KOTSU ARTWORK RULES!

Next month, we'll be pushing one of our classic Calabrese deals, where if you purchase over twenty-five bucks worth of swag at our online merch store, you'll get yourself a signed tour poster of our last...well, tour. The east coast one, where we hit up St. Louis to New York to Erie, PA and then all the way back across the country to Phoenix, AZ. I'm still fighting off the crippling boredom endured during that time. The entire trip was beautiful, and I wouldn't change anything about it. We met incredible people and played some sweaty shows. But my life has straightened out, I've returned to a normal change of pace and I'm here to keep your bedroom walls covered in Calabrese junk. Keep reading...

So a friend of ours, by the mysterious and mystical name of Kotsu, has immortalized us in the world of artistic immortality. She's done so much for us, and we love it. SHE IS THE SHIT.

All around, Kotsu is a great gal who's done us an insane amount of awesomeness by drawing a bunch of cool stuff, everything from us surfing the galaxies in/on an automobile, to us looking buff as shit. That's the magic with band artwork. Through everything you've ever seen of Calabrese drawn, animated, etc., I'm positive you all think I'm a ripped and sexual beast. And that is absolutely accurate in every way imaginable.

Kotsu, in real life, is super shy and cute as a button. She's been to a handful of our shows and I've been charmed every single time. She speaks low, accurately and to the point. I like that. No bullshit, all killer and no filler. She's smart, fun and one hell of a gal. Am I gushing? I'm gushing. Check her out, folks:

http://kotsu-direngrey.deviantart.com/

So I wanted to show off everything she's done for us, whether it be out of pure love or through shadowy threats in dark alleyways. I really like the style, the color, everything she pulls out of her back pocket. I like how it's super manga-fied, which is bad-ass because I really, really like how I totally resemble the dude from Cowboy Bebop with pointy ears. Don't worry, this blog all connects because we will be selling one of her pieces, which turns out to be the greatest poster ever.

Someone mentioned at a show once that the first poster (seen down below, the one we're selling) reminded them of classic monster cereals, like Frankenberry or Boo Berry. I love this connection, because I love it when food makes my teeth hurt.

Yeah, I'm showing off. I know this. I'm not ashamed. I want this bizarre world of ours to be more prominent in Calabrese-ness. I want the smear and stain of Calabrese to be in your face and online. I love the idea of clogging up the internet with all things Calabrese, whether it be insane art, photos or music. I've mentioned it before, but it deserves to be said that all the chubby Italian dudes and broccoli shots filling up google searches will be replaced with horror-rock album covers and me and my brothers' ugly mugs. In a perfect world, it would also replace the photos of us six years ago, where I looked like Robert Smith and our main choice of dress was "cowboy." But not cool cowboy. Trust me. It was bad cowboy.

So check it out. Kotsu rules. Our new poster will be made available first thing next month, so keep your eyes out for that. Get psyched. Get stoked. Get wild.

She makes us look good and the Internet is now a better place because of it. A place full of prank videos, hardcore pornography and of course...Calabrese. Yay!

Dear, Birra Moretti.

You are my friend. A long distant chum imported from Italy. A premium lager in six shimmering bottles. You don't pride yourself on quantity, for even though you're a .8 ounces away from a solid 12 ounce bottle of beer, you make up for it in golden power and taste. You can only be described as a magical elixir that can cure all ailments and diseases. Or ground up, liquefied leprechaun bones.

You wear a fedora, and I like that. Your suit is green, which so beautifully matches said fedora, and I am pleased by that, too. Your mustache is fun, and can only be elevated in hilarity once you get it smothered in beer foam. Which will most definitely happen, because you are awesome.

You've taught me so much, Birra Moretti. You've given me strength to learn a foreign language, for now I know that "tradizione" means "tradition," and "qualita" means "quality." And I will take this knowledge and use it wisely and and in the most intelligent way imaginable. Like naming my firstborn female child "Qualita." It's got a certain flair to it.

The mystery of who you are and what you do only adds to the appeal, Birra Moretti.

Are you a puppet maker? Do you design and fashion wooden shoes in a cramped and dusty store? Are you all alone while you work, Birra? Are you a widower? Did you lose a child to a gang of gypsies? Is that what's driving you to drink?

Is "Birra" your first name? Is your name the way "beer" sounds in an overblown Italian accent? Or am I that stupid to just realize, while writing that last sentence, that "Birra" simply and obviously means "beer?" Me dumb. Me so very dumb.

But what about Moretti? Is Moretti your last name? Why, upon closer inspection, do you start looking so mysterious and sinister? What are you hiding, Birra Moretti? Check below, you'll be surprised to notice a clenched fist being made. Hiding something, Birra? Or am I mistaking it for rage?

Everything about you is an enigma, and I wouldn't have it any other way while getting drunk. You're an absolute delight with a dark and tortured past, or a fun loving party animal with heavy stock in goofy beer bongs and inflatable palm trees.

And that's that.

I love you, Birra Moretti.

I LOVE YOU.

"Congo" is My Favorite Movie Ever.

"Congo," a film released in 1995, is one of my favorite movies to watch. Based entirely around a talking monkey and diamonds the size of plums, there's nothing this movie won't do to entertain and delight. I've seen it enough times to know that it's a pretty awful turd of a flick, but with anything, my love is compiled of fond memories and deep emotional attachments to a gorilla with a Nintendo Power Glove. Oh, and Tim Curry. Tim Curry is great.

Now, I'm not sure what could be said right now, how to plump this up outside of a simple "me like." I thought about summarizing the movie, detail upon blissful detail, completely out of pure delight for no one but me. I even entertained the idea of drawing my Top Three Favorite Scenes in Paint, but my heart, as you will soon find out, just ain't in it.

You see, my computer died. It didn't live a happy, healthy life and finally and peacefully closed it's eyes for all eternity, rather, it fried so completely and irreversibly, your apartment dumpster just gained a new friend. I'd like to imagine they'd be buddies, but truthfully, I know the dumpster is glad for the food. My dumpster is evil.

At this point, my computer has been reduced to a mess of strange clicking sounds and whirring noises. The monitor is showing a screen full of confusing text, with options and pathways leading you no where, everywhere and back to the beginning all over again. System error this, system failure that. Silver lining? Kinad looks like something out of TRON.

Right now I'm using a laptop, which is not my favorite thing at all. No immediate mouse, continual and painful hunching, fat fingers mashing tiny keys, etc. The thought of using this shitty device has been keeping me away from my fragile and delicate life online. The first days were total hell, where the thought of not returning semi-important e-mails and updating my Facebook with what color my underwear is was my surefire descent into madness. I get the shakes, I feel nervous, confused and agitated that I'm not able to see what the fuck is up.

Thankfully, I got over it and returned to reality. I'm now more in touch with human emotion. I've adopted a new outlook on living a green life and have given up gluten cold turkey. When all three of these are combined and added up, it means I'm better than you. Sorry.

To get through the tough time, I turned to all outlets for an answer. I boozed 'til I couldn't see straight, I ate until I was bloated, I watched endless amounts of terrible TV to fill the lonely void. I also popped in my "Congo" DVD.

It helped me keep sane, which is a lot to do for a guy who's life is based entirely around the size of his itunes library. Which, of course, is so dead and gone my main priority at this point is to buy and spend and cry my way into happiness. The thought of re-entering all of my CDs is a harrowing thought, people. I know I can pick and choose the best of the best, to keep the task to a minimum, but I want everything on there. I like the idea of knowing it's all there. I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT NOW.

Nevermind the fact that all of my stored photos have been erased and now cease to exist, where the last five or six years of Calabrese's existance is now null and void. It's a good thing, though, but I suppose you'll never see the elusive pictures of me when I wore massive black creepers, had painted fingernails and thought I was, through and through, an actual vampire. FML.

I don't know why, but the film is great. It's just the right amount of terrible acting, plot and setup to keep you watching. To be fair, though, the jungle scenes can get a bit tedious, but as soon as Amy, beautiful, ridiculous Amy, uses her robot-hands to speak in a creepy robot-voice, everything is just bettter. Life is divine. The world is sublime.

So there you have it. That's why I haven't been around in a while. At least "Congo" saved me. I'll update a bit more as soon as I get used to these laptop jitters, and as soon as I own up to the fact that the next thing I'm dying to write about is, once again, Pokemon. C'mon! I started putting them in my Castle Greyskull as they're personal cave/hidden hideout/swank clubhouse! It's fucking precious!

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?