Oh, sweetheart, what can be done about this? Even Jazz Hands, overdone blush, a Mardi Gras Reynolds Wrap sash, and a Newton-John headband cannot distract from what’s at hand here. Bless your heart.
And this one could have been easily prevented with a razor. Can this even be real?
Burt Reynolds ain’t got nothin’ on me.
Usually pleated pants are the worst part of a photo op, but not in this case:
At least his trousers aren’t VINYL. What is up with that? Even the cat is struggling to break free from that anemic woman’s wardrobe choices. I’d rather don a cat collar than whatever that is around her neck. And who chose that poor man’s Big Bang background? It’s like a swirling cosmic soup where galaxies collide at the corner of Where Is His Belt and Please Button Your Cuffs. And let’s not forget the photographer, complicit in this atrocity, who allowed the female to wear her hair tucked behind those ears. What the what? I sure hope that kitty Rockette-highkicked its way out of that couple’s life.
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.
shorpy
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!
xhsyoung.pbworks.com
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.
In a couple of days, bloggers everywhere will be posting about the fourth anniversary of Michael Jackson’s passing. Many less will mention Farrah Fawcett, who passed on the same day. Farrah, who changed the spelling of her first name from Ferrah, was a hair and fashion icon to girls of the 1970s, despite the fact that she only spent one season on Charlie’s Angels. Although her legacy does not impact the world in the way that Jackson’s does, I wanted to give her a shout out.
We can see these images in our minds: Farrah with the healthy glow, Farrah on the skateboard, Farrah in the infamous Mexican blanket swimsuit poster, too cliche for me to post. Long before The Burning Bed, the ups and downs with long-time lover Ryan O’ Neal, and the crazy stint on Letterman–the same year she turned 50 and posed in Playboy–she was a stunner. And presumably sane.
Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.
Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.
Ontario, California 1988
Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?
Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.
Bourbon, IN 1990
Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?
Senatobia, MS 1994
His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.
Here it is in a nutshell: the reality of 1:30am bar life. Verbena sees the 2:00am last call on the horizon. Semisonic will play “Closing Time,” and the jukebox will stop, the lights will come up, and the illusion will shatter. But in this brief moment, with Lloyd’s arm around her, his warm bourbony breath on her cheeks, and fiery hot nuts so accessible and so amazingly affordable, life is good.
This is one of the most telling portraits from Henry Horenstein’s book HonkyTonk, a book of fascinating black and white portraits he took mostly from the country and western scene in the 1970s. It’s hard to narrow a brief selection down, but there are sites that showcase many of them, such as http://clampart.com/2012/07/honky-tonk-portraits-of-country-music-2/#/13. However, I prefer to leaf through the book itself and create my own back stories.
Is Earl waxing nostalgic for his salad days, missing the boys in his high school rockabilly band, before the tattoos and the Kool habit? Before Arlene cheated with Vernon, his supposed best friend, and then a twister took Vernon to his maker, and isn’t that sweet justice?
The ladies of DPS knew how to live large near the tail end of The Great Depression. And boy howdy, could they tilt a hat just so!
As the war got into full swing, women assumed roles formerly filled by men, and literally got their hands dirty.
But women with administrative duties were not left idle; check out the STACKS of driver license applications behind Cicely and Mrs. Miller.
After the war ended, applications continued to pour in.
Meanwhile, lucky teens were trying their hands at the new Aetna Steerometer, which simulated driving conditions.
Student drivers got to take a spin in the snazzy Studebaker training car. Hold on to your boater straw hats, gents! Maybe they’re going to pick up the fourth member of their barbershop quartet?
As the years rolled by, DPS workers changed with the times, as seen by the lovely hairdos of Ms. Davis and Ms. Deeds, bookending a stern bespectacled Gene Kelly.
But secretary Tom was not about to be upstaged.
She knew how to stay abreast of current trends.
Some women were forced to wear uniforms, so they had to assert their individuality with enormous glasses. Three of these people are actually women.
But let’s go out on a high note, with the cheery Loveboat-cruise director smile of Ms. Stade and the blonde wings of love about to give Ms. Steele lift-off into space.
And with that, we close the chapter on DPS. Remember that it’s the end of May, if you’re inspection sticker is almost due. You wouldn’t want to get ticketed.
Today’s post is Part II in the ongoing bliss that is discovering the Dept of Public Safety’s pictorial heritage. Pictured above is a badass Texas Ranger in an armored vehicle. As I lack a penis, I have no desire to commandeer said vehicle or even go near it. I will speak for most ladies who have no desire to appropriate or operate any sort of tankylooking thing. But those of you who do might want to take a little spin in it.
Police officers have a noble history of enforcing the law, which often means sucking the fun out of your good times. I would have let this guy go, since his car is so boss, but they have quotas to fill.
And don’t try to outrun them; they will go all Ponch and Jon on your bippy.
The Texas Rangers are part of a major division within the Texas DPS, who investigate serious crimes. They also will suck the wind out of a criminal’s sails. Cross the border to nasty swampland-subpar-highway-system Louisiana if you want to play craps; there’s no gambling in Texas.
And weed is still illegal, too–no matter what the dreadheaded, tiedyed-shirt-wearing potheads would have you believe. I don’t have glaucoma nor a criminal history, so I don’t get up close with Mary Jane, but I didn’t think it looked so much like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
And don’t think they’ll let you off with a warning. This Amish guy just galloped in from Pennsylvania, and he is exhausted, so he won’t think twice about putting a bullet in your gut. And he’s not the only one.
When Sergeant Guthrie smells something fishy, it is on. It is SO on.
And Sergeant Hall? Some say he’s certifiably insane, a bonafide 5150. I heard he picks possums off the highway, and eats them snout and all. Don’t sass him. He may take you to a Mexican prison if he’s feeling ornery. And that’s just for jaywalking.
And don’t let Officer Lowery fool you. Word on the street is he used to be the lethal injectioner at Huntsville. He thought sterilizing needles was a waste of time. So do I, for that matter.
Now look, they’re not all gruff. Officers Turner & Powell run the night shift, so that might be the perfect time to rob a 7-11. Just saying.
But you won’t run forever. Justice will have its day. They will see to it. Once information is sent from the transceiver, all hope is gone.
And trust me, you do NOT want them sicking Investigator Padgett on your ass. He’s a superhero, and I don’t mean his demon eyes. His power is oft compared to that of Spiderman, only his wide lapel shoots out disco balls filled with elephant tranquilizer. You don’t want to wake up from that sleep, ripe for interrogation.
Am I right or Amarillo?
You feelin’ lucky, Punk?
(All of the above is purely for humorous purposes and in no way meant to disrespect any officer of the law. So please don’t sic Padgett on me…)
Memorial Day seems as fitting a day as ever to begin our weeklong (we’ll see about that) Texas Dept of Public Safety pictorial history retrospective, seeing as many officers lost their lives in the line of duty. However, today’s focus is not on lost life, but on the superbadassness of the department from 1935-1980. I realize this seems hyperspecialized, but these pics are a treasure trove of early law enforcement, as well as insight into the long-gone TWENTIETH CENTURY. You will witness early outdated, inefficient ways of doing things, like searching for fingerprints by hand and how to confirm if someone is a doublecrossing liar.
See how people used to communicate with typing thingies and wirey boxes.
Experience the communications hub, the leader in advanced technology.
You will meet important characters, like Pop and Paul!
Shoot the breeze with Viola and Barbara, both fashioned from the hands of Jim Henson!
And FYI, Mr. Curb is not about to take any crap from you today.
So join me as we take a long stroll through the halls of public safety. Drive safely!
I didn’t watch The Hardy Boys, but I listened to my Shaun Cassidy Born Late album until the vinyl wore thin. And “Teen Dream” was my favorite song. He sang about a “generation younger than rock ‘n’ roll,” which meant a generation born after 1955, which seemed HELLA old, since that was like my parent’s age. Ick. These were the people still weeping about Elvis falling dead on his toilet a few months ago. Why couldn’t they just listen to all of Shaun’s awesome songs and cheer up? Even a first grader could see that clearly.
I was going to marry Shaun Cassidy. That’s all there was to it. When you’re pre-pubescent, it’s the pretty boys, the non-threatening (read: effeminate) ones that do you in. And Shaun had everything; big doe eyes, smooth, feathered hair (not altogether unlike the hair of my best friend, who was a female), and a lovely vocal range, enabling him to hit the Teen Dream lyric “hurri-CANE” with skill. And you just know that if you were dating, and there was a misunderstanding, he would look into your eyes and hold your hands and you would discuss your feelings and never let the sun go down on your anger. Shaun Cassidy would never go all Chris Brown on you.
And if that wasn’t enough, watch how he brings his elbow down all butch at the end of the song. Work that stage, Hardy Boy!
Actually, Renee, you may not have known it at the time, but it was gonna get a whole lot more messed-up. Reference the 2013 gas prices. What do you think Wayne Stevens would think about that? He was pumping gas for a quarter a gallon. A QUARTER PER GALLON!!!!! Super duper indeed.
But I get it. It was high school. Life wasn’t peachy keen. Clearly, you had it in for Miss Toni.
I have decades upon decades of yearbooks, but there is nary a HINT of profanity in any year until 1972, when the world went to hell. Miss Toni must have liked one of the numerous boys whose name you underlined in red. Was it Steve? It was Steve, wasn’t it? This is all so very Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.
Big deal. Take a chance on Leslie. His hair swoops majestically like an eagle over a canyon. Plus, he has that Taylor Lautner hammerhead shark forehead that the tweens like so much.
And hey, if you’re still bitter, shove her in a fridge, like your peers did to poor Vickie. I think we finally found a job for the Maytag repairman.
Gracious, Renee! What was your problem? I just found another girl whom you evidently perceived as the dark lord, horns and all.
Honestly, I’m more concerned with Sandy, who seems to be melting right off the paper.
You just need to chill out in a new Pinto, car of the future.
Or take some barbiturates–I know they sold them then. Ask these two classmates. They should know where to score some.
Or hang out with the annual staffers; they know how to have fun. Buy the world a Coke and keep it company. And rock that tie, girl.
And hey, if that doesn’t work, you can always pledge Zeta Phi.
Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get. My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come. Here’s one such item: The site http://www.menwholooklikekennyrogers.com/ has existed since I was in my TWENTIES. It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers. Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?
If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you. I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased. They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits. Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish. Combined. And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.” No kidding.
But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother. Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go. Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).
Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry. Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.
And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.
Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased. Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb. You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.
You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man? Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather? I am vexed.
Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists. Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point. You had a good run, Barry. Longer than most of us could ever dream of. And that’s no Jive Talkin’.
At least his trousers aren’t VINYL. What is up with that? Even the cat is struggling to break free from that anemic woman’s wardrobe choices. I’d rather don a cat collar than whatever that is around her neck. And who chose that poor man’s Big Bang background? It’s like a swirling cosmic soup where galaxies collide at the corner of Where Is His Belt and Please Button Your Cuffs. And let’s not forget the photographer, complicit in this atrocity, who allowed the female to wear her hair tucked behind those ears. What the what? I sure hope that kitty Rockette-highkicked its way out of that couple’s life.
I Don't Get It 