1960s – Page 25 – I Don't Get It

Operator, Could You Help Me Place This Call?

I used to watch Good Times when I was young, and JJ would always answer the phone, “Cello?” (like the instrument). It reeked of cool, even for a gangly ghetto brother.

Before facetiming and apps and smartphones that could shut your garage door for you, phones were a means of communication by using one’s voice. Certain phone images from pop culture take us back to moments in our lives.

How could we forget the iconic scene in It’s A Wonderful Life? I can feel the sexual tension from here.

This one still gives me the creeps. “We’ve traced the call, and it’s coming from inside the house.”

1979 When A Stranger Calls--http://tooscarytowatch.blogspot.com/ — 1979 When A Stranger Calls–http://tooscarytowatch.blogspot.com/

Dum dum dum!!

Surely you remember this scene in 1985’s Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure when Pee Wee tells the bikers, “Shhh! I’m trying to use the phone!”

Even E.T. tried to get in on the action. But he never did phone home.

But the celeb with by far the most phone pics is the one and only Norma Jean Baker. She favored cross-your-heart phones, endorsed by her pal Jane Russell.

Apparently, she tagteamed quite often.

Although at home, she needed the casual ease of one hand free to express herself.

Keeping private conversations confidential…

In her earlier years, she posed with phones for cheesecake shots. I bet there wasn’t even anyone on the line…

Then she got the call from JFK: it was over.

And she took it well.

When Steve McQueen Says You’re Hot, People Listen

The 1964 yearbook staff at the University of Oklahoma had the juevos to ask Steve McQueen to participate as “Beauty Judge” for their beauty contest. He actually took the time to reply.

Ask and ye shall receive. After all, years of girl-gazing did qualify him to judge. And he chose Miss Barbie Listen. Yep, that’s her real name.

Can you blame him? Her hair is only perfect. Her dress and gloves are white as snow. And I think it was very diplomatic of him to name five girls in the tie for 4th place. Nobody wants to be the loser. But I imagine Barbie Listen comes from the school of Ricky Bobby:

Suck it, losers.

Girls Gone Mild

Laptop, How I Love Thee

Thirty-Five Cent Flick

When I was young, there was a dollar movie theater in town, where you could view not-so-recent movies or rescreenings of Ishtar. I also recall going skating on Wednesdays for dollar skate night. But I am not old enough to recall paying a quarter and a dime for a movie. This I cannot fathom. How much was a Coke? A nickel?

Ho Ho Hopelessly Outnumbered

When LBJ Locks You Into His Steely Death Stare…

…you cannot look away.

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.