Lack of sleep is doing a number on me, so I have no clever comments about this picture from Galveston 1967. I just wanted to share. From the Wurlitzer jukebox to the formica, what a great glimpse into history. But do those ladies even look 21?
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.
Okay, okay, let’s keep it clean here in blogland. It’s just Sean Connery, teasing Jill St. John with his ice cream on the set of Diamonds Are Forever in 1971. Nothing to get riled up about.
These ladies of of the 1946 Delta Chi Delta all agreed upon one thing: crooner Frank Sinatra was dreamy, even worthy of a swoon.
Swoon:
a : to faint
b : to become enraptured <swooning with joy>
But they weren’t the only ones. Ol’ Blue Eyes appealed to Bobby Soxers across the board.
Before Elvis and the Beatles, there was Frank Swoonatra, The Voice, Chairman of the Board.
The war was over, and the girls were eager to mob the Italian kid from Hoboken, New Jersey.
Most of us know about the Rat Pack, his ill-fated marriage to Ava Gardner, his suspect connections to the Mafia, his support of JFK, his daughter Nancy Sinatra, and his acting and singing careers. You may even know he’s one of only five people to have both a #1 single and an Oscar for acting, along with Cher, Barbra Streisand, Bing Crosby, and Jamie Foxx. Yeah, Jamie Foxx. But did you know:
According to www.imdb.com, “Sinatra weighed over 13 pounds at birth, and he had to be delivered by forceps. As a result, one of his ears was nearly severed. Showing no signs of life, he was held by his grandmother under cold, running water. He began to breathe, and cry. His mother – a practical nurse – and his father – a tavern operator – had been hoping for a girl, and had already chosen the name Frances. So they gave him the masculine form of the name: Francis.”
Here he is performing vocal warm-ups with Jackie Gleason.
And just clowning around on the set of Guys and Dolls.
And finally laid to rest.
I found this at an antique store in a nearby town a few days ago. No information on the back. Looks like late 20s, early 30s by the bobbed hair. My best guess is the man in the middle is the grandfather of Mr. Paul Reubens.
See? Pee Wee Herman likes holding puppies, too.
Sory, I meant to say Mr. Paul Rubenfeld.
You know I always have to bring it back to yearbooks.
The best part of waking up is not Folger’s in your cup; it’s not being dead. I average about four hours of sleep per night, so I am never fully-rested, fully-cognizant, or fully-functioning. It is one of many thorns in my side. But I keep waking up each morning, before the sun, before the rooster crows, still breathing and being alive.
In the time it’s taken you to read this, about 100 people have died. Yep, approximately 6000 per hour.
So consider yourself lucky! If you’re still here, you’ve still got a mission to accomplish. Maybe it’s tackling that in-box. Maybe it’s chores. Maybe it’s fighting an illness. Maybe it’s a kind word to build someone up today, or just putting one foot in front of the other. But you’re not still sitting here, converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, for nothing. My guess is you’ll make it to the next minute as well. Hey, that’s better than the 200 people who died since you clicked on this post. Cheers to life, buddy! Get another cup of coffee (free trade, fair trade, or whatever) and enjoy the morning.
Cool image on Traces of Texas today of the 1913 San Antonio Flood.
I’m not saying they did hide varmints in their hair; I’m just saying they could.
Before Olan Mills and Glamour Shots, amateur photographers had to direct their subjects with options and tips like:
Please. You know I’m not going to talk about Dharma Bums or On The Road. I didn’t get an English degree for that. And plus, I’m not my 1995 boyfriend, trying desperately to have a deep conversation, so…
This is not to dismiss Jack Kerouac’s writing; if that’s what you want, check out another WP blogger. If it’s shallow and unnecessary judgment you need, you’re in the right place. And this isn’t about his cup of liquor or his pipe or his gingham or his lustful stare. It’s about how he was reincarnated as Nathan Fillion.
With a dash of Mike Rowe.
Well, this shot of a dirty hitchhiker doesn’t look too much Kerouac. I might be wrong. Perhaps I should do some more research, just to be sure.
Research is totally important.
Seriously.
Sorry, straight guys. Go cleanse your palate with some pin-ups.
I Don't Get It 