This is all in good fun, but folks would cry “domestic abuse” in this day and age.
When I think of Mary Wana, I think of hippies, not high school students in 1949. My bad.
Fun with intentional homicide!
Uh-oh, bestiality!
Mental illness was a laughing matter.
Hints of polygamy…
And the grand finale of I-Don’t-Get-Itness…a bowlegged sheriff fondling a cactus made of student’s heads, as a vulture flies overhead. Because that’s normal.
Yep, it’s another yearbook picture sans caption, so we are left wondering why Dick Van Dyke (or his twin) is carrying a box of problems up the aisle.
And why are there no chairs? And what a pretty cherry dress!
Here is the other half of the picture, showing a man in a cape behind Dick, fanning him with a palm leaf. What the what??
This pic might cause Ned to release the squirrel, because only Heaven knows what’s got Granny so riled up. Whatever it is, the woman behind her is not keen on it continuing. Did she find the Willy Wonka golden ticket? Is that her bus pass? Perhaps it’s a not-so-silent auction or a Tupperware bidding war? Shouldn’t they all be playing bingo? And what on earth is Rose Marie doing there?
By the way, you guys–did you know Rose Marie is still alive and kicking at 90? She’s older than Dick Van Dyke! Why does he get all the press? That is not very chim chim cheree.
In a few hours, it will be 95 degrees. I dare not doubt the weatherman’s forecast, as I just left the pre-noon outdoors, and it was already volcano-lava-hot. Any exercise must be done in the wee small hours these days.
Despite getting only three hours of sleep last night, and despite the forecast of a Martha Reeve’s heatwave, I donned my jogging apparel, headed to the local soccer park, and began climbing the hills around the perimeter.
Perhaps the path was once grassy, but now it is a knobby rubble of limestone, ripe for ankle injuries and displaced hips. Save a lone runner wearing what appeared to be a long-sleeved shirt made of shimmery black Glad trash bags ( a self-sauna?), I had the path to myself.
As I ascended, I passed evening primroses, Indian paintbrushes, and daisies, bending into candy cane shapes in the 20+ mph winds. I cinched my ballcap tighter, to the point where I almost felt I was being birthed again. Small white butterflies suddenly appeared, staying two steps ahead of me, swerving about like hybrid cars steered by texting teenagers. There must have been a half dozen of them, apparently delighted by spring. So, too, was I, inhaling the syrupy scent of wafting chinaberry blossoms. I love me some chinaberry trees!
Nearby excavators kicked up limestone dust, as they prepared yet another new subdivision, rising like weeds around here. I turned away, shielding my eyes from the dust, avoiding a head-on collision with a shrubby mesquite tree, and noticing my butterfly friends had departed.
The ridge was steep, and my quads ached, but I thought of our friends at church who do marathons in wheelchairs, and, of course, I always think of Nick Vujicic, the motivational speaker who has no limbs. It hasn’t stopped him from enjoying the beach with his wife and son.
When I got to the top, I took in the sight of rooftops stretching to the horizon. There I was, queen of all I surveyed, lording over the peasant village. It felt good, being so high above other things, looking down on the soccer fields, the tennis courts, the swimming pool (getting freshly-chlorinated), and the parking lots. Perspective changes everything.
I jogged my hour, and that was enough. I didn’t want to. But I was glad I did. Did it burn off the calories I ate in a handful of raw pistachios this morning? Probably not. But sometimes Nike is right. Just do it.
* not to be confused with another cattier post, The Heat Is Not On, Glenn Frey.
A conversation with Sandra led me down the long and winding road to this awesomely bewitching video for “Tender Love.” How had I never seen it?
You don’t have to be familiar with this slow jam by Force MD (one of Pres Obama’s favorite bands) to appreciate all of its levels of 80s gloriousness. Let me break it down in fifteen easy steps. I promise it’s better than “Key Largo.” No, I can’t promise that.
I was flipping through a new yearbook today at a bookstore (after Easter service and a lunch of pulled pork and brisket), and it’s from 1978, so everyone looked suitably ridiculous, and then BAM!
My eyes widened in wonder and confusion and I said aloud, “I don’t get it!” I even looked around to see if Allen Funt was watching me. No, it’s not homely Alice, who bears a striking resemblance to Ana Gasteyer’s “Delicious Dish” character on SNL.
It’s not even two ladies with the same face named Adrian/Adrienne L. Clay. That’s odd enough. But it’s not as odd as the adjacent living doll…
To make matters crazier, I turned the page and BAM! There was another Raggedy Woman. An Italian one. WTH?
I skimmed through the rest of it quickly and found no other Raggedy Folk, nor any explanation as to why they were there. What could I do? I had to buy it. I had to prove it to you. You see why I don’t get it?
Before the current era (in which people wear pajama bottoms to Wal-Mart), folks dressed up for work. They took some time. They put in some effort. And if you saw a man in a derby and a double-breasted suit, you knew he was somebody, earning money for a new pair of wing-tips.
Here’s an interior shot.
My favorite part of this one is the view outside the window; the man crossing the street, the jalopy idling at the crosswalk. When’s the last time you saw curtains in an office? Where are the monitors? Is that faux marble trim on the counter? And an ashtray for smoking inside the office?
How refreshing to see the calming images of The Grand Canyon and lakeside fishing, without those ridiculous motivational taglines beneath them. But why aren’t the pictures framed? Look at those employees: no emails to check, no online bill pay, no texts, no sexts for dang sure. Just envelopes and stamps, back when a stamp was THREE CENTS. And just a bit of trivia for you here: stamps cost three cents from 1933-1958. Yes, for TWENTY-FIVE years, stamps stayed the same price. Can you imagine that? By comparison, stamps were 44 cents in 2011, then 45 in 2012, then 46 in 2013. That’s the game we play these days. You can barely catch your breath before the rules change. And that applies to everything. You think WordPress will exist in 2025? Don’t count on it.
Lack of sleep is doing a number on me, so I have no clever comments about this picture from Galveston 1967. I just wanted to share. From the Wurlitzer jukebox to the formica, what a great glimpse into history. But do those ladies even look 21?
I Don't Get It 