No, of course there was no caption beneath this picture, explaining why two boys had owls in their laps. That would be too easy! And then I might actually get it–which I don’t. I checked, and the high school mascot was not an owl. This was presumably not a bird-watching club. I doubt it was an anti-pollution group back in ’49 (give a hoot; don’t pollute, per Woodsy Owl). I’m stumped. In any event, I was under the impression that you could not tame a raptor. However, these two look quite tame.
Years ago, when I was single and determined not to repeat the sins of the past, I made a list of what I wanted in the next (and final) man. I have misplaced said list, but I recall that one was that he did not drive a Miata (apparently there were Miatas in spades at the time, and ain’t nobody got time to rebuild the confidence of a man who’s overcompensating), that he did not smoke (I was tired of doing laundry that smelled like a bar), and that he could change his own oil (preferably in his truck). He also could not be vegan nor vegetarian, and he would have to be quick on the draw if Enya popped up on the radio, because Heaven knows I hate me some Enya. Change that station pronto! Apparently I’m not the only one.
But nowhere on that list did it require that he be a skilled yarnswoman or masterquilter or whatever you call one who sews things (other than Chinese minors in factories). When I did finally begin dating my now-husband, he met about 90% of that list. So I took him. Only after we were married, did I realize that a deer-hunting, guitar-playing, camo-clad Texas boy could also operate the pedal of a sewing machine. And when our son inevitably ripped buttons off his clothes or tore his jeans, my husband could fix it. Like Rosey Freaking Grier.
Okay, he wasn’t hunched over with a needle and thread on a shag carpet next to a gold couch, doing a self-portrait, but you get my point. On the seesaw of gender identity, the seesaw weighed heavily on the masculine. But he could still fix my hem of my Ally McBeal power suit if need be, so I could get back to my fluorescent-lit office job, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. Yep, that’s me in my Enjoli.
But don’t go thinking we ladies all want sensitive men. We don’t. You can use tools, but you don’t have to be one. Mostly we just want to talk. Sit next to us and listen while we TALK TALK TALK incessantly about whatever is on our minds. Just nod and “hmmm” periodically and let us use up our daily word count, which is approximately 13,000 more words than yours. Case in point:
Satin shorts, striped socks, high-tops–what’s not to like?
If you say it loud enough, you’ll always sound precocious.
You can plainly see why I shared Mr. Fountain with you. I felt like he needed to be in all of your lives. I did not know there was such a thing as a “nationally known clarinetist” (do we have any now?), but he was big enough to play TWO concerts at Arlington High School back in 1963.
Such were the aspirations of these teens with their instruments in the 50s.
Below is a junior high band in 1923, before electric guitars existed.
In the back row, you can see Leonardo DiCaprio during his Growing Pains years.
During the turbulent 60s, girls learned to move to the beat of a different drum. “It’s just like holding chopsticks, Melinda. Don’t try too hard.”
And these nicely-clad songbirds look confident gathered around the piano.
Hey, you wanna see what Mr. Fountain looks like these days? He threw beads out to the crowd in New Orleans last year:
I bet there’s a good chance he was at Mardi Gras this week.
P.S. Music is great, but it can’t save your mortal soul.
Scarves and stripes always trumps Juicy sweatpants.
Gettin’ their prim and propers on during homeroom.
What I love most here: Marjorie’s accessorizing with a double belt. What I like least? Juan in his pre-restraining order days, displaying some protective aggressive tendencies toward a girl in a transparent sweater.
This is my favorite casual shot. I want to know what happened to that girl in the middle. She looks like she could get stuff done without being asked twice. I bet she knows how to delegate.
Ever since I saw Danny Zuko in sweatpants, I knew track guys were hot. He didn’t need his T-Birds leather jacket to be cool.
Can’t you sense the confidence exuding off these fit and flexible track and field guys?
Before the Information Age, young folks enjoyed testing the limits of their bodies, pushing their muscles, striving for fitness goals, and enjoying the sun and wind on their skin. Even if they were sore afterward.
Nowadays, not so much. There are screens to be stared at, video games to be played, and processed, enriched grub void of nutrients to be consumed. Plus, sometimes outside is uncomfortable. Forget that. Inside is always 72 degrees.
Come on, morbidly obese kids, you can do it! Get up off of that couch. If this 74-year-old New Zealand man can do it, so can you! He did this AFTER he kicked cancer’s butt. So kick your own fat butt and get moving.
Otherwise, you’ll have a lifetime of physical and emotional hurdles ahead of you. I know you lack the energy to seize the day, but for the love of all that is holy, put the Hot Cheetos and Takis down. Toss them in the trash! Say hello to fitness and good-bye to Husky jeans!
I Don't Get It 