I was hip for two hours with my family at the Electronic Dance Music (EDM) and Sriracha Food Festival in San Jose. Food trucks featured the tasty hot sauce in their signature dishes be it tacos, poutines or cupcakes. I just knew my boys would like it, particularly the youngest. My husband would love it too. He’s as hip as a teenager, introducing my kids to EDM, Sriracha AND Food Trucks. By default, I am exposed too. I just lack depth or maybe passion.
If you don’t have a hip dad in your house and don’t know what I’m talking about, here is the scoop. Sriracha is a red, hot sauce in a tall plastic bottle with a rooster on the front and a green cap, made in SoCal by a Vietnamese family. It originated in Thailand in the town of Si Racha in 1930. My family uses it in soups, on eggs and with french fries.
EDM is not my favorite music. I endure the simulated-instrumental songs for the short rides to school or swim practice. It’s a mix of digital music with a steady beat. Rarely are there words and if there are, sometimes a human sings and sometimes a computer. The digital voice is a real talent to create I’m told. I think it sounds like a faster version of the chipmunks if that’s possible. If a human sings it’s usually a remix from a really GREAT song from the 80s like the Eurhythmics’ Sweet Dreams. Or maybe it’s something current like Hey Ho by The Lumineers, only faster; the way it should be played says my youngest.
We traveled in two cars to San Jose as my football player son needed a quick stop to the doc to be sure he didn’t break his wrist at the Friday night game; he didn’t. He just hyper-extended it pushing a 300lb. opponent away. My other two teens, hubby and the fourteen-year-old couldn’t contain their EDM groupie excitement; they left early. That was ok since my older son finds electronic music simplistic and I monotonous.
I walked into the festival with my sixteen-year-old. Rarely are we connected as mom-and-son since he looks more Asian like his dad and not Irish like his mom. This kind of bugs me but not today. I hoped I might blend in with my Panama hat and Ray Ban sunglasses, hide my mom-ness. Maybe I could be mistaken for a twenty-something, like most of the crowd. A cute girl passed us and told my son she liked his shirt, a giant pineapple graphic. I nudged my son. “She likes your shirt!” I exclaimed like a proud mom.
We found the other half of the family lying under the trees and listening to the booming music coming from a giant black stage with a laser light show backdrop. I see one guy wearing headphones; he’s moving back and forth along a table of black boxes, equipment I suppose.
“So, where is the band? Have they started yet?” I ask.
“Mom. There aren’t any bands; it’s a DJ. He mixes the music.”
My younger son is clearly annoyed at my ignorance. Now I get why a digital voice is considered a talent and why my older son thinks the whole genre is unsophisticated with the same bass beat throbbing throughout. He plays in a symphonic band at school with real instruments and real musicians. Symphonies were hot once, back when Mozart was the hip music mixer.
I’m starved so I leave the “concert” to tour the circle of food trucks a few feet away. Hubby showed me around. I pick a plate of deep fried pork and tater tots drizzled with a secret Sriracha sauce called Piggy Style Tots. I can’t remember the last time I ate tater tots, a special treat growing up. I decide on Fairy Cakes for dessert, salted caramel and Sriracha; mango and Sriracha; and cinnamon and Sriracha. We got a mix to try. Everything I ate was delicious and unhealthy, with a slight kick.
After my spicy feast, I walked around by myself to see the sights and take pictures. I got closer to the stage to check out the music master. A couple of five-foot tall Sriracha bottles made of paper mache, like a piñata were leaning against the stage. I noticed a couple of twenty-something girls taking pictures with them. I wanted a picture too. So I asked them to help me out. A selfie doesn’t even occur to me.
I passed over my phone and showed them my camera app. They didn’t seem like they needed a lesson. However, a photo check showed nothing but blurry images. The aperture is really slow. I apologized for the lag and asked for a retake.
“How about I take it with my phone it’s really fast,” one girl offered. I thought that was pretty generous of her. Maybe this is how twenty-somethings make friends now. Dang I need a new phone.
I stiffly pose with the bottle again. Then the three of us check out the photos. Score. She asked for my cell number so she could text the pics to me. I never give my cell number to anyone unless I know the person, to avoid spam. I want to be “cool” about it so I gave her my number and watched in awe as her fingers flew across the smart phone keyboard. I hunt and peck with one pointer finger on my phone even though I took typing in high school where we used all ten fingers. I’m slow to text like my camera aperture.
A few minutes later I’m pinged by two texts with two photos labeled Sriracha Pictures. She did it! The third text asked if I got the pictures. How rude of me to not thank her immediately! I had to craft my reply carefully. I didn’t want to overdo with my new friend from The 510. (We never exchanged names.) My kids hate my text messages, too long. How can I be briefly grateful?
“Yes! Thanks!! Look great!”
“Okay, you’re welcome” With the exception of no period at the end of her sentence, it was grammatically correct, fully spelled. Wow! The twenty-somethings are very polite, friendly, thorough and educated.
Since I didn’t really care about staring at a DJ on stage while his booming speakers tried to take over my heartbeat, I took in the fascinating crowd. Selfies with smart phones and big cameras were everywhere. I guess it’s important to be facebook ready at all times. Guys and girls were snapping pics. A cool kid dressed in all black and black Clark Kent specs took pics of the festival, probably for Instagram. An ordinary reporter type dressed in drab olive-colored cargo pants and dark shirt jumped on the cool kid’s look and snapped a photo; he wasn’t that cool looking.
I snapped cooler subjects. I photographed a guy playing badminton in sparkly basketball shorts—that’s interesting. I also photographed a couple of gals in shorty-shorts, one with faux ballet shoe strings up her leg as she and her friend with black spidery floral tights danced around with hoola-hoops—an EDM thing I was told. They were actually “talented” and a couple of sickos were videoing with their smartphones; I hope they were the boyfriends. And why not get into the Sriracha spirit and dress like the sauce.
My tummy and ears were filled with youth. It was time to go home to blog, facebook and tweet about my day like the twenty-something I was for two hours.Share on Facebook