I’m still incredibly bleary-eyed from my month’s buildup to my Sound Of Soul extravaganza Monday night, the recuperation after from which I still feel numb not to mention running back and forth to The Pantages to see the final ever performances of my musical, The Color Purple, as originally conceived before it closes on Sunday and jumps to another tier of performance when the second national tour begins in a couple weeks. Honestly, I’d rather be lying in bed watching TV, my favorite sport, then running myself ragged like I was 16. But I’ve never been the type to do the former and I seem to eternally be the type to act the latter so at least it makes me smile when my drinkware matches my state of mind.
I’ve always admired cups like this, interpreting in clay what the artist feels inside. I’ve also never been the type to practice perfection, preferring instead to let things happen as they may, my skill being to figure out a creative way to deal with everything that smacks down into my path. Were I a sculptor of coffee cups I would naturally be drawn to this philosophy of design. If the cup isn’t perfect, crush it. Then it looks intentional. Then people like me come along and go this is just what I feel like today and if they have the need, as I do, to make each action in their life organic and connected they have no alternative other than to pop down the coin for the cup.
This beauty has no other manufacturing marks than simply “Japan”. Of course, it was the 1960’s.
May you also see the day out of cockeyed eyes so you notice something new and wonderful to be grateful for.
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Not quite sure why no chair was provided for the female of the species as by the time this photo was taken for this vintage Hamm’s beer sign in the late ’70’s feminism had surely raised its voice loud enough to demand equality in seating arrangements. At least they’ve got a few beers to tip back this Valentine’s Day so her muscles won’t cramp in that position. Maybe one of her gifts to him is a pedicure. In addition to candy and flowers I hope one of his gifts to her is a nice, comfortable chair.
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I can’t think of anything Coke would go better with than a nice slab of liverwurst! Not sure what inspired anyone at the company to pick this meal combo to advertise the drink but I’m awfully glad they did because this 8″ x 24″ Litho cardboard sign has hung happily in my kitchen for almost 20 years. I’ve never done it the honor of munching down liverwurst when I pop the cap on a Coke but the sign inspired me enough that my alter ego, Bubbles the artist, painted a beautiful still life of the meal in 1999…
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The owl is a national bird of the state of Kitsch. This is a set of four textured ceramic wood coffee cups with a happy owl peeping out. I don’t usually like the bark effect in ceramic but I love these cups because the owls are so happy.
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Featuring two sides, one to toast the year about to end and the other to toast the new year once it arrives, these glasses were made to usher in the new millennium in 2000. I don’t usually collect glassware this new but these are so odd and New Yearsish as to become Kitsch.
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These were all the rage among crafters in the 1950s and continue to bring joy to Kitsch lovers who don’t like staring at plain wine or liquor bottles. Most popular canine colors were white, gray and black. They usually came with accent color noses and button or rhinestone eyes, in this case both. If the crafter was very industrious Fifi also had knit or felt red lips and a jeweled collar.
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The next revolution in sucking power after the Flex-Straw was this product that I made my mother stockpile so I’d never have less than a month’s supply. Though chocolate and strawberry were my favorite flavors, the success of mixing the flavor with the liquid you were drinking depended on the sucking power of your cheek muscles as the granules or whatever it was inside – some people remember it as a chemically soaked felt strip – oftentimes clumped leaving one with no other choice but to rip the straw open and dab bits on your tongue as you drank. Whatever the contents, process or the amount of effort it took, I still enjoyed the personal power I felt over relieving myself of the tedium of milk.
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I can’t tell you how many Flex-straws I went through as a kid seeing how far I could bend them before the passage of liquid was no longer possible. Coming in “gay pastel colors”, I used to drink out of the salmon and pink ones and used the other colors to make necklaces, form the outline of a baseball field for my marbles and other such childhood crafts and frivolities.
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Long before it was de rigueur for refrigerators to come equipped with automatic ice makers a contraption like this hung in almost every kitchen in the world allowing homemakers to crush fine or coarse ice without lifting a hammer, the previous method of accomplishing such a thing.
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I love Thanksgiving. The anticipation is so great I can smell the turkey and fixins wafting up my nostrils the entire month of November. Every year I contemplate prepping the bird myself, eager to re-create my mother’s recipe using the best ginger ale in the land, Detroit’s own Vernors, but I thankfully receive enough invitations that one less fowl hits the ovens and my potential guests are spared from any possible food related illnesses. All this to say that when I found this inflatable turkey I was elated! It sits in the middle of my dining room table all month and then gets blown up again for Christmas. My house smells delicious because I have such a vivid imagination. Anyone’s welcome over to my place for some delicious plastic and hot air. Happy Thanksgiving!
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