Before Salmonella, When We Were Allowed To Lick The Beater
Category: History
What A Rank Amateur You Are!
“When a man asks you for your first college weekend, it’s a big deal.” So begins the article in one of my 1958 Good Housekeeping magazines. Pardon? What’s a “college weekend’? Is he taking her to a college where she’s never been? Does he attend that college? If it’s her “first” one, does that imply many will follow? I’m so confused. Reading further adds no clarity.
“Nothing marks you as a greenhorn more quickly than arriving at the ivy-covered stations with bulging bags.” The station? Like a train? Certainly not a Greyhound Station. Is it located near an Ivy League college? (BTW, a greenhorn is a novice. Nothing like a longhorn, or a Foghorn Leghorn.)
The rules also say, “The greatest threat to a return engagement is getting gay (read, garrulous) or daring (read, dizzy)…” And if you DO CHOOSE to get gay or daring, “it proves nothing at all except what a rank amateur you are.” Yeesh! Rank amateur? So harsh! So complicated! I think I’d just bow out of the entire weekend altogether.
The whole thing reminds me of MIss Mona’s no-no rules from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas:
And please don’t show us no tattoos
No hearts and flowers on your thigh
It’s downright tacky
Brands belong on cattle and that ain’t what we’re selling at Miss Mona’s
Maybe that’s why I never got a tattoo; I didn’t want to upset Dolly Parton. Plus, if it’s trashy on a Chicken Ranch whore, how does it look on a common non-prostitute?
The ladies all sing, “Just lots of good will, and maybe one small thrill, but there’s nothing dirty going on!” Hmmm. Maybe THAT’S a college weekend?
Teepees and Trailer Homes
I took my state’s history courses when I was in elementary school, but now that I’m a parent, I have to learn the new history (based on which group is currently displeased with its depiction, or what we’d like to collectively erase, or what the editor accidentally cut and forgot to repaste). You know, kind of like when you’re dating someone, and you choose which past mistakes to reveal (Chinese tattoo, Minor In Possession, difficult break-up) and which to gloss over (lost weekends in Cancun, jail cells, crab infestations). It’s like that.
So I’m studying the new Texas history, looking at this picture, under the header, “Tipis: Early Mobile Homes.” Which makes me chuckle. First, “tipis” on my lips sounds like “tipp-iss.” I would have preferred “teepees,” even if that reminds me of toilet paper. Oh, there’s the school bell! Enjoy this Monday morning Spring Break history lesson:
When the group was ready to move on, they took apart their tipis to bring with them. The tipi’s wooden poles and buffalo hide could be made into a sort of “moving van” called a travois. The travelers packed all their belongings on the travois, a type of sled pulled by dogs and later by horses.
Really? Travois, from the French word travail? Was there a French influence in the Native American culture?
Now nobody thinks of tipis/teepees when one mentions mobile homes. Most of us picture the stereotypical manufactured home (broken Camaro up on blocks, Christmas lights strung across the porch, where the mildewy couch has caved in, and little spring coils are poking out, like grey hairs on an aging scalp). If you think that’s a stretch, I can point to a dozen just like that within a mile of my laptop.
Others will picture an R.V. (recreational vehicle), which technically IS a mobile home. Airstream trailers possess a kitschy coolness in modern times; Miranda Lambert sang about her desire to live in one with homemade curtains. And as taco truck culture grows, we see more and more Airstreams dealing affordableish foods, including Austin’s own “hey cupcake,” which could REALLY USE A COMMA in its name. SERIOUSLY, IN A TOWN WITH HALF A MILLION ENGLISH MAJORS, YOU’D THINK SOMEONE MAY HAVE CLUED YOU IN ON THAT ONE. It’s like the Gin Blossoms and “Hey Jealousy” all over again…
Despite the insipid and omnipresent SWOOSHES covering recreational vehicles, their insides can be pretty keen. We’ve seen the inside of a concert tour bus; we know how stars are living large on the road (except, of course, for Buddy Holly’s Winter Dance Party tour bus; its heater broke down in sub-freezing weather, which caused his drummer to get frostbite, for which he was hospitalized, which spared him from the chance to ride in American Pie, which crashed on the Day the Music Died, and two days later, the drummer had to rejoin the tour, grieving and frostbitten.) But other than THAT, folks can really pimp their rides in style, even make them downright classy.
Classy, however, is not a term associated with manufactured homes.
I have friends and family who live in site-built homes (that’s the term we had to use at the appraisal district), and a couple in manufactured homes. I have been in manufactured homes that were much nicer than some site-built homes. But like that poster says, stereotypes are based on reality. So here’s the question: were trailers EVER COOL? I mean, this 1950s model looks pretty swank. No stained wifebeaters on Dad, no chain link fence, no deranged “rabified” Pit Bulls straining to kill.
And this isn’t too trashy, although I am sensing some underage recreation behind that snack bar, involving Swisher Sweets and Boone’s Strawberry Hill.
So how did THAT become THIS?
Yeah, that looks like it’s pretty well-fortified against any sudden tornado, on the off-chance that one might come veering toward it…
Good or bad, train wrecks sell: see Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. And the network that brought us that gem just debuted Welcome To Myrtle Manor, a reality series about a South Carolina trailer park. Who knows? Maybe they’ll become cool again.
One More Bottle Ought To Do It, Gramps
I’m no mechanic, but I don’t think beer goes there…
Wing Droppings
What do you think of when I say “wings”? Red Bull? Paul McCartney? The 90s NBC sitcom? Well, if you’re like most gluttonous Americans, probably these:
If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:
But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.
I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.
The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.
There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.
INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.
Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:
What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…
Ouch. Pass the blue cheese.
So whether you are right wing or left wing or a Detroit Red Wing, remember that we can all soar on wings like eagles. Or not.
,
Life Is Like A Box Of Panties
It’s not too late to get your lady what she really wants for this inane Hallmark-induced holiday. Regardless of her age, her weight, or even her sign (which you probably don’t even know, you CAD), no woman can resist a box of panties. Just the thought of lying down on a yellow linoleum floor, surrounded by a veritable pinwheel of pastel-colored high-waisted granny panties gives me goose bumps. I know what I’m wearing under my Easter dress… Cupid, draw back your bow!
Look, Ma! I don’t have to do the wash for three weeks solid! Nevermind the scent from the hamper…
See how mesmerized she is as they swirl around her, like Snow White singing to the birds? The sheerish netting on the pair she is sporting is so seductive. Earl won’t be able to keep his hands off her once he steps down from his big rig. That’s sexy from the bottom of her bum to her naval. Nothing like scratchy fabric chafing her lower rib cage to put her in the mood for an amorous pretend holiday. Fasten your seatbelt, Earl!
Note how carefree she has become, tossing her brassiere to the wind, strategically placing panties across her bosom, the way Peter Pan mermaids stuck adhesive starfish to their own chests. That mermaid may seem jubilant in this scene, but her joy masks the pain of knowing she will never, ever be able to wear boxed panties. Curse you, Neptune!
Lookin’ Like A Fool With Your Pants On The Ground
Can you really blame Selena for kicking this one to the curb? There is no way to justify this catastrophe of an ensemble. Does this really appeal to teen girls? Where is the shame in looking presentable? When did we decide to stop dressing nicely? Was it when ladies started burning their bras? Damn you, libbers!
Now this was appropriate garb in a high school cafeteria back in 1943. No hoochie mamas present, thank you.
This was how people dressed in Chicago to attend the movies in 1941. No, it wasn’t even Broadway.
Check out these folks riding bikes…
Even if they leaned forward toward the handle bars, there was no threat of whale tail in effect, no tawdry tramp stamp to mark them past their due date.
See how modestly these gals of the paper mill were attired ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY YEARS AGO? Say what you will about the ruffles that appear to be multiplying and about to attack her head; she’s quite fetching chilling on the railroad tracks. And what comportment!
Even Granny’s mowing outfit looks better than how people dress for church these days.
But this–this is the sad part. Even this GANG from 1916 looks sharp by today’s standards.
Minus the smokes (and the gun), that’s street urchin style! You can bet your bippy these kids were not of grand means, but they took the time to put an outfit together. What happened, America? What happened?
The Levy Was Dry
I still don’t get this, either. R.I.P., you guys.
Melony Goodness
At first glance–this looks like a family of five enjoying watermelon, right? That’s what I thought. But the more I look at it, it looks like enormous Vlasic pickle spears, the kind that would go swimmingly with a pastrami on rye. But that would imply they had barrels to pickle what was conceivably the largest cucumber ever grown, so I’ll assume it’s watermelon.
I Don't Get It 