Fond childhood memories of psychedelic television. He had the levitation thing down way before David Blaine.
Then, the commercials for stuff that looked cool but tasted like moon dust:
Good times. We need to get some folks back in space.
Groovy School Reform Circa 1970 August 21, 2012
Cool Peace sign mouse pad at zazzle.com
I worked for awhile in an elementary school that was built in the 1970s. In other words, some grad students dropped some acid and said, “I know, man! Let’s make a school that has, like, no WALLS!” And it was, like, the grooviest thing ever, and grad students are cheap, and suddenly, there were two or three wall-free schools in our city that operated like feed lots, where the noise was deafening and there was nowhere to plug anything in.
At some point, someone decided that, if they constructed some temporary walls that did not reach up to the ceiling, and covered the floors with carpet, it would be even groovier, or at least not as deafening. The result was slightly short of groovy. If you have ever stood on one side of a temporary wall while someone is teaching on the other side, and you paid attention, you probably could have passed a test on whatever that teacher was teaching. Additionally, if you have ever strolled around a building with carpeting upon which hundreds of eager learners stomp in snow boots for several months annually, you are no stranger to the earthy aroma of tenacious Mr. Mold. Indeed, you may have become a cog in the wheels of a class action suit seeking damages for respiratory, well, damage.
Respiratory issues are tough to top as a wonderful human equalizer, and God knows that shared difficulty breathing undeniably brings people together. Just in case you were thinking that I was knocking anything. No. But when you add the aesthetic and functional nightmare of the windows in this Thunderdome—well, let’s just say that the drugs were either getting progressively better or increasingly scarce.
Maybe it was the recent memory of assassinations during that time period that convinced the designers that the windows should be indestructible. Why they determined that they should be shaped in such a way that the building appears to have enormous, dull amber-colored eggs protruding from the exterior walls, is a question for the ages. There may have been a brief honeymoon period during which about seventy-five people saw the out-of-doors through those windows, but I was there way, way after that ship had sailed, and I got to enjoy “the suggestion of sunlight” through the curvy bubble windows. You could see, however, through the gap between the window and its casing, where the winter winds howled and deposited little drifts inside from time to time. Groovy AND cozy.
As captivating as this coming of age story is, it is time that we get down to brass tacks (available at Home Depot) and ask the obvious question at hand: why is the visibility through my house windows similar to that of the plastic, indestructo-egg windows at Peace Man Elementary? How do people get their windows clean, anyway? I don’t have a big ladder, and I don’t have modern, tilty windows. Spraying them with the “power wash” setting of the hose has yielded some pretty damned crappy results. You never hear lore about people who do windows, only those who don’t do them. I am guessing that it is due to the fact that this clean window deal is a well-protected secret. Unless you live in a skyscraper, in which case there are native species who live on the sides of those buildings and carry squeegees at all times.
I will patiently await your instructions. Please do not link me to a Pinterest-based window cleaning solution that involves Dawn dishwashing liquid.
Dawn: More Than a Premium Dishwashing Liquid August 7, 2012
image: heytherecutie.blogspot.com
I never really understood why, as a young girl, I never had a Barbie doll. Shocking, I know. Instead, I had the Dawn doll (it’s a thing). Now I get it. If you follow the link on the image, you will find yourself in a retro blog that sports more vintage Dawn propaganda. It’s cool.
Dawn dolls not only were, as you can see for yourself, the MOST beautiful freaking dolls in the world—they were also approximately half the size of the better-known Barbie. This insured that the little girl caste system would remain intact and there would be no mixing of the two worlds without implied inferiority, silky hair or not. If Dawn or any of her posse tried to rock that pink Malibu car, they would have slid off the seats and been ticketed by the California Highway Patrol for some sort of minimum driving height violation. No amount of low budget fringe or elephant bell bottom pants would have made a difference.
See the dress Dawn is wearing, with the snappy little belt? I had that dress on a doll. I can feel the raspy golden belt all these years later. It is not a fond memory. You try tying that metallic cord in a bow for a smaller-than-Barbie fashion doll with swivel hips.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not resentful about my Barbie-less childhood. Did it contribute to my later, non-conformist years? I like to think so. As a woman on the petite side, I thank Dawn for the enduring sense that I am taller than I appear in photographs. And I totally understand my mom’s financial dilemma. Even though the benevolent God saw to it that I was to be a mother of sons, one of them racks up some pricey totals on the Legos on his Amazon Wish List, and I have, on occasion, fallen for the temptation of the bigger, knock-off “Bill-duh-Bricks” set. Let’s just say he won’t be passing those on to my grandchildren.
From my minutes-long research on the fate of the Dawn line of fashion dolls, I learned that the company folded shortly after their reign, despite their alleged popularity, which accounts for the fact that I have never met one human being who shows the slightest glimmer of recognition upon hearing the phrase, “Dawn doll.” If I still had mine, I would likely have to insure them in the sixty-seven cent-per-doll range, in preparation for my opulent retirement. Guess I should continue teaching the cat synchronized swimming. I know that she is getting good at it, because my inflatable floaty is punctured from all the practice.
peachyteachy 