She may look sweet now…
…but cowgirls like to get rowdy.
They like to throw back a few.
Mercy here was bold enough to enter (and win) a jalapeno-eating contest, and the Mickey Gilley lookalike appears only too happy to judge. 
Now she has some pocket money to put in these cowboy’s change cups.
Or maybe this dude’s more her style, in his Urban Cowboy Chic.
Either way, dancing is on the agenda.
Just don’t take it too far. Bikini bull-riding is no fun when you’re tipsy.
What is this? Animal House meets the Village People? No, maybe not the Village People. Although they sang “In The Navy,” I doubt these Navy ROTC Midshipmen spun a lot of VP on their turntables. Check them out in their weapons and combat gear. This is where I make an obscure reference to Howard Jones in the way way back (the tall, Aryan one), but perhaps that’s more a Pandoran influence than reality. Anyway, I think we can all agree who the alpha male is here, in this portrait of masculinity. It’s knee socks guy. You know it is. The posture, the marriage of vest and tie and ripped daisy dukes, the sassy confidence. Damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Seriously no Low T here.
Don’t know what “Low T” is? Why the heck not? The TV is riddled with commercials about Low Testosterone, alternating between those hormone replacement commercials, where longhaired women in their sixties confess how happy their husbands are that “my libido is back.” Your grandparents didn’t have to worry about this stuff, right? My grandparents spent more time absorbed in Readers Digests than they did at the corner Walgreen’s, refilling prescriptions for afflictions they were too ignorant to know they had. BECAUSE THEY HADN”T BEEN INVENTED BY BIG PHARMA YET. Complaints were limited to arthritis, goiter, and bursitis. But not today’s society.
Let’s not. Who cares about your Low T? You’re not getting any action regardless, pajama boy. I bet that’s herbal tea in that mug. Yeah, I have heard about the lonesome loser. It’s you. Dang, just when I thought my libido was back, you had to send it away. Curses!
Just think, somewhere out there, hundreds if not thousands of pharmaceutical company employees are getting paid to brainstorm up some fake diseases to prey on our fears and our wallets. Did you know my gums are receding? Perhaps that’s blog-induced bruxism (BIB)? And just like diabetes, there are two categories:
You, too, may have BIB. Where’s the pill for that? Oh, they’re working on it?
(Disclaimer: side effects may include sleepiness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, skin rash, headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of appetite, dry mouth, anal leakage and sudden death. But really, isn’t anal leakage as bad as sudden death?)
Two liberal arts majors receive their Texas Cowgirls membership bandannas, thus allowing them to volunteer at HOBO (Helping Our Brothers Out), which gave Thanksgiving dinners to the homeless. Texas Cowgirls was a social club made up of girls from different sororities as well as “independent” girls, brought together at “Tap-In” and known as “heifers” until the next group was tapped in. Seriously.
We visited the Blue Genie Art Bazaar in Austin, hoping to find some unique gifts. This art was easy on the eyes.
Small booths showcased different artists with a wide range of talents.
Some prints revealed the artists’ love of the city.
Some things made me hungry.
Some things just plain creeped me out.
And some just hurt my eyes.
In the end, we wound up leaving empty-handed. Although the pieces were interesting, they were vastly overpriced. Perhaps they were intended for pretentious, high-income Austin hipsters who congratulate themselves on funding the hobbies of former U.T. art majors. Too harsh? So is $55 for a set of six coasters. And with so many children there, it seemed curious that many items were covered in curse words, too filthy for me to type here. One thing’s for sure: Austin is still keeping Austin weird.
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.
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 Don't Get It 