I love the intro to this, and no–I never saw Hair. Do any of you have any memories of this old song?
However, Blinda’s Leaning Tower of Pisa is probably closer in proximity to The Pope. She’s certainly giving Deb a run for her money.
Teasing was involved on both of these Mary(s), and it appears as though a hairpiece or extension was haphazardly lobbed at their heads, with no regard for rhyme nor reason.
Donnita’s lithe neck can barely support the combined weight of coif and hardened Aqua Net. Any minute now, it could snap like a twig.
I don’t know what to say about Kathy. All I know is she’s in this yearbook twice. Same name, same pic, so it’s no misprint, people. Kathy with a K. Moving on…
From the saucy smirks of the Nix Twins to Dennis’s kind eyes (which seem more 48 than 18 years old), to the barrel of whiskey hidden beneath the teased bleached locks of Regina, this pic does not disappoint.
I hate it when people say they gave 110% effort, because there is no such thing as more than the absolute total that exists. Having said that, Linda gave 110%. Have you ever seen a waterfall after a hard freeze?
But Travis. Sigh. Travis Isom, Travis Eyesore, old boy–what were you thinking with that unibrow? Read the page; Seniors Try Harder! You should try harder with some tweezers. Or a razor. This is unacceptable, Travis. Shame on you. Why couldn’t you have copied the simple brows of J.C. and Mike (who BTW, look pretty retro 50s greaser for a 1967 yearbook, if you ask me)?
And the winner of the most interesting hairdo is…Beverly’s ratty flattened mess, complimented by insanely dark arched caterpillar brows! You can bet David wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole! She smells like cigarettes and Binaca breath spray, and that scares the pee out of him. Does someone have a ladder so we can climb up there and crown her?
A new Fort Worth Premier gas station opening in 1962 depicts great customer service for all your Chevy Impala’s needs. A sister photo reflects the steep price of gas at just over a quarter per gallon.
And check it out: Buy 8 gallons of gas and for only a dollar extra, you get five place settings of fine imported silverware–enough to invite all three attendants in straw hats, as well as the two girls in modest swimwear, heels, and mod flips.
Except you, awkward white people. You need to stop.
The fine print says “Get free dance booklet at your Career Club dealer.” To those of you in your sixties (who were alive in the 60s), is that where you learned your dance moves? Your Career Club dealer? I bet your drug dealer could teach better moves. Stiff and forced, Milton practically begs for a bottle of Schlitz to loosen him up–his hand is already in position. Why, in ten minutes, he could be a poor man’s Davy Jones! I don’t recall ever seeing “the skate” performed on American Bandstand, and I can pretty well rest assured it was never on Soul Train. It looks less like skating and more like “festive ways to fart.”
I got this in the mail recently, attached to a pizza coupon. I usually don’t pay these things much mind, especially since the woman in question was abducted at a distance of more than several hundred Rhode Islands from my home. However, this one vexed me. It shows that she was thirteen when she was abducted, and through the magic of science, they have age-progressed her to what she might look like at seventeen. Which was two years ago. Which is not what she’d look like now. So what gives? What’s the point of that? “Have you seen me when you time-traveled back to 2011?” Do we only possess the power to age-progress to a four year maximum? I don’t understand.
I don’t have an iPod, an iPad, a Kindle, a smart phone, any of that stuff. I don’t want one. I dislike phones except for emergency use, and I dislike emergencies even more. My decade-old son, however, has strained both his neck and thumbs, becoming acquainted with his iPod, and has been asking Siri questions. Today, he asked her what her favorite color is, and she said, “Well, I don’t know how to say it in your language. It’s sort of greenish, but with more dimensions.” Pardon?
Then he told her that he loved her. She told him, “You are the wind beneath my wings.” Excuse me?
I am reminded of Ryan Gosling in Lars and the Real Girl, in which he is enamored with a blow-up doll. Will this generation (devoid of any social interaction skills) skip the deviant inflatable girlfriend phase and go straight into siri-love? Will adolescent boys and young men spend hours alone with their iPods, constructing pretend relationships, using the app “ispeech” to make a woman’s voice say exactly what he types? Isn’t that a new pathetic level of loneliness? That’s worse than bowling alone.
Maybe there is nothing new under the sun: Janis Ian predicted it decades ago.
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
The difference is–now the lover IS the phone. Yeesh.
In my youth, Pace Picante Sauce commercials were on high rotation, showing incensed cowboys riled up after Cookie attempts to serve them a salsa made in “New York City.” One of them goes so far as to suggest they “get a rope,” presumably to hang Cookie for his offense. From these commercials, I learned that New Yorkers did not know squat about Mexican food. And that meant something was wrong with them. I presume they didn’t show this ad in NYC itself, but from what I’d learned on TV about the city, they were too busy getting beaten up on dirty subways and mugged in littered streets filled with apathetic people dressed only in neutrals.
I watched the Sweathogs on Welcome Back, Kotter, and they always seemed in need of a good scrubbing. They lived in a land called Brooklyn, but I knew it must have been close to New York City, because there were no trees around. Where were the pine trees and the live oaks? Did they all live in ghettos and tall buildings with no yards? Where did they learn to ride bikes and rollerskate? Where was the laundry blowing on the clothesline in the sun? Oh, wait, there it is.
I’d stayed up past eleven by elementary age, so I knew the funny comedians lived on the east coast and yelled, “Live from New York” each Saturday night. But I also knew Johnny Carson was in Burbank, and he was happy and funny. The mean, bitter guy with the gap in his teeth and the bald keyboardist lived in New York. Something just wasn’t right with that town.
Movies depicted a congested mecca of highrises and brash, fast-talking businessmen in Wall Street and The Secret of My Success, as well as a decadent drug-infused nightlife in Bright LIghts, Big City. New York was a city where Ninja turtles lived in the sewer, where dirty, grimey homeless people begged for money in Trading Places, and ghosts infested grand hotels in Ghostbusters. Even the muppets had a hard time taking Manhattan and finding work. And it was in NYC where Kramer battled Kramer, the first time that it had occurred to me that a mother would ever conceive of leaving her child to find herself. What kind of sick place was that?
Nevermind the Civil War, Yankees were odd. They talked funny. Their accent was nearly incomprehensible. They said “youse guys,” an abomination of grammar, when we used “y’all,” a contraction of “you” and “all,” which made perfect sense. And we’d heard tale of the Yankee reputation for callousness and poor manners. Not only did they not smile and shake hands with strangers, they ignored them altogether. What kind of hospitality is that?
Consequently, I never had a desire to go to New York, no matter how cool and funky Monica and Rachel’s apartment was on Friends. I knew the truth; a one bedroom could cost a THOUSAND DOLLARS a month, and they had rats!! Yuck!
Then the Twin Towers fell, and we all watched in horror. Our hearts went out to New York City; people in Texas wore “I (heart) New York” shirts and Yankee baseball caps. The whole country rallied around the fallen and felt the devastation. But it just made it even more clear: I never, ever want to go to New York. No matter how good the bagels or the reuben sandwiches, no matter how pretty the trees in Central Park, I never needed to visit that place.
Then in 2005, the Discovery Channel gave me a reason to want to visit The Big Apple. Cash cab. Now that looked fun! Getting inside a taxicab is far from desirable, whatwith the Hep C and polio virus inevitably covering all of the upholstery (is there any regulation as far as when to wipe those with Clorox wipes?), but that would pale in comparison to having Ben Bailey crane his giant bald head around to invite me to get paid (PAID!) to show off my incredible talent for trivia. Oh, glorious day (or night, when winnings were doubled) to ride and play, answering questions about general knowledge.
I still get mad when I watch the episode in which two men risked all their earnings on a video bonus round, which required them to identify the rodent-like animal roaming about. The question even referred to the Captain & Tenille song, but they still got it wrong. How does one not know about a MUSKRAT? “Muskrat Love!!” I wanted to yell through the TV set. I wanted to shake those Guidos, who weren’t even born when the song came out. Well, that’s what you get for not knowing your pop music! Out of the cab. Kick ’em to the curb, Ben. I couldn’t live in a city where people cannot properly identify muskrats. I won’t even visit.
We visited The Oasis this past weekend in central Texas and enjoyed a nice meal of redfish, grilled veggies, and rice. The Oasis has never (in decades) been known for decent or reasonably-priced food, so this was quite a surprise. And though it was a steamy 104 degrees in the sun, the shaded deck (and surrounding fans) allowed for a comfortable meal.
The lake level has been so low for so long, that it’s hard to recall a time when Lake Travis was full, and we weren’t under mandatory watering restrictions. This island shouldn’t really exist. It should all be under water.
Despite the heat, humidity, and low water levels, the lake can still be an enjoyable spot for breathtaking views. The dozens of sailboats and waterboats, skiers and fishermen can testify to that.
We’re just happy the trees are still green in August, instead of pointy brown branches, singed from oppressive sunlight. Dog days indeed.