Stay Loko forever?…

Last week, on November 17, the Food and Drug Administration issued warning letters that gave 15 days for companies to stop producing and selling caffeinated alcoholic beverages. This notice was directly targeted at Four Loko, a drink produced by Phusion Projects, a Chicago-based company founded by three friends from Ohio State University. Four Loko varies in size and alcohol content in different states, but in California, the drink comes in 24-ounce cans and has an alcohol-by-volume level of 12.5 percent. The legend of Four Loko has spread through college dorms across the nation. There’s even a Four Loko rap on YouTube. News reports and FDA findings lambast the hugely popular drink, but they never discuss one important fact:

Four Loko tastes like crap.

The drink is a fruit-flavored energy beverage mixed with malt liquor. If this doesn’t cause your stomach to churn, imagine drinking a combination of stale beer, off-brand Robitussin, and off-off-brand Red Bull. Offered in eight varieties, Four Loko flavors include Blue Raspberry, Watermelon and Uva, which is basically grape. Each uses food coloring to match the shade of the sickly sweet liquid to its can’s camouflage design.

Blue Raspberry tastes like the Energizer Bunny vomited up a Steel Reserve Slurpee. And while Uva is slightly better, it still tastes like vinegar mixed with those two-gallon jugs of grape drink that you can only get at the Dollar Tree.

But it’s an acquired taste—and one with benefits if you want to get wasted: Four Loko contains four times the amount of alcohol as one beer, plus lots of caffeine, which fools consumers into believing they’re not as drunk as they really are.

But the claim that Four Loko has more alcohol-plus-caffeine content than other drinks, however, is misleading. A 24-ounce can of Four Loko at 12 percent ABV contains the same amount of alcohol as four 12-ounce beers. A bottle of vodka contains the alcoholic equivalent of 17 beer cans. Plus, rum and Coke, Kahlua and coffee, and vodka and Red Bull are common drink orders at every bar in America, and have been for quite some time.

Still, let’s not trivialize the illness and even deaths that have resulted of Four Loko. Binge drinking is an epidemic in America. But when the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism estimates that every year, more than 1.3 million students are killed or injured in alcohol-related accidents and disputes, can the government squarely place the blame on one beverage?

Sure, on taste alone, no one should drink this stuff. But if cigarettes have but a warning label, then a ban on Four Loko is extreme. Plus, if a college student is so determined to get drunk that they’ll drink Four Loko, it’s not a stretch to imagine they’ll find some other way to get tore up if The Man takes away their “Fo.”

Perhaps they’ll go back to sniffing Elmer’s or huffing Drano.

White and Nerdy…

There’s something not right about the California State Fair. On the surface, everything appears to be a cornucopia of fun—our state patting itself on the back for producing amazing artists and bountiful harvests gathered by the proud working class, but when you get there, you also get a slap in the face. It’s hot. There are too many people. The county exhibits take a paper-mâchéd turn for the absolute worst, just one level above “It’s a Small World” in its blind oversight of the gritty truths of our world. And is it even necessary to mention the stereotypes about carnies?

But at least there was Weird Al Yankovic.

Prior to Weird Al’s State Fair concert on Labor Day, the speakers blared the usual blend of music designed to appease everyone impatiently waiting for the concert to begin. Madonna, P. Diddy, Green Day, Nirvana, Billy Joel and Don McLean ticked off in succession, and it became apparent that the versatile play list could act as a “who’s who” list for Weird Al parodies. The musical jester transcends genres—and for more than 25 years, he’s made a name for himself turning pop hit after pop hit into cult parodies. But we don’t love him because he makes us laugh; we love Weird Al because he is the real deal.

When you’ve gorged on countless foods never designed to be deep fried and you’re constantly evading the smell of bullshit—literally and figuratively—it’s refreshing to see a concert that is, at its very core, pure. Despite a minimum of 12 costume changes during his concert, Weird Al is what he is, and has never claimed to be anything else. The prince of parody is here to make you laugh. He’s here to act silly until you can’t help but chuckle at the seriousness our culture has embraced. The song parodies and sight gags in his videos and concerts are exceedingly simple: Change a few words around, do a bad impression mocking the original artist and you too could be a Weird Al wannabe. But Yankovic goes 10 steps further. His body of work is complete with its own themes, motifs and inside jokes that unify hardcore fans the way only a cult performer can.

Thousands arrived on the closing day of the State Fair to see Weird Al perform, not simply because they knew he could make them laugh unashamedly at jokes usually dished-out by 7 year olds, but because his performances are an elevation of the musical art form. The concert was a predictable success. The veteran State Fair performer had adults and children laughing and cheering at the tiny mockeries of an overly serious society. Watching Weird Al perform “Fat,” his parody of Michael Jackson’s “Bad,” is like seeing Babe Ruth hit a home run—nobody can do it like him.

Rider Easy…

For those who’ve never held the merciless power between their legs, there is something untouchable about the motorcycle culture. Bystanders are left in the literal and proverbial dust with only a glimpse of the dangerous world screaming by. Unless, that is, the world stops and just idles there for a while.

Such was the case last weekend in Auburn, where bikers gathered for the second annual Motorcycle Expo. Burrowed in the Gold County Fairgrounds, the cluster of vendor tents became host to hundreds of enthusiasts, curious outsiders and rows and rows of bikes. But, to the disappointment or maybe relief of pop-culture-gorged newcomers to the scene, there was no violence. No orgies. It was pretty much just about people and motorcycles.

“Did you ever know that you’re my hero?” one vendor sang to herself, the wheeze of a smoker’s voice slurring the pop ballad. After a vicious hack, she descended on a young boy trying on a leather vest. “How’s that fit you, baby? That fit good?”

A man in full American Indian dress, with white paint splashed across his eyes, strolled past the vendor’s booth to meet up with some friends at the end of a long line. The foundations of many cultures are forged from lore and legend, and the people in this line were waiting to meet their legend: Ralph “Sonny” Barger. The Modesto-born founding member of the most nefarious motorcycle gang in the country, the Hell’s Angels, was signing autographs and shaking hands with tattooed, leather-clad, full-bearded, 350-pound fanboys.

“It’s a picture of Sonny and his wife!” said one, holding aloft a two-foot by three-foot framed portrait. This was Panhead, a member of the Sacramento Chapter of the Viet Nam Vets Motorcycle Club, who stood waiting in line with his wife, Lady O, to get his hand-drawn picture signed by the great biker himself.

Barger is a classic example of the misconception outsiders still have about the biker culture. With a history of rebellion and violence, the Hell’s Angels have struck fear into Class C drivers since the late 1950s. Their exploits and crimes were heavily documented in film and literature in the ’60s, with Barger being no exception. After 50 years with the Hell’s Angels, the legend has over a dozen years of incarceration under his belt. These are the facts the public most likely will hear and hold onto.

But the man at the meet-and-greet wasn’t much of a monster.

After cancer forced doctors to remove his vocal cords, Barger learned to speak through a device implanted in his neck. Now his words are quiet and raspy, as if everything he says is a wizened secret. When the man who says he never looks back was asked what he looks forward to, he simply replied, “Everything.”

And that should tell you just about all you’ll need to know.

American Hootie…

Perhaps it’s the uncomfortable contradiction of honoring veterans but opposing the administration’s use of military power that threatens to reduce Memorial Day to nothing more than the neutral, official start of summer. Or it could just be that a day off from work trumps everything else, politically minded or not.

Regardless of the driving force behind the mass decision to party hearty, people did flood the American River this past three-day weekend. At Hagan Community Park, all ages and races came together to celebrate one of this great nation’s greatest pastimes: passing time. The Rancho Cordova recreation area offered plenty of wide-open grass, sports fields and access to the refreshing river for anyone who wished to honor fallen veterans by enjoying a nice day in the sun.

“They told me there ain’t no parking back there,” the lady at the park entrance said in greeting to the day’s visitors. “Just so you know I can’t give you a refund.” Many chose to park outside the grounds and lug their ice chests in with them, but the lazy or stubborn forked over the four bucks for auto access and took their chances.

Down the road, where cars circled and waited for parking spots to open up, it became clear that the sprawling park’s prime real estate was any plot of shaded land. People seemed only to venture into the sun to cross to another dab of shade or tend their food-loaded grills.

Edging closer to the river, though, the recreationalists tended to become less sun-averse, younger and more naked. Like something out of a mother’s nightmares, the groups of large families with kids picking daisies gave way to a sea of teenage hormones and displays of puffed-out chests and shaking tail feathers. One step away from a 1950s PSA crying out the evils of premarital sex, the gathering generated enough heat to send anyone down the hill and into the restoring rationalism of the nippy river water.

Black butterflies and racing, out-of-control children crisscrossed the dirt path to the shore. On the water, a large collection of rafts had been tethered together to create an inflatable island. Now and then a few would break off and slowly drip downstream like the malleable wax of a lava lamp. In no hurry, they idled by a line of rubbernecking landlubbers. A 10-speed bike gang hovered on a nearby cliff, watching bikini after bikini float vividly down along the current. It amounted to a live display of sunscreen-rubbing soft-core porn, and it was much to the bikers’ delight.

So, let it not be said that the day lacked gratitude—to the American River directly, and by extension the American service people who would sacrifice everything to secure its blessings. Either that or everybody was just happy to have a Monday off.

Free Comics. ‘Nuff Said…

Spider-Man perched in the corner of the store, watching silently. Near the door a man stood behind a small counter covered in piles of comic books, his understated Polo shirt not quite as commanding as the crime fighter’s red-and-blue getup. But he watched, too, and waited. Outside, in the parking lot, cars were spilling into the street as they battled for precious spaces. At Roseville’s A-1 Comics on last Saturday’s Free Comic Book Day, the mob of customers tended always to replenish itself, in waves.

Now in its sixth year, the national event is designed to celebrate the medium and introduce it to new readers. A-1 Comics took the day’s concept a step further by holding a storewide sale and hosting an array of comic-book artists and writers. These special guests had come to hype their wares, answer questions about the industry and argue with fanboys about whether Bryan Singer was worse for Superman than kryptonite. But, for a while, they went completely ignored.

The temptation of freebies from Marvel, DC, Image, and a collection of smaller labels, like Bongo Comics and Heroic Publishing, kept customers preoccupied. But rarely did they just arrive, snatch their free goodies and leave. Instead, parents chased hyper kids back and forth down aisles full of action figures, ignoring the artists’ panel with each pass. Other kids whined their parents into grumbling submission, hovering over glass cases filled with the paints and brushes they desperately needed to complete their customizable Warhammer 40,000 armies.

While meandering through, two teenage boys slowed to consider the table full of artists, but didn’t stop. The panelists slumped.

At a back table, three men sat focused on the collectible card game Call of Cthulhu. Stuffed into a Hawaiian shirt, the oldest of the three, with his wispy, gray hair and thin-rimmed glasses, looked like Richard Attenborough’s eccentric curator of Jurassic Park.

“Well, you could play a monster against yourself,” the gently-mad-scientist-type explained to his opponent, in a tone indicating that only a fool would take such an action.

Not far away, a father and his young son had gathered a few free comics, and twice as many not-free ones, and brought them to the front register. Sporting his “I only go to school for the girls” shirt, the grade-schooler was doing his best to defeat the comics-nerd stereotype. Next to him, a 30-something, long-haired man in shorts and a worn T-shirt squeaked with delight upon discovering a shiny binder depicting some ferocious, fictional character. So, the stereotype remained alive and well.

Then, carrying a car seat complete with a sleeping infant, a young mother approached the guest artists and began asking about their work. With the ice broken, a few straggling customers who’d been circling the table finally stopped and joined the conversation, much to the formerly neglected panelists’ delight.

Scottish Invasion…

The spring weather was the usual Sacramento dichotomy. A warm sun and cool wind gave the women in the gathering crowd a chance to break out their patterned skirts, but the men didn’t need an occasion. They wore their skirts proudly.

Kilts, to be exact. The Scottish Games & Festival had taken up residence in the Yolo County Fairgrounds and the Scottish—and not so Scottish—had shown up in force. Carrying on a 131-years-strong tradition, the celebration honors the culture and community of its heritage with games, music and food.

Rows of vendors hawked kilts, jewelry, T-shirts and travel guides at various expense, but the stories that wandered between veteran participants and first timers were free. Inside one small tent, a group had gathered to taste an assortment of whiskies. At front, the man in charge educated the audience about the distillation process of uisge beatha—Scots Gaelic for “water of life.” Had it not been for the row of 14-year-old single malts resting in front of him, the older man could have been mistaken for a Boy Scout leader in his matching khaki shirt and pants.

“George! Tell them about the peat,” his wife interrupted at the first sign of a pause in his lecture. George proceeded to explain about the peat, the way it imparts subtle flavors into a whisky.

Across the field, save for a brief communal interest in the sounds of reverberating drums, all eyes were on the caber toss. Sizable kilt-clad athletes grunted as they flipped 100-pound poles through the air. The 19-foot logs hit the dented earth with heavy thuds that warranted the crowd’s applause.

The kids lined up nearby to try their hand at a mini caber toss, but the performance of the first toddler crushed many dreams. With barely any effort, the little boy launched the 6-foot caber high into the air, sending it spiraling in a perfect arc that ended with a crash against the grass. True, if you asked certain onlookers, they’d say his father had more than a helping hand in the whole affair.

“George! Tell them about the German brothers at the pub!” the woman continued, again perforating George’s whisky wisdom.

Over 100 clans had set up tents and booths to display their family history. Older generations reclined in folding chairs and smiled politely at anyone who wandered past their booths, quick to offer lengthy explanations at the slightest hint of inquiry. Younger members of the clans sported iPods and army camo kilts. Despite the many people carrying heavy weaponry, no battles broke out between the clans. It appeared a truce had been called, so that everyone assembled could enjoy the celebration of family, community and all things Scottish.

And so the whisky tales continued.

“George! Tell them about the half-pint Scot who ordered a full pint of lager …”

And never brought to mind…

Holiday TV specials could be worse…

We may never achieve peace on Earth, but we can at least share a common belief that they don’t make holiday-themed TV specials like they used to. There’s just so much mercenary piffle now, so many shows that can’t hold a menorah candle to the classics. Let us take consolation from knowing that some such programs, for possibly self-evident reasons, ultimately proved untenable. Let us consider it a blessing that these offerings never made it out of development:

’Fraidy, the Yellow Snowman (ABC)

Survivor: Island of Misfit Toys (CBS)

Mad Max: Festival of Lights (HBO)

The Secret Life of Egg Nog (A&E)

“Kramer” Knows Kwanzaa (NBC)

Blitzen in London! (BBC)

Iron Chef: Fruitcake (Food Network/here! TV)

I’ll be in Hamas for Christmas (Al-Jazeera)

Everybody Hates Christ (CW/Fox News)

A Retired U.S. Air Force Lt. Colonel Charlie Brown Christmas (Access Sacramento)

This ain’t yo’ mama’s Crocker…

Hip-hop: This dark diction has become America’s addiction, at least according to Kanye West. However, if you ask the Crocker Art Museum, hip-hop–along with punk rock and fashion–is just what’s needed to lure a new generation of art admirers. The monthly multimedia Crocker Contemporaries event series highlights modern cultural influences in art and society, and if the turnout at last week’s Contemporaries kickoff party was any indication, the series should have a good summer.

The ballroom was filled with guests, many of them hungry for a taste of what the museum would offer in coming months (namely, forum discussions on the last Thursday of each month, with film screenings on the following Saturday; fashion is the subject for July, punk for August, and hip-hop for September). Augmenting the fine art already on display, the kickoff party mixed it up with a Sid and Nancy screening, concert footage of Jay-Z, a live DJ and craft stations for making your own punk-styled buttons or writing your own raps.

Perhaps the strangest sight was the quintet of break-dancers who spent the evening twirling below the ballroom’s high ceiling. Easily the center of attention throughout the evening, they passed the hours busting moves in front of a revolving crowd. Though most of these boys had never performed in such a venue, the opportunity was well-received.

“I took a field trip here in fourth grade. I thought it was going to be cool, but it was just really quiet,” said breaker Sam Niver, 15. “I thought if only we could spice it up, that’d be cool!”

The spicing up seemed to work. An eclectic crowd mingled through the vast, music-filled room, inevitably wandering away from the party before long and out into the museum’s galleries. In no time, the khakis and cufflinks stood side by side with the ripped jeans and peek-a-boo camouflage panties, their inhabitants both questioning the physics of M.C. Escher’s “Ascend Descend.” Some may have come for the party, but many stayed for the museum.

Erica Wall, the Crocker’s director of education, was among the many enthusiastic employees and volunteers working the room. “It’s really great to see a room full of people,” she said. “A lot of new people, a lot of people under 40.”

While wine was served in the absence of Hypnotiq, and no impromptu, trash-can-kicking fights broke out, it was evident that the Crocker had taken its first steps toward attracting a new breed of aesthetics enthusiasts. With the success of the Escher exhibit (which has already proven at least well-liked enough for someone to have stolen the exhibit banners hanging outside the museum), it’s safe to say that the party’s popularity was not a fluke. New eyes have finally taken notice of the Crocker’s potential as something more than merely a grade-school field-trip destination that’s “just really quiet.”

Re: ‘world’ sports…

Dear America,

Hello! How are you? Still having troubles at home? Oh, well, buck up ol’ sport! Things will get better soon, hopefully.

We’re writing because you’ve missed a few meetings on global perspective recently, so we wanted to fill you in.

As you may or may not have noticed, the 2006 FIFA World Cup, the most important world football competition–sorry, that’s soccer to you–began on June 9, and everything is going splendidly so far. Just so you don’t feel excluded (we know you don’t like that), we wanted to tell you a little bit about the most-watched sporting event in the world.

Since 1930, the World Cup has been held every four years, with the exception of 1942 and 1946 because of, well, you were there; you know. Three years of qualifying rounds lead up to the month-long finals between 32 national teams. Nearly 200 teams from all over the world, except Antarctica–give them a break; it’s a bloody tundra down there–have done battle in flat green spaces to bring a handful of teams to Germany for the ultimate competition. And guess what? You’re one of those 32! Did you know that? Congratulations.

So, even though this is the first year that all 64 games will be televised in the United States, we’re mildly concerned that many of your citizens will not think to pay them any attention. Because the games occur in Germany, kickoffs occur as early as 6 a.m. Pacific Time. What this means, though, is that for a few consecutive weeks all Americans may experience the effects of alcohol, adrenaline, camaraderie and jingoism several hours before even beginning their workday. Sounds good, no?

Now, we know you like to describe your national baseball, basketball and even, ah, “football” championships as “world championships.” But let us be realistic. Those sports are really all about you, don’t you think? At the last meeting we voted not to litigate this matter, but we would appreciate the courtesy, in future media coverage, of a little rewording. Or perhaps you would consider inviting us to play? We’ll even bring our own equipment, and our parents will bring orange slices for after the games. Until then, you’re always welcome to continue playing ball with the rest of us in the World Cup. Take care of yourself. Canada sends her love.

Sincerely,
the Rest of the World
(as dictated to Matthew Craggs)

Find futbol here:

The Streets of London Pub
1804 J Street (916) 498-1388

Bonnlair
3651 J Street (916) 455-7155

Luna’s Café
1414 16th Street (916) 441-3931

The Black Pearl Oyster Bar
2724 J Street (916) 440-0215

Marilyn’s on K
908 K Street (916) 446-4361

Traffic jam…

Gliding back to Sacramento between pockets of city lights, the party bus was oddly still. Potential energy buzzed in piles of crushed beer cans teetering at the feet of slumped bodies; occasionally, the energy would find its way to a release in the lightning flash of a camera. The murmur of voices would rise to a thunderous level, then back off in exhaustion. The party had been a tremendous success.

Six hours earlier, before the chartered bus had even arrived on the Old Sacramento corner crowded with eager fans, the lukewarm lagers had begun to circulate–followed quickly by introductions and newfound camaraderie among strangers. All had gathered to support 2Me, a local, self-described “folk ’n’ roll” band en route to the international music festival Emergenza. In preparation to play in the second level of the competition in San Francisco, band members Conan, Christopher Gene Twomey, Nathan Brandon and Reid Foster gathered local fans to join them on a party bus filled with beer and music.

Taking place simultaneously in 18 countries, Emergenza is structured with a five-tier system for unsigned bands: eliminatory, semi-finals, city finals, national finals and international finals–which will be held in Germany this year. 2Me had passed the first level of eliminatory rounds already and was playing to land itself in the semi-finals.

The group got under way with shouts of “2Me!” and aluminum raised in salute with a “cheers.” Balloons bounced toward the front of the bus, followed by shouts of surprise as revelers realized the balloons were in fact inflated condoms. The party had begun.

The first signs of partial nudity and strangers making out occurred in Davis, a mere 20 minutes into the trip. Mini-bottles of hard liquor appeared, tucked into girls’ cleavage like keys to their already questionable chastity. From then, time was measured in Coors and Bud Lights, not minutes and hours.

San Francisco soon became a destination of great emergency and importance; the need for music surged through the crowd like ball lightning. Inevitably, the festivities reached a crescendo as 2Me took the stage at 12 Galaxies in the Mission. Crowding the stage, partygoers sang and danced along with what could be described as a cross between Paul Simon and the Grateful Dead. All the energy from the audience and the musical vitality of the band exploded in a frenzy of celebration. As 2Me concluded an amazing set, it was as if the partygoers had achieved their goal; then came the wait for their results.

In the end, as expended bodies poured into the seats of the bus, word came that 2Me had progressed in the competition and would be able to play in the semi-finals on June 1. With not one, but two buses planned for that gig, the energy is already on the rise.