Goods, Foods and Mushrooms

On the Set

Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain

The best new blog discovery since Strange Maps is Cake Wrecks.

Dave's Photo Challenge: Toxic

Tempting as it is sometimes, I've not been to one in about nine years. But I still eat these.

Interactive Thursday - Worst Name

Tugboat Dave down in New Orleans was suggesting the other day that this was the worst name for a restaurant anywhere. I say, Fuku. Not you, Dave, the restaurant. Well, you can guess the proper way to pronounce it. It's in J-town here in SF. Actually, not bad sushi.

Yes, I know we're totally off schedule, but perhaps readers can suggest their local variant
on the worst named restaurant. Sorry, Popeye's and KFC don't count.

Thinspiration

What could be more thinspiring than a few dieting tips from Julie Klausner, though this piece has a tragic end. As usual, she manages to bring in a bit of Republican bashing along the way. I feel 20 pounds lighter just from laughing so hard.

What Were You People THINK-ING!?!?!?

Dr. Phil is out of control and his friends just want him to STOP.

Okay, I have never been a fan of Dr. Phil McGraw, native of Vinita, Oklahoma (ironically, or appropriately, home of the Sooner State's enormous state mental hospital), but lately he is verging on annoying me as much as Madonna, Michael Moore and George W. Bush, three people whom I consider to be the three stations of the American Apocalypse. McGraw has come to embody the same level of hypocrisy and greed that those three do. So, perhaps it's advanced from a toxic trilogy to a quacking quartet.

Why do I hate those three (and now four) so much? Because they are obsessed by three things -- money, fame and a "legacy" and (on top of it all) are hollow to the core. The fact that each have different politics is of no consequence. All four are made of the same things -- bullshit and cardboard.

A good seven to nine years ago, Dr. Phil was relatively benign, no more than an Oprah also ran who espoused solid but bland advice. He shared trite Powerpoints about setting life goals. That initially served as the template for his show as he fled from the Oprah mother ship to launch his own empire, shrouded in the veneer of "helping people" but clearly driven by greed and fame. There were plenty of frustrated mid-career professionals who needed "get excited about life" and substance abusers looking for appropriate 12-step programs. Solid, traditional and boring. So, soon Dr. Phil learned that the biggest coins are wallowing at the bottom of the cesspool, and you have to choke on a few turds in order to go for the gold. Madonna certainly understands that, and she has emerged from the feces pond to emerge as a self appointed lady of the manor who has cash to burn and buy babies in Africa.

So Dr. Phil has come to air shows with increasingly sleazy themes. "Only you can own your life, Imogene, but I gotta tell you that if you're pregnant with your grandson's baby, you're just askin' for trouble."

Then there was the debacle of Dr. Phil's weight loss challenge. Oh, doctor heal thyself! He even introduced his branded of "Dr. Phil Bars". What were they made of? Bacon grease and elephant lard? Like this man is authorized to give me tips on weight loss? My favorite line during this stage of his career was: "Steve, you gotta get real about bein' fat or get real fat!" Apparently being real is a key to surviving while under the watchful eye of Dr. Phil.

I have to admit I've been pretty oblivious to Dr. Phil until his recent dive to below the deepest depths of the toilet bowl of fucked up Americana during his emergency intervention at the behest of the family of Britney Spears, a process he promised to expose in all its tabloid trashiness for record ratings until even his most loyal fans agreed that this tubby Texan had finally gnarled on one too many dysfunctional trailer trash famiies.

Mercifully, I think Dr. Phil is on the verge of nearing the end of his syndication contracts. While flying from the fattest city in the U.S. (where you can buy 320 count boxes of Dr. Phil bars at Sam's Club), I did transit through Houston (which is really pissed that it has lost the #1 spot in the tubbo metropolis competition). Though I usually cringe when I hear that we are landing in George Bush Airport (Gee, why not name it Placa de Pinochet or Hitler's Hide-Away?), I was sort of pleased to learn that Dr. Phil is making a smooth transition from broadcasting franchising to food franchising. Not with Dr. Phil's bars but the artery clogging food he so loves. Wedged right in between Bubba Gump's and Starbucks in George Bush Airport I discovered the new collaboration between Dr. Phil and the often maligned Cracker Barrell - FAT CRACKERS. He has wisely chosen the lead of other washed up entertainers (Arthur Treacher's Fish 'n' Chips, Kenny Rogers Roasters, Jimmy Dean Sausage) and learned the importance and residuals of unhealthy food branding. There at the entry was a huge portrait of Dr. Phil gnawing on a barbecued rib as he dispensed advice on setting one's life goals. Just as I started to nab a photo, a member of the TSA shook an angry index finger of me and I had to put away the camera.

So I went onto Dr. Phil's website and was intrigued to learn that there was quite a number of names Dr. Phil went through before settling on FAT CRACKERS. Here is a sampling:

• Phil 'Er Up
• Gravy a Go Go
• Fry Me Up, Fry Me Down!
• Beyond the Gravy
• Gotta Fry Before I Get Too Old
• What Would Elvis Eat?
• Gravy Acres
• Lord of the Onion Rings
• Garçon, There’s a Pig in My Gravy!
• Phat Phil's Phry Depot
• The Good, The Bad and the Gravy
• Yes, We Pecan!
• Dr. Phil's Gravy Pops (Too close to Gravy on a Stick for my attorney's comfort)
• Fry Ask Fry?
• Ain't Nuthin' But a Butterhorndawg
• Fry, Mommy, Fry!

Between Heaven & Girth

I am about to head out from the reportedly fattest city in the U.S. without once enduring what is considered the official state meal of cornbread, sausage and gravy, chicken fried steak and pecan pie (gag!). Actually I'd say that less than 5% of the people I encountered on the trip fit that profile, which either says a lot of the voracity of such rankings or the circles I whirled around in for a few days.

Among the three to four books I've been reading this trip was Michael Pollan's latest, In Defense of Food. While the first half or more felt like a rehash of Omnivore's Dilemma, his treatise for breaking from the "western diet" at the end is fairly solid albeit a tad obvious and simplistic.

I'm not sure how he'd feel about the above mentioned official state meal. Like Bryce Digdug, Mr. Pollan is not very fond of corn. I guess neither of those two are Mayan. When Hello Kitty and I were kicking around Mel Gibson in the manger, we noticed a corncob lodged in a the most curious of places, but we refrained from sharing too many details. Pollan did not seem to be interested in weighing in (sorry about that one) on the Four Pork Products of the Apocalypse, but Mel was gnawing on pork rinds when we found him.

I Love You Too Noodles

With this post, I meet my October quota of posting non-original YouTube content. This is my favorite episode of my favorite YouTube show.

Also, this dish is what I always order when dining at Chez Panisse in Berkeley and the French Laundry in Napa. Be sure to just ask for nouilles, poudre, eau et viande.

Whose Fried Orthodoxy Tastes the Best?

Sometimes my live friends and blog friends that live in less urban venues tell me that they are envious of me living in big, sophisticated San Francisco with all it's great culture and outdoor activities. Mind you, on any given day I am very happy here and agree that it has many amazing things to offer. But seeing some recently entries by bloggers such as Eva Deadbeat and C.B. at the Mangina Monologues (yeah, great name, isn't it) about going to state and county fairs. I really need to just get in the Saturn, head over the ridge and check out some of the fun in Solano or Yolo counties which I hear put on some great county fairs.

When I was a kid in Oklahoma, I particularly loved the finale of the livestock competition which was a cattle fashion show, with a cow coming out in a wedding dress in that. Now I've never seen anything that cool in San Francisco.

Reading C.B.'s venture to the fair in Minnesota, I noticed his mention of buying a deep fried Snickers bar on a stick and thought, oh surely that's a joke. A quick Google search revealed to my horror that there is such a thing lurking out there, waiting to lure in the clueless. Maybe my "Gravy on a Stick" idea actually has a market.

Actually the very thought of fried chocolate makes me nauseous just writing it. I have a pretty severe chocolate allergy, and just being around the stench of any form of chocolate makes me want to gag. When I hear people crave for it, even go to spas where you can be slathered in that filth, I absolutely think the world has gone mad. Coke, Pepsi and other colas are almost as offensive to me and make me think of what it must be to drink motor own with a cup of sugar. I rarely like sweets of any kind, and consider sweetened coffee or tea one of the greatest crimes against humanity. I don't think I've had a pack of sugar or sweetener in my house in about 25 years. Yep, that's why I'm such a salty guy.

Despite these aversions, I feel really deprived of those state and county fairs. San Francisco has plenty of fairs and outdoor events, some of which are really worth going but many of which I avoid like the plague. I have not been to the Pride parade in at least 15 years but would pay top dollar to be directed to a Shriners' Parade. Watching a bunch of fat guys in their 60s in tiny little cars is 100 times more entertaining to me that yet another tedious viewing of Dykes on Bikes.

Then we have the Exotic Erotic Ball, Up Your Alley, Hairison Street Fair, Castro Street Fair and the wretched grand daddy of them all, Folsom Street Fair. I've been to most of them about once and hope I never have to endure any of them ever again in my life. I'm not that much of a prude, am supportive of people having a safe haven to embrace their sexuality, support affronts against conformity, etc. etc. All the same, once you've seen a dozen or so overweight 65-year-old men strutting around to show the world their pierced scrotums, you really don't have a need to see it again, especially when you know that there is a fried Snickers bar out there calling your name.

All of these things, as well as groups such as the Sister of Perpetual Indulgence, which I am sure were a riot back in 1977 but have since settled into a repetitive, self-righteous, conformist orthodoxy that is as boring as their supposed targets underwritten by the Vatican. Similar thoughts go through my mind when I walk through the Haight. With all it's feral scruffiness, it still feels like a Disney-fied scruffiness with a cast born a good two decades after the Summer of Love fitting into the same costumes that probably should have been put into the wax museum eons ago.

If you've questioned the dominant paradigm, changed it and created a new one, ultimately you have come back to square zero and start the process all over again.

The Disney You Don't See

When I first launched JunkThief TV nine months ago, I promised that it would feature "the unseen America". While I have been able to slip in some elements of that, I've not been able to take it on as fully as I'd hoped, wanting eventually to show some of the darker sides of American life that get swept under the carpet. With the second anniversary of Katrina nearing -- the event that really ripped open the unseen America -- I wanted to plug another great website of "Gavin Elster"'s. I recently mentioned his massive Sequoia Sempervirens, but also wanted to note his Majestic Butterhorn, which gives you a view of Disneyland that doesn't make the postcards. It's hilarious, tragic and thought-provoking all at the same time. You'll definitely pass on that Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice cream after glancing at it.

I wrote a short story this week set in Missouri that featured a character that lived on Butterhorn Lane and was obsessed with cockfighting. Afterwards, I kept wondering how the term Butterhorn got lodged in my creative conscience. Then it hit me. Thanks, Gavin.

24/Lost

No, the above title does not refer to the TV show but my past 24-36 hours. Crash, burn..bleah. At 4 p.m. United called to say that my return flight was cancelled and they put me on one for Tuesday at 6:50 a.m. Tuesday. United actually calling you? What a concept. That was fine, I didn't want to arrive at 11 p.m. anyway and deal with parking. What's twelve hours delay. After checking in near the airport, I ordered a chicken related entree at Charleston's with some trepidation. It had a mysterious mix of mushrooms and havarti cheese and ...bacon. Bacon? I think the last time I had that was in 1987. I pulled it aside and made it halfway through. It didn't taste that bad, just somehow not quite right. Two hours later, "not quite right" meant five hours of retching, fever and various other combustible actions I'll spare you the details. I wasn't up for the 6:50 flight, and almost dropped the phone as I went through hearing United electronic voice "help" line repeat "I think I heard you say..." six or seven times. All I did the past 36 hours was watch the two-part American Experience piece on the history of the Mormons, reminding me that it's just a few weeks before those well-scrubbed 19-year-olds return to the Mission. I'll have to remember to talk to them in Spanish to ask probing questions about Joseph Smith. Joseph Smith, what a wild and crazy guy!