I wasn’t even sure what this was when I saw it on eBay a few years ago but it looked like it couldn’t possibly have been actual sanctioned Beatles swag, and that alone kicks it into a very high level of Kitsch. Besides, just the box – 5″x7″x1-3/4″ with colors so vibrant they make your brain rattle – was worth the 3 bucks it took to procure it.

George and John actually look like George and John.

But Paul kind of looks like a cross-eyed Paul and Ringo looks like Paul-but-not-really-but-certainly-not-like-Ringo.

When something comes packaged in the original cellophane as this Beatles product did it absolutely kills me to open it. But seeing as I really had no idea what lay within I had to carefully slice through the cello to reveal this:

100 tiny packages of Beatles pomade:

Greasy, waxy hair product that the Beatles never would have used on their Beatle hair as the whole point was that it bounced all over their head in rock ‘n roll defiance.  The wax still retains its original squish:

Now that the package is open to reveal the secrets within, my whole house smells like the bathroom at a Chinese restaurant circa 1964. Maybe because it was made on that side of the world that long ago.

That smell isn’t the best smell in the world to inspire brilliant music, which I have to write today, so I’ll confine myself to looking at the  box, not smearing anything on my head, and pray the Beatles vibe enters without rubbing it in with pomade.

Allergy season is in FULL TILT here in LA. I never had allergies before but for the past few days my eyes have been wetter than the Mississippi and my nose is flowing like Niagara Falls. The only thing that makes me feel better is that I can reach into this lovely lady’s head to grab a Kleenex every time the river starts to run.

Fake fur hair like this used to gross me out.

Too retro repro for me. But I’ve reached into this follicle cavity so much these last few days I’ve grown very attached to her 60’s Shangri-La’s inspired ratty hair and ever-gleaming plastic face.

Yesterday, I was at the House Of Blues bright and early announcing the winners of the “Drawing Us Together” art competition, featuring kids’, teenagers through early 20’s, art work interpreting music in LA.

Thankfully, my nose pretended it was stapled together and I was able to hand the winner their prize without slopping on anything or anyone. Had I really thought about it before I left, I would’ve attached a chain to Ms. Tissue and worn her as a necklace. At least I would’ve be blowing in style had my nose not cooperated.

I pity the fool who doesn’t dig all the way down into his/her pockets on this, the most dreaded of days, Income Tax Day, and cough up what little is left in the coffers. Don’t get me started on this topic, how none of the greedy, disgusting suits have been prosecuted for turning the world upside down, leaving the rest of us to walk around with this same bewildered Mr. T look on our faces as the calendar strikes 4/15, or as it is this year, 17.

Somehow, this almost foot-high hollow-headed Mr. T bank doesn’t have the same determined look that Mr. T usually has in his press shots or the plethora of merchandise that sprung out of his B. A. Baracus run on the A-Team.

I’m not sure I’d like to smell like Mr. T.

Mr. T probably had nothing to grimace about on Income Tax Day back in the 80’s when The A-Team was running strong and he could afford enough gold chains so that if there’s any problem these days all he has to do is sell some of them.

Instead of rippled flesh, this Mr. T bank is made of super hard plastic. As a consequence, the coins reverberate so when they drop into Mr. T’s cavernous head it makes me think this is a better percussion instrument than bank. Which is probably best given how cheaply this lump o’ Mr. T is made. You literally have to cut a hole in the bottom to get the coins out. Which means, of course, you can never use it as a bank again as there’s no way to re-insert the plastic which is surely jagged, sharp and misshapen after using an ice pick or whatever else it might take to puncture the exceedingly hard Mr. T.

Made by Ruby-Spears Enterprises in 1983, this is a relatively rare piece of Mr. T. memorabilia, with jewelry and other assorted bling, T-shirts, games, coloring books and A-Team vans far more locatable than this carefully coiffed bank. I don’t think I ever realized the Mr. T’s hairdo was an upside down T.

Income Tax Day causes a lot of people to experience angst, panic and other unpleasant human feelings. In many people this causes hair loss.

I’m not losing my hair but I do I wish I had a slot in my head today.

I’m so pathetically behind on everything following my Detroit trip – blogs to write, a documentary to make, getting all the Mumford marching band footage together for YouTube, not to mention my day job, songwriting. If someone could just turn me over and shake me, maybe all the extraneous thoughts would fall out and I’d just be left with the business at hand, mailing in my tax forms.

 

In terms of junking up ordinary items in extraordinary ways I can usually depend on products that come in packaging with horrendously poor translations, as is often the case with my favorite foreign company of insane accessories, Daiso Japan. Among other things, I would say that this is clearly a comb despite labeling that claims otherwise.

And despite it being an Apple Comb or even an Apple Hair Brush, a couple of cherries have snuck in. So wouldn’t it have been more appropriate to call it a Fruit Comb or Fruit Hair Brush?

There are several wonderful things about the warning on the back of the Fruit I mean Apple Comb:

It’s pretty clear to me that a comb is meant to be used on hair and only an idiot, perhaps someone who thought this was a hair brush, would be in need of an instruction like “do not use if any symptoms such as scratch, boil, eczema and swolleness occur.” I don’t like to think of such extrusions when I’m stroking my locks. As for “Do not directly apply wax and essence on the brush”, I have no idea what essence is and, as I said, I don’t see a brush anywhere in this package. And, regardless of whether this is a brush or comb, I would not want it to cause “damages on my skin”, especially “when got dirty”. The text on the front must have been written by the same translator:

“We are going to return our customers favor with better products.Intelligent choice! Practical choice! We believe your best choice.”I think the best choice would have been to also put the design on the back of the comb as you never know which way a person is going to hold their comb and/or hairbrush.

But no matter how you hold your comb, choose your fruit, part your hair, or struggle to make sense of the packaging, the Apple Fruit Comb Hair Brush is one pretty l’il thing!

At that point in history, the 1960s, no more swag had ever been created for an American Presidency than for the first couple of Camelot, John and Jackie Kennedy. I have much of it, including busts, porcelain plates, copper plates, ashtrays, keychains and the like. But most of that is buried away and I’m too lazy to dig it out on a holiday. Here’s one that’s handy of a porcelain plate using the exact same image as on the creamer but for a new chair:

Here’s another of the exact same plate I have where the Kennedys have been replaced by a camper:

Many people would argue the Kennedys have never been replaced as a Presidential couple.

As you can see, the plate as American presidency was made in Japan.

My creamer, however, was made in the good ol’ USA. Squint and you can see it:

Here’s an idea of how tall the Presidential creamer is:

May we all stand tall this President’s Day (and have as nice of hair as the Kennedy’s)!

I’m always amazed how all these pickled vegetables end up perfectly arranged in a bottle let alone in a glass high heel shoe. I never understood how ships were stuffed into bottles so I certainly don’t get how perfectly dissected relish foodstuffs end up stacked as precisely as Busby Berkeley dancers in glass enclosures. This high heel needs to be a segment on the Science Channel’s “How It’s Made”.

Weighing in at 4 lbs. this is no delicate little ladies foot!

Although the detail of the pearl ankle bracelet is quite the feminine touch:

In fact, all the details on this fashionable hors d’oeuvre stuffed foot are pretty fantastic. I love that they even allowed extra glass for the sole:

But why wasn’t this a pearl onion and caper stuffed heel?

Although that would’ve taken away from the perfect arch of the vegetables:

And how long did it take to hand stuff all those pimentos?

My whole life I’ve pretty much gone through phases of only wearing a certain type of shoe for a period of years and then flip to something completely different. From tiny tot through my teenage years my fascination was with penny loafers, white bucks and patent leather T-straps.

I know it’s hard to see that that’s a penny loafer but trust me, it was.  With a dime inserted into the penny slot, never a penny. Every now and then, saddle shoes would creep in.

But the big saddle shoe phase didn’t really hit me until I started writing songs in the 70s.

I believe “September” was written in those very shoes. They were red and white. I had every possible combo of saddle shoe – red and white, brown and white, blue and white, black and white, white on white, brown on beige, many in suede as well as leather, and all as vintage as possible. I still have big plastic boxes filled with at least 40 pairs of them that I wore exclusively from 1974 through ’79.

The only time I ever really wore high-heels was when I went to school dances. My feet were always as uncomfortable as I was, toting around the gallons of hair piled on my head.

For the last decade or so I’ve been obsessed with Nike Zoom Flights like these:

Only one of my shoe phases have ever included high heels, beautiful vintage 1950’s ones, but if forced to wear them again, a pair of these hearts of palm, carrot and pimento ones would be what I would wish for.

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Join me and Hidden Los Angeles and send a Valentine’s Day card to Milly Del Rubio. Details below.

Anyone who knows me knows that two of the most important things in the world to me are music and kitsch. Songs I’ve written have sold over 50 million records and, to the best of my knowledge, I have the largest collection of kitsch artifacts in the world. Discovering The Del Rubio Triplets in 1985 is easily the jewel in my musical kitsch crown.

I first saw the Del Rubios in 1985 on a flyer that said “Three Gals/ Three Guitars…We play 375 different kinds of music”. I didn’t even know there was 375 different kinds of music but between that and the mini skirted, go-go booted, platinum hair helmeted madness of their photo I called them immediately and made plans to go to a party they were playing at that weekend.

My party date was Katey Sagal a.k.a. Peg Bundy. The breath was literally knocked out of both of us when the triplets opened the door to the porta potty-like shed that was their dressing room and we beheld the most magnificent  vestiges of human kitsch we had ever seen. I didn’t care what they sounded like, I knew they had to sing my songs.

Out of the 375 different types of music the Del Rubios played, conspiculously missing was Rock or anything remotely contemporary. I told them that playing “today’s” music was going to be their rocket to stardom and said that if they learned my song, “Neutron Dance”, a huge hit by the Pointer Sisters at the time, I would hire them to play at a party I was throwing in a couple weeks to open a new club downtown called The Stock Exchange.

And so they preformed for 2000 of my closest friends, all of whom stood gaped-mouthed as the 65+ year old minskirted sisters gave much leg and warbled from a balcony 20 feet above the crowd.

No one had ever seen or heard anything like it before, the triplets perfectly in tune with each out-of-tune other, playing similarly out-of-tune guitars and smacking drum solos on the sides of their instruments. As they plowed into “Neutron Dance” I looked down and saw the crowd parting to make room for a mound of hair that was pushing to the front. I realized that the moment I had always waited for, the ultra smashing together of the high and low ends of music into one perfectly mangled moment of musical expression, was upon me! As the Del Rubios finished the song, Ruth Pointer, who sang lead on “Neutron Dance”, wove her way up the circular staircase and ripped into the song again. With her help, The Del Rubio Triplets had ARRIVED:

For the next few years I did almost nothing without the triplets. They performed at every single party I threw, including a pajama party where they backed Joni Mitchell.

The Del Rubios had long told me that their main competition back in the day was The Andrews Sisters. But when Maxine Andrews showed up at the pajama party it was the first she’d heard of them.

In 1987, my song, “What Have I Done To Deserve This?”, was a hit with Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield. Neil and Chris were obsessed with the triplets and always wanted to do a duet with them. The Del Rubios preformed the song when it was #2 on the Billboard charts at my “What Have I Done To Deserve This Art?” opening.

The video I made of them performing it there expired when I left it on the front seat of my Studebaker Commander in a heat wave but here’s the outro of them singing the song on the Victoria Looseleaf show a couple of years later:

In 1991, they were a complete hit at my “Smock It To Me (Art Can Taste Bad In Any Medium)” party where they entertained a plethora of show business luminaries. There’s pieces of “Neutron Dance” and “Whip It” with Devo lead, Mark Mothersbaugh, accompanying them at 3:14 here:

Once I called legendary record exec, Clive Davis, and told him I had made the most significant  talent discovery of my career. I loaded the Del Rubios into a van and drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Clive opened the door to his bungalow, took one look at them, hugged me and whispered in my ear, ”You owe me big time”.

In 1989 there was a fairly substantial earthquake in LA. It was before I learned the beauty of museum wax to stop things from falling and hundreds of precious kitsch and Atomic 50’s artifacts lay smashed on the floor. As such, I was in a complete fog and almost didn’t hear the doorbell when it rang. I thought it was one of my neighbors offering to turn the gas back on but instead it was Eadie, Elena and Milly, replete in matching fuscha mini party dresses and their ever present white go-go boots, ready for an interview I was doing with them for  Details Magazine, where I had my own column through much of the ’80s.

Throughout the years, I spent a lot of time in the Del Rubio’s mobile home.

They stayed up every night drinking one martini each and sewing their costumes, of which they had hundreds, all miniskirts or mini dresses, one nuttier and more fringe filled than the next. Every night once the sewing was done they would plan new arrangements on their trusted toy Emenee organ, the keys of which had all been stuck for at least three years when I met them, the victim of a spilled jug of martinis. I asked them why they never cleaned the keys so the organ actually made some sound and they always assured me they “could hear it perfectly fine the way it was”.

I documented much of our escapades in the aforementioned Details interview. The 27 page cut-down-to 3 page interview – the girls were excessive gabbers – helped expose them to a national audience and  they went on to appear on tons of TV shows including  multiple Lettermens, Arsenio Hall, Pee Wee’s Christmas Special, The Golden Girls and on and on.

The Del Rubio Triplets did everything in the order they were born. There were only 15 minutes separating each of them but Eadie was clearly the oldest, always standing on the left, Elena, born next, was always in the middle and Milly, the youngest, was always on the right. They sat in this order, ate at the table in that order, went to the bathroom each morning in that order, preformed on stage in that order and even slept in the same bed in that order.

As fate would have it, the Del Rubios also died in that order, Eadie  departing in 1996 with Elena following four years later. Milly is thankfully still with us.

I’ve written and worked with some amazing singers over the years, Bob Dylan, James Brown, Aretha, Cyndi Lauper, Patti LaBelle and Earth, Wind & Fire among them. But none swept me away with as much gusto as The Del Rubio Triplets. We should all be blessed with such belief in self and joy for what we do. They never questioned their talent, never suffered a creative block, never got tired of performing for adoring audiences who greeted them with laughter, which they always said was “better than applause”.

That last photo, from their 1995 Christmas card, is typical of the Del Rubios who were freaks about maintaining order and tradition. Even though they’re perched out of their usual order, with Milly now on the left and Eadie on the right, they signed their names in the order they were most used to, with Milly on the right and Eadie on the left. I never asked them whether they knew that they were signing under the wrong triplet.

Valentines Day is coming up and I’d love nothing more than to shower Milly with thousands of Valentine’s Day cards. So please join me and Hidden Los Angeles and send a Valentines Day card to Milly Del Rubio, c/o Allee Willis, 11684 Ventura Blvd., Suite 430, Studio City, CA 91604. With all that love pouring in and Milly seeing that she’s still getting her props maybe we can get her to pick up her guitar one last time.

More than anything, the one thing that accompanied me every single day of my four college years at the University of Wisconsin in the late 1960’s was a spritz of Ambush Spray Cologne. I should have bought stock in Dana,  the company that made it, for as many bottles of  it as I went through. The male equivalent was called Canoe. Sometimes girls wore that too but I was so attached to the scent and the shade of pink and hard rubbery shape and feel of the bottle I never made it past Ambush.

Here’s what I looked like when I first started wearing it at the tail end of high school:

For as laquered as my hair was it might appear that I may have coated that with Ambush too, but that was all about Aquanet. My Aquanet hairspray kept my hair helmet so firm I never had to worry about it getting crushed when the amount of Ambush I sprayed on myself put me in many situations like this back in college:

Thank you, Ambush, for making me smell good then and for that astounding pink bottle still lighting up my eyes today.

As Thanksgiving week is upon us I will never forget the trauma of being invited to Luther Vandross’s Thanksgiving Day dinner and having to leave before the smothered turkey was ready, only to arrive at my next destination and having a plate of salmon plopped in front of me. NEVER  put a fish in front of a Thanksgiving guest unless you warn them first if you ever want to see them again! In that particular case, I developed a sudden headache and left just as quinoa and tofu were about to hit my plate and headed back across town where the table was flooded with the best holiday soul food fixins my stomach ever had the pleasure of ingesting. I bring up this story not just because I’ve learned to make sure the menu is Thanksgiving appropriate before I accept an invitation but because Luther and I often discussed the fact that Mahalia Jackson had a cookbook and how great it would be to make a total Mahalia Jackson meal.

In 1972, cousin Bennie thought so too.

Unfortunately, the only turkey in Mahalia’s cookbook is for pot pie.  But many other festive recipes abound.

All the photographs are fantastic, none of the actual food itself but, rather, of Mahalia  performing cooking tasks in excellent outfits.

We  even learn how to turn the oven on…

… and open the oven door.

The excellence of Mahalia’s bouffant is clearly evident in the photo above. As such, I wish Mahalia’s head was lit better in this photo so it didn’t look like it was part of the kitchen cabinet:

Mahalia also offers some kitchen tips, though I’m not sure how much I would trust the cook who’s concerned about either of these while cooking:

I have a lot of work to do today. Otherwise I might spend it trying to find the perfect recipe to make for the person who force fed me salmon one Thanksgiving. Maybe this…

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There’s nothing more I like to throw on my head to protect it from a raging shower stream than a shower cap covered with T-bone steaks. I wish it were more of a meat directory up there but, alas, despite giving the cap the general category name of “meat” only the lonely T-bone made it to immortality.

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I found this elegant “Deluxe” shower cap a few years ago when I was looking for party souvenirs. There they were, 30,000 glistening meat caps for sale at some online overstocks place for 15¢ each.  I was so excited my teeth started chattering as if I had been locked in the freezer with a side of beef for days. It took all my strength not to figure out a way to get all 30,000 of them. $450 would buy me enough meat chapeau souvenirs for a lifetime. But I behaved and held myself to 300 so I had enough money left to concentrate on the real beef that guests could put in their mouths and not on their heads.

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I’ve won many awards in my lifetime. Finally becoming FDA approved is right up there with the best of them.

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