Yucca Part Deux

012All hail Nikki Hendricks, the North Texas 1946 Football Queen.  Watch her ride “in royal splendor.”  I think we both know which one is Nikki and which one wishes she were Nikki.

013And here is a rare shot of Tina Fey’s grandmother, Dude Neville McCloud.  That’s what it says, folks.  Click to enlarge if you don’t believe.

news serviceNote the publicity staff “during a busy hour.”  Mercy, how bustling.  The supervisor checks for typing errors while one girl evidently knits and glares.


Below is the W.R.A. tumbling team.  One of the support gals in the middle appears to have sprained her eye.

014Hey, remember Time & Temperature?


Oh, how I wish I could have been a Trojan’s date to the Sadie Hawkins Dance.  The one with the eyebrows, sitting on the haystack.

016Let’s end with this portrait of the Baptist Student Union Council.


Just take a moment to really absorb the Doublemint Twins in the front row,  Yes, F. Day and J. Day.  Perhaps it was in honor of D-Day and VJ-Day?   You can see the disdain all over F. Day’s face.  But J. Day.  Oh, J. Day.  She looks like she smelled a fart.

Now look to J. Day’s left.  Another set of twins!  Dang, Baptists!  Way to be fruitful and multiply.  Janel and Janet Barr.  I know, super creative, right?  You just KNOW people rhymed her name with “channel” instead of the exoticish J’Nelle. That’s why Janel is fidgeting with her fingers. In the twin crapshoot, she got the bad name.   And Janet is so over this.  She threw off her jacket in a fit of rage only moments before the shoot.  She’s all Oh, yes, please let me dress in identical clothing like those damn Day hussies.  Like we’re toddlers.  As if.  Can’t people SEE we’re fraternal?  Look at her.  I bet she wasn’t Baptist for long.

The 1947 Yucca, Part I

Today we’re going back to 1947, to a post-war era at North Texas State University, when women looked like the Andrews Sisters and frat boys took preventative measures against osteoporosis.



I love the pretty print dresses on these ladies.


Even just one row from the yearbook can reveal a lot.


Let’s hope for his sake, that “Dwyane” was misspelled.  But check out his two-tiered locks.  And what about John’s tousled look?  Sexy.  I’m certain he knows his way around a tractor. And Fred’s sharp threads are pretty snappy.  I’m afraid these ladies’ names have gone by the wayside.  Any preschools catering to Margie, Betty, or Ada Jo these days?

Yes, Virginia, there was life before iPods and iPads.  Youth culture existed free from technology.  Before Supercuts and Starbucks, there were barber shops and coffee shops.  Look at that TEENSY coffee cup!  No blue tooth in sight.  People were actually looking UP.


Such was life in “Collegetown.”  Stay tuned for Part II!

the corner

We Always Wish For Money; We Always Wish For Fame


So I was jogging today on the hike and bike trail, to firm up my tush and increase my endurance.  I listen to an MP3 player that contains every song I own, so there’s no telling what song is going to come on next, and that’s how I like it.

It’s actually pretty hard to find songs that match precisely the rhythm of the pace you desire.  Most drumbeats are too slow.  So when “Change” by John Waite came on, I was happily surprised that it matched my stride perfectly.

Now most people think of “Missing You” when I say John Waite.  And that’s all well and good, except that I contend that “Change” is a far superior song, insofar as getting one motivated to jog.  From the second the guitar riff starts, and John starts in, “People talkin’, and they’re sayin’ that you’re leaving,” the beat is contagious.  It makes me want to juice up on Shasta and race Camaros around empty lots.

The single was released in 1982 with a vexing video that raises more questions than it answers, then re-released as part of 1985’s Vision Quest movie soundtrack.  You can see parts of that one here:


Sweet half-sweatshirts on strapping wrestlers, Matthew Modine jumping rope, a punked out Michael Schoeffling (aka Jake Ryan) as a “half-Indian” motorcycle-riding hottie with daddy issues, Madonna before her pretentious British accent, all skank and lace.  What’s not to love?

Soup’s On, Chubbies


This Lane Bryant model probably isn’t much bigger than the pin-up cowgirl, underneath that tent of a coat.


I wonder how big “chubby” was when that Lane Bryant ad was printed?  Who would qualify?  Maybe Ethel Mertz?  Fred Mertz constantly made fun of Ethel’s weight, and she never looked big to me.  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.  


So Not Feeling 22


She’s on TV right this second, dancing in her new video, singing, “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22.”  And that’s great because she is 22.  She doesn’t seem to DATE 22, but whatevs.  It’s a free country.

Now, I’m not 22, so I don’t feel remotely 22.  But here’s the thing I don’t get:  I don’t feel the age that I am.  I feel more like quadruple 22.  Like a good solid 88.  What’s up with that?  It’s like middle age plus interest.

Now if I were 22, I might spin around dizzily and gloat about it as well.  I graduated college at 22, so yay–one dream accomplished.  Has it benefited me in any way?  Well, that’s another post.  I own a video of me at 22, tanned and fit, doing front handsprings in a blue gingham bikini on the back lawn of a lake house.  So, yeah, 22 was pretty freaking great.  Nicole Brown Simpson didn’t fare so well that year, but sometimes life sucks.

Taylor starts the song with these words:

It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters
And make fun of our exes, uh uh uh uh
It feels like a perfect night for breakfast at midnight
To fall in love with strangers

Yeah, not so much for me.  I have some reading glasses so that I can read the size 4 font on the Advil bottle, but I don’t possess any horn rim glasses, so I’m out on the hipster thing.  And exes?  Exes are something you bury deep in the recesses of the past, raised like Lazarus at the sound of arena rock songs, then quickly repressed again. Highway run… And breakfast at midnight?  Well, that’s a good possibility, due to a decade of insomnia.  But it won’t be eggs.  Gotta watch my cholesterol.  Hello, shredded wheat.  And mercy, girl, don’t fall in love with strangers.  Keep your knees together or you’ll find TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE.

In the chorus, she sings, Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22.  I did a lot of dancing at 22, but it wasn’t to pop country, Miss Swift.  In fact, Shania Twain hadn’t even been invented yet.  Back then, they showed videos on MTV.  It was a very Gin Blossoms and Warren G time in history.  When Tom Petty came on the radio, singing the verse, “Oh, my my, oh, hell, yes, honey, put on that party dress,” it was a joy.  Pure joy.  But you can’t dance to Mary Jane’s Last Dance.  There was also a hit called Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm.  No lie.  That was depressing.  Can’t dance to that.  And then there was this weird totally instrumental song that sounded like monks or something called Return to Innocence by Enigma.  Can’t even sing to that.  And lastly, the omnipresent little Lisa Loeb and all her nine stories, with her cat’s eye glasses, staring into the camera, singing Stay.  Poutable, but not danceable.  

So forgive me if I can’t dance like I’m 22.  Or 32.  But I have degenerative discs now, including torn and bulging ones.  So I don’t know about you, but I should probably just sit this one out.  Maybe in the new plush recliner.  With a glass of moscato in my hand.  Yes, that sounds like a plan.

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