CASA SANCHEZ Mild Salsa Roja, Thick n' Crunchy Tortilla Chips, and Mild Salsa Verde (Casa Sanchez)

You know that feeling when you finally drive a luxury car for the first time, or fly first class, or have your first really good, non-Gallo red wine? You wonder how for so many years you cheated yourself of these finer things, even though they weren't so far out of your realm that they couldn't be tried just once. One thing is for sure, you never want to go back. You've found the top of Everest, so to speak.
Well, for years (over thirty, to be exact) I tried pretty much everyone's salsas and chips; from the adequate Newman's and Chachies to the crappy La Victoria and workman-like Herdez. Chip-wise, I was stuck in Tostitos Chile n' Lime territory with no hopes or desires of exit. They were just fine. I took 'em to baseball games and parties just the same, and they performed admirably.
Then the fuckers discontinued that brand, and I was stuck. Besides that, I had moved to the "City By The Bay", San Francisco. Now, while this town is supposedly known for it's fine Mexican food, I found that to be a myth perpetuated by folks who had moved out here from Kansas...i.e.-those whom didn't know jack about good Mexican food. So, after finding the only three Mexican restaurants in town, I went on the quest for replacement snacky-chips and salsa.
After a short exhausting search I chanced upon the last tub of salsa in the meat department (where all the better salsas are, incidentally): Casa Sanchez Mild Salsa Roja. This was only $2.25 a pint, so what the hey, why not. There ain't nothing else...
That night I was completely blown away by the absolute, no-doubt-about-it, most superior salsa I had ever eaten. I immediately gasped in horror at all those years I had spent without this wonderful product. Slightly spicier than the usual "mild" salsa; the tomatoes and jalapeöos blended perfectly with the onions and dashes of cilantro. Heaven...pure heaven.
Eventually I would find their line of tortilla chips at my local store. Same price, two different lines: Thick n' Crunchy, Thin n' Crispy. While I thought the Thin ones were a tad uninspired; too bland and commercial, the Thick n' Crunchy model instantly became the perfect compliment to their incredible salsa. Soon I was downing two or three tubs of this a week. I was using it for marinades and meatloaves, and anything else that called for a little flavor. After a while I tried their Mild Salsa Verde to similar results. Having never much enjoyed salsas verdes, I was once again stunned into appreciation. I stood up, spiked the chips and ran around the kitchen.
Growing out of (and still based in) a small shop in a very old section of San Francisco, the ascension of Casa Sanchez in the last year-or-so to the upper-echelon of San Francisco culinary cult-society is something unprecedented in chips-and-salsa history. Their amusing cartoon logo of a little "Raul Raul"-type boy riding a rocket made of corn--much akin to Slim Pickens' pivotal scene in Dr. Strangelove--has caught on with the S.F. sub-culture so impressively that people began to immortalize the "Rocket Boy" in ink-on-skin. Earlier this year it became so popular that Casa Sanchez naively offered free lunch for life for anyone emblazoning themselves with their adorable imprint. Needless to say, many jumped at the chance, forcing Casa Sanchez to severely alter their offer, for fear of not being able to make the demand.
Do whatever you can to track down the fine products of Casa Sanchez. If they're not available in your town, hassle your local stores to acquire the absolute finest chips and salsas in the western states. (P O Box 12582 San Francisco CA 94112) --KC

NESTLE NesQuik Cereal (General Mills)

The Nesquik bunny mascot has been around for a long time. As long as I can remember, and I'm way over 30. As the premier chocolate milk-making powder, they've pretty much found their niche, their identity, their market. So, being a long time fan of their product, I flipped out when I saw that they had a cereal version of Nesquik. It even promises on the box to make chocolate milk while you're eating it! You can't top that. Sure, I love Cocoa Krispies and Reese's Peanut Butter cereal quite a bit, but neither of them can really make that claim.
So I crack open the box and what do I find?...a 13 ounce bag of rabbit pellets! That's right; little round brown balls of bunny shit in a box. What were they thinking? Is this some kind of cruel joke? Is the good General smoking crack? I don't get it. I mean, yeah, I get it,but...yeah, I guess it's just Nestle having some fun. Hell, can't fault ïem for that.
So with difficulty I poured myself a bowl of rabbit pellets. Yum. I now realize how fortunate we are that they didn't use a mouse as their mascot all these years. That would've been too much to bear. But dang me, the milk really is turning chocolate. Yup, they kept their end of the bargain.
Afterward I continued my morning ritual of pouring the leftover cereal milk into my coffee. Mmmnn...yummy. This is the best cereal for this application.
So while it passed the test of the coffee creamer, I must pass on this as a regular breakfast treat. Yeah sure, it only looks like bunny shit, but it doesn't really taste that much better.

TUFF TOUCH Callus Builder (Clear Concepts, L.L.C.)

Hmmnn, you've tried playing guitar a few times, but that "thin-steel-ripping-through-your-fingertips" sensation shied you away. And every time you go to the batting cages with your new 31 oz. Adirondack you walk away after 20 pitches in the "Phil Neikro" cage because those 65 mph floaters are reverberating off the bat and stinging your fingers to the bone and beyond. It's enough to make you enroll in accountant classes, fix those horn-rimmed glasses, attach the pocket protector and eschew the rock n' roll/jock lifestyle for the "Nissan Sentra-and-2.5 children suburban grind. How does Tony Gwynn handle all those inside high-heaters and heavy Darryl Kile sinkers without screaming in pain every time he makes the slightest contact? And how is it that Les Claypool can pretty much twist the bass around his body seven times, whilst whipping out erudite and mind-boggling bass lines, even though the action on his bass is akin to holding down the lid on an expanding bottle of shaken-up Coca-Cola?
Calluses, my friend, calluses. These guys practiced through so much pain and torment their hands occasionally bled. But they kept on keeping-on until their hands were about as grotesque as Tony Alva's feet. You gotta have them. How do you think Omar (The Wizard Of Om') Vizquel makes those insane one-handed stabs from short? It's all in the meaty shell over the parts of the hands you abuse most.
Well, Tuff Touch wants to make it easy for you to toughen up those hands without taking a million fastballs to the chest in the process, or having to listen and mock the complete works of Randy Rhoads. Check it out the graphic to your left. It has the setup of a guitar neck with a five-fret range. It's all plastic, so it's not cumbersomely heavy, and it's got raised plastic rails to simulate frets and strings. But best of all, you can sit for hours practicing your guitar playing with your roommates or family constantly yelling "Dammit, you don't know how to play "Crazy Train" yet...please turn that thing down!"
Finally someone has built a product for the ChinMusic! crowd. Enjoy this at everyone's appreciation. (P O Box 62466 Lafayette LA 70596)

ZISK MAGAZINE Zisk#1

First we had Spike Vrusho's trailblazing Murtaugh, then ChinMusic!, and now Zisk; named after '70s Pirates legend Richie Zisk. This small-format xerox-job packs more solid commentary per page than Sport or SI combined. A true fan-perspective forum; Michael Faloon's staff all share a similar sense of humor, iconoclastic pissiness, and pure joy for the vast intricacies that ramble across any smart fan's mind through the course of a season. Simply put, they speak the notions you merely consider; fleshing them out past their illogocal extremes. Utilizing the example below, they draw the "Separated at Birth" parallels beyond the point of curiosity to bizarre coincidence, then to eerie phenomena. The case in point: Sammy Sosa's uncanny co-opting of Sammy Davis Jr.'s mannerisms and essence. When rattling off the requisite "baseball been 'bedy bedy goo' to me" line during the several press conferences during last year's home run chase, he would cock his head back and give the open-mouthed fake laugh, a la Sammy Davis Jr. Someone was coaching this guy in the fine art of winning over the American public, no doubt about it; but he played right along and didn't miss a trick. Gotta love that.
($1--add postage to: P O Box 250878 New York NY 10025)

BUDGET RENT-A-CAR 1998 Ford Bronco (Budget Rent-A-Car)

Last year when ChinMusic #2 was freshly printed and waiting to be picked up, I immediately called my usual, trusty Avis Rent-A-Car to see what they had in the way of a huge vehicle for the purposes of hauling thousands of issues of the new mag from L.A. back to my safe San Francisco home. I love Avis. Always an excellent deal, several locations to choose from in S. F., nice counter-folks, and often they give me a free upgrade for seemingly no reason whatsoever.
So I get a quote through their 800-number for just a bit over $110 for the weekend for a big truck out of their "Fleet Vehicles" division--whatever that is. Most importantly, it sounds perfect for the job at hand. But for some reason I think to myself, "Hmmnn, perhaps I should shop around a bit. Who knows, I could find a killer deal out there."
Sho' nuff', one quick call to the Budget Rentals 800-number does it all. I set it all up through a very polite Dallas, Texas Budget representative, who finds the best vehicle for my usage, a 1998 Ford Bronco. Of course, right there I should have known better. I know, just like everyone else, that Ford makes the worst vehicles this side of the Pacific. But hey, this gent gives me a pretty impressive deal. $78 for the weekend, unlimited mileage, the whole magilla. Can't say no to that, no way. That was my first mistake.
If you've ever driven anywhere in California, you know what a vast wasteland it is. Between S.F. and Smell-A there is precious little in the way of scenery, decent rest stops, or temperatures under 90. It's about 400 miles, give or take, and dull dull dull. You can drive 85 mph for 150 miles and feel as though you haven't moved an inch. A real bummer of a trip, dude.
So I get my Budget truck down the highway and she's purrin' like a kitty. Nice ride...for a Ford. I'm sitting in the driver's seat with some Corn Nuts and coffee, cranking The Didjits' Hornet Pinata and feeling like the King of the Road, to coin a phrase. Upon arriving in Los Angeles late that night I swear I hear what sounds like a subtle ticking deep in the bowels of the engine. But I think to myself "Hey, this is a new truck, there couldn't possibly be anything wrong."
The next day I pick up the full truck-bed's worth of payload and hit the highway back home. Around, uhh...Nowheresville, CA I can hear the ticking getting a bit louder. Also, it seems as though every time I shift from park to reverse to drive, it takes a second or so to engage the tranny. Curious...but I think nothing of it and go on my merry way.
But a few miles later I can feel it tug a bit, like it's having some trouble getting a move on or it's just plain fatigued. Understandable, I've got 5000 magazines on its back. But even with a compensating tire inflation, it shouldn't be giving me any trouble. And yet I'm worried. Should I try to find my nearest Budget office and try and exchange it for a new one? Let's see...I'm running low on time; I've got to get it back to the city by 5:p.m....no time! Even if I was to try and return it, where would I go? King City? Gonzales? Hanford? Who knows?
So I get to about 150 miles of S.F. on I-5 (from Baja to Canada, that's I-5), and thios baby just wants to die! It's chugging along, occasionally giving me enough umph to get up the small hills along the freeway. Yugos are passing me and snickering. Old ladies are giving me the one-finger salute. A tortoise tries to pass me on the right.
Frazzled and angry, I make it back to my city by the bay with just thirty minutes to spare. I unload the magazines in a fury and get set for the painful journey back to the Budget offices downtown. Now, if you've ever driven in S.F., you for sure know just what a hell-ride that is. No one is polite. Everyone is trying to cut you off. Add to that a defective truck trundling through town and it's hair-pulling time.
Somehow, I make it back on time. After five minutes of trying to will it up the ramp to the vehicle bay I make it to the top. I'm none too pleased, but I maintain my composure. That was my second mistake.
The gentlemanly latino garage guys hear out my complaints about the %$*#/@! truck and very nicely (in broken English) tell me I should tell this to their Manager (or some similar title). I walk into the office and am greeted with the most condescending smirk I have seen since the "Live From Vegas--It's Wayne Newton!" show. Said managerial type tells me I have no recourse but to go down to the checkout counter to settle my bill.
Figuring I can find satisfaction for this atrocious travesty of a car rental experience, I run smack into a wall of "Oh I'm sorry sir, there's nothing I can do. Counter guy then explains to me that people return cars for even less reasons than that, and that I should have returned it at the first sign of trouble. Yeah, pretty hard to do when you're stuck in Los Banos, CA, trying hard to find what can only be described as second-and-two-thirds gear.
What's more, I get almost no break on the rental fiasco (maybe 5% or something) and it ends up costing me around the same as if I'd gone with Avis in the first place. Yes, that Avis. The company I should have rented from all along. So as I sign the receipt and turn to leave, the counter-creep says to me "You should've called and returned the truck..." to which I naturally riposte "Yeah, I should've rented from Avis like I was going to do."
You just can't treat your customers that way and expect them to come back for more. From now on I'm strongly suggesting to people to steer clear of Budget Rent-A-Car.

RAT SCABIES Let There Be Rats 7" (Paradiddle)

Holy shite, I have been looking for this single since about 1981. I first read about it the long-since-seen Strangled magazine (the fan pages for Stranglers addicts) and it spoke of, in Rat's own words, how any Stranglers fans should abandon themselves of said band and give a listen to a real drummer for once. Wooh!...hey Jet Black, the Damned drummer is callin' yer ass out on the carpet...in yer own magazine, no less.
So after forgetting of its existence for several years and them going through one of my yearly Damned re-introductions, I finally found this baby for less than $20 on E-Bay, my new favorite place to hang out on the web and blow my hard-earned cash.
But y'know, I'm glad I did. Cuz' even though this is nothing more than a one-off muscle-flexing by the Scabie-d one himself; the Damned thing ("Damned" in capitals because I do believe that at least the Captain is involved in this here project) does a requisite job in the rock department. I just wish I hadn't wasted so much time trying to complete my Damned collection without this li'l piece of ephemera. Let there be Rats! (no longer in print)

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