frank who?

punk rock wiener

Ever get the feeling that your wiener was trying too hard? That its efforts to go above and beyond your expectations were just coming off as phony and uninspired? Remember the days when a hot dog could just be a hot dog without having to be a "kosher turkey identity crisis nesting in a fresh-baked spelt bun and smothered in spicy chipotle daikon dressing?" 

Meet the defiant face of counter-evolution itself: the "super basic" dog. A dog so basic, it couldn't be bothered to be sold for more than a single coin. And why not? I mean, it comes in a sealed bag, for crissakes. Obviously, it spares every expense, proudly offering only the simplest of amenities: ketchup, mustard, and a professionally mediocre plain white bun. And even though I couldn't read all the ingredients on the back, I'm sure I would have been relieved to find that it was still ground out of the old super basic familiars: beef intestines and yak hooves.

I think there's even an inspiring lesson we could learn from humble wieners as confident as this: and that is by happily eschewing all the pretentious, overachieving bullshit, we just might find comfort in our own super basic pork-anus skin.

because "tamarack" was unavailable

It could be argued that innovation, no matter how outlandish it may be, is always still a step forward of sorts. However, that doesn't mean the creative minds at the helm of said innovative step forward are exempt from being complete morons. Case in point, anybody remember Crystal Pepsi? I know, even though it hardly bears worth remembering, everyone seems to use it as a benchmark of sorts, back in the glory days of soft drink innovation. It would seem however, that after a critical failure of the ill-fated foray into Pepsi's product line, rather than firing said "creative" minds who designed the drink, and placing them and their families into witness protection, they were instead corporately banished (along with their chemistry sets) to Japan to continue their infernal experimentation on a culture less critical--namely, one that goes blind apeshit for anything available on a limited, or "gentei" time basis.

Two years ago, it was Cucumber Pepsi, rocking Japanese convenience store shelves, selling out by the chilled neon green caseload, despite tasting like environmentally-friendly glow stick concentrate.
Then last summer, it was another iteration of Cucumber Pepsi, re-tooled and "extra refreshing," because the manager in charge had been allotted too much job security.
Having finally banished him and his pitiful family to Tunisia, this summer, Pepsi has clearly outdone themselves, taking the gloves off and putting down the phone, offering a brand new esoteric, yet entirely region-appropriate carbonated nightmare; the likes of which make even the original cucumber flavor look like some pussy-footing, inbred cousin of Pepsi Co.'s prestigious family of beverages.

Feast your jaded eyes on the newest addition to their metallic summer vegetable soft-drink line:

also moonlights as "beefsteak"

Shiso Pepsi.

The crowd in attendance gasps.
Then recovers its collective breath, quizzically asking in unison, "what the jolly green giantfuck is shiso?"

Shiso? You know, "perilla?" The same jagged-edged leaf, toxic to some animals, and used in bitter-tasting salads, soups, sashimis, and tempuras (or wherever basil couldn't be found). Strange as it may seem, shiso is clearly the most natural successor to cucumber; a vegetable who wouldn't know how to be interesting or have fun, even if 'fun' was a vagina-shaped summer squash.

So obviously, though I understood that "shiso" was a most dubious choice by Pepsi for a purportedly 'refreshing' summer drink line (this, from an overly glowing press release), what I didn't know, was what it tasted like. Naturally, a taste test was in order. However, since my immature palette has apparently not been the most objective platform for unbiased opinion, I recruited my boy Kaste (resident gearhead reputed for his uncanny enthusiasm in imbibing great quantities of evil liquids) and subjected his grinning mug to the Shiso Pepsi.

The obvious response? 

surely, you jest

"Yo get that nasty green shit out of my face."


There you have it--straight from the Japanese horse's mouth.
The prosecution rests.

defcon 2 assimilation

japanese deer bait. apparently human children like it too

Sprinkled 'noritama' on my rice tonight. As you can see, it looks like goldfish food. It smelled like chicken scratch. So naturally, it tasted like licking the inside of an old tennis ball can.
Will probably have it again tomorrow. And maybe Friday too.

If there's a personal identity raft adrift somewhere on this great big cultural pond, I think I've completely fallen off it. Commencing shark-jumping.

Send a pan of lasagna. And tacos.

metaphorical supernova

two lucky survivors of the evening's events

Though the star of last night's year-end party at Fura was to be Mr. Katsuragi who has decided to hang up the storied science teacher hat, his teary-eyed farewell speech was quickly upstaged by the time we reached dinner's third course. Certainly, the first two were delightful, but it was that third--a dish so tragically vile, it utterly defied description--nay, howled and spat in my bewildered face as I sputtered in vain to dare describe it. Spent the better part of the evening's remainder chugging beers, and nursing plum wine and other such fruity libations carefully mixed to chase the stench from my mouth. But the damage was done. Hours later, breath still reeking and head spinning, I realized there could be no metaphor worthy of the nightmare I'd just eaten, for it was already, the ultimate hyperbole--a metaphor so ridiculous, it would be the metaphor all other culinary nightmares would be measured against:

Your mom's eggplant scallopini was as bad as "  see below "

I'd rather eat "  see below " for a week than let you cook for me

Oh, you like Japan? Japanese food too? You should try "  see below " then we'll talk

the Japanese cornucopia from hell

Does a gathering of super villains in the Marvel canon have a specific title beyond "evil dudes invade VFW hall?" Just the same, while I don't know if the dish above has an official title or explanation, I don't think it requires one either. A photographic awareness of the content should be explanation enough.
And as if this trifecta of barf (natto, yamaimo, okura) weren't bad enough already, they had to go and crack a raw egg on top of it...

once mixed, this culinary delight should look like a St. Bernard 
with IBS threw up in a box of captain crunch

...before mashing the slimy orgy together to spoon onto a salted square of nori--a thinly veiled feint whose crunch served only to temporarily disguise the imminent gustatorial blitzkrieg betwixt. "Umami," my ass. If I were to grasp at second-rate straws, I suppose it could be like snacking on the shell of a large dung beetle amidst his own lunch, but even that feeble attempt fails to give our shiny new metaphor enough credit.

It goes without saying that the horror I unleashed upon my apartment's crapper later that night, totally looked like " see above ."

Cup Noodle Diaries

The following post was recently rescued after having been buried in a mess of crappy saved drafts from three months ago.


Lunch. Shio "ramen." Thank god for the sesame cracked pepper sodium smokescreen. Waribashi gently patting the noodle cake deeper into the hot water, I'd hate to remember, even for a moment, that I was about to eat cardboard noodles and plastic krab soaked in synthetic greasy broth from a styrofoam cup.

The volleyball coach's cell phone chirps out that nauseating J-pop melody for the third time this hour. I am running out of valid reasons to not carry out unspeakable acts of violence against him and his idiotic phone.

Waiting. Approximately 2.5 minutes for the boiling water to bring the floating "men" cake and assorted "meats" and "vegetables" to a consistency appropriate for consumption. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Same soup, different flavors of sodium. Sometimes the salty meat slides out of a vacuum pack, sometimes it puffs out or expands in the boiling water. Brown, gray, darkish beige, even red once. "Infant Blood" "Kimchi" the package said. I swore off UFO noodles last week after accidentally spilling a bit of the thick, viscous, flavor packet oil on the back of my hand. A true, as-seen-on-CNN environmental disaster, mere 12 inches from my face; I watched in horror as my skin's delicate natural habitat was ruined. Fragile hairs lay dead and wilted. Deep, dark oil stains spreading between knuckles. Greenpeace hippies in mourning, pulling blue tarps over fingernails less fortunate.

Ok, no hippies, but my right hand stank like a beast in high heat, for the better part of three days, despite repeated, violent washings. Besides probably lubricating them to "greased lightning" caliber, I got to wondering what the flavor oil was probably doing to my intestines. Six months of this shit, and no wicked sweet mutant powers yet. Probably time to lay off, and switch to something more potent.

Golden brown (200th post)

Stereotype: Japanese people stay so thin because everything they put in their mouths is healthy. And fishy. And sometimes raw.

Truth: Compared to the percentage of their fellow countrymen who are not, a greater percentage of Japanese people manage to stay thin because their lifestyles simply call for it. More commuting via bike, more walking than driving and parking, more pimp-slapping giant crustaceans from outer space, etc. Unfortunately though, even this is slowly being offset by 'heavy' influences from the west--most noticeable in Japanese food, which isn't nearly as healthy and wholesome as everybody wants to believe it is.

How about a new stereotype then? All Japanese food is actually fried. Crisp and flaky on the outside, moist and delicious on the inside; fish or fowl, entrails, appendages of every sort, or just good old breast meat, Japan knows how to fry with golden brown impunity. Forget about the raw fish/chicken/horse Asian cuisine that has everybody talking, if it's fried, it's in Japan. And probably delicious.

Anecdotal proof? After spending a week with my brother in Hawaii (a group of islands that may very well be deep-fried themselves), and basking in the respective glories of half-pound hamburgers, wet burritos, deep-dish pizza, onion rings, ranch dressing, bottled root beer, and other such "kamehameha" sucker punches that surprised my unsuspecting colon, I thought it would be nice to meet with some friends and load up on greens upon arriving back in Okayama. So, we hit up a quiet cafe/izakaiya type place above street level and set about ordering.
What was the first item to arrive at our table?

Fried chicken cartilage.

I rest my flimsy case.

DI how to: Make An Omelette Your Bitch

Frypan to the face
Add mini weiner sausages emblazoned with Power Rangers.

Try it.


Bitch.

To the peanut gallery, with love

Weenie men click to enlarge. Then cower in fear
Following certain accusations** in the comments stemming from my most recent post, I made a quick stop at the convenience store for lunch on my way home this afternoon. Five minutes and 400 yen later, I left the store reeking of sweet retribution.

Brazenly discriminatory potato snacks, and cup sake: the choice sake for grown-up homeless men all across Japan. Go on ask yourself--could there possibly be anything more blatantly manly than "thick taste" chips and sake under a tarpaulin down by the river?

No.
The answer is no. There is not.

I believe there are apologies to be made.




** To clear up any more potential confusion as a result of misleading sarcasm, rest assured that all photos appearing on the DI are taken with my camera(s), and by my hands, regardless of how disgusting, juvenile, or idiotic they may be. Thank you.

Arm and a leg to keep the doctor away

Hey Japan! What the hell gives? Three bucks for a goddamn apple? No, it's not $3 for a bag of apples, or for a Swarovsky crystal-encrusted apple. It doesn't shoot lasers from its core or bring you root beer when you're thirsty. It's just a regular old apple. Plain Jane, meet Dull Jack. The very same kind that threw Newton into a raging pissy fit. Hell, I'd rather spend my Marunaka grocery money on things that matter. Like $3 on gourmet potato chips, or towards a book that shows me how to contort my own spine, so as to lick my own butt.

Now there's three dollars well spent.


Oh yeah, and as found in the news the other day, who the shit pays these people? You call that "research"? Cripes, even I could have told you that. And you know what else I could have told you? That men like exhaust fumes and red meat, pancakes, and root beer, and having their shoulders rubbed while they play video games.

I should probably stop researching, otherwise somebody could be out a pretty penny for my front-page 'findings.'

More intense than a frypan to the face

Dinner last night was sublime. Men's yakisoba.
That's right. Yakisoba. But for men.

If you're a chick, or a dude with a significant case of gender confusion, kindly get your prissy bitch-ass out of my kitchen.
Or dojo.
Whichever is cooler.

I'll bring the chips(100th Post)

They say that junk food tastes best when you're hungry.

I say it tastes even better when your own name is stamped on the very package, and immortalized in the storied annuls of snack-dom.


Special thanks to Yosuke and his lovely lady friend Tomo, for knowing that I unabashedly brake for this shit.






Guess we're back at it.

Finally, someone who agrees with my definitive stance on whaling

I guess now all I need would be a whale tooth shoehorn.

Flipping sweet.

"Hyper Cool" is teh New 'Ill'

Because "extreme" is for pussies.