Donald Trump has major Mike Love Syndrome. The hairline of the peevish lead singer of The Brian-Less Group d/b/a The Beach Boys began to recede alarmingly by 1962, when he was twenty-one. The eighty-four-year-old front man, like Trump—five years his junior—has never come to terms with his scalp desert. Mike chooses ball caps with the logo of schools he didn’t attend or the worst song on which he’s collaborated, “Kokomo” (1988), to cover his pate, with a T-shirt, Hawaiian print, caftan, Tom Jones jumpsuit, Maharishi robes, or tuxedo. Gold lame turbans, tweed flat caps, Bing Crosby buh-buh-buh-boos, fedoras, you name it, he’s worn it. As dementia gallops, Donny continues to twirl his sparse shoulder-length locks into a Dairy Queen confection, cemented with Aqua Net to recreate his mother’s coiffure. When fifteen-year-old Ivanka gave her father a prolonged lap dance as Mike Love entertained at Mar-a-Lago, she expressed the unpaid excitement of all teens for the forty-four-year-old five- or six-times married, bald fathers of eight or nine. Accounts vary.
I have no particular fondness for Mike Love in particular, but comparing him to Trump, & denigrating the wonderful band the Beach Boys, is a step too far.
Of course it is. The Wilsons grew up five miles east of me, and became our hometown stars when I was in kindergarten. I’ve met the earliest band members except for Carl, Dennis several times, and have an amiable, longstanding grudge against Mike, with whom I have spoken twice. He hit on me at a party when I was eighteen and he was newly bankrupt, saying that I wasn’t up to his usual standards, but that I’d do. I fled. He’s known for favoring tiny submissive Asians, I was a California girl. Tall, gangly, blonde, string bikini sewn from a Simplicity pattern and a half-yard of fabric.
Three times in the ‘90s I bought first- or second-row seats, from which at the peak of the music I fired beach balls that I’d lettered, THANK BRIAN! When my preachy balls connected with him—once smack in the face, interrupting “Do It Again” and provoking uproarious laughter—he’d look around wildly, as though this were an unprecedented occurrence (AFAIK, it was), spotting the people smirking and pointing at me.
At a 2012 meet ‘n greet, Mike studied the GOT HERMOSA BEACH? lettered on my bosom, asked sulkily why he didn’t get a hug like Brian, and added, “I know you. Where do I know you from?” A one-night stand he can’t recall? He said he’d roomed with Dennis in Hermosa Beach. “That must have been fun,” I said. He rolled his eyes fretfully. Nobody knows the troubles he’s seen.
It’s no particular knock to compare Mike Love to Trump, as he’s courted his personal and financial favor as avidly as he did the Reagans’. The couple had vigorously defended The Beach Boys against Interior Secretary James Watt’s claim that the group would attract “the wrong element.” Watt favored plastic surgery addict Wayne Newton, best known for the ‘60s hit “Danke Schoen.”
As the ‘80s began, he has rebuilt his fortune—that’s nice—but with the single-minded directness of a shark that reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara, eyes blazing, declaring she was never going to be hungry again. Mike sued Brian and his business-manager brother Stephen repeatedly. After Brian’s dementia was announced, during a nostalgic photo shoot at Paradise Beach, Mike told the BBC how much he looked forward to recording with him again. Not just a fond remark. He was serious about forcing his fragile cousin back into the studio.
In addition to gigs at MAL and the White House, he’s performed at high-dollar events like Don Jr.’s and Eric’s favorite group that kills exotic animals, and a Trump fundraiser in Huntington Beach that brought in millions. Brian Wilson and Al Jardine learned of both engagements the morning they’d occur from the LOS ANGELES TIMES, and both pacifists and animal-lovers were outraged. Both acknowledge that Mike holds the legal right to use The Beach Boys name, but a flunky might have given them the courtesy of a call or text. Mike Love is as abstemious with courtesy as with most things, publicly patting his flat bare belly, side-eying his cousins meaningly.
Since you’re a fan, you’ll be glad to know that he tapped his temple knowledgeably at the line “where the kids are hip” in Key West (2025) exactly as he did in the first video I saw of “I Get Around” (1965). [Excerpted from the forthcoming, FUCKING WITH THE FORMULA: THE DUALITY OF MIKE LOVE.]
You’re a sweetheart. After decades of hiding behind a screenname, I hesitantly went commando on Substack. My life so far has been pretty interesting, after all.
The irony is, if he were a good man and truly honorable, that picture would look pretty good. The picture makes him look like a normal man for his age. The trouble is, his hate and nastiness is visible in every photo taken of him.
Unfuckingbelievable trump and his hair. WTAF? This supposed to be the fucking president and he is complains about his hair in a fucking photo? How fucking low America has fallen is staggering
It's hard to make a moron look normal. Try again!
Donald Trump has major Mike Love Syndrome. The hairline of the peevish lead singer of The Brian-Less Group d/b/a The Beach Boys began to recede alarmingly by 1962, when he was twenty-one. The eighty-four-year-old front man, like Trump—five years his junior—has never come to terms with his scalp desert. Mike chooses ball caps with the logo of schools he didn’t attend or the worst song on which he’s collaborated, “Kokomo” (1988), to cover his pate, with a T-shirt, Hawaiian print, caftan, Tom Jones jumpsuit, Maharishi robes, or tuxedo. Gold lame turbans, tweed flat caps, Bing Crosby buh-buh-buh-boos, fedoras, you name it, he’s worn it. As dementia gallops, Donny continues to twirl his sparse shoulder-length locks into a Dairy Queen confection, cemented with Aqua Net to recreate his mother’s coiffure. When fifteen-year-old Ivanka gave her father a prolonged lap dance as Mike Love entertained at Mar-a-Lago, she expressed the unpaid excitement of all teens for the forty-four-year-old five- or six-times married, bald fathers of eight or nine. Accounts vary.
I have no particular fondness for Mike Love in particular, but comparing him to Trump, & denigrating the wonderful band the Beach Boys, is a step too far.
I agree. That isn’t very nice.
Of course it is. The Wilsons grew up five miles east of me, and became our hometown stars when I was in kindergarten. I’ve met the earliest band members except for Carl, Dennis several times, and have an amiable, longstanding grudge against Mike, with whom I have spoken twice. He hit on me at a party when I was eighteen and he was newly bankrupt, saying that I wasn’t up to his usual standards, but that I’d do. I fled. He’s known for favoring tiny submissive Asians, I was a California girl. Tall, gangly, blonde, string bikini sewn from a Simplicity pattern and a half-yard of fabric.
Three times in the ‘90s I bought first- or second-row seats, from which at the peak of the music I fired beach balls that I’d lettered, THANK BRIAN! When my preachy balls connected with him—once smack in the face, interrupting “Do It Again” and provoking uproarious laughter—he’d look around wildly, as though this were an unprecedented occurrence (AFAIK, it was), spotting the people smirking and pointing at me.
At a 2012 meet ‘n greet, Mike studied the GOT HERMOSA BEACH? lettered on my bosom, asked sulkily why he didn’t get a hug like Brian, and added, “I know you. Where do I know you from?” A one-night stand he can’t recall? He said he’d roomed with Dennis in Hermosa Beach. “That must have been fun,” I said. He rolled his eyes fretfully. Nobody knows the troubles he’s seen.
It’s no particular knock to compare Mike Love to Trump, as he’s courted his personal and financial favor as avidly as he did the Reagans’. The couple had vigorously defended The Beach Boys against Interior Secretary James Watt’s claim that the group would attract “the wrong element.” Watt favored plastic surgery addict Wayne Newton, best known for the ‘60s hit “Danke Schoen.”
As the ‘80s began, he has rebuilt his fortune—that’s nice—but with the single-minded directness of a shark that reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara, eyes blazing, declaring she was never going to be hungry again. Mike sued Brian and his business-manager brother Stephen repeatedly. After Brian’s dementia was announced, during a nostalgic photo shoot at Paradise Beach, Mike told the BBC how much he looked forward to recording with him again. Not just a fond remark. He was serious about forcing his fragile cousin back into the studio.
In addition to gigs at MAL and the White House, he’s performed at high-dollar events like Don Jr.’s and Eric’s favorite group that kills exotic animals, and a Trump fundraiser in Huntington Beach that brought in millions. Brian Wilson and Al Jardine learned of both engagements the morning they’d occur from the LOS ANGELES TIMES, and both pacifists and animal-lovers were outraged. Both acknowledge that Mike holds the legal right to use The Beach Boys name, but a flunky might have given them the courtesy of a call or text. Mike Love is as abstemious with courtesy as with most things, publicly patting his flat bare belly, side-eying his cousins meaningly.
Since you’re a fan, you’ll be glad to know that he tapped his temple knowledgeably at the line “where the kids are hip” in Key West (2025) exactly as he did in the first video I saw of “I Get Around” (1965). [Excerpted from the forthcoming, FUCKING WITH THE FORMULA: THE DUALITY OF MIKE LOVE.]
Wow! What a story! Thanks for all that info! Fascinating!
You’re a sweetheart. After decades of hiding behind a screenname, I hesitantly went commando on Substack. My life so far has been pretty interesting, after all.
Agreed! There’s something familiar about that photo 🤔
That ear has never been within a mile of any ballistic projectile, let alone impacted by any such object.
Trump asks why his picture was so bad. Does he have Clark Gable painted in his mirror?
The irony is, if he were a good man and truly honorable, that picture would look pretty good. The picture makes him look like a normal man for his age. The trouble is, his hate and nastiness is visible in every photo taken of him.
Unfuckingbelievable trump and his hair. WTAF? This supposed to be the fucking president and he is complains about his hair in a fucking photo? How fucking low America has fallen is staggering
Trump uses all caps and small words. This post is too coherent to be from him.
I hear that Stephen Miller writes a lot of his posts (the more coherent but equally disturbing ones).
Love the side by side! Really shows the difference between courage and cowardice.
Does he ever stop whining?
I love your hair, but the big ass his hair is ridiculous. 🤣🤭
He’s afatbloateduglyracistrapistpedoasshole
The evil within is showing rapidly on his face and hair.
https://www.crainsnewyork.com/transportation/federal-judge-orders-trump-admin-restore-34m-counterterrorism-funds-mta