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

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