Culture – Page 103 – I Don't Get It

Free Milk; No Cow Purchase Necessary

Oh, sure, it starts out innocently enough, the rush of adrenaline as you bare your calf to fifth-grade boys. But it isn’t enough. And Liquid Paper and Sharpies haven’t been invented yet, so you can’t huff them in the calm quiet of a restroom stall. But rebellion is in your blood, and you seek the thrill.

Soon you’re smoking Pall Malls to see who can get esophageal cancer first .

By college, you’ve gone all Sister Wives.

You’ve lost your self-respect. You consider relocating to Salt Lake City. But then Dorko McGoober here kicks you out of the tribe. You’re alone. All you have are your vices. You avoid your grandmother’s phone calls. You stop taking multivitamins. You rat your hair. You accept a date from a greaser, and it all goes downhill from there.

http://www.vice.com/read/raggare-love-hot-rods-and-rock-n-roll-000926-v20n2

He dumps you after three weeks. You turn to the dark world of roller derby.

http://youthvoices.net/discussion/roller-derby-circa-1950

But your mood swings are unmanageable. You get into fights with that hussy, Rhonda. You have to be pried apart. The manager tells you they have to let you go; you’re no good for business. You’re washed up, kid.

http://cherylsrecipejourney.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-night-out-at-roller-derby.html

And then you hit rock bottom. You take a job as an “entertainer” at Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club. You tell yourself it’s just temporary.

You look in the mirror, and suddenly 50 years have passed. Where did they go? What do you do now?

http://www.reviewjournal.com/news/las-vegas/burlesque-icon-dixie-evans-dies-age-86

Don’t give away free milk, ladies. It’s a downward spiral.

When Steve McQueen Says You’re Hot, People Listen

The 1964 yearbook staff at the University of Oklahoma had the juevos to ask Steve McQueen to participate as “Beauty Judge” for their beauty contest. He actually took the time to reply.

Ask and ye shall receive. After all, years of girl-gazing did qualify him to judge. And he chose Miss Barbie Listen. Yep, that’s her real name.

Can you blame him? Her hair is only perfect. Her dress and gloves are white as snow. And I think it was very diplomatic of him to name five girls in the tie for 4th place. Nobody wants to be the loser. But I imagine Barbie Listen comes from the school of Ricky Bobby:

Suck it, losers.

Girls Gone Mild

Laptop, How I Love Thee

Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late

“Catholic girls start much too late.” That’s what Billy Joel says, anyway. But these Catholic girls look decades ahead of their time; heads bowed down, as if texting or finding apps for their smartphones at http://www.howtopraytherosary.com.

Growing up, I knew very few people who attended church and absolutely no one who attended Catholic church. I don’t even know if there was a Catholic school within twenty miles. All I know of Catholic school are the horror stories adults have told about knuckle-rapping nuns and fear of the confessional. I admit there is something eerie about these kneeling, chapel veil-adorned students and the halo surrounding them.

But I don’t know enough about Catholicism to condemn it, so I’ll leave that to Madonna. Sacrilegious is her middle name. In any event, this looks innocent enough.

Like most high school students, these young ladies had the opportunity to dissect “reckless amphibians.” Perhaps that was a small outlet for raging teenage hormones.

Uniforms prevented them from dressing hoochie-mama, and also made it more difficult to determine the poor from the middle class. Nobody was drinking Tab or Diet Coke or Monster; milk was doing their bodies good.

Without the distraction of boys, it was easier to remain chaste and avoid temptation. If you played your cards right, you could wind up with the coveted prize. Hope they hooked a good one!

Thirty-Five Cent Flick

When I was young, there was a dollar movie theater in town, where you could view not-so-recent movies or rescreenings of Ishtar. I also recall going skating on Wednesdays for dollar skate night. But I am not old enough to recall paying a quarter and a dime for a movie. This I cannot fathom. How much was a Coke? A nickel?

Ho Ho Hopelessly Outnumbered

When LBJ Locks You Into His Steely Death Stare…

…you cannot look away.

Politics Can Be Fun!

As long as it’s just college politics…

Clubhouse On A Rainy Day

I got a new Saturday Evening Post today, solely for the cover. Truth be told, I pick all my books by their covers. That’s how I judge things, especially if they have cute orange and white Penguin spines at the bookstore. I can’t pass that up. This cover, although Rockwellian, was actually done by Ben Kimberly Prins. I never heard of him, either.

I’m not a rich white guy nor a member of a country club (I hear you, Travis Tritt), but I like the camaraderie depicted, the fact that they’re not bowling alone, that they’re spending time interacting with other humans face-to-face. The fellowship! And yes, I like their hats. It reminds me of The Great Good Place, a book about places in the community where people can gather, other than work or home.

I realize that art, in its reflection of life, is as subjective as music. None of us is going to like the same things. I don’t like abstract art because it looks lazy. Splashing paint, to me, is not a skill. If your canvas resembles a kindergarten fingerpainting, it does not impress me. But I realize that others enjoy what that chaos represents.

I see enough chaos on the news. I don’t want part of my walls taken up by something that I can’t figure out what the heck it is. I like everything to fit into boxes, so that I can stick an adhesive label on it. That’s called order. I don’t like guessing games. I do not like abstracts, Sam I am. But to each his own. Her own. Its own.

Perhaps it’s an idealized version of life, a sterilized Americana, in an era in which I was not even alive. But I am simple. I like happy things. Beaches and thunderstorms!

Not this.

The yellow glow of a festive party!

Not creepy, disturbing, nightmare-inducing, twisted-in-the-head stuff like this. If you like this, I bet you see dead people. I bet you spend a lot of time in the basement. And I realize this is pretty tame, but I can’t even post the gruesome, oversexualized, bloodied up images that pour forth from people’s jacked-up brains.

So I leave you with two timely images for the New Year. This babysitter is drinking milk because calcium is good for her bones.

New Year's Eve Babysitter — New Year’s Eve Babysitter

And this couple, still awake at 2:52am, has the First World Problem of tackling a kitchen full of dirty dishes and leftovers.

New Year's Aftermath — New Year’s Aftermath

That’s how I like my problems: First World. And that’s how I like my art: easy to recognize.

And speaking of easy to recognize, happy 66th birthday to my favorite bartender, Isaac Washington. I hope your day is exciting and new!

If You Find This Offensive, Wait Til Tomorrow’s Post

A prospective Girl of the Month exposes her calves for the judgement of the 1948 staff of The Ranger.

Ties That Bind

If these 1949 college boys could be casual and dapper sitting on a gymnasium floor, what excuse has modern man not to look dashing in a tie of his own?

These fellows may have been only nineteen years old, but they knew how to make the most of formal neckwear.

By contrast, our commander-in-chief, who you’d think would least have enough style to match wits with Michelle’s interesting sleeveless dress explosions, chose these duds:

Wow! Way to get us excited about politics! These are patriotic but BOR-ing, Barry. Even this stodgy old white guy had a superior tie collection. You probably don’t recognize him since you’ve taken down the portraits of prior presidents, but this one actually ended WWII.

Here’s some detail on Harry S. (You Dropped A Bomb On Them) Truman’s tie:

Whatever your political affiliation, you can recognize that we are most certainly NOT in the heyday of neckties. However, bow ties are enjoying a trendy little trip up the popularity scale…

I know they’re not mandatory at work or church anymore, and I realize ties may be constricting. But guess what? So are stilettos and thongs. So is this bra I’m wearing, crushing my ribs and leaving indents in my shoulders. So are nylons with the seams, but those do something for you, don’t they, fellas?

Back in the 1940s, if ladies couldn’t afford or find nylons, they’d resort to having their legs painted. Just to aesthetically please the boys.

So tie one on, okay? You can’t lose with a nice vintage tie. Skip the wide ones of the 70s and ultraskinny ones of the 80s. The 40s offered the most color and creativity.

http://swungover.wordpress.com/2011/10/27/the-art-of-vintage-manliness-ties/

Even in black and white, these ties show pizzazz.

I bet choosing that lackluster tie wasn’t that drinker’s only poor choice that night. Look how drab it appears next to his buddy’s poppin’ square print.