A new Fort Worth Premier gas station opening in 1962 depicts great customer service for all your Chevy Impala’s needs. A sister photo reflects the steep price of gas at just over a quarter per gallon.
And check it out: Buy 8 gallons of gas and for only a dollar extra, you get five place settings of fine imported silverware–enough to invite all three attendants in straw hats, as well as the two girls in modest swimwear, heels, and mod flips.
Except you, awkward white people. You need to stop.
The fine print says “Get free dance booklet at your Career Club dealer.” To those of you in your sixties (who were alive in the 60s), is that where you learned your dance moves? Your Career Club dealer? I bet your drug dealer could teach better moves. Stiff and forced, Milton practically begs for a bottle of Schlitz to loosen him up–his hand is already in position. Why, in ten minutes, he could be a poor man’s Davy Jones! I don’t recall ever seeing “the skate” performed on American Bandstand, and I can pretty well rest assured it was never on Soul Train. It looks less like skating and more like “festive ways to fart.”
Don’t know who these folks are or where this was taken, but it looks to be the 1930s, according to the dresses and hairstyles. I like the ribbons in the girls’ hair, and the restless boys who can’t sit still.
I especially fancy this dress!
But I do wonder why this fella was left holding the baby.
My apologies to the teens at the public pool today (who have probably never heard of WordPress), but you strode right into my lens space whilst I was trying to capture my son for posterity. So what else can I do but have a caption contest at your expense?
1. “In twenty years, they’ll be down to here.”
Looking at this new Barbie is like looking in a mirror. That’s my caboose!!
In a couple of days, bloggers everywhere will be posting about the fourth anniversary of Michael Jackson’s passing. Many less will mention Farrah Fawcett, who passed on the same day. Farrah, who changed the spelling of her first name from Ferrah, was a hair and fashion icon to girls of the 1970s, despite the fact that she only spent one season on Charlie’s Angels. Although her legacy does not impact the world in the way that Jackson’s does, I wanted to give her a shout out.
We can see these images in our minds: Farrah with the healthy glow, Farrah on the skateboard, Farrah in the infamous Mexican blanket swimsuit poster, too cliche for me to post. Long before The Burning Bed, the ups and downs with long-time lover Ryan O’ Neal, and the crazy stint on Letterman–the same year she turned 50 and posed in Playboy–she was a stunner. And presumably sane.
Here is mid-1970s Farrah with Wella Balsam hair, voluminous and sexy enough to rock right now in 2013.
Early 1970s Farrah flashes her Ultra Brite smile.
Even before the feathered locks, 1960s Farrah was a beauty, .
Like so many others, cancer claimed you. So rest in peace, Farrah. The world has not forgotten you.
For a glimpse of her doing her best Marilyn Monroe voice, see her “cream” Joe Namath in his Noxzema commercial:
Today we delve into the bowels of one of my former teen mag subscriptions, “Star Hits,” for the 4th Annual Readers’ Poll Results. The cover reveals the top stars of April 1988. Check out who’s included in the Most Promising New Acts.
Duran Squared’s own John Taylor topped the list of most desirables, with those pouty lips and bedroom eyes.
George Michael’s video was voted the 4th best video of 1987. As it turned out, the limelit half of Wham! (Bam, thank you, Sir, may I have another?) actually did NOT want pretty Asian model’s sex. Not remotely. Not even in a filthy public restroom with e-coli-covered stalls.
The lyrics should have given us a clue:
There’s things that you guess and things that you know
There’s boys that you can trust and girls that you don’t
Girls are untrustworthy, huh? Perhaps that should have been included on the Bummer of the Year. Michael Jackson’s comeback was determined to be the biggest bummer. And Iran/Contra was number four??
But the most interesting reads are what the stars themselves chose. Siouxsie Sioux’s most desirable pick was Yul Brynner. The King and I? At least she didn’t have the nerve to list herself, as Andy Fletcher did.
And note the difference in tone maturity level between the choices of former GoGo’s singer Belinda Carlisle and the Beastie Boys (R.I.P. MCA).
Who knew Belinda was so mad about Fred Astaire, and so rocked by the PTL scandal?(R.I.P. Tammy Faye Bakker.) And The Beastie Boys chose Sssss-Samantha Fox as the BEST female singer? Is that because she sang from her diaphragm so well? I won’t hate on her; naughty girls need love, too.
From Pam to Renee in their 1972 yearbook:
Actually, Renee, you may not have known it at the time, but it was gonna get a whole lot more messed-up. Reference the 2013 gas prices. What do you think Wayne Stevens would think about that? He was pumping gas for a quarter a gallon. A QUARTER PER GALLON!!!!! Super duper indeed.
But I get it. It was high school. Life wasn’t peachy keen. Clearly, you had it in for Miss Toni.
I have decades upon decades of yearbooks, but there is nary a HINT of profanity in any year until 1972, when the world went to hell. Miss Toni must have liked one of the numerous boys whose name you underlined in red. Was it Steve? It was Steve, wasn’t it? This is all so very Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.
Big deal. Take a chance on Leslie. His hair swoops majestically like an eagle over a canyon. Plus, he has that Taylor Lautner hammerhead shark forehead that the tweens like so much.
And hey, if you’re still bitter, shove her in a fridge, like your peers did to poor Vickie. I think we finally found a job for the Maytag repairman.
Gracious, Renee! What was your problem? I just found another girl whom you evidently perceived as the dark lord, horns and all.
Honestly, I’m more concerned with Sandy, who seems to be melting right off the paper.
You just need to chill out in a new Pinto, car of the future.
Or take some barbiturates–I know they sold them then. Ask these two classmates. They should know where to score some.
Or hang out with the annual staffers; they know how to have fun. Buy the world a Coke and keep it company. And rock that tie, girl.
And hey, if that doesn’t work, you can always pledge Zeta Phi.
All hail Nikki Hendricks, the North Texas 1946 Football Queen. Watch her ride “in royal splendor.” I think we both know which one is Nikki and which one wishes she were Nikki.
And here is a rare shot of Tina Fey’s grandmother, Dude Neville McCloud. That’s what it says, folks. Click to enlarge if you don’t believe.
Note the publicity staff “during a busy hour.” Mercy, how bustling. The supervisor checks for typing errors while one girl evidently knits and glares.
Below is the W.R.A. tumbling team. One of the support gals in the middle appears to have sprained her eye.
Hey, remember Time & Temperature?
Oh, how I wish I could have been a Trojan’s date to the Sadie Hawkins Dance. The one with the eyebrows, sitting on the haystack.
Let’s end with this portrait of the Baptist Student Union Council.
Just take a moment to really absorb the Doublemint Twins in the front row, Yes, F. Day and J. Day. Perhaps it was in honor of D-Day and VJ-Day? You can see the disdain all over F. Day’s face. But J. Day. Oh, J. Day. She looks like she smelled a fart.
Now look to J. Day’s left. Another set of twins! Dang, Baptists! Way to be fruitful and multiply. Janel and Janet Barr. I know, super creative, right? You just KNOW people rhymed her name with “channel” instead of the exoticish J’Nelle. That’s why Janel is fidgeting with her fingers. In the twin crapshoot, she got the bad name. And Janet is so over this. She threw off her jacket in a fit of rage only moments before the shoot. She’s all Oh, yes, please let me dress in identical clothing like those damn Day hussies. Like we’re toddlers. As if. Can’t people SEE we’re fraternal? Look at her. I bet she wasn’t Baptist for long.
Today we’re going back to 1947, to a post-war era at North Texas State University, when women looked like the Andrews Sisters and frat boys took preventative measures against osteoporosis.
I love the pretty print dresses on these ladies.
Even just one row from the yearbook can reveal a lot.
Let’s hope for his sake, that “Dwyane” was misspelled. But check out his two-tiered locks. And what about John’s tousled look? Sexy. I’m certain he knows his way around a tractor. And Fred’s sharp threads are pretty snappy. I’m afraid these ladies’ names have gone by the wayside. Any preschools catering to Margie, Betty, or Ada Jo these days?
Yes, Virginia, there was life before iPods and iPads. Youth culture existed free from technology. Before Supercuts and Starbucks, there were barber shops and coffee shops. Look at that TEENSY coffee cup! No blue tooth in sight. People were actually looking UP.
Such was life in “Collegetown.” Stay tuned for Part II!
Target should not have to apologize for stocking a plus-sized dress in “manatee grey.” If you get offended by that, you need to toughen up. Manatees ARE a greyish hue. Target has every right to label it what they will. People get pissy about the craziest things. I’m sure their intention was not to make plus-sized ladies feel like manatees, but guess what? If you’re in the “Women’s” section, and not “Misses,” then you ARE fat. So am I. Nobody has a cow when they call it “cow print” skirt. Suck it up, fatties. I do.
What Target should be apologizing for is not playing music in their stores, for making what was once a pleasurable shopping experience more like a visit to a ghost town or a cemetery. That’s what Target should fix. Turn the music on. And here’s another bone of contention: stop selling Starbucks coffee next to the watches and scarves. Yeah, their coffee is okay, but it’s not $4 okay. It’s about $2 okay. So how they’ve got the country fooled into dropping its disposable income into their cash registers is beyond me. Especially in a recession. I don’t get it. Trade it out for a Dunkin Donuts. At least you won’t feel raped when you leave the big red dot.
I buy my own coffee beans at the grocery store for $8.99/pound, grind it fresh in the morning, and it lasts over a week. It smells good, it tastes good, and it’s worth the price. But in the name of discipline, I’m trying to cut back, drinking more Sleepytime hot tea with honey, and less coffee with peppermint mocha creamer. I’ve got a nice big mug; small mugs don’t do it for me. The problem is it’s covered with snowmen. Cute, but not appropriate for springtime. So for Mother’s Day, I think I’d like this:
And so what if it looks like me in a jacuzzi? Sometimes I do resemble a sea cow. So does most of the country. Get over it.
Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get. My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come. Here’s one such item: The site http://www.menwholooklikekennyrogers.com/ has existed since I was in my TWENTIES. It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers. Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?
If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you. I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased. They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits. Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish. Combined. And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.” No kidding.
But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother. Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go. Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).
Like Samson and his strength, so, too, was Barry’s sexiness connected to his lovely locks. Here he is all Farrah Fawcett, minus the Mexican blanket.
Is it any wonder children purchased these lunchboxes in droves?
Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry. Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.
And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.
And this? This is how Grizzly Adams saw himself in dreams.
Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased. Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb. You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.
You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man? Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather? I am vexed.
Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists. Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point. You had a good run, Barry. Longer than most of us could ever dream of. And that’s no Jive Talkin’.
I Don't Get It 