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?

Sorry to be out of touch for so long, my faithful blog readers (both of you, yet I'm just delusional enough not to refer to you by name). As you can see by the previous post, I misspelled "Eppley." My sincerest apologies to everyone at Omaha's Eppley Airfield and anyone else I may have offended. I made it back to Austin, just barely and without my luggage at midnight. But a midnight nosh at Katz' Deli got me back in the Texas swing... so to speak.

On to matters at hand. As promised, here's the second installment in my After Dark series. You can read part one at this link or just scroll down, which would probably be easier. That'll give you all the background you need. If you're just too damned lazy to click or scroll, here's the elevator version: Trolling the North Loop vintage shops I found this stack of hilarious old mid-70's "New York Lifestyle" magazines for men. Which is obviously code for Mag-GAY-zine. I bought a few so I could scan 'em, snark 'em, and provide fodder for my rarely-brilliant, even-more-rarely-read interspace on the webbertube. Let's go!

The time: November 1976

The city: New York

The magazine: After Dark: The National Magazine of Entertainment

The event: DISCO FEVER!

For whatever reason, Editor Bill Como thought that the perfect accompanying graphic to their Disco Fever issue would be Broadway superstar (?) Chita Rivera in full "Cabaret" drag. What do these things have to do with one another, you may ask? Well, so far as I could gather from the issue... nothing. See for yourself:

Those eyelashes! The backlighting! The pancake makeup! Folks, this is the pre-Photoshop world right here. In the era before Photoshop Disasters, there were just plain old in-studio disasters. Run of the mill, but seem strangely refreshing in this over-polished age we live in now.

But if it's the Disco Fever issue, then where's the "dancing dudes?" Oh... right here:

I'm torn on the hotly contentious issue of Disco Fever. I musically came of age in the Disco-backlash 80's. When wearing bellbottoms and shaking one's "groove thing" was considered horribly passé, but tight-rolling one's Z Cavaricci jeans and teasing out one's hair to the New-Ro strains of Adam Ant was acceptable. That said, there are certain elements of disco that I can appreciate: Complex instrumentation, traditional musicianship, danceable beats. But my early memories of "cool" are Dr. Jonny Fever declaring that disco sucked and cranking some Pink Floyd. Isn't there room enough in the world for both? And have things really changed all that much? Can I not have my Andrew W.K. and my Jamiroquai together?

But a better question may be, in regards to the above photo, where did the defined gentleman above keep his keys, and did he take maracas with him wherever he went, or just to the club?

"I just get After Dark to read about great stage and screen artists like Agnes Moorehead... I honestly hadn't even noticed that picture of Greenwich Village Follies."

How many fellas told themselves and their "girlfriends" that tall tale? I shudder to think.

The statement was most likely later followed by hushed conversation over the basement phone to the Gate Theater to see if tickets were available for the coming Friday night.

There was a weird resurgence in Art Deco (referenced again later in this issue) during the late 70's and early 80's. Offering some good and some bad repercussions. Good: practical use of neon and lucite in design, attractive sportcoats, large-scale pattern motifs. Bad: Taco's "Puttin' on the Ritz," mixing too much coral and turquoise within singular designs, the design elements that informed "The Max," the soda shop where the kids from Bayside High would hang out.

This ad screams one idea loud and clear: Disco 76 has NO LADIES NIGHT. You have your choice of two types of guy that hangs out there: skinny pale guy in a tux, and skinny pale guy in a tux with a 'stache. 'Twas the 70's, that much you can be sure of.

Subtle.

The above-mentioned "From Peppermint to Poppers" story. I didn't reprint in full readable quality because... well, why? However I should mention that the story does reference a "soon-to-open club" downtown called Studio 54. My guess is that nothing will come of the place. The accompanying page photo:

And you thought Dirk Diggler was a fictional character. Yet there he is in his booty-shaking glory. I know it's sweat, but the fact that he looks like he mega-wet his pants... kind of a turnoff, actually. I mean some people might find it hot, but... um, no.

Paragons of disco. All aboard the airship BeeGee!

And Isaac Hayes, no matter what your kooky religion tells you to do, in my mind you will always be this scary outer space genie.

Anyone care to guess who the guy on the bottom right is?

Yeah, me either.

What do we have here? Some supergroup comprised of members of The Time and Kid Creole and the Coconuts? Nope. Although the guys on the right both kind of weirdly look like Morris Day. No, what we have here is Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band. Apparently they were hot for about a month in 1976 with a little ditty called Cherchez la Femme. You think I'm joking? Thankfully YouTube will vindicate me.



There's one you never hear on the Jack-Bob-Fred "we play anything" radio formats. Wonder why? Probably because it sucks. They were truly the Cherry Poppin' Daddies of the 70's. (That isn't a compliment.)

And now the answer to the eternal question: are there tan lines in space?

Evidently, yes.

Obviously, this is two pictures haphazardly stuck together. On the left we have what Ursine Historians will come to refer to as a proto-Bear Run. If you don't know what that means, then you probably don't want to look it up. On the right we have what you normally only see once a year on a "pride" parade float in any medium-to-large American city. My question whenever I see anything like this: Did the guy BRING this outfit to the club, or did he WEAR it to the club? Also, where are his car keys? I just assume there must be keys, because I highly doubt he took public transportation in that outfit. Although, it IS New York. Here in Austin, they like to keep it just as weird.

But who was making the music that these sweaty spacemen were shaking their "what-what's" to?

How about a fierce looking Chaka Kahn:

Tell me something good? Okay, how about this: A film vehicle for Chaka Kahn and Pam Grier. They're two sexy assassins who stumble on a sex-slaves-for-cocaine ring. And they bust it up by unleashing a funk-splosion of pain on "the man"? I would SO watch this movie.

So remember above when I mentioned that the 70's had that return to Art Deco 20's opulent design?
Well, meet designer Charles Burke:

Charles was pretty edgy with his retro-futuristic designs. Evoking the 20's with a little 60's mod and Chrome-ified "House of the Future" action. Actually reasonably cool in a very ironic sort of way. But his work as a designer who works well with light (not to be confused with noted lunatic and "painter of light" Thomas Kinkade) got him some pretty fab acclaim back in the day.

Why he even got to hang with noted celebrities:

In case you missed, I noted where Charles Burke was rubbing elbows with the pre-Knight Rider Hoff.

Above that, my fellow nerds will recognize the light communicator-thing from Logan's Run. Although it's in like 30 seconds of the movie.

Amazingly, Burke's style mellowed a bit, and he's still designing. In fact, he was recently featured in Connecticut Cottages & Gardens. A far cry from After Dark, to be sure.

Now more fashion! Or should I say "fashion":

"Does this quilted pantsuit make me look gay?"
"No, of course not. Maybe the tambourine you're carrying does, though."

If you've ever heard the term "gay face," you now have a prime example.

Seriously, what the hell is even happening here? Was there ever actually a prevailing belief that there would ever be a "jumpsuit chic" movement?
Really? REALLY!?!

But wait...

We see here gayface in a velour... um robe-suit-type-thing. With a white silk cravat, lest you think this isn't dressy enough, accompanying a Debbie Harry wannabe wearing a garbage bag and, inexplicably, pantyhose with open-toe shoes.

Also whatever happened to the eyewear fashion movement that said sunglasses of the future would be made from silver casts of leprechaun protective cups?

I guess this harkens back to the earlier Logan's Run reference, where people of the fashionista-70's were preparing to wear jumpsuits and live in a mall. To an extent, that is sort of what happened.

Think the ironic t-shirt was the domain of the internet-ordering 90's, er 00's?
Oh, no, kids.
From left to right, in case you can't read it:
Spank you very much
Empire Diner
SCAT (um... ew. -ed.)
All That Jazz
Gotta Sing Gotta Dance
Our Feature is Full Length and Uncut
Baby Beef Cakes
Basic Training

If someone, ANYONE, approaches you in a bar with a "SCAT" t-shirt on - unless you hear them saying "skib-illy-hoob-illy-doob-illy-bop!" - run like hell.

Who wears short shorts? Even these guys seem surprised as to how scandalously tight their shorts are. Seriously. It looks like their crotches were vacuum packed for freshness. Ironically, wearing them all night at a smoky dance bar, it will be ANYTHING but fresh in there.


When you think of the 70's, what new age conceits come to mind? Pyramid Power? sure. EST? yeah, that too. But let's not forget about the all-important Amulet/Talisman. Something to dangle among your chest pubes and show how deep you are. That Egyptian scarab says something about you: It says you wore a jacket without a shirt and your pants are coming off. The 1970's were not known for their subtelty.

So it's the post-sexual revolution 70's. Post Stonewall, etc., and men are starting to cut loose the 50's short hair and tie to the office mentality. And of course some of them are getting their ear pierced. Like tattoos and sleeveless t-shirts, the number of men who wear this look is disproportionately larger than the number of men who can pull off this look. For those who really want to "gay-up" their ear jewelry, there's these casts of people that you will have to explain who they are to whoever gets close enough/drunk enough/is stupid enough to ask.

Now THAT'S what I call an amulet (or talisMAN - wokka wokka). It's a guy pointing to his junk. Hilarious. Again, the subtlety of the 70's.

And dare you wear a man-thong? Most should not.I implore you, MOST. SHOULD. NOT.

Oh, you think Borat came up with the over-the-shoulder-thong chic? No-no, my dear readers. That "sex-sational" look has been around for a regrettably long time. I'm glad they found a guy with all the sex appeal of John Stossel to model them. Gah.

Remember the ad in the last After Dark for the Poop Deck? AMAZINGLY, nobody let them in on the joke and it was still open in '76, "catering" to a very unspecific "lifestyle" - which apparently has something to do with two guys staring intently at their own handshake on the beach.

A blogger people actually read (Joe.My.God) did a piece on the Marlin Beach Hotel that you should read here. Brill, as usual.
Looks like the building is still sort of there, although whatever it is now... hard to say.

International Male, purveyors of the poet shirt, a plethora of banana hammocks, and sporting the same photo of the swarthy "hot" guy in leather pants standing next to his motorcycle that they've been running for like 25 years. Oh yes, they were in business in '76, and business was good. It's nice to know that while gay hustler clothes may have changed (um... sort of) over time, at least the gay hustler clothiers have not.

In fairness, International Male has tried to update their image, and in retail business circles they made a pretty public gambit to bring fashion conscious straight guys back into the fold, but without seeing their numbers I'm going to guess it was with limited success. I'm still scratching my head why these guys didn't title sponsor Queer Eye. That could've done the trick. Hey, IM, if you're hiring a marketing guy call me!

What does a pair of Gainsborough's Blue Boy cufflinks say about you? That you appreciate irony?

There's so many ways to be a fancy lad here, I shudder to think. Somewhere in Minneapolis an entrepreneur said, "What's something I can market that is recognizable but nobody owns the copyright to?" while he was flipping through a coffee table "Introduction to Museum Art" book, and BINGO! This great idea was born.

(Not affiliated with blueboy magazine.) Which is pretty much exactly what you think it is. Gotta love old-timey disclaimers.

Finally, we've almost reached the end. And it's a doozy:

Edible Underwear.

Ed-i-ble-un-der-wear. Does any part of this even make sense?

Oh sure, it inspired one of my favorite songs:

(Which is available on iTunes, where I bought my own copy.)

But why would you wear a fruit roll up on a part of your body that is NOTORIOUS for heat generation? I'm all for fetish-ey behavior, and kinks and the whole nine yards, but with these how do you not just end up with "pants full o' jelly"? Even if you do just put these on for some bedroom fun time, wouldn't one ill-timed Dutch Oven ruin the moment (and more importantly the flavor) for every one involved? I'm gonna say yes.

And yes, penis pillows are a great novelty, but where do you put them the other REST OF YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU'RE NOT AT A BRIDAL SHOWER?

Oh and that big black man is, in fact, wearing a full body fishnet Freddy Mercury unitard-thing. And you can totally see his junk. I'm not sure what the practical applications are for this look, but feel free to postulate in the comments section below.

There you go, kids. A HUGE-NORMOUS post from After Dark. Again, sorry it took me so long, but I put this together in my free time over a couple weeks. So worth it, don't you think?

Me either.

Oh well, leave some love in the comments and I promise a shorter, more concise, and possibly even funny post next time.

Huzzah.

Tags: Faggotry, Gentlemen of Leisure, Broadway

Perusing the skanky old publications dotting the charmingly retro coffee tables in the vintage shops in the North Loop area of Austin, I happened upon a stack of After Dark magazines in alarmingly good shape. Apart from some page yellowing they were in pristine condition. I wasn't familiar with After Dark, save for the Berkeley screen saver software of the Macs of my youth. This After Dark, no relation, appeared at first blush to be a standard New Yorkey playbill-esque pub, filled with bio pieces on Broadway performers you've never heard of and ads for New York nightlife. Save for a couple differences: The ads were targeted exclusively to men (men's wear, men's health, a plethora of porn-stache) and all of the content was driven almost exclusively by campy chanteuses recalling their wild times trotting the boards (seriously, there was a three-page spread on Hermione Gingold, who you may remember as Eulalie Mackechnie Shinn from The Music Man), tasteful semi-nudes of scrawny 70's guys, and some photo essays of rough trade. Despite the fact that I'm not 11 years old, I actually thought to myself "O-M-G, I've stumbled upon a veritable treasure trove of classic gay mag-tacularity!"

And so I had. I hastily purchased three of them, at a seemingly steep $7 each, and set home to warm up my scanner.

I'll be doling this out in pieces so as to not spoil all the fun at once. Here are selections from After Dark May 1975. A seven month old me was at home, presumably in my crib, while all these wild goings on were... uh, going on. I give you, the cover:

Nobody wants to be the rude one who says, "Um dude, your balls are showing." On the cover of a national publication no less. I'm not sure who the cover character is, but I flipped through enough of the article to know that he was in a production of some high-minded Greek tragedy off-Broadway production where presumably most of the cast wandered around with their balls showing. Even the ladies.

The mag didn't have the cash to go color throughout, so it's a mostly b&w affair. But that detracts in no way whatsoever from the awesomeness of it. If anything it adds.

And speaking of ads, are you looking for the right swimwear to wrap around your "bobby-dazzler"?

Well you're in luck:

Already with the pornstache staring at you. This is magnificent: You have all three types of 70's guy on here. There's the pre-muscle beach boy, the scrawn-fit fella (with and without chest pelt) and then hair helmet McMacho. How important is his hair? Um, it's a 1/3 page ad for conditioner, for crissakes. A lot! He cares about his hair a lot, okay? Don't judge.

This man owned a mustache comb, I guarantee it.

And if you didn't have your own hair:

Okay, lots happening here, so let's dig in. The "Headhugger" should not be confused with the "facehugger," which are the small aliens from Alien that latch onto your face and plant alien eggs in your guts. Although I think that option was available with these toupees. Also it shouldn't be confused with "treehugger," which is a pachouli scented hippie that latches onto your face and plants hair-brained schemes into your mind.

Are you a fan of cinema? Well you're in luck, because The Adonis is the Premiere Showplace of the Nation. How do I know their movies are good? Well, their logo has a boner, that's your first clue.

Gay porn titles have never been subtle, but at least back in the day they were whimsical. Spread Eagles? Wasn't that with Louis Gossett Jr.? (no.) Boys of the Slums, wasn't that Spike Lee? (no.) And what pray tell goes on in their exotic Grecian Lounge? If I have to tell you then you won't understand anyway.

Time for more pornstache!

Wow? Yanni? The guy who sings about Baby Beluga, the caviar all the kids love? (no.) This is another Greek thing. Yianni is, no kidding, the Greek version of the name John. Still, you kinda wonder what's going on under his hat, don't you? Pervert!

Hungry?

When in New York be sure to enjoy the tableside antics of the chefs at Banihana. They would love to make the same ancient jokes you just heard at the other table a minute ago. And when in Denver, be sure to be menaced by a dark eyed stranger with a super pornstache at The Broadway.

So remember, the Benihana in New York, The Broadway... in Denver. What the hell?

What's happening at Gypsy's?

Um, I don't know. Apparently NY mayor Mike Bloomberg in a a Pee Wee Herman haircut will try to tango with you. Gah!

But what's New York without taking in a musical?

Nice. Classy. In the words of its creator, Earl Wilson Jr.: "it is a musical revue about SEX... with some nudity and a lot of X-rated language. It was nominated for a Grammy in 1974 and has appeared all over the world. It is a really fun show that takes the attitude that everyone loves sex... when they are honest enough to admit it... and that we'd probably all be a lot better off if we were less uptight about it".

I sort of agree, I guess. But still, it's a little tacky.

Think it's just modern douchebag fratboys with puka shell necklaces? Don't be fooled.

On the same note, do you think Dov Charney's American Apparel is blazing any trails with its pervy gold lamé outerwear? I'm afraid not. The His Midas from Ah Men shows that with a chest pelt and stuffing your junk in a gold bag, confused heroin-chic ladies will lean on you for support.

Nothing new under the sun, I guess.

I scanned these pages a while ago and don't remember what I was going to say about all of them. But I would hasten a guess that it's about The Kokpit, which is by all accounts, THEE FUN BAR. Got that, Sweet Lips?

Ay ay ay.


Or would you prefer a bar that's named something even more "on the nose"?

Yep. The Poop Deck.

And what do you do with the Poop Deck? You rinse it off, spray some Lysol in the room, maybe light a candle, and keep going.

Oh, Fashion Section! I hope there's a naked guy in a Horatio Hornblower hat!

With cowboy boots to match. What I really admire about this guy is how he kept it classy and kept the legs together. Because once those things open up, "flop" on the ground. Then the magazine gets a brown wrapper, dig?

Everything that is good and bad about Godspell in one picture:

This photo wants so badly to be sexy, but it cannot be. It just cannot be. (BTW, it's not actually from Godspell. But you drama class nerds already new that.)

The Black Crowes called, they want their fancy tour outfit back:

Kind of a fantastic suit, actually. I wouldn't recommend wearing it to a funeral.

Well, maybe a clown funeral.

Ready for that giant Disco Sound?

Both of these ads are fantastic. I want to go back in time just so I can find out what the hell "The New! Sound Sound Machine" is. Is that the name of the bar? Or is the bar Giant Disco Sound? What's happening? Why is this ad yelling at me?!?

And then "How's this body for openers?" Um, the body is okay. The face, however, is a young Jay North from Dennis the Menace meets a scary albino. It's called cropping, people. And it was done, even back in the 70's.

There's a lot going on here, but it's all so worth it:

I won't even comment. Just enjoy it all for yourself. "For Sensualists" "The Ultimate Man and Woman" "Jungle Fever"
It's all so good.

And Beach Boy of New York is the only guy with some meat on him in the whole magazine. A sign of things to come (no pun necessary).

Oh Boy! Turquoise Jewelry!

Sexy? Scary? Both?

This was a 2-page ad pushing the very popular silver and turquoise look of the mid-70's.
And it somehow morphed into a punchline for an SNL sketch:
That's it for issue one. I'm considering re-selling these elsewhere on docmarvy.com just for the novelty of it, and to recoup my losses. Good idea? No?
Eh.

Stay tuned for issue two of more old school, porn-stachity fun from After Dark, coming soon!

Leave some love and ruminations in the comments!

Huzzah!

Tags: Faggotry, Gentlemen of Leisure, Broadway

Okay, so this is the last lazy YouTube post I'll put up for a while, pinky swear.

However, you really have to wonder what these boys are going to do when they get to the Chicken Ranch. Looks like they're having a high-ol' time just a-rompin' and a-stompin' around the locker room by themselves. Ahem, uh.... yeah.


So, uh... yeah. Wow.

Yee-haw?

Tags: Texas, Faggotry, Musicals

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

Hey everyone. Like mononucleosis, I'm back without warning or reason.

Allow me to quickly recap: After the last post I was hastily relocated to Texas. I guess that's just the nature of the witness relocation program... er, I, uh... mean... business.

So I took a couple months off from maintaining docmarvy.com to get myself situated and to work on some of the parts of the blog. In that time I almost abandoned this obvious vanity project, but then like a bolt of lightening I got an email from a Creighton student doing her thesis on Omaha nightclubs of the 50's and 60's and she ran across what has easily been my most popular blog post. Read the comments, it's hilarious. An 85 year old grandmother read my filthy writings. I'm proud and ashamed all at the same time.

So I revived the site and am fully renewed to update it on a twice-a-week schedule and include new features like Found Audio! (I ran across a ton of my old cassettes during the move) and tons more of my making fun of weird stuff I find in old books and magazines. Making the most of my $60 scanner, that's what docmarvy.com is all about. That and making cheap jokes at the expense of other people's hard work.

So let's get on with it, shall we? After all there's always room... for Jell-O!

So I also found stacks and stacks of funky old cookbooks during the move. This was at the top of the stack, so I warmed up the tubes in my scanner (not to be confused with the truck-filled tubes that comprise the internet) and got down to bee's wax.



Reasonably harmless, right? I mean... it's the new Joys of Jell-O. The name is benign and the desserts on the cover are charmingly anachronistic. But what horrors await inside? I'll give you a hint, this was published in 1973.



Totally innocent. A pre-MILF-era mom adding 12 cups of refined white sugar to a warm bowl of strawberry Jell-O where her son, wearing his "frumpy lesbian activewear" sweatshirt, eagerly awaits adding the peach, er... uh, cantaloupe (?) slices to make a delicious high fructose dessert concoction. Everything is cool so far.

It's worth describing the recipe pages, they're in a mixture of standard Helvetica and a Veer-quality script for the chapters (just like on the cover). It's actually laid out quite nice. But the photography? Well... it was 1973.

And nowhere is that more evident when, at the start of the chapter "Bring on the Super Desserts" you're introduced to this lovely couple:



"Hi! We're here for the key party! And we brought Jell-O!"

Great. They're into sploshing. Try as you might to pretend it doesn't happen, these two "do it." Because it was the 70's I can only imagine that their lovin' was a sweaty tangle of barley-and-sweat scented muskiness that left everyone involved feeling sticky and with rugburn and errant pieces of orange shag carpeting stuck to their backs.

Also... there was the Jell-O.

And Jell-O is about desserts, no? In fact, they're "Centerpiece Desserts."

Case in point:



I have no beef with the lower dessert (assuming it contains no beef -- foreshadowing!), but the cake-plated one? Say what you will about shiny amber rings of Hollywood-quality vomit in suspended animation, but to me it doesn't scream "tasty". The candlelight does lend an air of old world sophistication. You know, back when people didn't know any better.



Further down the table what have we got? A pie containing the pink-er, more active slime from the second Ghostbusters film, an amber ring of banana slices in the background, and then there's the real eye catcher. You know those overpriced scented decorative soaps they sell at Whole Foods and other fancypants retailers? Well now you know what they start life as: a stained glass shame cylinder. It's the dessert too mod to eat. And that's okay, because you know it's so "creamy" that you're going to be hocking up multi-color phlegm wads for the next week. Enjoy!

You know why this has been too easy so far? Because thus far all these desserts have involved fruit of one kind or another. Fruit is okay. It's sweet. Not like, say... vegetables. Not like, say... the Green Goddess Salad Bowl:



Oh but wait. The avocado slices are merely the beginning. This also contains Garlic Salt, Sour Cream, Mayonnaise, Vinegar, Salad Greens, CRAB MEAT, and ANCHOVIES! Yes, the smoked fish that the mentally challenged enjoy on their pizzas and crab meat are incorporated with... LIME JELL-O. So, yeah. Those bricks that look like jaundiced tofu. Nope, that there is sour cream and mayo infused Lime Jell-O. Commence to barfin'.

But certainly nobody would put land animals in Jell-O, right? RIGHT!?!



Say hello to Chicken Mousse. Lemon Jell-O, Chicken Broth, and no reason to ever want to enjoy food again are most of what goes into this atrocity before mankind. Eat it? I couldn't MAKE IT without barfing. No wonder everyone was thinner in the 70's. Look at what they had to eat!

It probably doesn't help that the plates look like they were designed by H.R. Geiger.

There was also a lemon Jell-O mold filled with hard boiled eggs and diced ham. But it was too gruesome to scan. I am NOT making that up.

Back to more veggies!



Silicone breast implant? You wish! It's radishes, cucumbers, celery, green peppers and lemon Jell-O. Or so the pod creatures from outer space would like you to believe, until their pods open at your dinner table and the face suckers ram their ovipositors down your throat. (Hmmm... lots of Geiger references today.) Serve with French dressing or mayo. Or better yet, just throw it right in the toilet, because it will be there sooner rather than later no matter what.



If you are inferring that this lovely couple should ingest what is on this table, which for the record is Salmon Dill Mousse and Creamy Bleu Cheese Salad, then you sir are a racist.

Why is there fruit all around that beige bike helmet?

Is that a centerpiece for Lance Armstrong? Bleah.

The next section is "Especially for Junior Cooks," and they couldn't be more thrilled:



The kid on the right is pretty sure you should try that. You just KNOW that little bastard peed in it. You just KNOW IT! That's why all his little friends are giggling smugly to themselves. Well thank you, no, Timmy. I'll take a pass.



Things you never thought of is the title of this section. But really, outside of a little bowl with plain flavored Jell-O in it, I never would have thought of any of this shit. Marzipan? Cinnamon Glazed Apples? No sir, I would not have thought Jell-O played a part in these. And in case you missed it, there's a tray of Glazed Hors d'Oeuvres. With shrimp and olives and avocado and to the best of my knowledge a human ear. But hey, it's glazed in Jell-O, so wolf it down!



And that's more or less the high points of the Joys of Jell-O. On the back cover here Jell-O was eerily prescient in the oncoming cranberry martini craze that swept the Sex and the City-set a few years ago. The only difference is I think most bartenders stuck to Vodka and Cranberry juice, eschewing the Jell-O component altogether. But hey, you win some, you lose some.

That's all for now. I'm back in a big way, kids. Prepare thy-selves for a bigger, meatier, moister docmarvy.com than you ever had before. Give love in the Comments.

Until next time, cowboys and cowgirls...

Huzzah!

Tags: Texas, Jell-O, Out of Print

Amid my packing, straightening and prepping for Austin, I ran across a couple of late 1950's "girlie" mags that friends got me for my 18th birthday. I would like to state right now that I was not 18 in 1958. This would've been more like 1992-ish. They got the mags at the Antiquarium, which for non-Omahans is a musty used book store populated with aging hippies and artsy-types who while away the day petting feral housecats and sipping strong coffee.

Since the only thing I do on this blog that attracts readers seems to be making fun of old magazines, I figured I could two-birds/one-stone this deal by scanning the only noteworthy pages for blog-fun while throwing away the paper mags because I don't feel like driving 50 year old softcore porn to Texas.

A note: there's no actual noteworthy nudity in the following pics. All the nudity in the mags is waist-up and pretty foul anyway, but I figured why tempt fate by screwing up your life by causing you to lose your job for looking at the least-satisfying pornography in the world? So not worth it. So here's all the softcore badness along with the ads, which are the funniest part anyway.

Cover number one is Scamp, the Sparkling Companion for Men, whatever that means. In September 1958 what passed for good cover art was a model on a balance beam while an "artist" smears oil paint on a canvas. Get it? Modern art is so dumb! Give me black and white pictures of half-naked ladies who look like your best friend's mom. The magazine promises to show you what a girl does to become a star. I'll give you a hint: The answer isn't "appear in Scamp".

Magazine number two was All Man. As promised, it is a panorama of party-time nudes. And some of those nudes were even in color. This company had a budget and they were willing to translate that into high quality spreads of MILFs (or as they used to be known, "women") doing what MILFs do. Which is apparently clean the house nude, make dinner nude, and to nude lounge in their stark nudeness. And this woman on the cover? She REALLY loves her bedroom set. Never before have you seen a woman more enamored of her four-poster canopy bed. At least I hope you haven't.

Both magazines were rife with muscle-building come ons from all the classics. The above ad for the Atlas Dynamic Tension muscle building system ran for something like 130 years in comic books, softcore 50's porno mags, Field & Stream and New Numismatist magazines. It's a little small for you to read, but the cartoon down the left side goes a little like this: Mac and his girlfriend are enjoying a day at the beach being white privileged teenagers. Along comes a big buff bully who kicks sand on Mac, then emasculates and humiliates him in front of his girlfriend. Although Mac has a hard time admitting it, he secretly got a prurient thrill from this public shaming, but nonetheless he decides that being a humiliation "top" would be preferable to a humiliation "bottom." Mac goes home, abuses some furniture and runs across the Atlas ad in one of the above-mentioned magazines. After seemingly no time passes Mac finds himself a rippling pile of man meat. He heads back to the beach where he 'roid rages on the bully from earlier (sans roids, of course) and punches him out in front of everyone. The ensuing panels that I imagined but were never made involved Mac being arrested for assault, serving a little time, then getting out and reconciling with the bully. Mac and the bully move into a loft apartment off the Castro together where they cuddle watching Zeb Atlas lifestyle videos. I'm fairly certain that's how the story ends.

More of the muscle growth hype combined with some of the worst-written ad copy in history. "Gains of up to a Pound-A-Day proven by thousands" Certain things are capitalized, certain things are unnecessarily hyphenated yet there's a dearth of any other punctuation. It's a party of bad grammar and undeliverable promises. I'm surprised how they had the technology in 1958 to make a shake that let you drink on muscle mass, yet they don't have it today. I blame the FDA. Also those before and after photos are great. The top photo lets you know that drinking weight-gain shakes (combined with hitting puberty and being severely top lit) will turn you into a hulking pile of beach buffness. The lower photo shows that drinking the shakes and puffing out your concave chest along with being photographed by Inch High Private Eye will make you look like a douche holding his breath. Genius! In fairness, they're doing their best in the dark days before Photoshop.

Oh yes, things do happen when you wear Eleganza. People either laugh or vomit. Sometimes both simultaneously. If you were wondering what International Male would look like in 1958, wonder no longer. Actually, while all these clothes were no doubt re-god-damned-diculous in '58, they are now kind of strangely retro-cool. But only if you sport these body types. Like International Male, the only people who look good in these clothes are the people who have identical measurements to the mannequins they were designed on. The "Dramatic Double Knit" tunic shirt is trés cool if you happen to be Captain of the Enterprise. The Double Breasted Walking Suit would look spectacular on a Blue Velvet-era Kyle MacLaughlin and nobody else on earth. Black Magic proves that having a bowtie doesn't necessarily mean you have to look like Tucker Carlson or George Will. Thankfully. And the shoes? Actually sort of hip, though admitting it could make the fashion gods angry.

Why is there an ad for insanely pointy-boobed lingerie in a men's mag? The holidays were coming up, so maybe last minute gift ideas. What I like about all these drawings is that all of the women look like they are totally insane and mid-breakdown. Very high concept. You may be thinking "I've heard the name Lili St. Cyr before, but WHERE!?!?" Well, it's in the lyrics that Susan Sarandon sings during the floor show sequence of Rocky Horror. Dig out your soundtracks/VHS or DVD and see/hear for yourself.

Finally, some filth. I guess? Every one of these pictures makes me want to shout "Mom! No!" Although with all the strategic placement, this is so totally tame and prime time. Seriously. I have seen more nudity in high school senior pictures. I'm not kidding, either. On the upside, at least this harkens back to a time when women were allowed to have curves. Because it takes curves to be sensual, something Kate Moss is sadly unaware of since she looks like a frail 12 year old boy.

Stories for men. Sounds hot. What titles have you got? Midget and the Duchess? Um... okay... Young Lady and her Dog? I don't know if I would like that... Captive to Six Women? Sounds like a mixed blessing... A Traveling Salesman? So long as it's not Willy Loman, perhaps. Apparently these stories are so hot that it will make your brain vaporize and shoot out your ears while your toupeé flies off and you levitate while biting off your tongue. Must've been those "artist illustrations" that go along with the stories. Hot diggity!

Men! Want a photo FREE! Is that supposed to be a question? Because it has an exclamation point on the end.

And finally for you nerds, get a ¢92 Slide Rule. You know what I love about Slide Rules? The way old people always yell at you about them and how back in "their day" they didn't have calculators and fancy computers! They had to do their math on a stick with a sliding window. Then those same old people get upset when you suggest that maybe people can do better math now that they're not doing it on two sticks. But hey, they're old people. What can you do with them besides turn them into Soylent?

And finally...

No commentary or joke needed.
Okay... maybe one.

After Oscar returned to Sesame Street from his three month hiatus in Switzerland there was something noticeably different about him. Sure, there was still some grouchiness, but mostly that could be attributed to the hormones.

And that's it for classic filth, kiddies. Stay tuned for more hilarity from junk I'm finding while I clean and prep to move.

Huzzah.

Holy. Shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I am having a multiple nerdgasm.

In case you missed it, because it's certainly been flying below the radar, Joel Hodgson, Trace Beaulieu, Josh "Elvis" Weinstein, TV's Frank Conniff, and Mary Jo Pehl are reuniting to make:

Yes, my children. It is the second coming of MST3K. It has been... reborn. With the original crew.

I could cry right now.

Read all the deets here.

Huzzah.

(thanks to Defamer)

According to several news reports, Peter Hume, the actor/Canadian professional wrestler who played "The Stomach" in the prtotypical teen camp movie Meatballs died last week in his sleep. In case you don't remember him, he was that actor that you probably frequently confused with Stephen Furst or Josh Mostel. I'm not sure why, but this news made me profoundly sad when I read it. I don't know if I was expecting a sequel to be made or what, although merely the thought of Bill Murray, made up as Raleigh St.Clair and shaking his booty to "Makin' It" by David Naughton and reciting the "Wudy the Wabbit" speech, makes me smile. So who knows.

On behalf of all the big funny guys in the world, I salute you.

Huzzah.

No funny magazine scans this week, kids. Sorry. I'm too busy nursing a head cold and preparing for my bizness trip to Atlanta.
But just because I'm not making fun of any ads from bygone days doesn't mean we can't have a little fun retro-style.

File Under: Retro

Okay... so for years, YEARS I tell you, I have been telling people about a show that used to be on Nebraska Public Television back when I was a whipper-snapper. Most of the people I spoke with who were in Nebraska back then remember Once Upon a Story, which was about a Librarian (unimaginatively named Marian) who was captured by a witch and held prisoner in a tree and had to put some crap in a computer/machine/box-thing and out would pop a book. It's a pretty fuzzy memory, but it was something like that. Then there was another version that was more outer-space driven, possibly with the same librarian only captured by an alien mom with a huge blue afro who was worried that her kids watched too much of the tele-screen. There was a computer named 1-Z-2-Z and probably the same magical box-thing that you put random shit in one end and out popped a book that would fire up the kids' imaginations and they'd lose interest in the blank blue screen they stared at all day long. Pretty heavy-handed metaphors for TV and whatnot, but they were campy and fun.

Although people remember those two shows, it's a much smaller group... just me, actually, who remembers Reverse the Curse. The premise was pretty simple, like the other shows. Created artistically as a reaction to the King Tut phenomenon of a few years prior, the premise was a couple of librarians who had a very "Peppermint Patty and Marcie" style relationship decide to become archaeologists and they discover the tomb of King Hop-to-it. But thanks to a plot-convenient curse, they're trapped in the tomb until they solve all the reading hieroglyphics on the walls with the help of the afterlife-active and very femme King Hop-to-it.

For a long time people thought I made this shit up. But thanks to the magic of YouTube, I proudly present the pilot episode of Reverse the Curse:

Part One



Part Two



See what I mean.

Thanks to the dude who uploaded this (check out his channel) and to Brad on myspace for finding it.

UPDATE: