Ahoy, Kiddies,

As promised, I've scanned the best bits of the first of five Better Homes and Gardens Cookbooks that I procured from Room Service Vintage.

Some things to keep in mind:
• This was the LEAST visually offensive of the five. I thought I'd start light and work my way up to the edible atrocities. Therefore, this has the fewest scans. The food photography and dishes are gross as hell, but there just aren't that many. This series will get better (worse?) as we progress.
• I've done no retouch. You will have a very hard time believing this, but I didn't jack up the contrast or tweak the colors or curves at all. Everything you see is as real and gross as it appears on screen. Only in real life it's bigger, more tangible, and scarier.
• Some of this looks like the food photography of the mid 1950's, which wouldn't be so upsetting if these weren't from 1964.
• These cookbooks were unused. The spines cracked like I was the first person to open them. When you see the dishes, you will know why.

Let's get cookin'.



Pretty benign from the front, right? Presaging the Rachel Ray trend of offering sit-down dinners in short order, this book promises that full, beautifully-plated meals can be put together in "under 45 minutes"! To think, with the advent of EVOO, Trash Bowls, hideously orange-handled utensils and toxic levels of perkiness, Rachel has gotten that number down to 30. Take that, Better Homes.

Mealtime, on time, will be NO problem. Because, if your man comes home from a long day of bringing home the bacon and there is no dinner on that table. Well, you may just have another one of your "accidents" where you "fell down the stairs." Dig? Ah... but I kid spousal abuse stereotypes of the early-mid 60's.

Aside from the main dish, which looks like broasted tomatoes and sliced bull penis cross sections, the rest looks surprisingly edible. (Unless you're some freak who doesn't like raw tomatoes. But I digress.)

Crack it open and the fun really begins.



"Hey! You got your meatloaf in my chili!"

"You got your chili in my meatloaf!"

"We both have heart disease even though we're only in our 20's!"

Yes, it's two great tastes that taste... um,... together.

I feel so bad for those two sad mushrooms just floating around in there. I hope they meet up. (I have a rich inner life.)



Mmmmm. Pink Parfait Pie. Would you like some coffee with your Teletubby Menstruation dessert? Ha! That's a trick, none of the teletubbies are pink.
And that's probably not even what menses looks like. I just thank god that I'm lucky enough not to know.

Your blender makes it fast. Your lack of taste buds makes it edible.

And I'm all for buying store brands or generics, but it can be taken too far. If you happen upon a can with no other markings than "Frozen Shrimp Soup" Do NOT open it. It is most likely not, I repeat NOT, food.
Again, I am curious how people weren't constantly hocking up phlegm-wads back then. Everything is so cream-based.



Baby Orange Babas.

In fairness, this might actually TASTE good. Oranges and yellow cake. I could see where this may not taste assy . The look, however, is another story. I've been trying to think of a good analogy for what it looks like and the best I can come up with is if David Cronenberg designed a modern wall clock and laid it on its back. It's a reach, but I dunno. I welcome your suggestions in the comments.



I am not a culinary expert. I have not studied at Le Cordon Bleu and profess to know no more of gastronomy than your standard neophyte hobbyist cook. Oh sure, I'll whip up a reasonable Chicken Piccata and churn out some middling-quality cookies. And lord knows I Tivo my fair share of Food Network shows, but I'm far from expert in the art of cooking. I do know this, however: Whipped Cream/pudding concoction, or whatever that is on those strawberry/peach shortcakes, should never - under any circumstances - be beige with a pistachio-green tint. NEVER. That dessert went to the twilight zone, never to return.

Meanwhile, a broiler pan of artery-cloggage awaits.

"Hey Honey, what's for dinner?"
"Oh... the usual: Steaks, ribs, au gratin cheddar-onion stuffed tomatoes, skewered cheese globs (?), hot dogs and bacon, all broiled for our convenience."
"I see, so it's just the two of us for dinner, then?"

This is a good menu for a CPR class outing.



I swear to you, I thought it said "Beasts from the Broiler" which is a good idea for a SciFi Original Movie starring Emerill.

Was the colloquialism "a jillion" in common use in 1964?!? Really? That's kind of amazing. I can't really picture my grandfather saying "Ginormous" but who knows? Anything is possible.

And Later, you can even broil dessert! I mean, why the fuck not?!? Broil it all. Broil the shit out of it. Leave that broiler on 24/7. This is America, goddammit! And here we broil out meats, veggies and even desserts. Those salads are just for decoration, you commie pinko pussy! Latch onto some broiled meat!

(yike.)

Oh, and to gay-it-up for just a second: That header font is BEAUTIFUL, isn't it? "Bests from the Broiler" dances gaily on the page in it's reserved-yet-bouncy Mary Blair universe of whimsy. It's basically too perfect, and because of that makes me love and hate it in equally passionate doses.



And alas, the back cover. (I told you this wasn't a long one).

On the top you get a hint of the "Tic Tac Toe" burger, which has a perfect "#" of yellow American cheese slices on it. Along with a grilled cheese sandwich with a whole serrano pepper on top, which is pretty damned hardcore when you think about it. Which hopefully, you won't.

Okay. This one was lightweight, I'll be the first to admit it. But stop complaining, it's free. And there's 4 more books in the series that get increasingly more insulting and hideously photographed as we go along. So you have something to look forward to as we approach the Halloween holidays.

If you'd like any of the recipes from this book... then you need to reassess where you're at in your life. But I'd be happy to look them up for you, because I'm so starved for the acceptance of strangers on the internet. It's sadly true. Were it not for my four friends who begrudgingly read my sloppily-fashioned and lazily-written (and overly-hyphen-friendly) posts, then I'd have no use for the internet at all. (So long as porn is still available in other formats. It is, isn't it?!?)

That's all for today. But in the near future you can look forward to a real treat I picked up in the discount DVD section at Fry's. It's a campy delight and will be a real Halloween treat. (Feel free to guess. You will be wrong.)

Until next time, my dark minions, Huzzah.

Tags: Gross, High Contrast, Rachel Ray, Why do you scan this shit?

I'm not exactly batting a thousand here, am I?

I bought a stack of hilariously photographed Better Homes & Gardens Cookbooks at Room Service Vintage and have every intention of scanning and putting up here for all to enjoy. But let's see, I posted 5 times in July. Not even once in August, once in September and now it's October already. Month of Ashley's Wedding (see links to the left), my mom's birthday, and another Halloween where I'm afraid my grandiose scheme of dressing as a hot cop are quickly diminishing. At this rate I may have time to rustle up a "hot UPS guy" but it's not the same.

I have so many things to write about, too: There's this guy at the gym who wears half shirts and another who wears these hilarious headbands; the cookbooks (natch); the cat eating my iPhone headphones ($110 worth so far); and various and sundry random notes from our first Autumn in Austin. But alas, no time. I've been cranking on projects for work since I got back from SoCal and frankly, at the end of a long day of staring at my laptop, blogging isn't at the top of my agenda. I hear the weather is getting nice outside, but who can remember?

In fact, as I write this, my work inbox is filling up. Feh.

So until I can get to blogging in earnest again (not to mention the guest blog piece I want to write on the leather fetish shops of Los Angeles for the Cuddling on the Wild Side blog), you'll have to suffice with some videos. The new Ben Folds single was directed by Tim and Eric, who are geniuses. After that, as promised, it's video of me from February 2007 on stage so you can see how horribly fat I was. (Oh, and I made a new header for the site, but I don't know how it's going to look. Let's see.)



Here comes the chunk:


Oh, and here's a graphic I mashed up. If you're familiar with Spagett! then you get it. Although most likely you do not.

Okay, that's it. Back to work.

Until next time, Huzzah.

Tags: Ben Folds, Bad Design

One of the many things I love about travel, or in this case moving, is the different regional foods you find traveling around the U.S. Different brands with different offerings, sometimes with unique regionalized flavors. Thanks to the internet, gas prices, economic collapse, peak oil, bee extinction, and the shitty fourth Indiana Jones movie, the concept of regionalized foods are becoming a thing of the past. A handful of industries persevere, however. Beer being one of the most common "micro" industries. Because you can never have enough microbreweries. Candy is still somewhat regionalized with snacks like Moon Pies (Invented by my Great Grandfather, no lie), Twin Bings, Cherry Mash, and Alien Sour Balls are still made by small regional candy companies that probably skate under the radar of the FDA allowing the incorporation of trace amounts of MSG, cocaine, excrement and broken glass in their products to go largely unnoticed. (Note to self: Good idea for name of imminent memoir would be MSG, Cocaine, Excrement and Broken Glass!)

But today I'm going to focus on another "micro" industry that soldiers on in the face of corporate consolidation: The Dairy Industry. Because modern science still hasn't come up with a chemical to make milk room-temperature shelf-stable for weeks at a time, there's still a need for local and regional dairies. Back in Omaha we had Robert's and up until a few years ago Goodrich. My folks have Mayfield dairy, which produces a pretty spectacular ice cream bar they call the Brown Cow (not to be confused with the beverage of the same name).

What put this front of mind for me was shopping for groceries at the SuperT yesterday when I ran across the most disturbing images that have ever tried to convince me to wolf down a popsicle. It was the frozen treats of the Brenham, Texas company Blue Bell Creameries.

Here's the first box that caught my eye:


My initial reaction? Why is a child prostitute who is clearly possessed by a demon trying to sell me an ice cream sandwich? Not just an Ice Cream Sandwich, but Ice Cream Sand-wiches.

Where does one begin with what is wrong with this box? Let's start at the picture. It's as though there were a Junior Miss Pageant held by street artist Banksy. The color correction says something along the lines of "no, we WANT her to look like a zombie" and the subtext of the image is confusing. Is she trying to look glamorous, or like a grandmother? And regardless, why was she rewarded for doing this with an Ice Cream Sandwich (neé Sand-Wich).

Bringing me to the other glaring issue, why the hyphen? No seriously, WHY THE FUCKING HYPHEN? You designed the box! You can control how the image and text are laid out. I think we'd all be better off if you brought the image down a bit so you wouldn't have to hyphenate and we wouldn't have to see so much of Jim Henson's Granny-Prostitute Babies.

Stare deeply into those eyelash-elongated eyes and you will have nightmares to last you the week.

On to:


You know what I like after a long, hot, and evidently very dirty day on the job site? I like to pick up a no-sugar Krunch Bar with my comically tiny baby-hand and hold it physiologically-impossibly close to my face (check the angle, his arm would have to be about a foot long) and track it with my non-lazy eye after taking a big ol' bite out of it. Oh sure, the cold my bother my exposed teeth, ever since my porn-stache ate my upper lip, but that sugarless Krunchy-ness would be so worth it.

It's very nearly worth sending off to Photoshop Disasters. Except I'm guessing they used some image manipulation software that came with a "750,000 Clip Art Explosion" product they bought at a flea market.

I hope these aren't employees of Blue Bell who volunteered for these photos, or friends or loved ones or anyone who is seeing the wholly awful things I'm saying in this blog. But these are truly horrible boxes. They don't make you want ice cream. They make you want to weep.

And weep, you will, for:


Oh sure, he was enjoying his Mooo Bar. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw what he'd been dreaming of all these many lonely years on his farm: an unattended stroller. Flushed with the thrill of what was about to transpire, a most insidious grin washed over his face.

Thanks, Farmer McPerv. Please eat your Mooo Bar and keep your hands to yourself.



What is it with these people? They don't look like they're enjoying ice cream. They look like they're about to sodomize you with it, very much against your will. Ol' Coach Fudgebar here looks like he has one thing on his mind, and it involves the star quarterback, the locker room showers, a box of fudge bars and a secret.



(You'll note that the star quarterback from Coach Fudgebar's fantasy is off to the right with, I kid you not, Crème Pops. The jokes, they write themselves.)

Meanwhile, poster child for future child obesity Paul Pop'n'fudge is getting ready for the last little league game of the season. When that's over he can enjoy putting on 150 pounds and losing all interest in sports. He'll join the Speech Team and School Paper and have one of those unflattering fat-guy flat top haircuts... wait.... I'm sorry, that's actually my story.

This kid? He's just elated that nobody seems to mind that he's going to scarf down these Pop N' Fudge bars, in the following flavors from right to left: Cherry, Orange, um... Beige and Fudge. Yum!

That's all for today, but stay tuned. I picked up some truly hilarious mid-70's mags and am warming up the scanner as we speak. In the meantime, leave me some love in the comments.

Huzzah!

Tags: Regional Treats, Weird, Stock Photography from Hell, Photoblog

This previous Friday night I found myself in need of relief. Not to be indelicate, but anyone who knows me is painfully aware that I'm a Diet Coke pig. I chug it. It is my weakness. That said, any night on the town can be filled with more than a couple visits to the porcelain convenience. Early in the evening I found myself at a bar frequented by rugby toughs called "Nasty's" on Guadalupe. It's a charming establishment with a good selection of microbrews on tap and dusty panties, bras, and... I think they were boxer briefs... hanging from the ceiling. Once it was time to "break the seal" as my euphemistically-inclined friends would say, I headed off to the men's room.

Now I'm not one of those "bashful bladder" types. I have used urinal troughs standing crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with the meanest of hombres. But allow me to tell you right now: there is no way in hell I was using this bathroom. None. It was essentially a black-painted cubicle with a porcelain bowl that you think is a hallway until you realize, nope: that's the men's room.

I'll skip the graphic over-description and get to the meat of the story (foreshadowing!). A member of what is fast becoming my Austin "runnin' crew" suggested that we adjourn to Ruby's BBQ for a post-Nasty's repast. I agreed if for no other reason than to use a bathroom that at least didn't appear to be out of a third world prison.

To my delight, Ruby's (which has very tasty BBQ, by the way) also has a men's room adorned with some of the most delightful found-art sharpie-drawn insanity that I've seen in a bathroom in ages. With iPhone in hand, I snapped a few choice images for you to enjoy here. Salud!



I would love to know how this drawing got started. Just a circle around a dot? Was it just one person who drew the crude "W" and then adorned it with bristling hairs? As a collaborative art project, "Dongs & Ballz" is a resounding success.

BTW, to any of those reading who are not intimately familiar with the male anatomy, it should not look like this. And if you happen upon some that do look like this, back away slowly.



You see... one does not own the chili. One merely rents it.

But for those of you who miss the nuance, there's a Cliff's Notes version beneath.



What candidate would a poorly-rendered legless Warner Brothers cartoon character endorse? The choice is obvious, don't you think?

Unfortunately, Wile E. Coyote is a superdelegate who has already backed Barack.



Somewhere out there a guy named Glen is thrilled that this masterful piece of prose can finally be enjoyed on the internet, where other guys named Glen who read it can stumble drunk into the bathrooms of their local BBQ drinking establishments and write it themselves. All of this made me wonder, however, why do so many guys go to the bathroom with a permanent magic markers?



This is the logo of my new favorite band. I don't know if they are a band, but I want to believe they are, because the logo is that awesome.

Actually, there is a band here in austin called Girl Fart, which is surprisingly poppy (read again" POP-py"), however they have named themselves in such a way that almost assures they will receive no radio play.



Sure, the request is whimsical, but it's also a little romantic.

Why don't we just go to a Sandals resort instead? It's basically the same thing.



For those having a hard time reading drunken nerd scribbles, this reads: Cthulu/Shoggoth '08, Why vote for the lesser of two evils?

In case you're not familiar, Cthulu and Shoggoth are characters from H.P. Lovecrafts Cthulu Mythos, which is some high-end mid century sci-fi literary nerdishness. Just the kind of thing I would expect in a restaurant bathroom on the edge of a college campus. If this were in a bathroom of a truck stop in central Kansas I'd be worried. It should be noted that in ball point beneath this political ad are the words "Fuckin Funny." I second that emotion, good sir.

For the record, I, too, would rather have the giant and evil Cthulu for president than John McCain.

To recap, if you're near 32nd and Guadalupe and want some good BBQ paired with some of the most entertaining bathroom reading available, stop into Ruby's and enjoy.

That's all for the weekend, kiddies.

Huzzah.

Tags: Eating Out, Austin, Photoblog, Toilet Humor, Texas

I promise not to become just a "scanner of cookbooks," but this was right under the New Joys of Jell-O and I wanted to get in another quick blog entry before the weekend. And it's so tiny, it's more like a little supplemental post. Just a bump to calm you down, get you through a friday. I know, I know, baby. You just need your fix. Well here it is.



It's the creative cookbook-let from Fritos. And they're not kidding. It's a little 12-page supplement that I can only imagine a relative of mine (perhaps a certain Frito-loving Southern grandmother) sending in 10 Frito wrappers for this "free" informative cookbooklet. Made in 1979, one can only imagine what horrors await inside.

Well, you can only imagine, I've been drooling over the photos of sodium-saturated treats for a while now.



You open it up to get the backstory of Fritos. I'll sum up: In 1932 a venture capitalist named Elmer Doolin saw these handmade chips at a San Antonio cafe. They were so damned tasty he decided to license them and call them Fritos, presumably using the same logic that Taco Bell uses for naming their products: because it sounds sort of Mexican-ey. Since it was 1979 when this book was printed, and America was becoming somewhat racially sensitive, there's no mention in this history of the Frito Bandito, who was originally a caricature/racial stereotype of a Frito-robbing, well... bandito. This was offensive on many different levels, not the least of which that a bandito would dedicate so much of his precious robbing energy on fattening corn chips. Perhaps it's better not to dwell and just to look at the artery clogging delights within.



Here's a tasty appetizer for you. The Corny Scotched Egg. Equal parts Hard Boiled Eggs, Pork Sausage and Fritos. Seriously. Why have dippin' mustard? Why not just some sea salt to roll it around in? If you're going to make your heart explode, why not go all the way and see if you can get it to burst directly out of your chest.

And now you know what fat kids in the southwest want in their Easter Basket. Just these and a script for Lipitor.



So you're probably saying to yourself, "wasn't that the name of a David Bowie album?" Close! That was Diamond Dogs, and that was during his Glam phase. But I can see how you drew that conclusion.

Glamour dogs. Yike. Here's the instant imagery I got from the name: The floor of Studio 54 is covered in squeaky toys. Look over there, it's Andy Warhol as a Poodle talking to Halston as a Weimeraner and Liza Minelli as a long-haired Teacup Dachshund. All these little pups running around with white powder rimming their big, wet, cold noses. It's Glamour!

The last thing that comes to mind when I pair the concepts of "glamour" and "dogs" is a fucking hot dog stuffed with crushed Fritos. Seriously. The. Last. Thing.

That said, I'm sure they're crunch-a-licious.



Fun Fact: My nickname in college was "Beef Party Dish"

(Okay, here's the deal. Some days I go for the highbrow jokes, some days it's the low hanging fruit, and then there are days when I just rely on the old standbys. "that was my nickname in college" attached to a vague double-entendre is an old standby. Give me a break. Some days you get the pearls, and some days you get the swine. And then some days the swine is breaded in Fritos.)



docmarvy.com Blog Fun-tivity Challenge: In 25 words or less, leave in the comments what makes your corn wiggle.

Ironically, Fritos make my corn wiggle. That's why I try not to eat them now.

Also, those chicken croquettes look like something so obscene I'm too reserved to write it here. But just think of the Thing from the Fantastic 4 getting too excited and you'll figure it out. Gah!
And... I apologize.



We finish off the cookbooklet with Beefy Cornbread. I'm no nutritionist, but if you meet one, they will tell you that cornbread is one of the worst "breads" you can eat. Full of fat, refined white sugar, and a plethora of other empty carbs. So how to make it better? Add 3% lean Ground "Beef", Fritos and Whole Milk. Now you've got something to enjoy with those Glamour Dogs while you're waiting for the ambulance.

What's that you say? Your arm hurts? You smell burning toast?

Interesting.

Here, have some more Fritos and try to calm down.

That's all for today, kids.

Huzzah!

Tags: Fritos, Out of Print

Gridskipper ran its Top 8 of Los Angeles Hamburger Stands.

So far I have consumed 2 of the 8. In-n-Out, which tastes like everything that is good about California, and Irv's which I was escorted to by the literary world's favorite snarky daddy bear/death metal enthusiast/L.A.-transplant Dave White. Irv's was exactly everything a burger at a west coast burger stand should be: artery-clogging deliciousness on a hand-customized paper plate served beneath a swaying palm tree.

I've long fantasized about my "fast food tour of Southern California," (read more about it at my side project The Food Museum) where I partake of the goodies at Jack in the Box, Wienerschnizel, Del Taco and Shakey's Pizza all in one eating orgy/vacation. And do I even need to mention my Chicken and Waffles eating tour of L.A.? But I think that these dreams will now be put aside so that I may partake of the 6 remaining best burger stands of L.A.

Upon my next visit I must partake of Fatburger, Astro Burger, Cassell's, Big Tomy's, Hamburger Haven and Marty's.

Some people go on vacation to relax, I go to eat.

I think we can all imagine how this will end up for me. And if you found that hot... shame on you.

Huzzah, Kids.