In honor of the upcoming holiday, here is a 1957 Easter card, filled with well-dressed bunnies on their way to church.
Category: Vintage
Senior Class Favorites
And that, my friends, is the difference between men and women. Adrenaline delights one and strikes fear in the other. Today’s post documents the Senior Class Favorites of the 1955 Pine Burr, selected “as tops in fun, sparkle, and friendship.” Most yearbook pictures are taken on location at the high school, but evidently these favorites traveled off site. Why, Jo Ann and Edward got suited up for a poolside session. 
Perry and Pat went horse riding through what appears to be a swamp.
Earl and Shirley were stuck riding pretend horses on a carousel, as though they were still young children.
Thurston and Lovey Howell enjoyed an afternoon of boating. Are these people really teenagers?
Susie and Morris enjoyed a bicycle built for two.
Barbara and Donald braved gusty winds to sit on the dock of the bay. Or is that a bridge? Look, Barbara, I’ll catch that catfish for you and fry it up for dinner with some hush puppies. Won’t that be swell?
Miss Wheat is delighted that Mr. Turner parked next to her namesake. Or are those plumes of feathered reed grass? It may be Daddy’s car, but he’s got quite a grip at 10 and 2.
Our last picture is the Football Sweetheart. Wait–isn’t that the same girl (with her name misspelled) wearing a polka dotted cape and sitting on a diving board earlier? She gets around. She’s a double favorite!
My advice to you, Miss Yianitsas–marry one of those football players asap and shed that tragic maiden name. Preferably Earl Wright. It’s just one syllable!
Snap, Snap, Mexican Hat Dance
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.
1963 Comet, Coming At You
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.
When You Care Enough To Send The Very Kitschiest
What’s snazzier than this red retro television set?
Perhaps this dapper turtle riding down a slide in his OWN shell?
If you pull the lever at the bottom right, he really does slide. See?
And in keeping with the red theme, here’s a keen card for a grandson.
I don’t know Gramp and Gram from Adam, but I bet they were fine grandparents. Who wouldn’t feel loved, receiving one of these, assuming kids actually READ them?
Can’t Say You Were A Little Saint
In my stack of vintage greeting cards, I found this cute birthday card manufactured by Gibson. Perfect for a parent who isn’t a perfectionist…
They don’t make ’em like that any more.
Billy Mack Is A Detective Down In Texas
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!
Before Salmonella, When We Were Allowed To Lick The Beater
I Will Yak This Up, No Problemo
Here, http://crankycaregiver.wordpress.com/, is the JELL-O yak ad, as promised. I’ve also included these nasty jello molds as per your request. Vile indeed.
Spanish olives inside jello? What the WHAT? Is that Barcelona style?
And this shrimp aspic mold is undefendable. Two of those words don’t even belong in meals! You know what aspic is? Per Wikipedia, aspic is a dish in which ingredients are set into a gelatin made from a meat stock or consommé. Not necessary. I’ll take my shrimp Kung Pao, thank you.
The site where I found this (listed above) shows a picture of her husband “in a state of gelatin overload.” Visit it for more fun tidbits.
Likewise, I would be holding my barf back if I were about to consume a baked beans gelatin mold. You know how Duke, the golden retriever, has been trying to sell the Bush’s Baked Beans recipe for years? Yeah, I don’t think he could PAY to give this jello recipe away. Mercy me. But this one rivals the beans.
Mmmm! Break me off a peice of that Kit-Kat bar! Delish. Just in case you’re not sure what that is, it’s PIG TROTTERS IN ASPIC. I’ll pass. I’d rather put Harlem Globetrotters in my mouth, preferably with a side of Meadowlark Lemon.
Now the jingle I recall from my youth is as follows: Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle. Cool and fruity, Jello brand gelatin. Of all desserts, you’ll love the one that tastes so light and makes such fun. Make Jello gelatin and make some fun.
See? Nothing in there about tripe or menudo or things that give you the trots.
Still, there was one man in the 50s who broke the mold (I couldn’t help myself). Thomas Lehrer, who taught classes at MIT, Harvard, and Wellesley, claims to have invented the JELL-O shot. I guess it DOES take a genius to find a better use.
Of COURSE, I’d Like Another Slice Of Real Yeast-Riz Pizza
I used to think I was born in the wrong era. Growing up, wearing plaid corduroy pants with striped brown shirts was not very feminine. However, everything about the 40s and 50s delighted me: the hair, the poodle skirts, the staying at home and not working and having a husband support me, the aqua-colored appliances, the white picket fences. And everyone looked so CLEAN, so hat and gloves, so put together.
I have STACKS of old magazines with endlessly fascinating ads, to which you will constantly be subjected. I don’t mind sexist ads. I don’t mind silly feminine hygiene ads. I don’t even mind “husky” toddler clothes ads for kids that look positively svelte by today’s standards. But the one thing that just baffles me is the food. The food looks AWFUL. Gelatinous and cottage-cheesey with potted meats. Ewww.
Take a gander at these ads, all from just ONE October 1958 Good Housekeeping:
Now I like hush puppies, as well as pancakes and ham, but this looks more like sweet ‘n’ sour chicken than actual breakfast. Waitress, I’d like the General Tso’s fried gluten with extra cholesterol and sugarbeetees, plus a side of hardened arteries. Pronto!
Now for lunch, we’ll add some healthy options. Tomato sauce is a vegetable, right?
I haven’t visited Sicily, but I’m fairly certain this is what a gen-u-ine Italian pizza looks like, with green olives at the tips of the star. Didn’t Cher bake this for Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck? They were totally Italian. P.S. Did Mrs. America really want to be associated with yeast? Maybe Miss America was busy endorsing Monistat?
Now save room, because we’ve invited the Johnsons over for a Souper Supper Loaf dinner, and Mom’s made a fanTABulous “handy ham appe-teaser.” No, not REAL ham, silly! You had that for breakfast. This is deviled ham. Pretend ham. Satan’s ham.
Don’t mind the fact that it resembles a voodoo doll for Mom to stab out her aggression, while indulging her perfectionist tendencies. Every little plasticky processed American cheese square must sit JUST right! Is the apple oxidizing at the toothpick hole?
Now time for the main event! You better get your coveting on, Mrs. Johnson, because there’s no way you’ll EVER top Mom’s meatloaf.
I don’t know which looks better: the one oozing blood, the one covered in toddler wretch, or the one doused with thousand island dressing. Oh, alright, already! Please pass the celery-salmon loaf. I can’t resist a river of celery running down that lovely loaf o’ fish. It’s like bundt cake, except it’s meat. And it’s gross. And it makes my throat fill with bile.
Stay tuned for more super keen ads from 1958! I’ll try not to nauseate you.
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?
Time For A Breather? Time For A Reality Check.
I spy with my little eyes a a trim little number working in the flower garden, wearing a jaunty yellow scarf and prissy white gloves to protect his manicure, with a clear oral fixation, hand on hip, jutted out all sassily. Uh-oh. The issue is not Mom’s beer. The issue is Mom’s a beard.
I Don't Get It 