Commercial Review: KING COBRA MALT LIQUOR AD- PART 1 (1985, Fred Williamson)

Stars 5 of 5. 

Running Time: 30 seconds.

Notable Cast or Crew: Fred Williamson aka "The Hammer" (1990: BRONX WARRIORS, FROM DUSK TILL DAWN, VIGILANTE, THE NEW BARBARIANS, ORIGINAL GANGSTAS, BLACK CAESAR). 

Well, I suppose I have a tradition to maintain of publishing beverage reviews every St. Paddy's day (past reviews include DAD'S OLD FASHIONED BLUE CREAM SODA, BLUE DIAMOND BEER, CHAMPAGNE COLA, and IRISH POTCHEEN), and while I missed out on it yesterday, this year, I'll continue my examinations of mind-altering celebrity beverage hucksterage, á la James Mason's Thunderbird Wine ad, Ice Cube's St. Ides Malt Liquor Jingle, or Rutger Hauer's partnership with Guinness. So I present to you now: Fred Williamson's King Cobra malt liquor ad. Fred Williamson has lived many lives– a football star (for the Oakland Raiders and the Kansas City Chiefs), a bit player in classics (M*A*S*H), a TV love interest (JULIA), 70's American blaxploitation star (HAMMER, BLACK CAESAR, HELL UP IN HARLEM), Western and Spaghetti Western star (THE SOUL OF BLACK CHARLEY), a writer and director (MR. MEAN, NO WAY BACK), Italo-plagiaristic trash star (THE INGLOURIOUS BASTARDS, 1990: BRONX WARRIORS, THE NEW BARBARIANS), William Lustig hero (VIGILANTE), and 90's comeback genre film actor (ORIGINAL GANGSTAS, FROM DUSK TILL DAWN). He was also the star of a series of King Cobra ads. For those who have never experienced the malty, manly bite of King Cobra, it's one of the more easily attainable forty-ounce malt liquors, produced by Anheuser Busch, and available at grotty convenience stores and grungy bodegas everywhere with the intent of brightening hobos' days by dulling their senses and polluting their bladders. 

  

Our journey begins on Same Old Malt Liquor Street, a monochrome byway that most of us are acquainted with, and altogether too well. Some of us spend out entire lives there, never knowing that a better path could await us, if only we'd open our minds.

  

Then, Fred Williamson crashes the party- The Hammer himself. 

 

"If you've only ever experienced harsh malt liquor taste– it's time to change!" With a mystical touch from The Hammer, accompanied by a whooshing sci-fi sound effect, we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, we're on– 

 

...KING COBRA BOULEVARD. It's electrifying. Color washes over us like a cleansing hand of God. Suddenly everything seems so clear. Fred Williamson walks by, and the others follow. They know not why they follow, but some primeval organ, long forgotten by man and etched upon their spinal columns, compels them to follow when a prophet is in their midst. "King Cobra's the only malt liquor that's so good when the taste grabs you, it's a different breed- that's quality." Now would probably be a good time to mention that whenever The Hammer expounds upon the benefits of upgrading to King Cobra, he is accompanied and punctuated by a heavenly chorus who sings: "Kiiiing Co-Bra!" Regardless, Williamson begins to amass a veritable army of disciples who leap for joy and spin and dance and pirouette in unison, driven into a righteous frenzy by the divine right to better malt liquor that The Hammer is offering them. He's like the Jean Bodin of malt liquor! 

 

 

I was just thinking of the Pied Piper of Hamelin but I can't remember why. Anyway, the swarm of King Cobra-acolytes prances ever-forward, and then in silhouette–

   

"King Cobra is cold malt liquor satisfaction with a smooth taste." The destination is revealed to be one swingin' party being hosted at, ostensibly, Fred Williamson's apartment. An exceptionally foamy can of The 'Cob is opened. What, did they shake that up beforehand? Or did it come from the handbag of one of these twirling ladies?

   

"So when you pop the top, what's the clue?" 'So when you pop the top, what's the clue?' is the question posed to us by The Hammer. What does it mean? Is the clue...foam? How is foam a clue? And in general, why are we talking about a clue? I was not aware that a mystery of some kind was involv– ah, I get it! I see what you did there, Fred. Divine mystery. As explored in the 'Mystery Plays' from the Middle Ages, which are quite obviously being referenced here. Clearly, The Cobra was the snake whose temptations caused Adam and Eve to be expelled from Eden. But now King Cobra is in charge, inviting us back to Eden, where the rockingist forty-ounce party of all time shall now commence! There's a new daddy in town, and he has been crowned KING! But back to the riddle– "So when you pop the top, what's the clue?" It's soon answered by a boisterous partygoer who sings her reply in verse: 

 

"Don't let the smoooooth taste foooool ya!" And she's right! Don't let the smooth taste fool you into thinking that this advertisment is only about malt liquor, because the taste is not smooth! It's an aside to the initiated, so that they may begin pondering the next step of their King Cobra devotionals. Also, I like that guy in back with the 'stache.

  

Williamson then returns with additional wisdom:

   

"Anheuser-Busch...to give cold malt liquor satisfaction. ...Don't let the smooth taste fool ya..." He places an unusual emphasis on fool, as if there is something of greater importance being said between the lines, which, of course, there is. The commercial comes to a close, and today's lesson is ended. Soon afterward, Fred starred in a trilogy of films made by Italians looking to cash in on the 'success' of Cannon Film's COBRA, starring Sylvester Stallone. They were: COBRA NERO (BLACK COBRA), THE BLACK COBRA 2, and THE BLACK COBRA 3: THE MANILA CONNECTION. Coincidence? Regardless, don't let the five stars fool ya....KIIIIIING CO-BRA! -Sean Gill

Commercial Review: THUNDERBIRD WINE AD (196?, James Mason)

Stars 5 of 5.
Running Time: 22 seconds.
Notable Cast or Crew: James Mason.

Submitted, for your consideration: Thunderbird. The American Classic. What's the word? Thunderbird. How's it sold? Good and cold. What's the jive? Bird's alive. What's the price? Thirty twice. That's just sixty cents, ladies and gentlemen. Now for those of you still asking, 'What the hell is Thunderbird?,' let me lay it out for ya. It's a low-end, fortified wine. Also known as a blockparty breakup, a poverty punch, or a gutter punk champagne. A cheap n' grubby beverage, which, despite possessing a translucent 'white wine' hue, is known to turn the mouth a tenebrous, inky black. Existing somewhere on the chemical spectrum between Clorox, gasoline, and rubbing alcohol, it's like something out of STREET TRASH.

Over here we have James Mason. Veteran actor of stage and screen and a memorable collaborator of Alfred Hitchcock, Carol Reed, Stanley Kubrick, Michael Powell, Nicholas Ray, Tobe Hooper, Sam Peckinpah, and George Cukor, among others. Nominated for three Oscars, he's played General Rommel, Brutus, Captain Nemo, Joseph of Arimathea, and Humbert Humbert. He even had his own TV show for a little while: THE JAMES MASON SHOW. His deep, velvety voice has delivered exquistely-worded put-downs to co-stars as disparate as Charles Bronson, Cary Grant, and Marlon Brando. A class act if there ever was one. So, you're probably wondering why I even brought him up in the context of Thunderb–

Now that may be the finest celebrity endorsement I have ever witnessed, this side of Bronson/Mandom.

James Mason begins with a moment of hesitation...

You can see it in his nervous eyes and his stiff demeanor. He knows exactly what he's about to endorse. In fact, he may have grown that seedy moustache expressly for the occasion. He's come to grips with the sacrifices that must be made in the name of earning a living, yet still he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with the viewer. He looks downward, using the excuse of a steadier pour.

"I like the unusual flavor of Thunderbird wine. It's an exceptionally good drink for every occasion."

He slowly pours himself a glass. He hasn't lied to us yet. Not directly. Perhaps he does like that unusual chemical taste in the same way that some of us enjoy the occasional whiff of gasoline from a passing automobile. And note that he doesn't say it's an exceptionally good drink per se, he simply finds it well-suited for every occasion, just as I find Drain-O well-suited for every occasion I have to unclog a pipe.

"Thunderbird has an unusual flavor, all it's own. Not quite like anything I've ever tasted."

Still he looks away. He even uses the descriptor 'unusual' once more. He's falling apart. Under that silken neck scarf, he is sweating buckets. You can't tell because he's a pro, but he's never lied to his public before. He still manages to avoid coming straight out and saying that 'Thunderbird is worth your time and money because it is delicious,' though, which is admirable. I like that sculpture, too.

"I suggest that you try Thunderbird. It's really delightful."

'Delightful' is stretching it. And James Mason knows it. That's why he toasts us with his tumbler-of-Thunderbird-on-the-rocks-with-lime-garnish as he says it. It's an old magician's trick: sleight of hand, distraction, and visual flourish. I like that he never takes a sip of Thunderbird. Now most will probably cite advertising laws and so forth, but I'll always hold that he can't bring himself to do it. It's also possible that the fumes have generated some kind of temporary paralysis.

Ah, and only now do we see that it's officially described as an aperitif, which might be the most egregious example of false advertising yet. Perhaps it could stimulate an appetite for slow-roasted packing peanuts served with rubber cement sauce, or something of that nature. I have to assume, though, that James Mason has tried Thunderbird at least once, or else he wouldn't realize the necessity of so carefully tiptoeing through his adjectives. But it's all in that first look–


It's only for an instant, but he really does look like a turtle out of its shell. The bird may be alive, but the Mason's mortified. And yet, at the same time, he looks scuzzier than Humbert Humbert at his scuzziest. This is the look of a man who is about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a wine bottle. Then again, it doesn't resemble wine in any way, so let's say it's the look of a man who's about to hawk some toxic chemicals in the form of a bottle of bottom-tier Triple Sec. It's like that Philosophy 101 conundrum whereupon if you grab the carrot to feed yourself, someone across the world who you don't know dies. Except here, it's James Mason's livlihood versus a couple of dozen melting bums and dissolving hobos. It's the cycle of life, and it's all laid out quite beautifully. Thank you, Mr. Mason. Now pass that Thunderbird. Let her gentle wings soar.

-Sean Gill

Beverage Review: DAD'S OLD FASHIONED BLUE CREAM SODA (2009, United States)

Stars: 2 of 5.
Maker: Dad.
Home Country: United States.


Ah, remember sidling up to the soda fountain counter, handing Jimmy the Soda Jerk a nickel, recapping last night's episode of HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL, and receiving in a return a tall, bubbling, ambrosial vat of BIG DADDY SIZED BRIGHT BLUE SUGAR WATER? Unless this memory was steeped in the Blue Raspberry craze of the late 80's and early 90's, I'd say we're seeing some rather egregious use of the term 'old-fashioned.' But who knows- Dad has been around since 1937, and blue cream soda is sorta ubiquitous today, so maybe Dad himself has been using food coloring for ages to turn his sodas that delightful shade of cerulean blue which- wait a minute, Dad, how did you know that was always my favorite crayon? Regardless, this thing is Big Daddy Size. This is not for pikers. It's not quite the kiddie 40 oz., but it's still not for the weak of mind or the faint of heart. Dad's odor is sweet, but his taste is rich and sugary beyond belief. I could only cough down a few laborious sips before I'd reached my limit. Speaking of coughing, cough syrup is delicious also. If only it were available in a vivid blue hue and in a container fit for Big Daddies. I mean, anyone who can suffer an entire liter of this stuff is a better man than I. And not to be a dick, but I actually would have been more impressed had it been flavored blue raspberry. I can only award you two stars, Dad, but I know they will have ample room to shine in that Big Daddy sized container you've got there.

But wait- a little research puts some faces to the names. Suddenly, I feel very bad- I'm not badmouthing some faceless, corporate entity named 'Dad.' I'm badmouthing this guy:

Meet Dad and the fam. They like bow ties almost as much as they like soda.

Look at 'im. He's stylish, dapper, and an all-around good guy. He's like the Mr. Belvedere of soda hucksterage. But he's no butler- he's Dad! He's stuck with Mama for all these years, even after she started looking like Lillian Gish in NIGHT OF THE HUNTER. He and even puts up with the constant, puerile outbursts of Junior there, who kinda looks like the demon-child of Buddy Holly and James Remar. I guarantee you that Dad right there has taken a few tacks up the ass courtesy of Junior, yet he keeps on smiling. Keeps on trimming that mustache till it's perfect. Keeps on pumpin' out old-fashioned blue cream soda. Nothing can keep Dad down. I've even got a picture of Dad's house- the house where he makes the soda:

Awww, no, Dad! That's just sad. A crumbling, dilapidated rust belt behemoth not even fit for the gang from STREET TRASH, much less a vivacious nuclear family. It's an American tragedy that makes Theodore Dreiser's look like a whacky picaresque. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I gave your big daddy-sized old-fashioned blue cream soda only two stars. I hope you can forgive me.

-Sean Gill

Beverage Review: BLUE DIAMOND BEER (2005, China)

Stars: 2.3 of 5.
Maker: Blue Diamond.
Home Country: China.

In honor of St. Paddy's day- some beverage reviews.

So you're craving a Pabst Blue Ribbon. But you're not so keen on the fact that it's been appropriated by- for lack of better terminology- young people whose experience with PBR has not included drinking it out of a bowl like soup in the 1950's after a greasy, sweaty, long day's work at the factory. Well, I have got the scratch for your itch: BLUE DIAMOND BEER. And not to be confused with the actual Blue Diamond Beer, this one's from China, and its packaging seems to be the exact median point between PBR and Budweiser– possibly to escape the repercussions of international copyright law from either party? Does international copyright law cover the minutiae of beer can graphic design?


Note the odd, ribbon-style seal on the back.

Anyway, to make a long story short- no, I didn't drink it. It was five years old and its origins were murky. I popped it open (the tab was triangular, by the way) and the scent that emerged probably approximated what five-year old PBR would smell like, so I guess we can surmise that it's perhaps similar in quality to well-aged Milwaukee's Be(a)st?

-Sean Gill

Food Review: VAMPIRE'S SECRET ICE POPS (1993, United States)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Maker: Good Humor.
Home Country: United States.
Where procured: My 1993 Elementary School Olympics.

So I suppose that I have to face the fact that the Halloween season is really over, so I'll finish off the celebration with a little something special that manages to combine the flavor of Halloween with the icy chill of December: it's called... 'Vampire's Secret Ice Pops.' Now I remembered these things from back in the day, and had been searching for them fruitlessly for years. I couldn't even remember what they were called, exactly. Maybe it was "Drac Pops," "Transylvania Bars," or "Bloody Popsicles." [That latter internet search led to a fetish subculture (!) known for sucking on used, frozen tampons...] Regardless, I was finally able to discover hard evidence, courtesy of Retroist, where I discovered that there were scores of Midwesterners simultaneously searching for proof that these existed. It seems that they were circulated primarily in the Eastern Midwest (Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia) and were available in two varieties: a larger bar called "Vampire's DEADLY Secret" and the popsicles named "Vampire's Secret." [Now I do remember both quite vividly, yet I was unable to find photos online of the Vampire's DEADLY Secret, so just know that it was out there, too.]

Now, if you haven't already guessed what these sanguinary treats entail, let me spell it out for you: A jet black exterior (flavored 'Black' Cherry) enveloped the blood-red interior (so elegantly described on the box as "Cherry Sauce"). So you're basically drinking the popsicle's blood. And "Cherry Sauce" is right– the stuff is gooey and runny as all hell.

Now, I do have an anecdote to accompany this review, so allow me to describe the day that I first made the Vampire's Secret Ice Pops' acquaintance. I was in the Fourth Grade, and it was Field Day, or the Elementary School Olympics, or whatever you'd like to call it. I think that every school had them, or at least some approximation– a day, late in the school year, dedicated to kids running around and busting their balls in the hopes that they can win some shitty plastic medals purchased at the Dollar Store. The teachers are torn in their appreciation for the day: on the upside, they don't have to really do any work; but on the downside, they have stand outside all day as the sun beats down on their backs and there's only one little bit of shade, and fuck, you have to squint and shield your eyes all afternoon cause you left your goddamned sunglasses at home, what a stupid thing to do, dammit.

I wasn't exactly the biggest fan of Field Day, but there was a sort of primitive excitement in the possibility that a plastic medal or a generic ribbon of some kind could be yours at the end of the day. This was what kept you going. And the games ranged from legitimate to insane: there was a marathon-style run, a three-point basketball challenge, a relay race with batons, etc. But there was also some stupid shit where you had to lay down on your belly and wheel around on a makeshift scooter, the three legged race, and some 'tomfoolery involving little bean bags' that didn't make any sense then, and it doesn't make any sense now. There was even an egg challenge, where a team of two kids would toss a raw egg back and forth, taking a step back between each toss, until the egg finally smashed all over some unfortunate whippersnapper's face and shirt.

Anyway, the final event was the Marathon, and we'd all been hydrating (a local McDonald's donated a giant keg of that terrible orange-flavored sugar water punch), but perhaps a little too much, because we all started to double over with cramps during the final lap. All that orange sugar water sloshing around one's stomach was not exactly conducive to sprightly athleticism. We were overheated; our faces ruddy with exhaustion. Bits of grass and dirt were pasted to our sweat-drenched skin. We kind of wanted to die. Some kid finally dragged his sorry ass across the finish line, and it was over. Another successful kiddie Olympics. Now it was time for the treats. The big payoff. Usually it was your choice of any two kinds of Flav-Or-Ice. But this year, it was something special. A little something called Vampire's Secret Ice Pops.

It almost breaks my heart to think of what went into the decision. Probably there was some new, idealistic lunch lady or faculty member who said– "These kids are tired of the same old stuff. Let's mix it up! Kids like gross things- they'll love this!" Invariably, some crotchety old douche growled "Come on, Flav-Or-Ice has worked before, and it'll work again. Who cares what they like? Why would you mess with a good thing?" The newbie responds with a tearful argument about changing with the times, and giving kiddies variety, and being on the controversial, cutting edge of frozen confectionary. Then, most likely, the final decision maker harshly intoned, "All right. We'll do the blood pops. But if this backfires, I'm gonna have your ass for breakfast."
Maybe that scenario didn't even happen. Maybe they ordered a box of them last Halloween, had forgotten to distribute them in the school lunches, and the crate sat in the back of the freezer until the end of the school year when it was discovered and cracked open in time for Field Day. Any number of scenarios could have happened. But, regardless, the end result was the same:

We stumbled to the ice cream treat table and excitedly received our blood pops. Most of us didn't even bother to read the label. We ripped off the paper wrappings and dove in. How weird, I thought, as I licked the popsicle and noticed the children around me as their lips and mouths began to turn a repulsive, inky black. Damn, that's probably happening to my mouth, too. But who cares. It's fuckin' Field Day.

"AWWKKKKK!" The first kid had broken through. Some showboat who just wanted to eat his popsicle in five bites instead of laboriously licking it, like its makers had intended, was quickly punished for his impudence. Sticky, goopy blood sauce spewed forth from the popsicle, splattering on his face and shirt. "BLAECCHCHKKK!," another child screamed. The same had happened. Geysers of blood were spouting all around me. "AWWWWW NOOOOO!" "NUTS!!!" I looked out at a sea of children as they made the cruel discovery of what indeed resided inside these strange, black, frozen treats. It wasn't a solid filling at all. Even calling it 'gooey,' or 'goopy,' insinuates more rigidity than it deserves. As soon as you hit the center, it was like you were holding a wine bottle upside down, above your face, and pulled out the cork. If you weren't prepared, your face, hands, and shirt would be showered in sticky, viscous, bloody fluid. They might as well have handed us squirt guns full of maple syrup.

Now, perhaps I exaggerate in retrospect, but the end result resembled a massacre. Our mouths blackened and our bodies bloodied, we solemnly marched to the gymnasium for our awards and trinkets. In previous years, they had taken photographs of the children as they received their plastic prizes, but for some reason, they didn't that year. In fact, I think they kinda rushed the ceremony so that they wouldn't have to look at us, and I can't say that I blame them. I only hope that the young, theoretical lunch lady who dared to go against the grain didn't get shitcanned, cause I really like her a lot.

Four stars. Two for that lunch lady's doe-eyed idealism, and two for the Vampire Pops' ability to transform a grueling, mandatory school activity into a stunning vision of gory, apocalyptic chaos.

-Sean Gill

2009 Halloween OVERFLOW

1. [•REC] (2007, Jaume Balagueró & Paco Plaza)
2. THE MANITOU (1978, William Girdler)
3. SLEEPWALKERS (1992, Mick Garris)
4. CUTTING CARDS (1990, Walter Hill)
5. THE LEOPARD MAN (1943, Jacques Tourneur)
6. MY BEST FRIEND IS A VAMPIRE (1987, Jimmy Huston)
7. HELLBOUND: HELLRAISER II (1988, Tony Randel)
8. TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME (1992, David Lynch)
9. THE FOG (1980, John Carpenter)
10. VAMPIRE'S SECRET ICE POPS (1992, United States)

Food Review: BIG BLOW (2000, United States)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Maker: Big Blow.
Home Country: United States?
Where procured: Dollar Store in Akron, OH.

Moving is kind of a traumatic experience. You realize in advance, of course, that you'll be throwing out many of your possessions, ranging from useless trash to things that might hold some personal relevance. You can plan all you want; deciding that everything in this column is to be kept, and everything in that column is to be thrown out, but ultimately, it's probably going to devolve into a shitstorm where something that was precious yesterday is getting tossed without second thought, just so you can keep trucking through the hideous crap you have to do on moving day. Regrettably, Big Blow was one of those casualties.

I and this bag of Big Blow have been through a lot. I came into its possession nine years ago at a Dollar Store in Ohio after a bout of hysterical laughter prompted me to lay down the $1.06 required for me to be its new owner. There was something about it, and not just the fact that it was named Big Blow. It promised 101 pieces, and the bloated little mascot with his sprig of orange hair and googly eyes was the perfect poker face for the product. "Did they know what they were doing when they named the gum BIG BLOW?" is the question of the day here. And the little googly-eyed guy seems to simultaneously be feigning ignorance AND be sayin' "Yeh-ey-yahhh- we know it's dirty!" kinda like the guy in DEADLY WEAPONS who says "Yeh-ey-yahhh- you got da job!" But, anyway, almost ten years later, I still don't know the answer to this question, and now I fear it will be like some ancient stone tablet, crumbling into dust, and indeed lost to time itself.

From 2000 to 2009, the bag of BIG BLOW was 'around.' It made whacky appearances when houseguests and visitors would ask for gum; these happenings were initially met with some degree of good humor, but after getting pulled out again and again and again, they began to be met with eye-rolling and disdain, which merely made them more pleasurable- more rib-ticklingly self-indulgent. At some point, the bag was actually opened, though I don't think any of the contents therein were actually consumed. Certainly not by me. In any event, Moving Day, 2009 rolls around, and I'm faced with some tough decisions. Three days earlier, it'd have been unthinkable, but the day of, I'm resigning myself to shedding a great many things, and what do you know, BIG BLOW ends up on the chopping block. The feverish moving mind is telling me BIG BLOW is a big part of my life. But the feverish moving mind is also telling me sometimes you have to purge the things you love in order not to be defined by your things. And maybe I don't want to be defined by just BIG BLOW anymore. 'Hey, who's he?' 'Oh, yeh, that's BIG BLOW guy.' Maybe we just don't want to be at that place forever.

Anyway, the moving mind has a lot of wisdom, but not a lot of restraint: so it tells me- maybe one last BIG BLOW- for the road. Sure. Why not. There's bound to be lots of preservatives in this. And you don't actually eat it, you just chew it. Undoing the wrapper, I'm noticing it's kind of firm. A little rigid. Yeah, well, you know what, a lot of gum is rigid until the saliva gets it going. Well, to make a long story short, that last BIG BLOW was not a great idea. I probably could have broken a tooth. It did not yield one iota, and remained as stiff as a little chunk of cement. Kind of like those ancient stone tablets I think I was talking about earlier. Then I threw out a bunch of other shit that was dear to me. But the trick is, if you do it all at once, maybe you won't remember. But there's no forgetting some things. Some things like BIG BLOW.

So four stars, good buddy. Surely, if nothing else, the nine years we spent together has earned you four stars.

-Sean Gill

Beverage Review: CHAMPAGNE COLA (2009, United States)

 

Stars: 2 of 5. 

Maker: Key Foods. 

Home Country: United States. 

Where procured: The Key Foods in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. 

Now, Miller High Life is all about proclaiming itself to be "the Champagne of Beers," which I've always found to be a rather presumptuous slogan, and one which flits rather dangerously with hubris in the Classical sense. (Though I must admit, if I had the time and resources, I would someday very much like to build a pyramid of champagne glasses and, safely perched high above, pour Miller High Life into them from the topmost champagne glass down.) I would find it similarly presumptuous if I were to find that a soda claimed to be "the Champagne of Colas." Furthermore, if I were to locate a beverage purporting itself to be "Champagne Beer," I would find it, to use the parlance of Mr. T, completely "abso-ludicrous." So imagine my surprise when I discovered on the rusty, dusty shelves of a local grocery: "Champagne Cola." Moreover, I found that it was not presented by Henriot, Philipponnat, or Dom Pérignon, but by none other than the illustrious KEY FOODS. And on top of that, at the time of purchase, this "Champagne Cola" was available in no less than 3 LITERS at a go! As one might be able to derive from my Food and Beverage reviews, I am never content to simply imagine what the contents might be like, but naturally have the inclination to find out for myself. Call it what you will; curiosity killing the cat, or Pandora opening the box, but by using the platform of the Food and Beverage Review, I can now at least claim that my martyrdom was for the greater good. In any event, I had to find out... and I did. The most pressing question when delving into a carbonated beverage of significant volume is: "Which is of more importance to me- keeping it carbonated, or keeping it cold?" Room temperature can be staved off by repeated trips back to the freezer, at the expense of carbonation. De-carbonation can be staved off by hanging tough and continuing to pound it down (see this eternal question posed by the ignominous BALTIKA EXTRA 9). Three liters of Champagne Cola are no small task, even with the help of others. As the above photo may have already spoiled, I did not finish. But the photo alone does not tell the entire story- I did not finish...IN THREE MONTHS! Indeed, I allowed this half-drank beverage to sit in my refrigerator for a quarter of a year, mocking me daily for my lack of discipline. But this is not designed as an outlet for mere self-castigation. What did it taste like, you wonder? Well, if you've ever encountered the beverage "Sparks," it tastes EXACTLY like that. What of the champagne, you wonder? Well, suffice it to say that Key Foods' Champagne Cola has far more in common with Orange Marshmallow Peanuts than it does with Champagne in any of its forms. In fact, it really doesn't have a lot to do with "Cola," either, being more consistent with a Lemon-Lime/Orange soda than anything approximating Cola. So it exists as a mislabeled enigma, perhaps fully realized only in the fever dreams of its makers. There's really no more to say about it. In closing, a little bit of research reveals that "Cola Champagne" is rather popular in the Latin America. Perhaps Key Foods' Champagne Cola is somehow related; or, at the very least, attempting to cash in on this lucrative market.

  

And, an even more disturbing facet that my research unveiled was that "Champagne Candy" is becoming popular amongst the "wedding crowd."

  

Presumably it has more to do with Champagne the bubbly French beverage than Champagne the Cola, though if this affair has taught me anything, it is that nothing involving champagne can (or, indeed, should) be truly taken for granted.

Beverage Review: IRISH POTCHEEN (2006, Ireland)

Stars: 4 of 5.
Maker: Bunratty.
Home Country: Ireland.
Where procured: Obtained by a traveling friend in Ireland.

In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I've decided to unleash a few of the long-awaited beverage reviews, starting with the most potent- Irish Moonshine. Known in Ireland as Poitin (from the Irish word for 'pot'). [In fact, the first feature film to be made entirely in Gaelic was called Poitín (1979).] My Potcheen came in a rugged porcelain cask and proclaims to be "Now Legal," having been banned from 1661 to an unspecified date presumably in the not-too-distant past (supposedly 1997). The bottle is further adorned with six shamrocks and a lithograph of Bunratty Castle at night (in County Clare, between Limerick and Ennis); formidable imagery for a formidable drink. The back of the bottle whimsically entertains with the following poem about the Potcheen itself which I hold in my hands:

"Now learned men who use the pen have wrote your praises high
That sweet Poteen from Ireland green, distilled from wheat and rye:
Throw away your pills, it will cure all ills of Pagan, Christian, or Jew
Take off your coat and grease your throat with the real old mountain dew."

Now anything that firmly proclaims "Now Legal" has to give one pause. And by the time you get to that first sip, you've probably invented some sort of sprawling, Lovecraftian monstrosity in your mind that is far more rank or cutting than the "Now Legal" beverage can ever hope to live up to. And so, it was with some degree of surprise that the first sip of Potcheen could only be described as "smooth." What the devil?! And what's this?! it evolves into a kind of fruity aftertaste, basically approximating watermelon?! I don't know about you, but I didn't jump on the "Now Legal" bandwagon to be taken for a "froo-froo fruity" ride. From the poem on the back claiming to cure all Pagan, Christian, and Jew ills, I expected Snake Oil mixed with BALTIKA EXTRA 9. And now you're telling me I might as well have ordered a sixer of Zima? Well, don't fret just yet, my dear boy. There's more. The first sip may appear as a lovely shamrock, fluttering in the brisk March air as birds sing, but once you get a few sips in, that shamrock reshapes itself into a great green FIST, thrashing your temples like the most brutal of highwaymen. Perhaps I overexaggerate. But there's something about the wide-mouthed ceramic bottle with an unpolished bottom held tight by a cork that recalls an earlier era. And for that I give it four stars. If you're gonna take issue with that, I say just take a look at this for a minute. Just take a look, and think about it.


-Sean Gill

Food Review: REAL COTTON CANDY (2008?, United States?)

Stars: 2 of 5.
Maker: Sideshow Snacks.
Home Country: United States?
Where procured: Bodega in Bushwick, Brooklyn.

This was procured on a jokish whim. A mere ninety-nine cents for some 'genuine' cotton candy in a bag from some shadowy bodega, the frozen-smiled yammering clown depicted on the package proudly hoisting some of the candy forth, proclaiming it to be "Real." I truly believe that at the time of purchase, there was no intent whatsoever to ever consume the candy. Yet at some point, after the bag's continued taunting, it got popped open in the presence of friends. Several consumed at least one bite of the candy and have thus far not suffered any ill effects. But there are a few things that give me pause. The bodega in question had yellowed walls, pressboard faux-wood, and a selection of dusty toys that have not been sold since at least the early 90's. Given the preservative faculties of modern-day junk food chemicals, I suppose I should not be AS worried, but there is a healthy chance that said bag of 'REAL Cotton Candy' had been sitting on the discolored shelf for upwards of eighteen years. I would hope this would not be the case, but as I have consumed some of the bag's contents well over a week ago and have not yet perished, I believe that the worst is behind me.

Now, on to the product. That first bite is the make or break moment. If you're going to do one bite, you'll probably do four or five or six. But upon that first bite, there's certainly a moment-of-truth instant that makes you feel a bit like a sky-jumper or bull-fighter. But then, after all of the to-do, it's almost disappointing. It tastes a bit like the marshmallow bits in children's cereals. No, it tastes EXACTLY like the marshmallow bits in children's cereals. Though as you rip forth a bite-sized chunk, it makes a rather disturbing cob-webby sound that recalls an enormous spider shuffling across its web. Then there's the disquieting propensity for the stuff to stick to your fingers, and not in a small residue, but in large globules:

Overall, surprisingly edible and not nearly as disturbing as we were led to believe, though quite disturbing enough, thank you very much. Next time, I shall pass. Two of five stars.

-Sean Gill

Beverage Review: BALTIKA EXTRA 9 (2008, Russia)

Stars: 1 of 5.
Maker: Baltika (the second-largest brewery in Europe, after Heineken).
Home Country: Russia.
Where procured: Bodega, corner of Manhattan and Nassau in Brooklyn.

Well, right off the bat we got problems. I don't even know where to begin. It's meant to be a 40 (Alcohol Volume 8.0%), but it's actually 75 fluid ounces (2 Quarts, 11 oz. is what it says on the bottle). This thing is a behemoth. And it doesn't even come in glass. It comes in thin plastic with a strange, dimpled texture. It looks like the odd cousin of a two-liter soda. And I can see already the wheels in your head are turning- if it's not in the extra insulated glass, how are 75 ounces of this tripe gonna stay cold for more than six minutes? And the answer is, they're not. More on that later. There's other fundamental problems too, even beyond the fact that the "Best Before Date" box is empty. Now, it seems to be entitled "Extra 9 Lager." And everyone schooled in how these things work knows that there are two types of beers, lagers and ales. Well, okay, this one is a lager, then. But then, up in the right hand corner of the label, it says "Ale." Well, which is it? 'Alright,' you say, 'just crack it open and find out for yourself.' Alright, I shall. You crack it open, and you get kind of this sweet smell. It's a smell that seems to contradict the fact that you just paid 2.3 cents per ounce for this stuff. If you later examine the ingredients list, you'll find that the smell is probably just the "High Maltose Corn Syrup." I'm not sure what that is, and after I tried this, I'm not sure I care to find out. Anyway, by the time you've finished taking in the oddly sweet smell it produces, the liquid within has probably jumped a good ten degrees in temperature. So it's time for that first, fateful sip. Even cold, even ICE cold, this stuff tastes exactly like sweaty gym shorts. 'Have you even actually tasted sweaty gym shorts?,' you ask. Well, try a sip of Extra 9 and come tell me where you stand on that issue. It tastes EXACTLY like sweaty gym shorts. And that is not a good thing, even when you're trying to imbue your life with extra kitsch value. And remember by the time you're 6 minutes into this gargantuan endeavor, it's gonna be room temperature. You thought it tasted like gym shorts when it was ice cold? You are in for some hard, unfortunate truths at room temperature. And then, of course, there's the question- do I put it back in the freezer and get it cold again at the risk of losing carbonation, or do I stick it out here at a rapidly rising room temperature? Do I jeopardize throwing away my $1.75 investment with the additional risk of appearing to be less of a man? These are actually some pretty weighty questions for malt liquor to be asking. In any event, I continued on, if only for the sake of this fine beverage review. And let me tell you, by the time I got to the foam at the bottom, lukewarm gym shorts were sounding pretty good. Words truly have no dominion over the shapeless, slavering, gangrenous Lovecraftian monsters that lie in the foam abyss at the bottom of this dimpled bottle. I must say I don't think it's worth finding out for yourself. One star.

-Sean Gill