Scenes From A 1950 Duffle Bag, Part Uno
Category: Fashion
Did You Happen To See The Most Beautiful Girl In The World?
Mary looks like she just tossed back the requisite two teaspoons of Listerine and is just holding it in her mouth during the photo shoot, warming it with her saliva, waiting to spit it out.
Eye of the Beholder
I like how this yearbook just cuts to the chase: Pretty Girls. So there. It’s not open for discussion. And Sugie Smulcher signed her name for emphasis. Say that aloud. Sugie Smulcher. Rolls right off the tongue.
Other yearbooks try to be creative with their beauty queen section, like this classy illustration preceding the portraits.
Some editors refer to them as queens.
Others refer to them as “sweethearts.”
I doubt this girl’s destiny included being a farmer’s wife, but she took the title of FFA (Future Farmers of America) sweetheart. If she’s not a vision in lace, I don’t know what is.
“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”–Albert Einstein
Now that’s science!
Dead But Dead, Actually
Sorry.
I had to go there.
Latin is a dead language, no?
I See Dead People
To be fair, all these people are dead. It was 91 years ago that this shot was taken. Little Miss Mary Pickford in her ringlets and sailor dress makes the shot. Sorry if these pics are enormous, but you have to high-res these son-of-a-guns to see the details.
Remember when you were a freshman, and they called you “fish”? Well, evidently that term has been around for awhile.
I love the front-row girl with the double sunflowers.
There were three rooms total of fish in this 1923 class. Most of them are solemn-faced, but I see one with a mischievous smile. I think he’s pulling the hair of the scowling girl in front of him.
You probably think I’m the crazy yearbook lady by now. What do I care about these dead people, long forgotten? Their families didn’t even care to keep their yearbooks. But there is so much history packed into these volumes, young people of every era in all manner of style and economic background. And sometimes the cover itself is so beautiful, I wouldn’t think of setting it at the curb on Trash Day.
Trail Driver 1939
I saw this today on Traces of Texas, and it was too cool not to share.
Poetry In Motion
Oh, my goodness. This is too much for a Monday. It’s like West Side Story meets yoga meets Lionel Richie’s ballerina girl meets Mr. Roboto.
I do not like her rigid pose
I do not like her see-through clothes
I do not like her pointed feet
I really think that girl should eat
May I suggest some lean red meat?
With green eggs, it is quite a treat
Would you like them in Oklahoma?
No, I prefer them in a coma
I do not like their warrior stance
I do not like their modern dance
I do not want to have to watch
I think we should Febreze her crotch
I do not like that high slit skirt
I do not like boys’ groins that hurt
I do not like that turtleneck
I do not like it for a sec
I do not like them, Sam-I-am
I’d rather eat a can of Spam
And pour it in a cereal bowl
That precooked gelatinous pork bumhole
I do not like them here or there
I do not like them anywhere
Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String
Aging is no picnic, unless your picnic has ants, and it’s raining. Then it is indeed a picnic. My birthday is coming up this month, and while I usually have no desire for presents or acknowledgements of the slow decline into degeneration, this year I have seen some things to add to my wishlist.
First, I want this sweater. I knew of poodle skirts, but not poodle sweaters! Of course, it would look a lot better if I were flatchested, but who cares if its little paws tuck underneath my bosom?
Second, I want this shirt.
Well, now that I think about it, it would look too busy on me. I guess what I really want is to SEE someone wearing that shirt in person, so my jaw can drop in awesome wonder as I marvel at it.
Also, I want a good great blow-out. No, it’s not the female counterpart to what fellas want. It requires a blowdryer. Yeah, I’ve had decent ones, but not Tony-the-Tiger GUH-REAT ones. Well, I did that one time in Texarkana nearly 20 years ago (I still remember the car honks I got while pumping gas afterward. I can hear Bruce Springsteen singing “Glory Days” as I type…) Anyway, I want to look beautiful, kind of like this:
I want everyone I encounter on that day to tell me not only does my blow-out look gorgeous, but that I could pass for being in my 30s as in days of yore. Also, they will complain that they had to go hunting for their college thesaurus last night in order to find enough kind words to say about me. I will be both fetching and prepossessing all day long.
I will also receive various dark chocolate assortments, with nougats and cremes and nuts, but they will have no calories and no chemicals. And no birthday cards! Cards are a waste of $3. Just give me a $1 dollar bill and write “happy birthday” in the corner. Good enough. And nothing with glitter! Glitter is for hookers and showgirls and burlesque dancers and people who still wear tube tops. Ick.
Then we will all gather ’round and make a toast to another year of not being dead. Bartender, 7-Up all around! You know what Granny says:
But most of all, I want to never forget how blessed I am–with family, friends, a house with room to breathe, and all my WordPress blogger buddies!
Cheers!
The Year David Schwimmer Was Born
Honestly, I don’t care when he was born, but bless his heart, I doubt he’s seen his name in print in nigh on a decade, so this is just a charity shout out. And he was indeed born in 1966, which we’ll be criticizing in about a minute.
Look, it’s true the temperature has increased twenty degrees since yesterday, it’s sunny, and I even got an overpriced game of bowling in, but mercy, I’m Old Man Grumpus today! I’m off soda and wine this weekend, so all I can think to perk myself up is to mock others’ hair. So take a seat on the shallow and petty bus, and here we go.
First off, the 80s get a bad rap as the “big hair” decade, but can we talk about this structure for a sec? That is a seriously strong neck, y’all.
I know, I know: the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus. But this is a stairway to heaven, friends. This rivals even the most Florence Jean Castleberries of the world. I didn’t know you could have several SETS of bangs. Bangs upon bangs, like the cedar shingles on the treehouse built on last night’s Treehouse Masters, a show on Animal Planet that has absolutely nothing to do with animals, and lots to do with an attention-deficit host named Pete. Oops, I got a case of the ADD myself there. Deep breath.
Linda’s bangs are tall as well, but bleached and ratty, complimented by eyeliner that says, “Yes, I will sneak out at night to drink Boone’s with you.” You know now that I think about it, I think she’s that blonde girl in the B52’s. I’m gonna have to google that.
Now this one here is working some kind of Coalminer’s Daughter thing with the whole Loretta Lynn/Kentucky Waterfall hairdo. She’s cute as a button but that is some strange styling.
I left this person’s name purposely off because…Well, because…that’s just manners. Moving on to this fellow…
I know, right? Wow. Like the elusive jackalope or the Giant Crocostempy, this is a rare find: the male double part. And don’t argue with him. He is Who is Who, and that is that, my friends.
Enjoy this Double Creature Feature. Evidently a lot of effort was put into these looks. Hair was pulled and prodded and flipped and cursed in the name of the Almighty, but where is the joy, ladies? Suzanne looks like she’s got a switchblade behind her back, and Frances just caught a whiff of polecat cologne but she’s too polite to gossip about it.
Here is the big winner:
With black eyebrows and her post-Marilyn Monroe combover, dainty features, and slim neck, there is no denying that Connie Jo is the bee’s knees.
You know what, y’all? I feel a ton better now. I really do. I just needed to get that out of my system.
Miller Time
She may look sweet now…
…but cowgirls like to get rowdy.
They like to throw back a few.
Mercy here was bold enough to enter (and win) a jalapeno-eating contest, and the Mickey Gilley lookalike appears only too happy to judge. 
Now she has some pocket money to put in these cowboy’s change cups.
Or maybe this dude’s more her style, in his Urban Cowboy Chic.
Either way, dancing is on the agenda.
Just don’t take it too far. Bikini bull-riding is no fun when you’re tipsy.
No Low T Here
What is this? Animal House meets the Village People? No, maybe not the Village People. Although they sang “In The Navy,” I doubt these Navy ROTC Midshipmen spun a lot of VP on their turntables. Check them out in their weapons and combat gear. This is where I make an obscure reference to Howard Jones in the way way back (the tall, Aryan one), but perhaps that’s more a Pandoran influence than reality. Anyway, I think we can all agree who the alpha male is here, in this portrait of masculinity. It’s knee socks guy. You know it is. The posture, the marriage of vest and tie and ripped daisy dukes, the sassy confidence. Damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Seriously no Low T here.
Don’t know what “Low T” is? Why the heck not? The TV is riddled with commercials about Low Testosterone, alternating between those hormone replacement commercials, where longhaired women in their sixties confess how happy their husbands are that “my libido is back.” Your grandparents didn’t have to worry about this stuff, right? My grandparents spent more time absorbed in Readers Digests than they did at the corner Walgreen’s, refilling prescriptions for afflictions they were too ignorant to know they had. BECAUSE THEY HADN”T BEEN INVENTED BY BIG PHARMA YET. Complaints were limited to arthritis, goiter, and bursitis. But not today’s society.
Let’s not. Who cares about your Low T? You’re not getting any action regardless, pajama boy. I bet that’s herbal tea in that mug. Yeah, I have heard about the lonesome loser. It’s you. Dang, just when I thought my libido was back, you had to send it away. Curses!
Just think, somewhere out there, hundreds if not thousands of pharmaceutical company employees are getting paid to brainstorm up some fake diseases to prey on our fears and our wallets. Did you know my gums are receding? Perhaps that’s blog-induced bruxism (BIB)? And just like diabetes, there are two categories:
- The bruxism (teeth grinding) I have at night while I sleep, wondering what to blog about the next day
- The bruxism due to reading blogs that oppose my core beliefs, causing me to clench my jaw in defiance and fight the temptation to respond with a violent outburst or clever barb
You, too, may have BIB. Where’s the pill for that? Oh, they’re working on it?
(Disclaimer: side effects may include sleepiness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, skin rash, headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of appetite, dry mouth, anal leakage and sudden death. But really, isn’t anal leakage as bad as sudden death?)
Better To Handwash Than Handwring
I Don't Get It 