
Category: College
November 23, 1963
We Never Did That In Choir
A Measure Of Success
One-Two Punch
I Can Feel St. Elmo’s Fire Burning In Me
No, this isn’t a post about urinary tract infections; it’s about lyrics, because that’s 99% what’s swirling about in my big bullom head. Song lyrics, including cheesey, inspirational soundtrack lyrics.
I’m not saying St. Elmo’s Fire can in any way rival Eye of the Tiger for most motivational song of the 80s (and you KNOW the 80s was full of motivational ditties), but one cannot deny the Tony Robbins-esque “can-do” attitude of the lyrics. So as we near the end of February, casting our New Year’s resolutions to the wind (which is where the dust is, which is what we are), keep John Parr’s words in mind:
Play the game — you know you can’t quit until it’s won.
Soldier on– only you can do what must be done.
Ladies, I know what you’re thinking: No, someone else can do what must be done: dishes, laundry, dinner. But think about it. Could anyone really do it the right way? Or will they just screw it up, forcing you to redo it, reprimanding them with clear-cut words that dissipate upon their ears because they refuse to be teachable?
While we’re at it, did you think you’d be ten pounds lighter by now? I did. I cut my portions, drank more water, drank less soda and wine, and exercised more, even going to an RPM class at the devil’s own Gold’s Gym. But guess what? I didn’t lose a pound. Not a filthy pound. But I can’t give up. You know why?
I can see a new horizon underneath the blazing sky.
I’ll be where the eagles flying higher and higher.
I guess that’s a metaphor because I’m actually still down here on rough terrain. I can’t even afford a plane ticket to see the eagles flying. So maybe it’s a metaphor for rising higher. You can do it!
I can climb the highest mountain, cross the wildest sea.
Who am I kidding? I can barely trudge up that hill near the soccer fields. I can barely cross the YMCA swimming pool.
You broke the boy in me but you won’t break the man.
Oh, okay, this is just for dudes. Now it makes way more sense.
Just once in his life a man has his time.
And my time is now. I’m coming alive.
Yeah, totally for dudes. It’s not a woman in motion.
Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels.
Take me where my future’s lyin’, St. Elmo’s Fire.
What in tarnation does this mean? A man in motion? A pair of wheels? Do you need a bike, sweetie? Did you get caught up in the whole Lance Armstrong thing? Why is your future lying in St. Elmo’s Fire? St. Elmo’s Fire was a bar–is your future in bartending? How’s your Tom Cruise flair?

Sometimes I actually get sick of “not getting it,” so I researched this one because I am sleuthy like that. Per http://www.songfacts.com/, David Foster wrote the song for a Canadian athlete named Rick Hansen, who was paralyzed from the waist down after a car crash. On March 21, 1985 Hansen began his “Man In Motion” tour, putting over 40,000 Kilometers (24,856 miles) on his wheelchair in 34 countries on 4 continents, while raising $26 million for spinal cord research.
If you’re Canadian, you have no excuse not to know that. Being American, I’d never heard of him. But it does make me wonder what the heck it has to do with a Brat Pack coming-of-age film. Oh, and P.S. this movie poster declares “the heat this summer is at Saint Elmo’s Fire.” I’ll tell you why: because it’s SUMMER and they’re wearing coats and scarves and close-toed shoes. I’d be hot, dressed like that in summer, too. Come to think of it, passion can’t even burn deep. Deeply, perhaps. But not deep.
Pep In Your Step
Sis Boom Bah, Rah Rah Rah!
From the 50s to the 60s…
…to the 70s, cheerleading never goes out of style.
Even when the outfits are disastrous.
We’re all familiar with the common “lean-back and flash your invisible oven mitt/handgun/wine glass” cheer, aren’t we?
Well, there must be something to it, because many schools employed this tactic, as if to tell the opposing team to “hit the road, Jack.” My lumbar hurts just looking at it.
But being flexible is the name of the game. Mix with exuberance and stir.
Of course, you can’t forget your pom-poms.
Even novices can promote school spirit! This girl appears to be conducting the band with a baton at a pep rally.
And don’t forget that when cheerleading was popularized over 100 years ago, it was a boys-only sport. That explains why Steve Martin, Samuel Jackson, and several presidents cheered for their schools.
Can you imagine if men had to wear those tiny Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders outfits?
Git-R-Done, Larry.
Popular Demand
Scenes From a 1950 Duffle Bag, Part Tres
Eye of the Beholder
I like how this yearbook just cuts to the chase: Pretty Girls. So there. It’s not open for discussion. And Sugie Smulcher signed her name for emphasis. Say that aloud. Sugie Smulcher. Rolls right off the tongue.
Other yearbooks try to be creative with their beauty queen section, like this classy illustration preceding the portraits.
Some editors refer to them as queens.

Others refer to them as “sweethearts.”

I doubt this girl’s destiny included being a farmer’s wife, but she took the title of FFA (Future Farmers of America) sweetheart. If she’s not a vision in lace, I don’t know what is.
“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”–Albert Einstein
Now that’s science!
Poetry In Motion
Oh, my goodness. This is too much for a Monday. It’s like West Side Story meets yoga meets Lionel Richie’s ballerina girl meets Mr. Roboto.
I do not like her rigid pose
I do not like her see-through clothes
I do not like her pointed feet
I really think that girl should eat
May I suggest some lean red meat?
With green eggs, it is quite a treat
Would you like them in Oklahoma?
No, I prefer them in a coma
I do not like their warrior stance
I do not like their modern dance
I do not want to have to watch
I think we should Febreze her crotch
I do not like that high slit skirt
I do not like boys’ groins that hurt
I do not like that turtleneck
I do not like it for a sec
I do not like them, Sam-I-am
I’d rather eat a can of Spam
And pour it in a cereal bowl
That precooked gelatinous pork bumhole
I do not like them here or there
I do not like them anywhere
I’d Tap That
You know, I was gonna make a crack about Justin Bieber’s dad in the pedophile mustache, but then I remembered that the Bieber is STILL A TEENAGER. Yes, he is. And Papa Bieber is barely old enough to be president. Yes, Jeremy (spoke in class today) Bieber would have been learning what sound farm animals make and how not to wet the bed when this picture was taken. So maybe it’s Bieber’s granddad. Or fun uncle. Or Drunk Uncle.
Either way, it appears they’ve drained the bottle. And nobody likes an empty bottle.
























