Culture – Page 105 – I Don't Get It

The Proof Is In The Pudding

I don’t know what message this Victorian Christmas image is trying to convey, but it’s certainly not Christmas cheer. Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol refers to “the pudding singing in the copper,” so I can only assume this pudding decided to do a little choreographed number as well. It may be smiling, but the birdwoman is not. She looks downright alarmed. Fortunately, the lid serves as a protective shield. The message here: pudding is dangerous, albeit polite.

I (like most Americans) am not familiar with what a Christmas pudding actually looks or tastes like. When Americans think “pudding,” we think chocolate pudding and Bill Cosby. Pudding is not hard and aggressive; it is soft and creamy.

In my mind, the copper pot pudding resembles a yummy fried hushpuppy. Yet, I know that it most certainly is NOT a hushpuppy, because hushpuppies are “comfort food.” They do not get violent.

When Mr. Deasley posted his top ten “alternative” puddings last week (thttp://theverybesttop10.com/2013/12/13/alternative-christmas-puddings/), I got my first glimpses at these foreign puddings.

This holly-sprigged treat doesn’t look anything like the dessert in the birdwoman cartoon. It does, however, resemble THIS image of what appears to be a burnt meatloaf, carrying his own weapon of execution.

Perhaps Brits feel the same way about Christmas pudding that Americans feel about fruitcake: unless it is drenched in brandy, why bother? The difference is, we don’t stick currency in our food.

http://www.englishblog.com/2008/12/christmas-cartoon-of-the-day-christmas-pudding.html#.UrIhsPRDvQh

Apparently, custom once dictated putting a coin inside the pudding, and the one who bit down on it and cracked his tooth would interpret it as a sign of good luck. The irony in this cartoon, is that the value of the pound was falling. I liken it to putting a peso in a fruitcake. You’d have to shove seven thousand inside it to make it valuable, at which point, every bite would be fraught with pesos, and everyone would need dental work. OH, I GET IT! THAT’S WHY BRITS HAVE THE REPUTATION FOR BAD TEETH. It all makes sense now. What a revelation.

Anyway,the tradition seems as foolish as slipping a wedding ring inside a cake or a glass of champagne; choking hazards are nothing to rejoice about. Unless you know the Heimlich Maneuver, I would discourage it altogether.

Bienvenido A Miami, Part Tres

First off, let’s give thanks to the hardworking yearbook photographers, who not only captured this great winter wonderland, but would have had to do serious bicep work to carry those old school cameras.

Remember that this was an era before Liquid Paper. Imagine all the retyping that had to be done.

The editor proofs some copy, smoking what appears to be a redskin headdress feather, but may well be a blurry pipe.

And check out the fly neckties on these fellows.

Cheers to the yearbook staff of the 1949 Recensio–may you all have your own blogs on WordPress, if you are still alive.

Bienvenido A Miami, Part Dos

Part of the university experience is college ball, and Miami University is no different. Here comes the marching band, flanked by costumed Redskins.

And just watch how excited the crowds look this Saturday morning! How about that Christmas sweater smack dab in the middle?

How could they possibly lose with these guys on their team?

Let’s don’t forget about the ladies, getting their lacrosse on.

But some prefer to stay indoors and bowl in the air conditioned bowl-o-rama.

And certainly don’t mess with the gals on the archery team. They’ll shoot your eye out.

Bienvenido A Miami, Part Uno

When you think of Miami, you probably think of Miami, Florida. I do. Or the Will Smith song that speaks of the coastal city. You probably don’t think of Miami University in Ohio, of all places, where this picture was taken in 1949. Here is a portrait of dorm life–before cell phones, before TV, before rock ‘n’ roll–where women could look attractive in penny loafers and saddle oxfords instead of 5″ stiletto stripper heels.

I’d never even heard of Miami University, the 10th oldest public university in the United States. The university, which offered classes in 1824, existed long before Miami, Florida was incorporated as a city in 1896. And that’s one to grow on!

These fellas seem to be enjoying campus life as well. They didn’t need no stinkin’ Blu-Ray or mobile apps to be content. Just a book and a lamp and some swanky robes.

At the time, the mascot was the Miami Redskins, but a politically correct climate necessitated a change to the Miami Redhawks. Lame.

Back then, it was also cool to smoke, especially while sunbathing–or turning your skin red. Yes, I said it.

Nowadays, it’s inadvisable to start a family while in college. And who could afford it under this administration anyway? But in the post-war years, students were often married and raising families. And evidently living in ramshackle cabooses with picket fences built by unskilled laborers.

This next gathering is a group of gals in the “Outing Group.” It’s not what you think; they went on picnics and hikes together over frostbitten leaves. And apparently, they were keen on swastikas as well.

Perhaps after a long day of hiking and antisemitic rallies, the girls would hit the town. ( To be fair, swastikas meant “it is good” for years before the Nazi party used it. Let’s take it back, people!). Downtown Oxford, Ohio offered up restaurants as well as a movie theater.

The Miami-Western Theatre (oooh, the British spelling!) prided itself on being the only diversion in a “rather dull town.”

No worries if you spilled soda pop or melted Junior Mints on your glad rags at the cinema; you could just take them on down to Redskin Cleaners.

They’ll clean your dirty cords.

Stay tuned for Part Dos!

All Nogged Out

I started this blog nearly a year ago, while I had taken ill, and it was under the effects of Theraflu (which is now nonexistent on the shelves–thank you, crack addicts) and the advice of my hubby that I took to WordPress to express my concerns over two troubling world issues:

Baked potatoes should come with five toppings standard, like automatic windows in a new car.
Egg nog should be accessible to every American throughout the month of December.

As I reflect on that second nog-related post (https://sanceau.com/2012/12/29/egg-nog/), I realize that right here, right now (as Jesus Jones would say–or would be saying if he were culturally relevant), egg nog is abundant. It is, in fact, accessible. The shelves are stocked. What chapped my hide last year was that only four days after Christmas, it was gone. Disappeared, like some glorious Doug Henning trick.

http://www.made-in-england.org/doug-henning-rocks/

You remember him, right? The stache? The buck teeth? Anyway, R.I.P. Doug Henning.

The point is: it’s available, and I’m already over it. I’ve already gone through two cartons of it, and I’m plum nogged out. It’s so thick and rich, like Pepto-Bismol coating your tummy lining. But you bet your bippy come 12/29, I’ll have a sharp hankering for it. And therein lies the problem: sales peak on 12/26. We’re on the way to the tippy-top of nog sales; we’re waxing, brother. We’re waxing. But after 12/26, it’s a sharp wane, a steep cliff down to complete nog in absentia.

Oh. My. Gosh, you guys. I just found a picture of some nog I’ve never been witness to.

What is this brand? I’ve never heard of it. If I recall high school French class, that loosely translates to “how good, the milk of the chicken.” Correct? That’s not appetizing. Maybe I won’t want nog on 12/29 after all.

Christmas Mold

I don’t suppose Santa would prefer a jiggling foot-high Jell-O mound to a batch of warm Tollhouse Cookies, but it’s better than nothing–and low on calories. Although I would never allow my toddler to sleep under a table for safety reasons, I can confirm that the pose is a common one for children, as though they were kneeling in prayer and simply toppled forward. My concern is the rodent in a cradle on the mantle. ‘Twere I Santa, I would question the hygiene of the home and pass on the gelatin altogether.

Let’s Hear It For The Tigers

I love this shot for these reasons:

the joy on the faces of the cheerleaders
the animated boys in the background, chock full of increasing testosterone, apparently holding up the roof with their palms
the cat’s eye glasses
the multiracial shoulders jam-packed against one another
the unadulterated glee on that girl’s face to the far left, and her friend who should have had a V-8
the girl on the far right with her hand to her chest, as well as the boy above her clasping his hands, both of them silently saying, “MY stars…”

I was born in the wrong decade.

Don’t Kick Sand In Their Faces

Lemons Into Lemonade

In My Country, Too, We Like Its Speed

I like the vagueness of the token foreigner’s words, “my country” because that could mean anything. Perhaps he is a successful businessman, since he is well-dressed and has access to slick hair creams. I like his grand gesture as well. It’s like he’s welcoming Barbara Bush to Fantasy Island.

Perhaps some of you are programmed to be on the lookout for racism, so you can’t possibly enjoy this. Let’s find an opportunity to be offended; won’t that be fun? But break down his words; there isn’t anything pejorative there. He’s not represented in a demeaning way. He’s not dressed in rags or carrying a water vessel on his head–or a towel–or a sombrero. He’s simply declaring that all countries can appreciate the merits of Convair. And if it still existed, perhaps I could, too.

Countdown to Thanksgiving

As you prepare for your Thanksgiving holiday in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS, keep these important facts in mind:

If your in-laws are coming to your home, stock up on Pepto-Bismol. And remember what Benjamin Franklin said: “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Hollah.

If you’re the one traveling, make sure your vehicle has been well-maintained. I can’t overstate this enough.

When you’re fueling up, use high anti-knock gasoline. You never know what kind of weather you will encounter.

Many Americans enjoy spending hours swilling beer and watching football as a way of offering up thanks on this four-day weekend, so make sure your big screen TV is not on the fritz.

Don’t forget the most important part: dessert! Everyone loves pies–pumpkin, pecan, apple, sweet potato, blackberry, chocolate cream, coconut cream…There’s always room for dessert.

But above all, avoid excessive gluttony.

And remember what it’s all about, Charlie Brown–an annual tradition since 1863, when Lincoln proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.”

Too Much Head

I just got another stack of old magazines, and this ad jumped out at me from a 1960 Look.

What’s right with this ad:

Sexy moodlight
Her smooth, parted hair, clipped low at the neck.
It rhymes. That’s pretty cool. “Put the finest label on your table.”

What’s odd with this ad:

He’s pouring Miller (the champagne of bottled beer) from one presumably cold glass container into another. What was wrong with the bottle? I’ve never understood that. And he’s not even tilting the pint glass to reduce that drastic amount of head. Hold it at at a 45° angle!
Miller is from Milwaukee. Why does this ad look so Polynesian? Is this a theme party with Mediterranean olives and French bread and Greek spit-roasted lamb?
I’m frightened by the menacing tiki sculpture in the background. It looks like one of those angry apple trees in The Wizard of Oz.

http://www.houseofhawthornes.com/

The seasonal conflict: his shirt says winter, her dress says summer.
His apron is too clean. Somebody had to rub that meat.
This is too much food for two skinny white people. In fact, the lettuce appears to be making a getaway from the salad bowl. And you know such a demure, classy woman would never dare to consume more than 4 oz of meat at a time. Perhaps that partially lit door indicates a patio party. And those half a dozen plates imply guests are coming.
If they are preparing for said patio party, why aren’t they arguing? You know he didn’t buy all the ingredients she asked him to pick up at the store. He should have brought a pen to cross them off the list, like she told him a million times. Perhaps her look is one of passive aggressive seething rage. He’ll get his later.
He knows he’ll get his later. That’s why he’s topping off his third glass already. The fact that he forgot their anniversary last weekend didn’t help matters. Keep drinking, Ted. Keep drinking.

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