When The Sun Goes Down On My Side Of Town
Marriage
a lot of this:
and sometimes this:
Gliddy Gloop Gloopy is not Hang On, Sloopy
Here Comes The Sun
Sunrise on this balmy Friday morning
Dilly Bars & Hungr-Busters
The Higher The Hair, The Closer To Jesus, Part I
However, Blinda’s Leaning Tower of Pisa is probably closer in proximity to The Pope. She’s certainly giving Deb a run for her money.
Teasing was involved on both of these Mary(s), and it appears as though a hairpiece or extension was haphazardly lobbed at their heads, with no regard for rhyme nor reason.
Donnita’s lithe neck can barely support the combined weight of coif and hardened Aqua Net. Any minute now, it could snap like a twig.
I don’t know what to say about Kathy. All I know is she’s in this yearbook twice. Same name, same pic, so it’s no misprint, people. Kathy with a K. Moving on…
Bless her heart.
From the saucy smirks of the Nix Twins to Dennis’s kind eyes (which seem more 48 than 18 years old), to the barrel of whiskey hidden beneath the teased bleached locks of Regina, this pic does not disappoint.
I hate it when people say they gave 110% effort, because there is no such thing as more than the absolute total that exists. Having said that, Linda gave 110%. Have you ever seen a waterfall after a hard freeze?
But Travis. Sigh. Travis Isom, Travis Eyesore, old boy–what were you thinking with that unibrow? Read the page; Seniors Try Harder! You should try harder with some tweezers. Or a razor. This is unacceptable, Travis. Shame on you. Why couldn’t you have copied the simple brows of J.C. and Mike (who BTW, look pretty retro 50s greaser for a 1967 yearbook, if you ask me)?
And the winner of the most interesting hairdo is…Beverly’s ratty flattened mess, complimented by insanely dark arched caterpillar brows! You can bet David wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole! She smells like cigarettes and Binaca breath spray, and that scares the pee out of him. Does someone have a ladder so we can climb up there and crown her?
Fill ‘Er Up
A new Fort Worth Premier gas station opening in 1962 depicts great customer service for all your Chevy Impala’s needs. A sister photo reflects the steep price of gas at just over a quarter per gallon.
And check it out: Buy 8 gallons of gas and for only a dollar extra, you get five place settings of fine imported silverware–enough to invite all three attendants in straw hats, as well as the two girls in modest swimwear, heels, and mod flips.
Everybody Cut Footloose
Except you, awkward white people. You need to stop.
The fine print says “Get free dance booklet at your Career Club dealer.” To those of you in your sixties (who were alive in the 60s), is that where you learned your dance moves? Your Career Club dealer? I bet your drug dealer could teach better moves. Stiff and forced, Milton practically begs for a bottle of Schlitz to loosen him up–his hand is already in position. Why, in ten minutes, he could be a poor man’s Davy Jones! I don’t recall ever seeing “the skate” performed on American Bandstand, and I can pretty well rest assured it was never on Soul Train. It looks less like skating and more like “festive ways to fart.”
Only Tree Bass
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
Have You Seen Me?
I got this in the mail recently, attached to a pizza coupon. I usually don’t pay these things much mind, especially since the woman in question was abducted at a distance of more than several hundred Rhode Islands from my home. However, this one vexed me. It shows that she was thirteen when she was abducted, and through the magic of science, they have age-progressed her to what she might look like at seventeen. Which was two years ago. Which is not what she’d look like now. So what gives? What’s the point of that? “Have you seen me when you time-traveled back to 2011?” Do we only possess the power to age-progress to a four year maximum? I don’t understand.
Lars & The Unreal Siri
I don’t have an iPod, an iPad, a Kindle, a smart phone, any of that stuff. I don’t want one. I dislike phones except for emergency use, and I dislike emergencies even more. My decade-old son, however, has strained both his neck and thumbs, becoming acquainted with his iPod, and has been asking Siri questions. Today, he asked her what her favorite color is, and she said, “Well, I don’t know how to say it in your language. It’s sort of greenish, but with more dimensions.” Pardon?
Then he told her that he loved her. She told him, “You are the wind beneath my wings.” Excuse me?
I am reminded of Ryan Gosling in Lars and the Real Girl, in which he is enamored with a blow-up doll. Will this generation (devoid of any social interaction skills) skip the deviant inflatable girlfriend phase and go straight into siri-love? Will adolescent boys and young men spend hours alone with their iPods, constructing pretend relationships, using the app “ispeech” to make a woman’s voice say exactly what he types? Isn’t that a new pathetic level of loneliness? That’s worse than bowling alone.
Maybe there is nothing new under the sun: Janis Ian predicted it decades ago.
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
The difference is–now the lover IS the phone. Yeesh.
I Don't Get It 