Raven's Brew Gourmet Coffee.

I've already been blasting this image all over the web, but I'm not about to pump the brakes on horror-themed coffee beans.

Our good friend, Kristen, sent us through the mail and into our filthy hands, just in time for the new album. Her idea was that we'd brew these up during the week and half long session in the studio, providing warmth, energy and that shaky, puke-y feeling you get after too many cups. Her idea is welcome, and will be put to the test. Normally, Hollywood would lead you to believe that "life in the studio" is all sex, drugs and rock and roll. Turns out it's just coffee, mugs and your mouth hole.

"Raven's Brew," the centerpiece of Raven's Brew coffee, is the least of my favorite, but still very loved. The image on the front draws you to the idea that you're drinking ground up raven bones, with the spirit of the raven floating and soaring all up in you. You can do a lot of raven-y things with that information. Like fly great distances over this great land of ours or peck the shit out of someone's eyes.

I like this, because I would love it if a wolf in women's clothing served me coffee. The spookiness adds great charm, even if it's just a dumb Little Red Riding Hood themed packaging. Avoid Dumb LRRH, stare into the eyes of the wicked wolf. Look at the glowing moon. Enjoy.

This is my favorite. It's everything I need in advertising, which, apparently, is a sleepy skeleton in bed. Extra points for the description of "our famous high speed blend," making me think of doing jumps on a motorcycle or the quickness of which my bowels will blow up.

I feel it's a great and simple way to get the point across, too, mimicking nearly everyone's initial rise from slumber. The pained eyes, the gross mouth and the throbbing temples. On the worst mornings, I swear I might be dead, if only for that hibernation-shattering, split second. The only redeeming quality and any inspiration to get the fuck up is, of course, coffee. The smell, the taste, the instant shits. I am that skeleton. I'm looking into a mirror with this. This is the perfect blend of coffee. I've yet to taste any of these, but they're perfect. I just know it.

Totally perfect.

Jungle Balcony.

I love a good patio.

It offers a sunny refuge from dark and cramped apartment living, allowing a breath of fresh air to calm and relax the nerves.

Some balconies suck. It's the way it goes. I refuse to take part in that, though. You're not guaranteed a shimmering oasis while hunting for a place to live, so when life gives you a lemony, outdoor balcony, you make lemonade outdoor balcony. I'm sorry, I suck at anagrams. It's called an anagram, right? ENOUGH WITH THE NUMBERS LET'S MOVE ON.

You know what I mean, though. If you're like me, you enjoy a solid sit outside every so often to break up the monotony of sitting inside, most likely in front of a computer or TV. So we escape to our summer fortress, our humble, nature filled hideout. We like to think, drink a cold beverage, annoy the neighbors with the constant strumming of an acoustic guitar.

My balcony/patio/haven is gated by a large, stucco wall. It hits right above the waist and overlooks the middle of the complex, so I'm completely sealed off from the rest of the world if I decided to sit down on the floor or, coincidentally, take photos of all the crap you're about to see. I have a few chairs, a washer and dryer behind closed doors and spider lights from Halloween three years ago. This is where it all began.

Normally, and originally, I wanted the "tiki" theme. It's a perfectly acceptable theme, but through the years I've never managed to actually do it. Call it procrastination, but I guess I'm unwilling to buy bamboo and hula skirts and hang them on the wall. I tried a Halloween motif, with glowing spiders and billowing ghosts, but why would I want to mirror what was already going on inside my place?

These days, I've created my own version of the tried and true "Hawaiian" theme, but with a little more creative flair. Through manipulation of the objects around me and the continual lack of any direction, I've created The Jungle Balcony.

I do like tropical and I do like Halloween, but both don't involve clever recycling of soon-to-be-trash.

You see, what I have now is a quick and easy way to involve both leftover fake plants from an old roommate and all the dinosaur toys a grown-up doesn't want displayed in his apartment. Also involved: cigarette butts, bottle caps and the occasional, lone sock. I'm a mess.

So let us journey through my own "Jurassic Park," my very own secluded wonderland where I can do laundry naked and spy at all the pretty girls down at the community pool.

That was probably the creepiest thing I could have ever said.

Ahh, yes! The journey begins! What we have here is the entrance to the jungle, loaded with ferns and dinosaurs and nothing that would ever be found in a jungle. Will there be a gorilla involved? What about a tiger? Here's a hint: NO.

Blue Dinosaur guards the entryway, arms in attack position, eyes aglow with either hate or confusion. You're new to him, so he's still a little wary of your presence. He's also at a loss as to whether he's to scale with the rest of his surroundings, or one of those tiny dinosaurs that attack a little girl in "Lost World." He is, altogether, quite confused on a lot of things.

What lies beyond? Who claims the two white-tipped feet? And is that a green dinosaur?

Surprise, surprise. The greenest and the meanest.

I got this at a swap meet. Rather, Davey got it at a swap meet and I either bought if from him or stole it. Whatever the case, it's now a part of my world and will be a constant reminder of "Roseanne," where you can plainly see a Godzilla toy, much like this one, behind their couch in every episode. You don't have to watch all of them to know what I'm talking about, though, just watch the one's that count. Which is all the Halloween specials and the era of Darlene as a comic book writing, flannel wearing rebel.

Past the G-Man is...well, another green dino, accompanied by a hula-girl much intended for the dash of my car and not an empty pot. It was another "one of those things" I never got around to doing, and instead chucked it outside to rot. There is no sadness in this, because I'm sure if I had a dancing, wobbling toy to stare at while driving, I would surely crash and die in a ball of flames.

Oh, and that thing! The thing next to it! My battery-powered fountain!

This was a daring purchase at Walgreen's, and I only use the word "daring" because it's an astoundingly boring story if I didn't. You shove in a few batteries, add a cup of water and press play, allowing the shock and awe of a serene, bubbling geyser to wash over you. Not literally, but figuratively. I hate being wet. And so do you.

I think I've only seen it in action once, but boy, was it beautiful. It now remains as a silent, stoic statue, imagined as a shrine to the part in "Temple of Doom" where Indy and the gang, in the jungle, stumble upon weird statues...covered in blood. The entire scene was horrifying, and has always been a constant image in the back of my mind. I mean, geez, you try to adventure and explore and you're hit in the face with blood-soaked totem poles. Nothing says "bonerkill" like blood soaked totem poles.

I think I might paint streaks of red over it, for the full effect. Or dribble a bit of maraschino cherry juice over the top.

Unfortunately, Jungle Balcony has come to an end. I hope you had a good time, and cordially invite you to any Saturday night parties or holiday themed jamborees to check it out for yourself. Will I really invite you over for fun and games? Do I dare propose my home as your own?

Here's a hint: NO.

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.