Back-To-School Fish Stories
Category: Culture
Little Red Mouse, Disney, and Fascist Pigs
That little red Fiat 500 was a first-year Model A (produced from 1936 to 1948), the smallest car in the world at the time. Italians (like those in this shot in Rome’s Mussolini Stadium) dubbed the midget coupe Topolino (“little mouse” in Italian).
Topolino was also the name of this very famous mouse. Yep, that’s their name for Mickey.
But evidently, cartoons didn’t set well with Fascists back when that photo was taken. Per theguardian.com, “Comics were seen as a vehicle for the values of the Anglo-Saxon democracies … and Mickey Mouse was the last of the American cartoon heroes to be banned because he was a particular favourite with Mussolini’s children; they were among the very few Italians who were able to defy their father with impunity.”
The controlling craziness went so far as to forbid use of “speech balloons” in any comics at all. Who knew the life of a Fascist cartoonist was so hard?
For your further edification, according to hellogiggles.com, Donald Duck goes by “Paolino Paperino” (not pepperoni), Daisy Duck by “Paperina,” and Goofy is “Pippo,” yet for some reason Pluto is still Pluto and Minnie still Minni (close enough).
So If You Could Just Whip Up A Sweet Chili And Pickle Sauce To Accompany Today’s Tater Tots…
The principal of Virginia’s Hammond High makes his request known to the lunch lady, who seems exceedingly inspired by the proposition. She cannot wait to tell the others, who have nothing else to do but concoct new dipping sauces.
This is what a high school kitchen looked like way back in 1965. No shortage of rolls.
When everyone ate gluten, you could eat rolls and bread at the same meal. Did you ever eat Bond bread?
And lest you think sweet-chili-and-pickle sauce sounds less than palatable, take a gander at this image.
Sometimes presentation is EVERYTHING.
When You Find Out Coffee Beans Grow Inside Coffee Cherries
Nat Geo 3/37, Rome
Kind Eyes
Yesterday we visited Yorkshire coalminers sipping pints in a colliery club. Today we visit them on the job. Above is a coalminer from Durham, England in 1952.
The miner with the buoyant tresses is named Dixen Bell, and he’s 300 feet down in the mine.
These snug fellows are working 19 inch narrow seams.
It’s hard to believe those conditions were better than those of the 1890s, such as the East Pool Mine below. Does any of that look stable?
The men of Dolcoath Mine evidently weren’t claustrophobic.
How nice it must have been to finally emerge into fresh air!
Yorkshire Art Carney Doppelganger
The coalminers above are relaxing with pints in a colliery club in Yorkshire, England. Colliery is a word I’ve never used, so I had to pull out my big, red Webster’s dictionary (no offense to Merriam) and look it up. A colliery is a coal mine and all the buildings and equipment which are connected with it. This building in particular served ale. And I couldn’t help but find the resemblance of this man (and his collapsed smirk) to a certain mid-century actor.
Do you see it? NORTON!
Ed Norton liked a good drink.
Enjoy this peek inside the post-war colliery and think about these men, how exhausted they must have been, lungs full of coal dust, and how they gathered to blow off steam.
Lively Ad Illustrations 1930s
Before craft beer, choices were limited. And Budweiser did its best to make it seem like Bud was the life of the party, replete with black tie formal and an orchestra. The movement conveyed in the dancing, the yellow glow around the conductor, the bubbles in the bottle, the lovely amber and skyscraper greys all made for a most tasty ad. Even the face of the lady in the right foreground seems to be aimed straight at you.
International Motor Trucks weren’t a party, but they were a part of history, as depicted in this colorful ad of a covered wagon, cattle, and pioneers.
The curves of the green vehicle pop against the sharp red lines in its truckbed. It makes my eyes happy.
This last 1931 image may seem mismatched. A sailfish selling ethyl gasoline? Well, it’s all about power. But to me, it’s all about movement. The splashing water, the open wings of the seagulls, the almost melting yellow sun behind it. That doesn’t even make any sense, but I like it.
Aren’t the colors fun?
Barefoot In Scottsboro: No Tenderfoots Here
Scottsboro, Alabama, 1936 by the great Carl Mydans for Farm Security Administration
Zoning Out
Three doctors–two young, one old–all engaged in a demo of “a new method of using penicillin” because learning never ends. And that class of ’06 meant 1906, of course.
And what we hadn’t learned by the fall of 1946 was that Camel’s catchy T-zone slogan was not exactly accurate. But even if we had known the dangers of tobacco, how successful would it have been to ask veterans fresh off WWII to quit their habit?
Not very.
My whole life, cigarettes have been bad for you, and the T-Zone meant the zone of oily skin on your face, the one in the shape of a T.
A skincare T zone is really only a couple inches higher than Camel’s. And both of them are uppercase T’s. Otherwise, they would have looked more like the crucifix zone.
In 2019, we’re more concerned with different zones, like being friendzoned or saving the ozone layer. Where I live, the weatherman is always warning us of Ozone Action Days.
Those are the days we shouldn’t go outside for more than a few minutes, and not without a hat and long sleeves and SPF 100. And try to limit it to early morning! That’s why neighbors mow at 8am now. That’s why the neighborhood pools sit vacant every summer, and you never see kids playing outside at all. They’ll melt in seconds. In fact, summer is the worst time of year in Austin, and yet Californians move here daily. That’s why every highway is in a construction zone. That’s the T-zone for Texas, where all the pollutants and congestion sits. It never ends.
But the more, the merrier, right? With over 100 folks moving here a day, year after year, decade after decade, there are new people to meet and greet. Now all that’s left is to decide on a buffer zone.
For now, let’s keep everyone in the audience.
Sample My Wares
While this pretty maiden humbly offers two bunches of grapes on sticks during a Roman Grape Festival, her old-fashioned costume betrays her. She is no country bumpkin. As the article states, her wristwatch shows that she is a modern woman, and chances were high that she was actually an extra from a nearby movie studio.
This grape girl wrapped her finest grapes in paper packages, while the salesgirl below sold roses in assorted colors.
If a flower girl could not carry her burden, she used a beast.
This donkey was piled high with daisies, violets, and chrysanthemums, brought in from the fields to Nemi, near Rome. With such plentiful bounty, vendors often gave faded flowers to children to beat on the pavement and watch the petals fly.
Those who weren’t selling got into the spirit by wearing provincial costumes to celebrate products from the many district vineyards, displayed in the Basilica of Constantine. That’s a serious middle hair part.
Once the Grape Festival got underway, 25 floats made their way down the streets. This one depicts Bacchus (Dionysus), the ancient Roman and Greek wine god. As the oxen moved, the tongue revolved as if lapping wine. Ew.
I Was Espresso When Espresso Wasn’t Cool
Granted, the fellow on the left looks 57, but apparently, he and his buddy were both Roman university students, sipping caffe espressos made from Brazilian beans between classes way back in 1937. Each student’s neckerchief bears colors denoting his course. Would you get a new neckerchief each time you changed majors?
Creature Comforts of 1928
As I write to you on this sweltering, oppressive August day, I find two words most lovely: frigid air. Indeed, frigid air has been welcome since Frigidaire was founded 103 years ago.
God bless frigid air, the choice of the majority. Such a democratic institution, nestled in its own kitchen nook.
But they didn’t have the monopoly on fridges. Behold the GE model, where all four food groups fit just swell–even wine, which was illegal to sell.
No drain-pipe? Sign me up! Drain pipes are the worst! But you know what’s the best? Running water. You should try it. It’s a “boon to health and pleasure.” You better believe it, sister. Simply turn the handle and PRESTO, legit water appears!
And now that you’ve got water at your whim, how about covering up that hideous radiator?
Me, I’m from Texas, so I’ve never seen a radiator in the wild. Seems like a hazard to me. I’d prefer real wood furniture instead of metal. You know–the kind that could use a nice coating of O-Cedar Polish.
Goodness, she looks happy to be polishing! And that smart bob prevents hair from falling into her eyes. I bet she can see her own reflection.
But what’s this? By the time she gets to the banister, she appears more reticent, withdrawn. Her wrist aches from rubbing.
After all that polishing, Pearl might need a coffee break. But it’s 3pm! It would keep her up all night. Nope, not with Kaffee Hag, which sounds like Cliff Clavin is pronouncing it. Kaffee Hag lets all you hags sleep.
I think I’d rather be a “Pepper, too” than a Kaffee Hag, truth be told. But what a bargain, it is!
Now that you’ve got the inside of your domestic arena addressed, what about the outside? Your coffee may be unleaded, but your roof tiles shouldn’t be.
Leadclad was clad with lead. Only the finest toxins available with exotic Spanish appeal. Ole! Now all that’s left to do is trim that grass. And that’s not Pearl’s domain; that’s Walter’s. So while Pearl massages her aching wrists, Walter needs only a twist of his.
Well, now you’re set, folks! You’re up to date and ready for company!
I Don't Get It 