Energy Drink Tutorial

The first idea concerning energy drinks is simple: DON'T. Most of them taste like absolute crap. Furthermore, these "beverages" are for fools who have been bamboozled into thinking that jump-boosting your heart is a legit alternative to getting sufficient rest. It's Christian Crank. It started with little 8 ounce cans of Red Bull in an obscure corner of the corner mart. Now there's an entire section dedicated to an unthinkable variety of 40 ounce monsters (figuratively and nominally). If you are a parent and your kid is drinking these, then I say without reservation that you are either negligent brainless. (Thanks to my son, I've been both).
On the other hand, it might be the best way to get the young started early on their participation in the national caffeine addiction. How else to make sure they make their quota? Seriously, try and tell even ONE coffee cranker that they have a habit. Even the good natured ones will feed you screed. Many will even raise it to the level of a harangue. Most of them--even as they drag their feet and say pitiful things like "don't talk to me, I haven't had my coffee," or even--as I once myself observed--when all work stops at the office until they find an alternative source of artificial pep to replace their broken Mr. Coffee--they consider themselves immune to criticism. They're dedicated to finding "studies" to support the idea of having this one little chemical that you absolutely can't live without. It's the socially acceptable fix.

But this is not the place to combat the caffeine craze. In fact, the above paragraphs only make what I really have to offer here all the more shameful.

See, I work nights for Mental Health (4 nights a week), and teach during the day. Every day. Teaching beginning guitar can be mind-numbing on a full head of steam. Driving a thousand miles a week on the same roads day in and day out on little to no sleep is a recipe for disaster. So I excuse myself in a little energy drink consumption, and have, in fact, become the state's leading connoisseur. I'm the Energy Drink Czar. And for anyone wedged into the same financial corner as myself, I offer the following tutorial.

Once you've broken the prime directive and find yourself needing to consume, the first consideration is, of course, TASTE. Red Bull is a great example of the taste you want to avoid.
The second consideration is, as with so many things in life, SIZE. You want to consume as little as possible. More jolt with less junk. More pep with less poison. These are words for the consumer of energy drinks to live by.
The final consideration is HEALTH. Is the juice in question merely metaphorical? Or might your energy drink actually contain something beneficial to offset the toxins? Let's begin.

On this scale, the greatest energy drink of all time was the BooKoo Mini Shot. It was the cutest little can on the shelf. 5 ounces of fruity refreshment that kicked like a red bull without tasting like the bull's urine. The calories were minimal. And did I mention how cute the can was? You'll notice I'm speaking in the past tense. Alas, the Shot has disappeared. If you work for the company, consider this request official: Reinstate the Shot. If you are a civilian and you happen to see some, buy them all and call me.
Even so, the 5 ounce Shot was lacking in the health rubric. And this brings us to second place. The FRS. The letters stand for Free Radical Scavenger. Essentially a mildly caffeinated vitamin drink, (with more flavanoid antioxidants than 6 helpings of blueberries), the FRS weighs in at 12 ounces, and tastes a little like drinking a vitamin--but with minimal calories it delivers a sustained pep sans crash. It has a variety of flavors, the best of which being the lime and the orange, because the berry flavor is good but has chunks of stuff at the bottom and the peach mango is just plain gross. Even in the presence of the BooKoo, (and despite Lance Armstrong's endorsement) FRS would make a strong case for the top spot.
Next up is the Extreme Energy Shot from the people who brought you Arizona Ice Tea. It is ten percent fruit juice and has a rather pleasant taste. It is one of the few offerings that has stuck with the 8 ounce can. It is listed, however at a mere 99 cents, and even says "trial offer" on the can. It doesn't seem to be restocked once it disappears from the shelves. So I'm stockpiling it. It may be going the way of the BooKoo mini.
In a three-way tie for fourth place is the Sobe Adrenaline Rush, which comes in this high because of the pleasant taste and the 8 oz can, ditto the bizarrely named but grapetastically delicious Hyphy (tastes like grape crush if you can find it) and the elegant Go Girl Glo. I cannot brook the normal Go Girl in the pink can, but the teal tinted Glo is a thing of beauty. A little bulky at 12 ounces, it nevertheless boasts ingredients like Aloe, star fruit, and vitamin E (whence the titular glo[w]). There may even be some pomegranate in it. It is only mildly carbonated, which is very pleasant, and is low in calories. There is an annoying artificial sweetener aftertaste, but that's a small price to pay for a drink that you can hand to a sexy lady and say "Come and glow with me." To be fair, I should mention that I've only been able to find the Glo at one gas station and nowhere else.

And that's it. Everything else has gone the way of the monster and is a 20 to 40 ounce sugary abomination. They taste bad and are bad for you. There is a sub-genre I haven't mentioned (and with good reason): the little energy boosters in vials next to the check out stand. The prime offender is the 5 Hour Energy fraud. Simply a concentrated overdose of B-vitamins and caffeine, you only need to experience the troubling "niacin rush" once to wish to avoid it forever. One of the other vials I tried tasted so bad I actually vomited a little.

So if you absolutely MUST partake, like if it's a choice between crashing your car and sipping a little boosty beverage, then I hope this helps. The best option is (OBVIOUSLY) sufficient rest, abundant exercise, and diligent nutrition.

Road Trip (ode to nevada)

It's barren. Bleak even. But the most beautiful stretch of highway in America is I-80 across the top of Nevada. And I'm not kidding.

It goes beyond appreciating the stark, threatening beauty of the desert.

No other highway has exits with names like these. Some simply sound beautiful. Dunphy. Golconda Summit. Beowawe. Elko. Welcome Valley. Its a privilege to speak such beautiful words. They are poetry, in and of themselves. As I drove through the night, and began to feel desperate for sleep, how grateful I was to be able to pull over at an exit called Imlay. No services? Hardly. The name is a lullaby. Imlay. It took the edge off the sound of the 18 wheeler who pulled up behind us. I hoped he also needed sleep, but couldn't convince myself of that fact, and so bid a reluctant farewell. Never trust a long haul trucker after dark in the dark. Not even in Imlay.

I still needed rest. My mind wandered to another category of exits, the ones you might say have Kitcsh. Maybe a little whimsy. Winnemucca. Rye Patch. Beverly Hills. I pulled over at the perfect place: Pumpernickle Valley. It consists of a road in the darkness that wanders away to parts unknown. Not a soul for miles. No light but the stars. It was the best two hour nap I've ever had.

As if Beauty and Whimsy don't suffice, I-80 across Nevada also offers the hard nosed, gritty names that made the west great. Battle Mountain. Silverzone Pass. Iron Point.

In one such place, at 4 in the morning, I met one of the people who live up to such names. The gas station is the exit's only feature. Well, that and a couple of trailers, wherein those who tend the lone gas station most likely spend their off hours. "The sturdy clay of the frontier," I thought. "Salt of the earth. Out here in the hairy belly button of nowhere, eking out a Waldenesque existence in almost total isolation." Couldn't wait to meet them. Upon entering the station, I found no attendant, but was greeted by the theme music of the bleak frontier and its people: Gangstah Rap. I counted 4 "Muthah F*ckin"s and 3 "N*ggaz" before I found the restroom. Washing my hands, I tried to picture the man or woman who must be working there. He was waiting at his station as I walked past the sentinel slots: a short, stocky, white, middle-aged man with graying goatee and a foam and mesh trucker cap. He called me brother. He told me to have a safe trip. I slipped up and said, "You too, man." Even though he was obviously not going anywhere. He jumped on it.

"Hey man, I'm always safe when I'm tripping."

So forget about Route 66. Leave behind the ostentation of California's coastal 101. Take I-80 across Nevada. The faces, and the gorgeous names of placeless places, will fill you with a new sense of America. No matter what time it is.

Hey, You!

That's right. I'm talking to you. I'm calling you out. All of you.

To the co-worker who drank my Go-Girl Glo: Yeah, sure. You make fun of me for drinking an energy drink with Aloe Vera and Vitamin E, sweetened with pomegranate and star fruit, and then you drink it behind my back. This is worse than the time you laughed at the idea of girl pants, and then I caught you staring at my sweet cheeks. I don't know which one of you drank it. But you didn't deserve the mildly carbonated lift. And by the way, if you're a man, I'm more man than you in girl pants and a go girl in my hand. If you're a woman, then, well, I'm not more woman than you. That would be biologically impossible. But I am more in touch with my feminine side. Deal with it.

To the guy with the giant hairy butt-crack who crossed the street in front of me with his shirt off whilst I was waiting at a red light: My first thoughts were, PUT A SHIRT ON YOU DISGUSTING WHITE TRASH SLOB! What do you have against clothing? When did it become O.K. to parade around half naked? If a hot girl can't do it--if our society has decided that there is something morally askew about perfect breasts being exposed to the public--then your bloated, hairy belly and shaggy/saggy man boobs constitute a capital offense against our democratic republic. Shirtless people are corrosive to society. Shirtless people whose larded front side prevents their pants, (or acid washed jean shorts) from covering their hairy backside are surely a sign of the apocalypse. YOU WILL PERISH IN FLAME! YOU AND ALL YOUR HIRSUTE ILK!
These were my first thoughts. And I would have made them known to you out loud, except that my second thoughts were: I should get a picture of this! Unfortunately, by the time my inner screed ran its course you were too far away to get a good picture with my phone's crappy camera. How bittersweet for you. Your crack can practically be seen from space, and yet my phone can't capture it. And if you're curious as to why I didn't roll down my window and give you what for, well, just consider yourself lucky that red lights turn green.


The guy who was vacuuming at the car wash just before me: I didn't see you, but the fifty pounds of fetid kitty litter you must have vacuumed into the canister filled my nostrils--and the interior of my car--with an unbearable smell. Thanks for the stink, friend. It makes me wonder. I mean, I don't know what it is about poop, hair, and dander that you "pet" people fancy, but it mystifies me.
P.S. Until you get rid of those cats, we're through. Whoever you are.

I'd go on. But the remainder of my helpful advice is for my family, and can be handled face to face.

Last Time (I swear)

I've tried to go clean. I've tried to change the subject. But every time I do, these people keep dragging me back in.

After this, I'll either admit to being a one-note-johnny or move on. I promise.

The Small World ride at Disneyland is closed down. Not to update what is probably the worst attraction at the park. Not to summarily execute all those nightmarish little robots (which were--we can say it now--originally intended to become the first wave of attack in Walt Disney's unholy army of the night. Had he not died tragically early, those adorable little animatronic wonders would at this moment be cracking a whip across your back.)

No, the ride is closed down because the original rinky-dink boats were designed for a different America. Those who imagineered the original lived at a time when the average woman weighed 120 pounds and her male counterpart a trim 175.

Now the boats are bottoming out in the fetid water. And I wish they would have consulted me, because rather than simply post a sign that says "You must weigh less than this to ride this ride," or "this attraction was designed for our less than generously appointed patrons," or "help us avoid malfunction by kindly removing any excess baggage/equipment/body fat," or "if you regularly consume more calories than you burn, you are disgusting and you don't deserve to ride," or even the now classic "NO FAT CHICKS!"--rather than simply asking fatties to ride through It's a Small World alone (as they are destined/doomed to ride through the less popular This is the Real World alone)--rather than post enlarged pictures of the bottomed out boats embarrassingly stopping up progress with the caption "This could happen to you!"--rather than any of these sensible options, Disney has inexplicably chosen to accommodate the obese. They are actually remaking the ride in the image of a gentler, fatter nation.

To which we can only say, in the words of a noted local radio celebrity:

Goodbye, sweet America!

The New Environmentalist

I am dedicated to the idea of doing right by "The Environment," (an entity formerly called "Mother Nature," and before that, "God's Green Earth.") Whatever you call it, it isn't the fragile, shivering baby thing that humans have come to believe actually depends on their insignificant little nothingness. Make no mistake, Gaea is a fully independent, dedicated-to-the-big-picture woman with her own agenda, who under no circumstance can be said to be significantly influenced by human activity. Of course, she has wanted to kill us from the beginning. She was thirsty for our blood millions of years before our pitiful industrialization uglied her up. Any puny HUMAN who says anything like "She is in our hands" is a self-important idiot. Nature always wins. Always. Even when it appears to destroy itself with devastating, climate altering volcanoes, (or ocean warming under-water volcanic activity, or ice ages that creep down from the north every 8,000 years or so, or species killing droughts, or earthquakes, or floods), never forget that Nature loves ONLY three things: Birth, Death, and Change. And the change is always in the name of long term balance. We are a blip on her screen no matter what you see on the news. We are really trying to save ourselves from her.

So let it be admitted that today's so-called environmentalist is really a humanist. Any list of activities designed to better the Environment is really for either our own selfish ends, (for instance, I might want to feel good about myself, or make some place look or smell nicer, or try to stop an animal from being added to the list of extinctions--most of which were put there by Nature herself--or save money, or whatever), or, more likely, we're doing it for the harmony and sustainability of a community of HUMANS called civilization. (And civilization may or may not be opposed to Nature--that's another question entirely. But before you fool yourself into thinking the question is remotely interesting, remember the answer is short: IT DOESN'T MATTER).

Anyway, here is the list of what I'm doing to improve my green status. (Remembering that by now recycling is a given. If you're not doing at least that, then YOU ARE the trash.)

1)Taking shorter, cooler, and less frequent showers.
I hope this doesn't have an adverse effect on my body odor, because, I'd let every dolphin in the ocean suffocate in tuna nets before I let myself exude an unpleasant smell. So I'm obviously not asking us all to descend into hippyville. Still, I can't figure out why all you "environmentalists" let yourselves soak away long moments in a steaming hot shower. Get in, get clean, get out. You don't even need to steam up the bathroom.

2)Driving a car that gets 50 miles per gallon.
Not to mention the fact that as soon as I have the money, I'll be converting my Jetta to run on pure vegetable oil. So I can with confidence say that YOU are part of the pollution problem, whoever you are. And I am not. So screw all of you.

3)Avoiding meat.
The mass production of meat might be the most disgusting thing man has perpetrated. But this is about green house gases. If I can keep one cow from flatulating, I feel like I made a difference. The meat industry is not growing methane machines for me, brother. (Now, you might say that eating said cow is the best way to stop it's gas production. And come to think of it, you're right. But I've noticed that the less meat I eat, the less methane I produce. If you know what I mean. (Of course, by the same logic, I'd have to stop eating dried apricots. And Kashi. And broccoli. And my father's magnificent vegetarian three bean soup. All right, there's nothing I can do about my methane production. But meat is still disgusting.)

4)Stealing Music.
All the packaging that goes into CD's is a crime. By the time our more savvy artists started reducing the mess and/or making it out of recycled material, it was too late: the green public was protesting the waste by sharing and downloading music for free. Or were selfish, greedy people simply engaging in blatant, white trash thievery? I know where I've stood from the beginning. I borrow CD's and burn them to save the planet.

5) Holding My Breath.
I know carbon dioxide is plant food, but apparently the production of it is giving my fellow doomed humans an excuse to complain. So for at least 15 minutes a day (not consecutively) I hold my breath. I'm serious about this. Humans are carbon dioxide machines. Do your part. If you're not going to hold your breath, at least stop talking.

Keep tuning in for more tips. Together, we'll feel good about each other while Mother Nature plans our extinction.

Most Romantic Song

So Donna-mo sends off this e-mail.

"Most Romantic Song. Bring it on, Suckah."

That's how she is: provocative. But provocative in the real sense of the word. (Many people today think that "provocative" means "sexually explicit." Only when the blessed day comes and dictionaries rain down from above upon all who so blithely and routinely desecrate Our Holy English Language will they truly receive their comeuppance. Until then, we must content ourselves with impotent screed.)

Where was I?

Oh, yes, Donna-mo, the provocative record store girl. In this case, she was provoking thought. So I let myself be provoked.
But before simply taking a garden walk through the vast discography in my head, I thought a few ground rules were in order. We should examine what exactly constitutes a "romantic song."

Most people make the mistake of thinking that a romantic song is the one associated with some maudlin kissy kissy moment in their lives. Were I to make the same mistake, the so-called "most romantic song" would be Madonna's Crazy for You, which happened to be playing the first time a female who was not my mother held me close on the dance floor. It was a momentous thrill. But even if I can still feel her lithe frame moving rhythmically with mine, even if I can still feel her sweet breath upon my neck, and even if the song replayed itself in my head two weeks later when she became the first person to put her tongue in my mouth--a moment which left me breathless and jumping for joy on a street corner at midnight--I am still bound to admit that Crazy for You is a cheap, even tawdry excuse for a love song. (It is, in fact, so bereft of actual romance that if it's on your list, you should excuse yourself from the room now. If you even considered this song, or any of it's nefarious ilk, this discussion is beyond you.)

No, the most romantic song cannot rely on association. It must be romantic per se, (which is, for those of you who were just asked to leave but kept reading anyway, a Latin phrase meaning "in and of itself.") The first step, then, is to quickly set some parameters.
We'll assume that by romantic we do not mean "Romantic." With appropriate deference to Liszt, Delacroix, and Shelly, I don't think Donna-mo intended to initiate discussion of the powerful music, literature, and art of the 1800's. She meant romantic in the pejorative, which is, (with thanks to dictionary.com)

3. imbued with or dominated by idealism, a desire for adventure, chivalry, etc.
4. characterized by a preoccupation with love or by the idealizing of love or one's beloved.
5. displaying or expressing love or strong affection.
6. ardent; passionate; fervent.

We add to this the insight of Wilde, when he proposed that Romance (like ignorance) is a "delicate, exotic fruit. Touch it, and the bloom is gone." Think on it for a moment and you'll agree. A romantic song must be rife with yearning. But that yearning must to some degree remain unfulfilled. Because to satisfy it entirely would be to kill it. And there must be something eternal if one is to fill this cup to its brim (or drink it to the dregs, whichever you prefer).
I think there should also be a reckless element. Some kind of abandon. Romance has to throw caution to the wind.

With these concepts in mind, we can make a list that avoids the merely lovey-dovey, the simply sweet, the oversimplified, and any and all make-out songs.

And the list is short. It has only one song. I believe this ardently, passionately and fervently. There can be, in truth, "no debate." The title of Most Romantic Song goes unequivocally to THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT, by the Smiths.

Head and shoulders above anything else that could be mentioned. From the opening line, the idea of just wanting to go out with someone and not caring where crystallizes the aforementioned necessary sense of abandon. This is seasoned by the sense of longing and sadness (also requisite to romance) in the lines about not having a home anymore.
Notice the exquisite sense of non-fulfillment in the verse that recalls "the darkened underpass" under which we thought "oh God, my chance has come at last." But then a strange fear gripped us and we just couldn't ask.

Then comes the legendary chorus, which I only write it here for the privilege of repeating it:

"And if a double decker bus crashes into us: To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.
And if a ten ton truck kills the both of us: To die by your side, well the pleasure and the privilege is mine . . ."

If anyone can beat that, I haven't heard it. And all of it is punctuated by one of the most haunting string arrangements of all time, fading out to the titular line, full of that mix of longing, loss, eternal devotion and unnameable bittersweetness that is quintessentially romantic.

And with that, I honestly believe the debate to be over. Because everyone else is just blowing hot air about how much they love somebody. Which is sweet, but not romantic.

Close seconds:
"Just Like Heaven"--the cure,
"Do What You Have To Do"--sarah mcglaughlin
"Canon" by Johan Pachabel. (The "Grand Finale" from Edward Scissorhands should also receive consideration.)

Candidates for very distant third:
"You Are My Radio"--squirrel nut zippers
"The Sensual World"--kate bush (just for the sex of it)
"Driving Your Girlfriend Home" --morrissey
"To Me You Are a Work of Art"--morrissey
"Nothing Matters When We're Dancing"--magnetic fields
"Love Song"--the cure
"Promenade"--U2
"Always On My Mind"--willy nelson
"Dreaming My Dreams"--the cranberries
"Can't Help Falling in Love With You"--Elvis presley
"If You Leave Me" --ray charles (which might actually be called "What Would I do?"--I can't remember)

Go ahead and add to the list of seconds and thirds. But you will NOT persuade me that There Is a Light That Never Goes Out doesn't stand alone.