What dystopian circumstances have arisen that require these students to build a fire inside a library, presumably from the unread pages of old Encyclopedia Brittanicas? What chaos has ensued that they must sit in weakly-constructed patio chairs and grow their sloven bangs out just to retain head heat? Who can say? All we know is Pepsi was still not okay.
It’s no news flash that most of us today are fat fat fatties. Reminds me of the old Morrissey song, “You’re The One For Me, Fatty.” It’s not surprising if you’ve never heard of Nutrament, as it exists today mainly only in New York and Florida. They have added new flavors, including cappucino, dulce de leche, mango, and the seasonally appropriate eggnog. Yeah, I still don’t want it. Why drink your calories when you can feast on meat and sides?
Now I was not alive in 1967 when this ad debuted, but women have ALWAYS been drawn to tall drinks of water. I doubt this lanky lad was at a loss for ladies, except that his proportions are all off. An average person is 7 1/2 heads high, and he is easily 9 heads high. Nobody likes a shrunken head.
The UK also struggles with obesity. They posted this image, comparing a typical 1967 male with a modern man. The difference was 23 lbs.
Converted to lbs, that’s 162 lbs vs 185. I don’t know about you, but I know a lot of folks who would LOOOOOOVE to weigh 185. That would be a blessing. And fatty evidently is outliving his thinner counterpart by quite a bit. Probably pumped up on medications, though. Time is a beast and steals our beauty and our firmness. Rare is the bird who looks better now than then.
Unless you’re Al Roker.
Now here’s what’s happening in your neck of the woods: you are surrounded by fatties like me.
Well, now I suppose it has ONE match, for this blog post.
I can’t show you what a Pepigram Binder is, but these are evidently pepigrams that would have been stored in said three-ring binder.
As you might have figured, these came from my Granddad Bill’s stack of salvaged things. But as to this pepigram, I have no explanation. Pep-i-gram Bin-dah (sing to the tune of “Paperback Writer”…)
Over 100 years ago, when this image was taken in California, the absence of windshields demanded that the driver (right-sided in this case) wore a duster and goggles as he wound his way through grounds without paved streets. Ladies often wore something similar to this.
That’s quite a bit of work required before jumping in and cranking the engine. This pint-sized pooch seems to think it’s worth it.
With politics so prevalent in today’s news feed, let’s dial it back to a simpler time. When the wheels were turning for Ferris.
When babies were too young to vote for Jane Cloyes.
And cows were used as props to show that voting for Cissy was no bull!
A friend’s Facebook post today of his infant self, garbed in velour, got me thinking about my days of velour, which, incidentally would be a great autobiography title. I stumbled across this 1979 Sears catalog image, and was reminded of a velour green dress I donned at Christmas that year (with a white satin blouse underneath-trust me, ’twas all the rage), in the final vestiges of the unseemly 70s. Or was it velvet or velveteen? Who can discern the magic of textiles?
Listen, I could collage up this joint and post all kinds of velour images across this page, but honestly, it’s overkill. I think we get the gist of velour off of just this one plush-fabric pic. It’s a lipglossy, pre-Working Girl meets Studio 54 (I almost said Area 51; Freudian slip) era, with the skinny belt, skirt slit, and stilettos, to boot. I can’t tell if they’re 13 or 43. But look at Miss Purple’s jutted elbow. She is NOT having sassy backtalk today. You flip through that Rolodex, girl. Fierce.
Now should we bring velour back? Heavens, no. When I see it in the wild nowadays (once just this year at church), I shake my head. The moment is over. It only whispers “Goodwill reject bin” from the fibers of its sheen. And we all know the only relevant sheen in 2018 is a Netflix Martin.
But can we take two minutes to appreciate it today? Even just saying the word is fun. Velour. Make it rhyme with sewer. Is it flattering? Heavens, no. It makes pre-teens look four months pregnant. Does it keep you warm? Yes. Did it take these girls from playgrounds to champagne? Or is the lyric “from crayons to perfume”? Whatever. Velour does that. That’s the power of velour.
*Quote by Ben Franklin
It’s an odd ad for the 40s indeed. On one hand, yes, get the mother-in-law out of the kitchen. Let Jim and Pam handle the dishes themselves. But on the other hand, don’t be so rough with Ruby that she loses footing in her swank heels.
Taken out of context, it would appear that the husband was spontaneously vogue-ing, a la 1990. 
But let’s not go there.
We ate quite literally high on the hog today because Labor Day and because BBQ and because America and because after watching over an hour of Senator McCain being eulogized, I felt deeply that it was what he would have wanted (RIP to a national hero).
The wall of our BBQ joint booth was covered with old fruit crate labels (gorgeous, bold color art that I find preferable to almost all modern art). Among the Frisco, Statue, Floyd’s, and Bellboy, was a Piggy Pears. I had to say it aloud.
What’s the pork-pear link? I don’t know. With that basket, it appears that Piggy just came from market. But we all know that in the nursery rhyme, “This little piggy went to market,” that doesn’t mean the piggy is going shopping. That means the piggy is going to BE the market, to BE sliced up at the deli, and eventually fried up and slid aside two sunny side ups. C’est la vie, no?
It bears repeating:
Piggy Pears
Piggy Pears
Piggy Pears
But don’t go overboard.
I Don't Get It 