A while back, we spoke of the sitcoms which have been neglected in narratives on television history because they lasted a minute or less and were called “commercials” or “ads”. Well, the folks in charge of television have, in their unending quest to keep us entertained, also pioneered the very short music video.
Once again, these suffer in history from being trivialized under the name “jingles”. But these brief ballads, marches, and refrains have stuck in the minds of Americans to such an extent that many of them are the only things viewers remember from the musical interlude. Many were revived for a later generation with new graphics or have had their lives extended by other means (trivia quizzes, say.)
Can you fill in the missing part of the lyrics? (This blog takes no responsibility for earworms. If you find people staring at you because you are murmuring “Meow Meow Meow Meow”, you’ on your own.
QUESTIONS
1.”The bigger the burger, the….”
2.”I am stuck on Band-Aid (brand), ‘cause….
3.”A&W Root Beer’s got that….
4.”One million strong and growing: we are….
5.”I don’t wanna grow up; I’m a….
6.”Hurry on down to Hardee’s, where the burgers are
I picked out a number of postcards which referred to bygone issues and inventions to provide questions of that quiz last week which skyrocketed to instant acclaim. (According to the data on this website, I am the only person to read it so far. This is part of the world’s attempt to remind me that what I write is not necessarily considered urgent reading. Unless I reference a Kardashian, of course.)
In any case, I picked out several that eventually involved such long or disappointing answers that they were unsuitable for the quiz format. This does NOT mean I can’t force them before you, of course. This will keep YOU out of a few rabbit holes.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox started writing poetry at the age of eight, and kept on with it for sixty years to acclaim from the public and sneers from critics. (The poem Sinclair Lewis despised—“The Man Worth While”—can be found on numerous postcards, too.) Her most famous poem was “Solitude”, which starts like this. I was planning to sneer myself that the postcard artist got the line wrong. Turns out that those of us who quote it as “Cry, and you cry alone” are the ones who are wrong.
This postcard is part of an avalanche of jokes made after Douglas MacArthur’s farewell speech, in which he used the phrase “Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.” Parts of that would have made a good quiz question on their own, but no, I was going to ask where HE got the line. And the answer is simple enough: it comes from a song that was popular in the army when MacArthur was a young man. No one seems to know EXACTLY when it came about or where it came from, and that sort of answer is better spelled out in a plain boring article. Note to quiz writers: be very sparing of answers which are longer than the questions. Your audience will just fade away.
Nobody knows where this phrase comes from at all. It is often attributed to the Bard of Avon, but apparently existed at least a generation before William Shakespeare picked up his pen. No, we will NOT be discussing whether Shakespeare or somebody else wrote “Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
“Back to Nature” was the battle cry of a movement before it was a cliché. Usually an admonition to return to a simpler life in the woods (but sometimes also a nudist slogan), it comes from a notion philosophers have batted around for centuries. The latest “Back to Nature” push started in the late nineteenth century, mainly in Germany. But experts cannot find anyone using the actual phrase before 1915, and even they aren’t eager to claim that it never appeared before that. “Nobody knows” is frequently the answer to trivia questions but it does not make for the sort of award-winning puzzles found around here.
If you can’t make out the faded caption, this card says “Harmony, with apologies to Frank Dicksee”. We have lost interest in making catchphrases based on popular paintings, partly because we don’t bother nowadays with popular paintings. Sir Frank Dicksee was a painter best known for “The Funeral of a Viking” who also, in 1877, painted “Harmony”, which has nothing at all to do with the image here. A young woman plays the organ as light pours through stained glass and a romantic young man looks on. The joke was funny only to those who knew the painting, its artist, and title a generation after the painting hit the public imagination. The possibility that it wasn’t very funny even then does exist.
This catchphrase was popularized in 1932 by Franklin D. Roosevelt, referring to ignored souls who found themselves at the bottom of the economic pyramid. This represented a complete flip from the meaning intended by a whole nother politician. Charles Sumner wrote a novel, published posthumously, in which he used “the Forgotten Man” to describe the poor middle class dub forced by higher-ups and better-offs to pay for the needs of the man at the bottom of the pyramid.
So there is your allowance of forgotten men and women and factoids for today. Try not to use them all up at once on whatever social media platform you choose, lest you duffer my fate and find mankind beating a path to your door. (And no, we will NOT be studying THAT quotation.)
“Ain’t one ta complain, Cap’m” said Louba, sliding down the metal slope and landing hard at the end. “But if we got an easy way, me elbows got teeth.”
“Why not, Greenguts?” demanded Bassada, reaching for a handhold on the next metal mound. “Got yer brains in yer behind.”
The silent, shaded room had narrowed to this partially blocked passage, with a pair of tall lumps between them and the door. Bott found himself glancing over his shoulder as he maneuvered around the smaller lumps on each large one. He had no choice but to trust the Drover’s guidance, but even the easy way out didn’t guarantee they’d escape before someone came to fix what had gone wrong with the maze. The vast curved blades in the walls were not encouraging: they’d be dodging those if the game started up again. Hard to believe they wouldn’t swing down any second now.
The crew was in good spirits, though, working their way through an argument which had begun days, or possibly months, earlier. “An’ how ‘bout ‘at business yez all handled at Akitipah? Where yez took hostages but forgot ta take any loot?”
“Cute hostages, anyhuse,” Louba replied, sliding down the next mound on her stomach.
“Not like what ‘ey said about yez, when we stole ‘em outa yer tinpot dungeon,” the Blue replied.
“I wouldn’t talk,” sniffed Chlorda. “We intercepted a copy of your ransom note. One case of ammunition and three of beer. What kind of ransom was that?”
“A intellectual rebel kind,” Bassada said, reaching up to pinch the aristocrat high under her robe.
Bott knew he could do as little about the argument as he could about the blades. “There’s the door,” he said, sliding down the metal hill. “Be ready.”
“Been ready since I saw yer face,” said Bassada, coming down behind him to rub her chin on the top of his head. “I…flallop!”
Everyone turned to her; she was looking up. Setting her hands on each side of her head, she adjusted her mask to point the lights straight up at what rose above them. “Foots!” whispered Louba.
They had, in fact, been climbing across the paws of an immense bipedal creature built of metal. A tiny spark shifted left and right in each eye far above them. Something was alive in there, but it was unable to move its body without the maze’s power.
Bott’s shoulders rose as he faced the door again. There was no guarantee that what waited behind it had artificial bodies. This was the same malevolent maze, after all. Only now nobody was controlling it.
“Which of you can be quietest?” he whispered.
“I can’t believe they have the capacity for silence,” suggested Chlorda, with another sniff on ‘they’.”
“I kin be quiter’n five gold noisemakers,” said Bassada, reaching under the Gold’s robe again. Chlorda swung an elbow back to block her.
“Hear how quiet I kin be, Cap’m?” demanded Louba. “Coon’n’t be quieter less’n I was dead.”
“Don’t be dead,” Bassada told her. “Us cheerin’ wouldn’t quiet up ‘is place any.”
“Let’s start the quiet contest right now,” Bott commanded.
They eased quietly toward the door. Bott’s mind raced to all the trouble that could be waiting. At the very least, if they did reach the Dragonshelf, at least one of the Klamathans would try to rig it so the other two were left behind. He had been running through all his experience to find some way to forge a link that would keep this crew together at least until they were out of range. Maybe Nubry had read something in a book that would help.
“Seen ‘is in pitcha pos’cards,” said Bassada.
“You didn’t see a ship in any of them, did you?” Chlorda inquired.
Stepping through the door had brought them into a snow=covered landscape. Apparent miles of white-clad hills rolled before them, dotted with the vast round evergreen shrubs that grew on Aumbur. Whole armies could camp inside the largest ones.
“Door’s probably in one of the hills,” said Bott, checking the firmness of the terrain before stepping out on it. “If this is the shortest way out, maybe it’ll be in the first one.”
“We still bein’ quiet?” Louba inquired.
“Quiet as ya ever gits,” Bassada replied.
“Probably doesn’t matter,” said Bott, as four pairs of feet crunched across the snow.
There was no wind, and the air was not as cold as it could have been. In fact, Bott spotted puddles forming here and there. Shutting off the power might have shut down the climate control here, in which case, he supposed, they’d better find the exit soon or they’d all be swimming again.
He slid out his communications card, but then he heard sounds caused by other feet.
“My feets is ice!”
“My feets is icier!”
“I’ll set one o’ ‘ese bushes afire and heat yer feets so’s yez never use ‘em again. Now push on!”
The refugees looked to each other. Bott slid his card away and reached into his grenade satchel. Still only two left.
“Let’s hide,” Chlorda whispered.
“I say we takes ‘em,” Bassada countered.
“My toes is as cold as my feets.”
“Yer toes is on yer feets, stupid.”
“They was when I put me boots on. Dunno about now.”
Bott waved his crew in close. “Let me do the talking. Keep the lights turned way up on your masks so they won’t see who you are.” His hand went into another satchel.
Two lights could be seen ahead of them now. One was steady, from a big bush on the right. The other flickered, and was advancing. “Let’s ,eet them. Everybody win the quiet contest, please.”
Bott took up a position between the bush with the bright light, and another to its left. He could see the group approaching now. As he’d suspected, they were Schums, and big ones, too. They wore only loincloths. Someone behind him smacked her lips.
“Ah, they drool rivers,” growled Chlorda.
There were five. Horns rose from domed blue heads; long blue snouts stuck out over long fangs. One carried a long black box in one hand and raised a torch in the other, while the rest held odd clubs. They could not be frightened, and they were smarter than grobbles. Quicker not to fight them at all.
So Bott swung his weapon to his mouth and belted out the first chorus of the harmonica classic “Coughing Traveler.” The Schums, who had been studying the ground before them, looked up.
“Hey, it’s a cousin!” shouted the one with the torch. “Heighdy, Cuz! You in this room too?”
“We are now,” Bott called back. “What’s up? We thought WE weren’t dressed for this place, but you’re worse yet!”
A Schum with gold tips on his horns stepped ahead of the others. “Lookin’ fer prisners what was in the maze,” he said. “We weas promised their skins as coats. We was sposed ta stay in our room an’ wait, since their homing beacon said they was getting’ nearly, but then the lights went out.”
He swung up his club a bit. Bott nodded to it, not having to pretend to be interested. “They didn’t give US those,” he said. “Wotta they do?”
“Makes snowballs.” The leader, using what Bott could now see was a scoop at the end, hauled up a clump of snow as big as Bott’s head. “Only once ya trow ‘em, they catches fire.”
He suited the action to the description, and launched the missile skyward. Three feet from the club, this missile ignited, shining bright enough to burn a stripe across the vision of anyone foolish enough to keep watching. It flew off into the side of a hill, where it sizzled and went out. It would not, Bott knew, have gone out so quickly had it landed on any of the fugitives.
“Pretty good,” said Bott. “I wonder…..”
“Scuse me,” said the Schu with the black box, stepping forward. “Head Dog, it says here the homin’ beacon’s mighty close.”
“Yeah,” said Bott, sliding his harmonica away. “They got wise and ditched it. We picked it up and followed their tracks, but either they’re flyin’ now or hunkering down.” He waved behind him, showing the Schums no tracks waited behind the friendly visitors but their own. “We were gonna split up an’ search the bushes, just in cases, but if you’re here, you can check that one whilst we looks into this.”
The Head Dog frowned, which sent wrinkles rippling right up between his horns and down the back of his skull. “Can we do that? Our orders….”
Bott leaned in, one hand out flat. “Don’t’cha get it?” he whispered. “Orders don’t matter now. Something big’s gone wrong. The prisoners probably did it. Anybody fins ‘em has ta be in fer a big, fat prize.”
The leader continued to frown, but his shoulders were moving up and down, a sign that a Schum was finding a proposition appealing. “And anyplace we go’s absolutle gotta be warmer than this here,” Bott went on.
Head Dog raised a fist toward the bush with the light in it. “Go zoom, guys! Go zoom!” Nodding to Bott, he led his company at a charge into the indicated shrub. The light in it went out, and screams were followed by a mighty splash.
”Nice piece o’ work, Cap’m,” said Louba. “But I kinda likes ‘em when ‘ey drools.”
:You likes ‘em when ‘ey breathe,” snarled Bassada. Bott pointed at the other bush.
It has been a while since we enjoyed a quiz together. Here are some references to bygone bits of popular culture which sprang up in the selling of vintage postcards. (It is easier to sell a joke if you understand why somebody thought it was funny, once upon a time. This does not mean anyone will laugh, but that’s part of the pity of it all.)
QUESTIONS
1.This gag relies on you knowing what that shop sign just to the left of his head. What do the three balls signify?
2.You could probably figure out what these restroom signs signify without catching the reference. What comic strip’s main characters were so well known to the general public that the strip was sometimes simply called “Maggie and Jiggs”?
3.This folksong may go back to the seventeenth century. For generations, it was performed traditionally for what occasion?
4.“Why Aren’t You at the Front?” was not so much a question as an insult. What did it mean?
5.We covered this in a previous lesson. This postcard makes fun of what company’s slogan?
6.And while we’re at it, NOW we’re making fun of someone else’s ad campaign. Whose?
7.The book the skunk is holding misquotes the title of what twentieth century bestseller by which author?
8.Another pop song reference: in the original song, what would the man’s wife not allow him to do?
9.Gaumont, which put its name underfoot for this couple, published lots of postcards, but is more famous for what product?
10.Which Greek philosopher’s slogan…that is, philosophical demonstration, is applied here to an old maid?
11.Look look: TWO pieces of obsolete tech in one joke! What devices are these people using?
ANSWERS
1.Going back to medieval Italy, this sign indicates a pawn shop
2.Bringing Up Father: Jiggs was “Father”
3.When soldiers or sailors were leaving for assignments and/or w
4.During both World Wars, busybodies used this to suggest that the person asked was a slacker who should be in uniform and on the battlefield
5.Coca-Cola
6.Pepsi-Cola
7.Dale Carnegie, one of the giants of motivational writing, created an immortal title with How to Win friends and Influence People in 1936)
8.In the song “Waiting at the Church”, popularized in British musical halls around 1906, a young bride is left standing at the altar when she receives a note from the groom saying he can’t come marry her because…you get it
9.Gaumont is the oldest surviving motion picture company.
10.Diogenes, nicknamed “Socrates Gone Mad” by some of his rivals, famously walked around the city in broad daylight with a lantern on this mission, thereby making a point and possibly pioneering modern advertising stunts
11.The man at left is fishing for a coin in a PAY PHONE, accidentally molesting the young lady at the SWITCHBOARD
We have discussed, hereintofore, a number of important props used by courting couples on postcards of a hundred years ago or thereabouts. We have discussed park benches, rowboats, and hammocks. But romance is nothing if not inventive (say several websites that have turned up on my computer for absolutely NO REASON) and there were plenty of other possibilities.
A bygone blog here gave a very brief survey of lovers sitting on pianos, in response to the slogan used by myriad sheet music publishers: “Try This On Your Piano”. But that is hardly the only musical instrument used by resourceful couples. (What? Yes, sometimes organs were used…oh, I get it. Just put on this special Joker’s Cap and go sit in that corner over there.)
Frankly, just about anything handy can be used to make things more comfortable for courting couples.
Some of which may seem more natural to certain of the followers of this blog. The TBR in your TBR pile may stand for “Too Be Read” or “Torrid Book Reclining”.
However, the piece of furniture coming closest to the chair or the settee for romantic couples in postcards is probably the table. (What? Beds? This was a hundred years ago, klddo socko: couples were found on or in beds only in cards featuring married couples having a fight, or naughty postcards, which we will discuss at some future date. By the way, the really naughty cards didn’t use beds either: blankets would obstruct the view.)
The table was available in just about every room, unlike the couch. In those fr-off days, every kitchen had its table for food preparation and staging, and even bathrooms were generally provided with a table. (Note to self: a blog on the history and development of the kitchen counter. Don’t count on it any time soon.)
Those who look at postcards to learn about the styles of our ancestors will notice a vast variety in the tables available for hugging and/or kissing. I’m not perfectly sure whether this is a table or a plant stand: it seems too narrow to me to be considered a high stool
And in some whole nother blog we will discuss the whole history in American homes of the coffee table (or shincracker or kneebreaker or…well, I don’t see any other words on this list I actually care to get banned from this website for.).
The table, as opposed to the sofa or the park bench, seems to have been used for more spontaneous spooning. A kiss was called for, and anything handy to sit on to provide more stability was pressed (so to speak) into service. OR the couple had been using the table for the usual table things—a fondue party, say–, only to find matters escalating until one or more wound up using the table as a seat.
THIS couple, for example, is going to be ON the table in just about three minutes. And I’m guessing they will not be allowed in this restaurant ever again.
The table for sitting could be a prop on the dark side of romance, of course. I hate to finish with this sourpuss, but I must get back to writing my next best-selling novel. If we’re going to study the use of beds in naughty postcards, extra funding will be essential. Until then we’ll table the matter. (Don’t make that face: you knew it was going to be here.)
Lager was shooting in fountains around them, but the pirate threw his mask over his right shoulder.
PLEASE, CAPTAIN DEAR, PUT ON YOUR MASK
I DON’T THINK I CAN GO ON. I’D REATHER DROWN THAT LOOK AT MORE COPIES OF THAT UGLY LIBRARIAN
“There, my pet,” said the emperor, shloorking at the last liquid in the corners of his beaker. A tangle of tiny limbs tried to brace itself against his suction.
Nubry had no strength to answer. Only the blue cuffs holding her head up between her knees made it possible for her to watch the screen. She did think that it would be appropriate for any other pirate to drown in a room filled with beer. And at least Bott wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t had a drink in three days.
His Imperial Worship directed his chair over to the copy machine and reached through his security shield with his straw, to scratch her under the chin. A tiny arm dribbled from the end of the straw to slip along her throat. “You do realize that if he drowns, there will be no need for any further copies of you.”
Nubry could only blink by way of reply, but a voice from a hitherto silent speaker said, “I recommend that you take the copier with you when you go.”
The Emperor glared over his prisoner’s head. “Keep your recommendations to yourself. I may not go, in fact. This three-ship complex suits me very well.”
“I do not require augmentation to provide space for all your games,” the Drover’s computer replied.
“The Panoply adds to your presence, dear boat,” the Emperor told the Drover, easing his chair a little away from the copy machine. “And the Rhododendron sadly needs my personal touch. I’d like to find out whether this Sheriff can top the number of copies this duckling provided, before SHE begs for death.”
Nubry blinked again. “Nevertheless,” the ship continued, “I repeat my recommendation to take the copier along.”
“I’m not leaving.” The Imperial chin crumpled a bit as it pouted defiance.
“I was not talking to you.”
The Imperial Chair backed into its usual position. “Well, this little rag doll isn’t going anywhere. She has a little work left to do, providing a reason for our merry pirate to go on playing our game.” His thumb jammed down on the copy button.
Nubry did nothing. She could feel the boosted power of the copy machine rippling each muscle and jerking at every bone. But she lacked any strength to respond.
Pudgy Imperial hands rubbed together. Then ridges began to appear in his forehead. His head tipped up, as if he was listening to something unexpected. His chair spun toward the Drover’s speaker.
“What’s that?” he demanded, jabbing a finger at the big screen.
Nubry rolled her eyes up, despite her spine apparently curling into spirals. Bott was holding a light blue card to the foods computer slot.
“It’s an Imperial Override Card, Your Worship,” the ship’s computer replied.
“I know that!” An Imperial fist swept the Imperial Beaker to the floor, where it went to pieces.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Where did the pirate get one?” An Imperial fist pounded on the console, starting another copy before the first one was fully formed. Nubry’s skull felt heavy as a Stevvian Encyclopaedia, but she kept her eyes fixed on the screen.
“Weren’t you informed, Your Worship? The pirate had a wide array of cards on him when captured.”
The light flooding the lager-filled room changed color. Nubry could not understand why this upset the Emperor as much as it did. His fist came down three times, ordering three more copies. “They didn’t mention an Override Card!” The fist came down again and ordered another copy. Nubry’s stomach and brain seemed to be trying to change places.
One thing kept her from collapse: something was going wrong for the emperor, and right for the pirate. No matter what Bott did with her books, he had to escape.
Meanwhile, Dassie was trying to reason with His Imperial Worship. “Did you tell the guards to look for an Override Card?”
“That’s classified information!” The fist pounded again and again on the copy button. “I can’t tell people what the Override Card looks like! I’d have pirates all over the place!”
The fountains of lager were shutting down. “Then how could anyone tell you the lummox had one, if they didn’t know what to look for?”
It was difficult to appeal to the Emperor’s sense of fair play, since he had none. The fist came down on the copy button again. Nubry felt as if she had been turned inside out and lowered into a nest of acid worms.
“You know what it looks like! And you knew he had one!”
“I did. Your worship neglected to ask me about it.”
“How could I….” Imperial heels kicked the front of the chair as Imperial fingers groped in a pocket. A light blue card slid into a slot below the copy button. “Never mind that. Just DO something!”
The card popped back out of the slot. “I am sorry, Your Worship. Even an Imperial Override Card cannot override an Imperial Overrode Card.”
A moment of silence followed, punctuated by a series of pink lights which switched on and then off around the room. “In the case of two people using Imperial Override Cards,” Dassie said, “I must first obey the orders of the first card inserted. After that, it is up to my own discretion to decide which of the users is more in keeping with my design and elegance.”
The little control room was silent for another second. The Imperial underlip stuck out. “And?”
“Pretty close in this case. But I have chosen the scruffy lummox over the gross degenerate.”
“You…you scow!” Imperial fists hit a dozen buttons at once. The light blue card flopped to the floor.
Nubry glanced from it to the Emperor to the big screen, but found it all too much to comprehend. The copies of herself on the floor were behaving strangely. The trap door, instead of opening to dump them somewhere, had opened upward to allow two previous copies, who had been dumped while Bott was still flying the fake Dragonshelf, to return. They all looked very unwell, limbs flopping or hanging limp. But those who had hands that worked were smoothing back their hair from their foreheads and looking at their original in the copier.
Then, one by one, they rose a little into the air and flew toward the prisoner. Something had obviously gone wrong with the copy machine. Instead of producing new Nubrys it was sucking the copies back into her, reinforcing her energy instead of sapping it. It hurt, but not in the way making the copies had hurt. This felt more like a stretch of the muscles after spending a day hauling boxes of books.
What did it mean? Was it something Bott had ordered? But how would he know she was here? Was it something the Emperor had done accidentally, or was this another cruel plan? He must know what he was doing. Did he?
He certainly did not. He was still arguing with Dassie. Nubry looked from the Imperial chair to the screen, to find out what Bott and the women were doing now. As she did so, though, the screen blinked off.
“What’s that?” The Emperor could not msiss the loss of so large a light source. “What’s that?”
He swung the chair. To his left and right, other screens and lights were blinking off. “You pucid, crifting robot kite! You turn all that right back on! I’ll have you scrapped and melted down into tailspikes!”
“I’m sorry, Your Worship. But while you were spitting on your console, the lummox has been giving orders.”
”I’ll show all of you who gives orders aboard this ship!” Two fists jammed down on another console. “Sheriff! Sheriff! Listen to me!”
“That’s been shut off,” said the ship’s computer.
One half of the room was completely dark. The Imperial chair floated over to a wall panel. An imperial fist thudded into a dim square.
“Sheriff! Sherrif! Where are you?” The Imperial voice was a touch higher than usual. “Answer me! That is an Imperial command! Sheriff?”
“That’s been shut off,” the ship’s computer informed him.
The chair wobbled to the door of the game room. When the door did not open, the Emperor reached for the emergency handle.
“The emergency exit function has been disabled,” the Drover informed him. “The lummox has turned off power to the entire maze area. We will soon be completely….”
The Emperor spun his chair around. “What do you mean? This room isn’t part of the maze area! Is it? Answer me! Ship! Ship!”
The rest of the lights in the room shut off. “Answer me!” bellowed His Imperial Worship.
There was a thump as the Imperial Chair hit the floor. The security shield made a tiny sound of “fissssh” as they shut down.
The Emperor moaned, rolling left and right. He had not actually gotten out of this chair in several weeks, but he remembered how it was done. It seemed a dreadful imposition, besides being in some ways a capitulation to that pirate and this revolting slave ship. Imagine an Emperor having to walk simply because a computer went offline!
He leaned back in the chair. He would just wait, then. The Sheriff would send someone to him. Then he’d kill her. Her and a dozen of those engineers who had assured hi that this heap of rust and rebellion was a really good ship.
He crossed his ankles. Then he uncrossed them and sat up sharply as a voice, deep and vibrant, declared, “We’re all alone. Are we? Yes, we are!”
We were so busy in history class in my schooldays that we hardly ever got past about 1928. The older and more cynical I get, the more I wonder if this was intentional. In my day, kids were exposed to an ongoing debate on the relative merits of Herbert Hoover and Franklin Roosevelt among our elders, and the teachers may simply have wanted to keep out of it. So Fashion History was neglected beyond a few pictures which gave the impression that voluminous fashion as seen above was universal until World War I, when everyone realized that was silly and shifted immediately to something lighter.
Like this. It was as if the ladies cut their skirts and hair short one evening in early summer and never looked back.
The facts, which we could have found at the library, was that there was an intermediate period, during which silhouettes slimmed down. (No, we are not going to discuss whatever that is on her head. Hats are a whole nother species for discussion.)
As our postcard cartoonists were well aware, this was the era of the S Curve. That slender silhouette was excellent for emphasizing two particular erogenous zones, and designers (as well as cartoonists) were game to make both obvious.
Even conservative fashions kept the backside firmly pushed back, as it had been in the grand days of the bustle. The only difference now was that there was less scope for strapping on reinforcements. (Designers were eager to help out with that too, of course.)
Within the bounds of human construction and variation, however, that wasn’t really where added material was required. It was above the waist where the S Curve could become difficult.
To balance the S Curve, more material was needed topside. So designers obliged with the Pigeon, or Pouter Pigeon, design. This added bulk to balance the S. (Yes, I had to say that, but I’ll do my best to behave now.)
Wherever fashion goes, cartoonists are sure to follow, so postcards began to boldly push chests where no chests had gone before. The not very subtle S Curve became even less subtle in their hands.
As mentioned hereintofore, no artist was more entertained by what other fashion historians call the “drooping monobosom” than Walter Wellman who, adding the flared skirt and pompadour, turned the S Curve into a kind of feminine cavatappi.
This, by the way, is what the blouse looked like in repose, in a less cartoony style.
You may, if you are that sort of person, be congratulating our fashion designers in rendering the chest as unthreatening, subdued, and unerotic. I would call this type unobservant, since you haven’t been considering the cartoons seen above. You are also reckoning without the male mind.
AND you are selling our designers short. Here is the Peekaboo Blouse of the era, which shows you can have your cheesecake and…I forget what I was going to say. Anyhow, this allowed for massive amounts of fabric where fashion required while still providing eye candy.
You are also reckoning without the fact that people move around. If you look at this playful couple from the waist up, you will have no trouble picking out Adam from Eve. Eve knew this.
World War I probably did have something to do with the finish of the fashion: people had to cut back on the amount of fabric they needed during austere times. The S Curve DID linger until the 1920s. At that point, when suddenly everyone was considering the erotic suggestions of knees, ladies were finally allowed to stand up straight and we moved on to the extremes of the Boyishform Bra. But we will fuss about that some other day. At least we got this off our chests.
It has been a while since we discussed fishing postcards. These were wildly popular in the middle of the last century, when people stopped sending postcards the way our modern generation sends texts, and instead made postcards a vacation staple: something you sent to the folks at home while you were on a fishing trip. I have no shortage of fishing postcards in my inventory, and thought we could discuss them whilst I subtly, so subtly advertised my wares.
But I had someone comment on this blog, saying that if I really wanted to acquire more than half a dozen readers for each column, I needed to sign onto the Affirmation Style. I have seen plenty of videos among the ticks and tocks of modern technology which were made just to tell me my troubles are fleeting and my hopes and dreams achievable.
So why not? Let’s cast you, dear reader, as the fisherperson and your troubles as the fisher’s quarry. The person fishing has the advantage of technology and brains, while the fish is merely a force of nature. So look over the postcards above and realize that you CAN defeat those worries and that stress. It’s just a matter if application.
If you apply your talents and brains to work instead of worry, you will find your stress flopping on the dock. Your troubles are no match for the human brain, just as these fish cannot hope to achieve the upper hand. Heck, fish don’t even HAVE hands.
You are brave, you are talented, you are the kind of person who can fry red snapper in Mountain Dew. (Remind me to pass along that recipe if ever I decide to write a food blog.) You are no more to be defeated by rando tribulation than the skillful fisherman is to be defeated by a mere creature who dines on worms. (I was going to close this paragraph with an image of a fish smacking its lips, but you should SEE the websites that came up when I tried to Google “fish lips”. But never mind: we will persevere in spite of setbacks. It’s what we’re talking about, after all.)
All we need to remember, dear reader, is that if we take arms against a sea of troubles (Meant to put in a reference to fish in the sea here, but it doesn’t seem to work. We shall sail on.) and we will find al those things that make us apprehensive dwindling away, shrinking before the power of our non-negative thinking. Stand up to those sardines of sorrow and cry “Can it!” (THAT will never show up on a T-shirt, but no matter. It’s the thought that counts in these meditations.)
Though the idea might seem laughable right now (I hope), the day will come when you sit down to a delicious dish of your former worries sauteed and served up, and call out “More fries! These shadows from the past are too small to nourish a hard-working angler!” The way your troubles will melt into nothingness before your combined courage and spirit will leave you hungry for MORE challenges. You will reach for your rod and reel instead of the aspirin and antacids the next time worries splash around you.
I hope this helps. Now that we have realized that our problems can never overcome us if we just show the wit and wiliness of an average sportsman, we can move on to my next problem. What life lessons can I teach you from all these old postcards with chamber pot jokes?
Bott pushed the light blue card into the slot next to the fountain of lager, bracing for disintegration. “You’ve been a great crew,” he said, his eyes on the card. One last push, and it was in as far as it would go.
And nothing happened.
“Mebbe it’s nothin’ but a foods computer, Cap’m,” said Bassada. “Order up some pretzels.”
“Try it the other way ‘round,” said Louba. “Can’t float outa here hangin’ onta pretzels.”
Chlorda reached for his hand. He shook this off and considered the rush of lager. This was a dark place to die, and drowning in beer would not have been his chosen way to go. But what he’d said was true: he saw no point in living just as the Emperor’s plaything.
Bassada twirledher breathing mask on two fingers. “Well, what’s next?”
“Allus thought swimmin’ through beer’d be sumpn I could do, if I got a chancet,” Louba noted.
Bott reached down for hs communications card. “Ship.”
“Don’t blame me, lummox.”
He took a long breath. “Ship, I believe I’d prefer yellow lights.”
Chlorda splashed a step back to stare “What….”
The room seemed to change shape as the lurid lighting was replaced with beams of bright yellow. Bott had to turn his face away from the bright reflections on the rising liquid.
“Well, boost ma bustier!” Louba shouted. “Atta cap’n!”
Chlorda laughed out loud, and slapped her hands through the lager. “Now that our captain is emperor on this ship, we’ll have to kiss his feet!”
“Can’t see his feet,” Bassada replied. “Lemme kiss sumpn I can reach!”
Bott ignored all of this, beyond ducking Louba’s hug. “All right, ship. Shut off the fountains, please.”
“No need to pretend you have manners, lummox. You’re Imperial now.” The great arching spouts of red lager slowed, and stopped.
Bassada grabbed up a glass floating by, scooped up a goodly quantity ofg lager in it, and lifted it high. “Here’s ta da Cap’m! Bottsy fer Empra!”
The other Klamathans looked for glasses. Louba, seeing none, settled for a hatbox. Bott did not join the toast, less because he was its subject than because all he wanted at his mouth right now was the communications card. “Now, please open the quickest route to the Dragonshelf, without setting off alarms or letting in the troops. Make sure there are plenty of card slots along the way, in case I need to change an order. And bring…the librarian to her ship as well.”
“You don’t want much for your nickel, lummox.” The closet that had been broken open let its shelves descend into a long staircase. Bits of it seemed to be missing, but the rest looked functional.
“Just open something in the ceiling when we reach it,” Bott said, as the end of the staircase splashed down. “And listen, if the Emperor ordered any more copies of the…of Nubry, get rid of them.”
“You tell ‘em, Cap’n!” Louba applauded with well=-lagered hands. “Order us up a pizza while yer on a roll!”
“Anything else, lummox?”
Bott watched part of the ceiling slide back, ready to dodge if the Drover overdid it and dropped the phony Dragonshelf on top of them. “Any suggestions?”
“What would you say to shutting dow the power to this section?”
“Will that help?”
“Oh, I think so.”
Bott tried to think of some reason to object. “Go ahead, then. But we’ll need lights to get up that staircase.”
“There are lights in the breathing masks. Of course, a lummox would probably throw his away.”
Bott leaned down to hunt for his discarded mask just as the lights went out. He froze into position, but all he found approaching him was a gradually growing light from Bassada’s mask. Chlorda’s face appeared next.
”These ain’t made fer normal-size thumbs,” Louba complained, sliding her hands to find the light switch on the mask.
“They were,” said Chlorda. “That’s the problem.”
The gold stood on tiptoe to light her companion’s mask. “All right,” said Bott, “Let’s get up there before His Imperial Worship thinks of a way around this. I’d better go first.”
He reached to remove the light blue card from its slot. Chlorda pushed a floating crystal cowbell out of the way and sloshed to his side. “Captain, wait.”
Bott looked up, his hand still on the card. “Why?”
“Captain, what if it’s another trap?”
A green hand slapped against a green forehead. “Not again!” cried Louba. “Up to her knees booze an’ she wants a cleaner glass!”
Chlorda’s underteeth were against her upper lip. “What if the ship is pretending to help us, only to lead us into a trap?”
Louba scooped up two handfuls of lager and sloshed them over the gold. “Ya gots nerves like unto a white-tumped balloon poodle!”
“Sticky-tongue’s gotta point.” Bassada splashed over to the trio. “Even a brain ’at teensy kin have an idea in it. Empra’s not gonna leave us have a real way ta give orders. Mebbe we oughta take the downstairs.”
Bott considered the debris-filled lager lagoon. “I say we go up. Even if it is a trap, we’re no worse off then we were before. And I’m going first. Keep your lights on me.”
The leading edge of some stairs crumbled a bit underfoot, but it was no more than an inch of each. In fact, Bott could have climbed even faster, in spite of the wavering light from the bobbing heads behind him. But the noise was beginning to worry hm.
He lifted the communications card again. “Ship,” he whispered.
“I know, lummox but I can’t do much about it. When the power shut off, they were released from their barracks. You were supposed to run into them the next time you entered this room.”
“Were all these people and things aboard when I took command?” he demanded.
“Stole the ship,” the Drover corrected. “Not many. Most of them are from the Imperial Menagerie and regular troops His Imperial Worship has trained for action if there’s a chance for a game like this.”
“Are these regular soldiers?”
“I think so. It’s dark.”
“What’s on, Cap’m?” called Bassada, from below.
He waved to the crew to come closer. “Keep as close together as you can.”
From somewhere above, a voice called “There’s a light!”
“Keep yer eyes on!” a voice of command replied. “There’s a lotsa nasty surprises in here.”
Bott studied the Klamathans, estimating how long this shelf would hold the weight of everyone. “When I give the signal, follow as fast as you can and go for cover under the ship. Until then, point all your lights at me.”
“Can do,”: said Bassada. “Whatcha gonna pull on ‘em?”
“Sssshh.” Squaring his shoulders, he marched up the last of the stairs, his face still, serene.
As that face came over the last of the staircase, he could just see the forms of soldiers coming up the staircase which had descended on the opposite side of the wall. This meant his crew would have no trouble getting down to the floor. It also meant these troops would have no trouble climbing to meet them.
“What is it?” came a voice from the rising company.
“Shoot it afore we finds out.”
Bott raised his arms slowly, his face still impassive, showing he was unimpressed by the suggestion. He wished he had a mask with a light on it, so as to see their weapons, at least. That might give him an idea of which way to jump if this didn’t work out the way he had it planned.
“Think mebbe we has to pray to it? Is that what it wants?”
“Le’s kill sumpn as a sacrifice. Like maybe…it.”
“Let all await the blessings of Violata!” he intoned, dropping his voice an octave for greater effect. He wished he had inherited his father’s voice as well as this jacket.
“Yeah? What blessing’s ‘at?”
Bott let one arm drop, pointing toward his feet. Hoping their eyes were following that hand, he let the other dip into his grenade satchel. “That which awaits below. That which awaits below for all who have served well!”
There was a shuffling of feet. Just his luck if he’d found troops from a planet that believed in an evil underworld. “What’s waitin’ down ‘ere, oh mighty Violata?” asked a voice, not quite in belief but not completely in mockery either.
Bott folded his arms, a grenade in one hand. He raised his chin, fully aware how exposed his throat was as a result. But maybe that would impress them. He let them wait in silence for a count of three, and then flung his arms wide.
“Free beer!” he shouted.
A roar rolled from the now advancing troops. “Now!” he shouted to the Klamathans, diving for shelter under the ship he’d landed on the top of this cube.
In moments, bodies were pressed against his. “Wotta performance, Cap’m!” shouted Bassada, a hand on each of his thighs, “Wotta performance!”
“That cleared the path, Captain,” Chlorda agreed, “You were an inspiration.”
Only Louba was discontent. “Looked like nice, clean folks, Cap’m,” she sighed. “Don’t spose us has time ta join ‘eir party.”
In olden days I was acquainted with a young lady I refer to as the Dumpster Cinderella. This is not the place to go into ALL of her qualities and quiddities, but one of her goals in life was spreading the word about Real Jazz. This was a musical form which she felt ceased to exist around 1932, when jazz went all new-fangled. She wrote articles (or, more often, article-long letters to editors) and took her recordings and her message to any audience which would listen. She succeeded beyond her hopes with high school music classes. She found the kids genuinely interested in music new to them: they asked intelligent questions, and inquired where they could find more Real Jazz.
So she frequently did follow-up lectures, with recordings the kids hadn’t heard the first time. And she came to me once with a problem. Not to ask my advice, since, as usual, she had made up her mind, but simply to add strength to her own arguments.
“Some of these songs are really raw,” she told me. “The performers were way too frank about race and sex, especially sex, for me to play these for high school students.”
“I don’t know how much rap and hip-hop you listen to,” I said, “But I have a feeling they won’t learn any new words.”
“Oh, these are instrumentals,” she assured me. “But I don’t dare play them because the kids could look up the lyrics online.”
It is easy to make fun of the Dumpster Cinderella (believe me) and her caution, but I have, in my hunt through archaeological comedy, run into similar warnings and cautions. Leafing through a college newspaper of the later nineteenth century, I found a note that although they welcome articles and stories written by students, they would not tolerate the use of terms like “Shucks”. I was taken aback by this, as the term in my own day was used by comical backwoods types. Gradually, the reason dawned on me.
“Shucks”, like “Shoot”, which I found banned in other periodicals, is a euphemism for a biological product found frequently by the roadside in that distant century of horse-drawn vehicles, but never never mentioned in polite society. And on the principal that everybody who saw “Shucks” would know what word was meant, the euphemism was banned too.
In my own time, I had teachers who reacted with horror to children who exclaimed, “Jeez!” In their ears, this was profanity, as it was short for a longer sacred name. The same was true in some postcards I have received, which are a little cagey about using the exclamation “Gee!: a similar abbreviation, or simply short for “God” (a word that couldn’t, like “Devil”, be used on many radio networks through the middle of the twentieth century.)
Banning these cover-ups was slow in leaving us. Walt Disney’s Pinocchio received token resistance when it referred to the nameless cricket character by a similar euphemism. By my time, in spite of teachers who banned “Jeez”, we sang “Blue Tail Fly” in music classes without a hint that the phrase “Jimmy Crack Corn” was anything but a nonce phrase like those Fa La Las in “Deck the Halls”. Of course, with our steam-driven cell phones and no Internet, we had no place to look this up.
Nowadays, as we move further into the age of dysphemism, in which we not only avoid using euphemisms but try to come up with an even more offensive phrase, I wonder what will happen to the poets of euphemism, those folks who preferred to bellow “Fudgesicles! Drippy, sloppy fudgesicles!” and “Well, goshdang the goldarn thing!” Or will some musical combo decide to write bold brave songs using once-banned terms like “Gee whillikers” and “Shucks”, and start a whole new trend in rock, rap, or even Real Jazz? (Dibs on the Fudgesicle Blues.)
Blogsy Babbles 