1950s – Page 43 – I Don't Get It

Of COURSE, I’d Like Another Slice Of Real Yeast-Riz Pizza

I used to think I was born in the wrong era. Growing up, wearing plaid corduroy pants with striped brown shirts was not very feminine. However, everything about the 40s and 50s delighted me: the hair, the poodle skirts, the staying at home and not working and having a husband support me, the aqua-colored appliances, the white picket fences. And everyone looked so CLEAN, so hat and gloves, so put together.

I have STACKS of old magazines with endlessly fascinating ads, to which you will constantly be subjected. I don’t mind sexist ads. I don’t mind silly feminine hygiene ads. I don’t even mind “husky” toddler clothes ads for kids that look positively svelte by today’s standards. But the one thing that just baffles me is the food. The food looks AWFUL. Gelatinous and cottage-cheesey with potted meats. Ewww.

Take a gander at these ads, all from just ONE October 1958 Good Housekeeping:

Now I like hush puppies, as well as pancakes and ham, but this looks more like sweet ‘n’ sour chicken than actual breakfast. Waitress, I’d like the General Tso’s fried gluten with extra cholesterol and sugarbeetees, plus a side of hardened arteries. Pronto!

Now for lunch, we’ll add some healthy options. Tomato sauce is a vegetable, right?

I haven’t visited Sicily, but I’m fairly certain this is what a gen-u-ine Italian pizza looks like, with green olives at the tips of the star. Didn’t Cher bake this for Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck? They were totally Italian. P.S. Did Mrs. America really want to be associated with yeast? Maybe Miss America was busy endorsing Monistat?

Now save room, because we’ve invited the Johnsons over for a Souper Supper Loaf dinner, and Mom’s made a fanTABulous “handy ham appe-teaser.” No, not REAL ham, silly! You had that for breakfast. This is deviled ham. Pretend ham. Satan’s ham.

Don’t mind the fact that it resembles a voodoo doll for Mom to stab out her aggression, while indulging her perfectionist tendencies. Every little plasticky processed American cheese square must sit JUST right! Is the apple oxidizing at the toothpick hole?

Now time for the main event! You better get your coveting on, Mrs. Johnson, because there’s no way you’ll EVER top Mom’s meatloaf.

I don’t know which looks better: the one oozing blood, the one covered in toddler wretch, or the one doused with thousand island dressing. Oh, alright, already! Please pass the celery-salmon loaf. I can’t resist a river of celery running down that lovely loaf o’ fish. It’s like bundt cake, except it’s meat. And it’s gross. And it makes my throat fill with bile.

Stay tuned for more super keen ads from 1958! I’ll try not to nauseate you.

What A Rank Amateur You Are!

“When a man asks you for your first college weekend, it’s a big deal.” So begins the article in one of my 1958 Good Housekeeping magazines. Pardon? What’s a “college weekend’? Is he taking her to a college where she’s never been? Does he attend that college? If it’s her “first” one, does that imply many will follow? I’m so confused. Reading further adds no clarity.

“Nothing marks you as a greenhorn more quickly than arriving at the ivy-covered stations with bulging bags.” The station? Like a train? Certainly not a Greyhound Station. Is it located near an Ivy League college? (BTW, a greenhorn is a novice. Nothing like a longhorn, or a Foghorn Leghorn.)

The rules also say, “The greatest threat to a return engagement is getting gay (read, garrulous) or daring (read, dizzy)…” And if you DO CHOOSE to get gay or daring, “it proves nothing at all except what a rank amateur you are.” Yeesh! Rank amateur? So harsh! So complicated! I think I’d just bow out of the entire weekend altogether.

The whole thing reminds me of MIss Mona’s no-no rules from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas:

And please don’t show us no tattoos
No hearts and flowers on your thigh
It’s downright tacky
Brands belong on cattle and that ain’t what we’re selling at Miss Mona’s

Maybe that’s why I never got a tattoo; I didn’t want to upset Dolly Parton. Plus, if it’s trashy on a Chicken Ranch whore, how does it look on a common non-prostitute?

The ladies all sing, “Just lots of good will, and maybe one small thrill, but there’s nothing dirty going on!” Hmmm. Maybe THAT’S a college weekend?

Teepees and Trailer Homes

I took my state’s history courses when I was in elementary school, but now that I’m a parent, I have to learn the new history (based on which group is currently displeased with its depiction, or what we’d like to collectively erase, or what the editor accidentally cut and forgot to repaste). You know, kind of like when you’re dating someone, and you choose which past mistakes to reveal (Chinese tattoo, Minor In Possession, difficult break-up) and which to gloss over (lost weekends in Cancun, jail cells, crab infestations). It’s like that.

So I’m studying the new Texas history, looking at this picture, under the header, “Tipis: Early Mobile Homes.” Which makes me chuckle. First, “tipis” on my lips sounds like “tipp-iss.” I would have preferred “teepees,” even if that reminds me of toilet paper. Oh, there’s the school bell! Enjoy this Monday morning Spring Break history lesson:

When the group was ready to move on, they took apart their tipis to bring with them. The tipi’s wooden poles and buffalo hide could be made into a sort of “moving van” called a travois. The travelers packed all their belongings on the travois, a type of sled pulled by dogs and later by horses.

Really? Travois, from the French word travail? Was there a French influence in the Native American culture?

Now nobody thinks of tipis/teepees when one mentions mobile homes. Most of us picture the stereotypical manufactured home (broken Camaro up on blocks, Christmas lights strung across the porch, where the mildewy couch has caved in, and little spring coils are poking out, like grey hairs on an aging scalp). If you think that’s a stretch, I can point to a dozen just like that within a mile of my laptop.

Others will picture an R.V. (recreational vehicle), which technically IS a mobile home. Airstream trailers possess a kitschy coolness in modern times; Miranda Lambert sang about her desire to live in one with homemade curtains. And as taco truck culture grows, we see more and more Airstreams dealing affordableish foods, including Austin’s own “hey cupcake,” which could REALLY USE A COMMA in its name. SERIOUSLY, IN A TOWN WITH HALF A MILLION ENGLISH MAJORS, YOU’D THINK SOMEONE MAY HAVE CLUED YOU IN ON THAT ONE. It’s like the Gin Blossoms and “Hey Jealousy” all over again…

Despite the insipid and omnipresent SWOOSHES covering recreational vehicles, their insides can be pretty keen. We’ve seen the inside of a concert tour bus; we know how stars are living large on the road (except, of course, for Buddy Holly’s Winter Dance Party tour bus; its heater broke down in sub-freezing weather, which caused his drummer to get frostbite, for which he was hospitalized, which spared him from the chance to ride in American Pie, which crashed on the Day the Music Died, and two days later, the drummer had to rejoin the tour, grieving and frostbitten.) But other than THAT, folks can really pimp their rides in style, even make them downright classy.

Classy, however, is not a term associated with manufactured homes.

I have friends and family who live in site-built homes (that’s the term we had to use at the appraisal district), and a couple in manufactured homes. I have been in manufactured homes that were much nicer than some site-built homes. But like that poster says, stereotypes are based on reality. So here’s the question: were trailers EVER COOL? I mean, this 1950s model looks pretty swank. No stained wifebeaters on Dad, no chain link fence, no deranged “rabified” Pit Bulls straining to kill.

And this isn’t too trashy, although I am sensing some underage recreation behind that snack bar, involving Swisher Sweets and Boone’s Strawberry Hill.

So how did THAT become THIS?

Yeah, that looks like it’s pretty well-fortified against any sudden tornado, on the off-chance that one might come veering toward it…

Good or bad, train wrecks sell: see Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. And the network that brought us that gem just debuted Welcome To Myrtle Manor, a reality series about a South Carolina trailer park. Who knows? Maybe they’ll become cool again.

Time For A Breather? Time For A Reality Check.

I spy with my little eyes a a trim little number working in the flower garden, wearing a jaunty yellow scarf and prissy white gloves to protect his manicure, with a clear oral fixation, hand on hip, jutted out all sassily. Uh-oh. The issue is not Mom’s beer. The issue is Mom’s a beard.

I Don’t Always Drink Beer, But When I Do…

…it’s Dos Equis. Actually, that’s not true. I very rarely drink beer, and I can’t recall the last time I had a Dos Equis. But the fact that that tagline is in my head means Dos Equis did a hell of a job marketing their beer with their pitchman, The World’s Most Interesting Man–who, incidentally, reminds me of Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Montalbán y Merino, the star of Fantasy Island, which came on after Love Boat. It always comes back to Love Boat for me. It’s my seven degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Women and wine go hand-in-hand. You’ve seen the ecards.

Grapes are healthy, right? Actually, these ecards seem kind of pathetic. The women are often alone. But beer is where it’s at for socializing. Check out this ad for beer in the Fifties:

"Friends from across the Lake" — “Friends from across the Lake”

It’s not wine, women, and song, but it’s beer, women, and song. The broads are dressed to the nines, spinning tunes and knitting, while casually-dressed men smoke pipes, throw back a pint, and wave to chums down at the pier, enjoying a twilight canoe ride. The soft glow of the lantern invites you in to the scene. I love it! And why wouldn’t I? It was painted by Haddon Sundblom, the man who brought us the genius of the Coca-Cola Santa Claus, the standard by which we measure all shopping mall Santas.

Another work of art is this watercolor by John Gannam, “Around the Swimming Pool,” used in an ad for the U.S. Brewers Foundation.

Keep in mind that this was 1948, so everyone was thin. And yes, everyone was fairskinned, so not every token ethnicity is represented, the way they are sprinkled in to department store ads in current acceptable proportion these days. Just get past that, you PC freaks. The focus here is on the technique. This is ART. You an keep your abstracts; I’ll take mine uplifting like this. A sunny day, a refreshing creek (clearly without water moccasins), stylish kerchiefs, Betty Grable legs, snacks at the ready… Who wouldn’t want this life? Even the most devout teetotaler is not immune to those Tang-tinted mugs o’ ale.

I imagine that creek runs down past the neighbor’s back yard, a few doors down, where the festivities continue.

Douglas Crockwell's "Birthday Party for Dad" — Douglas Crockwell’s “Birthday Party for Dad”

What a sweet back yard! Is that a waterfall in the background? The current looks pretty strong there in the foreground, but that’s not keeping Esther Williams from playfully ~~flirting~~ splashing her friend’s husband, the one hiding her first trimester pregnancy in the robe. Seriously, who wears a swim cap to a Frank Lloyd Wright back yard shindig? She must have just had her hair did. Or maybe it’s tinted pink, from an inept Beauty School drop-out. Either way, beer belongs. You better recognize.

“I Hate Reality, But It’s Still The Best Place To Get A Good Steak.”– Woody Allen

Vegans and vegetarians, this post is not for you. Get on your bike and pedal self-righteously to a co-op and buy yourself more hummus and tofu, kale and quinoa. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But this is for carnivores.

Ahem. I learned early on from The Smiths that meat was murder, but, then again,

And war is murder, and abortion is murder, and so on and so on. Now please make my steak medium rare.

Those of us of a certain age will remember this Saturday morning PSA, pleading with America’s then-non-obese children to not “drown our food.”

If you remember that, then you were probably wearing tapered jeans and shoulder pads when Sally (“Hot Lips” Houlihan) Kellerman exhorted us to come to Hidden Valley Ranch and slather copious amounts of the buttermilky goodness all over our baby carrots and celery sticks. It may be useful in getting your kids to EAT vegetables, but it’s a lousy strategy in TASTING them.

When it comes to steak, I can understand how some folks prefer grilled mushrooms on top, maybe some caramelized onions, even chimichurri on a flank steak. But for my money, a steak like this needs nothing more than the salt and pepper on the crust.

It is insulting to a chef to dine at his steakhouse and pour A1 and Worcestershire all over a fine cut of meat. Just say no to all of this!

Consider this ad for Hunt’s (Hunt’s, people! Not even Heinz, the real ketchup–pardon me, CATSUP) in 1952.

Either Dad doesn’t know how to grill a tasty T-bone, or that’s a perfectly good waste of beef. Ketchup on a steak is an irreverent, impious act against the inviolable laws of steak consumption. It just is. Frankly, ketchup serves its purpose best on potatoes. While we’re at it, can someone explain this to me? Is this corn beef hash and cole slaw?

And what on earth is this next one? Baked BEANS with ketchup? Is that meatloaf wedges as the accompaniment? Or are those pumpernickel slices? So confused. And where is the hand holding the bottles in all these images? Hunt’s is so magically buoyant.

Enough already! I need something that makes sense.

Ah, yes. There we are.

Starring In Our Own Late Late Show

I always liked this image from one of my Hollywood golden years picture books. An interesting snippet from their lives. But it also seemed sad, since Humphrey Bogart only lived a few more years.

Esophageal cancer ultimately claimed him, and he only weighed 80 pounds (36 kg) when he died on January 14, 1957. The things cancer can do to a body. That’s another thing I don’t get. I guess he was right when he said, “Things are never so bad they can’t be made worse.”

I suppose that’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, though.

“Look, Bogey! I see a pack of unfiltered Chesterfields that you haven’t smoked yet!”

And what happened to eight glasses of water a day?

Live and let live, I guess. We all have our vices and our downfall. His widow, Lauren Bacall once said, “You can’t start worrying about what’s going to happen. You get spastic enough worrying about what’s happening now.” Amen.

Swell Menu Art, Part I

Maxim’s Restaurant Francais in Houston, TX

I scored some super cute vintage menus at an estate sale several years ago and thought I would share, since I find them aesthetically superior to any contemporary art museum collection.

From Campy:

To Watercolor:

To bonafide art on this 1957 St. James’s Restaurant menu (Juillet-Aout only), just so you know the sardines are FRESH:

MÉHEUT Mathurin, Sardiniers démaillant la sardine

Note the selections on the reverse side, and that delicious Cafe Sanka takes ten minutes to prepare–for the finer palatte.

And lastly, Fortnum & Mason had a very Around The World in 80 Days feel to it.

Their menu included Sardines on a Raft, Hot Cheese Flan, Ovaltine, and Horlicks–of which I had never heard. Hungry yet?

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink And Operate Chainsaws

I’ve heard of helping your buddies move and then sharing a case of beer, but this is a different breed of cat.

Here’s how I think it all went down. Dapper Dan left the firm early, but not before enlisting Kip and Truman from accounting as his partners in landscaping. They floored their Studebakers to suburbia with an urgency mandating no time to change out of their office duds or set their fedoras down. Curse you, early sunset! In the past two hours, Dan has felled a tree, while Kip and Truman have laid the steps along the pathway. Won’t Betty be surprised?

Now it’s time for a break. Kip raises his spade, and Dan tops off his (third) glass of sociable whiskey (it pairs well with Pall Malls). Don’t snag your trousers while you straddle that trunk. And save some Corby’s for the other two. You remember what happened last time, Dan.

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