d i z t o p i a

Fry in Hell? Gladly!

No real post today, but I wanted to take a moment to congratulate Chandler Goff, right, for appearing on CNN.com with his bar's creation, the "Hamdog" (a hot dog wrapped in a hamburger, turducken-style, and fried, then swaddled in cheese and chili). Mmmmm! Chandler is proprietor at the bar, Mulligan's, and also happens to be the esteemed brother of my longtime pal "Sydney Sexton", who has a real job and thus will not be named here in front of God/Google. But Chandler was on freakin' CNN, so I can use his name. Lookit that smile! Momma must be so proud. Note that Mulligan's offers a cheeseburger that is placed between two halves of a Krispy Kreme donut, which is then fried en masse. Emphasis on "masse". As to the anti-obesity campaign, forget it. You can have my precious fatty foods when you pry them from my cold, dead colon.

Pasta la Vista

No heat in the office today. I'm sitting here in coat and scarf, typing with the gnarled remnants of frostbitten limbs. I tried to creep downstairs and slit open the carcass of our office manager so that I could nestle in her steaming entrails, but two coworkers had already beaten me to it. No room at the innards. I did manage to escape with half a leg of intern mutton purloined from the smoke-pit, which I'll have to gnaw cold. And this was from one of the smaller interns, so it won't sustain me for long. But I have hopes that I can swoop down from my second-story window upon an unsuspecting freshman. They know to fear upperclassmen and faculty, but they have yet to learn that administrative staff are their most deadly predator.

I have also learned that someone suggested a holiday lunch for the office. Which was countered by the equally objectionable suggestion that we instead do a potluck office lunch. I informed the organizer that I will bring a pasta salad, which is widely recognized as the ultimate signifier of potluck disdain. Let those wriggling macaroni tubes be slathered in viscous rebuke! Let diners pick through in vain for a sign of cheerful pimentos or colorful rotini! No. This pasta salad coheres in a lumpy monotone mass, resisting all implements, cold and fibrous as a deliquescing brain. Perhaps a few fetid olives will be scattered across the top, like lesions. The brave will carve off little extraneous sub-populations of macaroni from the edges of the dish, as none dare plunge a spoon into the mayonaissey heart. Why is it cold on the outside and warm on the inside? What man can say? Leave it be. Take away a solitary macaronus if you can, just so there's one on your plate. But don't pretend you'll eat it. You don't want that inside you. It is designed to fit perfectly inside the walls of your right ventricle, a sleeve of doom waiting to constrict on the first passing clot.

So there's that. Plus a couple meetings this week to tiresomely re-explain what I have already detailed, but that's nothing new. Oh yeah, there's also another luncheon, this one catered. It takes place after a meeting of the muckety-mucks, to which the proletariat aren't invited. But we are brought in to sup on the lunch spread, sort of like the king inviting the peasantry inside the keep walls to feast on heaps of yuletide lardoons and wheat chaff. But it's free, and they got sammiches. It's either that or White Castle.

You Got Smooth Served

Return with us now to TALES ... OF THE PICAYUNE! No complaint too trivial! Bwaa ha ha! In All Seriousness: I am murderously pissed off about this new Coca-Cola bottle. (I promise, this gets interesting. Really.) I don't have the slightest comprehension of why I prefer Pepsi to Coke or vice versa. When growing up in the South -- a Coca-Cola stronghold -- I preferred Pepsi. A few years back, I decided I liked the taste of Coke in cans but Pepsi in bottles. I'm aware this is insane. Now that I'm in New York, I seem to be exclusively back on the Coke bandwagon in all delivery systems. Maybe it's the regional water at the local bottler. Perhaps the Coke mind-control lasers are more powerful up here, or the granulated heroin in the Pepsi is weaker. I don't know.

But back in May, Coca-Cola introduced this 1.5-liter "Smooth Serve" bottle, a biggie-size version of their 20-oz bottle. I can't find a relevant Coca-Cola Company press release online about the new bottle, probably because, since such a thing would have to be composed entirely of the most succulent horseshit, said press release has already decomposed. But according to Coke folk, the consumers were fairly screaming for a multi-swig bottle that was "easier to hold" and offered a more "smooth" pour. Plus, "some people" are "afraid" that they won't be able to consume all the soda in a 2-liter bottle before it goes flat. A supposed side benefit (for the Coca-Cola company) is that consumers will be more inclined to try other Coke flavors since these soul-shattering fears have at last been allayed by modern contour-bottle technology.

The 1.5-liter is supposed to be a few cents cheaper than ye olde 2-liter. (Coca-Cola's "ceiling" for each is $1.20 and $1.50 respectively.) Coca-Cola claims the 1.5-liter is not positioned as a replacement for the 2-liter, but I haven't seen a 2-liter of Coke in NYC since June. Shelf space is scarce round here. I'm actually not sure if the 1.5-liter is even for sale anywhere outside New York yet, since it appears New York bottlers were the first to try it. Don't even get me started on the 3-liter bottle, my old flame from mega-market days. Such magnificent bastards are not allowed in these parts, or at least not Manhattan that I've seen.

My local markets have nothing but the 1.5-liter pipsqueaks, and the price is the same, or so much within the old 2-liter price range as to make no difference. If they wanted to make the bottle easier to hold, they could just have morphed some kind of plastic handle extrusion, like a milk jug. As to Coke going flat in a 2-liter? Gimme a break. I can suck down a 2-liter in one hot afternoon. I can't recall the last time I let any size soda go flat in my fridge. If you can't do the same, stick with the baby bottles, Betty. And don't forget to wipe the baby poop off your diaper, ja.

So now I'm back to buying Pepsi, since they still come in those unmanageably bulky, sloppy-pouring, fizz-leaking 2-liter bottles. Though I have to admit that the 1.5-liter would probably make a better emergency bong, I desperately need all the bulk caffeinated fluid I can stockpile. Perhaps ironically, I was forced to reduce the size of this post to make it easier to grasp and digest (though gas emissions remain an issue). Thus, there is actually nothing interesting here. But now that you have this extra time, perhaps you'd like to try some of our other flavors?

Soylent Kreme!

As previously mentioned, Krispy Kreme has developed a new product that, if fully realized, would be comparable in importance to penicillin, the Bible, or the opposable thumb. We're talking about the drinkable donut, or as KK prefers to more innocuously call it, the "frozen blended beverage." We learned from the press release that the foundation flavor is "Frozen Original Kreme," which KK describes as "the signature flavor of our Original Glazed doughnut captured in a creamy frozen blend." There are also raspberry, latte, and double chocolate flavors, and coffee may be added for a further taste-splosion.

As a longtime Krispy Kreme enthusiast, I set off to determine if mankind was ready for this evolutionary leap forward. Arriving at KK with trusty Agent L (pictured above, undercover) as backup, I inquired of the dour KK kounter-man, prithee, what is the Frozen Blended Beverage made of? "It's a drink," he answered. Yes, that I got from the poster showing the product as a liquid in a cup, but what's in it? Milk? Is it like a milkshake thing? At this point, his jaw began working mechanically, and he called for his manager. Uh oh.

The manager came storming up to the counter, and when we asked her the same questions, she barked "It's a blended ... frozen beverage!" She was sticking to the company line, even though it should have been rendered "frozen blended beverage." But before she could call security, the counterman suddenly interjected, "We don’t know what it is. It's just powder. They just send it to us and we mix it with ice." I thought the manager was going to snap his head off for such impertinence.

But he was right! I ordered a Frozen Original Kreme, and this calmed the manager enough to retreat to her lair. Her minion busied himself with preparing the beverage, which indeed involved spooning a portion of gray powder from this canister into a pitcher.

Said pitcher was then inserted into a needlessly gigantic blender contraption while the counterman fetched an appropriate amount of ice (see where the "frozen blended" part comes in?). The counterman asked if I wanted whipped cream on top. Of course! Too bad though, because they were out of whipped cream. Oh well. Give it to me straight up, barkeep.

And here you have it: the simple, unrefined Frozen Original Kreme in all its glory. Enticing, no? Could this be the final, perfect union between cool refreshing beverage and satisfying donutty goodness? Might it be true that man will no longer need solid food? Would it be possible to just freebase that donut powder for a direct connection between cosmic donut essence and the human soul? I donned the holy headcovering and prepared to taste the divine.

Extremely sensitive equipment was used to capture the above photographic sequence. Approximately one picosecond separates my first ingestion of Frozen Original Kreme from the expression of extreme disgust and revulsion shown here. It was one of the most unpleasant gustatory experiences I've endured, and this from a man who ate nine chocolate iced kreme filled at one sitting. Imagine a cup of powdered non-dairy creamer forcibly united with a flavorless slushee, and you pretty much have the idea. In the name of science, I took four sips, and that was enough to put me off my feed well past lunch. Agent L took one sip and fled to Queens in tears.

I can only assign blame for this abomination to a villain that already has much to answer for: Atkins. That devil's diet has driven the flock away from righteousness and besotted the minds of KK executives into unleashing any defense, even one as distasteful as the Frozen Original Kreme. One can only hope the powers that be will consign this ill-considered concept to the wastebin as quickly as I discarded my one and only sampling of same. Let the Atkinsians have their low-carb bread made from sawdust and shredded newspapers. Let us not besmirch the temple of Kreme with this liquid idolatry.

Down the Donut Hole

A few years back, I was getting pleasantly obliterated at a crap sports bar in Birmingham with a few other reprobates. It was that serendipitous collusion of time and inclination where you sit down and have a few rounds before dinner, but after you've had those few rounds on your empty stomach, you realize: To hell with dinner, get the next round. And so it was that we talked about food, even though we'd lost interest in ordering any.

One subject that came up was Krispy Kreme donuts, a Southern staple long before they became an ironic comfort food import here in NYC. I mentioned to the group how, back in bad ol' college days, I would sometimes get a box of my favorite KK konfection -- the intimidating hockey puck of lard known as the chocolate iced kreme filled -- and consume them in lieu of a meal. This was ridiculed on a practical and even factual basis, that is, how could anyone eat more than a couple of those monsters?

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I couldn't take such a slur on my character. I sized up my three companions: two svelte women and one guy with a known dislike for quantity ingestion of sweets. And then I declared to these assembled, "I bet I can eat more chocolate iced kreme filled donuts in one sitting than all three of you put together."

Instant hubbub! So the details were arranged, long into the night and several more pitchers. The Rules: This was an endurance contest, not a speed race. Everyone starts eating at the same time. Then, each contestant had five minutes to consume each donut, start to finish. A maximum five-minute break was allowed between donuts. If either time limit was exceeded, the contestant was disqualified and could eat no more. If a contestant threw up, they were also immediately disqualified. (I lobbied for having their donut consumption total decreased by the evident amount of vomitus, but that was overruled in committee.) The competition was set for that weekend, and began with actual, morally repulsed spectators in attendance.

Woman #1 was the first to drop out at a paltry three donuts. I was happily chugging along on my fifth donut and feeling great, having not eaten dinner the night before. As Woman #2 and The Man choked down their third donuts with obvious effort, I felt confident. One might even say, arrogant.

However, hubris caught up with me. After donut six, my internal organs began to realize that something unpleasant was in the offing. At my seventh donut, The Man ate his fourth and bowed out in self-preservation. I consumed my eighth donut at a more deliberate pace than its predecessors, and Woman #2 began her fourth.

At this point, math reared its ugly but logical head. As I picked up my ninth donut with a marked lack of enthusiasm, I was beginning to feel sluggish and bloated in a way I’d never thought possible. Woman #2 managed to avoid retching long enough to finish her fourth donut, but finally bowed out after taking a bite of her fifth and then breaking down in tears of disgust. Their team total was 11. I realized with horror that I not only had to eat the ninth donut that was already punishing me, but then three more in order to win.

I’m very ashamed to say that I punked out. The ninth bastard donut went down, to be sure, but I knew that three more of the same was simply beyond even my considerable powers. I conceded the victory to my sickened enemies, and we all went home to recuperate. As I faded into what can only be described as a donut coma, I thought grimly to myself it was quite possible that I was about to die.

But I didn’t die, and I lived to finally see the day when Krispy Kreme announced a wondrous new donut drink! (This is called "burying the lead.") I have absolutely no idea what's in these things, and Krispy Kreme isn't telling, just calling them "frozen blended beverages." Interestingly, the medium-size (16-ounce) version of the basic flavor, "Frozen Original Kreme Blend," contains 190 calories, 21 fat grams, and 95 carb grams. Compare with a KK glazed donut, which contains 200 calories, 12 fat grams, and 22 carb grams. Awesome! It's like they actually liquefied a couple donuts in every cup! (For reference, the chocolate iced kreme filled contains 350 calories, 20 fat grams, and 38 carb grams; by eating nine of them, I acquired 288% of my daily recommended requirement of fat.)

I shall journey to my neighborhood Krispy Kreme this very evening and sample one (1) of these frozen beverage concoctions. I shall also employ journalistic mind tricks to mau-mau the KK employees into revealing the contents. Check back tomorrow for the results of this hard-hitting investigative report.

Brood X: Scary, But Tasty

Spent the weekend in Baltimore and experienced the madness of the 17-year cicadas. It's impossible to grasp just how many of the damn things there are without seeing them firsthand, not to mention how incredibly loud they are en masse. Most of the cicadas hang out in treetops during the day, buzzing their wings and cruising for hot cicada sexmagic so they can breed and die like God intended. In my girlfriend's parents' forested back yard, the noise was so loud at its daily peak that you had to shout to be heard, and it had this subsonic component that actually hurt your ears, like deep bass at a concert. Narrrsty!

Aside from their brain-melting swarm-song, though, the cicadas are cool in a biblical plague sort of way. Though of course I'm glad they're not into chewing your flesh off or anything. Still, that didn't stop the local dogs from trying to eat them, nor does it stop many humans, who ostensibly know better, from crunching the bug-munch too. The pictured gentleman, Jacques Tiziou, says in the Washington Post:

"You're going to grab one and put it in your mouth alive," he says with a twinkle in his eye. "You have to."

So, so very not true. I don't care how twinkly Jacques's eye is, I will never willingly put an insect in my mowf, dead or alive. I don't even like shrimp. If you disagree and live near the ever-burgeoning cicada buffet supply, though, feel free to consult this compilation of cicada recipes. My personal favorite is "Emergence Cookies," which make it appear that the cicada corpse is actually popping up out of the cookie dough.

By the way: "Brood X" is sadly not like "Malcom X," but is really "Brood 10" in non-Romanized numerals. Check out this page for details on all 13 recognized cicada broods, their geographic distribution, likes and dislikes, favorite movies, etc.

Beard Papa Don't Preach

Finally checked out the new Beard Papa that just opened at 76th and Broadway. Assembly-line chain food is somehow cool and fun when the Japanese do it! And the more nonsensical the mascot/logo/brand, the better.