Chicken Goo.

For whatever reason, I've been enamored with chicken salad sandwiches.  The flavors, the design, the irreversible flaw of eating that weird tin of watery chicken.  Somewhere there is a question being asked, and it has been answered.

"Chicken salad sandwiches."

Amen.

Now, one of the reasons I like it so much is that it's delicious.  Plain and simple.  A potent mixture of canned chicken, celery, pecans, grapes and apples on toasted bread that will charm and delight.  Other people choose to add other ingredients, but I think I hit my "chopping up stuff into little pieces limit" with four.  I only have so much time to spare.

Besides the dangerous act of using a cutting knife (shit's sharp, yo!) another reason is that it's simple to make.  Well, relatively simple.  I've recently put myself into a routine of making a huge ton of some kind of food at the beginning of the week -- it saves time, effort and the stress of finding something to feed yourself from day to day.  Believe me, it's the ultimate in pre-planned laziness and zero desire to step outside of my consumption boundaries.  No joke, when we're not on the road and at home, I've been eating this junk for at least a month and a half straight.

I dub my creation, "Chicken Goo."

"Goo" because, well, it's of a goo nature, and nothing weirds people out like mentioning you ate a "goo" for dinner the night before.  I usually like to complete the meal with a side of Colby cheese and Triscuits, but that's neither here nor there.

Really looks like puke, am I right?  Unfortunately, that's all I've got to say on that.  A bucket of goo.  Resembling a bucket of vomit.  Which I love to eat.

MY GOD IT'S BEEN A SLOW WEEK.

7-11 Monster Cups.

I like to drink stuff.  All sorts of liquids, sludges and beverages.  If I had my way, it would be from a crystal skull, as made apparent in the last post.  I will settle for monster themed cups from an early 80's 7-11.

There they are, stacked up and desperately needing a washing.  Been sitting in the corner of my room for months, and only now have I decided to pull them out for all of my cup needs.  And of course, I have zero proof that these are from the early 80's.  It's a logical guess, assuming "logical" meant "random" and "uninspired."

Yesss.

The history of these things?  No idea.  All I can tell you is that they bring a certain sense of 80's nostalgia to my household, even though I didn't even exist before 1984.  There's something about the goofy artwork, the soft, ugly coloring and the charm of simply having crude monsters plastered on a tall cup of Dr. Pepper.  Don't like Dr. Pepper?  Then these aren't for you.

I won't bother finding out why these were produced, or what event they were being affiliated with at the time, because it's better this way.  It's better not knowing/creating my own scenario.  It makes sense to me that these are simply existing in a easier, more relaxed time, next to junk food and crappy magazines.  These were invented out of a curiosity, a demand for fun in an otherwise shitty work week.  I want to think that at a 7-11 board meeting, with the President of the company in tow, while discussing the future of their various soda cups and Slurpee junk and other dumb shit, simply asked themselves, "Why the hell not?"  And that's how the universe was created.

All lined up in a row, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  Call it a certain vibe, call it my uncanny ability to get excited over electric green swamp trolls -- it all adds up to a thrilling Thursday night.

I want to take photos of every single cup and explain to you, in vivid detail, how and why I love each one.  But, if you've noticed, there are eight cups total, and this is, as mentioned, a Thursday night.  I've very busy on Thursday nights.  Maybe I'll show you my top three?  Top two?  There's just no time to article all eight, individual monsters OH FINE I'LL DO IT.

We'll meet in the middle.

These are my Top Four Monster Cups From 7-11:

I'd hate to be obvious and overt, but I had to go with "Zombie."  The red sun reminds me of "Dawn of the Dead" and his body looks like it's melting into a fine, Thanksgiving Day gravy.  That is perfect on multiple levels.

Did I mention each cup had it's own monster biography?  If all the imagery and scenarios swirling around in your brain wasn't enough, you're given a complimentary back story to fill in the gaps and plot holes.  Before, my zombie lived alone and worked at a hip restaurant.  He served tables well and achieved decent tips.  Now, he's cursed to wander eternally in the nether regions between life and death.  I like my version better.

Legitimately reading it through, it's a pretty cool bio.  I really couldn't have said it better myself.  Actually, I could, and can.  In a song for our next record.  I love you, 7-11 Monster Cups.

Number two on the list is "The Cave Thing," because he's so fucking tough he doesn't even have a proper name.  Unless it really is "The Cave Thing," like The Thing from Fantastic Four.  Then that's just lazy.

Why wouldn't I pick "Troll?"  Troll features multiple attributes I look for in a monster -- green, fauna-like skin, puffy lips and a puzzled, almost inquisitive look.  But angry inquisitive.  He is a monster, for God's sake.

I might be the only one who thinks the "Ghost Riders" are cool.  Even my younger self would have scoffed at the idea of a couple of skeletons riding dead horses, but then again, my younger self sucks ass.  Because these are skeletons riding dead horses!  Wearing scarves!  And cowboy hats!  I think I blew it on this one!

See you next week, dudes.

Space Duck.

Do you know Andrew Barr?  You don't?  Besides being the sole creator of such classic album cover art as "13 Halloweens," as well as various panels in "The Traveling Vampire Show," "They Call Us Death" and "Dayglo Necros," he's a pretty decent and down to Earth kinda guy.  I think.  It's what I've heard on the streets, at least.  Besides all the frighteningly offensive stuff.

Recently, he asked me to do something.  Naturally, I told him to shove it, but since my contract has rendered me useless in avoiding his pleas, I had to, by law, entertain this peon.

He asked me to send him a suggestion in what to draw.  For fun.  For shits and giggles.  Well, sure thing, buddy!

But...of what?

Now, in high school, I did everything I could to avoid realizing I was in high school.  I read during class, I puttered about and I doodled.  A lot.  Most of my teachers could expect that "special touch" on all of my papers and tests -- a girl smiling here, a monster head there.  If I could scratch my pencil into it, I drew on it.  Of anything and everything.

Mostly mummies.  I had a fascination with mummies, if only because they were easy and fun to draw.  All the wraps were an effort in fine tuning, and if I screwed up, hell, it looked like it was a part of the mess of mummy toilet paper, anyway.

I drew a lot of aliens, too.  "Mars Attacks" had recently come out, and I grew into such a fervid frenzy when it came to monsters from another planet.  I only had one way of drawing my specialty brand of alien, but they always had a jet pack (connected by a bunch of random hoses and wires) wore boots and had goofy, snarled teeth.  But now I'm just repeating myself, 'cause Jimmy did a whole article about it all a few months back, which, HEY AWESOME, you can read it all here.

Where?

HERE.

More to the point, during my rebellious teenage years, I drew notebook upon notebook full of what I have deemed space ducks.  What are "space ducks?"  Exactly what you think they are -- ducks from space.

Are they real?  Do they exist?  I support the idea that, yes, yes they do exist.

There is no logical explanation is to how or why I decided to sketch ducks in an infinite abyss of darkness, or how I remain firm in the stance that they could live in this reality, bouncing around and quacking at the moon -- so I won't even try.  Aside from the obvious holes in my theory, the only thing I can think of as to why I would draw these is that they were...I dunno, cute?  They wore tiny little astronaut helmets, for God's sake.  And, alright, as with the mummies, they were really easy to draw, too.  Doodling ain't supposed to be rocket science, man.

The point is that now, fifteen years later, I'm getting someone else to interpret my artistic styling, my doodling duck obsession.

Andrew drew his Space Duck:

Looks good.  For me, I find joy in the multiple eyes, and the scientifically accurate lack of any shoes.  Space ducks don't wear shoes, silly.

Surprisingly, it looks almost identical to my vision, which makes me think that, apparently, there's really only one way to draw a "space duck."

Honest to God, I've been drawing that thing since freshman math class.

I regret nothing.

Crystal Head Vodka.

We know the story behind these things -- skull shaped bottles of vodka, either endorsed/created by Dan Akroyd or completely not.  We know they're filled with vodka, we know they're vaguely mystic and might make you hallucinate.  Or at least that's what we hope.

Now, Dan Akroyd.  His brand is "Crystal Head Vodka."  We've seen them around, we've all fancied a taste of this perfectly timed assault on our livers -- "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" was, like, just released.  I have now idea if it all happened in one, hasty blur, but a quick search and I've found that it's purely coincidental that two factions of entertainment have included a crystal skull as their mascot, but I prefer to think it's all tied in to one another.  Dan Akroyd wrote the movie and George Lucas pees in each bottle.

Of course, there are the knock-offs.  I think.  I'm not entirely certain, but I'm sure I've seen counterfeit versions.  It's a natural move for any booze company, and wholly deserved by myself and anyone else who gets excited by shiny skulls and liquor.  It just makes that liquor...better, ya know?

Is this a knock-off?  Not sure.  While others explore variants like "Skull Vodka Crystal" or "Vodka Crystal Skull Head," I decided that I should name my own.  I like "Brain Goo Juice."  World, meet the first bottle of Brain Goo Juice.

The variations on this shit are seemingly endless, yet all perfectly acceptable.  Because if it's a clear cranium and it's full of booze, it's a step in the right direction -- a world dominated by all liquids being presented in a glass skull.  Slurpees, Diet Coke, orange juice, you name it.  If I could fit a spoon into the top, I'd fancy myself a root beer float right about now.

While at our last show in Vegas, our pal, Ian Lovecraft, stocked us up with a few miniature versions of these guys.  I love 'em.  In fact, dare I say they might be better than the larger ones?  Why?

CUZ THEY"RE SO DAMN CUTE THAT"S WHY.

It will be showcased next to it's bigger brothers, alongside an unfinished Chia Pet and a few bottles of True Blood.  I wish my social personality matched the eccentric nature of the top of my fridge.  Wacky coozies, empty sake bottles, a wooden drawing figure, etc.  From the photo above, you'd think I was a cross between Liberace and a purveyor of mini-clothing for mini-mannequins.  Who, of course, would be craaaazy.

Thanks, Ian!

Ancient Calabrese Artifact Number 28: One Size Fits All Van Halen Cap.

This hat. A red, floppy Van Halen hat-thing.

I don't know what it is about this hat, but I can't get rid of this.  I have zero use for a Van Halen cap, but that's not the point.  It's about memories, man.  It's about a red, Van Halen hat.

Growing up, there were two rooms in the house that I'd sneak into.  Not counting my parent's room around Christmastime, it was either the older brother's room or the older sister's.  Now, naturally, I'd always make it a priority to snoop around in Jimmy's cave.  I'd rifle through his Batman comics, wear his monster masks and dig, ever so carefully, through his dark and sacred closet.  This was a ballsy move on every account, tense and nerve shattering.  If you were legitimately caught in someone else's bedroom, it's plausible that you could construct a web of lies to save your ass, but it's nearly impossible to talk your way out of being in someone else's closet.  You might as well be pant-less and covered in maraschino cherry juice -- you're plain ol' fucked.

So I'd rummage through his closet, loaded with his secrets and most prized possessions.  Since every older brother ever hides the good stuff either on the top shelf or under a pile of dirty clothes, that is where I hit first.  I only ever found a pack of cigarettes or a cassette tape with questionable art, both of which I might have just made up since I can barely even remember what happened last week, but you get the point.  It was always an awesome display of cool shit.  He had the D&D stuff, he had the cut-off denim jacket with a bad-ass skull on the back, he had the friggin' rubber nun-chucks.   It was a magical portal into teenage taboo and wonder, an introduction into a whole new world of demons and fire and fake ninja stuff!  It was the greatest place in the entire world!

But.

My older sister's room.  It was, geographically, on the complete other side of the house.  And it was, of course, unbelievably forbidden and off limits.  Which was fine, since why would I want to go in there?  It was my sister's room, for God's sake, with Garfield stuff and girly VHS and a dumb girl Pillow People.  It was pink and I hated it.

So, yeah.

I HAD TO GO IN THERE.

If only because it was so strange, different and not evil.  It was the total opposite of Older Brother's Room, which intrigued and fascinated me.  I knew in my heart of hearts that nothing beyond her door would be cool, but...what if?  What if there was something cool?  What if the Holy Grail of Dangerous Shit was hidden in my sister's room the entire time?  Switchblades!  Used bullets!  A dead snake with a cherry bomb in it's mouth!

Yeah-fucking-right.

I knew it wasn't possible, but at least I knew.  Everything was foreign to me, which was kinda cool, but it wasn't cutting the cake.  I did, however, get a good glimpse into the fascinating world of hidden diaries, cutesy slippers and George Michael.  Oh, and I guess a Van Halen thing that you wear on your head.

Lots of stuffed animals, too, as well as a TV that pretty much trumped everything.  Man, a TV in your bedroom?  Fuckin' golden.

I don't recall how I ended up with this hat, or why I still have it.  I can't even be sure my older sister even liked Van Halen.  I can't be too sure of anything, really.  Was this bought at a concert?  At the mall?  Did people actually wear this kinda thing? It might have been passed down from older sister to younger sister to me.  Totally possible, since I'll take anything that isn't shit.  Like, literal shit.  Who'd want shit?

Years later, I'm thinking it's the kind of hat bicyclists wear, like Lance Armstrong rocking out to "Hot For Teacher" while pedaling through France.  For the longest time I thought it was...I dunno, for show?  It's just so ugly and floppy and red.  I like the graphic on the side.  I like the weak and paper-like brim.  I like it all and I don't know why.

She had a lot of stuff I'd eventually pocket, but yeah.  It's hard to go any further with this, so I'm gonna bow out before things get weird.  Are things weird yet?  Yeah, I thought so, too.

See ya next week!

Treasure Hunting/Spring Cleaning.

Really, I just needed needed some space.  Really, I needed to throw away old socks and that really big pile of paper under the bed.  It was supposed to be so simple, yet it turned into a call to action, a right to spring clean, a total fucking obsession.

My main goal was to get rid of excess clutter to open up some breathing room -- I kinda went overboard.  I went through my jungle of toys, yes, but I also combed through my clothes, my closets and the dreaded Junk Drawer.  I understand the need for the junk drawer, and de-junking it defeats the purpose of it's existence, but what can I say?  I was on a roll.

First thing I did was buy a couple of plastic bins.  These bins are sturdy, solid and mean.  They serve as chests for my treasure, the stuff that's worthy of a grand showcase, yet unavailable for such treatment due to space issues.  I have two closets -- these will go into Closet A, while Closet B will serve as the closet for real-life stuff, like mops and suitcases and tools I don't know how to use.  I hate that closet.  

Of course, I had to grab an extra bin for all the stuff that I will, sadly, get rid of.  There was the immediate garbage bag for trash, another bag for instant clothing donation and then THE BIN OF SADNESS, for everything else that can either be thrown away, sold or donated.  This bin is vague and in limbo.  And probably won't leave my apartment until next Easter.

Make no mistake, it ain't something I wanna do, but the dawning of a new day is upon us and I'm really hyped up on coffee right now.  Plus, those damn bins were kinda pricey SO I'M USING THEM.

Well, there it is.

I started out by dumping everything that isn't attached to a wall onto the floor.  I then sat down and sorted the good from the bad, the literal garbage from the huge collection of dead pens and old movie ticket stubs.  These, of course, aren't garbage.  These are memories.  There are pens from hotel lobbies we've stayed out, ticket stubs from great films I've seen and incredible shows I attended.  They might be pathetic pieces of scrap paper to you, but to me?  They're life.  They're a recollection of my past.  And I can never get rid of them or kick them to the curb and oh my God I'm never going to finish this shit.

Actually, doing this really sucked, but it was fun to rummage though all the debris I haven't even though about it years.  A lot went into the "discard" pile," bit a whole hell of a lot more went into the "Never Leave My Sight Again" pile.
But I did it.  Heaven above, I did it.

Donate?  Sell?  Melt down into a really cool bonfire?  Donating it would be cool, where I can instantly get a free pass to be a dick for at least two weeks, where as trying to sell this much rubble would be staggering.  I even think it would be rad to send it out to a lucky as a contest prize, but even then, the shipping along would destroy me.  I'm entertaining the idea of throwing everything off a really tall building and calling it even.

Just...everything.  There is no rhyme and reason to my buying habits, it's all madness and bizarre.  Lobsters, chattering teeth, Micro Machines Chewbacca play set or something.  I have no idea what I own and what I like and what I'm getting rid of anymore.  Everything is hazy and I'm seeing double.  The pressure to finally clean shop and the constant flow of dust into my lungs has put me over the edge!  I hate crocodiles!  There is no God!  I want my two dollars!

That's where all the good stuff is.  Securely locked away in the closet in it's own bins, festering and molding and radiating awesomeness.  Even after all this straightening up, I still harbor three and half tubs of action figures and God knows what else.  And this is just the stuff that can't fit anywhere else.  Because there's other stuff.  All over the place.

I can't say I'm not bummed.  Not that I'm getting rid of all this crap, or am slowly starting to hide my precious cargo from prying eyes, but because, after all this, I realize I barely did a damn thing.  It's the effort that counts, right?

There is a point to all this -- amidst the rubble, I've uncovered lost items and artifacts from my childhood.  Seemingly meaningless, banal stuff, but really sentimental to me.  It's hard to explain why, as you'll eventually see, but it's excellent blog fodder for future use, so I'm excited that intentionally wasted a Friday night wading in a mound of old receipts and bent Transformers.

But that'll have to wait until next week.  I've got fourterrn more episodes of "Masters of Horror" to get through tonight, and ain't nothin' gonna stop me.

Priorities, man.

"Ghostwolves."

 "Ghostwolves," track four off of our new album, is a perfectly good song that, if I had my way, would never have made it on the album.

Of course, as it always is, it just so happens that it turns out to be EVERYONE'S FAVORITE SONG EVER.  This is a prime example of me over thinking while songwriting, as well as me learning to just chill the fuck out.

When writing, I tend to analyze and pick apart every little thing, the smallest and minute details during the songwriting process, which either helps carve songs into musical gold, or just makes shit take forever to get done.  It's a classic double edged sword scenario, it's good and it's bad, it's whatever.

Point is, I thought the song sucked.  Not a hard suck, but a milder and gentler suck.  It was an undefined suck, a suck I couldn't exactly pin down -- it just didn't feel right when we played it live.  We practiced it and it just didn't gel, ya know?  However, to make a long and aimless story short, once we recorded it...everything sounded great.

I can't remember or understand what I was getting at, though.  Perhaps I'm gonna write more, over think less?  Maybe learn to go with the flow?  And was there something about a sword?

Also, what exactly are "ghostwolves?"  Can there be a singular "ghostwolf?"  What would they even look like?  I either don't know or I'm purposely being vague and secretive.  But here's my current artistic interpretation, via notebook that I doodle/write in:

Is that what they really look like? Yes and no. I can't imagine you'd think we'd compose an entire song about an angry ghost in-between two things that clearly aren't wolves, but below, a puffy cloud with evil eyes makes an appearance.  I think this is the ghostwolf, and you think it, too.  It has to be.  It's was an intense and mindless scribble that ended up making sense.  I really should have crossed out his eyes, though.  Or had the ghost riding on top of Mr. Ghostwolf, perhaps in a saddle, perhaps not.  Perhaps I had this all planned out from the very beginning, and if you were to listen to the lyrics of the song, this post and that art would be understood completely.  It really is about saddles and clouds and fluffy looking animals.

Or perhaps not.