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.
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.
Sophie is actually just leading a mime workshop. I know, right? Mime. I guess when you’re deep into the craft of mime, you don’t have time for styling long locks. A mime’s best friend is a wash ‘n’ go hairstyle–after a black leotard and white face paint, of course. Let me just say that I’m not too keen on whiteface, any more than I am about blackface, or a combination thereof.
By the way, did you know that mime did not die out with Marcel Marceau? They have mime schools (yes, plural) in Paris, France. Another reason for me not to go to France.
Holy crap, he makes freaky clowns look like Care Bears.
I’d rather wake up to a man in Gene Simmons’ Kiss make-up than any of this crazy smeared mess. Do you know how traumatizing it is to an elementary age child to have to watch Shields and Yarnell (RIP Yarnell) dressed as Sonny and Cher on TV, doing what would later be called “the robot” by breakdancers?
They even disgraced the cover of my beloved Dynamite.
I wonder if they made out like that when they got home? All stiff like the tin man, with a laugh track playing in the background to help their self-esteem. You’ll have to youtube them yourself; I’m not poisoning my blog with any more memories of mimery.
Two liberal arts majors receive their Texas Cowgirls membership bandannas, thus allowing them to volunteer at HOBO (Helping Our Brothers Out), which gave Thanksgiving dinners to the homeless. Texas Cowgirls was a social club made up of girls from different sororities as well as “independent” girls, brought together at “Tap-In” and known as “heifers” until the next group was tapped in. Seriously.
It is an uncontested fact that the men of Cobra Kai, while not victorious against Danielson, did in fact possess enough feathered hair to construct another Feather Bed for John Denver’s grandma, which we all recall was “nine feet high and six feet wide, soft as a downy chick, and made from the feathers of forty ‘leven geese…” Or in this case, three Cobra Kai.
It is also a universal truth that Farrah Fawcett wore the crown of queen bee for female feathered hair. However, I have just discovered evidence of a firm runner-up to the title.
This unnamed vixen was a member of Akers’ Angels at the University of Texas, whose job it was to show prospective Longhorn football players around campus. No, that doesn’t sound like an escort at all. She evidently took the title of Angel seriously, by copying the hairstyle of one of Charlie’s Angels. But while Farrah’s locks twirled and swirled like a spiral staircase, this lady’s feathers formed an impenetrable brick wall, eight inches high, so that neither fiery darts nor a linebacker who looks as confused as Moose in Archie Comics could get through it.
Yes, her hair is powerful. But here’s a word of advice: stay out of the humidity before it goes all Kristy McNichol on you. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
These gorgeous gals can hardly contain themselves, anticipating the opening number at the Charley Pride concert. They are duded up and ready to get their country music on. What is that, you say? Who is Charley Pride? I can’t hear you over the squeaking of her leather jacket as she shifts uncomfortably against the wallet in her back pocket. Charley Pride is a country music singer who had hits in the 70s and 80s, scoring his 29th No. 1 in 1983 with “Night Games.” Back then, he was a pretty big deal.
Apparently, Charley Pride has been forgotten. I did not know it until I saw this picture. I assumed he was very much remembered, since everyone and their dog wants to call Darius “Don’t Call Me Hootie” Rucker the modern-day Mr. Pride. True, they have the honor of being the only two African-American artists to have solo No. 1 hits in the Country Music genre, but Charley is a traditionalist, and Darius is a crossover artist, writing his own songs as well as scoring hits with covers like “Wagon Wheel,” originally co-written by Bob Dylan.
If you know anything about me by now (aside from the fact that I don’t get it), you know Mama likes her ties, even this silk handkerchief thingy that isn’t really a tie. A man who wears this can never truly be forgotten. Especially since he’s still alive.
Now I’ll tell you who’s really been forgotten. Eddie Rabbitt. God rest his soul, he has been forgotten. Case in point: I waltzed into the local Best Buy nigh on seven years ago, back when people still purchased CDs, looking for a “best of” collection. I grabbed one of the associates, bordering on the edge of adolescence. He had never heard of Mr. Rabbitt, but he went to his trusty keyboard at the end of the aisle, punched in the name, and came up with…nothing. What? Who erased Eddie Rabbitt from existence? Who does Worst Buy think they are? I put a hex on them that day to perish in the manner of Blockbuster Video, and mark my word, they will. As sure as Kilimanjaro rises like an empress above the Serengeti.
I said, “Boy! Go fetch me your most elder statesman, for I wish to speak with him.” Eventually, a schlubbier version of gawky teen made his way over to me, and he could not have yet been thirty. I told him I wanted to hear “I Love A Rainy Night.” This ditty he could not recall.
“What about ‘Driving My Life Away?’ You remember that one about the windshield wipers?”
“No. No, I don’t.” At that point, he sounded just like Robin Gibb on The Barry Gibb Talk Show, but I figured making reference to the Brothers Gibb would get us nowhere.
“Surely you bought the Soft Love Adult Contemporary three cassette collection from a late-night infomercial in the 80s like I did, the one that contained Rabbitt’s hit with Crystal Gayle, ‘You And I.’ “
His eyebrows raised. “The lady with the long-ass hair?”
“Yes, her!” Victory was in sight.
“I know her. But I don’t know that song.”
Exasperated, I explained, “He wrote ‘Kentucky Rain’ for Elvis. Have you heard of Elvis?”
“Elvis, yes. Kentucky, yes. Eddie Rabbitt, no.” And even though he was only saying the words, I knew that he was misspelling Rabbitt in his mind. Curse him.
Ugh. So don’t cry for Charley Pride, Argentina. Cry for Eddie Rabbitt and his smoldering bedroom eyes.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner, unless it’s a corner drug store. After performing the iconic lift scene with Johnny, Baby took a break with a malted down at Cunningham’s Drug Store. Looks like she had the time of her life.
Yes, it’s Elvis’s birthday today. It is my intention to brave the blustery polar vortex and go to Chuy’s Tex-Mex to consume an Elvis Presley Memorial Combo in his honor. New Year’s Resolution be damned. It is my obligation as an American citizen.
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This photo of Chuy’s is courtesy of TripAdvisor.
Mercy, that looks delicious! But today’s post is not about The King of Rock n Roll; it’s about The King of Pop. You see, my 12-year-old self would have considered it an epic failure on my part to not have been married to Michael Jackson by this point. That was, after all, my master plan. And probably that of a million billion other adolescent girls. And we all failed. Except ironically, for the daughter of the King of Rock. And Debbie Rowe, but she doesn’t count.
No matter that he no longer walks the earth. My 12-year-old self would be disappointed. He was the reason we hit “play” and “record” simultaneously on our jambox that sat atop the television on the night the Thriller video premiered. No, we didn’t have a VCR yet. He was the reason my best friend and I learned to moonwalk in our Bill Blass socks on my parents’ hardwood floors. He was the reason we wore our red zippered Beat It jackets (not ironically, of course) to school and then promptly retired them out of humiliation because for some reason, sixth grade white girls couldn’t quite carry the look. In our defense, we did weigh 115 lbs at that point, just like he did.
I think it’s safe to say that most current musical artists were influenced by Michael Jackson. I imagine his influence spread into other art genres as well. But I was not aware of the magnitude of this until my friend posted this glorious image on facebook today. Apparently she was googling “exotic flowers,” and this gem appeared:
I know what you’re thinking. Sometimes words can’t express our emotions, our awe, our wonder. In that sense, this artwork is like the Grand Canyon. I was only an Art Major for two years before changing to a legit degree (just kidding, art majors), so I am clearly not the authority on this. But I can say that never has there been such a depiction of the soft femininity of flowers balanced with the rugged machismo of Michael Jackson.
Needless to say, there was an instant barrage of comments, including:
that’s a pretty young lady
Why? Why? Tell them that it’s human nature.
i want this person to be my next family photographer.
Are those cornrows? Seriously?
i can give your whole family cornrows after your family photographs if you want that with exotic flowers in your hair…lol
Is there alcohol in your coffee this morning?
Looks like an Herbal Esssence commercial!
Much magical.
Does anyone else feel compelled to go purchase Summer’s Eve products?
I like how the photo looks wet…
Or sweaty
I felt it was my duty to share this beautiful artwork with my readers. You’re welcome. I hope your day is much magical.
I’m not sure “unique” is the word I would use for a university (LSU) that allows this shorts shot in its yearbook (The Gumbo) sans caption, so we have no idea if this is a shrunken hacky sack or a walnut being tossed around, but unique is what it has declared itself to be. See?
What’s weirder than a yearbook showing a student getting high? Someone still smoking pot after 1980.
Now take a journey with me if you will, back into the lives of Louisiana State University students during the 1985-1986 school year. The campus is located in Baton Rouge (aka Red Stick), Louisiana, and here’s a fun fact:
The city got its name from the blood-drenched poles that were used to hang bear heads and fish in various rituals that were carried out by the natives. Now just add voodoo and stir!
The rules of the Jam Jam ’85 (aka Jambalaya-Jamboree) included:
First you don your gay apparel (overalls).
Then you kiss the crawfish.
3. Then you put a camo shirt on, grab a girl with crawfish earrings, and sing a rousing rendition of Hank Williams’ “Jambalaya.”
Altogether, that sounds quite promising. What a fun campus! No wonder Matt Damon chose LSU to pursue his bachelors of disc jockey.
But he wasn’t the only fish in that Red Stick Gumbo. The man candy was a veritable feast for the eyes.
Not your style? Well, check out United Colors of Benetton.
I’m pretty certain that’s B-List 80s actor T.K. Carter on the far right, so Matt Damon wasn’t the only Oscar-winning actor on campus. And who could blame them? LSU dorm life could not be matched. Just life Stefan says on SNL, “This place has everything.”
Big screen plasma TVs…
Okay, maybe not yet. But there were other options.
Okay, well, big screen TVs hadn’t been invented yet. But that’s not the point. The point is you could lounge indoors or outdoors.
You could eat lunch at a restaurant called The Library, if you were desperately seeking…food.
Why, you could even up and learn another language at the language lab–if you were willing to let the headphones jack up your sweet hairdon’t.
And you could wait with baited breath at this Residence Hall Workshop. I spy with my little eyes Panama Jack in the second row.
Now, listen, I won’t waste much of your time with Greek life. But it gets weird with Delta Kappa Epsilon. At first, I was like, “Is that Chef from ‘Southpark’ in the middle? Is that Boris Becker?”
Yeah, it is Boris Becker (ish), but it’s evidently Levy the Master Chef. My bad. Makes perfect sense. What the what? I know. It’s too much to process. Time for the mandatory 80s sax solo.
As you prepare for tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve celebration, take cues from the simpler, less rambunctious era of the 1980s. Slow down and appreciate the moment.
Back then, people were working for the weekend. After double shifts at Orange Julius, it was time for hardcore karaoke. Don’t be afraid to shine on New Year’s Eve.
You’ve got the eye of the tiger.
Also, don’t drink if you’re underage. You know who you are. Surely her jacket doesn’t say what I think it says.
Know when to say when. These guys stopped just shy of tipsy.
Remember: friends don’t let friends drive drunk. Especially in tight Girbaud (wait–they weren’t popular yet) jeans. Mercy, I can smell the Drakkar Noir from here…
Behold! Proof that Madonna used to be relevant!
Just don’t let things get out of hand.
Tips On How Not To Be A Proud Southern Woman
And lastly: come to terms with reality. You have your owns set of gifts and strengths, your own contribution you can make to this world. But face it: you will never, ever look as cool as this guy.
I Don't Get It 
