Old Corny Aggie Jokes

I’ll admit I knew nothing about this retro joke book when I snagged it at an antique shop; all I needed to pick it up was a stork on the front, and the $1 price penciled inside allowed me to bring it home.

(Son Of A Son Of… 101 Aggie Jokes, Vol. 3, copyright 1969, Gigem Press (my copy is a First Printing, September, 1969) was created to be a postal piece.)

The front cover birth control gag goes like this:

Do you know what Aggies do with birth control pills?

They feed them to storks.

And that should be enough to satisfy a dollar purchase — but I’m obsessive, remember?

First I had to learn what an “Aggie” was or is: students (current and former) at Texas A&M University are called Aggies after the school’s agricultural roots. Then Barry Popik had to educate me on what turns out to be a rather fascinating bit of history about these very books:

Aggie jokes became legendary because of two events in 1963 and 1965. In 1963, Texas A&M started to admit women. The University of Texas (already co-ed) and others saw humor in this situation. In 1965, the book 101 Aggie Jokes was published. The book would go through several reprintings and new editions.

And so it seems this little joke book was destined to find its way into my feminism collection. Even if the book isn’t all about gender or the sexes, it fits the bill; here’s Exhibit B:

Did you hear about the Aggie who thought a sanitary belt was the first drink out of the bottle?

Ba-dum-dum!

I’ll couch my estimation of this kitschy book’s value with the publishers sentiments on the title page:

This collection of jokes has been assembled from general public sources. It is not the intention of the publishers to ridicule or degrade any institution or individual. The purpose is to chronicle an important chapter in American humor.

To cover my own ass, I’ll also include “gender” along with institutions and individuals. *wink*

FYI, the publishers name is based on another Aggie reference, the Gig ’em greeting.

We Love Betty White Because She’s Blue

Betty White is my idol. I’ve been a fan my entire life — even when my beloved grandmother stated her dislike of Ms White (which was weird, because my grandma was sooooo like her!).

I thrill at every chance to watch her, especially when, in 2006, Family Guy included her as the book-on-tape voice of Peter’s erotics novel, or Peterotica:

Welcome to Peterotica on tape! I’m Betty White reading The Hot Chick Who Was Italian, or maybe Some Kind of Spanish by Peter Griffin. Chapter One: “Oh God you should have seen this one hot chick. She was totally Italian. Or maybe some kind of Spanish….

But I digress.

As you all know, Betty White was on Saturday Night Live this weekend. The show drew the biggest ratings since November 2008, pulling in somewhere between 12 million and 13 million viewers, according to preliminary Nielsen estimates, some of whom said the show was too blue — but what the heck did they think Betty White was going to do? She’s been risqué, the queen of delivering double entendres, for decades! And it’s one reason we all love her.

I was especially heartened to see the huge number of former SNL female comedians who returned to perform with Betty. I choose to believe that upon hearing that Betty White was scheduled each & every one of them called and asked to be on the show too. I have no proof of this — and don’t contradict me; I prefer to enjoy such thoughts.

If you missed SNL this past Saturday, you can get yourself on over to NBC.com to watch the entire episode — as well as three sketches which were cut from the show due to time. My favorite of the cut sketches is the “Debbie Downer does a suburban lingerie party.”

The other cut sketches: Joyologist and Bronx Beat.

Because My Husband Is Mr. WalMart…

OK, maybe so he’s not-so-much Mr. WalMart… But he is Derek — The Derek — of Derek’s Big Website of Wal-Mart Purchase Receipts. (Yeah, I married Internet Royalty — Old Guard Internet Royalty, not a dot.com bust-er, or a guy with some money to buy a presence.) Anyway, because of hubby’s history, I keep an eye out for amusing WalMart stories.

So who could resist an open letter to WalMart entitled, Hey, Wal-Mart, your new case-less milk jugs are retarded:

Dear Wal-Mart,

Congratulations on your latest successful accomplishment in the dairy retail industry. Assuming, that your goal when redesigning your plastic milk containers was to have me spill milk all over my kitchen counters.

You can let the letter’s author, Chase Roper, tell you all about the new product; all I know, is after reading what Roper wrote, there won’t be any new case-less jugs of milk on our WalMart receipts.

While I could just thank Roper for his consumer report, I really enjoy his classy retorts. Like his exit line: “Also, your stores all smell like maple syrup and old people.”

We Had Joy, We Had Fun, We had Seasons In The Sun…

I’ve been listening a lot to the cable music stations — most recently to the 70’s station. Tonight, Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks came on and I found myself singing along as I had in my childhood:

We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun
‘Til the cops came along and shot us in our buns.

At this point hubby (10 years my junior, remember, and so perhaps not even born at the time I was singing along to the AM radio), turns around and calls me an affectionate slur for a mental handicap.

“Come on,” I laugh, “I was like 10 years old when this song came out.”

And I continue to sing along with the song — growing happier and louder with each opportunity to sing my childhood recollections of the verse. I was seriously clapping with glee by the end of the song. Perverse? Maybe. But it was thrilling to relive my 10 year actions and enthusiasm.

Blaming my age might seem like a weak defense, but honestly, little kid weirdness can often be attributed to very real — and very grown-up — things.

Streaking was a big thing then (at least pop culture reference wise; I never knew anyone then who had done so) and as kids, uncomfortable with the notion of naked adults, we made jokes about it. Continually.

And the song, Seasons In The Sun, was terribly depressing; it reeked of death. Another thing kids would be terribly uncomfortable with.

So we dealt with our anxieties via the mutilation (further mutilation?) of the song.

Come to think of it, so many 70’s songs were about death…

There was Wildfire and Brandy, of course (the latter of which may not have explicitly about death, but certainly there was loss). Helen Reddy’s Angie Baby used to scare the crap out of me (that swirling noise made me dizzy and is somehow mythologically tied to my experience with the floor dropping in Disney’s Haunted Mansion) — second only to Eleanor Rigby, which, with the popularity of Wings, was played far too often as far as I was concerned. (Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door?! I’m old enough to understand the lyrics better now, but that only creeps me out more.)

However, in terms of raw exploitation and manipulation of emotion, there were even worse offenders.

Like Rocky (“Rocky I’ve never had a baby before, don’t know if I can do it…”) by Austin Roberts. In my mind, Rocky was from the made for TV movie, Sunshine, which was based on the real life story of Jacquelyn Marie “Lyn” Helton, a young woman who while dying journaled for her young daughter so that she’d remember her (unbearably more than ironic if this post is to be believed).

I recently discovered that Rocky was not from that film when we found the record at a thrift shoppe (and yes, I snatched it up). I don’t think I ever saw the Sunshine movie, or the television series which followed…

But maybe I did. In my mind, it was all twisted up with my Sunshine Family dolls. Dolls who suffered greatly, despite their cheerful happy hippy faces. One parent often died… Of course, it could have been worse for the children after I read Flowers In The Attic (the baby boy obviously would have been named Cory).

All of this is so depressing.

The only way to really cleanse from this is to sing along with Seasons In The Sun — my way. Go ahead and try it, you’ll understand why we sang it this way as kids.

We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun
‘Til the cops came along and shot us in our buns.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxdOy-dtBfQ

English Droll Doesn’t Play Well In Print, Or Peoria

In the January 2010 issue of Elle magazine, in the Elle Man interview series, Hugh Grant is interviewed by Holly Millea. In it, among other things (like his art collection) he dishes on his female costars:

Elle: Let’s run through some of your costars. Three adjectives, please. Andie?

HG: Southern belle. Charming. Gorgeous. Emma Thompson: Clever, funny, mad as a chair. Renee Zellweger: Delightful. Also far from sane. Very good kisser. Sandra Bullock: A genius. A German. Too many dogs. Julianna Moore: Brilliant actress. Loathes me. Rachel Weisz: Clever. Beautiful. Despises me. Drew Barrymore: Made her cry. Stunning film-star face. Hates me.

Some places have already blogged and reported on this celebrity dish, but I think they miss the humor. True ‘English droll’ doesn’t play well in print, or Peoria, but do people really think Hugh Grant would backhandedly snark on costars that way?

(Click scans to read.)

elle-man-hugh-grantelle-man-hugh-grant-2

Gifts For Mystery Lovers

Need a gift for the bibliophiles who dig mysteries? Or someone with a twisted sense of humor? How about gifts (mugs, t-shirts, posters, ties, etc.) featuring prints of an altered art piece titled That Nosey Miss Marple:

If you live near Miss Marple — or another nosy neighbor — don’t give her easy clues by cleaning out your refrigerator of dismembered body parts outside.

Corsets Are Too Sexy?

While I do not suggest that women should whittle away our waists as we while away our days in the constriction of too-tightly-laced corsets, I do believe there is good reason to at least examine the claims and assertions made about corsets by the 19th century medical community and the suffrage movement.

But if the medial claims weren’t true, if they were as exaggerated as the corseted female form, why?

french-corset-humorWhile many state that Victorian fashions for women were used as a means of control (and admiration through objectification) of women in a male dominated society, there is evidence to the contrary. In fact, many in 19th century, responding to fears of poverty and moral decay brought about by the Industrial Revolution’s over-crowding of cities, cried in outrage over the corset — but they saw the corset as impure and promoting impure behaviors among women (ever responsible for all of societies ills).

Victorian phrenologist Orson S. Fowler, an American, warned that wearing a corset excited dangerous “amative desires” by pressing blood to bowels. In Intemperance and Tightlacing, he argues that this made blood become “impure and corrupt,” caused “disease to the brain,” and inevitably led to “impure feelings” as “weak-minded” ladies were, obviously, easily prey to temptation. Illustrations mocking the too-trusting, if not cuckolded, husband conveyed such possibilities.

Perceived as (and raised to be) innocent, Victorian women on pedestals were void of any “animal feelings” such as sexual love, but this “special nature” made her a trusting, giving and warm person which, combined with her lack of intellect, made her not only prey to sexual seduction, but once introduced to such ‘sins’ she would be insatiable.

Such views of women convinced Victorian professionals that corset wearing led to such sins as hyper-sexuality and masturbation. In A Textbook on Sex Education (London, 1918), Walter Gallichen wrote:

The early wearing of stays is said to cause precocious sexuality. When it is known that a degenerate cult of tight corset wearers exists in England with a journal devoted to their craze between tightlacing and sex hyperaesthesia [heightened feeling] seems to be well established.

Ahh, so now the corset wasn’t just about seducing men, but ourselves. We were deemed dangerous dames because, poor things that we are, we’re too weak to resist sexual desires. We’d easily fall for any man, any time, any where. Worse yet, what if we opted to masturbate?! Men, as always, feared our ability to make choices. (In truth, what need do multiple-orgasmic creatures have for inconsiderate three-huffs-and-puffs-to-climax lovers who seek to control us?)

So, just how would you stop a corset-wearing woman from screwing around and diddling herself? Well, you get her out of that corset by any means possible — including scaring the crap out of her with exaggerated (or completely falsified) science.

According to this article on the brothers Lucien C. and I. DeVer Warner, founders of Warner Brothers (now Warnaco) knew the power of medical alignment selling foundation garments:

It took a couple of doctors to sell women on the idea that “rearranging” the human body via the old-fashioned corset was not practical. Doctors Lucien C. and I. DeVer Warner put their heads together and came up with a corset to fit a woman’s body, unlike other Victorian undergarments which “tied” her in.

They weren’t the first to sell corsets with doctor names, but they were among the first in the U.S. to push the “new” corsets; I’m sure it was made all that much easier (and profitable) with medical science telling those frightening anecdotal stories of death by too-restrictive corset.

Just where did the feminists fit into all of this? Well, that’s for part three.

Cheap Thrills Thursday: 1907 Englishwoman’s Snark On Fashionistas

The piece, a little beauty titled “Woman’s Dress and Women’s Homes,” in which an Englishwoman ever-so-politely snarks about the mode of American dress, was written by Anna A. Rogers (originally in the Atlantic and then published in the November 4, 1907 edition of The Fargo Forum and Daily Republican). In the article, Ms. Rogers quotes an unidentified Englishwoman who had apparently spoken to an unidentified “writer in one of our western cities especially given over to the national passion for dress.”

The authenticity, sincerity, and/or seriousness of this piece is up to you to decide; as is Ms. Roger’s intent. But comments like “a slovenly ‘slavey’ attends the door,” sure are telling enough on their own.

nov-4-1907-womens-dress-and-homes-snark

This little bit of joy was discovered via the many hours I spend nerdily reading antique newspapers on microfilm at the Fargo public library (because, as they say, “Library, library, more than a book!”), and so my cost was free — unless you count my taxes, which I am most happy to see go to the preservation and presentation of such things.

Direct Marketing Crank Response, 1917

An amazing entry I found in The Journal of American History, Volume XI, January-February-March, No. 1, (copyright, 1917, The National Historical Society) which speaks as much to direct marketing responses as it does to attitudes about media. The National Historical Society, seeking to increase membership and circulation of the journal, had been “prosecuting a very extensive postal card campaign.” One of the recipients of the direct marketing response cards sent in a reply:

Dear Sirs:

I respectfully decline to become a member of your society. I have absolutely no faith in American History. When the history of this great war will be written then you will have to take your information from the American newspapers, which have published more lies during the last 2 years than have been published since the beginning of the world. Yours truly,

C. SEITZ.

The journal also notes that the correspondence was sent to the New York Tribune, where a representative of the newspaper tried interview Mr. Seitz by telephone. All Mr. Seitz would say in reply was, “You are all liars. I would not speak to you.”

the-journal-of-american-history-page-220

Dating Advice From The Past (Or Female Dating Snark, 1940 Style)

This article, written by an anonymous female, was published in The Bedside Esquire, 1940 — just see how well it holds up today *wink*

The Wench Is Not Amused, by Anonymous

Any girl, if the body she possesses isn’t actually deformed and the face badly moth-bitten, is going to become acquainted with the gentle art of seduction fairly early in life. As for myself, I’ve had what I now recognize as more than my share of experience.

Not at the risk of sounding vain, because I know I am vain, I’ll say that when men look at me in the street I know why. They’ve good reason to. In 1930, when the agency I was working for folded, I posed for several commercial photographers. I’ve seen strange men studying my picture in a magazine and, though their eyes generally started at the ankles & worked up by degrees, I’m pleased to admit that they looked twice at the face, too. And I’ve read a book, I dance well because I love it, I know how to listen as well as talk, I can tell a touchback from a safety, I can hold my likker as well as my men – when I want to – and I know most of the right words. I seldom buy my own dinner.

I know it sounds conceited as the devil but, darn it, it’s true. I’ll lay twenty to one I can make any nine out of ten males, provided they are neither puling infants nor doddering antiquarians, ask for my phone number within any given half-hour.

So, when I say I’ve had more than the average experience with the technique of seduction (horrible phrase) I think I’m stating a simple truth.

When a gal is first turned loose on the world of man the game of seduction – win, lose or draw – is pretty exciting. And it continues to be for some years. At first, either your parents or your school keep you under observation & your only exposed to younger men. Their approach, naturally, isn’t as polished as that which you’ll encounter later. Also, the fact that you are under some sort of surveillance means that you’ll be exposed only occasionally & for brief periods of time & not to the extensive & intensive campaigns you’ll have to face when you become what is so quaintly known as a bachelor girl. During my lat four years of school, a year abroad, & my first three or four years in New York I must admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the whole tiresome process; particularly so when I learned that, so long as I kept my head, the game could be played according to my own rules without ever hurting the boy friend’s sense of masculine superiority in the least.

It was always a thrilling battle & the campaign itself was often more exciting than the storming, or attempted storming of one’s last citadel. How many times I’ve lost in this warfare is entirely a matter of my own business. But I will say this: no campaigner, no matter how hardened, ever overcame my last line of defense unless I deliberately chose that he should – and that can hardly be counted a total defeat.

In the past year, sadly enough, I’ve come to realize that what was once an enthralling game is now a deadly bore. And I contend it’s all the men’s fault. A seduction should be above all things glamorous & exciting. But can there be glamour in a story repeated a dozen, yea a hundred times? Can glamour be expected to survive the hundredth ardent whisper of non-poetic time-worn words? Can there be excitement in a card game played eternally, with both players forever holding the same cards? There cannot!

Why don’t men vary their approaches? Damn it, haven’t they any originality? Must they be so monotonous?

Why is it that each man has at his command three or four of the seven standard approaches to seduction & selects his approach according to what he fondly believes to be his shrewd analysis of the character of the wench he is lusting for?

This is all wrong. And something should be done about it. Why don’t men realize that an injection of originality or novelty into their love-making will get them further with the gal of their temporary choice than any pet phrases or standard passes the gibbering idiots can produce?

Repetition is so damn boring. The fun is all gone if, after the first kiss & the first declaration, you can, from past experience, anticipate practically every word & gesture that is to follow, be it a one night stand or a three week siege. And that isn’t right – sex should be fun.

If you’re a girl who hasn’t given this matter any objective thought, stop now & take stock. You’ll be saddened & disillusioned to see what well-worn ruts your young men pursue.

And you, lad, believing yourself to be a Casanova as you do, cast your eyes over the following catalog – and blush for your sex’s limitations. Blush, too, for yourself, for you have nothing more on the ball than any other man. You’re unoriginal & trite. That swell build-up you were planning to use tonight & which you rather expected to send darling little Jean into a swoon will be the same build-up John used on her two months ago, Paul the week before, Ronald last year, and so on back to the days when she bought her first lipstick & lace panties. And you actually expected her to fall for it tonight? Fooey! Those girlish peals of laughter will probably be at you, rather than with you. But you have only to get yourself a new approach, my lad, really new, and your path will be paved with recumbent maidens.

The following list contains what I’ve found to be the seven fundamental approaches. There are, of course, variants but they are all variants of these basic seven. At least, my own experience & the experience of attractive girls I know leads me to believe that this is a complete list. If it isn’t, I’ve been neglected & I resent that. And if the young man will step forward to present credentials proving that he is in possession of an Approach Number Eight I’ll be glad to meet him on his home grounds, winner take all.

Approach One
The Crudest Simple, and very raw. The idea is for the male to ply you with likker until you lose control. The man who uses this approach is obviously a louse, obviously without resources, and so unsubtle that he is easily seen through & a cinch to out-smart. This technique is so bad it doesn’t merit serious discussion. The only ones who will succumb to this attack are the completely foolish, those who are particularly light-headed drinkers & potential nymphomaniacs.

Approach Two
The Cheapest As crude in its way as One. This man tries to get at you through passionate declarations of love. He may even plead with you to marry him, sometimes soon. Meanwhile, sine you are already man & wife in the eyes of God or, at the very least, two hearts that beat as one – how about it? The man who uses these tactics is probably an even greater louse than the likker-plying-male. The ‘I-love-you’-chanted-soulfully method will succeed only with susceptible virgins (any age) and those stridently emotional wenches of meager intelligence whose metier in life is rocking the cradle. The gal who has been around will merely enjoy her laugh, when approached in this manner, and promptly send the man back to the minor leagues, where he belongs.

Approach Three
The Ham-iest The long-bearded ‘misunderstood husband’ gag. No elucidation is needed. Only fools fall for this chestnut & it is doubtful if, after falling, they deserve any sympathy. It has been my experience that married men are seldom worth the trouble. It is generally wisest to send them home to the little woman, in short order.

Approach Four
The Outright Purchase Like the Greeks, they come bearing gifts; generally expensive & so tendered that it is possible for the semi-prostitute to accept her wages without feeling too professional. The man who pulls this one isn’t fooling. He means business & wants it tacitly understood that there are to be no strings attached to this business deal. And he is intelligent enough to know that the average female is capable of very long distance rationalizing & thus can graciously & righteously accept a fur coat or a diamond ring whereas would regard the offer of actual cash as a terrific insult. This system, probably because it has sound economic & not emotional basis, is liable to work with any of us who haven’t been an heiress. If the man is anywhere near as attractive as his gift it is sometimes necessary for a gal to summon up her last bit of will power to say ‘No.’ But it usually is worth it, if only to preserve those few remaining shreds of self respect.

Approach Five
The Big Brother Act This predatory gent is an insidious operator where the unwary female is concerned. In the first place, he is patient. This, in itself, is usually enough to throw you off. He starts off on a ‘just friends’ basis & worms his way into your heart as a confidant & pal. Before you know it you are, on those odd nights, telling him all about your joys or sorrows with whichever Tom, Dick or Harry you are at the moment involved. He is very sweet, sympathetic & understanding. But he is playing a waiting game. He knows that eventually, human nature being what it is, there’ll be a bust-up between you & the boy of the moment… and when it comes you’ll find his broad shoulder there for you to weep on. You weep & you weep. You’re on the rebound & desperately in need of masculine comforting. And suddenly you find that you’re getting it in a very big, and totally unexpected way. And because you are weak & blue& emotionally drained & in need of some male tenderness you all at once become aware of the fact that your Big Brother is is much sweeter & more desirable than you had ever found him to be before. And if he realizes this at the same time that you awaken… you’re lost. When he puts on the pressure you’re defenceless. I know that this approach depends upon extenuating circumstances but they occur far more frequently than one ever suspects. And a girl on the rebound is in no fit condition to put up an adequate defence. My only solution is this: never trust a man who tries to build up a platonic friendship with you. At the time it may seem to you that it would be such a relief to know a man like that, but you can with impunity bet your last garter-belt that you’re wrong because, some place in the back of his mind, he’ll have an idea or two…

Approach Six
The Pseudo-Sophisticate This approach has three subdivisions but they are all based on the same fundamental sophistry: 6-A. The Philosophical. The life-is-real, life-is-earnest, opportunity-knocks-but-once, so grab-each-fleeting-moment-while-you-may school. This is, of course, the veriest hokum, fit only for children in their teens. Every woman beyond the age of adolescence knows that this unique opportunity the gentleman is so magnanimously offering her is an opportunity that knocks all too damn frequently. Why any man who isn’t completely witless ever thinks a girl will believe him to be the only one who will ever offer her a chance to indulge in a life of sin is beyond me. So, girls, the nest time a man pulls this, ‘Tonight is ours!’ line on you, control your laughter, let him down gently, and send him on his way. The stronger sex? Physically, yes.

6-B. The Pagan. This lad is likely to have long hair. He has read Ulysses and has a glib knowledge of neo-realistic painting or something of that sort. He thinks very highly of individualism & quote Nietzsche’s remarks about the Superman (himself). he tells you that the old, conventional moral standards of our fathers are outmoded (news to you?) and insists that today we see such things as sexual relations with a new vision, a proper perspective. ‘After all, we want each other, and what is going to stop us?’ he asks. ‘Aren’t we free people, free to live our own lives?’ You are also free to point out to him that ‘we want each other’ is taking altogether too much for granted. You explain, in as tactful & gentle terms as the situation requires, that a fairly ardent kiss or two, permitted in a moment of weakness, doesn’t exactly establish the fact that you are willing to turn over the body beautiful. He’ll never believe, of course, that it wasn’t your inhibitions which prevented you from succumbing & he’ll go on his way, still proud of his free & soaring spirit, in search of a girl with low heels & spectacles, who thinks Communism would be nice. And he’ll say to her ‘Look at Russia,’ and get away with it. I don’t want to look at Russia. Blouses & smocks? Not with my torso.

6-C. The Physical. Whereas the first chap in this category went at you on a philosophical plane, so-called & the second tried to weaken you on a moral & individualistic grounds the ‘Physical’ lad goes to the root of the matter & attacks you with body blows. His weapons are psychiatry, Freudian psychology & your glands. These physical realists always have your well being at heart. They explain at great length that sex is an appetite which must be satisfied if one isn’t to become a victim of all sorts of fetishes & suppressed desires. Now, no girl would want to become amorous in public with Shetland pony or become addicted to horsewhipping her grandmother. It isn’t being done. The obvious solution is to permit whichever physical realist is at the moment spouting his propaganda to come between you & the tragedies of perversion. The whole affair is, of course, to be considered in your own best interests.

We may very well be animals & victims of appetites which must be satisfied in order to prevent complexes & frustrations. I’m willing to admit that the boys may have something there. But, so far, I’ve been able to order my own meals & I think I’ll continue to do so. When I’m hungry I’ll eat, if the proper food is available, and no one is going to force improperly prepared food on me when I’m not hungry… and my grandmother will have to take her chances.

Approach Seven
The ‘Forcing’ Method Or perhaps I should call it the cat-and-mouse attack. In any event, the glib gentleman who works this approach on you is primarily concerned with forcing you to make the final move and ‘Safety First’ is obviously his motto. The opening lines generally read something like this, ‘I don’t love you & I know you don’t love me – but I can’t help wanting you. Why pretend? I think you’re swell – sex excluded – but you’re so damned attractive that, no matter how hard I try, when I’m with you I want you.’ Then he adds, oh very frankly & fairly, ‘I like you so much that I have to be honest with you. If I continue to see you I’ll make love to you, I can’t help myself. If you want me to stop coming around, now that you know, you’ve only to say so.’ The catch in this last speech is that he only produces it when he is pretty damn sure that you like him a lot & enjoy being with him. Of course you, liking him as you do & feeling on safe terrain because he hasn’t so much as touched you, laugh it off & take your chances.

But after a night or two of conversation in the same vein but growing progressively more intense, the chances are that he will kiss you: ardently, of course, and probably with considerable finesse – and you’ve given the inch that may coast you your virtue.

Gently & insidiously the campaign progresses. Each night it will become a little more intense & each nigh your defences will fall back and inch or two. But he will never use force, never put on an any obvious pressure. Each time you feel called upon to say ‘Stop,’ he’ll stop – to your growing annoyance. And, though you probably won’t realize it, that is one word you’ll come to use less & less frequently.

Slowly & inevitably the tide, to use a figure of speech, creeps up & up until that night when you’ve forgotten even the meaning of the word – and then the louse stops of his own accord!

The speeches at this point are liable to be on the impassioned side & to deal at some length with his desire for you & your many darling qualities & so on far into the night. Eventually he gets around to asking you if you, too, desire him. After what has just transpired you wonder of he is a complete idiot, then reassure him in your own subtle way.

This generally calls for a clinch & the addition of fuel to the flame. After a proper interval he pulls the Remorse-stop. It goes something like this & is generally delivered in a somewhat throaty voice, ìI want you sooo much (pause) but I can’t let you do this unless you are sure in your own mind. We’re excited now, my dear, (He’s telling you!) and I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’d later regret. I want you more than anyone I’ve ever known, (this is standard: note careful evasion of the word love) but this is too beautiful an adventure to rush into headlong.î While you’re wondering just how he would have you rush into said adventure he makes a suggestion, ‘Sleep on it tonight & think it over in the clear light of day, tomorrow. We’ll meet for dinner, and then you can give me your decision.’

You agree, and this leads to another scene that wouldn’t get by the Will Hays’ office & considerable incoherent & what he thinks is poetic talk about how much he hopes you’ll feel tomorrow night as you do tonight.

Then there is much discussed sleep & ‘thinking (if any) in the light of day.’ It would serve the gent right if the daylight led to a decision he wouldn’t like but for some darned reason it seldom does.

When you meet him the next night he is pretty solemn about the whole thing (but you can be sure he’ll give you the best dinner he can afford, with a rather obvious emphasis on the wine list). Once you get back to whichever apartment is the scene of combat you’ll find that tenderness is the preliminary mood of the evening. He may not use his arms & hands as they were intended to be used as all, but if he does he’ll be very, very gentle. In desperation you finally take him by the hand, figuratively speaking, and lead him to the bedroom.

It may be several days before you begin to realize that you’ve been had in more ways than one. And if this realization doesn’t come to you shortly you are in an even worse position because you’ve been had so thoroughly that your heart may well be in your young man’s hands – and that is one section of your anatomy which should remain permanently yours.

There is a mild variant to this approach. In this method the man, at the critical point, doesn’t suggest a little daylight thought on the subject but, instead, goes dramatic & says, ‘No, this can’t be. The price you pay is too large,’ or words to that effect. It works out in exactly the same way. One says, ‘Perhaps.’ and the other says, ‘no,’ and in the end you are unconsciously forced into taking them both by the hand…

This is probably the most difficult form of seduction to work clear of – because you’ve been allowed to work yourself into it.

These are the standardized versions of sexual Blind Man’s Bluff, Tag, You’re It, or whatever you want to call it, as I know them. There are probably other, depending on race, color or previous condition of servitude but I wager that they are in their way just as standardized. What to do about it?

Sometimes I think I’d rather be attacked. Or at least meet a man direct enough to say bluntly & without preamble, ‘I think you’re swell & I’d like to make love to you. I warn you, if you say no I’ll ask you the same thing tomorrow night. What will it be, milady’s boudoir or the movies?’

The hell of it is, experience has so conditioned me that I’d probably choose the movies & be forced to sit through a Hollywood version of the preliminaries of one of the stereotyped brands of seduction I’ve listed. There’s no escape.

This Just In… Timeless Television

When I’m not busy killing squirrels & scaring neighbors, I’m researching & writing from home — in between the usual parenting & home life disturbances.

richard-dawsonToday, while researching a vintage plastic donkey (don’t worry, you’ll hear about it all later), I am absentmindedly aware that my son has left the TV on and that an old episode of The Family Feud is playing on GSN.

It’s that final round, and it goes like this:

Richard Dawson: Name something that little boys like that little girls don’t.

Male contestant: Balls.

The audience snickers through the rest of round.

I do believe that when it came time for the “survey sez” that “balls” got bupkiss. But that’s not the point, now, is it.

Why Women Opt To Remain Single

A woman goes out with her friends, meets a guy named Dmitri and they talk for “at the most 2 minutes.” She hands him her business card and says call me… These are the voicemails he leaves her (with some images added for video appeal):

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c06pinaKl8o[/youtube]

Cheap Thrills Thursday: The Joys Of TCM, Bathing Beauty Edition

I’m not about to go all mathy on yer arse, but in a world of streaming video, on-demand downloadable rentals, home delivery rentals (even without fees!) TCM, part of basic cable, which is bundled with my cable internet connection, is one of the greatest cheap thrills I can get.

Films shown uninterrupted and commercial free, save for a few sponsored reminders to things you probably want anyway (like the TCM Now Playing Guide) — it’s the way TV ought to be. (And here is where I will insert my continual plea that TV return to its original format of corporate sponsored programs, with mentions at the top & bottom of the hour, as opposed to junky ads & product placements — which, in the case of the former, only distract & cause me to leave the room and, in the latter, go unnoticed by me anyway.)

Anyway, TCM is an incredible value.

robert-osborne-bobbleheadAlong with Robert Osborne and, now, Ben Mankiewicz‘s informative tidbits, you get to watch films you adore and see films you’ve never seen — including those that aren’t available anywhere else & those that you’ve avoided before because of crappy trailers & promotions that made you think they were crap. Now, thanks to TCM, you can watch them and either fall in love or be glad you didn’t waste money on a rental, download, or whathaveyou.

All of this brings me to the case in point: Last night’s viewing of Bathing Beauty.

As a kid, I’d never seen the Esther Williams films — but I saw the various parodies & heard the not-so-flattering commentary about the kitsch of synchronized swimming and pageantry of the old dated swimming movies. Ditto my kids, who aren’t interested in humoring me enough to let me rent one for movie night. But thanks to TCM, I got to watch Bathing Beauty last night.

The film is as sweet & simple as you’d expect a film from the 1940’s to be; romance and humor, with Red Skelton a complete joy as the young man willing to do anything — even be the only (tortured for demerits, forced to crossdress) male at an all girl’s school — to get his beloved back.

Unexpected were the lengthy scenes of musical performances from Harry James and his orchestra, Xavier Cugat, & others in traditional, glamorous nightclub settings; vicarious home front war living for those who couldn’t afford evenings out.

Now I loves me some Cugat, but the pee-my-pants-with-delight moment was a scene early on in the film, when the campus girls force (by flattery & girlie whining) one of the music instructors to play some forbidden music…

Here Ethel Smith plays the organ — note the lavish visual of her dainty feet, in pretty pumps, skimming along the peddles (Foot fetishists, beware! I’m not responsible for what this does to you!)

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4JkhpxzLIFQ[/youtube]

After that warm up, Smith consents to show the kiddies — ooops! I mean the girls — more of her chops on the electric organ, playing her theme song Tico Tico.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TA9qlWyk-7Q[/youtube]

Ahh, a fantastic orgasmic ode to the organ — and fashion (love her ensemble!). But if that’s not incentive enough to watch Bathing Beauty &/or TCM, how about Skelton as a ballerina?

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R39DLTMlGSE[/youtube]

Seriously, all of this is so fantastic, I was nearly exhausted by the time we go to the results of all the cumulative efforts — the big swimming pageant. Which was as over-the-top as the parody legends proclaimed. Oh well, I have to leave you with something to look forward to.

(Really) Cheap Thrills Thursday

As I’ve said, I’ve long admired Laura’s Living Dolls series, but it wasn’t until this little vignette that I felt inspired to try a photo myself. (And it was perfect timing too, because the Cheap Thrills Thursday post I had in mind ended up being more of a collector’s post than I thought!)

Upon seeing Laura’s recent photo, my first impulse was to interrupt the kids (13 year old daughter and 9 year old son) in the middle of their chores (not that they minded) and excitedly yelp at them: “Stop what you are doing — and bring me a Bratz doll and a toy shark!”

To which they responded (only slightly puzzled, because they are used to my bouts of insanity), “I don’t have a toy shark…”

How can we not have a toy shark?!

But I re-group well. “OK, how about an alligator?”

Blank stares.

“Anything that lives in water… Has a big mouth?”

Some searching.

But all we’ve got is a Bratz doll — and a boy one at that. (He’s the only one that hasn’t made it into the rummage sale box; note to self: pillage that box before next weekend’s sale to see about sharks, other dolls, etc.)

But I am nothing if not flexible. So I scrap the idea of posing the girl Bratz doll, seated on the edge of a plastic dishpan, above a pool of razor-teeth-critter-infested water & reformulate a new one.

“Whatcha got with teeth, and a big open mouth…”

“Dragons…?”

OK, so that still works with my fantasy — to play out my Bratz doll fears. No, not the slutty ones; the ones that involve the feet that pop off with the shoes. :shudder:

Anywho… Here we go; my first attempt at a Living Doll creation:

living-dolls-photo-bratz-dragon

Remembering Retro Risque T-Shirt Iron-Ons

retro-lets-boogie-iron-on-t-shirt-transfer Back in the day, you couldn’t go to a mall and avoid a visit to (or the smell of) the t-shirt shop.

There you could select your t-shirt style (ringers were de rigueur, but then the baseball shirts with contrasting sleeves came in — oooh!), get your size, choose a color, pick out the funkiest iron-on, and even have it all personalized with letters (including glittery & puffy versions) spelling out your name.

Ah, those were the days, my friend…

Sure, now you can use your computer to design your own graphic and print it out at home on some iron-on paper and iron it on yourself (if you even own or can find your iron), but it’s not the same.

stolen-from-mabels-cat-house-customer-comes-firstDon’t argue with me; it’s not the same, I tell you!

The 70’s were the Golden Age of Iron-Ons.

There were rock iron-ons, iron-ons with drug references and slang (that you had to be cool to ‘get’) — all sorts of stuff.

But the best, the most memorable, were the risque & down-right lewd t-shirts which had designs running the polarized gambit of responses to women’s liberation. You had sexist men, trying to exert their dominance through sexual bravado, sometimes cloaked as jokes, one one end; and on the other end, women trying to make their point that they were equal & could be dirty too.

typists-do-it-sitting-down

I’m not sure that Typists Do It Sitting Down was exactly liberating or showing support of the ERA (more likey to feed the naughty secretary mythology), but, hell, they were worn by the libbers at PTA meetings — I mean literally worn at PTA meetings.

70s-male-chauvinist-pigSometimes a chauvinist pig & a demonstrating libber had on the same shirts. Was “Sex is Like a Bank Account, as soon as you make a Withdrawl, you lose Interest” supposed to be sex positive? Or was it ironic? You didn’t always know…

I’m pretty sure a lot of the adults wearing them didn’t know either.

It was confusing.

I’m sure part of the reason so many of these iron-ons and finished tees were seared into my brain as if the press-iron had melted the plastic goo-graphics into my brain had a lot to with my age.

retro-kitsch-pervert-of-the-yearBeing a teen-aged girl standing behind a guy who’d just made/bought a “mustache rides” tee — who smiled at you just a little too long — makes you understand the classless menace even if you don’t know what that sort of ride is… And then, when a friend’s older sibling tells you what it means, you die another special little death.

Ah, good times.

But what’s really surprising is to look at what’s left of these original retro iron-ons and realize just how many you don’t understand. It’s not just that I don’t recall seeing them before; I honestly don’t understand them.

retro-lab-iron-onLike “LAB Large American Breasts” — was that for men or for women? The nipples on the ‘B’ indicate, a large American no. And was “LAB” supposed to be a parody of another LAB? The League of American Bicyclists? The Liberation Army… Uh. I don’t know.

Maybe it’s just as simple as men boasting they wanted big breasted women & I’m over thinking it.

But what about this? If “The more I know MEN… The better I like my DOG” was an iron-on for woman to wear, does that mean “The More I Know Women… The Better I Like My PUSSY!” was for men? Um, that iron-on doesn’t really transfer — the concept, I mean (I’m sure the image went/goes on a shirt fine). …There aren’t any rainbows or triangles to signify any LGBT significance.

the-more-i-know-men-iron-onretro-the-more-i-know-women

Maybe I’m just too obtuse. Or too cerebral… This was the 70’s. I probably shouldn’t expect a lot.

But I want to add these iron-ons to my collection. That way, as usual, I’ll have some time to ponder the individual messages and their part in the collective message — and maybe that will help me make more sense of it all. Maybe.

hands-off-my-tuts

Ephemera Really Blows My Skirt Up

When I snatched-up this antique postcard, I was so seduced by its charms that I thought I had something few had ever seen since the 1900’s; but, as it turns out, you can find scans & images of this old postcard a few places online.

hosiery-thats-pretty-lingerie-thats-swell-vintage-postcard

But what makes my posting of it unique and interesting is that, unlike my compatriots who’ve shared the image, I am so smitten with ephemera that I must unlock its secrets & share those too…

The text reads:

When you’ve hosiery that’s pretty
And lingerie that’s swell
Come on to New York City Christine
And be a Flat Iron Belle

Now the crossing-out of New York City & replacing it with Christine (a small city in North Dakota) has been done by hand — but it is not inviting someone to a woman named Christine. *wink* It was done by the hand of what looks like an A.N. Gunderson who was cheeky enough to tailor the postcard into an August 22, 1909, invitation for (presumably) his friend, Alfrid Olson, to come visit him in Christine.

That historical personalization is cute; but I just kept wondering what the heck a “Flat Iron Belle” was.

Based on the rhyming text description and the “semi-photo” visual of ladies’ underthings, I just knew this card was special… But other than the afore mentioned images, searches for “Flat Iron Belle” didn’t turn anything up. So I turned to the real world and did some research.

I turned to my husband and asked, “Do you know what a ‘flat iron belle’ is or was?”

He, the all-knowing, all-seeing Wizard of Odd, informed me that there was a Flatiron building. (It is so useful, when stuck, to utter a question and have your intelligent walking encyclopedia of a mate tell you not just ‘stuff,’ but the right stuff so you can continue your obsessive researching.)

From there, a hop skip & jump (over Wikipedia, which I mistrust intensely) to Columbia University’s The Architecture and Development of New York City with Andrew S. Dolkart & his entry on The Flatiron Building, “The first building to become a romantic symbol of New York.” Dolkart says:

[I]t was a symbol because of its triangular shape. Thus the name Flatiron, because it looked like the old irons that people used to iron clothing. It was originally called the Fuller Building because it was built by the Fuller Construction Company for its headquarters, but people almost immediately called it the Flatiron Building. The Fuller company understood the value of this name and popularity of the building, so they began calling it the Flatiron Building as well, and that became the name by which everybody knew this building.

OK, so now you understand the name — even if on the postcard it says “Flat Iron” rather than “Flatiron.” But what of the windswept skirts?

It was not only a building that appealed to high-art interests, such as people who were interested in Steichen’s photography or Hassam’s paintings, but this building also entered popular culture. It is at a triangular site where Broadway and Fifth Avenue—the two most important streets of New York—meet at Madison Square, and because of the juxtaposition of the streets and the park across the street, there was a wind-tunnel effect here. In the early twentieth century, men would hang out on the corner here on Twenty-third Street and watch the wind blowing women’s dresses up so that they could catch a little bit of ankle. This entered into popular culture and there are hundreds of postcards and illustrations of women with their dresses blowing up in front of the Flatiron Building. And it supposedly is where the slang expression “23 skidoo” comes from because the police would come and give the voyeurs the 23 skidoo to tell them to get out of the area.

So there you have it; “Flat Iron Belles” were the beauties looked at (or those who became beautiful by virtue of winds making a disarray of their virtuous skirts). And there, supposedly, is the reason for the phrase “twenty-three skidoo” too.

The questionable innocence of peeping Toms aside, I am at least comforted by the fact that the sole male in the scene is not one of those (hopefully) assisting the fallen wind-swept women. Those hands look more like they are stroking the fine underthings than reaching to help the fallen; so even if the problem is an unrefined artistic skill, at least I don’t have the nightmare of male (physical) assault.

Collectors, the information you seek to find this coveted card & add it to your collection is scant; you’re best bet is to search online for the lingerie verse, because the card has no markings save for number 78 on the front lower left hand corner and [K] Semi-photo on the back (like this one).