The famous drug reference quote by Paul Kantner of the Jefferson Airplane is, "If you can remember anything about the sixties, you weren't really there." Looking at a 1965 book, Interior Decoration A-Z by Betty Pepis made me realize I don't remember some things about the sixties and it had nothing to do with drugs. In that era I didn't pay any attention to my surroundings. I walked into a house and didn't notice anything but people. I never looked at furniture or floor coverings or wall decorations or...say, isn't that just like a guy?
So I looked at this book with some curiosity, and some memories came back but they are almost false memories; I recognize some of these things because you can still find them in thrift stores and antique shops. The sixties are now part of a bygone era, gone long enough that what came out of it is cool again. In that respect I appreciate what I didn't see at the time.
What I remember about furniture in my parents' house is that we were shabby chic long before shabby chic was hip. A couch developed a deep rip in a cushion and the stuffing came out, so Mom had us move it into the basement TV room. That was our version of recycling. Mom seldom threw anything away. We lived with our avocado green sofa from the early sixties until 2004 when Mom went into the nursing home, and the couch was donated to a thrift store.
Mom and Dad bought a 1950 RCA television and it was our only set until 1962 when Dad got a deal on an RCA color TV, which lasted until Mom sold the house in '72. I don't see TVs in any of these pictures, but I see an interesting stereo/radio built into a coffee table.
I also like the built-in bookshelves. I don't think people have those anymore. What would they do with them? Does anyone have books anymore? Kindle, anyone?
Something my wife does now is buy sixties clothes in consignment stores. Personally, most of what she tells me is from the sixties I don't recognize. So I just nod and say, "hey, very cool!" I remember her in the sixties. She was a really cute girl no matter what she wore; still is.
Former police officer Kenneth Hammond has seen the highest highs: being honored as a hero for helping prevent further killings as a killer stalked Trolley Square Mall in Salt Lake City, Utah, killing five people and injuring four. Hammond was off-duty, having dinner with his wife, when he heard shots. When the Salt Lake Police swat team arrived Hammond shouted at them he was an off-duty officer. Even though the shooter was killed by a sergeant of the Salt Lake Police, Hammond, a member of the nearby Ogden Police Department, was touted as a hero, paraded before the media, given honors.
Hammond also knows the lows. Because of the publicity a woman came forward and said that when she was 17 she had had oral sex with him. According to a story in the June 1, 2009 Salt Lake Tribune, he had met her two years before the Trolley Square shootings while he investigated a noise complaint. He had asked for her phone number, called her and returned later that night. She was with an 18-year-old woman, and while he fondled the 18-year-old the 17-year-old performed oral sex. According to the report he had also stopped the younger woman a couple of times on the road, once while she was drinking, but he let her go. When she saw him on the news she made her complaint.
Good cops, bad cops. At the time Hammond committed the alleged offense of having sex with an underage person he was 32, and had taken an oath to protect the public, not take advantage. Across the country some police have used their power and status for sexual purposes. Sometimes like Hammond they're caught and discharged, sometimes they're never caught.
What must've run through Hammond's mind when he succumbed to temptation? I'm guessing he never thought he'd be paying for it by going to jail for 90 days, losing his job, and having the media remind the public that this once-hero is now just another horny guy taking advantage of a situation so he could get sex.
Ken Hammond, prisoner, 2009
What a sad story all the way around. Young married father loses job because of his own behavior. His wife, who works as a dispatcher for the same police department, must be going through hell. And what to tell their kid when he's old enough, that his dad threw away his career in law enforcement for a blow job?
I watched New World Order on Independent Film Channel. It's a fascinating--and somewhat disturbing--documentary look at groups of people who believe in massive conspiracies. Among other things they believe that 9/11, and the collapse of the Twin Towers, was a plot by our own government. They also believe that a group called the Bilderbergers runs the world. The Bilderbergers include folks like Henry Kissinger and David Rockefeller, and their goal is world domination.
You can't convince the conspiracy believers them they're wrong because they've got all the evidence they need--or manipulate until it fits their theory--to support their ideas. They write books about it, they make DVDs. They stand on the streets of places like Ground Zero in New York and give away free DVDs that "explain" the plot.
It's paranoia, of course, on a grand and global scale. If you believe there are cabals who rule the world it's not a stretch to think that our own government could pull off the events of 9/11 for their own nefarious purposes.
The film followed three men, but the one I was impressed with was Alex Jones, who has a radio program, has written several books, and is spooked by things like hotel fire alarms which he sees as a plot against him.
My mother was like that, but her paranoia was centered on neighbors she was convinced were persecuting her. The rest of these folks whose actions remind me of my mother think on a grander scale, like shadow governments or conspiratorial types in the highest levels of the U.S. who order the killings of its own citizens.
I'm not saying that such things aren't possible. Stalin killed millions of his own citizens, Hitler and his cronies wiped out millions in an audacious plot against minorities, and you go back in history to find that governments are not always the friends of their own citizens. The groundwork is laid for projecting events of history onto the current administration and the people who hold the power, who often aren't working for the government but who can help direct it. Think Karl Rove.
The folks who propagate these conspiracy stories have the zeal of missionaries out to convert the heathen, if only they could just show them the light. Some of the documentary showed these paranoid missionaries in verbal altercations with people who disagree. I'm sure that when they meet up against such adversity they think of those doubters as brainwashed by the government.
In the first place, as to how people feel about their government, there are a great many people in this country and around the world who don't give a damn. As long as they can go about their own business they're OK, they don't want to rock the boat. If their government herds people into death camps well, as long as its not them, then they really don't want to know about it. If you quizzed Americans at least half couldn't tell you the three branches of government, who the mayor of their town is, who their congressperson or senator is. They really don't care. Bilderbergers? Aren't those the short order cooks who make hamburgers?
Then there's the other thing about keeping secrets. Nobody can. One of the worst kept secrets in history was the lie that went into starting the Iraq war in 2003. Despite the lie being told in the highest levels of government it was no time before the truth got out. The more people who know a secret the more chances there are it won't remain a secret. The old Mafia stuff about omerta (silence) doesn't work, not for long anyway. There's always someone to spill it. There are probably a lot of secrets the U.S. has been able to keep because the people keeping the secrets are kept by loyal Americans: military or intelligence secrets for instance. But sinister plots like bringing down the Twin Towers with explosives would involve too many people, and unless they were all killed someone would talk. (And I'm sure I'll get a note telling me that all of the workers involved in surreptiously planting dynamite in the World Trade Center have all been killed. As if someone could prove it one way or another.)
The other thing feeding the paranoia is government action against citizens like the Waco raid on the Branch Davidians or the Ruby Ridge killings. I personally feel it was idiocy more than conspiracy that dictated those hamfisted actions.
Paranoia grows. Paranoia is infectious and it's catching. You hang around with paranoid people and you start to think like them. You let someone give you a good story and it's entertaining like The X-Files and many people are going to suck in to the paranoia.
If you want to check some of this stuff out there are hundreds if not thousands of web sites ruled by paranoia. This morning I was entertained looking at Alex Jones' site. He'll sell you all kinds of stuff to convince you.
And what about my conspiracy theory? That if government wanted to actually commit these crimes against their citizens they could get people like Alex Jones and Jack McLamb to help them by shouting about it from the rooftops. They're perceived by people like me as at least little boys crying wolf, or at most as raving paranoics. So if I hear them ranting I automatically dismiss them as lacking credibility. Because of their bug-eyed histrionics I disbelieve them, and disbelieve their message, even if by some stretch the message is true.
My wife led me to this article from a London newspaper about a woman obsessed with breast enhancement:
THIS is Sheyla Hershey, the proud owner of the biggest boob job on the planet. Her bra-size is 38KKK.
Yes, that was three K's. The 28-year-old American has paid £40,000 for nine painful boob operations to look like this. Sheyla, whose breasts now contain a GALLON of silicone, says she is delighted with her impressive assets.
Now doctors have warned Sheyla Hershey that her breasts are in danger of exploding. Surgeons in Texas refused to operate when Sheyla reached 34FFF, so she returned to her native Brazil where there is no limit on implant size. She said: "I don't think I have anything to worry about. To me big is beautiful."
Hershey's mission to be the proud owner of the biggest breasts in the world started when her British boyfriend paid for her first boob job. But when she became addicted to possessing huge breasts and obsessed with boob job procedures he walked out on her.
She said: "I loved him very much but I had to leave him to follow my dream."
OK, "follow my dream." Hmmm. So having boobs bigger than your head is your dream? Wow, you need to take some better sleep aids.
I have met women who are more obsessed than men with boobs. Guys like boobs, but if other men are the same as me they accept them for their different sizes and shapes. What we usually see are breasts propped up by underwiring and push-ups. When set loose they present a different picture. Err, check that. That is unless they're full of a gallon of silicone.
When I looked around I found all sorts of pictures of women with fakes, proud of their boobs that are rock solid, that don't move when taken from the protective and shaping cover of a bra. That's probably what bothers me the most, the unreality of enhanced breasts. I'd rather see a woman with small natural breasts than one with fake Double D's.
I think the enhancements should be done if a woman has had a mastectomy or has a deformity. Like the tattoos that some young women sport, this sort of freakish breast enhancement is a vanity that escapes my logical mind.
From age 12 to 19 I lived in a part of Salt Lake County called East Millcreek. We had a junior high school just across the street, and a high school three blocks east of us. We were able to look out our window and see beautiful Mt. Olympus.
The street directly east of me had some really different types. Mrs. Alvin, for instance, lived with her son, Gary. We never saw Mrs. Alvin. There didn't appear to be a Mr. Alvin, and Gary was her lifeline to the outside. In retrospect she might have been agoraphobic, wouldn't leave the house. She was totally paranoid, that's for sure. She called the cops nearly every day. She turned in the neighbors across her fence for having nude swimming parties. They were a Mormon family with 10 kids; the dad wore a bowtie even when he was mowing the lawn. The cops got to the point where they wouldn't respond to her calls. Lord knows what would have come of it if something really bad happened to her. I walked my dog every day, in the summer twice a day. I was walking Kim and went by the Alvin house, which was all shut up as usual. A hot summer day and she had all her windows closed, drapes drawn. It got up to 100 degrees sometimes and I don't know how anyone stood it in those days without air conditioning. I saw a playing card on the ground in the gutter in front of her house, so I picked it up, noticed it was the ten of diamonds and stuck it in my pocket. I was 13 years old, and 13 year old kids do stuff like that. I was halfway up the street by the high school when a motorbike pulled up alongside me. "Hey, kid," said Gary Alvin, "what did you pick up in front of my house?" I reached in my pocket and pulled out the playing card. He studied it for a few seconds and without saying anything threw it on the street and took off on his motorbike. When I had looked at the house I saw the drapes drawn, but apparently Mrs. Alvin had some sort of way of looking out so you couldn't see her. I guess it was too much for her and she had to send her boy to see what I'd found in her gutter.
Directly behind me lived a family, the Checkmans, who had three kids of varying degrees of homeliness and a mom and dad who didn't drive. To live in suburban Salt Lake in the early 1960s and not drive a car was thought to be completely strange. Everyone had a car. Everyone had two cars! Only total oddballs didn't have a car. The father, Victor, walked several blocks to a bus stop to go to his job. The mom worked as a school secretary and the principal would pick her up for work and deliver her home. When they went shopping they had a shopping cart in their otherwise unused carport and they would push it up a steep hill and walk several blocks to a grocery store. Later in life what I once thought odd I realized was probably the healthiest thing anyone could do. They walked a lot and they both lived to be very old. When the youngest child got driving age she got a driver's license and bought a car. She became the designated driver for the family.
There was a house with a couple whose names I didn't know. The man looked like he tipped the scales at 250 pounds. He was very fat. He drove a small Ford Falcon and sometimes he struggled to get in and out of the car. His wife, on the other hand, was a beautiful woman, tall and shapely. Those were the days of tight skirts, high heels, garters and nylons. What seems exotic now was once everyday wear. When the lady came home from work one day my buddy Paul and I were riding our bicycles in circles, a couple of horny teenagers waiting to catch a glimpse of her.
She got out of her car and her skirt rode up to her thighs, exposing her stocking tops and garters. Paul let out a loud wolf whistle. She got out of the car, pulling down her skirt. "Well, I guess," she laughed.
A few doors down from her was the lady who was the biggest scandal of the neighborhood. She was a beautiful woman who looked to be about 30, and she lived with her mother. The daughter, Linda, drove a brand new 1962 Thunderbird, aqua in color, with a white top. She didn't appear to work and the buzz on the block was she was a high-priced hooker. Sometimes Paul and I would ride our bikes by her place and she'd wave at us as she got into her car. Wherever she went, it was always after dinner time.
Sometimes we'd see cop cars; police officers on shift would stop at her house. Once we saw her greeting a cop in a friendly fashion while he stepped through her front door. The rumor was that she was entertaining the cops, that they were dropping in to get a piece, probably what she paid to stay out of jail. There was all sorts of talk about her but no one had any proof of anything. In 1970 a friend of mine came to town and stayed in an upscale downtown hotel. My wife and I visited him. We were talking at 1:00 in the morning when there was a knock on the door. He opened it and I saw Linda standing in the doorway. "Did you call for a girl?" she said. Tom was flabbergasted and stood with his mouth open. Linda looked over and saw me with Sally, sitting on the bed. Linda instantly recognized me. "My mistake," she said, and walked off. I told Tom, "Well, that solves a mystery for me," and explained it to him. "Gee," he said. "I don't know what I would have done if you and Sally hadn't been here. I might have invited her in."
Nowadays a friend of mine lives on that street, and I often wonder if anyone half as interesting as my old neighbors live there now.
Sleestak, at Lady, That's My Skull, a blog not unlike this one but more comics oriented, has a grouping of fascinating illustrations from a book called Bible Readings For the Home. It's one of those mass-produced books from the 1950s, attempting to show the Bible's relevance to "modern" society.
In the 1950s we weren't used to seeing pictures of other races on TV, in textbooks or most other literature, for that matter. Only Northern Europeans need apply for heaven, according to the not-so-subtle message of Bible Readings. It must've been popular in Ku Klux Klan homes.
The question I ask is, what did Jesus look like? We have these sort of sanitized Caucasian versions of a man who would have had origins in the middle East, and probably looked a lot like the people around him, not like someone out of Central Casting.
So if you get to heaven and you want to look up Jesus (if he's available, that is, and not presiding over his posse of all-white angels) then he better be wearing a name tag, because if you're looking for the popular version you might not recognize him.
Heaven seems to be a place that has different meaning for different people. The version in Bible Readings For the Home seems to be the popular version. Beautiful, placid, white buildings, white people in white robes. Everything sparkling in its whiteness! No global warming, no bad weather--so where'd that rainbow come from?--no crabgrass in the lawn. That'd be heaven to some.
Me, I'd have to have a library with every book I've ever wanted to read. It'd have every movie I've ever wanted to see, or at least all my old favorites, on DVD, which means I'd have to have a DVD player. What about transportation? Are you we stuck in that white city with its gleaming buildings without a bus system, subway, or taxis? And how do we pay for such conveyances, or will we need to have a (gag, choke) job?
Are there homeless people in heaven, or do we all get an apartment?
My father died in 1967 at age 47. Over time memories tend to dissipate like the smoke from his ever-present cigarettes. I've spent the last couple of days thinking of him, reconstituting some memories.
From 1949 to 1956 Dad was a salesman for the Quaker Oats Company, which at the time also owned the brands Ken-L Ration dog food and Aunt Jemima Pancake Mix. Dad's territory included all of the Intermountain states, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho and Montana, a huge area but sparsely populated.
And it was also racially homogeneous. Not a lot of African-Americans lived in this area, maybe 1/10 of 1% of the population. So it was a surprise when the company hooked Dad up with a black lady who portrayed Aunt Jemima. I never learned her real name. She wore the Mammy dress and the kerchief on top, just like in the Aunt Jemima picture on the package. One day I went to my second grade class and we had a special assembly. Dad had set up a performance for us kids. Aunt Jemima sang to us. She had a clear voice, and she sang a cappella. The song I can remember her singing is, "When the red-red robin goes bob-bob-bobbin' along..."
Dad took Aunt Jemima to various functions, like the Fourth of July breakfast in a nearby park, where they made pancakes for anyone who showed up. It was always a big deal. It probably killed him to be seen with a black person. Dad was as racist as any white guy in the 1950s. Utah had hardly any black population, but it didn't make people less prejudiced. Maybe more so. Dad was as much a bigot as the times afforded, a product of that era. In the 1960s he was puzzled by the Civil Rights movement. "What do those people want?" he used to ask, rhetorically, because he didn't care what they wanted. I wish I'd had the presence of mind or enough knowledge of the situation to tell him, "They want what you want."
Dad in front of his own office, circa 1966 or 1967.
Dad died in a bad year for Civil Rights, 1967, with riots in several cities. It might have fed his bigotry, but I've always thought that had he lived another 30 years or more he would have seen that his prejudices no longer fit. His racism, like the image of Aunt Jemima in the 1950s, was no longer viable in a diverse and changing population.
In yesterday's post I said that "hubba-hubba" wasn't being used any more. A guy would give a wolf whistle when a pretty chick walked by, or he'd say, "Hubba-hubba!" Man, sexual harassment laws sure took care of that sort of male behavior! But I don't care. Here are some females I believe deserve a "hubba-hubba!"
Hubba-hubba to delightful Debbie Reynolds, who'll have you swinging through trees...
Hubba-hubba to the blonde with the bullet and the bag of tricks...
Hubba-hubba to the Harlem Table Eater's girlfriend...
Hubba-hubba to Miss Exotica 1962...
Hubba-hubba to Miss Eyeful, the high-heeled honey...
Hubba-hubba to the girl with the shiny nose who wants to be flattered...
Hubba-hubba to the flower girls whose mom disapproves of coarse masculine displays, like guys yelling "Hubba-hubba!" at her daughters...
Hubba-hubba to the sexy girl in the next apartment...
Hubba-hubba to Heidi Klum and her painted swimsuit...
I found this ad for a Hubba-Hubba Wallet in a 1948 comic.
Does anyone use the term "hubba-hubba" anymore? As a kid on occasion I'd hear a guy say "hubba-hubba!" when he saw a good looking girl, but I don't remember ever saying it. It sounds like an antique expression now. That's precisely why I think it should be preserved. I believe I'll start saying "hubba-hubba!" when confronted with a fine-looking woman. To that end I'll show you some of my current hubba-hubba moments:
A hubba-hubba to the lithesome, lovely Audrey...
A hubba-hubba to those who wait for the fleet to sail in...
A hubba-hubba to the long-stemmed girls...
A hubba-hubba to big eyed girls who do their own sewing...
Blow me down, Blondie! A hubba-hubba to nautically naughty Debbie Harry...
A hubba-hubba to charming women in shorts and sandals...
Sally just came back from 10 days in Pennsylvania visiting our son and his family. She helped him by taking care of his two children while he went for his class at nearby Slippery Rock University. The plan was that Sally would fly in Thursday night; I'd pick her up at 10:30 p.m.
The other part of the plan was that I'd take her and her luggage to her chiropractor's house, where she'd do a pet sitting job over the Memorial Day weekend. Are you with me so far? This is where the plan came unraveled. When Sally got to the Pittsburgh airport her flight to Chicago was seriously delayed out of Tampa because of lightning. Sally wouldn't be able to make her connection to Salt Lake. The only alternative was to go back to David's house and stay another night, flying out the next morning. I got this in a phone call from her and I was nodding and thinking, "Yeah, one more night, sure. Yeah." Then she said, "You'll have to fill in for me at Dr. Cindy's house tonight."
Whuh-oh. Dr. Cindy has an old Sheltie, Haley. When Sally first started pet sitting Haley she was very shy, but she was a lot younger. Haley has had her health issues lately. I got cleared to pick up the house keys from Dr. Cindy's next door neighbor, Jeannie. She fed Haley earlier in the day. I walked in the house and Haley stood looking at me. Just looking. There was a definite look to her looking, too. It was, "Who are you and why are you in my house?" She didn't bark, just went out the dog door into the yard. I turned on the TV and in a little while she came in, probably because she associated TV with Dr. Cindy. Then she stood there looking at me as if to say, "Why are you watching Cindy's TV?"
That night I slept on the couch. I'd taken my own pillow, my own blanket. I've had to do this for Sally a couple of times and I do not like to sleep in someone else's bed, so if they have a good couch I'll take it. Cindy had covered the couch with an old sheet in case Haley decided to lie on it. At 2:30 a.m. I woke up to see Haley standing in the dark looking at me. "Hi, Haley," I said. I held out my hand so she could take a sniff, although she could have been up close smelling me while I was sleeping. Even in the dark I could tell from her stare she was thinking, "What are you doing on my couch?"
I went back to sleep. I woke up at 4:30 for a bathroom break, but didn't see Haley. As I approached the bedroom I saw she was standing by her doggie bed staring at me. "Why are you going in Cindy's bathroom?"
The above picture is of my own Sheltie, Kim, taken in 1966 when she was 10 years old. I've never owned a dog since. Kim was great, and she was extremely smart. The look she's giving whoever took the Polaroid of her is the same one Haley was giving me. "Why are you shooting off a bright light in my face?"
At 7:00 a.m., which is the time Cindy had indicated was Haley's feeding time, Haley was standing right in front of me looking at me. She was beaming telepathy at me. "Feed me. Feed me." I fed her, and left after a short while. I picked up Sally at the airport at 1:30 p.m., took her to Dr. Cindy's house, told her I'd be back at 5:00 so we could go to dinner. When I walked up Cindy's walk at 5:00 and Sally opened the door Haley rushed out at me barking ferociously. Whatever patience she had had with me while I was her roommate the night before was exhausted and suddenly I was a threat. She was probably thinking, "I've got Sally here now, so GO AWAY."
Later on Sally told me, "I guess you're my back up in case I have a problem getting to one of these jobs." I felt a cold shiver travel down my spine. "Yeah, sure." I said, hiding the terror that gripped me. Staying in other peoples' houses overnight, especially when the people have no food in their refrigerator and apparently live on vitamin supplements and herbs (oh yeah, and one jar of Spanish olives) is not my idea of a good night, but I'll be there for Sally if she needs me. I guess it's not so bad to be Plan B if it isn't more than a one night stand with a dog.
The famous drug reference quote by Paul Kantner of the Jefferson Airplane is, "If you can remember anything about the sixties, you weren't really there." Looking at a 1965 book, Interior Decoration A-Z by Betty Pepis made me realize I don't remember some things about the sixties and it had nothing to do with drugs. In that era I didn't pay any attention to my surroundings. I walked into a house and didn't notice anything but people. I never looked at furniture or floor coverings or wall decorations or...say, isn't that just like a guy?
What I remember about furniture in my parents' house is that we were shabby chic long before shabby chic was hip. A couch developed a deep rip in a cushion and the stuffing came out, so Mom had us move it into the basement TV room. That was our version of recycling. Mom seldom threw anything away. We lived with our avocado green sofa from the early sixties until 2004 when Mom went into the nursing home, and the couch was donated to a thrift store.
I also like the built-in bookshelves. I don't think people have those anymore. What would they do with them? Does anyone have books anymore? Kindle, anyone?
Something my wife does now is buy sixties clothes in consignment stores. Personally, most of what she tells me is from the sixties I don't recognize. So I just nod and say, "hey, very cool!" I remember her in the sixties. She was a really cute girl no matter what she wore; still is.
