LAX last Friday morning, with people leaving for 4th of July, was like D-Day at the stockyards. My whole morning had been like that. Snappy P and I were flying to Chicago to go to friends’ wedding in Kenosha, WI. We figured we’d beat the holiday traffic and take an early flight, but by 7am. the pigs were chomping full force at the trough. I’ve never traveled on prime getaway day for  a holiday before in my life and now I know why.

The ten trillion people at the airport weren’t the worst of the problem. I woke up with a headache and was nauseous when my alarm rang at 5 am. That’s usually right about when I finally fall asleep. The peanut butter sandwich Snappy P gave me once the car picked both of us up didn’t help. She’s a health nut and used almond butter and sprinkled unsalted peanuts on top.  I’m a junk nut and if it’s not Skippy, the blasphemy of a healthy brand makes me ill.

A blurry shot I know but trust me, it’s more appetizing that way. Equally unappetizing and all too familiar, most of my Apple devices were suffering serious ailments. I’m on my third iPhone. When the battery decides to enter old age the declne is fast. I have an older one for backup that can only be used when plugged in because on its own the life sucks out of it in about four minutes. My newer iPhone 4 is already showing signs of Dementia. All made worse because American Airlines has evidently not heard that most people have mobile devices these days. There were only four plugs in a seating area that was a half a block long, and those had been permanently plugged up. I watched at least ten people screw up their electrical cords trying to jam them in the sockets. There was thankfully one Samsung charging station per gate. But that means six outlets for hundreds of people. I had to wander six gates down to find a plug and then the seating wasn’t optimum:

Once plugged in, I got an email from the bride-to-be that said there had been a windstorm in Kenosha the night before and most of the town’s power was still gone. So there was no way I could leave my “seat” as my phones, computer, and two ipads needed to be as charged as much as possible for the weather conditions we were about to enter. However, leave the terrazzo I was forced to do because there were constant gate changes. By the time the airline settled on gate 45, where we had originally started, it added an hour onto the departure time. Although I wasn’t to arrive there for another five hours, here’s what conditions were like all over Kenosha:

Once on American flight 1196, the 200+ passengers went even more nuts because the overhead compartments were the size of hatboxes. So unless you were only traveling with your Burger King bag, even more time was sucked up by everyone’s carry-ons having to be checked. And when’s the last time you were on a plane with no air vents?!

Under the best of conditions I’d still like air conditioning chips installed in my body, so the lack of those little nozzles that spray other people’s germs on you was very disquieting. Not to mention that this was my view for 3 1/2 hours:

You know what? If your head’s in this condition and your ass isn’t in a leather seat on your own private Lear jet, please have some consideration for the person 17 inches behind you and wear a hat! And I don’t want to see your hairy legs either. With all the rules the airlines are making these days can’t they add mandatory long pants t0 the list??

We finally landed in Chicago, jumped into our rental car and hit the freeway, or should I say parking lot.

Thankfully, I had just downloaded AT&T Navigator on my iPhone, which I’m happy to report is a lot more reliable than their cell service. I can’t say I’ve ever been happy with the iPhone’s map app so it was a real relief to have that talking lady lead us to Kenosha on surface roads. It was going to take a little longer but I figured we’d spot all kinds of vintage motels and diners and taking photographs of all that is my favorite thing to do. But I’m sad to report that everything has been mowed down or renovated so it looks like anywhere-just-outside-any-city, USA. The only exciting thing was that we passed the headquarters of Uline, an office supply place I’ve been ordering stuff from for at least 15 years because anything you get arrives bright and early the next day even if you don’t order it until 5 PM. I’ve often fantasized about the location of this fantastically efficient company and was sure they had to have warehouses in LA for such fast delivery. So although there’s no vintage blinking signs or architecture to write home about, at least Uline popped up in the endless miles of asphalt and tall grass.

Just as we hit the Kenosha line there was one incredible vintage architectural relic:

That’s the old drive-in theater that we were supposed to see a movie at that night but the windstorm had taken the screen out so our one shot at vintage immersion was not to be.  Signs of the windstorm were everywhere.

Nothing could destroy the mighty pillars of the one “big” hotel in Kenosha, however, The Best Western. Here’s the grand entrance:

At least it overlooked a lake.

Which is good because I wouldn’t want to have had to swim in the hotel’s pool or should I say…:

So we bypassed the poo and hit the elevator to drop everything off in the room. Snappy’s food dropped somewhere else:

No salad to munch on, we  got dressed and headed over to Villa Di Carlos across the street where a pizza dinner for the out-of-town wedding guests was being held. Even just walking from the hotel to the restaurant produced about 25 pounds of sweat so it was a relief to walk into not just air conditioning but a cheese haven of 4th of July wonderment:

I’m not sure how the Easter chick made it in but he did:

Unfortunately we were directed to an empty room downstairs where one vent spit out a sputtering stream of air if you happened to be sitting directly in front of it, which we weren’t. It was then I remembered why I left the Midwest behind so many years ago and moved to Los Angeles, where 99% of the time there’s no humidity and everything is air-conditioned anyway. Unless I wanted to be a maniac all weekend I just gave in and decided that I was going to be fine feeling like a baby’s diaper the whole weekend as most likely everyone else did too. Besides, the wedding couple, Natalie Lent and Chris Bruss, both friends from LA, were fabulous and we were there to support them and not my vintage architecture and kitsch sightings habit.

The next morning we woke up and hit Frank’s Diner, a 1928 railroad car style diner, featured on Food Network’s Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.

If  I thought I produced sweat the day before, it was nothing compared to the downpour that occurred inside the sweat lodge known as Frank’s.

The place itself was fabulous, the food was good but not A+ phenomenal, and the service made waiting for the flight at LAX the day before seem like the bullet train. The place is long and narrow and the line continues throughout the entire diner,…

…nowhere near a match for the two ceiling fans over the counter and vents on the floor near the booths.

The last time I looked, vents in walls or ceilings produced far better effects. But I suppose that people who only go to diners because they’re featured on television think that part of the experience is dripping into your food. It took almost an hour to get a turkey club and a tall stack. Pancakes were good and thick and the turkey club was juicy but filled with processed gobbler. I should’ve gotten the specialty of the house, the “garbage” egg concoctions:

And the next morning at Mike’s Burgers I should’ve gotten the fries:

And I guess I should’ve dressed more festively. It’s not often I’m outdone.

I can’t say Kenosha was my favorite destination point. We had a great time at the wedding and the hotel, although not opulent and featuring a poo, at least wasn’t crawling with what this house a couple blocks away was:

Yesterday morning, Snappy and I said goodbye to the bride…

We took the non-descript surface road ride back to O’Hare and I found plugs for some of my mobile devices.

We were in the air when the fireworks started so missed that but I have to say that flying on a holiday gives you a very empty airport and on-time flights, i.e. painless travel. And this time it got us LA.

Last Saturday night my friend, Chris Nichols, threw a party at The Wigwam on Route 66 in San Bernadino, CA.

With no traffic it’s still a good hour and 15 min. from Los Angeles and I would never make the trek there for anyone other than someone with a great reputation for throwing parties. Besides, Chris had just written a great piece about me in his Los Angeles Magazine blog, so Mark Blackwell and I hopped into the mustache van and headed to the tepees.

Here’s a daytime shot of the wigwams:

By the time we got there the sun was dropping fast.

But it was still light enough to see they did an adequate job of restoring the 1949 original, the seventh and last of the Wigwam motels across the United States, when it was restored a few years back. Though I wish the sign didn’t look so cheesy new.

There’s an appropriately kidney-shaped pool,…

…a totem pole pointing the way in…,

….several Hawaiian themed fire extinguishers, though not sure what that has to do with Indians and teepees,…

…and an excellent snack bar.

Fortunately we also had excellent barbecue prepared by Chef Christopher Martin.

I love the entrance of the Wigwam rooms, plaster mounded to look like pulled-back teepee flaps.

I poked my head into someone’s teepee. I apologize in advance as none of the stuff strewn around is mine. The rooms are small and compact, just this…

…and this, plus a little bathroom.

As far as rooms go, if I were going to stay in a teepee I would want to lie in bed and feel like I’m in one. Instead, the ceiling is so low I imagine it feels more like you’re sleeping in an attic.

But the grounds around the teepees are perfect for a party.

Most people dressed appropriately:

Notice this guy’s vintage Sahara Hotel tie:

Here’s Charles Phoenix and I before he changed into his head-to-toe authetic Indian headress:

Many guests drove appropriate vehicles to the party too.

Check out the Chrysler’s backend:

I definitely wouldn’t mind this parked next to my teepee as an added rec room:

A peek inside:

Complete with excellent curtains:

This was there too:

I would have driven my Studebaker were it not up on blocks and acting like a planter.

There was an entire evening’s worth of entertainment but that’s where I had to draw the line.

I know it’s antisocial but I listen to music all week.

So as soon as the organ, accordians, harmonicas and kazoos began Mark and I jumped into the mustache van and headed back to LA. But not before a fantastic night was had by all at the Wigwam!

Wednesday, April 6, had tremendous potential. (L-R) Mark Blackwell and Laura Grover, both of whom worked on putting the whole Detroit extravaganza together with me, and I were being driven around the city by Michael Poris, one of the architects leading the charge to rebuild Detroit. The Majestic Theater is one of his projects.

Here’s a detail of The Majestic’s majesty:

Unfortunately, the skies weeped steadily throughout the day, making decent photos next to impossible unless one was out to amplify the decay of the city, in which case the incessant downpour added just enough teardrops to slam that sentiment home. Most of my shots look like this:

Which is a shame, as to miss the details of a combo Church and car wash is a waste of excellent kitsch:

Just about the only clear shots I got was when I got out of the car,…

…or some of my car-mates did,…

…or when the rain wasn’t spitting into the car, with the window rolled down. Thankfully it stopped for a few minutes when I snapped these murals at the Eastern Market:

Sometimes the gloominess of the skies enhanced the experience of what we were looking at.

Perfect for a place that’s a Home For Funerals as opposed to merely a Funeral Home. Then again, it’s right next door to the happiest place on earth, Motown.

Growing up, I spent many a Saturday afternoon planted on this front lawn, trying to catch a bass note or background vocal seeping through the walls.

I make a pilgrimage to the front lawn every time I go home. In the early 1980s I even got into the actual recording studio when The Detroit Free Press did a story on me growing up in Detroit and how, as a songwriter, I was influenced by Motown.

But, alas, fate was not as kind this time. Had I stashed the three video cameras and four still cams away I could have marched through the studio again. But I had no interest, especially on this trip, in having any significant moment of my life pass by without being digitally preserved. So the closest I got was the hallway as no filming was allowed.

The woman at the desk was really nice. She knew who I was as soon as I walked in as she had seen me on the news the morning before. But rules are rules. Even though I’ve collaborated with some of Motown’s greatest songwriters, like Lamont Dozier

… and Ashford & Simpson, seen here with me and Maurice White, founder and lead singer of Earth Wind & Fire, and LaChanze, the Tony-winning actress who played Celie in the musical I co-wrote, The Color Purple.

So we piled back in the car and were off to enjoy more of Detroit.

I would have enjoyed it more if the BBQ joint in front of that mural were still open:

Michael had been over to my place in LA about nine months earlier so I wasn’t worried about him showing us the usual tour suspects – The Detroit Institute Of Art, The Detroit Historical Society, The Spirit of Detroit, etc. All completely beautiful and historic but I wanted to see the spirit of the city as evidenced through how people express themselves via their homes, lawns and businesses. I’ve long believed that one’s immediate environment is a canvas for self expression. And places like this would be off the beaten track of any normal tour guide:

Talk about expressing yourself via your home…:

This is The Heidleberg Project, named for the street that artist Tyree Guyton took over 25 years ago and decorated houses, lawns and empty lots on two blocks of.  SPECTACULARLY INSPIRING:

 

One of the great promises of Detroit is that artists can live cheaply and express themselves in novel ways not possible in other cities. Like Ice House Detroit, a 2010 project where two photographers took over an abandoned house, hosed it down til it was an ice cave and then photographed it melting, symbolizing the building up and subsequent melting away of the once great Detroit.

Detroit is full of such self expression:

Artists see the future first – their way is to dream and paint that picture for everyone else. Reinvention and constantly shifting one’s perspective to stay inspired is as vital for places as it is for people. There’s a great effort in Detroit to redesign the city the artists’ way. In fact, one of my reasons for being there this particular week was to be the closing keynote speaker on that very subject at the Rust Belt To Arts Belt conference happening the next day.

But back to the streets… Rain-soaked as this photo is, I hope you can see the use of industrial materials on the facade of this otherwise traditional brick building. Up close it looks like a bunch of sawed-in-half hot water heaters. I love stuff like this.


There are so many beautiful abandoned buildings, waiting for artists to see their beauty and reinvent their once greatness.

And it’s not like artists can’t afford to live in Detroit.

Thankfully, someone bought the old Michigan Central train station. From what I understand, there are plans to renovate.

Forgotten by time, vandalized by squatters and ravers, its internal beauty still shines through.

It was getting late so we headed back as I had to go over my speech about the rejuvenation of Detroit I was giving the next day. I was pretty sure I had it down but wanted to make sure there were no crucial mistakes or  misspellings to trip me up. Sometimes even the most straight-ahead missives go awry. Like at this McDonalds, just a couple blocks from Vince’s, where we had dinner and which I’ll blog about tomorrow. I know they mean a 20 piece chicken McNugget dinner for $4.99 but if I’m to believe the sign it’s 20 P’s of cchcken uggets for four hundred ninety nine dollars.

Which makes it just slightly cheaper than some of the houses in Detroit. Calling all artists!!

So Monday, April 4, in Detroit starts off with meeting historic architecture preservationist Rebecca Binno Savage downtown in front of the Art Deco masterpiece Guardian Building. Designed by Wirt C. Rowland in the 1920’s for The Union Trust Company banking group, this 40 story skyscraper, towering over the city at the time, fell victim to the 1929 stock market crash before it even had a chance to open. Saved by the Union Guardian Trust Company it’s been a gem in the Detroit skyline ever since. If you’re an Art Deco freak, take sedation before you walk into this magnificently maintained edifice because your eyeballs have rarely been exposed to anything in this genre of this proportion.


Our tour guide was Christopher Roddy, he of eternally beckoning face made famous during this year’s crop of Super Bowl commercials in what many people deemed to be the best, the Eminem Chrysler commercial.

Here are some of the more spectacular architectural details of The Guardian Building:

As a kid I thought it was very special that I was born in a state shaped like a mitten. I still do.

From there we drove to Hamtramck, the once Polish center of Detroit and home of the sausage I grew up with.

There’s also lots of vintage architecture and signage like this:

Nothing, however, outshines this folk art destination, fondly known as “Hamtramck Disneyland”, a giant hobby project built between 1992 and 1999 by retired GM worker Dmytro Szylak in his backyard and on the roof of two garages.

I would’ve preferred to gaze upon Disneyland without rain pouring down but the excellence of the assemblage couldn’t be dampened by a little spit from the sky.

Roofing shingles as sidewalk is another excellent touch.

I love when art inspires art. At least the owner of the house at the end of the block tried to go for it if not entirely successful:

This sign a few blocks away killed me:

The cakes are ‘fancy’, the meat is ‘quality’ but the bread is just ‘good’. BTW, the roofline is REALLY ‘good’.

Right down the block is Burke’s Igloo, famous now for being in the opening titles of HBO’s Hung.

The ice cream here is ‘fancy’ and ‘quality’, way better than ‘good’.

The signage is also excellent:

It’s 4:30. We drop Rebecca off and head over to the northwest side of Detroit where I grew up. I’m going to an alumni meeting at my alma mater, Mumford High School, to discuss plans for my upcoming benefit extravaganza with the marching band playing a medley of my greatest hits with the cast of my musical, The Color Purple, leading a sing-along. We have a little time to kill so we swing by the house I grew up in from 5 to 16 years old that’s just about a mile from Mumford.

Every trip I’ve made to Detroit since leaving there in 1965 I’ve tried to get into this house, with no sucess. My memories of it are great. I loved it because despite trying to fit in with the other traditional brick houses in the neighborhood it had a hit of Moderne, with a rounded exterior wall, glass blocks, Steelcase windows (now replaced) and a round pole supporting the second floor.

I would’ve ditched the drain pipe and left the original windows but otherwise everything was as it was when we left the house after my mom passed away suddenly, my dad remarried suddenly, and I was exiled to the suburbs. To my complete surprise and delight, this time we got in and I spent one of the greatest hours I’ve ever had reliving my past. More of that and Mumford tomorrow…

As many of you know, one of my favorite things in the world to do is to take rides with my BFF, Charles Phoenix, and go to places in and around LA that most people don’t know about unless they live in that part of the city. One of my absolute favorite things about LA is that there are so many different sections of the city. But the shame is that so few people who live here venture east of downtown. Charles and I, on the contrary, always venture east and, trust me, it never disappoints. If you’re heading south on the 101, make sure you drive farther than this building (and not just to get off to go the Music Center, Disney Hall, or MOCA).

In our particular case, our drive occurred in Charles’ brand new Dodge Challenger. New as in just hours old and now we were taking it on it’s virgin voyage. The new car smell added to the adventure.

One of the great things about having a friend who you share such keen interests with, coupled with the fact you’re both considered authorities of sorts on the topic – incredible vintage and/or kitsch architecture, signage, cars and the like – is that you can be fascinated almost anywhere you go. Charles and I only had a couple of hours so we headed for a quickie run down Whittier Blvd. Seriously, unless you’re blind, elitist or have absolutely zero kitschEsthetic genes in your body, Whittier Blvd. is breathtaking. So here’s our ride in the order it occurred…

We overshot our exit on the 101 so got off at Seventh St. and wormed our way back to Whittier Blvd. Which was fine as we wouldn’t wanted to have missed this spectacular hot dog roof:

Always special is this dinosaur and soda cup diorama, neither object of which has anything to do with the business underneath.

We always take First St. to get to Whittier Blvd. as one of our favorite houses in the city is there. But I’m dismayed to report that the vines have been plucked on the formerly eye-boggling ‘grapes house’ which used to look like this…

… but sadly now looks like this:

Don’t start me…

Thank God, further down the street some old movie theaters with original neon still survive.

It took all our strength not to stop and see what the Valentine’s Day decorations looked like inside Unique Dollar but we had limited time so kept driving.

I absolutely love store names like this:

Here we are at Whittier Boulevard. As soon as you turn onto the street you know you’re in for an excellent time warp experience.

Perhaps you should have the great 60’s guitar anthem, “Whittier Blvd.” by Thee Midnighters, on as a soundtrack while you tour the street with us. Press the following if so:

Charles and I were starving before we even left the house. We almost stopped here at the ‘they-don’t-resemble-Shaq-and-Kobe-other-than-they’re-big’ Bionicos food truck:

But luckily, Charles knew a “great Mexican restaurant full of pigs” just down the street.

The photorealistic food on all the windows was beautiful but all the rest of my window shots had too much glare to post.

Porky’s was definitely filled with pigs.

The menu was thrilling and pig filled too…

… though neither one of us ordered any of that particular animal.

I was especially impressed that the salad Porky’s served Charles consisted solely of radishes and lemons. I say save time in the kitschen and leave it at that.

When we left we would’ve stopped at the dress shop next door…

…but we were too excited to get across the street and go here:

There’s lots of excellent merchandise like this inside Whittier Crafts:

There’s also an abundance of carefully crafted and spelled signage:

Speaking of signage, there’s vintage overload in this part of LA:

There’s also incredible architectural detail like this 1950’s cement block facade…

… and this excellent 1960’s tile motif which I wish you could see closer than this photo I took. It’s like an explosion of vintage flooring but on a building.

Whittier Blvd. is definitely known for the automobiles that cruise it.

These were all within a two block radius of each other:

I wonder where the people who rented this limo were going?

I’m going to guess A. Torres Tuxedos as starting at :34 that’s where all the action took place when this classic car parade was shot.

Just a few blocks from A. Torres is this 1930s tamale shaped building. It used to be a Mexican restaurant.

You can see how the tamale ends twist at the sides of the building:

Whittier Boulevard has quite a few incredible old Deco buildings like this:

At the other architectural end, I love when business facades don’t quite live up to their names.

But even more, I like when a business is named one thing on one sign and something else on the other.

And even more than that I like when a store’s displays have nothing to do with what their awning says they sell.

Although this isn’t on Whittier Blvd. we passed it when we headed back to the freeway. In a city where spectacularly detailed murals abound, this is the one that makes our kitsch hearts sing:

Maybe you can appreciate it more if you see it closer:

Although we usually like to stay out past dark to catch all the neon, both Charles and I had places to go Saturday night so we headed back  early. Although I wish I could end with the penultimate kitsch shot, there’s absolutely nothing kitschy about this one other than the brains of the occupants.

This is a very sloppy version of the kind of ‘sexy’ joke signs that became popular around the early 1960s and hung in many a wood paneled rec room somewhere in the vicinity of a ping-pong table and beer keg. I especially love this one because the Knight looks more like a Harlequin getting ready to play hockey.

I also love how completely off center all the text is:

The two ‘King’s line up but ‘Always’ juts way out to the left. A decent art director would have centered these two lines. The same goes for “Once a Knight’ and ‘is enough’. But off-center and Knights that look like Wayne Gretzky is exactly what this kitsch lover looks for in a sign. The two eyeballs on the back don’t hurt it either.

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.

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As I cruise along the 5 and 101 freeways up north to finish three videoSongs with Pomplamoose, my trusty CBer’s Prayer Plaque is in place on the dash. Before modern technology, the CB radio leading the way in multi-vehicle communication, my  traveling life was hell. I never actually had a CB but I did marvel at how trucks could warn each other of impending Smokies or fabulous truck stops with Blue Plate Specials. Now that I have a cell phone, well, several cell phones, an Ipad and my laptop that I plug into the cigarette lighter I’m much more inclined to travel because I can stay connected. I never really had a desire to leave my life behind and now I don’t have to.

Although trucks no longer have CBs because the drivers use cell phones just like the rest of us it doesn’t stop them from expressing themselves. Native American Indians have been a big theme on the trip so far today.

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We also passed someone who plans to do a lot of riding:

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And then of course there’s this:

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Which makes me want to stop for this:

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I don’t need a CB as I have all my regular communications paraphernalia with me.

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I also have a navigator to tell me where the nearest hot dog joint is. which is great as I don’t need to wait for all the Beavers to answer me.

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Thank God for modern technology.

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There are many things I love about this “Italy” fashion emporium in Van Nuys, California:

• The thoughtfully placed swathed-in-jeweled-look-denin-jeans torso-less mannequin so that her ass is facing incoming  customers and hogging up much of the walkway.

• The only entrance to the store being from the crowded parking lot in back.

• The accent traffic cone.

•  The Hush Gentleman’s Club sign on the roof adding even more exterior elegance.

•  The big sale for 1 suit, 1 shirt and 1 tie for $99 despite there being no evidence of men’s clothing inside.

• The bar outside:

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• The decidedly tropical, nowhere near Rome mural painted on the side of the store.

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But more than anything, it’s the jeweled-look jeans at the end of the store’s asphalt carpet that race the distinctly non-Italian named Virgil’s the final mile up the mountaintop of Kitsch.  Dotted with paint, the glittering rhinestone patterns are sure to glisten forever, insuring the classy Virgil’s vibe stay with each and every discerning customer long after she leaves the parking lot.

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I drove up to Monterey on Friday from LA. Most people would get excited about going to the Aquarium or Cannery Row but I get excited about the cheesy names of the roads on a shortcut we take from the 5 to the 101 off an exit called Lerdo Higway that connects you to Highway 46 where James Dean met his maker. Once you exit the 5, the first “main street” you hit is Main Drain.

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I don’t know about you but other than myself I can’t think of many people who would be happy to live on a street so eloquently named. A couple of miles further comes a road I’ve also always loved the name of as I can’t figure out how anyone could have arrived at naming it such:

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Exactly which brown material I’m not sure of though the fact that there are a lot of cows in the area brings a certain brown something to mind. We were very excited as we approached the actual street sign, only 50′ away.

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But just as I was about to hop out and be photographed under the street sign I’d sworn I would capture myself under one day as I sped past it my last five trips to Monterey I realized something was wrong. We slowed down trying not to disrupt traffic, a couple of tractors and a van with a bucking bronco ridden by a pig painted on the side. To our horror, all that was left of the Brown Material Rd. signage was a lonely pole, a screw plate and one dangling rusty bolt. As many times as I’d thought about doing the same thing I can’t believe someone actually had the balls to do it. If you know anyone with a Brown Material street sign hanging anywhere please let me know.  But thankfully, Brown Material is apparently a U-shaped road as 100 feet ahead we came across this:

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Not as impressive as spelling out the full word but Brown Mat will do. It’s still such a silly name for a street. Maybe out here in the country Mat means what Place often does in the city. For example, there’s a 21st St. and a 21st Place right next to each other in Santa Monica. The Place is just as long as the Street but apparently something distinguishes the two and maybe that’s the relationship between Material and Mat. Either way, I’m happy just to have gotten this shot. The tractors and bronco pig van were already too annoyed with us with slowing, almost pulling over and then not so although I was able to get this street sign shot there is no evidence of me standing under it.

Three minutes later we hit the last place James Dean stopped before climbing into his Spyder 550 and smashing head on into a 1950 Ford that entered his lane, entering Immortality.

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The original Blackwell’s Corner used to be a small vintage structure but was modernized recently into this faceless hulking industrial shed.

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But the inside is still wonderful where they sell hundreds of different kinds of home harvested nuts displayed alongside excellent kitsch-heavy merchandise. Note the East of Eden Fudge Factor sign behind the elegant plastic ice buckets with foil stuffed inside to show off the “crystals”:

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I always get some chocolate covered pistachios for the road and then shoot a few photos of the giant James Dean head out in front, one of many heads that pepper the highways in these parts although all the others are men in overalls harvesting broccoli or a grandma enjoying a nice head of lettuce.

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Now that I’m here in Monterey the streets have normal coasty kinds of names and there are no giant heads of Doris Day, Clint Eastwood or any of the other notables who live here. I always have a nice time when I’m here but if left to my own devices I’d be exploring the sights – or lack of them – on Brown Material Road.

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