Category: Pics
Commando Training 1943
Dope Couch, Dope Table
All Aboard The NiteCoach
I’m afraid you couldn’t pay me to board a Greyhound bus in 2014. Flying economy on Delta last week was enough to enforce that I am not a woman of means, and sharing a bus (other than perhaps Jake Owen’s tour bus) would be insult to injury.
But seventy years ago, I might have been game. The lady caressing her head above looks satisfied. Okay, perhaps quarters were cramped. Five bucks said she hit her head on that dome light more than once.
But I’m certain the porter kept the pillows fluffed. Pretty snazzy uniform if you ask me.
And take a gander at the streamlined style of the double-decker transportation. Jed Clampett (on the far right) seems impressed.
This Is How We Roll
SkyWheel In The Sky Keeps On Turning
As stated in yesterday’s post, we ponied up the money to ride the famed SkyWheel in Myrtle Beach last week. At 187 feet tall, it’s the second-tallest extant (what is extant?) ferris wheel in the U.S. of A., after, OF COURSE, Texas. We stood in line in the early afternoon, when the wait was only about ten minutes, the time that it takes for the 42 “gondolas” (they don’t look like gondolas) to make three revolutions.
At night, it is lit with over a million LED lights, but it also costs more at night. I took this pic on the eve that we arrived. The multicolored prongs you see held some sort of bungee jumping device, from which one could hear shrill screams.
Not being a fan of heights, I was none too eager to board the spinning vessel. But when in Rome, as they say. I couldn’t not ride it; we were right there, after all. I sat quite still on my bench, searching for non-existent handles. To my right and left was glass. Just glass. Soon the parking lot became smaller.
To the north, I watched the beach extend, tallying up the price of our vacation (about three month’s salary, the price of a wedding ring), and multiplying that by every figure I saw on the coastline. Myrtle Beach was raking it in.
To the south, the sand and surf continued. And by the way, the price to “rent” one of the beach chairs? $32. Seriously. That did not include an umbrella.
A plane flew by, advertising one of the many attractions.
Soon we were eye to eye with the skyscrapers.
By that third revolution, I felt fairly comfortable in my bench, nearly certain we would not topple out over the side and splatter on to the pavement. When we finally touched down to earth again, we were forced to exit through the gift shop, where teens stood with fully-developed pictures of you and your family (taken at a green screen just prior to the ride). A poorly-PhotoShopped memento of our bodies in front of the SkyWheel, for only $25. Everyone around us declined the offer, and the teens chunked the prints into the trash. If they would just offer them for $10, they could sell more and make less litter. Too bad I’m not in charge.
Myrtle Memories
As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been MIA for a week now. My family and I took some time to visit Myrtle Beach (our first trip to the East Coast) and our first flight together.
We stuffed ourselves on insanely high-priced meals (burgers run about $17), visited Broadway on the Beach, as well as The Boardwalk, frolicked in the waves, and took a spin on the Sky Wheel.
Now that I am home, belly full of Tex-Mex food, I have loads of laundry to do–and lots of catching up here on WordPress! Glad to be back.
Pharmacy Girls
Fight The Powers That Be
Whenever I Call Kenny Loggins “Awesome”
I wanted to perk up this evening, so I put on a happy song, “Whenever I Call You ‘Friend,'” by Kenny Loggins and Stevie Nicks. Yes, I enjoy soft rock. Yes, it’s a strange title. It doesn’t make sense, but neither do the 70s.

Who is this beautiful model in a peacoat, so downtrodden? Such a pretty thing.
This was Kenny post-Loggins and Messina. Yes, you have heard of them. They sing that song, “Danny’s Song,” which never says Danny at all, but you’ve heard it.
Even though we ain’t got money, I’m so in love with you, honey.
See, you remember.
Anyway, this was before Kenny wrote the soundtrack to every blockbuster movie in the 80s. Yes, all of them. Can we say royalty checks?
Whenever I hear this song, I wish I was at a packed karaoke bar, wearing a gypsy poncho like a crazed Gold Dust Woman swirling about, doing my best Stevie Nicks impression with someone possessing awesome Loggins hair.

Oh. My. Goodness. Talk about a penetrating gaze. It’s like a beady-eyed baby bird with gloriously feathered (more bird references?) tresses. Gee, I bet his hair smells terrific.
And look at THIS. Look at it. It was his Cindy Crawford supermodel phase.

I am entranced by those luscious curls.
And what about this? Some backpack-wearing Jehovah’s Witnesses left a pamphlet in a door with some serious questions.

I think he got confused. A beard-crazy WordPresser posted this awesome pic of Kenny with Messina. He was “ugly Christmas sweater” when ugly Christmas sweater wasn’t cool.

But he had to get old because we all get old. Here he is singing “What A Fool Believes” with Michael McDonald.

Son of a gun. I always thought the lyric was “The wise man has the power.” It’s not. It’s “no wise man has the power.” That changes everything. I need some time for reflection. Don’t worry. I’m alright. Don’t nobody worry about me.

















