We don't usually endorse products in the Salad Bowl, but we're going to make an exception for a new personal hygiene item that's Swiffering the nation: Nundies.
We got a packet of these things in the mail recently. They're an "alternative" to wearing drawers.
Gotta love the tulip shape. Very subtle.
4You Editrix Patty Kim models the available pantyless color palate.
Apparently Patty felt the need to deploy a "this is oh-so-scandalous" expression.
Among the benefits of utilizing these crotch liners:
Apparently the company is aiming their product at the segment of the buying population for whom underwear is too much of a barrier to ultimate friskiness.
The Nundies Web site describes the product thusly:
Women of the world unite! Are you embarrassed by tacky panty lines? Do you despise wearing uncomfortable thongs and g-strings? Do you dream of going "commando" without the discomfort of itchy clothing? Well, now you can say "So-long!" to your thong and "Bye-bye!" to your briefs, because women everywhere have a new lease on freedom.
Nundies is a new, fashion-solution product that promises to liberate women from the age-old constraints of femininity.
Nundies is a one-time use, disposable "panty" that adheres to the inseam inside of a woman's pants. This tulip-shaped "panty" is intended for use as an alternative to wearing traditional underwear.
Made from a nylon/lycra blend, Nundies are as soft as your conventional underwear, but they take up less space and don't leave embarrassing panty lines.
Elsewhere on the site, it states:
Fashionistas everywhere have a new lease on freedom. The just-released Nundies undies promise to be a fashion favorite of women, ages 15 to 50, and beyond.
Time yet again to retrieve the Karen Silkwood psychological wire brush.
Even worse: the FAQ, which addresses such burning questions as ...
How do you apply Nundies?
1. Take out a pair of pants or short. 2. Without wearing underwear, pull your pants half-way up. 3. Take out one Nundies and slowly peel off the bottom half of the liner. 4. Smooth the bottom half of the Nundies, sticky side down, onto the inside crotch of your pants in the desired location. (The tulips go in the front.) 5. Peel off the top half of the liner (with the petals) while smoothing down the rest of the Nundies onto your pants. 6. Zip up and you're done!
Nundies should not be flushed. Please dispose of in a trash receptacle. Do not adhere Nundies to your skin. Do not wear a single Nundies for more than one day. Remove before washing or dry-cleaning garment. Nundies are not intended for use as sanitary napkins or for swimming. For external use only.
External use? You mean you can't just swallow two Nundies - make a Nundies burrito or Nundies cannoli , perhaps - and expect all-day freshness and genital protection?
Maybe they'll work on this for Nundies 2.0.
Which, I have to tell you, is pretty damn cool.
When exactly did it become so difficult to get contacts? Seriously. It's easier to smuggle yourself into the country than it is to get two tiny plastic circles in your eyes.
Follow along if you know the drill.
1. You get your eyes dilated and examined.
2. Then you have to come back and get a trial pair that have been special ordered.
3. You come back later that week to get your glasses to go with your contacts.
4. A week after that you get your eyes checked again.
5. If all looks well (after an exhaustive 45-second examination), you order your year's supply, if you can afford it.
6. You pick your contacts up in 7 to 10 days.
As if that wasn't enough work, you also have to deal with employees at the eye franchise that are, how should we say ... indifferent to your occular plight.
With this in mind, I went to my local Visionpaloozacenter a couple minutes early to see if I could shorten the process between No. 4 and No. 5.
As I walk up with the Salad Bride in tow, one of the sales associates asks, "Can I help you?"
I tell her yes, that I'm here a little early to get my contacts checked.
"Oh, are you Kane Wayne?"
"Kane Wayne. Are you Kane Wayne?"
"No, I'm Jeff."
Disappointed, she looked at her appointment book, told me to have a seat.
"You should have told her you were Kane," said Salad Wife.
"I should have said my name was Kanye, not Kane."
Of course, the rest of the weekend, I am referred to mainly as Kane.
Everyone could use an alter ego, right?
How do you know that your job as an infielder is not exactly secure with a struggling baseball franchise in desperate need of pitching?
When they use this adjective in front of your name on the scoreboard during Pirate Night on June 6 at the ballpark.
Word broke late Saturday night that the Tampa Bay Devil Rays had traded infielder Ty Wigginton to Houston for a pitcher who previously sucked for us during the Naimoli years but who was career savvy enough to marry the daughter of Rays broadcaster Dewayne Staats. Nice to see the team return to its roots. Maybe we can get Vinnie Castilla to come out of retirement.
Oh, and for those of you scoring at home, (seriously, congratulations if you are), this guy's gone too:
To the team's credit, they hesitated from calling him "Careless Whisper" Cantu. That showed real restraint.
Hey, Rich, what's that in your hand?
Side Salad on an iPhone.
Now, this is my kind of pinball machine.
From a Photoshop contest here. (Features images not safe for work.)
When I grow up, I want to write just like Peggy Noonan. Plain. Direct. Incisive. Elegently simple.
I fequently find myself noding my head as I read her pieces. Often I agree with nothing she says. Sometimes she angers me.
But the way she says what she sees and believes entrances me almost every time. Much in the same way that P.J. O'Rourke and Fran Leibowiz did during my college days. Or how Henry Allen, Christopher Hitchens, Anthony Bourdain and Tom Junod do now. They hear with different ears. Their fingers type words that everyone uses but that, coming from them, mean different things. Their pieces have their own atmosphere, a unique rhythm. You can read them over and over and notice new treasure each time. The phrases are muscular, but the reasoning is lithe and limber.
Noonan, a former Reagan speechwriter, writes regularly for the Wall Street Journal opinion section. But her views are far closer to centrist these days than not. And when she sees things that she thinks are important from a cultural standpoint, she says so, regardless of the political geography from which it originates. Like this column, for example.
Cellphones are wonderful, but they empower the obnoxious and amplify the ignorant. Once they kept their thoughts to themselves. They had no choice. Now they have cellphones, into which they bark, "I'm on line at Duane Reade. Yeah. Ex-Lax." Oh, thank you for sharing. How much less my life would be if I didn't know. BlackBerrys empower the obsessed. We wouldn't have them if the economy weren't high and we weren't pretty well off.
Once, a political figure in New York invited me to a private dinner. I was seated next to him, and as the table conversation took off he leaned back, quietly took out his BlackBerry, and began to scroll. It occurred to me that if I said something live in person, it would not be as interesting to him as if I'd BlackBerryed him. It occurred to me that if I wanted to talk to him I'd have to BlackBerry him and say, "Please talk to me." And then he would get the message.
It is possible that we are on the cellphone because we are lonely and hunger for connection, even of the shallowest kind; that we BlackBerry because we hope for a sense of control in a chaotic world; that we are frightened of stillness and must interrupt conversations; that we are desperate to make the sale in the highly competitive environment of the Banana Republic on 86th Street and must aggressively pursue customers.
I don't know why. Can't explain it.
But watching comedian Zach Galifianakis mime Kanye West rapping "I ain't one of the Cosbys/I didn't go to Hillman" while driving a tractor on a farm absolutely destroys me.
Zach has to be the most minimalist comedian I've seen in a long time. Guy's got the funniest deadpan.
You may remember Zach from the post I had in May about his being labeled a "person of interest" for not dancing in the audience at the "Ellen" show.
Speaking of minimalist comedy, check out this Patton Oswalt video. It's worth the wait to see who's performing in the storage shed.
So now Simeon Rice joins the swollen ranks in the Legion of Former Buccaneer Greats.
This one's gonna hurt for a while.
Not because we'll miss the sacks. We will miss the sacks, no doubt about it. Simeon will go on to rehab his shredded shoulder, join another team and make the Bucs live to regret their decision. Again. He's got too much speed to end his career now. Shoulder notwithstanding, he's kept himself in premium shape. Just like John Lynch did. Just like Brad Johnson did. Just like Keyshawn Johnson did. Just like Keenan McCardell. Just like ... :::yawn:::
No, mostly we'll miss Simeon's mouth (although Salad Wife will miss his rather fit physique as well).
There were many a day when the Salad Clan would be somewhere and we would use one of Simeon's catch phrases and mimic his purr while saying, "Classical."
When he had a radio show, Sim would say something like, "That game was classical, man." Or, "That cat was classical."
Words flow from Simeon's lips in lyrical torrents. So much so that at one time I pitched doing the Annotated Simeon Rice on Mondays after football games to explain what the hell he just said. He didn't speak inaccurately. He'd just put them in a way that would make you shake your head like the Aflac duck.
During the lead up to Super Bowl XXXVII, Rice told the media:
"I was marinating out there [as a player] in Arizona. Now I'm sauteed."
After the Bucs won the the Super Bowl, Simeon painted it thusly:
“Both philosophies came to a head, and clashed today. Better offense? Better defense? Can old players play? Everything. All those different things played out today. But the truest story that's known to man today is that we're truly No. 1.”
Players weren't players. They were cats. He didn't ask if you understood. He'd merely say, "Ya, dig?"
Never has a football player gotten so close to Dizzy Gillespie from a linguistic standpoint.
Perhaps my favorite interview with him came from a racy 2003 interview in FHM magazine. It's total Simeon, unleashed:
(On whether having a Super Bowl ring helped with attracting women)
"If you're counting on a Super Bowl to get you some pussy, then you're a sad-ass cat."
(On what he thinks about having a woman on his team)
"Is she hot? Because if she was, then she'd be getting herself pregnant by halftime."
(On who gives him inspiration)
"Walter Payton and Michael Jordan. And Bruce Lee-he was an ass-kicking son of a bitch and his philosophy was the best thing going. I see myself as a combination of the three."
And when asked if his "boys" have a home in his trousers while he's on the field of battle, he responds:
I'm definitely not freeballing. My nuts are precious. The jewels are kept in the safe and I will not relinquish the information to that safe.
We'll miss you, Sim. Training camp this year won't sound the same without you.
Flavor readers may remember a story I did a few months back about Chicago chef Grant Achatz, one of the most acclaimed culinary practitioners of a movement known as molecular gastronomy. His restaurant, Alinea, has been ranked as the best in the nation.
Chicago media are reporting that Achatz at age 33 has an advanced form of oral cancer.
On Monday, Achatz announced that he has been diagnosed with Stage 4 squamous cell carcinoma of the mouth.
The cancer, which doctors believe has spread to Achatz's lymph nodes, is life-threatening. The lesions are on the chef's tongue.
If chemotherapy is successful, there remains a possibility that Achatz will lose all sense of taste.
"It's Shakespearean," said Nick Kokonas, Achatz's friend and co-owner of Alinea. "This is like a painter whose eyes are taken from him, a pianist who has his fingers cut off."
An optimistic-sounding Achatz doesn't quite see it that way.
"People confuse the role of the chef," he said. "A lot of what I do is conceptualize. I'm not the guy who cooks everything every night; it's impossible. I've got a really strong team (at Alinea), and their response has been amazingly positive. They're going to rally around this."
Achatz burst on the dining scene in 2001, when, after four years working under Thomas Keller at the acclaimed French Laundry in Yountville, Calif., he was hired as executive chef at Trio in Evanston. Not only did Achatz maintain the restaurant's four-star status, but a year later he made Food & Wine magazine's list of Best New Chefs in America. In 2003, he was named the Rising Star Chef of the year by the James Beard Foundation.
Alinea, the restaurant opened with Kokonas in 2005, quickly received worldwide attention and acclaim, along with four-star reviews from the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Magazine. Restaurant patrons were awed by Achatz's innovative style, which challenged people's notions of food and flavor. An early dish, called "PB&J," presented a single peeled grape, covered in peanut butter and wrapped in thin-toasted brioche -- a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich compressed into a single bite.
He presented a dish of ham and peas on a pillow filled with lavender-scented air, which wafted out from the weight of the plate. Trio fans clamored for his miniature ravioli squares filled with liquid truffle, which burst in the mouth on the first bite.
"I'm not dwelling on the possibility that I'll never be able to taste again," Achatz said. "Beethoven composed one of his greatest symphonies when he was deaf."
I cannot begin to describe how devastated I am by this news.
There have been only a few times when I realized I've been in the presence of true, genuine greatness. Eating at Alinea in April, meeting Achatz and interviewing him for almost 90 minutes changed my perspective on the world and radically redefined for me what food can accomplish from an emotional standpoint. No exaggeration.
I'll admit it. I think about growing older and the effects on my body.
I've seen loved ones age and noted how their physical stature withered. I've seen their mental faculties dim. Their zest for life and appetite for adventure diminished.
I try not to think about the sex thing because, well, they're relatives, you know? There isn't enough psychological Brillo to scrub that one away.
So when the topic of sex and aging does spring to mind, I find myself lacking in role models I can turn to for advice. "If only," I've never thought to myself, "If only I had a Reagan-era immigrant Catskills comic with a vodka-related stage name to guide me through the treacherous waters of intimate elder relations."
Now, I do.
To: Houck, Jeff B.
Subject: Item? Relationship Advice from Comedian Yakov Smirnoff (and AARP The Magazine)
Summer loving—and the love woes that accompany it—are finally here; are you ready? AARP The Magazine’s brand-new love columnist, famed comedian Yakov Smirnoff, author of recurring column “Happily Ever Laughter,” is an expert on all things love and marriage, and routinely answers tough—not to mention awkward—love questions.
Yakov Smirnoff is available for interviews.
Possible topics include:
o Resolving family conflicts with a sense of humor. Conflicts within the family often arise from petty issues and can severe family ties.
o Adjusting old habits. As couples go through life, they often find that their interests diverge. What steps should couples take to find a good compromise?
o Finding love again. New love can be difficult at any age – what are the specific obstacles and benefits of new love at 50+?
o Sex. How do sexual relationships—for both men and women—change over the years?
o Recent questions posed to AARP The Magazine. The July/August issue discusses how to deal with the conflicts that come along with dividing up heirlooms, how to encourage a home-rooted husband to travel, and information on the love-life of 70-year-old men.
* Smirnoff’s expert advice, as well as a host of relationship and love information, can be found at http://www.aarpmagazine.org/family/happily_ever_laughter.html.
Clearly Smirnoff is simply filling a need left wide open by the success of his '80s contemporaries. Had "Deal or No Deal" flopped, it might well be Howie Mandel talking about retirement nookie instead.
Can an Emo Phillips "Sex In The (Second) City"-type column in Seniority be far behind? Gosh, I hope not.
PREVIOUS PRESS RELEASES FROM HELL:
I have a new quest: To find the best milkshake in the Bay Area.
The idea comes from my friend Fester at the MJ Morning Show, who suggested the idea while I was interviewing him for a story about his "On The Grill" radio show.
My first stop on this quest was the Chatterbox Grill in St. Petersburg.
It had been a pig's age since I'd eaten at the Chatterbox. The last time was back in the late 1970s, when my dad was a used car salesman at the old Adcock Buick on what was then 9th Street in Downtown St. Pete.
I have to admit, I hadn't planned to stop here. But when you draw the giant words "THICK, REAL MILKSHAKES" on the exterior of your building, you're stating your case plainly.
I stopped, went inside and checked out what they had to offer.
First, the Chatterbox is a one-of-a-kind experience. It's Old St. Pete at it's best. Lunch counters, quirky staffers, kitchy signs that harken to St. Pete's more quaint days. Even paying the bill is a hoot. My waitress, Vi, hand-cranked the register to give me change. I kid you not.
The Chatterbox makes lots of different shakes, but one stood out on the menu for me: the Oogie Moogie coffee shake.
What's in the Oogie Moogie?
Ice cream, coffee, ground up coffee beans and a shot of coffee syrup.
"You'll be wired the rest of the day," one server told me.
How'd it taste? Awesome. This was a milkshake of the highest magnitude of flavor. That they served it in a glass with whipped cream on top and left the original shake cannister on the table for extra pours only added to the novelty.
As things go, it's not a bad way to start a quest.
But I need your help, Bay Area Salad Bowl readers. Where are the great unsung shakes to be found?
I'll take your suggestions and add them to the list. I'll feature them here after every visit.
I like to think that if I had mad, crazy, superhuman skills in a specific area of expertise (other than cooking on a hot dog roller), I'd use those abilities in a way that bettered mankind.
Then again, I'd probably just use them to perform a television theme song.
Take a trip, won't you, on the Jon Gruden family vacation. (Scroll down at the site to get the video.)
Anyone else bothered that Jon stumbles on his kids' names? Or that he cajoles them into thinking that the Bucs should have won the Super Bowl by a bigger margin?
1. Quarterback Jeff Garcia's Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey.
What's the life expectency on these before he gets a concussion or loses an internal organ due to a shitty offensive line? Three games? Four?
Might as well waste your money on a Jake Plummer jersey.
2. A Remy the rat plush toy, including wooden spatula, from the movie "Ratatouille."
This didn't occupy the most space at the Downtown Disney souvenir store. "Pirates of the Caribbean" held that distinction. But "Ratatouille" had a presence, nonetheless. And I saw several kids clutching copies of the gourmet cooking vermin during the afternoon we spent there in Lake Buena Vista.
3. A traffic jam on I-275 leading to Tropicana Field two hours before a Tampa Bay Devil Rays game.
It was like this for 90 minutes after the game, too.
Granted, the game Sunday was against the New York Yankees. That had a lot to do with it. But still, it was nice to see.
He's down with the 813 area code.
Not to worry, yo. At my request, he's keeping it real.
Antibacte-real, that is.
Living in Florida provides the opportunity to enjoy many breathtaking entertainment adventures.
This is not one of them.
(That's humidity-inspired condensation on the lens, not a divine aura)
The boy's a diehard Gator. Orange and blue, through and through.
Emboldened by the experience of cooking giant tubes of nitrates on a novelty hot dog roller, we decided to test the waters by puting other near-cylindrical foodstuffs to the test.
The next bench test: Twinkies.
That's not entirely accurate. These weren't just Twinkies.
They were Hostess Race Divas Twinkies.
What's the difference, you're probably not asking?
Namely, three hot women in flame-resistent jumpsuits on the back of the box.
Rhetorical question: Why bother to wrap something that can never go stale?
We were a bit dubious that a Twinkie would work on this apparatus, since it's not a true cylinder. It's more of a tube with flat feet.
We considered shaving the corners off, then reconsidered. After all, why jeopardize the sanctity and purity of this experiment?
Our faith was quickly rewarded when the treat rolled as hoped: like a spongy, cream-filled whale performing a death roll along the shoreline. Albeit one that within seconds started to smear with its own crust.
The Twinkie's holes on the bottom quickly began soiling the rollers with a snail-like trail of cream. At least we hoped it was cream and not some Polysorbate 80 industrial accident.
We took the oozing through its yellow pores as a good sign that it was cooking.
It was at this stage, where it started to look like a snack cake hate crime was taking place, that we started to reconsider our commitment to eating what we had wrought.
Finally, we could take no more. We clearly had crossed the nexis on the graph between the fever line that denotes culinary curiosity and the other that charts "degree of grossness so large we won't eat the damn thing."
We plucked it from the roller and offered it to my colleague and Official Taster Of The Salad, Rommie Johnson, for a sampling.
Rommie unhinged his jaw and let it fly.
The taste, he said, was quite unique.
The exterior had carmelized into a tough, vanilla-flavored crust. Inside, the cream filling had become a liquid magma. Almost like eating a marshmallow from a campfire. Only not nearly as organic tasting.
NEXT TRICK: Baked Potato
PREVIOUS STUPID COOKING TRICKS:
...in such a tiny package.
Note: Those whose humor is the equivalent of a fragile little bunny need not click on the link above. As the Catskills comics used to say, some work a little blue.
Other winners include:
For those who missed it over at The Stew, (and really, why should you have seen it), I had a little chat with Paula Deen the other day. (For the record, that's her lipstick on the glass, not mine.)
Drove over to Lake Buena Vista yesterday to do a story on the 7-Eleven that was one of 11 around the country converted into a Kwik-E-Mart as part of a promotion for "The Simpsons" movie that comes out later this month.
Click here to see a gallery of the store. They really went all out.
Must. Try. This.
Too bad they didn't see the Meatloaf Integer.
(For the record, it was Rosemary's inspiration that started the trend.)
Someone made a stinky.
How fitting that it would rain today.
You know, on the day everyone wants to be outside.
That's not smoke. Well, some of it's smoke.
Mostly it's steam coming off the grill and boiling pot from where the rain has hit it.
The chicken wings and burgers and hot dogs I had cooking were safe inside the grill. But why I put a lid on a pot of corn boiling during a torrential downpour is a mystery.
Rain or no, it's hard to argue with the results.
With a giant slab of pork flesh cooked in a smoker over a basin of apple juice and hickory chips soaked in beer. Oh, and after the ribs spent four days marinating in Jacuzzi full of mojo sauce. (Or, MoJolie, as one of my dear friends would say."
To quote "Team America: World Police,": "America, F&@! YEAH!"