If you think the world hasn’t made great strides in being “woke” in the 83 years since this ad was printed in LIFE, you’re wrong. Instead of erasing the past, let’s shine a light on it, so that we know how far we’ve come, and continue to go. Let’s also remember to keep everything in contextof its era and keep in mind that not everything that offends people was intended to belittle. As a Hispanic woman who has spent her life in Texas, I can tell you that many people DO speak with poor conjugation in broken sentences, as is par for the course when you are mastering a second language. I have heard sentences very similar to these. Before one jumps to outrage, one should try to see the big picture. Obviously, this wouldn’t fly in today’s advertising. And while I choose to grind my own beans each morning and consequently have never had Sanka, I sadly am forced to drink decaf as well. “I have sleep like the log” after evening coffee, too.
Even eight inch celery stalks shooting out of her salad can’t distract Shirley from making googly eyes at Donald. William, however, seems to be admiring the luster of his Cheviot tweed.
Feast your eyes on these natty Texas Longhorns, travelling to Louisiana for a football game in the fall of 1947. I love their fedoras and cowboy hats, the curve of the cars, that one wide pointed black collar, and the teacup with saucer. Do you use saucers? I have some palm tree ones that go with my palm tree teacups, but we only use them separately now. It’s a perfect size for some buttered toast. I imagine these blokes had a nice cup of café au lait and beignets, the signature items of the Morning Call.
Eater New Orleans
The sign says it’s the “most famous coffee drinking place,” but I have never heard of it before. “Coffeehouse” would have taken up less real estate on the sign, but I imagine that word didn’t exist yet.
Morning Call opened in 1870, eight years after the more powerful and still thriving Cafe du Monde, who crushed them in a bidding war last year, which led to their final closing. Having never been to either, I can’t say as I understand the allure of deep fried dough sprinkled with confectioners sugar. Why not just have a donut? Donuts come in all sorts of flavors, and they’re less messy. Then again, in Texas, we consume more breakfast tacos than donuts, so we’re getting our protein and dairy as well. Perhaps the combination of sugary coffee and beignets led one doctor last year to declare Louisiana as “the obesity-diabetes heartland of America.”
Still, it’s hard to say goodbye to tradition, especially after 149 years. These guys were sad to see it go.
Last week, we were in the unfortunate position of being in a Target, which I try to avoid, as they discontinued playing music and always only have one checker, despite there being 1200 patrons in the store and 15 lanes. In a stroke of luck, we found some Planters cashews on sale, and curiously, the wholes were the same price as the halves and pieces. Now, listen, I’m not royalty. I don’t toss my bills into the air all devil may care. I’ve spent my life eating halves and pieces like the lower to middle income person I am.
But here was an opportunity–finally–for me to feel superior to everyone, to put a nut in my mouth the way that God intended, whole, not broken, like most of this country. And in a time of unrest and people unemployed and so bored that they look for every opportunity to be offended where no offense was intended, I decided YES this is my moment. My moment to step up that ladder one caste level and taste what I’ve been missing.
To be clear, this was not a short fat can, like short fat poor people. This was a long and lean tin like greyhounds and Windsors and ladies who lunch, despite eating disorders. This was a can of abundance and hope and opportunity. This can was my people, where I truly belonged. No longer was I tossed out “pieces” like a commoner, a prole, a dog begging his master for scraps. Nay! This was the entire brown crescent! Not crushed by the foot of the man, here to oppress me. But untainted, unbroken, uncompromised. And while the image says “lightly salted,” ye who know me know I am nothing if not salty.
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I poured out a handful of the beautiful cashews. Now I am important! This is my mink coat! This is my rapper grill, demanding that others affirm my value! Look at me, I have gold chains! My messy past is erased, and now I matter! But guess what? They taste the same. They simply require more labor from you, as they need to be chewed more. And what is the lower class but not the laboring class? Chew, prole, chew. Fatten up, for there is much labor to be done! So many dichotomies. And it occurred to me that I didn’t need whole nuts to feed my self-esteem. The fact was I was eating cashews, and that still made me better than any peon eating peanuts, no? And “peon” literally means Spanish-American day laborer. So there you go. Can we choose to be offended by that? Now, I’ll go one you one better!
These days, you can’t throw a stick without hitting a mom clutching a glass of vino to temper the hours of “social distance learning” with the reality of 2020.
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I, for one, am happy to have a senior, whose studies I can entirely ignore. The days of monitoring or supervising are nearing an end. College acceptance takes precedence over anything left in this rotten semblance of a schoolyear. Any reminders for tests or homework go unheeded. So why bother? After a constant barrage of uninformative teacher emails and daily school texts, stating, “Yes, another coronavirus case has been detected on campus,” we shrug and move on. Every day is the same. It’s easily the worst time to be a high school senior since the threat of being shipped off to Vietnam, and I imagine the emotional and social repercussions will be heavy and long-lasting. God, do I need a drink!
In any event, I am not drinking wine nor spirits. Fate has deemed that all alcohol gives me a headache lately, and it could not be timed any worse. So coffee and tea it is, with my beloved Coke at interims. Yes, 2020 has been a nightmare on every level. But at least we have the luxury of Netflix and Amazon in quarantine. We can still be comfortable and feel relatively safe, even without the company of fermented grapes.
During WWII, however, moms had more at stake, fearing for their husbands overseas as well as wondering if bombs would drop on our very soil. Were they encouraged to sample pinot? Alas, no. The power of pulling it together lay in Alka-Seltzer.
Alka-Seltzer kept the “unjust words” at bay. And it had already been time-tested. Even Will Rogers had stamped his approval a decade prior.
etsy
The post-war would see the addition of Speedy. Serenity now! Pronto!
Pinterest
But it wasn’t just for ladies about to lose their minds. Anyone indulging in food or drink could make use of it. Instead of a daydrinking suburban mommy, your pre-diabetic uncle kept a roll of A-S in his pockets. Just in case.
As Americans continued to eat up, sales continued to soar. While my association with the product is limited to the “Plop plop, fizz fizz” of the 70s, children of the 60s would have seen a more animated endorsement.
These days, when every other commercial pimps a prescription drug, meant to feed your fears as well as line the pockets of Big Pharma (O-O-O-OZEMPIC!), you have thousands of other choices to provide comfort for what ails you. Most of you probably take a daily prescription to address the imperfections of your mortal coils. But do any of you still take Alka-Seltzer?
Let me qualify that. Male Puerto Ricans. Puertorriqueños. From his bangs to his jaunty mustache, to his feminized clunky yellow sandals, to his flesh belt matching flesh socks, to his choice of stool, everything is wrong wrong wrong. Even 41 years later, his lady friend looks stylish and composed. But Enrique, not so much. I mean, look at his jean hem! Look at the cut of it!
I know Puerto Rico wants to be able to vote, and I don’t blame them. Really, the main barrier I can see is that we’d have to add another star to our flag, and OCD people would go nuts with an odd number of states. It wouldn’t line up correctly on the flag. We’d have to adopt yet another state to make it even. Or Texas could secede! Most folks my age still think we have nine planets; we’re not going to suddenly remember 51 states. Or we’ll say it with finger quotes, as if it isn’t real yet.
But maybe Enrique’s problem was that he was lit, juiced up on the rum for which he was plugging in this ad.
The thing is, they knew they were being photographed. Ingrid should have offered spously guidance. Could they even possibly still be married, after this atrocity? Or is the rum that good?
Wow, this ad campaign has got it all. The bandwagon technique; he’s running with the pack. He doesn’t care about personality; he only dates Eye Tonics. So if you’re the angel cake that’s trying to catch the eye of a dark hunk of muscle like Chuck, you better spread some fancy frosting all over you, ladies! It’s not optional; Chuck says it’s glamour homework. It’s your assignment! Remember, he’s for the filly with an even pace!
So what is this ad even selling, other than insecurity? This stylish lass, though trim and decked out in modern garb, seems to be apprehensive about her potential suitors. Probably because she has a secret. A secret that keeps her elbows close to her side, while the boys wave their arms about. She reeks.
But for a few coins, she can rate with fellows like Chuck. Thank you, ARRID!
Seems like an easy way to snag a date with boys who possess a molasses drawl. Just a swipe in your pits, and you’re done!
You heard it right, folks. 2020 has been a tough year on all of us, especially George, who evidently had a few too many old-fashioneds and plowed his car into yet another Bedford Falls tree. Environmental agencies are livid. As you can see, even Shirley Temple tried to uproot nature’s oxygen-releaser to replant it in a safer space, preferably Holmby Hills. This time, poor weather could not be blamed.
The recorded dialog below reveals that food vendor Pietro was understandably incensed. “You pay for my vegetables–yes?” In this year of electorate division, I think we can all agree. Pay for the vegetables, George.
Joyce is over the moon with this new shade of nylons–in stylish palomino! The golden color would cover up her pasty white legs in no time!
Ladies, when’s the last time you gave an ounce of thought to the color of your pantyhose? Have you even purchased hose in this millennium? I never see anyone sporting them these days. Probably because they didn’t have EZ glove to remove “mannish leg-hair.”
But once those legs were shaved, it was time to don some Dancing Twins! And remember folks, these nylons necessitated garter belts. Peggy Sue hadn’t yet invented pantyhose. 😉 Seam-free nylons did the trick for THIS cute trick.
If nylons weren’t up your alley in 1947, you could stay feet-focused on trendy bobby sox, in an assortment of colors, sure to entice your local soda jerk.
And if you were a girl who knows what goes, you’d pull on some Bonnie Doons before strapping on your skates to burn off the calories from eating too many Lorna Doones.
But socks weren’t the end of the conversation. You had to accessorize them. Everybody’s doing it!
So much pressure on young women! These days, a woman can just pick an atrocious tattoo to reflect her inner soul. But back in 1947, sock buttons were the way to express yourself. Can you imagine anyone taking the TIME to interpret your sock buttons?
I Don't Get It 