The Dog Ate It

Someone forgot their homework...

...forty years ago.

I found this (with little to no surprise) tucked in an American History Textbook from the sixties. Do kids still write in cursive? I know I broke the habit of doing so right before I entered High School, and my teachers thanked me for it. You would think that someone so artistic would be a natural at the elegance of cursive handwriting. Not so. I have comics to blame for what I like to call 'exaggerated, emotionally-charged block printing.' It's really very nice. All the kids love it.

A friend of mine routinely practices his hand at, well, handwriting. He's full of great tips on the subject, and he stresses that angle of pen and posture are two key components of great penmanship. A clean workstation is also vital, and they make rather large writing desks make sense.

Also, Cursive just means 'joined writing.'

So informative, this one is.

-TLB

My New Apartment

Pretty sweet new digs, huh? Yep. And the rents cheap. I pay in used radial tires and advice. Can't beat it. I'm going to set up my awesome new surround sound system just as soon as the landlord installs some outlets.

Found this postcard in an old medical book about treating inflammation. The book, unfortunately, was falling apart.

Growing Up On The Newsstand

It's no secret that I detest celebrity gossip. I understand it from an escapist point of view, but I hate it. Loathe it. Can't seem to escape it.

A few weeks ago, I watched a documentary called Smash His Camera: a film that looks at the life of Ron Galella, a man who became 'famous' for taking pictures of celebrities. In other words, Galella is paparazzi--plain and simple, and his favorite subject (and picture) graces the cover of the film itself.

Behold, the immortal Jackie O.

It's subject matter is something I'm super familiar given that I sell vintage celebrity magazines on a daily basis, and, if you look at any of publications from the 70s and early 80s: Screen Stories, Movie Screen, TV & Movie Screen, etc., you'd be hard pressed to find one that doesn't feature a picture of Jackie and her children.

When I began selling magazines, I gravitated towards the scholarly. Esquire was my first choice because of their long running history with iconic authors. I listed multiple vintage issues (on eBay) at the starting price of $5.95 and breathed a heavy sigh as that sat in my online store, untouched. A week later, I listed some Teen Beats which would go on to fetch, on average, $15.00 an issue. I was baffled but kept at it.

Rolling Stone, Galaxy Science Fiction, Scribners...none such luck, so, despite my own qualms, I began listing what the people wanted. It got to the point where I could look at a single issue and instantly tell how much it would sell for based on who was in it. I hated this (still do) as I became a stupid black hole of celebrity knowledge. Once, while on a date, I answered a trivia question about a 90s teen star without hesitation. I tried to laugh it off; I explained the type of merchandise I sold, but the damage was done. The date had ended.

At first, you don't feel too bad for the celebrity. Despite how many covers they grace, most of the headlines seem relatively harmless. "Divorce Rumors?, Who Kissed Who Under the Mistletoe?, Which of These Birds Did Johnny Make Sing?" Annoying, yet tolerable.

It was until I realized that, through photographs and stupid headlines, I was witnessing Jackie's kids grow up. Imagine what that's like? Being photographed from a distance by some creep in the bushes ALL YOUR LIFE. I can't imagine that. I would go crazy. Yet, when we see it at the newsstand it's acceptable, and necessary, because it helps the issue sell. It's a very hard pill.

And one I almost swallowed watching Smash His Camera. Halfway through I found myself feeling sympathetic to Galella's plight: "I do what I do because I love these people." I will admit, the man has passion. Clips from the documentary show Galella weaving in and out of traffic, forging documentation, and hiding in the shadows--all in relentless pursuit of his target. The end result being a treasure chest of candid shots that capture the celebrity in a series of unscripted moments.

Or he's a stalker.

An idiot who gets paid to stalk celebrities and their children.

It's hard to put a price on privacy. It's hard, but it's done. Every single day.

So what's your take on this? Am I being too dramatic? (of course, I am) Do you agree? Disagree? Are you hungry? Who's hungry? Feel free to vent in the comments below.

-TLB

Unearthed Memory #1

A few years ago, I began a blog that would highlight some of my finer features as a rambler, a gambler, and, well, you know the rest. Like so many other blogs before it, I failed to keep it going. I just could not find the time to post anything and when I actually did I erased it within a few days. Below is a random post from said blog. It was a trip for me to read it, and, hopefully, you'll get a kick out of it too. It was originally called:


Do It For The Kids...or Spite


While taking the Rail, on Monday, I found myself surrounded by a group of kids between the ages of 7 and 10 that were touring part of the city (can I say City?) with a guardian. They were loud, annoying, and full of an energy that I've all but forgotten. Like everyone else waiting for the train, I periodically glanced at the lonely teenager in charge of them and thought, "How much do you get paid? Why aren't you keeping them quiet? Why are they running? This is dangerous. Corral your kids. Lady, CORRAL YOUR KIDS. Why is that one running in the terminal?" When the train finally arrived, I was pleased. Everyone under the age of fourteen seemed to shuffle into the front car, and I felt like I had just broken back into normalcy. Ahhh, quiet. Crotchety, miserable quiet. 
But then! Just as the doors were getting ready to close, children began pouring into the car in droves. All the other passengers (possibly reliving the trauma they experienced at the terminal) promptly sandwiched themselves as far away from the chaos as possible. Never take the middle, I thought, but it was too late. I was now surrounded by screaming children and as I went to give the teenager that old, familiar look, I noticed she was already looking at me with eyes that screamed You deal with it. 
It's funny to realize this (at the age of 28) but kids just don't seem to have barriers. I realize this is not an epiphany; I'm not going to shed light on a new subject, but it had been so long since I spent time around anyone of their age. 'Off Guard' seems like a good term, so I'll just use that. They asked my name, how old I was, and then proceeded to tell me about their trip to the Zoo. I had a hard time deciphering what they were talking about because they were all trying to talk at once. A tornado of laughing and ''hey, misters.'' It was like a game, and when I finally went to ask them a question, they collectively answered me by moving their arms up and down like Go-Go dancers. 
I laughed at this. I know I did because I immediately looked around at all the other passengers for a sympathy giggle. What I got; however, were the most horrendous stares you've ever seen. I don't know what they were actually thinking (I probably don't want to know), but, judging from their squinty eyes and downturned lips, I'm sure they assumed I was a creeper and I'd just hit the jackpot. I was so upset.
And when you're upset (and you can't beat people's faces)....

YOU JUST GOTTA DANCE!

Monday was odd. If someone told me that I would be doing the Charleston on the Metro Rail with a bunch of 9 year olds, I would have assumed that this would be the day I developed a drinking problem. I went from being annoyed, to loathed, to loved, and possibly back again; I was cast out of adulthood for a few seconds and when I came back I just confused people. When I got off the train, I looked around again and noticed that my lack of rhythm had caused an attractive looking girl to smile uncontrollable. Which I KNOW destroyed any other guys chance of talking to her--even if just for the duration of that trip. How do you top that?

So what did I learn from all this? All cliches, I'm afraid. But maybe the next time one of my friends says, "Well, you just gotta dance like no one's watchin'" I'll find myself poised to say, "Or, dance like a whole train car full of jerks are watching you because they think you're a creep."

Nah.

Featuring the Hit Single "Better Watch Out (Where You're Going)"

I could discuss this woman at great lengths, but I wouldn't be able to do her any real justice. I suggest checking out this site for all things Ruth Etting. You'll get more out of it, and I won't have to make things up. Everybody wins!

     What I can talk to you about is where I found today's item. 

A gentleman came in a few days ago with a box of books that he simply did not want (and after looking through them I quickly discovered that I didn't want them either). Most of the books were heavily damaged, so I wrote 'garage sale' on the side of the box and took them to one of my various storage areas to await the days of jacket-free weather and outdoor browsing. Days pass, and I'm walking through that very same storage only to trip and send a few boxes tumbling over. That's when Miss Etting appeared. 

     I don't know which book it slid out of, but it may has well been titled: "This isn't Fate, you're just a Klutz." 

And while I spend the next few days getting acquainted with the Misses, I'll leave you a video so you can do the same. 

Review: Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank

I've been busy. I've been so busy, that I haven't been able to go through any books lately and, thus, haven't found anything interesting. No, no, I'm not ignoring you and to prove it, I'm going to leave you this book review.

Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank

If you're a fan of the Apocalypse/Doomsday Fiction/Nuclear Fallout, etc. then you may already be familiar with this book. Written in the late 50s, Alas Babylon was meant to serve not just as Frank's warning of both an upcoming nuclear war with Russia but also as a warning of where our pursuit into the nuclear arms race was going to lead us. The story takes place in a small town in Florida (Fort Repose) where the protagonist, Randy Bragg, has assembled a small group of friends and family after the Russian's have nuked most of America. Despite the odds, Bragg manages to bring everyone together and..blah, blah, blah...I would say spoiler alert, but this book is really so formulaic that I'm positive you can piece together the outcome: "The Good Guys Win!"

Having been released in 1959, this book has already been reviewed. Many, many times. After I finished,  I spent some time reading some of those reviews on Amazon and I've noted two things: Those who didn't like it found it boring and unrealistic & Those who loved it found it very realistic largely thanks to unnerving, personal experience with the threat of fallout. Very few people talked about why they felt it was boring. Which is what I will do right now.

It's predictable. And I don't mean the subject matter has been done over and over so it became predictable, I mean it was at first and remains predictable. Frank explains all the motives of the tertiary characters in their introductory paragraphs, so when they 'get what's comin' to 'em' it's lackluster and expected. Even the main character (the incredibly likable) Randy Bragg's fate is laid out immediately. Everything that Randy has lost pre-Nuclear war will surely one day be returned to him. When could that day be, you ask? Probably post-Nuclear war. Duh.

There are some great observations in the book. Not enough that I recommend it, but, they're there. My best advice to you is this: If you are ever in a situation where a potential love interest or someone you respect asks you to read this, read the first two paragraphs and then skip to the end. Your Time will thank you.

Oh, yeah. And if anyone wants to buy a copy of this, there's one available at the shop. Ha.

It's not me, it's you.

He pays attention to other ladies when they're out. He doesn't kiss her goodbye. He doesn't come home for dinner. He forgot her birthday.

It's easy just to write him off. What a jerk, you might think. Well, friend, all the facts aren't on the table. Did you ever think that the reason he seems distant and thoughtless is because...

...She neglects proper hygiene.

What? Did you honestly think it was the man's fault? It's 1939, children, and that means 'Don Draper' doesn't have to answer for anything yet--just his lady--and if his lady doesn't 'clean up her act,' well, see that raven-haired beauty at the top of the page? That's going to be the new Misses.

But don't thank me, Thank Lysol. Because, in 1939, they were keeping all you girls in check.





Ad is from the November 1939 issue of Silver Screen. Not to worry, no collectible copy was harmed in the clipping of this ad. The cover had fallen completely off, and several pages were missing.

Behold! The Gold of El Dorado!

Someone was excited about this calendar. Someone was sooooo excited about it, they clipped the ad for it and inserted it into a copy of Dianetics and Scientology by Clown Clownshoes. This beautiful calendar showcased items found buried in remote locations of the Andes, hidden by blah, blah, and their cousin, blah.

And it was yours free when you became a subscriber to Natural History.

Party Like It's 1856

Imagine: You're standing beside the water-cooler, telling your friends about all the crazy stuff you did over the weekend, and in walks Fred*. Fred is the guy that always invites you over to his house (usually around a holiday) for mingling and drinks and does so  by way of folded, paper invitation. Fred gives you the details while you nod and smile, your eyes already canvasing for a trash can. As soon as he walks, that invite is going in the waste-
basket.

But wait.







The cream colored paper, the orate lettering, embossed illustrations...this is no ordinary invitation. This is the:

Anniversary of Washington's Birth-day, First Annual Ball!

What the what?!?

That's right. Yours truly has just found a invitation to the Company A, 68th Regiment's first annual ball in honor of the United States first President, Mr. George Primrose** Washington.

The date? February 22, 1856.

The place? The Fredonia Concert Hall.

What should I wear? If military, then the request has been made to come in full uniform.

What about my lady? "Carriages will call for Ladies at 6 'o' Clock."

Egad! I must get ready! I'm already 155 years, 10 months, and 13 days late!

(Invitation was found in a Bible. An old Bible.)

Disclaimer:
* I do not work with a Fred, nor should any Freds worry that someone is exploiting them or there love of parties/making party invitations with Microsoft Word.
** Washington's middle name is not Primrose. He had no middle name. So feel free to make one up!