I’ve been blessed this past week to have great friends grace my bedside and nurse me through knee surgery, dressing up as nurses themselves for my amusement. Nancye Ferguson was one such nurse in training as I took my first steps a couple of days ago:

As nice as Nancye’s medical uniform is – a shower cap from the 99¢ store and paint mask and gloves from Home Depot – it’s nowhere near as up to code as nurse Jean Craig’s:

But as up to code as nurse Jean Craig’s education may have been to earn a graduate degree, there’s actually very little mention of it or anything else medical in this book. In fact, most of the time at Gallop Memorial Hospital Jean’s eyes are focused more on romance than on a heart monitor:

In fact, one of the only prominent mentions of illness is on Page 1:

Some of Jean’s time in Elmhurst, Conn. was spent drawing:

I wish there were more drawings in this book but sadly, in 1950, the World Publishing Company of Cleveland and New York only sprung for graphics on the cover and one across from the title page:

Even the back of the book is vacant of Jean, though there is some medical specimen from the book’s previous owner present:

Luckily, no strange medical specimens have impeded my progress and I’m happy to report that I have been hobbling around sans crutches for most of the day yesterday and today. My knee is an almost open and shut case for speedy recovery!

With a mind to sanitary conditions, Nurse Jean and her fellow graduates wore nice, long uniforms that covered their knees.

Which means they never had to worry about having a knee that looked like mine this past week:

Thankfully, Nurse Jean and Nurse Nancye’s services are close to never being needed again as my left leg is looking forward to returning to its former lovely self within days!

I’ve laid in bed two days now nursing my just-operated-on knee back to health.  As someone who literally never sits still, I’ve been a fairly model citizen since the surgery to repair a torn meniscus on Tuesday. Portable electronics certainly help and my love of bad television has been an excellent babysitter. But, most of all, I have excellent friends who have come to visit me and partaken in some spectacular photo ops:

(L-R) Nurses Prudence Fenton and Charles Phoenix and patient Willis.

Nurse Maxine Lapiduss also came by and dropped off some excellent homemade Moraccan stew, unfortunately not featured in this photo but very much featured in my stomach last night:


Don’t ask me what’s going on under my blanket to give it such peculiar formation. Perhaps one of the cats was snoozing under there at the moment this was snapped. I certainly don’t want anyone to think I’ve expanded to the following from munching on Saltines, Ritz crackers and applesauce these last couple of days:

But, back to matters at hand – my beautiful 1960’s Ben Casey and Dr. Kildare daily diarys. Both this blog and the aforementioned portable electronics have dispensed with the need to keep track of my progress in an old school diary, as well as those innermost thoughts that come when one loses all the privileges of physical freedom. When I was 12 years old and had my first surgical procedure, the removal of an ingrown toenail by Dr. Smellsy (would you choose to be a foot doctor if that was your last name?!),  I wrote all about it in my Ben Casey diary.

Were this my actual diary from my youth I would show you what I wrote inside, probably wishing that the boy I had a crush on because he was one of the only people taller than me in school would come visit me in my toenailless state.  This diary, however, was purchased a couple years ago on eBay where I also found its perfect mate, a Dr. Kildare diary.

Dr. Kildare was on TV the same years as Ben Casey, 1961-66. There was a clear-cut division between Casey lovers and Kildare lovers, the former doctor being brooding, dark and handsome and the latter clean-cut, blonde and smooth. Although at the time I definitely preferred the Type A personality, brunette Dr. Casey – he looked more Jewish –  I’ve definitely rescinded my vote in recent years and hopped over to the Kildare side.

Let me tell you, Dr. Kildare, a.k.a. Richard Chaimberlain, is still rockin the smooth. So much so that I would’ve loved to take him into the operating room with me. It would’ve given me so much to write in my diary about!

But for now, I’m just excited that Dr. Stetson, my excellent knee surgeon, did such a good job. He may not have had his own television series and things like diaries, walletspencils and cufflinks made in his likeness, but ultimately I’d rather have a functioning knee than a functioning Thumpy any day!

I’m happy to report that I’m making a swift recovery from surgery to repair a torn meniscus in my left knee yesterday. I still have all the festive bandages on that were my medical souvenirs, but within a week or so all will be removed and I can scale back to the dainty little strips that normally cover cuts and scrapes.

Back in the 1950’s when this Band-Aid box cranked off the assembly line, it was important to be stylish at all times, even when dressing gushing wounds. This box made going to get a bandage in the bathroom a very cheerful and almost glamorous journey.

Even the packaging of the individual bandages made it look like having a cut was some reason to celebrate. If only that artwork were on the bandages themselves…

Band-Aid boxes were great back in the day, made out of that pristine white metal that always made you feel like a starched white nurses uniform was hanging in the room. Not the thin, ratty cardboard wrappers that surround such products these days, the old stock was meant to aesthetically comfort anyone who had the need or bleed to dip inside, happy families made even happier that a Band-Aid was currently in use amongst them.

Made, of course, by Johnson & Johnson, Band-Aids have always ultimately won my heart. I still experiment with other brands as one of the most thrilling things in the world to me is standing in the medicine aisle of a big drug emporium and trying to find sizes and shapes I don’t have so that I’m prepared for any foreign object or circumstance that may befall a body part. But when I need a sure-fire hit it’s always J&J.

At present, the bandages on my knee are substantially larger than any contained in this box of sheer strips:

The good news is that I have excellent nurses on hand to swap out the ice packs over my bandages every half hour: Nurse Charles Phoenix, who came bearing a hand brace wrist corsage for my sprained wrist (yes, two injuries!)…

… 24 hour nurse Prudence Fenton

… and nurse Niblet who’s about to nibble my wrist corsage:

And excellent news is I’m told that in just a few days I’ll be back (gently) hopping around and all I’ll need are a few tiny Band-Aid sheer strips!

Today I’m having surgery to repair a torn meniscus in my left knee. The operation, a relatively quick outpatient job, was supposed to occur on my right knee but after putting the surgery off for over a year and a half I favored the good leg so much that literally the day I finally scheduled the invasion the good knee went eeewwwrrripppp!!! and snapped just like the other one.  Calling Dr. Casey!!!

My doctor should only be as comely as Vincent Edwards, a.k.a. Dr. Ben Casey!

I know my injury occurred because I finally got into exercise mode a few months ago when I was invited back to my alma mater, the University of Wisconsin, to conduct the 350 member marching band in a medley of my greatest hits at the Homecoming football game last October.

I got even more aggressive in my exercise routine when I found out I’m going back to Detroit to conduct my high school marching band playing my greatest hits in April at the historic Fox theater before a performance of my musical, The Color Purple. My high school was made famous in Beverly Hills Cop when Eddie Murphy wore a Mumford High T-shirt throughout the film.

I also received a Grammy for Best Soundtrack for BH Cop so my songs, “Neutron Dance” and “Stir It up”, are inextricably linked to my high school forever. As someone who’s main exercise has always been walking back and forth to the refrigerator, I went into overdrive conducting every tv commercial that came on, every YouTube video of any school band doing one of my songs, anything that could help raise my stamina so I’d be capable of jumping around and flailing my arms for 20 minutes straight. But I guess I just got too excited and ripped my other meniscus in the process, thus proving what I had told myself my whole life: exercise is the devil! (despite me being on the cover of the very first Richard Simmons exercise album, which I also co-wrote and produced. How kitschy is THAT?!!)

This previous no exercise philosophy of mine allowed me to sit on my ass much of my life, which allowed me to watch much television, which in turn allowed me to obsess over Dr. Ben Casey.

My knee surgery will probably be over by the time you read this and Vicodin will be swirling around inside, enhancing my enjoyment of Keeping up with the Kardassians, King of the Hill and all the other TV pacifiers I’ll  no doubt be sucking on once home. Too bad no one has thought to air reruns of Ben Casey.

I always thought that Dr. Casey’s mentor, Dr. Zorba, was very wise, albeit very shrivelled.

I’m glad that ol’ shriveled Dr. Zorba is still watching over Dr. Casey’s shoulder, though he looks ever more attractive now that he’s drenched in so much shadow:

I always loved when the man, woman, birth, death and infinity symbols were drawn in the opening titles of the show:

I’m happy to see that Dr. Zorba’s handiwork made it onto the wallet too:

I haven’t had a chance to clean the wallet yet. It looks like some biological specimens may have been left over from the former owner.

As such, l will most certainly not be carrying my Ben Casey wallet with me to the surgery center. I hadn’t planned to anyway as we all know that operations aren’t cheap and there’s only enough room for a few dollar bills in this wallet anyway.

I’m hoping that both Dr. Casey and Dr. Zorba’s spirits will be looking over my doctor’s shoulder when he goes to work on my knee. I hope my doctor has as excellent surgical skills as the young and dashing Ben Casey as I’m looking forward to having my knee back and doing spirited marching band formations around my living room very soon.

A happier leg makes for a much happier Allee!!

As a collector of kitsch for decades now with a particular love for popular television shows, there’s nothing better than having the real thing who made the real thing in your presence. Such was the case when Susan Olsen, a.k.a. Cindy Brady, the youngest, cutest, blondest Brady in the Bunch, walked into Willis Wonderland last Friday afternoon. And she came bearing one of her signature Christmas cakes, which is how we came to know each other in the first place as she posted her kulinary kitsch koncoction in The Allee Willis Museum Of Kitsch over Christmas.

Susan spent over a month (extra kitsch point #1) making these rum soaked (extra kitsch point #2) fruit cakes (extra kitsch point #3). And her description of them was hysterical too. It was an even better sign when I saw the way she prepped her photos. In the land of kitsch, detail insets are most impressive:

I got especially excited when I saw all the snowy peach fuzz that surrounded Susan’s elves:

But the elves on the cake she brought me needed no such extra set decoration as they got down to enough business on their own:

I was actually introduced to Susan by my Facebook friend and most dedicated aKitschionado at The Allee Willis Museum Of Kitsch, Denny McClain. We made sure to give him his props before we did anything else:

Our hooking up was also facilitated by another Facebook friend, Steven Wishnoff, who accompanied Susan to Willis Wonderland. I immediately offered them a snack as I had something amazingly fitting for this most kitschous of occasions:

Any of you smart and dedicated enough to subscribe to my blog will recognize that we’re holding a piece of King’s Hawaiian Bakery Rainbow Bread that I bought a loaf of last weekend on my Sunday drive with Charles Phoenix. This is possibly my favorite food discovery of the century so far.

It was perfect as Susan actually came dressed matching the bread:

We were all most anxious to see what happened to the color swirls when the bread was toasted, hoping they would get even brighter with a little bit of heat. We were sorely disappointed:

But that didn’t stop us from slopping on some peanut butter and jelly and enjoying a delicious grill stripped rainbow mini meal.

We spent a lot of time walking around Willis Wonderland as Susan and Steven had an excellent sense of kitsch.

I had much Brady Bunch memorabilia out…

…but I stupidly forgot to ask Susan to autograph anything. Luckily, before we met she mailed me a copy of a book she co-wrote about the making of one of the most exquisitely cheesy television specials ever made, The Brady Bunch Variety Hour.

If you’ve never seen it, RUN to YouTube now!!

Thank God, Susan autographed the book so I didn’t feel tooooo bad about the missed opportunities for my aforementioned Brady treasures.

All in all, we had a most Brady day!

I’m hoping next time we get together Susan will make me one of her signature Flufftinis.

Afterall, there’s SO MUCH we see eye to eye on.

In my youth, Sundays were always for relaxing. But as the years have stretched on, all too many days of rest have turned into days I push pedal to the metal and try to jam in anything I can before the week’s normal downpour of work befalls me. As you can imagine, a nice steaming cup of coffee to start off the day can make it all seem somewhat more civilized. Though not every Sunday…

I’m actually down to 1-3 cups of decaf a day from the 20-30 caffeinated ones I used to throw back when I first started to write songs. In the 70’s, the coffee machine and Pong were the only social breaks for a working musician with a permanent reservation in a recording studio.

These days, I usually pour a cup as soon as I wake up.  Then I sit down at my computer and go through an average 100 emails, curate and post at least ten new artifacts submitted to my social network, The Allee Willis Museum Of Kitsch, not to mention dealing with two Facebook pages, a Tweet, feeding three cats, getting my assistant up to speed for the day’s tasks, and returning any phone calls to people still living in the Stone Age who don’t email or text, none of which accounts for the songwriting, art, video, animation or other duties that constitute what my real work is that I need to prep for each morning.  All of which gets me to the bottom of an average cup of decaf before I’m a tenth of the way through.  Which is why this triple size stack is the answer to my prayers.

Also, for someone as lazy as me when it comes to exercise, saving the ten steps from my main computer to the kitchen for a refill is to be considered.

I also like looking sharp while sipping.

A couple days ago, I documented my Sunday drive with Charles Phoenix, noting that our very first stop was for an appetizer at Spudnuts, a donut establishment where the donuts are made out of potatoes. We weren’t sure how these were gonna taste but I can tell you that the big fat cakey one I had was literally one of the best I’ve ever tasted.

When Charles and I hit upon foodstuffs of this magnitude we oftentimes stick it in a box, videoing ourselves packing it up, and then open it in a year to see how much has changed. We were about to open a box of two dozen Yum Yums we laid to rest last New Year’s, 2010…

…but decided to let it go another year. We think that other than being harder than a rock, the donuts are going to look perfect but just be more dietarily appealing because, as you can see, all the grease  has been absorbed by the box. But that outcome will now not be revealed until 2012.

This last Sunday, our Spudnuts were so good that we both saved the last bites with intentions of also wrapping them up for a year to open in January, 2012. But we both forgot them under the front seat of Charles’ car and when we went out a couple nights ago we found that all they were of use for by then were to break your jaw. At the moment of discovery, we were right across the street from another historic Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank. So we raced out of the car and posed in front of the Boy himself in order to offer you the last look at our delicious, beloved Spudnuts.

If by any chance you have a Spudnut establishment in your neighborhood –  I have no idea if this is local to California or what –  I’d sure like to know if they’re as good in your neck of the donut as in ours. Happy chewing!

One of my favorite things to do on a Sunday is to take a drive with my fabulous friend, Charles Phoenix, who knows the kitsch heights of Los Angeles and surrounding areas unlike anyone else on the planet. As we both adore LA and equally revere its vintage past, we regularly  tool through sections of town with unbelievable architecture and restaurants still unscathed by the wrecking ball. Usually we have a set destination but this time we just decided to get in the car and let the wheels take us where they may.

Our first stop was at Spudnuts in Inglewood, where Charles had heard there were unbelievable donuts made out of  potatoes. We had an appetizer there.

For the main course we hit Dinah’s in Culver City.

The 1950’s interior of Dinah’s is as fabulous as that massive bucket of fried chicken that hovers above the restaurant outside.

I especially like the carvings in the floor:

Charles and his fried chicken look excellent against the interior.

I got fried chicken too but it was my sides that were most impressive if one is judging on the culinary kitsch scale. First, there was my creamed spinach, which looked and tasted much more like elementary school paste:

Then there were my green beans. We were particularly fascinated by one particular bean as it was just a hollow tunnel with no bean inside. See how you can see clear down to the fork prong?

It’s just this kind of detail that makes this relaxed kind of day even better. There was also an outstanding detail at the IHOP we passed in Westchester, just outside LAX.

Most IHOP’s are known for their pancakes, not their horses:

Driving through Hawthorne we passed many modern 60s buildings like this…

…as well as fantastic signage like this:

We didn’t stop at Pizza Show as we were on our way to far more impressive vintage architecture and signage:

Each letter is mounted on a metal mesh canister that lights up.

The roofline is spectacular.

Other then the ratty white plastic chair that too many restaurants use for outdoor seating, the interior of Chips is just as fantastic as the exterior:

Also fantastic is the name of the whipped cream they squirt at Chips:

Charles had quite a lot of Affair going on inside his chocolate malt.

I had a sensible tossed salad with about 10,000 calories worth of Thousand Island dressing and a nice cup of watery vegetable soup.

Next we hit King’s Hawaiian Bakery in Torrance.

Charles, featured recently on the front page of the Wall Street Journal with his towering Chepumple pie/cake, wanted some King’s Rainbow Bread so we each bought a loaf. I think you can see why:

The only thing better at King’s than that psychedelic bread is the giant pineapple holding up the ceiling in the dining room.

We continued on through Torrance, passing many more incredible 1960s office buildings.Some people think these edifices look like crap. To us, they’re a Pantheon among Pantheons.

But by far, my  favorite architecture in Torrance is the Palos Verdes Bowl.

The curved rock wall reminds me of 1950’s Vegas.

The cut-out metal overhangs are pretty great:

The font is even greater, with a new ‘O’ getting it almost right except the color:

But even more impressive than the bowling alley exterior was the outfit on this bowler:

It’s hard to see in this photo but that’s a matching shimmery lion shirt and pants. The way the sun bounced off the lion on this guy’s butt was astounding. The jeans were very shiny too. I can only hope that he had matching bowling shoes.

We left Palos Verdes and passed a plethora of  great vintage signs like these in Lomita…

… and these in Long Beach:

We passed so many vintage motels they deserve a separate post. But this classic “Colonial” estabishment, with enough pillars to hold up a stadium, was one of my favorites. Fake facades are to motels what Liberace’s capes were to Liberace.

As the sun began to set, we passed this excellent mural saluting the working people of Long Beach. I especially love the marionette looking man or is it a woman out in front with the orange toupee.

Our last stop was at this historic Bob’s Big Boy in Downey. Originally built in 1958 as Harvey’s Broiler, it’s considered the birthplace of car culture dining. Unfortunately, some of the neon was out.

We did get these excellent photos with Big Boy though.

And we got to sit in a fabulous newly-tweaked-but-vintage-nonetheless interior:

And we ate very sensibly as Charles demonstrates with his fit-conscious cottage cheese…

… and me with my second tossed salad of the day. It seems blasphemous to be in an authentic diner and not get a lump of Thousand Island on something.

All in all a was a wonderful day, tooling around LA with a wonderful friend whose eyes absorb kitsch as fast as mine and whose stomach knows how to theme eat so that what goes in matches the staggering sites that lie outside.

.

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.

If you weren’t nauseous before you grabbed for this “A sick bag” or “Sac a vomis” you would be after taking a look at everything going on on the packaging.

I love that “A sick bag” is also referred to as ‘the etiquette bag’ as it “will help by quickly solidifying your vomit and quenching the odor”. Now THAT’s etiquette!

I always like when a creative slogan like “help when you’re feeling sick and want to throw up” is employed:

That sudden feeling of wanting to share your contents with the sidewalk can happen anywhere, on all kinds of transport:

I can’t imagine many people would need instructions about how to use the “A sick bag” but easily understandable ones are included nonetheless:

In case you don’t read Japanese, helpful illustrations for how to open your A sick bag, heave into it and seal it up are also included:

I don’t know about you, but if I had an unexpected, unsightly regurgitation the last thing I’d want to do is carry it around all day until I got home. And what’s up with the “non-burnable trash”? Are we saving it for something?

The conflict of “1” and “batches” is making me slightly nauseous:

I guess Arabic speaking peoples also have a propensity for “vomis”:

Ahh, I think I will save my coin and just use a plastic bag should the occasion “arise”.