“Perspiration motion is carried out intensively and working out of the upper half of the body!!” Well, you can say that again!

I’m not quite sure why perspiration promotion deserves two ‘!!’s. Although I can attest to the fact that perspiration happens the second this smothering sheet of black is pulled over the upper half.

The last time I checked, perspiration could also transpire on the lower parts of the body. Though I’m not sure I would want “rubber processing” occurring anywhere:

Lest there be any confusion as to which part of the body a JACKET goes on, there’s this:

Despite this fashion being clearly marked as a “veste du sauna” I don’t think I need any article of clothing making me boil anymore in du sauna:

Notice that height is measured in inches. That usually stops after you’re a few years old.

It’s very nice that the Sauna Jacket comes with a ‘hood cover”, though I’m used to that phrase referring to something that goes over a stove or grill of a car:

I’m not so sure about wearing ‘clothing of absorbency’ if there’s a chance that my clothes will poison me:

Speaking of poisoning, I always look forward to reading the warnings on such imported products:

I would never wear my sauna jacket WITH a washing machine or dryer, the latter of which is spelled with a ‘y’ and not an ‘i’, fyI Daiso industries. And should I ever have to dry my sauna jacket, I’m not sure where to go for ‘shade of ventilation’. I would never bring it ‘close to a fire side’. I hope that any medical treatment I receive will never be ‘sick’. And I must say it really concerns me that the usage of any item of clothing be determined by what mood I’m in: ‘Do not use at the time of a bad condition or at the time of fatigue’. And I’m not sure what else I would use this jacket for but I will attempt to heed the advice of ‘Do not use in addition to an original use’.

The warning I’m most concerned about, however, is the one that I can’t understand no matter how much I attempt to interpret it: “There is individual difference in an effect”. Huh?? Perhaps there’s just too much responsibility in wearing the sauna jacket.

And so it’s now safely folded up and slipped back into it’s wrapper. Hopefully no one will stick the package fire side or in the shade of ventilation.

I’m not a bowler. But I AM a bowling-kitsch-artifact collector crazy person. Bowling was THE happy-go-lucky, stylish, social sport of the 1950’s. So it follows that I would like anything that involves bowling balls and the accoutrements that accompany it, even occasionally lifting the ball myself and tossing it down the lane for the inevitable gutter ball.

Well, at least I had balls. I love the sound, feel and aesthetics of a bowling alley. I love the balls, the shoes, the snack bar, the tables you sit at to keep score. And over the years, other than the snack bar, I’ve collected a lot of it. I have bowling coin purses…

…a bowling pin lamp…

…a bowling pin bottle opener…

… bowling balls in my garden…

… bowling tables in my home…

… a wide assortment of bowling coffee mugs…

… bowling shoes…

…and a bowling ball brush.

I even use bowling trophies as door handles in my house…

…and have them carved into the floor.

That’s my kitchen floor, above which the Bowler’s Coffee Cup featured today sits in a cupboard stocked with other vintage cups.

I drink out of the bowling cup a lot because it cheers me up when I stagger into the kitchen bleary-eyed every morning.

I love all the graphics on this cup.

Less thought out than the graphics, however, was the color used to create them. I love when people who design things don’t think about the product in full use, in this case coffee being poured into the cup and lessening the effect substantially.

And that’s a real gutter ball.

I was going to feature my Richard Simmons towel as my kitsch offering of the day:

But I decided to feature the real thing instead because of how far we go back.

I met Richard Simmons in 1981 when he first decided he wanted to cut a record. Bruce Roberts and myself wrote and co-produced  the entire Reach album. We worked on it with Richard for almost a year. With Richard singing lead and calling out exercise commands, it was filled with real pop songs and the hottest studio musicians and background singers around.

I just found this on youtube.  I don’t know who posted it and it sounds like it was transferred inside a muffler, but it’s the first 2 and 1/2 songs on Side 1. Bear in mind that this was done in the midst of the very first wave of aerobic/Jazzercise/Jane Fonda exercise-mania.

I’m even on the album cover:

Let’s take a closer look at that:

That was probably the last time I ever went to an exercise class, other then when I met Richard at his studio, Slimmons, this last Saturday. I can’t say I was in sweats or that I even sweat at all. In fact, I went to meet him for lunch. But I answered a lot of e-mail and got a little writing done on my iPad as literally hundreds of folks who came to his Saturday morning workout class huffed and puffed and did the sweating around me.

In actuality, I did use my towel to wipe some sweat from my brow because it was hot in LA this weekend and there was no air-conditioning in class. I know that’s the way people do it if they’re serious about exercising or yoga or anything else where it’s good that your natural goodness pours out of you. But I, on the other hand, am the type who would rather have an air-conditioning chip installed in their body if such things were yet invented.

I know my outfit isn’t as pretty as Richard’s and I’m not as slim. If only I could shed as many pounds as I have great memories. But the memories and friendships keep me stuffed with joy and that’s what life (if not exercise) is all about.

Bleary eyed from chasing a friend’s cat through the hills above the Hollywood Bowl all night last night – finally captured I’m happy to say! – I had to get up bone-breakingly early this morning to pick up a keyboard in Hollywood. My eyes were still practically glued shut but there’s so much kitsch along the roadways in this city, I can always deal with a situation as long as I remember to bring my camera. In addition to the above mural painted underneath the 101 on Argyle, here are but a few of the gems that crossed my car and eyeballs as I made my tired trek this morning.

There’s nothing better to me than when someone takes a plain building and slaps some cement art up on it.

Well, maybe this is a little better… taking a plain box of a house and attempting to make it look like the Parthenon with the MGM lions greeting you at the door:

I wonder if that person knows that plants can actually be planted in the ground? The only thing missing is a blue tree…

…and maybe this hedge as an entrance:

Thank God this bus wasn’t parked in front or passersby wouldn’t be able to see any of the architectural or fauna beauty:

Despite so many insanely wonderful vintage structures falling victim to the wrecking ball, Hollywood still has some incredible period architecture like this church hugging the entrance to the 101 On Hollywood Blvd.:

You can’t really tell how gorgeous this is from a distance but in addition to those incredible fins and peculiar arrangement of windows, the entire building is made up of 1 inch lavender mosaic tiles. Unfortunately, that wall was slapped up a few years ago depriving drivers of the building’s full beauty. Luckily, the full finned magnificence of the Peterson Automotive Museum on Wilshire and Fairfax is not hidden by a stupid wall.

I know that this is a hideous photo but I  took a short cut through a muddy construction site and barely had time to fumble for my camera as I passed this window:

Perhaps a close-up will reveal more of its beauty:

I swung by one of my favorite papusa places hoping to grab a little breakfast before I sped home to throw myself back in bed but it was closed. The mural still woke me up.

I hope everyone reading this has as jam-packed full and colorful a Sunday as this overly-enthusiastic balloon/cotton candy/inflatable toy man walking around Echo Park Lake this morning. Open your eyes. Beauty is all around you!

One of my favorite genres of kitsch is products from China with translations that have run hideously amuck. It’s not even that the products are bad – though in this case I may have hit the jackpot – so much as the language and packaging used to promote them is so confused as to be nonsensical. In this case, the Bath Thing is a “New century Sanitarian thing”.

The only definition I could find of Sanitarian is “environmental health specialists, (who) enforce government regulations and advise and educate clients.” I’m pretty sure that one of those people are not living inside this package. But so confident is the manufacturer of the Bath Thing that their messaging is clear, the back of the label, the only other place where anything about the product is written, is exactly the same as the front, with scant information about the product inside.

Another exceptional thing about the Bath Thing is that ‘Thing’ is clearly singular yet there are two thingS inside the package. First there’s this little netted Thing that I can’t imagine would be anything other than annoying when dragged over your skin:

Then there’s this  rubber thong looking Thing:

The weave on the flip side seems a little far apart to have loofah effectiveness:

So sure was the manufacturer that the product would sell itself that neither one of the Things are pictured on the label. Unless the almost- transparent mound of soapsuds this gal’s right hand is poking into is the thong Thing and the clearly airbrushed soapy mess around her left hand is the netted Thing.

It’s unbelievable to me that a manufacturer who was so confident about their product would identify themselves nowhere on the product. Then again, it’s/they’re the Bath Thing/s and once it’s/they’re on the shelves at a 99¢ store, all the better if you’re a Kitsch lover like me!

Other then “Right on!”, there was no more popular phrase in the late 60’s and early 70’s than “Can Ya Dig It?”. Though this patch is missing the ‘?’, which makes it as kitsch as it was hip back in the day. Of course, sewing patches all over your clothes was never excessively hip but here are a couple other ones you may have sewn over holes in your bellbottoms were you of the mind:

The patches were all machine made.

I always hated what they looked like on the back. A bunch of spider veins or corpuscles.

I actually never covered myself with patches but throughout the early 70s I did walk around covered in fan club buttons.

I don’t know that I walked around spouting the phrase, “Can ya dig it?” but I sure sang it a lot as one of my favorite records of all time, “Grazin’ In The Grass” by The Friends Of Distinction, came out in 1970 and made the phrase ubiquitous.

If by chance you’re not familiar with the phrase “dig”,  here’s the definition in one of my favorite reference books from the era, The Third Ear: A Black Glossary, published in 1971 by The Better- Speech Institute of America.

“Dig” is as follows:

I have to “split” now.

I have a dentist appointment. Not sure how much I’m going “dig” that but my teeth are begging me not to give them the shaft.

 

Growing up, this woodpecker was in my life and kitchen constantly. I can’t imagine anyone in the 1950’s or 60’s not making the same statement so ubiquitous was this little plastic bird with the incredibly sharp I-poked-holes-in-my-fingers-so-many-times-don’t-ask tongue.

He was also a big staple at the voluminous amounts of delicatessens that paved the streets of my hometown, Detroit. I guess it was a way of making sure that kids, eager to shove his head into his tree branch of toothpicks, kept their teeth clean after they chomped down on the sugar-spiked goodies our mom’s thought was so good for us back in the day.

But this woodpecker doesn’t feast on just any toothpick. It’s gotta be the old-style flat, contoured toothpicks as the round ones, far better for picking your teeth, are just too fat to fit in his snakelike tongue.

The packaging is as good as the woodpecker himself.

Who wouldn’t want to stick something in their mouth that was clean and handy?

The woodpecker only does one thing. He bobs his head up and down. But in case that’s too complex to figure out there are also handy directions.

I have a big day today. A lunch date and two recording sessions. It’s not the most attractive thing to be walking around with junk in your choppers so say hello to my little friend who will be waiting in the car to make sure I remain “clean and handy” throughout the day.

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!

I have a problem with lettering on cups when the word is short yet from no angle on the cup can you see the entire word.

And I always think that cup manufacturers cheese out when they don’t spring for anything printed on the back. The last time I looked there were more righties than lefties, which means that ‘Papa’ is ignored the lionshare of the time.

The little leaf pattern seems a tad too delicate for ‘Papa’.

And speaking of that which is not entirely masculine, let’s discuss the handle of this cup:

In addition to being a little froufrou, those sharp little bits of ceramic sticking up dig into the back of your thumb  and side of your middle finger like little knives, making it impossible to hold this as one would naturally hold a cup lest you risk puncture wounds.

I know that ceramic piece stretching across the inside of the cup is to keep ‘Papa’s’ mustache out of his coffee. But this looks much more like a bat to me and if I were ‘Papa’ I wouldn’t be so happy about my lips resting on an animal often confused for a rodent.

And what are all those brown spots at the bottom?

They’re embedded deep in the glaze and I have no idea how they got there as it’s a completely different color than the gold that graces the rest of ‘Papa’s’  cup.

Hopefully you have fewer gripes about your father than I do about this cup. If so, please wish ‘Papa’ Happy Father’s Day for me!

I’m sure that Floyd Cardoz is a magnificent chef and I should’ve seen his win coming from that constant coming-in-second storyline all season. But having spent at least half of my adult life eating Mary Sue Milliken’s food, I went into the Top Chef Masters finale openly prejudiced that she would reign supreme.  But alas…

The true true winners last night were Mary Sue’s friends, gathered at Border Grill to watch the finale with her and eat the food she made onscreen amidst the skyscrapers downtown.

Mary Sue won more challenges this season than any other chef. We couldn’t believe she lost, especially as we were sitting there chomping down on the food she competed with. Nano-seconds after Floyd was crowned she was gracious as always, despite guests like me screaming she was robbed!

But I’m here to tell you Mary Sue’s final challenge dishes were INCREDIBLE. Not only were we were served all of them during the finale as they were served to the judges onscreen, but a whole round of other tongue-numbing treasures were passed around during the final elimination show Bravo ran the hour before.

My apologies in advance to Mary Sue for the following descriptions as I undoubtably short-change everything by not being able to describe every ingredient or name the dishes by proper title. I am NOT the next Food Network star! (Though let me loose on diner fare and that’s a different story.)

First came ceviche:

Then cheese empanadas with guacamole:

I know that’s not the way to photograph a foodstuff when one is trying to impress the quality of it upon the reader. The guacamole should be neatly dabbed on top so the empanada doesn’t look like it’s been dragged through the guacamole as one would use a scraper to remove ice from a windshield. Here’s a better, pre-guacamole view:

Quinoa fritters came next:

I THINK the following is avocado tacos coated with sesame seeds and quinoa, but I heard someone at the next table fawning over ahi tuna something. So it could go either way. I just know it was crunchy and good. I also know the photo is blurry, but when it comes to Mary Sue’s cooking it all deserves to be seen.

Finally it’s 7 pm. and the actual finale show begins. For their final challenge, the chef’s had to cook a three-course meal-of-a-lifetime based around food memories. Course #1 was a dish inspired by their first taste memory. Mary Sue made Asian steak tartare.

The second course had to represent a dish that inspired them to become a chef in the first place.

Mary Sue made crab and shrimp salpicon with shrimp and chervil mousse stuffed rigatoni:

An inside look at that rigatoni:
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Mary Sue’s chances were looking excellent on TV as a guest chef diner chomped down on the rigatoni.
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Another guest chef diner was Susan Feniger, Mary Sue’s partner at Border Grill, Top Chef Master competitor last season, and owner/chef supreme of Street, the restaurant I co-own and at which my butt is usually parked at table #20.

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Not such a great shot but night was falling and my camera was snapping slower and slower. Susan was in the kitchen last night helping to turn out the never-ending cornucopia of food we feasted on. Here we are with fellow chomper,Troy Devolld.
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For the third course, dessert, each chef was paired with one of the judges and asked to make their favorite dish. Ruth Reichl requested a lemon soufflé. Mary Sue enhanced it with lemon ice cream, lemon hazelnut meringue and rhubarb compote.
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Our version included the lemon hazelnut meringue and ice cream but the rhubarb compote was replaced with a churro with chocolate ganache. I’ll take dough any day over a vegetable, which rhubarb is despite technically being a fruit. This dish KILLED, but using a flash blew the ice cream out so the churro isn’t getting the attention it deserves in this non-flash photo:
Here’s a tighter yet blurryish shot of the churro mid bite:
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The final slurp of ice cream was sliding down my throat as we learned the Queen was not to take her throne. But Mary Sue’s personality is so infectious, and she’s so damn nice that the crowds’ spirit wasn’t dampened and chewing continued through the night.
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If you’ve never been to Border Grill, that’s a MUST. Really, your tastebuds will be thanking you forever.

Long live the Queen!