1950s – Page 41 – I Don't Get It

Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late

“Catholic girls start much too late.” That’s what Billy Joel says, anyway. But these Catholic girls look decades ahead of their time; heads bowed down, as if texting or finding apps for their smartphones at http://www.howtopraytherosary.com.

Growing up, I knew very few people who attended church and absolutely no one who attended Catholic church. I don’t even know if there was a Catholic school within twenty miles. All I know of Catholic school are the horror stories adults have told about knuckle-rapping nuns and fear of the confessional. I admit there is something eerie about these kneeling, chapel veil-adorned students and the halo surrounding them.

But I don’t know enough about Catholicism to condemn it, so I’ll leave that to Madonna. Sacrilegious is her middle name. In any event, this looks innocent enough.

Like most high school students, these young ladies had the opportunity to dissect “reckless amphibians.” Perhaps that was a small outlet for raging teenage hormones.

Uniforms prevented them from dressing hoochie-mama, and also made it more difficult to determine the poor from the middle class. Nobody was drinking Tab or Diet Coke or Monster; milk was doing their bodies good.

Without the distraction of boys, it was easier to remain chaste and avoid temptation. If you played your cards right, you could wind up with the coveted prize. Hope they hooked a good one!

Clubhouse On A Rainy Day

I got a new Saturday Evening Post today, solely for the cover. Truth be told, I pick all my books by their covers. That’s how I judge things, especially if they have cute orange and white Penguin spines at the bookstore. I can’t pass that up. This cover, although Rockwellian, was actually done by Ben Kimberly Prins. I never heard of him, either.

I’m not a rich white guy nor a member of a country club (I hear you, Travis Tritt), but I like the camaraderie depicted, the fact that they’re not bowling alone, that they’re spending time interacting with other humans face-to-face. The fellowship! And yes, I like their hats. It reminds me of The Great Good Place, a book about places in the community where people can gather, other than work or home.

I realize that art, in its reflection of life, is as subjective as music. None of us is going to like the same things. I don’t like abstract art because it looks lazy. Splashing paint, to me, is not a skill. If your canvas resembles a kindergarten fingerpainting, it does not impress me. But I realize that others enjoy what that chaos represents.

I see enough chaos on the news. I don’t want part of my walls taken up by something that I can’t figure out what the heck it is. I like everything to fit into boxes, so that I can stick an adhesive label on it. That’s called order. I don’t like guessing games. I do not like abstracts, Sam I am. But to each his own. Her own. Its own.

Perhaps it’s an idealized version of life, a sterilized Americana, in an era in which I was not even alive. But I am simple. I like happy things. Beaches and thunderstorms!

Not this.

The yellow glow of a festive party!

Not creepy, disturbing, nightmare-inducing, twisted-in-the-head stuff like this. If you like this, I bet you see dead people. I bet you spend a lot of time in the basement. And I realize this is pretty tame, but I can’t even post the gruesome, oversexualized, bloodied up images that pour forth from people’s jacked-up brains.

So I leave you with two timely images for the New Year. This babysitter is drinking milk because calcium is good for her bones.

New Year's Eve Babysitter — New Year’s Eve Babysitter

And this couple, still awake at 2:52am, has the First World Problem of tackling a kitchen full of dirty dishes and leftovers.

New Year's Aftermath — New Year’s Aftermath

That’s how I like my problems: First World. And that’s how I like my art: easy to recognize.

And speaking of easy to recognize, happy 66th birthday to my favorite bartender, Isaac Washington. I hope your day is exciting and new!

Christmas Mold

I don’t suppose Santa would prefer a jiggling foot-high Jell-O mound to a batch of warm Tollhouse Cookies, but it’s better than nothing–and low on calories. Although I would never allow my toddler to sleep under a table for safety reasons, I can confirm that the pose is a common one for children, as though they were kneeling in prayer and simply toppled forward. My concern is the rodent in a cradle on the mantle. ‘Twere I Santa, I would question the hygiene of the home and pass on the gelatin altogether.

Let’s Hear It For The Tigers

I love this shot for these reasons:

the joy on the faces of the cheerleaders
the animated boys in the background, chock full of increasing testosterone, apparently holding up the roof with their palms
the cat’s eye glasses
the multiracial shoulders jam-packed against one another
the unadulterated glee on that girl’s face to the far left, and her friend who should have had a V-8
the girl on the far right with her hand to her chest, as well as the boy above her clasping his hands, both of them silently saying, “MY stars…”

I was born in the wrong decade.

Don’t Kick Sand In Their Faces

In My Country, Too, We Like Its Speed

I like the vagueness of the token foreigner’s words, “my country” because that could mean anything. Perhaps he is a successful businessman, since he is well-dressed and has access to slick hair creams. I like his grand gesture as well. It’s like he’s welcoming Barbara Bush to Fantasy Island.

Perhaps some of you are programmed to be on the lookout for racism, so you can’t possibly enjoy this. Let’s find an opportunity to be offended; won’t that be fun? But break down his words; there isn’t anything pejorative there. He’s not represented in a demeaning way. He’s not dressed in rags or carrying a water vessel on his head–or a towel–or a sombrero. He’s simply declaring that all countries can appreciate the merits of Convair. And if it still existed, perhaps I could, too.

Countdown to Thanksgiving

As you prepare for your Thanksgiving holiday in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS, keep these important facts in mind:

If your in-laws are coming to your home, stock up on Pepto-Bismol. And remember what Benjamin Franklin said: “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Hollah.

If you’re the one traveling, make sure your vehicle has been well-maintained. I can’t overstate this enough.

When you’re fueling up, use high anti-knock gasoline. You never know what kind of weather you will encounter.

Many Americans enjoy spending hours swilling beer and watching football as a way of offering up thanks on this four-day weekend, so make sure your big screen TV is not on the fritz.

Don’t forget the most important part: dessert! Everyone loves pies–pumpkin, pecan, apple, sweet potato, blackberry, chocolate cream, coconut cream…There’s always room for dessert.

But above all, avoid excessive gluttony.

And remember what it’s all about, Charlie Brown–an annual tradition since 1863, when Lincoln proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.”

Tales of a 150-lb Has-Been

The August 23, 1958 Saturday Evening Post caught my eye because of the beautiful artwork on the front cover.

Despite the dainty waving, it’s a lovely summer log cabin scene called Visitors to Cabin in the Woods. I ponied up the dollar for the magazine and peeked inside. I discovered a two-page article on Francesca Marlene de Czanyi von Gerber, aka Mitzi Gaynor. Most of us remember her from South Pacific.

http://www.lovemusicwineandrevolution.blogspot.com

The article featured this playful shot of her on the beach.

Ummm, am I blind? I think she could qualify as a raving beauty. I mean, come on. Fellas, would you kick this Technicolor lady out of your bed?

The article goes on to show a picture of her with her husband, Jack Bean. With his encouragement, she lost the disgusting 35 lbs she had been schlepping around like an elephant.

Thankfully, Jack transformed her into a 37-20-36 and revitalized her fledgling career. She was then able to make movies with Gene Kelly, where she posed in unnatural positions such as this for The Fart Whisperers.

It seems that marrying Mr. Bean (not this one)–

but this one–

served her well, as they were married until his death in 2006. And as far as I can tell, she kept her figure. A round of applause, for you, 82-year-old Mitzi Gaynor. Not a has-been at all!

Like Dig What’s New

For people of my generation, Bob Denver will forever be Gilligan, the Skipper’s “Little Buddy.” But to my parents’ generation, Bob Denver remains Maynard G. Krebs from The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (also known as simply Dobie Gillis ), a sitcom that aired from 1959 to 1963. Maynard was TV’s first beatnik and jive-talking bongo player, and wannabe hepcats thought he was cool. Even Montgomery Ward took notice and offered trim tapered cotton ivy shirts for those in the know.

In case you missed it, here’s a close-up:

So it wasn’t Moon Zappa or Valley Girls who coined “like” after all. Mainstream American catalogs were doing it way back in 1962. They even used Maynard’s bongo-playing likeness to sell their combed cotton eversheen coats.

Facial hair? What the what? And check out these bobble heads. I wonder what they’d be worth today, American Pickers? Antiques Road Show? Pawn Stars? Anyone?

In case you’ve never seen Maynard in action, here’s a clip of him, showing his classmates the first portable music player, so he can listen to smooth jazz.

Ain’t it a gasser?

With Love From Tulia

Floydelle Pannell, I hope you never married, because losing that maiden name would be tragic.

“Oh, LaQuita, you will never KNOWWWW anything about my home, I”ll never know how good it feels to hold you…”

Just chilling on drugstore stools, kicking back with 6 ounces of tap water.

A quarter for a gallon of gas. That’s all I have to say.

Is Gaye blind, or is she holding a rake? Either way, they’re all having a good chuckle.

At Least He Can Still Lift Milk

Total Yodel Recall

NBC has been advertising its new summer show, The Winner Is, all week, and as much as I enjoy Nick Lachey (and am glad for him that he finally became a daddy after a decade of waiting), I cannot take time out of the second half of my life to watch this. I spent last season cheering for Blake Shelton’s team on The Voice, and frankly, I’m exhausted. I had bristled at the thought of both Usher and Shakira as judges, but they won me over, and now I’d prefer to never see li’l Cee Lo or Diva Aguilera set foot on stage again. But I digress.

One of the clips NBC continues to pimp (while I’m TRYING to get my Hoda and Kathy Lee fix–all Kristen Wiig’s fault) of the new singing competition shows yodelers. Is this a new trend? Really? I was forced to watch Heidi Klum teach Bradley Cooper to yodel on The Tonight Show a couple months ago, and I’m pretty sure she did it again on America’s Got Talent last month. And is it NEWS that Jewel can yodel? Is it news she used to sleep in her car? I thought we all got the memo on that in 1995. I don’t need to hear her yodel again, with or without snaggletooth. I admit it’s preferable to hearing any of her hits, vacillating between her awkward lower register and what I like to refer to as her higher “toddler voice.” Her goo-goo ga-ga voice. Honestly, I’m yodeled out.

I do admit I was mildly amused by Jimmy Fallon and Brad Pitt’s yodeling skit last month, but mainly because they weren’t taking themselves too seriously. For my money, that’s his best acting job since Benjamin Button.

Look, unless you’re a singing cowboy (Roy Rogers or Gene Autry R.I.P.), leave yodeling alone. It’s not like it has lyrics the rest of us can sing along with. It’s not soothing, good to dance to, or helpful during a break-up. It’s like a gussied-up hog call. Don’t do it.

Let it go the way of country singer Slim Whitman, who passed away last month at the age of 90. Never heard of him? He was quite the yodeler. Per the New York Times article, “Michael Jackson named Mr. Whitman one of his 10 favorite vocalists. George Harrison credited him as an early influence. Paul McCartney said Mr. Whitman gave him the idea of playing the guitar left-handed.” And don’t even get me started on his impressive ‘stache.

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