Growing up, the closest I ever got to a haunted house was watching episodes of Scooby Doo on Saturday morning cartoons. As a teenager, I visited facsimiles of haunted houses, made purely for Halloween profit. But insofar as I’ve never seen a ghost, I don’t believe in them, nor haunted house. But if by chance, they do exist, I imagine they reside in spooky homes like this, with broken windows and dilapidated porches with rusted railings.
all photos from Shorpy unless labeled otherwise
This old Victorian mansion may appear innocent enough, with a fruit stand out front, and laundry blowing in the breeze. But you know there are some kidnapping milk carton victims trapped in that upper bedroom. Don’t you see their fingerprints on the panes?
Franklin Street, Houston, TX 1943
You actually can see the child in the lower left portion of this tenement housing, so it’s a given those curtains upstairs are concealing various abducted persons. The ones out front are just a cover.
Brockton, Mass 1940
This plantation house is creepy even in brightest sunlight. No doubt the ghosts of former slaves are flying amongst the rotting shingles and crumbling chimneys. The boy sitting on the stoop is merely an apparition.
St Charles Parish, Abandoned Plantation 1938
This one looks more like a movie set, like the swamp scene in The Rescuers.
Volusia County, Florida 1904
But this one gives me the williest of willies. It’s not the broken windows nor decaying wood; it’s the fact that it appears to be tucked into a hillside, maybe in the recesses of some mountain community, where subspecies and dialects exist that you and I know nothing of.
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I bet it looked fine in its glory days, but it’s time for the wrecking ball. Make room for suburbia!
Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get. My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come. Here’s one such item: The site http://www.menwholooklikekennyrogers.com/ has existed since I was in my TWENTIES. It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers. Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?
If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you. I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased. They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits. Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish. Combined. And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.” No kidding.
But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother. Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go. Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).
Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry. Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.
And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.
Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased. Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb. You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.
You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man? Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather? I am vexed.
Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists. Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point. You had a good run, Barry. Longer than most of us could ever dream of. And that’s no Jive Talkin’.
At one of our favorite Mexican restaurants, the bathroom soap leaves something to be desired. Each time I wash my hands before eating, the smell emanating from my fingers makes me not want to reach for the chips and salsa. It’s like I need another soap to wash the smell of that one off. I have never understood this concept. Why would any eatery offer a soap that smells to high heaven, that reeks of Texaco restroom (which is the scent of cherry poop), that does everything to quell one’s hunger at a restaurant? Isn’t the point to increase one’s appetite? To that end, I have discovered this today. I think this would do well to increase the sales of not only appetizers, but buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies at the Walgreen’s down the road, once one departs said restaurant.
If I’d just scrubbed with that, I’d be sniffing my knuckles right and left. While we’re on the topic, I’ll share this trivia tidbit: El Senor Redenbacher died in his condo jacuzzi, after suffering a heart attack and subsequently drowning. Did you know that?
So maybe popcorn’s not your bag, baby. Perhaps you don’t want to smell like a cinema lobby. Well, sophisticated gentleman, this might be for you.
Mmmm. Forget Axe For Men; let me smell some merlot on his palms. And BTW, I hate the UB40 song Red Red Wine. I just feel like I need to put that out there, so that you know this pic is in no way an endorsement for such a wretched song, but more an endorsement of alcoholism.
And remember, The Mayo Clinic advises you to rub your hands vigorously for at least 20 seconds while washing, no matter how long the line of impatient patrons standing behind you. If we all work together, we can fight germs and bacteria.
And Victoria Beckham, it’s bad enough that your smile’s been broken for twenty years, but what sort of atrocity is this? You look like the rough draft of Madame Tussaud’s wax version of Kate Gosling.
I mean, don’t these women have access to the BEST of the BEST? What kind of botched job would I wind up with, if THEIR doctors are the best in their field?
Really, Jewel? That’s not very bohemian and down to earth of you. I thought you lived on a ranch with your cowboy husband; you don’t have to subscribe to the L.A. ideal. Honestly.
Super Hero Hype & Celebrity Gossipshow
Oh, Tara Reid. I have no words.
My advice to starlets: don’t do it. But if you must, you must increase your bust, go small, like Cameron Diaz.
You know you want this. Toss this into your hatchback, head to the park, and bam–a picnic. Flip it over and bam–a playpen. Go back home, lob it on its side, and serve your friends up some Amaretto Sours in style. Later, after the guests leave, strap your mod boots on and rock and rock and rock. Now that’s what I call a Good Friday.
If nothing else, blogging makes you realize that you can appreciate (and even follow) blogs of those who don’t share your political or religious views. I don’t want to shove my beliefs down anyone’s throat more than I want them shoving theirs down mine (I’m talking to you, Jehovah’s Witnesses, knocking at my door at dinnertime). I’m pretty set in my convictions at this point, so I won’t lie and say that I try to stay open-minded. I don’t. Bobby Brown says that’s my prerogative.
However, when I walked into an office waiting room and sat down with this magazine as the only option, I tried to keep an open mind.
After all, I like natural things. I buy the expensive eggs from happy chickens; I don’t eat whipped pig part hot dogs. Like most of you, I dig hip-looking older black guys in curved brim hats. The necklace, not so much, but you get my drift. But what is inside this magazine, this bed of deceit, made me want to hoard every copy and set them ablaze in an Aggie bonfire.
Let’s not call this slander; let’s call this my opinion, which is the heart of most blogs. Go ahead and close this post down if you in any way find life coaching a legitimate career. You are certainly allowed to be a gullible schmuck, but you’re not gonna like the rest of this. And remember, I’m not always going to agree with you, either. A rainbow wouldn’t be as pretty with just one color, would it? Diversity…
Now do I believe that therapy can benefit people? Yes. We’re all carrying around years of baggage, and sometimes we need help unloading it. But you can bet your sweet bippy you can’t become a licensed therapist in two days. Lifecoaching, however, you betcha!
Certification is only $595! That’s waaaay less than the bother of actually going to college. It’s like the TurboTax commercial, where the “tax professional” is also a “master plumber.” Sure you are. Let me get some advice on how to run my life by someone who couldn’t even get into the University of Phoenix.
Let me say first that I’ve spent YEARS YEARS YEARS with doctors who were unable to remedy my ailments. Thousands on meds, doctors get paid to pimp new products, the American healthcare system is corrupt, etc, etc. You all know the deal. I was so desperate for help that I resorted to hoodoo guru new agey acupuncture. And guess what? The acupuncturist made a whole heck of a lot of sense. In fact, he knew more about my body by looking at my EAR than most doctors did after seven vials of bloodwork taken fro me. So, yes, I can accept this 5000 year-old art as a legit form of healing. And I can see how people get soooo fed up with doctors, so desperate for relief that they resort to absolute craziness. Like crystals.
Wow! How did they DO that? It’s like magic! Like the incredible Burt Wonderstone waved his magician’s wand across her and boom! Photoshop 101. I’m sorry if I don’t believe that wearing a pendant will strengthen my energy fields. In the words of Hall & Oates, “I can’t go for that. No can do.”
Hey, while we’re at it, news flash: astrology is entertainment. I know when you’re fifteen and you’re infatuated with the cute boy with the good hair, the first thing you do is find out his birthday and look up his sign and discover he’s a Leo, and no wonder he’s so arrogant and self-absorbed, and you giggle with your friends because you’ve unearthed a grand mystery and pried him open like an oyster, and soon he will be yours. Yeah, guess what? It’s pretend.
Haven’t you ever wondered when you’re sitting there, eating your egg drop soup and looking at the red Chinese Zodiac placemat, that maybe it’s just hogwash? You ever think of all the kids in your class in school born in your same year and wonder how you could all share identical traits? Well, you can’t. It’s make believe. Like fairies and centaurs.
Apparently, I was born under the sign of charm and aggressiveness. Ya think? Oh, and my sign “can be talkative sometimes.” Yes, and sometimes we convert oxygen to carbon dioxide JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES.
I don’t know what Pranic Healing is, and I haven’t studied the Reiki of the Fire Dragon, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that psychics are scam artists (or perhaps just evil). Uh-oh. Hit a nerve? Do you recall the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Professor Marvel consults the crystal ball? Note his words:
This is the same genuine, magic, authentic crystal used by the priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the pharaohs of Egypt in which Cleopatra first saw the approach of Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony and and so on and so on. You’d better close your eyes, my child for a moment, in order to be better in tune with the infinite.
He ran a good game, though, didn’t he? Cretins and twits and dolts, OH, MY!
Without giving out free advertising, I will say that there is a “Dear Abby” type forum, wherein simpletons write in to ask such deep questions as when they will win a lottery ticket. And the gifted one then channels ascended masters and archangels to tell her to build an altar–BUILD AN ALTAR–to a deity to get the winning numbers. #$%^#(@!!!!!!
And this one–this one is the worst. No, I don’t know what it is either.
I know what quickening is in terms of pregnancy, but I don’t think this is what Pat is peddling. I say Pat because I am reminded of the old SNL skit.
So, Pat–did you mean to put “Safty” or did you mean “Safety”? And you also wrote “Less Then.” Yeah, methinks it should be “Less THAN.” So maybe you’ve got a great grasp of whatever the hell quickening is, but you really should brush up on your basic English. Just saying.
And LASTLY, we’ve got a little Watsu. What’s a watsu, you say? Well, it’s aquatic bodywork. And maybe it does help your joints, and God knows mine need it. But I don’t particularly enjoy feeling fondled by the mammogram tech at the radiology dept when she yanks and heaves my breasts onto the glass. So I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t cotton to cavorting about in the water with some stranger like a sea otter. No lady’s face needs to get that close to mine. Ever.
Wow. I congratulate you on reading over 1000 words. Long posts are the WORST, aren’t they?
And that, my friends, is the difference between men and women. Adrenaline delights one and strikes fear in the other. Today’s post documents the Senior Class Favorites of the 1955 Pine Burr, selected “as tops in fun, sparkle, and friendship.” Most yearbook pictures are taken on location at the high school, but evidently these favorites traveled off site. Why, Jo Ann and Edward got suited up for a poolside session. Perry and Pat went horse riding through what appears to be a swamp.
Earl and Shirley were stuck riding pretend horses on a carousel, as though they were still young children.
Thurston and Lovey Howell enjoyed an afternoon of boating. Are these people really teenagers?
Susie and Morris enjoyed a bicycle built for two.
Barbara and Donald braved gusty winds to sit on the dock of the bay. Or is that a bridge? Look, Barbara, I’ll catch that catfish for you and fry it up for dinner with some hush puppies. Won’t that be swell?
Miss Wheat is delighted that Mr. Turner parked next to her namesake. Or are those plumes of feathered reed grass? It may be Daddy’s car, but he’s got quite a grip at 10 and 2.
Our last picture is the Football Sweetheart. Wait–isn’t that the same girl (with her name misspelled) wearing a polka dotted cape and sitting on a diving board earlier? She gets around. She’s a double favorite!
My advice to you, Miss Yianitsas–marry one of those football players asap and shed that tragic maiden name. Preferably Earl Wright. It’s just one syllable!
When I say “Jewfro,” you probably think of Seth Rogen, or his Judd Apatow film pal, Jonah Hill. And while some may say that the style consists of a mop of curls, I do not agree. On humid days when I complain of having an “afro,” it does not imply that I have perfectly smooth ringlets on my head. Au contraire, it means my hair is frizzed to high heaven, and neither John Frieda nor any other lying, scheming frizz-free, smoothing serum, crap-peddling con artist can fix it. Seth Rogen’s hair is not frizzy. It is an afro SHAPE made of cascading curls.
In the scheme of things, “jewfro” is a fairly recent term. It is not, however, a recent phenomenon. In fact, I contend that jewfros of the past were far superior to their modern-day counterparts, in part, because of their absolute frizziness. Think: Art Garfunkel. Hello, darkness, my old friend…
But his was not the first jewfro to which I was introduced. That honor goes to Juan Luis Pedro Felipo de Huevos Epstein on Welcome Back, Kotter. That’s him in the upper right. He was a Puerto Rican Jew with an era-appropriate coif.
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I suppose technically I was introduced to Mr. Kotter’s jewfro at precisely the same time, but he was a teacher, and I identified with the students, even if they were male. Sadly, the actor who played Epstein, Robert Hegyes, passed away just over a year ago. If you ever want to hear a great theme song, this show had one. Welcome back, welcome back, welcome ba-a-ack.
I would be remiss not to mention the now-deceased “happy trees” PBS icon, Bob Ross. According to www.jewornotjew.com, Ross was not actually of Jewish descent, which means that what he sported was actually a “jewfaux.” But let’s not get legalistic.
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Doesn’t he just make you want to smile? P.S. it was a perm.
This next little jewfro works well on Shia LaBeouf, who was Jewish enough to have a full-on Bar Mitzvah, yet he also was baptized. So there you go. No jewfaux here.
Here’s another shot of Shia with something that I can’t quite label. It’s not a ‘fro, but it is powerful. You can’t tame that thing. Let’s call it Black Mamba hair.
Seinfeld creator Larry David’s jewfro was something to behold. You can see that the receding had already begun its weary trek to the back of his dome. And he looks none too thrilled about it.
It’s like Ashley Judd’s hairline, with all those little baby hairs. An odd sort of fringe. Not that I would mind trading faces with her for a few years…
Now Lenny Kravitz has Russian Jewish ancestors, but I wouldn’t call his look a jewfro. I would just call it a nice, tight hairdo. On a really fit man with a bandana and shades who is cooking shirtless.
When I waited tables twenty years ago, I constantly had to ask which salad dressing customers would prefer. In Texas, Ranch is king, and not just because of the nearby King Ranch, a ranch made up of 825,000 acres (3,340 km). For a while in the 1990s, Honey Mustard was quite a little trendsetter. But it always comes back to Ranch. In this city, there are always Balsamic Vinaigrettes and Jalapeno Cilantro Buttermilks to tempt your palate But people who eat Wonder Bread and vanilla ice cream and order cheese pizza will almost always choose Ranch.
Except old people. Old people LOOOOOVE themselves some Roquefort. The “blue hair” crowd that goes to matinees, the ones at IHOP at 5am and at Luby’s at 4pm, ladies with tight poodledog hairdos in sensible shoes and highwaisted elasticized pants–they like Roquefort. I don’t mean senior newbies who just started collecting Social Security checks. I’m talking the greatest generation, the ones disappearing at every breath.
And don’t second guess them; don’t clarify, “blue cheese?” Blue cheese is what you dunk chicken wings in. “Blue cheese” is not old school. Roquefort is. Roquefort is jitterbugging and Andy Hardy films. Let them be who they are.
I don’t care if you’re a vinegar & oil or a Zesty Italian person, I don’t judge. Okay, I don’t often judge. That is, I always judge. Nonstop. And although I can deal with Thousand Island, it does not lend itself to drizzling. Now that I think about it, we used to offer French as well, but nobody offers it any more. I wonder if it has gone the way of the woolly mammoth. Of course, this could all be a regional thing. Maybe some of you live in countries where French dressing reigns supreme. Surely not in France?
In any event, DO NOT invite me to dinner without assessing your salad dressing selection. I don’t need a wide array from which to choose. What I need is a fresh salad dressing. I don’t mean one that you whipped up from some Food Network recipe, with your own Greek yogurt and garden basil. No, I mean current. I mean made THIS YEAR. I mean NOT EXPIRED.
Maybe you’re not an expiration Nazi. Perhaps it’s never even occurred to you to CHECK the date on the lid, plain as day, put there for a reason to protect you from tuberculosis and polio, caused by rancid dressing. If that is you, then enjoy your childish naivete Because I PUH-ROMISE you that the very next home you go to for dinner, whether it’s Grandma’s or Cousin Kim’s or the cheery abodes of co-workers or friends, they will have an expired dressing on their table. And that is the downfall of civilization.
The last time I attended a birthday celebration for a co-worker at a nice home, with an enormously garish centerpiece, nice stemware, and table settings, the salad dressing had expired. I don’t mean last month expired. I mean 2011 expired. Oh, yes. And that is not the worst offender. I have attended holiday meals wherein dressings nigh on half a decade old were proffered for my taking. Presidents had been sworn in, sworn at, and sworn out since this bottle had rolled off the assembly line.
If you would never deign to serve me spoiled milk or festering pork, then you shouldn’t offer me expired salad dressing. If it’s two months expired, I will hold my sanity together and gulp it down, praying to the Lord to spare me both jaundice and yellow fever. But if I wind up in the emergency room, it’s on your hands.
And can I just remind you that dressing is about $1.50? Unless you’re all uppity and enjoy getting swindled, you should not be laying down a five spot for dressing. Tell you what, I’ll do you a solid and spot you THREE dollars just so that you can go purchase two dressings of your choice. And I’ll be a good sport and consume it. Even if it’s poppyseed.
So what about other dressings? Years ago, when customers would request Vinegar & Oil, it never came ON the salad, like all the other choices. No, we had to trot out those two little glass bottles that took up a lot of table real estate. I couldn’t understand why a person would choose such a flavorless dressing. But now that I’ve entered my forties, I get it. Not because I prefer it, but because it’s a healthier option. It’s possible that as my eyelashes turn grey and chin hairs come in, I may feel an overwhelming urge to eat Roquefort. Until then, remember the immortal words of Mark Hamill, “Acting in ‘Star Wars’ I felt like a raisin in a giant fruit salad, and I didn’t even know who the cantaloupes were.” Damn, if this isn’t a perfect quote for a site called “I Don’t Get It,” I don’t know what is.
Toro! Toro! Toro! Let me count the ways I so love this ad. Okay, so this ad was in the back of the 1963 Comet, which I posted about earlier today. But I could not just drop this in to the post because it possesses clear and present superiority. It is the bomb. It requires its own post.
I love the black mantilla. Oh, yes, that’s a word for that black veil, which Spanish women wear during Holy Week in Seville, Spain during the week leading up to Easter, which is NEXT week, which means you can catch them live and in person if you so choose! Snap!
Also, I like how the skinny white girl is doing her version of an air guitar, except playing air castanets. Who would have even thunk to play air castanets? Glorious. Her undeniable skill, in combination with the mantilla and sexy red rose, playing off her innocence, is nearly enough to seduce Tim, the newest waiter.
BTW, Tim–that belt that your Aunt Marge sewed from a cast-off curtain sample does NOT look Spanish. But it would work quite well on your Ali Baba Halloween costume come October. But who cares? You get free chips and salsa, so life is good.
Now let’s talk about Janice! Janice and her look of disdain.
She can hardly keep that Saltine down. Yeah, Saltines are SOOO Mexican. I can’t help but think of Sophia Loren’s contemptuous scowl at Jayne Mansfield’s 42DD overflowy cup size.
It’s not like you’re cup doesn’t runneth over, either, Sophia. Just be glad you’re still alive. Poor Jayne never lived to do mediocre films like “Grumpy Old Men,” God bless her. Get over it.
Anyway, back to Janice. Her hair is teased to high heaven, and her blouse is buttoned high, but I think we all know the truth. You can sit there primly, holding that napkin over your nether regions, but we heard the rumors, Janice. You think your blonde friend, Cindy, knows how to keep her trap shut? Loose lips sink ships, Janice. Cindy can’t be trusted. But you just wait til the Mariachi Band shows up. You’ll get yours.
But this one gives me the williest of willies. It’s not the broken windows nor decaying wood; it’s the fact that it appears to be tucked into a hillside, maybe in the recesses of some mountain community, where subspecies and dialects exist that you and I know nothing of.
I Don't Get It 