Fourth Grade 1946
Category: History
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You’re never too young to hustle.
Not Enough Marcias
Another day, another dorm, another opportunity to ask, “Why?” This here is a shot of the ladies of the dorm labelled simply as “2-A” in the 1973 Indiana University annual. I’m not sure what catches the eye first: the look of ennui and apathy from Heavy-Lidded Ladyfingers in the front row, or her barefoot buddy holding a bottle of Vermont Maple Syrup on her knee. Or is it not maple syrup? Yes, I skipped vested turtleneck woman.
Then we have the skipper, whose eyes are shut, holding some sort of stuffed animal, a girl with a violin, a girl with a tennis racket, a girl with a GOLDFISH BOWL and a shirt that reads “Jesus” where the Pepsi logo should be. We make our way back with the wallflower, the trio of alcoholics, your nobody (she called today), the one in the unfortunate circus pants, the two Jan Bradies (prone to suffering from the Jan Brady Effect), and the girl in the classic mannequin head with a shag hairdo on a platter pose. It never gets old. Speaking of the two Jans, chances were high that one of these girls was actually named Janet or Janice, which ranked high during their birth year.
But the top five names were:
- Mary
- Linda
- Deborah
- Patricia
- Susan
Still, who wouldn’t want to be a Marcia (other than Gloria Steinem, who turns 80 today)?
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Hat Association Games
Today I will use my new 1973 Indiana University yearbook to play an installment of Hat Association Game. Here goes.
When I see this:
I think of Miss Mary J Blige:
And this corduroy-clad kiddo:
When I see this:
I think of afghan throws and crocheted potholders.
When I see this:
I think several things at the same time, but one of them is, “Is he really wearing a floral velvet newsboy cap with a tassle ball on top? That takes juevos.” I believe that Lance Gross proves that hat style can evolve for the better.
And lastly, when I see this:
I think of playing poker in what is clearly not a shower cap, but then I am distracted by the chipmunk cheeks of his friend, and I think of Tito Jackson.
And then I think of Tito Jackson in an oversized newsboy cap.
And Tito Jackson in a brown derby.
Which reminds me of the restaurant, the Brown Derby.
Which makes me hungry. So I’m going to head to the kitchen and fry up some free-range eggs. And I know just the hat to wear!
Dog Overwhelmed By Stench Of Krishna Crazy; Refuses To Chew Shoe
Time In A Bottle (Please Pour It Out)
I realize one day I will have to defend the 1980s to my son. He will ask the big questions, and I will do my best to make sense of that decade. Everything in excess, big and sprayed and sparkly. But NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING can defend the 1970s. What were you thinking? The entire country did not collectively drop acid in 1973, but you could have fooled me. Witness this scene from Indiana University.
I realize the times, they were a-changing. The times are always a-changing. I understand that having your friends and family drop dead right and left in a war we didn’t win was no picnic. In fact, I read just today about a six-foot college man who weighed 145 lbs at the time he was drafted and forced himself to drop down to 123 (officially underweight) to fail his physical and consequently avoid service in Vietnam. Now that’s drastic. The fact that 145 was not underweight for a six-footer is equally absurd.
When the clock chimed New Year’s Day in 1973, our boys were still overseas. The stats are staggering: over 8 million GIs were on active duty during the Vietnam War from August 1964 to March 1973. EIGHT MILLION.
Other things that happened in 1973:
- Pong was the big arcade game.
- The MRI was invented. Have you had one? I have. It’s like being trapped in a tube with a pounding hammer in your brain while time stands still. And then they bill you $7K and tell you the diagnosis isn’t certain. Awesome!
- President Nixon asserted that he was not a crook.
- Singer Jim Croce died in an airplane crash.
- Bruce Lee suffered “death by misadventure” when his brain increased 13% in size.
- The Best Actor Award went to Marlon Brando for The Godfather, but because he was rendered immobile from overcarbing and was overcome with white guilt about the treatment of Native Americans, he thought it would be a most excellent time to send the Mazola lady in his place (you call it corn; we call it maize). Oh, it wasn’t the Mazola lady? Sorry, it was in fact Marie Cruz (Sacheen Littlefeather was not real name) to graciously refuse Brandon’s award for him, because the Oscars was a super forum to do that. Fortunately, his gesture healed all race relations, so it proved to be a great idea. And lest you think I’m harsh on Littlefeather, I refer you to her integrity-filled Playboy spread.
- Speaking of air bags, they were first used in the Oldsmobile Toronado that year. I’ve never heard of it, either, but I am saying it with a proper Spanish accent. Toronado.
Anyway, this was what 1973 looked like in Bloomington, Indiana and perhaps most of the country. It’s enough to make a girl staple her knees together and live the celibate life.
I believe it was Grace Slick who said, “And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re bound to fall, well, tell ’em a hookah, a smoking caterpillar has given you the call.” What on earth?
You think that’s odd? These college kids listened to a sermon from a blind Viking named Moondog. I did not make that up.
These were college-educated lucid students who KNEW it was portrait day and yet CHOSE to show up looking like this.
Yummy! A Hollywood Squares of hot bachelors! You KNOW I choose Bachelor #2. I’ve never dated a scarecrow hybrid.
Inflation caused gas prices to skyrocket from 36 cents in 1972 to 40 cents in 1973. I know that’s like COINS, but it was a big deal at the time. They had to resort to alternatives.
Again I stand by my celibacy comment.
These folks may have missed a ticket all aboard the Love Train, but fortunately they found themselves (wasted) in the back of this Chevy truck. I guess The Levee wasn’t dry that day. If only that truck were a DeLorean, they could time-travel to the 1980s, put a clean Izod on, get a shave, a haircut and a hot shower! Far out, man.
When IBM Was King
More Brother Husbands, Less Sister Wives
Girls Don’t Make Passes At Boys Who Crochet Doilies
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:
Friday Night Milk Pong
Hard Scramble
Satin shorts, striped socks, high-tops–what’s not to like?
A Starburst of Basketballers
I Don't Get It 