Lack of sleep is doing a number on me, so I have no clever comments about this picture from Galveston 1967. I just wanted to share. From the Wurlitzer jukebox to the formica, what a great glimpse into history. But do those ladies even look 21?
I’m not saying they did hide varmints in their hair; I’m just saying they could.
Before Olan Mills and Glamour Shots, amateur photographers had to direct their subjects with options and tips like:
Please. You know I’m not going to talk about Dharma Bums or On The Road. I didn’t get an English degree for that. And plus, I’m not my 1995 boyfriend, trying desperately to have a deep conversation, so…
This is not to dismiss Jack Kerouac’s writing; if that’s what you want, check out another WP blogger. If it’s shallow and unnecessary judgment you need, you’re in the right place. And this isn’t about his cup of liquor or his pipe or his gingham or his lustful stare. It’s about how he was reincarnated as Nathan Fillion.
With a dash of Mike Rowe.
Well, this shot of a dirty hitchhiker doesn’t look too much Kerouac. I might be wrong. Perhaps I should do some more research, just to be sure.
Research is totally important.
Seriously.
Sorry, straight guys. Go cleanse your palate with some pin-ups.
Oh, ladies, you have not represented well. Not a blessed one of you.
And especially not this girl. 
Glasses and braces are the least of this pack’s worries. I feel a sudden urge to chew Fruit Stripes gum.
Mind you, all these kids were in the SAME 9th grade class (back when 9th grade was in junior high). They had to pass each other in the halls, taking in all the beauty and attractiveness going on.
Next, we have two clearly wasted, polka-dotted, teased ladies (whose hair does not fit in frame), bookending a less-hussier girl, who probably skipped the dances.
In the next trio of girls, Cindy Nolen is the bowheaded gal having the time of her life.
Perhaps she was inspired by yesterday’s birthday girl?
Market price changes daily.
Another day, another dorm, another opportunity to ask, “Why?” This here is a shot of the ladies of the dorm labelled simply as “2-A” in the 1973 Indiana University annual. I’m not sure what catches the eye first: the look of ennui and apathy from Heavy-Lidded Ladyfingers in the front row, or her barefoot buddy holding a bottle of Vermont Maple Syrup on her knee. Or is it not maple syrup? Yes, I skipped vested turtleneck woman.
Then we have the skipper, whose eyes are shut, holding some sort of stuffed animal, a girl with a violin, a girl with a tennis racket, a girl with a GOLDFISH BOWL and a shirt that reads “Jesus” where the Pepsi logo should be. We make our way back with the wallflower, the trio of alcoholics, your nobody (she called today), the one in the unfortunate circus pants, the two Jan Bradies (prone to suffering from the Jan Brady Effect), and the girl in the classic mannequin head with a shag hairdo on a platter pose. It never gets old. Speaking of the two Jans, chances were high that one of these girls was actually named Janet or Janice, which ranked high during their birth year.
But the top five names were:
Still, who wouldn’t want to be a Marcia (other than Gloria Steinem, who turns 80 today)?
Yay, I scored a new yearbook today! You Indiana people (who know who you are) should feel excited! You might want to defend your public university here and explain why these ladies would have posed for a portrait in their towels. Why would they agree to that? Plus, towels then were so small. Think about those awful scratchy towels in your grandparents’ linen closet. Yuck. We don’t even use towels in our house, only “bath sheets” as tall as we are, plush and soft against our skin. Come to think of it, my dorm never took a group shot at all. Not in clothes or out of them. So much about the 1970s that doesn’t make sense…
I Don't Get It 