The Fall 1989 issue of Flipside had features on Pixies and an obscure bunch of weirdos from Seattle called Nirvana, but it was another new combo called Fugazi that scored the cover, with just two EPs on Dischord and a release on the Sub Pop Singles Club to its name. Of course Fugazi started out with an impeccable pedigree: Ian MacKaye, the closest thing to the founder of the straight-edge movement you could name, combining forces with Guy Picciotto and Joe Canty from Rites of Spring.

Fugazi’s feature from that issue of Flipside featured five handwritten recipes from Ian, Guy, Brendan, and Joe, for oatmeal, pasta sauce, “dinner beans,” “spicy Pop Tarts,” and, for the closer, tea. If you think about it, recipes are very DIY, which maybe explains why the members of Fugazi so readily excelled at the art of recipe construction. 
 

 
The recipes are real recipes, but there’s a good deal of humor in there as well. Ian’s recipe for tea is an extended riff on being so busy that he keeps forgetting to turn off the boiling water, and when the tea is finally ready, forgetting to drink it. In his oatmeal recipe he strikes a similar note when he forgets to return to the pot once the water is boiling. The guys seldom use a proper measurement—this is fuel, not cuisine, and also not an exact science. (Brendan’s recipe for spicy Pop Tarts is just pure fun, though.)
 

 

 
Guy’s recipe makes a reference to vegetarianism, and in case you’re wondering, yeah, the whole band is vegetarian, a tough trick to pull off when you are touring the United States of America as relentlessly as Fugazi did. In a way it must have reinforced the band’s DIY instincts—if you can’t rely on Arby’s to make you a veggie burger—and you can’t—then you “fill up a cooler with decent food from grocery stores and simply picnic in their van,” as Michael Azerrad put it in Our Band Could Be Your Life.

MacKaye is somewhat famously vegan, although less vocal about it than, say, Morrissey. In 2010 MacKaye said, “Our society is centered around meat consumption, and our society fucking sucks.”

More after the jump…

 
I’m almost 99.9% certain someone at McDonald’s is getting fired today. At exactly 9:15 a.m. this morning, an unnamed hero at McDonald’s headquarters tweeted via their official Twitter account to Donald Trump, “You are actually a disgusting excuse of a President and we would love to have @BarackObama back, also you have tiny hands.”

The glorious tweet was pinned to the top of their Twitter page for over 20 minutes until it was deleted.

Was their account hacked? Who knows?

 
UPDATE:

Twitter notified us that our account was compromised. We deleted the tweet, secured our account and are now investigating this.

— McDonald's (@McDonaldsCorp) March 16, 2017

 
via Gizmodo

 
Kraftwerk was the most important and influential German musical act of the 1970s, and David Bowie and Iggy Pop spent a few years in Berlin in the late 1970s in one of their most productive phases. The two camps never actually worked together, and there’s been no shortage of speculation about that.

For his part, Bowie insisted that Kraftwerk was not a significant influence on his Berlin output. In an interview for Uncut in 1999, Bowie did credit Kraftwerk for directing his attention to Europe, but felt that their methods and aims were sharply different:
 

My attention had been swung back to Europe with the release of Kraftwerk’s Autobahn in 1974. The preponderance of electronic instruments convinced me that this was an area that I had to investigate a little further.

Much has been made of Kraftwerk’s influence on our Berlin albums. Most of it lazy analyses, I believe. Kraftwerk’s approach to music had in itself little place in my scheme. Theirs was a controlled, robotic, extremely measured series of compositions, almost a parody of minimalism. One had the feeling that Florian and Ralf were completely in charge of their environment, and that their compositions were well prepared and honed before entering the studio. My work tended to expressionist mood pieces, the protagonist (myself) abandoning himself to the zeitgeist (a popular word at the time), with little or no control over his life. The music was spontaneous for the most part and created in the studio.

 
As David Buckley put it in Publikation, his book on Kraftwerk, “What is known is that the Bowie camp and the Kraftwerk camp were on friendly terms.”

Further evidence of that claim popped up in the well-regarded 2009 documentary on German prog music from the ‘70s, Krautrock: The Rebirth of Germany. Iggy Pop is featured telling a story of going shopping with Florian Schneider and one other member of Kraftwerk. According to Pop, Schneider indicated that it was “asparagus season,” and so he would be visiting the market to “select some asparagus.” Pop responded that he would be happy to join Schneider and told the interviewer that they ended up “having a very nice time.”
 
More after the jump…

 
I had no idea there was actually a museum dedicated to Cup Noodles. But there is! And it’s located in Yokohama, Japan, not a college dorm room. Photographer Sam Graham visited the Cup Noodles Museum to show us what it’s like inside. There’s even a life-sized silver sculpture of Nissin founder Momofuku Ando, holding his favorite food.

I’m intrigued by the Cup Noodles slides and by the artistic interpretations on the Cup Noodles theme. There are so many…

It also appears there’s a Cup Noodles factory-style cafeteria/restaurant inside the museum similar to that of an IKEA.

You can see more photos of the museum at Juxtapoz.

 

 

 
More after the jump…

The Intergalactic Garble Blaster lollipop by Lolliphile. The fruity/ginny-flavored sucker is a nod to the 1979 novel by Douglas Adams, ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.’
 
So as I was attempting to deprogram my brain last night while watching an episode of competitive cooking show Chopped (don’t judge), I was intrigued by one of the basket ingredients that was forced upon the contestants—a blue cheese-flavored lollipop. As I’d never heard of such an abomination, I decided to see if I could find out who came up with this strange food hybrid. Which I did and now I’m taking all of you faithful Dangerous Minds readers down with me because the power of Austin confectioner Lolliphile compels me.

There are 30 different flavors of suckers to choose from on Lolliphile’s site that run the gamut of gross to “shut up and take my money.” Such as the following more inventive flavors: “Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster” (a fruity/ginny nod to Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), the “Salty Dog” which tastes like a salty Greyhound cocktail, and one simply called Pizza which is fairly self-explanatory. Lolliphile’s gourmet suckers ain’t cheap and four will run you eight bucks, with packs of six, three flavor combos nicely priced at twelve dollars each. I’ve included a few images of Lolliphile’s suckers along with their flavor profiles below. More information and ordering can be found here. A few combo packs, such as one featuring six individual sucker flavors, Wasabi Ginger; Breast Milk; Sriracha; Chocolate Bacon; Bleu Cheese, and Pizza, can be purchased on Amazon.
 

A Breast Milk flavored lollipop. According to Lolliphile their team of flavor specialists created the confection after taste-testing actual breast milk and made a vegan lollipop that tastes just like the real thing. Get them here.
 
More after the jump…

 
Someday I hope to see Luis Buñuel’s 1930 short film Menjant garotes (Eating Sea Urchins). Discovered in a biscuit tin that belonged to Salvador Dalí‘s sister, Ana Maria, after her death, it’s a home movie of Dalí‘s family gobbling echinoderms in Cadaqués, shot around the same time as L’Âge d’or.

Sea urchins were a favorite dish of Dalí‘s, and they figure in the initiatory path he lays out in his guide to becoming a painter, Fifty Secrets of Magic Craftsmanship. It’s not an easy path to follow; even if you manage to pull off the instructions he gives you, what about the ones for your valet and your maid? Secret Number Four, “the secret of the sea-urchin slumber,” is relatively practicable:

To begin with, you will eat three dozen sea urchins, gathered on one of the last two days that precede the full moon, choosing only those whose star is coral red and discarding the yellow ones. The collaboration of the moon in such cases is necessary, for otherwise not only do you risk that the sea urchins will be more empty but above all that they do not possess to the same degree the sedative and narcotic virtues so special and so propitious to your approaching slumber. For the same reason these sea urchins should be eaten preferably in the spring—May is a good month. But in choosing the time you must make the gathering of the sea urchins coincide with the precise moment when the first tender new beans are picked, and this varies according to the years. These tender beans, prepared in the manner called à la Catalane, are to be the second course of your meal, and I guarantee you that this is a dish worthy of the ancient gods and quite Homeric, for I am convinced that the Greeks of antiquity were acquainted with it and therefore that they were also familiar with chocolate—for, strange as this may seem, the tender beans à la Catalane are in fact prepared with chocolate as a base.

After washing this down “with a light, very young wine,” you are to take a four-and-a-half hour nap preliminary to staring at your blank canvas “for a long, long time.”

More after the jump…

 
There’s a term that’s used in many businesses, specifically in the manufacturing, shipping, trucking, and retailing sectors: “Breakage.” It’s pretty obvious what that means, of course, as is the definition of a common term heard around the food and restaurant industries: “Spoilage.”

Accounting for breakage and spoilage can cost American companies billions of dollars each year. It’s a serious problem with no easy solutions. Of course, they sell insurance for such eventualities at every stop along the way, from factory or farm to retail shelves, but that cost is simply passed on to the consumers.

A product that was immune to breakage and immune to spoilage? Well, that would be the Holy Grail of foodstuffs, no?

And what if that miracle product didn’t weigh that much and was easy to ship?

A product like that can’t just be conjured out of thin air, though, can it?

We imagine the birth of FAILCHIPS went something like this…

SCENE: A CORPORATE BOARDROOM ON MADISON AVENUE.

“What are we gonna do with all of these millions of bags of smashed-up potato chips?”

“Can we give them to charity?”

“For a tax write-off? That’s one idea. Anyone else?”

“Why don’t we simply re-brand the leftover potato chip crumbs? Call them something ironic—like “FAILCHIPS”—and sell ‘em to hipsters?”

STUNNED, UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE IN THE ROOM. EVERYONE PRESENT LOOKS DOWN AND SHUFFLES PAPERS NERVOUSLY. YOU CAN HEAR A PIN DROP, THEN THE BOSS SPEAKS.

“You’re an evil genius, Randall… Any ideas for how we can rebrand all of that rancid beef I’m sitting on in Wichita?”
 

 
In 1937, American novelist, short story writer, and journalist, Ernest Hemingway came up with his own cocktail recipe called “Death in the Gulf Stream” for dealing with shitty times:

Take a tall thin water tumbler and fill it with finely cracked ice.

Lace this broken debris with 4 good purple splashes of Angostura, add the juice and crushed peel of 1 green lime, and fill glass almost full with Holland gin…

No sugar, no fancying. It’s strong, it’s bitter — but so is English ale strong and bitter, in many cases.

We don’t add sugar to ale, and we don’t need sugar in a “Death in the Gulf Stream” — or at least not more than 1 tsp. Its tartness and its bitterness are its chief charm.

Tartness and its bitterness, eh? Sounds perfect for 2017. I’d love to try this at least once, but I’m terrible on gin. Won’t you make one and tell me how it tastes?

 
via Das Kraftfuttermischwerk

 
While waiting for the third volume of Simon Callow’s Orson Welles biography to arrive in the mail, I’ve been watching a number of movies by and about Welles. Among them is a documentary that was to have aired on French TV in May 1968, before regular programming was preempted by real life. Portrait: Orson Welles is one of the bonus features on the Criterion edition of The Immortal Story, released last year, and in it Welles shows how he made a salad.

The instructions below are a composite of Welles’ words and those of the documentary’s French narrator. I can’t help you reconstruct Orson’s proprietary blend of dried herbs, but I do know where you can find sherry vinegar from Jerez.

I used to be a very keen, if messy, amateur cook. But in the last years—14 years now since I married Paola—I haven’t been allowed in the kitchen. So the only cooking—the only messing about, rather, that I’m permitted—is the salad[...]

I use dried herbs. This is basil; we use fresh basil when our friends bring it from Italy. Two different kinds of mixed herbs that I prepare myself, and a little garlic salt, and the olive oil; we have very good olive oil for salads in Spain. Of course, the secret of all is the vinegar, which comes to us from our friends in Jerez, where the sherry is made. This delicious vinegar is made from a mix of sherry and wine. Some lemon, pressed in this little German device which looks a little cruel, but it’s very efficient. A bit of pepper and salt, and very important, Tabasco, that great American invention. Be generous with that. And now after this has been mixed—I haven’t been given a fork, as I usually have, so I can’t mix it as well—a bit more oil, and we should be [Welles tastes the salad dressing] ready.

The salad itself, of course, is carefully dried and then put in the icebox to chill. It’s a simple lettuce that grows right outside the house. And we’re ready.

Cut to Jeanne Moreau, facing the camera in a severe sixties dress decorated with a labyrinth glyph, reading from Paul Valéry’s “Fluctuations on Freedom”; and then to Welles at the lunch table, improvising a monologue as Richard Nixon, in which the candidate promises to restore a “true blue America” by wiping out the Irish, Jews, and blacks.

More after the jump…

 
For the lush who has everything, we present this 1971 vintage Jameson’s whiskey vending machine.

It’s new old stock in the original packaging, and dispenses a glass of Jameson’s when fed with three (1960s to 1980s vintage) Irish 10p coins. And it’s actually for sale (a mere €850—approximately $888 USD). The seller is offering free shipping, worldwide.

The site selling this gorgeous novelty, RareIrishStuff.com, says that the machine dispenses 1/3 gill measurement of whiskey and that the machines were designed for use in shops, offices, and pubs in 1971.

According to the site, the machines have been in storage for 45 years, and may need some minor reconditioning to achieve working order.

Still, I couldn’t imagine anything cooler for a home bar—as long as you have a good supply of out-of-circulation Irish 10p coins handy.

See this baby in action after the jump…