Today’s daily dose of nostalgia comes to us from the 1962-63 Comet, just before Camelot fell apart. Join me as we tumble back into a time between the Korean War and Vietnam, where cat’s-eye glasses and buzz cuts were in. Student government was appropriately silly, but not full-on whackjob like we saw in the 1977 yearbook in Sunday’s post. Life was a barrel of laughs.
I realize it’s not the 1950s, but this is very reminiscent of Rydell HIgh.
My favorite part of this next shot is the gal holding the bottle of hooch. Pardon me, moonshine.
And the fun kept coming. Release your aggression with pinatas!
The choir fellowships as it prepares for the annual Christmas festival.But it’s not all fun and games. The German Club prepares a care package for needy families during the holidays. Because who doesn’t love German food? I’d prefer my care package from the Spanish Club, thank you. Charro beans instead of refried.
Speaking of Spanish, check out the smug grin on Lolita Ines Alverado’s (sic) face in Spanish class. Tengo el cabello más hermoso de la clase.
Lolita’s hair is much foxier than even the homecoming queen’s. In those loafers, Meiling Lung looks downright dowdy.
But by far, the most interesting pictures are of the teachers themselves.
Mrs. Brack cannot be trusted. That cropped cut betrays her. I bet she has volumes of beatnik poetry in her drawer. And Communist connections. And clove cigarettes.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end.
Why, in just a few years, some of you boys may be longhaired hippies, smoking the weed and living out of Volkswagen vans. But if the THC doesn’t lodge too deeply in your brain, try not to forget the wonderful years in high school. Harriet didn’t.
What’s snazzier than this red retro television set?
Perhaps this dapper turtle riding down a slide in his OWN shell?
If you pull the lever at the bottom right, he really does slide. See?
And in keeping with the red theme, here’s a keen card for a grandson.
I don’t know Gramp and Gram from Adam, but I bet they were fine grandparents. Who wouldn’t feel loved, receiving one of these, assuming kids actually READ them?
Pantsless Santa and a student enjoying the March sun at the Union
If you know those lyrics, you should be clapping your hands together right now. The Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run” topped the charts in 1976, and that’s our focus year today. I was flipping through a 1976-77 University of Texas at Austin Cactus, one of many yearbooks in my collection. What struck me the most was the level of unkemptness. If that’s not a word, I hereby decree it is now. Everything looked chaotic, in need of antiseptic wipes, hairbrushes, and ironing boards. The 1970s just needs a darn good scrubbing.
If you weren’t alive then or were too young to recall, let me offer you this glimpse into what life was like as a student in central Texas during the year before Elvis collapsed on the toilet.
During the bicentennial year of 1976, the presidential elections intensified between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. On campus, the Absurdist Group drafted an Arts & Sausages platform. These are not typos. Pictured is a rally for student government.
This next picture of student government (next to an icon of what appears to be Slash from Guns ‘n’ Roses, which did not exist yet) shows bralessness, early male pattern baldness, and an overzealous male giving the “Hook ‘Em, Horns” sign.
Here you see a computer from the research department. Fitting this on your lap at Starbuck’s was cumbersome at best.
The Tavern was a great place to socialize and blow off steam, back when the drinking age was 18, which seems CUH-RAZY in retrospect–allowing high school seniors to be hitting the saloons. But I guess if they were old enough to go die in Vietnam, they should be allowed to knock back a few gin and tonics before shipping out.
The pic is not askew. The SEVENTIES were askew. What is he looking at? I’d say her chest, but her chest is identical to his. Maybe he’s taking in the scent of her Ban Roll-On.
The Texas Tavern also offered bowling. Check out the form on this hunk.
And no college bar is complete without its “Disco Night,” which showcased the talents of diverse DJ’s.
But university life wasn’t all fun and games; a shuttle bus drivers’ strike left students stranded at the bus stops. New “scab” bus drivers feared violent strikers.
Below is a portrait of The Crow’s Nest, a group formed in 1949, open to any Navy ROTC Midshipmen with a 2.0 GPA. The mission was to develop leaders and future Naval officers. Per the yearbook, “the mascot is any likely sea bird such as the penguin or albatross.” Was the entire yearbook staff stoned when they edited this?
If you really peer into this, you’ll see not only the YMCA being performed, but knives and swords at each other’s necks, a man in aviator glasses, a Greek Fisherman’s cap, and a jogging jacket, a gentleman in a nice blazer and his underwear taking a swig from a bottle, a cowboy taking a hit off a fatty–not to mention Los Tres Amigos at the bottom. Mercy.
Frat life seems much more tame by comparison. Note the gender roles being broken down as Wayne prepares a pot of chili for Wendy (whose Farrah Fawcett wings seem to be experiencing an uprising of their own). How could she resist the charms of such a hairy beast and his blow-dried tresses?
This next glimpse of campus life has no caption. With the exposed brassiere, I can only guess that it’s a feminist rally gone awry. We may never know.
And so ends our window into the dirty grime of The Bicentennial. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
I used to think I was born in the wrong era. Growing up, wearing plaid corduroy pants with striped brown shirts was not very feminine. However, everything about the 40s and 50s delighted me: the hair, the poodle skirts, the staying at home and not working and having a husband support me, the aqua-colored appliances, the white picket fences. And everyone looked so CLEAN, so hat and gloves, so put together.
I have STACKS of old magazines with endlessly fascinating ads, to which you will constantly be subjected. I don’t mind sexist ads. I don’t mind silly feminine hygiene ads. I don’t even mind “husky” toddler clothes ads for kids that look positively svelte by today’s standards. But the one thing that just baffles me is the food. The food looks AWFUL. Gelatinous and cottage-cheesey with potted meats. Ewww.
Take a gander at these ads, all from just ONE October 1958 Good Housekeeping:
Now I like hush puppies, as well as pancakes and ham, but this looks more like sweet ‘n’ sour chicken than actual breakfast. Waitress, I’d like the General Tso’s fried gluten with extra cholesterol and sugarbeetees, plus a side of hardened arteries. Pronto!
Now for lunch, we’ll add some healthy options. Tomato sauce is a vegetable, right?
I haven’t visited Sicily, but I’m fairly certain this is what a gen-u-ine Italian pizza looks like, with green olives at the tips of the star. Didn’t Cher bake this for Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck? They were totally Italian. P.S. Did Mrs. America really want to be associated with yeast? Maybe Miss America was busy endorsing Monistat?
Now save room, because we’ve invited the Johnsons over for a Souper Supper Loaf dinner, and Mom’s made a fanTABulous “handy ham appe-teaser.” No, not REAL ham, silly! You had that for breakfast. This is deviled ham. Pretend ham. Satan’s ham.
Don’t mind the fact that it resembles a voodoo doll for Mom to stab out her aggression, while indulging her perfectionist tendencies. Every little plasticky processed American cheese square must sit JUST right! Is the apple oxidizing at the toothpick hole?
Now time for the main event! You better get your coveting on, Mrs. Johnson, because there’s no way you’ll EVER top Mom’s meatloaf.
I don’t know which looks better: the one oozing blood, the one covered in toddler wretch, or the one doused with thousand island dressing. Oh, alright, already! Please pass the celery-salmon loaf. I can’t resist a river of celery running down that lovely loaf o’ fish. It’s like bundt cake, except it’s meat. And it’s gross. And it makes my throat fill with bile.
Stay tuned for more super keen ads from 1958! I’ll try not to nauseate you.
“When a man asks you for your first college weekend, it’s a big deal.” So begins the article in one of my 1958 Good Housekeeping magazines. Pardon? What’s a “college weekend’? Is he taking her to a college where she’s never been? Does he attend that college? If it’s her “first” one, does that imply many will follow? I’m so confused. Reading further adds no clarity.
“Nothing marks you as a greenhorn more quickly than arriving at the ivy-covered stations with bulging bags.” The station? Like a train? Certainly not a Greyhound Station. Is it located near an Ivy League college? (BTW, a greenhorn is a novice. Nothing like a longhorn, or a Foghorn Leghorn.)
The rules also say, “The greatest threat to a return engagement is getting gay (read, garrulous) or daring (read, dizzy)…” And if you DO CHOOSE to get gay or daring, “it proves nothing at all except what a rank amateur you are.” Yeesh! Rank amateur? So harsh! So complicated! I think I’d just bow out of the entire weekend altogether.
The whole thing reminds me of MIss Mona’s no-no rules from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas:
And please don’t show us no tattoos
No hearts and flowers on your thigh It’s downright tacky Brands belong on cattle and that ain’t what we’re selling at Miss Mona’s
Maybe that’s why I never got a tattoo; I didn’t want to upset Dolly Parton. Plus, if it’s trashy on a Chicken Ranch whore, how does it look on a common non-prostitute?
The ladies all sing, “Just lots of good will, and maybe one small thrill, but there’s nothing dirty going on!” Hmmm. Maybe THAT’S a college weekend?
I took my state’s history courses when I was in elementary school, but now that I’m a parent, I have to learn the new history (based on which group is currently displeased with its depiction, or what we’d like to collectively erase, or what the editor accidentally cut and forgot to repaste). You know, kind of like when you’re dating someone, and you choose which past mistakes to reveal (Chinese tattoo, Minor In Possession, difficult break-up) and which to gloss over (lost weekends in Cancun, jail cells, crab infestations). It’s like that.
So I’m studying the new Texas history, looking at this picture, under the header, “Tipis: Early Mobile Homes.” Which makes me chuckle. First, “tipis” on my lips sounds like “tipp-iss.” I would have preferred “teepees,” even if that reminds me of toilet paper. Oh, there’s the school bell! Enjoy this Monday morning Spring Break history lesson:
When the group was ready to move on, they took apart their tipis to bring with them. The tipi’s wooden poles and buffalo hide could be made into a sort of “moving van” called a travois. The travelers packed all their belongings on the travois, a type of sled pulled by dogs and later by horses.
Really? Travois, from the French word travail? Was there a French influence in the Native American culture?
Now nobody thinks of tipis/teepees when one mentions mobile homes. Most of us picture the stereotypical manufactured home (broken Camaro up on blocks, Christmas lights strung across the porch, where the mildewy couch has caved in, and little spring coils are poking out, like grey hairs on an aging scalp). If you think that’s a stretch, I can point to a dozen just like that within a mile of my laptop.
Others will picture an R.V. (recreational vehicle), which technically IS a mobile home. Airstream trailers possess a kitschy coolness in modern times; Miranda Lambert sang about her desire to live in one with homemade curtains. And as taco truck culture grows, we see more and more Airstreams dealing affordableish foods, including Austin’s own “hey cupcake,” which could REALLY USE A COMMA in its name. SERIOUSLY, IN A TOWN WITH HALF A MILLION ENGLISH MAJORS, YOU’D THINK SOMEONE MAY HAVE CLUED YOU IN ON THAT ONE. It’s like the Gin Blossoms and “Hey Jealousy” all over again…
Despite the insipid and omnipresent SWOOSHES covering recreational vehicles, their insides can be pretty keen. We’ve seen the inside of a concert tour bus; we know how stars are living large on the road (except, of course, for Buddy Holly’s Winter Dance Party tour bus; its heater broke down in sub-freezing weather, which caused his drummer to get frostbite, for which he was hospitalized, which spared him from the chance to ride in American Pie, which crashed on the Day the Music Died, and two days later, the drummer had to rejoin the tour, grieving and frostbitten.) But other than THAT, folks can really pimp their rides in style, even make them downright classy.
Classy, however, is not a term associated with manufactured homes.
I have friends and family who live in site-built homes (that’s the term we had to use at the appraisal district), and a couple in manufactured homes. I have been in manufactured homes that were much nicer than some site-built homes. But like that poster says, stereotypes are based on reality. So here’s the question: were trailers EVER COOL? I mean, this 1950s model looks pretty swank. No stained wifebeaters on Dad, no chain link fence, no deranged “rabified” Pit Bulls straining to kill.
And this isn’t too trashy, although I am sensing some underage recreation behind that snack bar, involving Swisher Sweets and Boone’s Strawberry Hill.
Yeah, that looks like it’s pretty well-fortified against any sudden tornado, on the off-chance that one might come veering toward it…
Good or bad, train wrecks sell: see Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. And the network that brought us that gem just debuted Welcome To Myrtle Manor, a reality series about a South Carolina trailer park. Who knows? Maybe they’ll become cool again.
I spy with my little eyes a a trim little number working in the flower garden, wearing a jaunty yellow scarf and prissy white gloves to protect his manicure, with a clear oral fixation, hand on hip, jutted out all sassily. Uh-oh. The issue is not Mom’s beer. The issue is Mom’s a beard.
Vegans and vegetarians, this post is not for you. Get on your bike and pedal self-righteously to a co-op and buy yourself more hummus and tofu, kale and quinoa. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But this is for carnivores.
Ahem. I learned early on from The Smiths that meat was murder, but, then again,
And war is murder, and abortion is murder, and so on and so on. Now please make my steak medium rare.
Those of us of a certain age will remember this Saturday morning PSA, pleading with America’s then-non-obese children to not “drown our food.”
If you remember that, then you were probably wearing tapered jeans and shoulder pads when Sally (“Hot Lips” Houlihan) Kellerman exhorted us to come to Hidden Valley Ranch and slather copious amounts of the buttermilky goodness all over our baby carrots and celery sticks. It may be useful in getting your kids to EAT vegetables, but it’s a lousy strategy in TASTING them.
When it comes to steak, I can understand how some folks prefer grilled mushrooms on top, maybe some caramelized onions, even chimichurri on a flank steak. But for my money, a steak like this needs nothing more than the salt and pepper on the crust.
Consider this ad for Hunt’s (Hunt’s, people! Not even Heinz, the real ketchup–pardon me, CATSUP) in 1952.
Either Dad doesn’t know how to grill a tasty T-bone, or that’s a perfectly good waste of beef. Ketchup on a steak is an irreverent, impious act against the inviolable laws of steak consumption. It just is. Frankly, ketchup serves its purpose best on potatoes. While we’re at it, can someone explain this to me? Is this corn beef hash and cole slaw?
And what on earth is this next one? Baked BEANS with ketchup? Is that meatloaf wedges as the accompaniment? Or are those pumpernickel slices? So confused. And where is the hand holding the bottles in all these images? Hunt’s is so magically buoyant.
Enough already! I need something that makes sense.
Today is the final installment of vintage menus. The above pic is a Thanksgiving menu, a feast that Americans celebrate at the end of November, which makes all politically correct people get their panties in a wad because Pilgrims and Indians (now called Native Americans) could never possibly have shared a squash and a smile. But whatever. We watch football with our families, gorge ourselves on turkey and casseroles, and save room for pie. Come to think of it, why would anyone be eating in a RESTAURANT on Thanksgiving? Anyhoo, here are the feast details (one may click to enlarge).
Those prices are pretty steep for modern times, and this menu is at least twenty years old. Mercy!
Here is a cute breakfast menu from Varadero International in Cuba, all in Spanish.
Coffee was A QUARTER. Can you imagine buying a beverage for ONE coin? What would the tip be? A nickel? Did waitresses walk around with jingling aprons as dimes clinked against pennies? Consider the pain involved if she chose to “make it rain up in here.”
The next menu is from the Alta Mira Continental Hotel in San Francisco. How this hideous design ever got approved is beyond me, as it’s ugly as a 1970s appliance set.
However, I would be willing to overlook that if I could still procure either the filet mignon or the Half Lobster Delight for under $5, as advertised.
Bratten’s Grotto in Utah included actual photos on their large fold-out menu:
Cattlemen’s in Fort Worth–in bright taxi-cab yellow–had an interesting cocktail menu, which included both a Tio Pepe and a Tia Maria.
This final menu shows the name of its owner in the left corner, and its age, with the dates from 1961-1972. I love the sea foam green, the cheese saltines, and the ten ways to prepare a potato.
But it’s not all fun and games. The German Club prepares a care package for needy families during the holidays. Because who doesn’t love German food? I’d prefer my care package from the Spanish Club, thank you. Charro beans instead of refried.
Speaking of Spanish, check out the smug grin on Lolita Ines Alverado’s (sic) face in Spanish class. Tengo el cabello más hermoso de la clase.
But by far, the most interesting pictures are of the teachers themselves.
I Don't Get It 