Today we’re going back to 1947, to a post-war era at North Texas State University, when women looked like the Andrews Sisters and frat boys took preventative measures against osteoporosis.
I love the pretty print dresses on these ladies.
Even just one row from the yearbook can reveal a lot.
Let’s hope for his sake, that “Dwyane” was misspelled. But check out his two-tiered locks. And what about John’s tousled look? Sexy. I’m certain he knows his way around a tractor. And Fred’s sharp threads are pretty snappy. I’m afraid these ladies’ names have gone by the wayside. Any preschools catering to Margie, Betty, or Ada Jo these days?
Yes, Virginia, there was life before iPods and iPads. Youth culture existed free from technology. Before Supercuts and Starbucks, there were barber shops and coffee shops. Look at that TEENSY coffee cup! No blue tooth in sight. People were actually looking UP.
Such was life in “Collegetown.” Stay tuned for Part II!
Every adult American remembers where he or she was on 9/11. What you may not recall is that the following Friday was deemed a day of patriotism, and citizens were encouraged to wear their red, white, and blue to show support for all who had perished in the attacks. That day, I took my camera and two rolls (yes, rolls) of film and drove around the county, snapping photos of homes that had otherwise never flown flags in their yards, of cars and trucks and humans decorated in American colors, and it made my heart swell to see such pride.
It wasn’t a common enemy that we shared; it was the mutual sense of loss, that life as we knew it was over, and even the young ones who had never experienced a world war or the Cold War knew that the security we had always known was gone forever. People who didn’t know us wanted to kill us on our own soil, and they didn’t mind losing their own lives in the process. And we didn’t get it. Who would serve a “god” that wanted them to kill strangers? And why kill innocent civilians instead of soldiers, prepared for war? Who was the Taliban? It was sick and evil, and so were the men who perpetrated it.
But on that day, the Walmart, the Tractor Supply–all stores big and small–sported flags. Now if you don’t live in America, you might think they always have flags up. They don’t. That’s because Americans aren’t allowed to feel pride. Every nation’s peoples should have the right to feel proud of the land where they were born. But not us. We’re supposed to feel guilty for every wrong ever perpetuated in the last two hundred years, nevermind any victory in a world war. Nevermind that we donate billions in aid to other countries, including ones that despise us. No, we’re not perfect, but our land is not full of hate, of people who seek to destroy other nations. This is a land with a history of welcoming immigrants who have been persecuted by their own people.
But on that Friday, we didn’t have to apologize for being born American. It was even permissible to have faith.
What I don’t get is how brief that period of patriotism lasted, how quickly people reverted to their own lives, how little unity meant. No, these pictures aren’t World Trade Center passersby, covered in ash, and they aren’t pictures of planes plowing into buildings. They are just a window in time during that one week in a small town, where it was “allowable” to mention God, allowable to love the United States, and every soul felt the tangible sadness of the tragedy, from large home to small.
From barbeque marquis to cardboard signs…
from lamppost to balloon…
from lumber store to hardware store…
and of course, churches.
I spotted this woman in the Walmart parking lot.
And as the sun set that day, I saw gratitude for all of our veterans, young and old, and Todd Beamer’s immortal words “let’s roll.”
Twelve years later, I still give thanks for freedom and for all our veterans. It doesn’t matter if it’s Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day or the Fourth of July. Or just plain old April 13th. God bless America.
If nothing else, blogging makes you realize that you can appreciate (and even follow) blogs of those who don’t share your political or religious views. I don’t want to shove my beliefs down anyone’s throat more than I want them shoving theirs down mine (I’m talking to you, Jehovah’s Witnesses, knocking at my door at dinnertime). I’m pretty set in my convictions at this point, so I won’t lie and say that I try to stay open-minded. I don’t. Bobby Brown says that’s my prerogative.
However, when I walked into an office waiting room and sat down with this magazine as the only option, I tried to keep an open mind.
After all, I like natural things. I buy the expensive eggs from happy chickens; I don’t eat whipped pig part hot dogs. Like most of you, I dig hip-looking older black guys in curved brim hats. The necklace, not so much, but you get my drift. But what is inside this magazine, this bed of deceit, made me want to hoard every copy and set them ablaze in an Aggie bonfire.
Let’s not call this slander; let’s call this my opinion, which is the heart of most blogs. Go ahead and close this post down if you in any way find life coaching a legitimate career. You are certainly allowed to be a gullible schmuck, but you’re not gonna like the rest of this. And remember, I’m not always going to agree with you, either. A rainbow wouldn’t be as pretty with just one color, would it? Diversity…
Now do I believe that therapy can benefit people? Yes. We’re all carrying around years of baggage, and sometimes we need help unloading it. But you can bet your sweet bippy you can’t become a licensed therapist in two days. Lifecoaching, however, you betcha!
Certification is only $595! That’s waaaay less than the bother of actually going to college. It’s like the TurboTax commercial, where the “tax professional” is also a “master plumber.” Sure you are. Let me get some advice on how to run my life by someone who couldn’t even get into the University of Phoenix.
Let me say first that I’ve spent YEARS YEARS YEARS with doctors who were unable to remedy my ailments. Thousands on meds, doctors get paid to pimp new products, the American healthcare system is corrupt, etc, etc. You all know the deal. I was so desperate for help that I resorted to hoodoo guru new agey acupuncture. And guess what? The acupuncturist made a whole heck of a lot of sense. In fact, he knew more about my body by looking at my EAR than most doctors did after seven vials of bloodwork taken fro me. So, yes, I can accept this 5000 year-old art as a legit form of healing. And I can see how people get soooo fed up with doctors, so desperate for relief that they resort to absolute craziness. Like crystals.
Wow! How did they DO that? It’s like magic! Like the incredible Burt Wonderstone waved his magician’s wand across her and boom! Photoshop 101. I’m sorry if I don’t believe that wearing a pendant will strengthen my energy fields. In the words of Hall & Oates, “I can’t go for that. No can do.”
Hey, while we’re at it, news flash: astrology is entertainment. I know when you’re fifteen and you’re infatuated with the cute boy with the good hair, the first thing you do is find out his birthday and look up his sign and discover he’s a Leo, and no wonder he’s so arrogant and self-absorbed, and you giggle with your friends because you’ve unearthed a grand mystery and pried him open like an oyster, and soon he will be yours. Yeah, guess what? It’s pretend.
Haven’t you ever wondered when you’re sitting there, eating your egg drop soup and looking at the red Chinese Zodiac placemat, that maybe it’s just hogwash? You ever think of all the kids in your class in school born in your same year and wonder how you could all share identical traits? Well, you can’t. It’s make believe. Like fairies and centaurs.
Apparently, I was born under the sign of charm and aggressiveness. Ya think? Oh, and my sign “can be talkative sometimes.” Yes, and sometimes we convert oxygen to carbon dioxide JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES.
I don’t know what Pranic Healing is, and I haven’t studied the Reiki of the Fire Dragon, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that psychics are scam artists (or perhaps just evil). Uh-oh. Hit a nerve? Do you recall the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Professor Marvel consults the crystal ball? Note his words:
This is the same genuine, magic, authentic crystal used by the priests of Isis and Osiris in the days of the pharaohs of Egypt in which Cleopatra first saw the approach of Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony and and so on and so on. You’d better close your eyes, my child for a moment, in order to be better in tune with the infinite.
He ran a good game, though, didn’t he? Cretins and twits and dolts, OH, MY!
Without giving out free advertising, I will say that there is a “Dear Abby” type forum, wherein simpletons write in to ask such deep questions as when they will win a lottery ticket. And the gifted one then channels ascended masters and archangels to tell her to build an altar–BUILD AN ALTAR–to a deity to get the winning numbers. #$%^#(@!!!!!!
And this one–this one is the worst. No, I don’t know what it is either.
I know what quickening is in terms of pregnancy, but I don’t think this is what Pat is peddling. I say Pat because I am reminded of the old SNL skit.
So, Pat–did you mean to put “Safty” or did you mean “Safety”? And you also wrote “Less Then.” Yeah, methinks it should be “Less THAN.” So maybe you’ve got a great grasp of whatever the hell quickening is, but you really should brush up on your basic English. Just saying.
And LASTLY, we’ve got a little Watsu. What’s a watsu, you say? Well, it’s aquatic bodywork. And maybe it does help your joints, and God knows mine need it. But I don’t particularly enjoy feeling fondled by the mammogram tech at the radiology dept when she yanks and heaves my breasts onto the glass. So I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t cotton to cavorting about in the water with some stranger like a sea otter. No lady’s face needs to get that close to mine. Ever.
Wow. I congratulate you on reading over 1000 words. Long posts are the WORST, aren’t they?
Can anybody tell me what insect this is, hovering over my flowers right this second? A black and yellow stripey thing should be a bumble bee, but this looks more like a moth with his antennae. Any ideas?
When I waited tables twenty years ago, I constantly had to ask which salad dressing customers would prefer. In Texas, Ranch is king, and not just because of the nearby King Ranch, a ranch made up of 825,000 acres (3,340 km). For a while in the 1990s, Honey Mustard was quite a little trendsetter. But it always comes back to Ranch. In this city, there are always Balsamic Vinaigrettes and Jalapeno Cilantro Buttermilks to tempt your palate But people who eat Wonder Bread and vanilla ice cream and order cheese pizza will almost always choose Ranch.
Except old people. Old people LOOOOOVE themselves some Roquefort. The “blue hair” crowd that goes to matinees, the ones at IHOP at 5am and at Luby’s at 4pm, ladies with tight poodledog hairdos in sensible shoes and highwaisted elasticized pants–they like Roquefort. I don’t mean senior newbies who just started collecting Social Security checks. I’m talking the greatest generation, the ones disappearing at every breath.
And don’t second guess them; don’t clarify, “blue cheese?” Blue cheese is what you dunk chicken wings in. “Blue cheese” is not old school. Roquefort is. Roquefort is jitterbugging and Andy Hardy films. Let them be who they are.
I don’t care if you’re a vinegar & oil or a Zesty Italian person, I don’t judge. Okay, I don’t often judge. That is, I always judge. Nonstop. And although I can deal with Thousand Island, it does not lend itself to drizzling. Now that I think about it, we used to offer French as well, but nobody offers it any more. I wonder if it has gone the way of the woolly mammoth. Of course, this could all be a regional thing. Maybe some of you live in countries where French dressing reigns supreme. Surely not in France?
In any event, DO NOT invite me to dinner without assessing your salad dressing selection. I don’t need a wide array from which to choose. What I need is a fresh salad dressing. I don’t mean one that you whipped up from some Food Network recipe, with your own Greek yogurt and garden basil. No, I mean current. I mean made THIS YEAR. I mean NOT EXPIRED.
Maybe you’re not an expiration Nazi. Perhaps it’s never even occurred to you to CHECK the date on the lid, plain as day, put there for a reason to protect you from tuberculosis and polio, caused by rancid dressing. If that is you, then enjoy your childish naivete Because I PUH-ROMISE you that the very next home you go to for dinner, whether it’s Grandma’s or Cousin Kim’s or the cheery abodes of co-workers or friends, they will have an expired dressing on their table. And that is the downfall of civilization.
The last time I attended a birthday celebration for a co-worker at a nice home, with an enormously garish centerpiece, nice stemware, and table settings, the salad dressing had expired. I don’t mean last month expired. I mean 2011 expired. Oh, yes. And that is not the worst offender. I have attended holiday meals wherein dressings nigh on half a decade old were proffered for my taking. Presidents had been sworn in, sworn at, and sworn out since this bottle had rolled off the assembly line.
If you would never deign to serve me spoiled milk or festering pork, then you shouldn’t offer me expired salad dressing. If it’s two months expired, I will hold my sanity together and gulp it down, praying to the Lord to spare me both jaundice and yellow fever. But if I wind up in the emergency room, it’s on your hands.
And can I just remind you that dressing is about $1.50? Unless you’re all uppity and enjoy getting swindled, you should not be laying down a five spot for dressing. Tell you what, I’ll do you a solid and spot you THREE dollars just so that you can go purchase two dressings of your choice. And I’ll be a good sport and consume it. Even if it’s poppyseed.
So what about other dressings? Years ago, when customers would request Vinegar & Oil, it never came ON the salad, like all the other choices. No, we had to trot out those two little glass bottles that took up a lot of table real estate. I couldn’t understand why a person would choose such a flavorless dressing. But now that I’ve entered my forties, I get it. Not because I prefer it, but because it’s a healthier option. It’s possible that as my eyelashes turn grey and chin hairs come in, I may feel an overwhelming urge to eat Roquefort. Until then, remember the immortal words of Mark Hamill, “Acting in ‘Star Wars’ I felt like a raisin in a giant fruit salad, and I didn’t even know who the cantaloupes were.” Damn, if this isn’t a perfect quote for a site called “I Don’t Get It,” I don’t know what is.
Toro! Toro! Toro! Let me count the ways I so love this ad. Okay, so this ad was in the back of the 1963 Comet, which I posted about earlier today. But I could not just drop this in to the post because it possesses clear and present superiority. It is the bomb. It requires its own post.
I love the black mantilla. Oh, yes, that’s a word for that black veil, which Spanish women wear during Holy Week in Seville, Spain during the week leading up to Easter, which is NEXT week, which means you can catch them live and in person if you so choose! Snap!
Also, I like how the skinny white girl is doing her version of an air guitar, except playing air castanets. Who would have even thunk to play air castanets? Glorious. Her undeniable skill, in combination with the mantilla and sexy red rose, playing off her innocence, is nearly enough to seduce Tim, the newest waiter.
BTW, Tim–that belt that your Aunt Marge sewed from a cast-off curtain sample does NOT look Spanish. But it would work quite well on your Ali Baba Halloween costume come October. But who cares? You get free chips and salsa, so life is good.
Now let’s talk about Janice! Janice and her look of disdain.
She can hardly keep that Saltine down. Yeah, Saltines are SOOO Mexican. I can’t help but think of Sophia Loren’s contemptuous scowl at Jayne Mansfield’s 42DD overflowy cup size.
It’s not like you’re cup doesn’t runneth over, either, Sophia. Just be glad you’re still alive. Poor Jayne never lived to do mediocre films like “Grumpy Old Men,” God bless her. Get over it.
Anyway, back to Janice. Her hair is teased to high heaven, and her blouse is buttoned high, but I think we all know the truth. You can sit there primly, holding that napkin over your nether regions, but we heard the rumors, Janice. You think your blonde friend, Cindy, knows how to keep her trap shut? Loose lips sink ships, Janice. Cindy can’t be trusted. But you just wait til the Mariachi Band shows up. You’ll get yours.
Today’s daily dose of nostalgia comes to us from the 1962-63 Comet, just before Camelot fell apart. Join me as we tumble back into a time between the Korean War and Vietnam, where cat’s-eye glasses and buzz cuts were in. Student government was appropriately silly, but not full-on whackjob like we saw in the 1977 yearbook in Sunday’s post. Life was a barrel of laughs.
I realize it’s not the 1950s, but this is very reminiscent of Rydell HIgh.
My favorite part of this next shot is the gal holding the bottle of hooch. Pardon me, moonshine.
And the fun kept coming. Release your aggression with pinatas!
The choir fellowships as it prepares for the annual Christmas festival.But it’s not all fun and games. The German Club prepares a care package for needy families during the holidays. Because who doesn’t love German food? I’d prefer my care package from the Spanish Club, thank you. Charro beans instead of refried.
Speaking of Spanish, check out the smug grin on Lolita Ines Alverado’s (sic) face in Spanish class. Tengo el cabello más hermoso de la clase.
Lolita’s hair is much foxier than even the homecoming queen’s. In those loafers, Meiling Lung looks downright dowdy.
But by far, the most interesting pictures are of the teachers themselves.
Mrs. Brack cannot be trusted. That cropped cut betrays her. I bet she has volumes of beatnik poetry in her drawer. And Communist connections. And clove cigarettes.
Sadly, all good things must come to an end.
Why, in just a few years, some of you boys may be longhaired hippies, smoking the weed and living out of Volkswagen vans. But if the THC doesn’t lodge too deeply in your brain, try not to forget the wonderful years in high school. Harriet didn’t.
Pantsless Santa and a student enjoying the March sun at the Union
If you know those lyrics, you should be clapping your hands together right now. The Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run” topped the charts in 1976, and that’s our focus year today. I was flipping through a 1976-77 University of Texas at Austin Cactus, one of many yearbooks in my collection. What struck me the most was the level of unkemptness. If that’s not a word, I hereby decree it is now. Everything looked chaotic, in need of antiseptic wipes, hairbrushes, and ironing boards. The 1970s just needs a darn good scrubbing.
If you weren’t alive then or were too young to recall, let me offer you this glimpse into what life was like as a student in central Texas during the year before Elvis collapsed on the toilet.
During the bicentennial year of 1976, the presidential elections intensified between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. On campus, the Absurdist Group drafted an Arts & Sausages platform. These are not typos. Pictured is a rally for student government.
This next picture of student government (next to an icon of what appears to be Slash from Guns ‘n’ Roses, which did not exist yet) shows bralessness, early male pattern baldness, and an overzealous male giving the “Hook ‘Em, Horns” sign.
Here you see a computer from the research department. Fitting this on your lap at Starbuck’s was cumbersome at best.
The Tavern was a great place to socialize and blow off steam, back when the drinking age was 18, which seems CUH-RAZY in retrospect–allowing high school seniors to be hitting the saloons. But I guess if they were old enough to go die in Vietnam, they should be allowed to knock back a few gin and tonics before shipping out.
The pic is not askew. The SEVENTIES were askew. What is he looking at? I’d say her chest, but her chest is identical to his. Maybe he’s taking in the scent of her Ban Roll-On.
The Texas Tavern also offered bowling. Check out the form on this hunk.
And no college bar is complete without its “Disco Night,” which showcased the talents of diverse DJ’s.
But university life wasn’t all fun and games; a shuttle bus drivers’ strike left students stranded at the bus stops. New “scab” bus drivers feared violent strikers.
Below is a portrait of The Crow’s Nest, a group formed in 1949, open to any Navy ROTC Midshipmen with a 2.0 GPA. The mission was to develop leaders and future Naval officers. Per the yearbook, “the mascot is any likely sea bird such as the penguin or albatross.” Was the entire yearbook staff stoned when they edited this?
If you really peer into this, you’ll see not only the YMCA being performed, but knives and swords at each other’s necks, a man in aviator glasses, a Greek Fisherman’s cap, and a jogging jacket, a gentleman in a nice blazer and his underwear taking a swig from a bottle, a cowboy taking a hit off a fatty–not to mention Los Tres Amigos at the bottom. Mercy.
Frat life seems much more tame by comparison. Note the gender roles being broken down as Wayne prepares a pot of chili for Wendy (whose Farrah Fawcett wings seem to be experiencing an uprising of their own). How could she resist the charms of such a hairy beast and his blow-dried tresses?
This next glimpse of campus life has no caption. With the exposed brassiere, I can only guess that it’s a feminist rally gone awry. We may never know.
And so ends our window into the dirty grime of The Bicentennial. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
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.
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.
Vegans and vegetarians, this post is not for you. Get on your bike and pedal self-righteously to a co-op and buy yourself more hummus and tofu, kale and quinoa. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But this is for carnivores.
Ahem. I learned early on from The Smiths that meat was murder, but, then again,
And war is murder, and abortion is murder, and so on and so on. Now please make my steak medium rare.
Those of us of a certain age will remember this Saturday morning PSA, pleading with America’s then-non-obese children to not “drown our food.”
If you remember that, then you were probably wearing tapered jeans and shoulder pads when Sally (“Hot Lips” Houlihan) Kellerman exhorted us to come to Hidden Valley Ranch and slather copious amounts of the buttermilky goodness all over our baby carrots and celery sticks. It may be useful in getting your kids to EAT vegetables, but it’s a lousy strategy in TASTING them.
When it comes to steak, I can understand how some folks prefer grilled mushrooms on top, maybe some caramelized onions, even chimichurri on a flank steak. But for my money, a steak like this needs nothing more than the salt and pepper on the crust.
Consider this ad for Hunt’s (Hunt’s, people! Not even Heinz, the real ketchup–pardon me, CATSUP) in 1952.
Either Dad doesn’t know how to grill a tasty T-bone, or that’s a perfectly good waste of beef. Ketchup on a steak is an irreverent, impious act against the inviolable laws of steak consumption. It just is. Frankly, ketchup serves its purpose best on potatoes. While we’re at it, can someone explain this to me? Is this corn beef hash and cole slaw?
And what on earth is this next one? Baked BEANS with ketchup? Is that meatloaf wedges as the accompaniment? Or are those pumpernickel slices? So confused. And where is the hand holding the bottles in all these images? Hunt’s is so magically buoyant.
Enough already! I need something that makes sense.
I Don't Get It 