DD stays true to an actual fucking small. The price, in comparison to most chains, is right on, so you can't feel too ripped off when a small (er, a tall) at Starbucks is over two bucks.

The color, the shape, the way it somehow comes across as actually being "affectionate." Like it'll snuggle up next to you during movie time or bring you your slippers in the morning. No other inanimate object that holds liquid can be so adorable and cuddly.

AHH IT'S SO DAMN CUTE.

2. Integral Part of Not Over Consuming Coffee

A smaller cup of coffee will allow a smaller amount of coffee to be consumed, duh.

If I'm not careful, I can chug coffee all through the day. If I were to buy anything larger than a small, I will drink it. There's no doubt about it. I have no control over myself. By keeping the level low, I allow myself room to breathe, room to enjoy and savor. Call me dedicated, but if I'm staring down the barrel of a large, hot cup of brew, I will do anything in my power to put it's hot power inside of me.

I immediately go into those sweaty, bizarre fits of hallucination from drinking too much, of course. So keeping it to a minimum, I avoid the crash and keep my face dry. I hate it when I get that "sweaty upper lip" thing. Hate it.

3. Perfect Amount of Coffee, Allowing Perfect Intake of Unnecessary Sugar and Cream

I like cream and sugar with my coffee. There. I said it. Most die-hards and connoisseurs of the game will gladly point out the failure in diluting the actual taste of coffee, but I can't help it. Well, let me be more specific: I can't help it at Dunkin' Donuts.

There's just something so right and pure with their coffee to cream to sugar ratio. I don't ever dabble in sugary coffees when it comes to anywhere else -- it's like not drinking booze for a while. You spend a few weeks getting wasted every night, the thrill of it eventually dissolves, and before you know it you're just a plain ol', dirty drunk. But when you space it out over time, nothing hits the spot like eight, big fat margaritas. So if you're pumping in sugar every day, all day, nonstop, where do you go from there to up the ante? Crushing Mike and Ikes into your cup of joe? Using a Butterfinger as a stirrer?

Usually, I stick with a small, just cream on weekdays. I feel a sense of accomplishment when the work week is over (strumming a guitar and watching movies can take a serious toll on a man) so I indulge in a bit of the sugar-sauce on the weekends.

This category covers a lot of things (taste, quantity, quality, price) leaving me with the worst time to come up with another reason number three.

...

Which I can't. So here's a picture of Tendril from the Inhumanoids.

Because it's so fucking cool.

Masters of the Uni-Piece Theatre, Episode 1.