Oh Thank Heaven it's 2011

why should we be thankful that 2010 is almost dead and gone? Because it was a hellish year filled with misery and despair. However, it was by no means a boring year, what with all injuries, broken hearts, broken dreams, and facebook status alterations. So let us all try to forgive, forget, rejoice, and make a toast to existence, because life is certainly long enough to squeeze in ample doses of insanity.



In the spirit of squeezing things into places... I am filling the Clog with any left over images captured with my half broken screenless digital camera before 2010 is officially over. Because as we all know, once 2011 crashes down upon us none of them will be relevant anymore.
During the final weeks of 2010 Jesse actually ate a donut without me having to force him. Congratulations Boner, your rolling with the hard hitting fools.



"Pull over right here dude, I need to take a picture of this sweet sunset." 2010 was home to many a glorious sunrise and sunset, but barely anyone except myself witnesses the earlier.



In 2010 Tyler's garage was adorned with chronic Christmas crystals, while his eyes were adorned with his eyelids.



Supersmash Bro. was very important during 2010, and I hope the trend carries over into the coming year(s). Clark appears stoked.



Once upon a rainy day, we had ourselves a nice little underground sesh.



Peace out twenty ten.

The Glog Clog

My attempt to post a wholesome heap of Clog each day of December has failed miserably, and I no longer have the luxury of blaming school or society (even though I still feel like society is at fault for most other things that go horribly wrong in this world, screw society!). Instead of worry about fulfilling some primal urge to Clog daily, I have decided to just let the Clog flow freely without any self induced pressure. Yesterday was coated in mist and darkness, but the comradery broke through the clouds like a lightning bolt from Zeus.



There are days when the fog settles in the hills of Los Gatos and it feels like there is no more comfortable place on earth.



Warmth and wonder.



The stairway to heaven... on the balcony of Los Gatos Bar and Grill.



Riders on the storm.



With the right combination of spices, booze, and nuts (all of which I adore) one can create Glog.



This potent little drink will warm your body and spirit. Perfect for the holiday, and with a name like Glog, it is even more perfect for The Clog. This marks the first time there has ever been a blog called Clog that features a drink called Glog. Dr. Seuss would be proud of my alliteration.



Mike decided to bop his hispanic head though the curtain of mist and say hello to everyone in San Jose. He was only here long enough to look cute (I'd do him in a heart beat), play some beer pong, and get some bbq chicken shoved down his throat but it brightened everyone's day.



Clog follower since day one... the illustrious Ben Fowler.

My Battery has Sprung a Leek so I will Make This Short

Merry Christmas," said the seagull...



and then he shat on your ski mask.

P.s. I understand that I spelled "leak" like "Leek," but I like leeks, so there!

Now drink your Nog my friends!

Tis the Season

To believe in the green fairy!



Drink your absinthe, it does a body strange.

Lost but not Forgotten

Due to numerous seasonal activities (skating Deanza, Drinking at German bars, and dressing up in kilts) I neglected to post anything for Friday the 10th and Saturday the 11th. And due to numerous papers I have to write, I will be posting something quite boring and drab tonight.



High heels and corsets both look torturously uncomfortable, but at least the later makes for some tasty eye candy.



All the single ladies.

8th Day of December Movie Review

I watched The Ice Harvest several years prior to becoming a strip club aficionado, so its charm was somewhat lost on me. Just kidding, I'm too broke to hang out in strip clubs, but no where near too broke to order movies on OnDemand. Take that last phrase however you will, and do ourselves a favor and watch this movie. All star cast and plenty and of holiday b(ch)eer.

Sentimental and Mental

The open windows on my Simpsons advent calendar grow more and more as my chocolate high grows stronger and stronger. I love being greeted by Bart and Homer each morning at 5:00 AM.



Nothing says December and the arrival of Christmas like an advent calendar laced with chocolate goodies. This particular calendar covers each day up to New Years because as we all know, Homer is a fat ass.



My mother always sets up a Christmas village in our kitchen window. As a young child I always envisioned living in an upside down row boat transformed into a house. This still remains one of my life long dreams.



From inside this boat turned house the view of every sunset would always look like this.

Dec. 6th in Clogville

There are nineteen days left until the earth cracks open and a slew of demons burst forth and desecrate the innocent and... oops that was meant for a post during October. What I would really like to share with all of you (meaning Ben Fowler, (if in fact he still reads The Clog) Mikey, and Lane) is the beloved Christmas story of one of my favorite people of all time.

Clogging Through the Holidays

There are twenty days until Christmas, it is the fifth day of Chanukah, and the wind outside is howling at me like a pack menopauseal banshees.



Halloween was soooooo last month, but I will reap the benefits.



Paint the earth yellow with tree shavings.



Behold the loaf of Challah, a Jewish celebration bread consumed on Shabbat and other holidays. I traded this doughy morsel to my Jewish neighbor Larry for some of his homemade latkes. While shooting the shit with him and his family I noticed an empty Coronitas bottle... which should totally stoke out Jesse... but no one else.
More Holiday Clogging to come.

The Harvest is Upon us

The ground is polluted with the dead leaves that once flourished in spring. They lay amongst the snaking vines of the pumpkin ale plant, and the fields are ripe with a cornucopia of malts and hops. You had all better harvest your crops, lest they decompose in the very soil that birthed them.

Subpar Pumpkin

Today I saddled up my bamboo bike and set out for some more frozen pumpkin yum yums. This time I decided to get my fix at one of my childhood haunts, Thrifty Drug Store, or to be more accurate, "The Drug Store Formally Known as Thrifty (aka DSFKT). The name has been changed to Right Aid, but the ice cream remains Thrifty Brand, so don't trip. I have fond memories of coming here while staying at my grandmas house. I can vividly recall the shape of the scooper, the water rinsing faucet it rested in, and the perfect cylindrical form of the scoops, and most of all, the divine taste.



If you were to ask the nine year old Kevin Calderwood how he felt about pumpkin ice cream, he would most likely make an obscene face and mention something about poop. Needless to say my palate has grown considerably, and these days I hardly settle for plain old vanilla (unless of course it is from Dolce Spazio, but that will have to wait until a later post). Unfortunately Thrifty Pumpkin Ice Cream is somewhat bland. I found very little spice in this blend, and a severe lack of richness and depth. There was a nice pumpkin, but after a few bites it became tiresome. Nevertheless, Thrifty Ice Cream brought me back to a simpler and more innocent time in my life. Sometimes, that's all a man needs.

For the Love of the Gourd

Butternut is fine, acorn is just dandy, and I can even get down with a little kabocha, but nothing makes my heart grow wings and soar to the nearest farmer's market like the thought of fresh pumpkin. Nothing brings man closer to nature than a pleasant romp through the local pumpkin patch. And with only a week until Halloween, I would say your chances for gourd glory are growing slim.




I typically prefer my pumpkin flesh roasted and slathered in a little butter or olive oil, but if you have three stomachs and a huge set of horns, I guess it really doesn't make any difference. One man's carving is another cow's scarfing.

Oktober-festering Pile of Bird Flesh

Oktoberfest has come and gone, but memories of melons and meat logs are still fresh in my Spatten splattered mind. While the beer at Campbell's famed Germanic drunkstraviganza is delightful, the real draw for me comes in the phallic form of smoked sausage and sour kraut.



However, this year my mother trumped anything at Oktoberfest with this dish of ham, sausage, kraut, and potatoes.



Quynh would rather hunt for his meals... free range... in the backyard... and drag them into the house... without actually eating... or even completely killing them. Happy Hellweiner Week.

This One's a Doozy

A little rain, a cozy fire, a cat clawing at your face, and of course...
some absolutely terrifying cinematic brain poison. Funny Games does not contain monsters, zombies, hockey mask wearing lunatics, chainsaws, vital organs spilling out of lacerated high school football player's abdomens, or glowing teenage vampires. In fact, Funny Games does not even show a single death on screen. This little gem relays on realistic characters, acting, and camera work to demonstrate just how soulless human beings can be.



To fully experience the perverse inhuman madness of Funny Games be sure to forgo the U.S. remake and watch the original German version. It literally had me screaming obscenities at my television as I watched in horror wishing I could jump in and save the hapless victims. Your probably going to need a good church session after watching this one.

My word, is it October already? Are the days already starting to shrink like a pair of testicles submerged in a frigid lake? Are Gourds begginning to spill out over the stacks of hay piled in front of grocery store parking lots? Yes, yes I do belive so, and I also believe that the world’s tastiest ice cream flavor has recently become available.

Pumpkin ice cream is a fletting dessert that seems to fade away before you can truly get your fill. I am always left wishing I had just one more spoonful of that spicy, creamy, pumpkinny goodness.
Well not this year, because I am dedicating October to sampling as many types of pumpkin ice cream as I possibly can. And first on the list is from Treat Ice Cream. This local Creamery produces some of the smoothest old fashioned ice cream in the greater San Jose area, and their pumpkin blend is no exception. I find it especially enjoyable and unique because the raw flavor of fresh pumpkin really stands out. Treat’s pumpkin ice cream doesn’t bombard the palate with sweetness and spice, but rather uses a subtle blend of cloves, cinnamon, ginger, and allspice to enhance the rustic taste of pumpkin. All of Treat’s ice cream is velvetty smooth too, which is an added bonus. It’s going to be hard to top this one.

That Nigga Jess Jones Pt. 1

I sign onto facebook more and more these days. Am I slipping into the void of nothingness and self glorifying bullshitism? Or am I simply looking for a way of digitally chatting with people whom no longer frequent myspace or ichat? The answer is more shrouded in mystery than my sexual orientation, but one thing is for certain, my online facebook alias will forever be Jess Jones.
I created Jess Jones several years ago as a joke and I cannot for the life of me remember why I picked the name this particular name. What I can remember is that when I typed Jess Jones into google images I instantly found the picture of this man.



After all these years I feel obligated to dedicate some Clog time to the man who has selflessly supported my facebook vagrancy over the past few years.


Jesse G. Jones was born on February 26, 1842 in Alabama, and died on April 11, 1917 in Texas (yes, I am sad to say Jess Jones is in fact dead as a god damn door nail). In 1856 Jesse was orphaned by the age of fourteen in Mississippi. He was adopted and educated by a businessman who saw potential in him even as a teenager. Jesse's sisters were raised in Alabama where they had previously lived.

More about Jess Jones to come.

From the Pages of Walden, Post 1.

"Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest." - Henry David Thoreau

I translate this to literally mean, fuck math. Math and numbers have no place in this world. They simply bog down the mind waste precious sheets of binder paper, that could be put to far better use as canvas for sonnets and materials paper footballs. People say that money is the root of all evil, when in fact it is is numbers that account for life's most stressful endeavors.


My math skills have taken me about this far

Long Time no Quynh

I had been a number of months since I last updated The Clog. I could on for hours blaming my friends, family, and erectile disfunction, but the fact of the real culprit is Lane Kerans. He failed to pay for the website name and I was unable to log into Calderclog.com. I now must resort to using the original site, and it brings me great sorrow. How ever will I continue on in life knowing that my beloved Clog has the words "blogspot" attached to it. I guess I will do the only thing I can do...


...post strange pictures involving my cat and my friends.


Weed King recently transformed into a walrus


I also made Jesse a single pancake!

Now that I think about it, by blaming Lane I completely accused my friend of hindering my blogging. When all is said and done, I guess I was just lazy.

Whole Lotta Nothing

It has been a solid six months or so since I travelled from Colorado to Sacramento with my pops and grandpops. They had been driving all the way from Maine and requested that I be air lifted in halfway through their journey to assist them. Unfortunately my elders failed to realize I cannot operate a stick shift, so I did little more than take pictures and force them to pull over at strange restaurants and skateparks. My only positive contribution to the trip was keeping my dad company after 7pm, which has always been my grandpa's bedtime.


The severed head of Abraham Lincoln staring out over the highway.


Ken Calderwood himself, chowing down on a dollar ice cream cone.


Pure desolation in Utah.


Pure crack mayne, pure unfiltered crack!


This is how the people of Elko Nevada trim their lawns.


It's all about the scenery children.

Not so Seasonal

Once upon a dreary december night whilst writing poetry by candle light and playing with... ok so that was a lie, this story begins on a typical spring day. The type of day where the sun shows itself at 7 am and retreats to the heavens at a leisurely 8 pm. The type of day that is overflowing with the chirps of sparrows and vibrant colors of newly born poppies. It was the type of day where Quynh would forever become my life long companion.


"Eh dawg, check out what I got ya at da liquor sto" (these are all actually Quynh quotes).


My dear cat had found the last remaining 12 pack of Celebration Ale; a wonderfully hop filled winter ale with a beautiful color and belly warming smoothness.


"Chill out ho, it's actually just a ten pack. Some mark ass trick must have swiped a couple, no wonder it was so cheap."


Cheers my friend.

Typical Jive

It's not at all unusual for a Calderwood to engage in some sort of strange activity for no apparent reason at an unexpected time. I have inherited this trait and learned to embrace it, but it is my father who truly has made an art form out of what appears to most as a behavioral disorder. I have witnessed my father roast nuts at 5:30 in the morning, clean the gutters while it is pouring rain, and most recently...

begin carving up a smoked turkey half way through watching The Hurt Locker.


My dad and I find it very hard to stay focused on a movie that exceeds two hours, no matter how engrossing it may be.


"Try this, it's the shits (my father says "the shits" instead of "the shit)."