Call me crazy, but...

Less than twenty-four hours after soundly decrying Four Loko, I was wasted off it.

I know, I said I had no desire ("None. Zero.") to try it, and that was almost completely true. But my boyfriend brought home three cans and we had a party to go to Friday night. I was sure it was a bad idea and he was confident it was no big deal. I could have refused to try it, but after learning that, according to the Huffington Post, a Four Loko has the caffeine equivalent of two cups of coffee, I figured I could handle it. Yeah, that's a lot for me--four wine coolers and two cups of coffee will most likely get me a serious buzz. But I'm twenty-seven, and though my heavy drinking days are behind me, I figured I could handle one can of this much-hyped liquid hysteria.

Turns out, my speculative descriptions of Four Loko as a "blackout in a can" and a "playfully camouflaged hangover" were dead on. One time during a college summer I took half a Xanax before a keg party; up until I lost my memory I recall having an amazing time. But I'd never blacked out before, and waking up on my friend's couch the next morning was an uncomfortable experience: I had no idea how I'd gotten there, or what had happened in the preceding hours.

It's a known fact that combining Xanax with alcohol causes memory loss; I haven't yet read anything that states the same about whatever the hell is in Four Loko, but it definitely had a similar effect on me--and on my 180-pound boyfriend, who, unlike me, has rarely blacked out in his life.

The party started at ten on Friday, so after an early dinner, we each popped a can of Four Loko around eight. I'd negotiated with myself, deciding to treat the endeavor with respect and cautious curiosity; I did, after all, have some experience with time-intensive alcohol consumption: Power Hour. (For the uninitiated, this is when you drink an ounce of beer every minute for an hour, which is like drinking six beers in an hour.) And I wasn't even pushing myself to finish the entire can of Loko. The way I figured, at just $3 I could simply sip until I felt satisfactorily buzzed; the equivalent of a couple drinks for a fraction of the price.

An hour later, I was guzzling the last of my toxic 23.5 oz. beverage.

I'd read that Four Loko tastes disgusting, so it was pretty much what I expected. But my boyfriend, who genuinely enjoys the taste of most energy drinks and is unfazed by descriptors like "cough syrup," was in for an unpleasant surprise when he took his first swigs of Blueberry Four Loko. (To be fair, I'd read that blueberry was the grossest flavor and thus refused to touch it, so his drink may have tasted worse than mine.) I'd never seen him grimace the way he did after swallowing the Four Loko--pinched lips and suppressing a gag reflex. However, just a few minutes later, he reported that the taste had grown on him. And a half hour after that, I understood what he meant.

At first I had to use my Power Hour prowess to force myself to imbibe my Four Loko, which was labeled as fruit punch but tasted more acrid and pungent than any fruit should ever be. I wasn't interested in drinking a full ounce every minute, and just reminded myself to take a slurp every few minutes. After a few deliberate, horrid swallows, I realized that the drink goes down much, much easier if you can avoid tasting it.

And therein lies the largest danger of Four Loko: Its taste forces you to chug, and therefore binge drink. Beforehand, I calmly observed that chugging Four Loko would be a very poor decision, as its alcohol and caffeine content is equal to at least a red bull vodka or two, and I'm not supposed to have more than one of those per hour. Nor do I chug them.

But by eight forty-five I was nearing the end of my massive can of Four Loko (which, by the way, is even less tolerable when it is warm--another incentive for rapid consumption). And I was feeling great.

My boyfriend and I decided to split the third and final can of Four Loco as we took public transportation downtown. Again, I had previously identified this action to be stupid and unsafe, in part because we'd be compelled to drink the whole thing in a short time period, and in part because it is illegal to drink alcohol in public.

But I was already drunk--and loving it!--at this point, and seriously, these cans look like they're for kids. And we certainly wouldn't be the only New Yorkers sneaking alcohol in public on a Friday night. So it was a no-brainer, in part because my brain was already on vacation by then.

I remember enjoying the bus rides, but I don't remember any details except for where we were sitting, a memory that is bolstered by a couple of pictures we snapped before disembarking, in which we look happy and sober.

I sort of remember finding the bar where the party was, just as I sort of remember what the place looked like inside--very dark--and I recall finding my friend and feeling happy. I don't remember a single word of specific conversation, however, though my boyfriend says he found me demonstrating a yoga pose on the floor in the back room.

I do remember leaving, parting ways with a friend and getting in a cab with my boyfriend. I do remember that after we got out of the cab we popped into a local bar, which was unusual. I remember a group of people making noise and beckoning to my boyfriend and me, and I remember feeling excited and welcomed. But it turned out they just wanted us to get out of the way of the dart board.

I don't remember getting pizza, though there's evidence we did. And I don't remember getting home, but I do remember waking up with a distant, familiar feeling of unaccountable unconsciousness.

If that were the end of it I would still probably never drink that swill again--as fun as it may have been, not remembering anything of consequence is frustrating and embarrassing. I don't get to see my friends all that often and I'd really been looking forward to our conversations. I had a good time, I'm sure, but without a memory of the experience, it feels like a bit of a waste.

But that wasn't the only detractor: I was also hungover the entirety of the following day. It wasn't a terrible hangover, but it was terribly persistent--a low-grade swirl of nausea and malaise. An overall sense of grossness and the inability to muster motivation. All. Day. Long.

And that was the outcome of drinking less than 1.5 cans of Four Loko and a few swigs of Bud Light. So I shudder to think what is happening to those who are drinking this stuff in even larger quantities. People who are trying to get wasted--because that wasn't even my goal, and I ended up tanked. Turns out even the most cautious approach is no match for the persuasive power of (addictive substances) alcohol and caffeine. I was naive to think otherwise, but thankfully I was able to learn my lesson without serious damage (that I know of).

So, remember that Four Loko party my friends are having in Williamsburg? I don't think I'm going to be able to make it.

Loco for loko

My first awareness of a certain beverage whose name is so cleverly punned in the title of this entry came about via facebook: a facebook invite, to be exact.

You see, my friends in Williamsburg are having a Four Loko party in a couple of weeks, in an ironic effort to get sincerely wasted. Like so many facebook experiences, the information sloshed into my brain and promptly seeped into my subconscious, so that when I saw an abandoned can of Four Loko atop a bookcase at a recent party, it looked familiar. Then I noticed it in 7-11, and then glimpsed it in a news story promo while attempting to skip some commercials.

Before long all the media was trumpeting the dangers of this drink, which on first blush I find shockingly ingenius. I mean, it's a terrible idea, and that should be obvious to everyone--except to all the drinkers who LOVE IT.

It's a marketing gem. I can't deny it, but I also have no desire to try it. None. Zero.

In college, however--and even a few years after, I'll admit--I would have very much appreciated this economical pre-game in a can. Even now, were I inclined to get smashed and hit the town, I'd find 23.5 FL OZ. (1 PT 7.5 OZ) of alcoholic red bull an efficient if not appealing option.

So I get why it's popular.

But it's also dangerous, and I'm not convinced underage drinkers or even a good deal of legal alcoholics are capable of monitoring the consumption of a beverage that by all appearances is nothing but fun.

It's not really fair, but the truth is that this stuff can easily (and surely does) end up at high school and college parties, where it is no doubt abused. And yes, alcohol poisoning is always a possibility in the presence of binge drinking. I've witnessed--hell, experienced--some scary stuff related to alcohol overdose, even when the beverages didn't taste like bubble gum cough syrup. But when you introduce a substance with up to four times the potency of associated liquids (beer, wine coolers, Zima with a jolly rancher) but with no significant change in taste, you are putting drinkers in danger. They'll misjudge their limits with potentially fatal results, and they'll do it more often than if they were taking shots because Four Loko contains caffeine, which inhibits the brains ability to discern intoxication.

It's a blackout in a can and you've got to be at least a little crazy to try it. But teenagers and college students and plenty of legal drinkers are exactly a little crazy if not moreso. So if this drink is going to stay on the market, the public needs to be thoroughly educated on the contents of these playfully camouflaged hangovers.

How used!

So I practice Bikram yoga and I live close enough to a studio that I can walk to and from class. This means I get to shower at home, which is awesome, and it also means I walk home in my sweat-drenched clothes. I wear capri leggings so when it's cold outside my ankles are bare unless I wear socks or tall boots. Last winter I almost relented and bought Uggs, because they so perfectly suit my specific need.

But I have issues with Uggs. And so my solution for last year involved long socks and fleece-lined moccasins.

Except after ninety minutes in the hot room, coating your sweaty feet and ankles in thick fabric feels less than appealing. Fortunately, even without socks, the fleece lining kept my toes from going numb, if not exactly keeping them toasty. But those moccasins are wearing through, and I made a discovery.

Uggs makes moccasins! Talk about a beautiful compromise. I'll get wool fleece lining and sure my ankles might still be a little chilly but my toes would be insulated and snug, sockless and wicked dry and warm.

So I did a search on eBay, and found plenty of people selling Uggs...used.

Would you buy a pair of boots used? Boots specifically intended for use without socks? Can you effectively sanitize/clean sheep wool?

Takes the idea of walking a mile in someone else's shoes to a new level....

Inked

A disaster happened last night.

No, I'm not talking about the election results (though I could be). I'm talking about the trauma caused by a few ounces of a seemingly innocuous liquid.

Ink.

If you didn't know, I'm taking a cartooning class, and my primary tools are pencil and ink. I had never used pen nibs and ink before, and I enjoy the inking process. It's fun, and lets me imagine I'm using a quill pen.

Every week I take my art supplies with me to work, and then down to Chinatown for my drawing class. Savvy traveler that I am, I carry my pencils and erasers and pens in a zippered bag, and keep the jar of ink encased in a plastic sandwich bag.

So. Imagine my surprise—no, let's make that shock—when after class last night, when I stood up after a 45-minute bus ride, I felt something sticky on my leg. I looked down, and a massive blotch of blossoming black consumed my entire right thigh.

Before I finished departing the bus I was already reaching into my bag for the culprit, and before long was grasping an ink-filled sandwich bag that immediately stained my entire hand. Ink had saturated the bottom of my (expensive, brand-name) bag, which was transferring black smudges to anything it touched. I was four blocks from home and still had to stop in the drug store for some frozen dinner, so it was good that the corner diner didn't mind handing me some napkins.

As I trudged home, dripping with ink, I tried not to think about how ruined my (designer) jeans and bag were. I thought about how privileged I am to even be taking this cartooning class, to have the ability to buy this ruinous ink, to have a home to return to and a way to get clean.

I also thought about how, in class, just a few drops of ink could require a whole paper towel to blot them up, how a quick dip of the nib lent astonishing longevity. This is wonderful, from an efficiency perspective. But it also means that the quantity of ink spilled in my bag and on my pants was monumental.

Once home, it was an inkbath. Splotches everywhere, try as I might to contain them. Splashes of black ink in the sink, on the floor, on the toilet, ringing the tub. Splatters on my face, on the wall, on the faucet. I'd stripped off my most of my clothing to avoid further damaging it, and I'm sure I made quite the sight, half naked, hovering over the bathtub at an odd angle, alternately scrubbing at my bag and jeans and using a rag to swipe at errant ink splashes, which seemed to replenish themselves as fast as I rinsed them. (Because the stains were so concentrated, adding water meant more and more ink.) All this while trying to avoid the massive ink patch on the skin of my thigh, which would have only contributed to the chaos had it gotten wet.

Thankfully adding enough water—like, gallons upon gallons—seemed to flush out the worst of the stains in both the bag and the pants, but I won't be able to truly assess the damage until the dark fabrics fully dry. And I cleaned up the bathroom surfaces well enough to avoid permanent destruction, though a vinegar and baking soda paste is definitely in order. And it turned out that the process of washing the ink from my leg was actually pretty cool; since it had dried so thickly on my skin, I found I could scratch it off in layers under the shower spray and had fun shaping the spread of ink into a cartoon face.

All in all, the catastrophe ranks lower than what happened to Congress last night, but a tidal wave of ink is definitely not what I bargained for at 10:30 p.m. following a day of work and study. It's safe to say I've learned my lesson about screwing lids on t-i-g-h-t-l-y.