That’s an inviting look Lady Cashier is sharing with young Anson, no? The touch of her fingertips against his calloused palm is almost more than she can process.
And speaking of looks, check out the glare on Lady Flamenco in the Carmen Miranda knockoff.
Cactus 55
Perhaps her date ditched her before the clock chimed midnight? I think that’s he on the toilet in the corner. Either way, she’s got John Turturro within grabbing distance, wearing touchably soft trousers, thirsty for punch. Time to make your move, Private Dancer. Game on.
These two barelegged cowgirls atop a cream-colored BAR-B-Q convertible are too too much! Howdy, y’all!
This lady is clearly more refined in her demeanor.
If Joan Tompkins’ smug recline doesn’t do it for you, then maybe a marching band will. 76 trombones led the big parade…
Any of you ladies ever twirled a baton? I hear fingers have muscle memory, just in case you’re planning any summertime family reunions that require talent contests. You know, like in that movie Dan In Real Life, where Steve Carell sang “Let My Love Open The Door.” Oh, that was so sweeeeet…
Oh, and one more thing. After all the floats pass by, they’re serving barbeque!
I’m tempted to post a picture of Madonna (the title demands it), but instead, I will share machine-looking things with switches and cords that make things go.
Did you know what a linotypist was?
I recognize two items here: a typewriter AND a phone!
And of course, corded phones that require both a mouthpiece and an earpiece.
I’m afraid this, too, has been relegated to relic status.
Most of us know about the Rat Pack, his ill-fated marriage to Ava Gardner, his suspect connections to the Mafia, his support of JFK, his daughter Nancy Sinatra, and his acting and singing careers. You may even know he’s one of only five people to have both a #1 single and an Oscar for acting, along with Cher, Barbra Streisand, Bing Crosby, and Jamie Foxx. Yeah, Jamie Foxx. But did you know:
His version of “New York, New York” is played at Yankee Stadium after every Yankee home win? Liza Minelli’s version is played after every Yankee home loss.
He was the original choice to play Dirty Harry?
When Bela Lugosi died virtually penniless, Sinatra paid for his funeral?
According to www.imdb.com, “Sinatra weighed over 13 pounds at birth, and he had to be delivered by forceps. As a result, one of his ears was nearly severed. Showing no signs of life, he was held by his grandmother under cold, running water. He began to breathe, and cry. His mother – a practical nurse – and his father – a tavern operator – had been hoping for a girl, and had already chosen the name Frances. So they gave him the masculine form of the name: Francis.”
Here he is performing vocal warm-ups with Jackie Gleason.
Please. You know I’m not going to talk about Dharma Bums or On The Road. I didn’t get an English degree for that. And plus, I’m not my 1995 boyfriend, trying desperately to have a deep conversation, so…
This is not to dismiss Jack Kerouac’s writing; if that’s what you want, check out another WP blogger. If it’s shallow and unnecessary judgment you need, you’re in the right place. And this isn’t about his cup of liquor or his pipe or his gingham or his lustful stare. It’s about how he was reincarnated as Nathan Fillion.
Reports today show Doris Day’s age from 90 to 92, owing to the fact that she lied about her age, back in the day, so that she could sing professionally with a big band in a club. According to http://www.npr.org, Day’s bandleader lied to the club owners and told them she was a legal adult.
“I kept forgetting that I wasn’t two years older for years,” Doris Day said. “As the years go on, and my mother said to me, ‘You know what, it just occurred to me. You’re not really 30. You’re 28.’ And I looked at her and said, ‘Oh my gosh, I forgot all about that.'”
How nice to suddenly remember you’re two years younger!
This is guaranteed to be the most recent picture you’ll find of the reclusive actress, who has been single for over 30 years, living with her dogs in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.
Most of us, however, prefer to remember Day, born Doris Mary Ann Kappelhoff, as the fresh-faced Goldilocks shown in this 1948 Christmas pic with Bob Hope. Perhaps she’ll live to be 100 like he did!
Years ago, when I was single and determined not to repeat the sins of the past, I made a list of what I wanted in the next (and final) man. I have misplaced said list, but I recall that one was that he did not drive a Miata (apparently there were Miatas in spades at the time, and ain’t nobody got time to rebuild the confidence of a man who’s overcompensating), that he did not smoke (I was tired of doing laundry that smelled like a bar), and that he could change his own oil (preferably in his truck). He also could not be vegan nor vegetarian, and he would have to be quick on the draw if Enya popped up on the radio, because Heaven knows I hate me some Enya. Change that station pronto! Apparently I’m not the only one.
But nowhere on that list did it require that he be a skilled yarnswoman or masterquilter or whatever you call one who sews things (other than Chinese minors in factories). When I did finally begin dating my now-husband, he met about 90% of that list. So I took him. Only after we were married, did I realize that a deer-hunting, guitar-playing, camo-clad Texas boy could also operate the pedal of a sewing machine. And when our son inevitably ripped buttons off his clothes or tore his jeans, my husband could fix it. Like Rosey Freaking Grier.
Okay, he wasn’t hunched over with a needle and thread on a shag carpet next to a gold couch, doing a self-portrait, but you get my point. On the seesaw of gender identity, the seesaw weighed heavily on the masculine. But he could still fix my hem of my Ally McBeal power suit if need be, so I could get back to my fluorescent-lit office job, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. Yep, that’s me in my Enjoli.
But don’t go thinking we ladies all want sensitive men. We don’t. You can use tools, but you don’t have to be one. Mostly we just want to talk. Sit next to us and listen while we TALK TALK TALK incessantly about whatever is on our minds. Just nod and “hmmm” periodically and let us use up our daily word count, which is approximately 13,000 more words than yours. Case in point:
You can plainly see why I shared Mr. Fountain with you. I felt like he needed to be in all of your lives. I did not know there was such a thing as a “nationally known clarinetist” (do we have any now?), but he was big enough to play TWO concerts at Arlington High School back in 1963.
Such were the aspirations of these teens with their instruments in the 50s.
Below is a junior high band in 1923, before electric guitars existed.
In the back row, you can see Leonardo DiCaprio during his Growing Pains years.
During the turbulent 60s, girls learned to move to the beat of a different drum. “It’s just like holding chopsticks, Melinda. Don’t try too hard.”
And these nicely-clad songbirds look confident gathered around the piano.
Hey, you wanna see what Mr. Fountain looks like these days? He threw beads out to the crowd in New Orleans last year:
I Don't Get It 