With all the heat Four Loko has been getting lately, it’s obviously only a matter of time before it winds up in court and dies the same death suffered by its spiritual predecessor, Sparks. Fortunately, back when that former caffienated malt liquor titan was litigiously forced off the scene, our pal Stephen was already on top of a game-changing beverage innovation that has so far escaped public scrutiny.
Behold, REDWEISER. One-fourth Red Bull and three-fourths Budweiser, this is one energy alcohol that won’t be banned from stores anytime soon. Your grandkids will probably be drinking it. But not Ariel’s.
Look, it’s a couple of local stoners proving that marijuana use does not negatively impact their productivity or motivation.
Over the weekend, Janebook published a helpful guide to the San Francisco floor drug scene — where to get safe floor drugs, where to avoid sketchy floor drugs, etc. Here’s some analysis of the situations at two popular Mission watering holes:
delirium – you get the satisfaction of knowing that these drugs belonged to one of those lame dudebros who you hate for “ruining the mission” on weekends. this dudebro is (or will be in 20 minutes when he goes to do a bump and can’t find his drugs) hella bummed, and you helped make that happen! but let’s be honest, this shit will be total garbage, i’m talking like you’ll do it all and not even get post nasal drip, and if you’re over 20 you will hate yourself for doing delirium floor drugs.
pops – an enormous, resounding no. you have like, a 50/50 chance of the drugs you find on the floor of this bar being good, which are actually not bad odds as far as floor drugs go. but where will you do them? doing blow in that bathroom is like being trapped on a mission-scumbag tower of terror ride. you WILL be haunted by ghosts of hipsters past, and you will undoubtedly find this to be kind of a buzzkill.
Marc found a little present today:
A top-drawer junkie whore left me an extra special gift pack in our sidewalk planter on little Adair Street:
Looks like someone was all dolled up and ready to party every which way with harm reduction. They even rolled their own chemical free nicotine Buglers. Clearly this was left from the pimp’s special reserve ho because the shit was so good she forgot she even had anything.
I hear Longshot Magazine hid 12 of these all over the Mission and will be releasing clues on the hour on where to find them! (No, not really)
Just had to stop by the Jimi Hendrix shrine in Renton, WA, on the way to our show with Citay in Olympia. Judging by the mementos left behind, it appeared that a number of folks had similarly visited to pay their respects. American flags, beads, flowers of all shapes and colors, Taz (!!!), and . . . what’s this?
I can’t decide who’s the sadder hypothetical person. The one who was all, “Dude, we have to leave a nug for Jimi!” or his buddy who probably responded with, “Duuuuude, you can’t just leave one nug for Jimi!”
I guess I’ll have to go with C, the inevitable stoner who eventually would stumble onto this scene and think to himself, “Jimi won’t miss these nugs.”
Oh Ebert, you mostly get it right, but sometimes you get it so, so wrong.
Update: BK says, “He’s making a reference to the film ‘Vertigo,’ in which there’s the line, ‘The Mission? That’s Skid Row, isn’t it?’” That doesn’t change the fact that Endup is on 6th and Harrison, though.
He’s back already, wizard staff and all. On top of that, here he is peacefully talking shop with a competitor, the special-brownie hippie lady (SBHL). All is well in the world again. Dogs and cats, living together, mass hysteria.
This week, on Tales of Inappropriate Hippie Dancing: this guy at Amnesia’s happy hour set yesterday:
Psych! There is no such thing as “Tales of Inappropriate Hippie Dancing”, because all the “tales” would be: “Yeah this weird bearded guy came in and started dancing all crazy. First it was funny, then it was sad, then everyone started looking away uncomfortably.”
Still, you gotta admire that I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-you-think attitude, especially since most of us enjoy the music by crossing our arms and nodding subtly behind that invisible 15-foot forcefield around the stage.