Santa appears to be hanging by his fingertips beside this browning magnolia tree.
Either reindeers are growing or Santa is shrinking.
With mistletoe on his cap, Santa goes in for a peck at Mrs. Claus.
One Santa drives an ice cream truck with peppermint candy wheels, while a Florida Santa shows his midriff without shame.
But soon Santa must mount his sleigh and head to the homes of good little boys and girls. Twelve days and counting!
You don’t drop this phone; this phone drops you.
Did you realize these unkempt tramps were to blame for the ruin of the running board? Neither did I. Not until today. But this 1941 Chevrolet ad has opened mine eyes to the truth.
Just look at those adjectives: swank and streamlined. Running boards were preventing those adjectives from existing. And look how happy she is! A woman who wears an entire colony of minks on her frame is a woman I can trust. Maybe it’s badgers, wolverines–I don’t care, as long as they keep her warm.
And did you know there was a real fear of package-carrying tweens in knee breeches and dress shoes attacking your windows if your car had running boards? It was practically an invitation.
Here I was thinking auto makers had simply stopped caring about style, but all along, I was wrong. I had never stopped to consider the peril involved in taking TWO STEPS.
This is what they mean when they talk about light-bulb moments, friends. Running boards were downright dangerous.
It’s December, folks. Some of you Northerners can relate to Trenchcoat Trent and the loss of his dapper derby. Should that really happen in a civilized country? God bless Chevrolet for hitting CTRL+ALT-DEL on the cursed running board.
If it’s toasted, it can’t be that bad.
And what about these couples from a 1929 Camel ad? Don’t they look cozy and warm in the amber glow of a Prohibition-era eatery? If I couldn’t drink, I’d be smoking, too. Enjoy your finery and walking sticks while you got ’em, folks. Nine months ’til Black Tuesday…
I just got this February 3, 1941 copy of Life. I have TONS of Life magazines; I even have a room we call the “Life room” because it has glass cabinets housing piles of vintage mags. But I’d never seen this one. The U.S. was a few months shy of entering WWII at this point, but we were well aware of The Führer. Don’t you just wish you were there to smash his face in?
The frenzy caused by his presence is disturbing and unnerving. What brainwashing of a country to treat him as their savior.
Have you seen these images before? I hadn’t. Are those beaming teenagers still alive? Have they since seen themselves in these images, so joyful, so radiant, so hopeful? Little did they know.
They dried dishes, while breaking down gender stereotypes and rocking festive aprons.
They wrapped books in brown paper packages tied up with string and sent them to unfortunate children who would have preferred cookies or even oranges.
They listened to “Fifth Street Blues” by The Royals on a Frisbee-sized 78, interpreting lyrics as related to the modern life of a 1950s housewife. Bye, baby, bye…
And on the weekends, they gussied up in dresses and sat in lawn chairs and pet dalmatians.
They read the newspaper until their fingertips were black with ink, often in groups referred to as “tree quartets.” Reading something made of a tree while touching a tree (and evidently a shoulder) connected them to nature.
Vision-deficient boys inflated balls with adult supervision, while parents consoled themselves that, while their son would never make point guard, he made a heck of a ball boy. And look–it’s his third college admissions letter!
They gathered round the piano for a rousing good time, except for Mavourneen and Chester, whose dour faces reflect their recent break-up. Nothing a little “Come On-A My House” can’t fix!
Or was this the day the Cosmo issue debuted its centerfield of Burt Reynolds?
Some of you may be geriatric mature enough to recall these ads:
I Don't Get It 