More proof that the 1970s were so so so odd.
Is it wrong that what I find most disturbing in this yearbook picture is her lack of a belt? It would really pull the look together, and break up two pale colors. Even just a simple brown weave belt could have changed everything.
In any event, I think the punishment is too harsh. And talk about a chafing rope burn…What is wrong with these people?
Was this the designated kissing spot? Out in plain view, for all the world to see? There must have been some mistletoe in the vicinity. Actually, this couple was getting “officially pinned.”
Time’s up! Couple number two, take your turn.
Once the war was over, they started making up for lost time. The lifted left foot is always a nice touch.
This next couple somehow missed the mark. Practice makes perfect!
God forbid I ever have to work in an office again, but it’s good to know I have options, should circumstances mandate a return to the work force.
You men need not feel left out. Granted, Mrs. Vernice Fritts is never going to hire you for stimulating phone work. But you have options as well in the communications field.
See? You can work in labs and stuff, maybe sit at a drafting table. Didn’t Mr. Brady have one?
And for those of us who run a home, we are so fortunate to have electricity to assist in our dreary labors! “Electricity does her laundry for less weekly than the cost of a bar of soap” Um, I beg to differ.
I like her apron, I like her enthusiasm, and her ability to balance plates. However, she clearly has a tendency to procrastinate. Even a Thanksgiving meal doesn’t warrant five dozen plates. She should have paced herself. Nobody likes a Last Minute Martha. Why didn’t she tackle them yesterday? It’s not like she had to update her facebook status. Or return emails. Or tweet. Or hit Gold’s Gym for an hour of treadmill and hot yoga. Come to think of it, what did she do all day?
During the 1977 University of Texas football season, the drinking age was 18, probably because boys that age were asked to die in Vietnam. But let’s wrap our heads around that. High school seniors graduating across the country TOMORROW would legally be able to go get LIT tonight. At a bar. Yes, selfie-taking teenagers. The ones who text and drive. The ones who were born in 1996, the year George Burns turned 100. You think they would make it to 100, car-surfing past the Incidentals Market like these dolts?
Alas, we forget how foolish we were in our salad days. This is what it felt like to be young, male, and jubilant in 1978.
Were there no seatbelt laws then? Because it appears they may have failed to Click It or Ticket. I can’t fathom why, but the drinking age was raised to 19 in 1979, and further raised to 21 in 1984. And there it shall stay. And there it SHOULD stay. Egads!
The more things change, the more they stay the same (except now you’re not allowed to light a cigarette within twenty yards of Austin). This shot from 1978 was taken on The Drag, a strip on Guadalupe Street, across from the University of Texas. Cowboys vs. Dragrats? Some pictures just demand to be resurrected from the closed pages of ancient yearbooks.
In case you didn’t know, the Denton High School marching band is awesome. Their jersey shirts tell you so.
Hard work, perseverance, and dedication will take this band all the way to state. It doesn’t hurt that Alan can really blow. 
Jill and Dana are just happy to have an excuse to skip family Uno night each Friday. Jill gets her rebellion on by donning the purple eye shadow that Mom says makes her look like a Runaround Sue, and Dana has splashed her entire being with Jean Nate in an effort to entice Alan. And after the game, it’s endless Capri Suns and Fritos with bean dip!
If Alan is oblivious as usual, maybe she can spark some interest from Josh. Who wouldn’t want to be around Josh, when his enthusiasm is so palpable?
Who could it be now? Ted, Shawn, or Michael?
It’s a tough call, but my money’s on Shawn. I can see the rumpled Code Bleu jacket in the back seat, next to a can of New Coke, a ticket stub for Rambo: First Blood II, and an empty Dokken cassette case. You rock so hard, Shawn.
While we’re at it, who’s the proud owner of that black Trans-Am that always screeches into the roller rink near closing time, scouting pubescent girls in banana clips and Esprit blouses?
Is it Ben, Larry, or Franswya? Ben is bringing the preppy Blaine vibe, but I heard he drives a totally rad Ford Bronco. Larry is not allowed to operate heavy machinery until he’s done participating in the clinical trial, so it must be Fran, giddy as heck.
I do hope that Franswya is not an alternate way of spelling François, but either way, he’s in his 40s now, so he’s at peace with the name. It’s not quite as unsettling to me as boys named Kameron, but like the overrated movie Frozen (really, what was the BIG deal?), I’ll let it go. Let’s focus instead on Bob.
What about Bob? I don’t care if those keys are to his Porsche 944, I’m not going. I’m taking the school bus home today.
I Don't Get It 