Category: Advertising

Men Who Don’t Fit Through Doorways

Look, I’m fine with barrel-chested men. No worries. But this is ridiculous. These heads don’t match these bodies, and these bodies don’t exist in nature.

Just look at the man above! He’s at least three feet wide. It’s like hugging a refrigerator.

The ads aren’t even targeted toward large men. They just presume all men are this wide? Perhaps if an elephant stepped on them, they would be.

One would think that folks would be rationing material in The Great Depression, not overusing it.

This last guy is ridiculous. He’s half farmer, half mobster, and 100% frightening. What do you feed him? Does he eat from a trough?

And just in case you’re not sure what kind of chest you have, here’s a chart.

thoracickey.com

 

Well, This Is Awkward

Men’s clothing ads of the 1930s were curious. I certainly don’t get it. Is this normal for a fully-dressed man to be supervising the sporting goods usage of a barely-dressed man? I don’t care for this tone.

Nor do I care for the tone of this one. Young men, arm in arm, marching in their underwear. It’s getting weirder. And I can’t even with their tagline.

This seems to be more normal, just some men in office shirts checking out another man’s clubs. And while it’s odd to buy clothes that “flatter your summer tan,” it doesn’t really get strange until you see the belted briefs. What is that about? Do you have those?

Let’s end on a less naked note, with this 1932 Arrow ad for men who get fooled by shirts. And no, that’s not our president; it’s a fellow who evidently goes fishing in a nice button-down, tie, and khakis. You know, like village fishermen. Is he petting that fish? Is he stroking its fins? Is that the proper protocol? No wonder shirts have been fooling him.

J-Lo Spotted In 1936 New Yorker

I realize J-Lo is about to turn 50 in a few days, same age as the first moon landing. That’s what they want you to think. But how do you explain this cartoon rendering of her from a 1936 New Yorker magazine? Same hat, same halter top, same flared pants and ample posterior, surrounded by a diverse group of creatives, as they now say. I mean, she IS Jenny from the block, and that block was The Bronx.

See what I mean?

(Scott Nelson/AFP/Getty Images)
daily mail

I Am A Winter, And My Glasses Are Hidd-Yuss

Feb 1985 Vogue

Actually, these owlish, oversized specs aren’t as hidd-yuss as most of the following glasses from 1985. But these Ted Lapidus ones certainly qualify.

She seems to be gritting her teeth to prevent from cursing their bulky black bamboo frame, perfect for eating kung pao shrimp.

The next model seems to have moved on to dessert.

April 85

I guess boys DO make passes at girls who wear glasses–especially if it’s Sophia Loren. She must have loved her some curlicues. And pearls. And lace.

How about supermodel Paulina, sporting patriotic fingernails?

Sorry, but those hoopy metal sunglasses are awful. Just awful. Even on Paulina.

And who among you wants their frames to be at nostril level? Not I.

March ’85

These white ones might have appealed to me as a teen, but what they delivered in style, they lacked in peripheral vision. Thus the pout.

And what about these? They remind me of spreading butterfly wings. Is she in an indoor wind storm?

Well, I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane (and I hope you’re wearing your glasses). After all, it’s the best way to enjoy the interwebs.

giphy.com

Jill In ’87

By the fall of 1987, I was well-acquainted with the new supermodel faces across my fashion magazines: Cindy, Linda, Naomi, etc. As I had curly hair at the time, I could relate to Jill Goodacre, whose mane poured down her neck with all of the high-volume tousles that a headbanging 1987 demanded. I think you will understand why Harry Connick Jr married her.

And this next one, well … I can’t even explain it. And that’s why this blog is called “I Don’t Get It.”

Nowadays, the 55-year-old has her straightened (as most of us do) for a more polished, less unruly look. She and Harry have been married for 25 years.

Proper Way To Pump

October 1964

Back in 1964, nobody cared what Mrs. Robert F. Young’s first name was. Ladies essentially lost both their first and last names and simply became Mrs. Spouse’s Name. That would suit me just fine, as my husband’s name is easy to say. Perhaps y’all should start calling me “Mrs. Jimmy” from now on. In any event, these were still the days when readers had loooong attention spans and were willing to spend not only an hour on a magazine article, but several minutes on an ad.