I’ve certainly piled a couch or two on the top of my van  through the years after a successful flea market run but I’m in the pee wee league compared to this bike enthusiast spotted parked in an industrial area in the east San Fernando Valley. This is one incredible strap on job…

The bikes even trail down the back of the van like a mullet.

It’s almost impossible for me to believe that the ropes that wrap around the van are enough to hold the bikes in place.  Upon closer inspection you can see some big chains too but this assemblage is still a mastery of physics.

I can’t even get it together to properly hook up a bike rack on the back of my van. We’re looking at a master here.

Last weekend I drove to Riverside to see a performance of The Color Purple, the musical I co-wrote. I tend to pick and choose the performances of the show I see based on how good the thrifts shops and vintage architecture is in the cities it’s playing in.

Riverside is only a little over an hour east of LA and has at least two blocks of nothing but thrift shops so that being a target city was pretty obvious. Besides, it gave me a chance to go to one of my favorite barbecue joints on the planet:

It’s always a good sign when your favorite joint is pushing your show as hard as the deep-fried turkeys and hams.

I discovered Gram’s Mission Bar-B-Que Palace, at the time in its original location two blocks west of where it is now, the first time I ever went to Riverside in the late 1980’s. Paul Rubens, a.k.a. Pee-wee Herman, and I took my van for a weekend thrift shop extravaganza. We stayed overnight at the famous Mission Inn, an architecturally historic hotel where Ronald and Nancy Reagan spent their honeymoon, and then, starting in Riverside, we hit every significant thrift shop between there and LA.  My bed at The Mission Inn was directly under an astronomically huge stained-glass window of Jesus Christ. I woke up about 8 am. with Jesus’s light raining down on my body, which now itself looked like a stained glass Jesus. This felt somewhat blasphemous as a Jew so I ran to a open window across the room to get some air and there, rising like a miracle before me directly across the street, was a big ass barbecue smoker with plumes of rib greased smoke billowing out of it. I can’t even tell you how fast we bolted down there.

The only thing better than the ribs, fried chicken, catfish, meatloaf, yams, greens, mac ‘n cheese and cobbler we inhaled was the bridge table next to us that was covered with an extra long shag fake fur chessboard and foot tall handcarved chess pieces. I know I have a rib grease stained photo of it somewhere but all I can put my hands on right now is a photo of the cover of the menu.

All categories of chewables featured on the cover are excellent at Gram’s.  By now, after all these years of coming here, I think I’ve only missed one thing on the menu:

Back to this trip, I left Gram’s stuffed like the pig that used to be attached to the ear and hit the thrifts. This spectacular 1950’s pushbutton ashtray was one of my more significant finds, especially as it was only $16 and I already own the matching desk fan and calendar.

Here’s Riverside on the ashtray:

For $1 I also got this incredible 1950’s beer and parfait glass.

Fish were a very popular design motif in the 1950’s.

Thank God, a few other things from the 1950’s abound in Riverside like these incredible vintage neon signs:

This sign isn’t neon but beautiful and 50’s nonetheless:

The matching restaurant is even better:

Thank God it was dark by the time I got back to the theater…

… because I parked just across the street and changed in the back of my van. I like having a van because not only does it accommodate any size of  thrift shop purchase but it’s a portable dressing room as well. This would not have been the case had I been driving this vehicle that whizzed past me on my way back to the theater:

All in all, my day was fantastic. The show, the food, the sights, the thrift finds, all fantastic. So what’s not to love about a day trip to Riverside? Especially when everything but a Pigs Ear awaits me.

Although I’m not a massive fan of actual peanuts, I’ve always loved classic 1950’s plastic Mr. Peanut memorabilia. I love how the plastic glows with depth from the richness of the classic 50’s colors he came in, in this case perfect baby blue.

I also love the sound of coins dropping into Mr. Peanut’s all too small empty plastic gut.

The only other Mr. Peanut memorabilia I collect is also made of plastic. I have this cup in pink, yellow, red and the bank mate, baby blue.

I also have Mr. Peanut salt and pepper shakers. I love them for their diminutive stature compared to the bank and cup, but they stay too close to traditional peanut color and I like things that break more out-of-the-box.

I love Mr. Peanut’s stance.  He’s so casual.

I especially like his little thin legs and rolled down socks.

And he always looks so self-assured.

For all these reasons I like having Mr. Peanut and his multiple selves around my kitschen.


That’s my 1955 Studebaker Commander. There’s nothing crazy about it; it’s just beautiful and an expression of part of who I am. I love people who still drive around in classic cars. But who I love even more are folks who play with their cars, decorating them full tilt as they see fit. It may not mean much to the rest of us that these people are expressing themselves to the world but as long as they’re not slamming into other cars or hurling obscenities out of the window, it makes the landscape more exciting and for that I’m ever thankful. Because of its forgiving climate, Southern California is Mecca for these cars. Here’s just a sample of what has crossed my eyeballs in the last week alone.

THE ROCK CAR, resting quietly in Burbank:

Definitely a homemade job. The top lump is pretty neat:

The bottom’s a little more chaotic:

My guess is that the whole car will eventually be covered to add a little weight as it schleps this around all day:

Here’s THE ZEBRA MONKEY CAR, spotted whipping down the streets of Riverside:

Zebra seems to be a common car motif, though it’s usually confined to the fake fur lining the dash or covering the seats. Less common are stuffed monkeys hanging on your car:

A nice attractive rear end provides the animals a nice home:

THE TIGER CAR, spotted racing down the 101:

THE FLAME FORD, parked in Burbank:

THE OBAMA BLING ESCALADE, with a totally jeweled ensignia and license plate cover. I had to hang a right just as I spotted it so I never saw if the sides or front were embellished as well.

THE CHEVY TRUCK WHOSE PARKING BRAKE DOESN’T WORK:

THE ‘VORK FROM HOME’ TRUCK:

I’m not sure what kind of pest control work someone can do from home and I’m not sure I would let anyone who allowed ‘work’ to turn into ‘vork’ and hasn’t washed their truck in a year teach me anything.

I definitely spotted a few others but my camera wasn’t close enough to snap them as they whipped by. I did, however, have my camera when I tried some eyelashes out on my own little souped-up Beetle:

When it comes to an award for crowing the loudest, that should go to politicians. If I get enraged by the money that movie stars make imagine how insane I go seeing the money that’s dumped into political ads on TV that tell us almost nothing about the actual goals of who made them. I don’t want to hear anyone crowing when they throw hundreds of millions of dollars away on campaigns. Do some real good and give that money to saving school systems or cities from going bankrupt. Neither Meg Whitman or Carly Fiorina, the loudest crowers of all in the election yesterday, deserve any prize, which is exactly what they got for dumping all that cash down the drain. I don’t like to hear the other politicians crowing either, and I really don’t want to see any ads about ballot measures which, despite their cheesy production value, cost a fortune to shoot and are never clear about what the measure is really about.

At least with this rooster I have the option of winding him up to crow so I only hear him when I want to hear him…

…unlike all the politicians who drive me nuts constantly jabbering their text clouds of hyped-up nothingness on the airwaves. So despite the fact that almost every candidate who ran or makers of almost every measure that made it on the ballot are well deserving of this tin National Rooster Crowing Contest souvenir, I’m keeping it here. Because I feel like a winner today now that all those stupid ads are off the air.

I’ve seen political enthusiasm expressed on cars before but it’s usually more in the way of stickers. This jewel encrusted license plate cover and insignia demand far more of a commitment to their candidate on behalf of the driver. Upon closer inspection however, it appears that this is a company car and the real commitment is to selling more bling.

I wish the taillights were jeweled as well.

Get out and VOTE today!

I love drums and I love crafts so what’s not to love about this handpainted stunner of a conga drum? Made in the 1950’s and covered with Ricky Ricardo inspired hands poking out of frilly cuffs and playing Cha Cha keyboards, I’ve slapped this skin with my hands so many times I can’t tell you. A lot of times I strike it with mallets. It’s got a nice fat djembe sound and when I use soft mallets on it that I wrap in sweat socks it doubles as a tympani.

The conga lives in a kind of corner of my recording studio where it’s constantly knocked over. The spills seem to work for it. Despite hundreds of tumbles, not a spec of paint has ever chipped off and the tone just gets richer and richer.

If you really want to go the whole way Ricky Ricardo when you play it, the conga has a shoulder strap.

I’ve tried to wear the conga while I play it but it constantly feels like the strap is going to break when you beat it. If it came with a shoulder harness instead like my vintage marching drums it would be way more practical to play in the wearable position.

So playing this conga is strictly a sitting thing.

But more than anything, it’s a pretty thing:

The only thing green this vintage 1970’s terrarium has ever been home to is if some candy happens to come in a green wrapper. It’s never housed any plants, little rock gardens or anything else that one might find in a planter but, rather, has been a big, fat bowl of sweets its whole life. One might assume this only happens around Halloween but this candy bowl may as well be cemented to the floor as you enter my dining room for as popular a piece as it is.

No one has ever accused my house as being a haven for the health conscious. Candy abounds as sugar charged brains fit the mindset of Atomic design, not to mention a house that was built to be a party house year-round as mine was when it was built in 1937 as the party house for MGM. But one thing I can tell you about candy, unless a doctor has given you a skull and crossbones prescription for no sugar, even the staunchest vegan can’t pass up this candy bowl without dipping their hand in.

It doesn’t even look full in this photo but it can hold up to 25 pounds of candy with the lid on. I can’t take a photo of it overbrimming now as everything has been dumped out of it and put in little bags all ready to hand out for Halloween. I don’t dare leave the terrarium out on my porch as I can’t risk that some clown, avatar, angel or cowboy has a developed enough design aesthetic to know that the terrarium is the real treat and not the candy and takes that home instead.

Happy sugarcoated, caramel filled Halloween!

I love this 1950/60s clock radio so much because it looks exactly like can openers of that same vintage did. I kept it in my kitchen for years, and with as much cooking as I did often held a tuna fish can up to it looking for what I hit to make it open. I always pressed this red button expecting some magic magnetized arm to pop out.

All it did was pump out that wonderfully static AM radio sound that I’ll never get sick of.

Even with all the audio equipment I own I’m still attached to the sound of hits spitting out of an AM radio.

When you flip the can opener clock radio around it’s a clock.

I can’t believe that the numbers on it are so conservative looking and not of a more Atomic design. I like my clocks more modern and distinctive looking.

The vinyl that wraps around the radio looks like textured peacock feathers. This was a very popular trend in vinyl and leather the 1960s.

I’ve been collecting transistor radios for decades. The Zenith pedistal can opener clock radio will always be one of my favorites.

What to do with gum when you’re done chewing it or have to get rid of it for whatever reason can be a bit of a muddle if you’ve already thrown the wrapper out, which most people do upon opening. Especially when it’s only a temporary landing and you may want to stick the chewable back in your mouth at a later, through hopefully soon, point. That’s where this Gum Shoe, a place to park your gum, is brilliant. Though I can’t say I really understand its construction as so little of the real estate is devoted to the concave surface upon which the gum is to be placed. Unless it’s for a lot of different people’s gum, in which case the heel and all surfaces of the base seem like prime resting spots as well. Though that seems so gross, a bunch of little germ mounds begging to be redeposited in the wrong mouths. So I just keep my Gum Shoe on the windowsill in my kitchen where it’s also home to rings and anything else that may need to be redeposited on my body once I leave the sink area.