Eye Of The Tiger

Jumping moses on a pogo stick, I almost forgot about this month's vintage giveaway! How dare I and who do I think I am anyway? So without further yada yada yada, I bring you the free crapola vintage giveaway for April: vintage 50's sunglasses, shazam! These are certainly not schmancy by any means, white plastic cat
eye frames with thin green plastic (non-prescription) lenses by Cool Ray Polaroid.



(You are impressed by my fancy outdoor picture-taking skills, of that I am sure.)

I have far too many white cat eye sunglasses, though I'm not sure how that happened anyway. How very "1959 Barbie" of me. They're not the best of quality, most likely these were the el cheap-o drug store variety, but cheap ones are the best! (Screw you, Olsen Twins and your stupid $500 glasses.)

So if you want in on the free giveaway, sign up here by leaving a comment that says "Hey, I want free crap! I needs me some sunglasses! Throw my name in already, GOSH!". (And no, you don't really need to leave that comment. You can leave a comment in Elvish telling me to that I suck for all I care, just as long as you leave a comment that you want in!)

So. I'll pick a name... when?...how's about a week from today, the 24th? Good? Good. As always, everyone is welcome to play and it's fo' frizzle. (That means it's for free. I know I'm a cheese, as if I wouldn't know that.)



"Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor. Yeah, I know. Sorry 'bout that.

Way-Out Wednesday: The Kids Are Alright

You know, it's like I've been saying, there's nothing less inspirational than an inspirational saying. "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent". Oh, ok, really? That's brilliant. Stupid Eleanor Roosevelt. Who the balls do you think you are, shoving your positive outlook on life all up in my grill? I didn't give my consent for people to walk this Earth being stupid and annoying, but there they are, doing it anyway, even though I didn't give them a signed permission slip to do so. Jerks. And inspirational posters don't work either. Unless, of course, it's become a retro mockery of itself over time, such as the infamous kitteh falling out of a tree "Hang in there!" wonderfully craptastic kind.

Imagine the surprise! glee! wonder! of finding a whole collection of them from a seller on etsy. While they're "instructional" on teaching kids good manners and not so much inspirational, and while I "get" that these were probably hanging up in a kindergarten class once and that's all very fitting for the time and all, it doesn't change the fact that they're still odd and the kids are creepy little bastards. They're vintage 50's (actually, they're all dated 1957), and as we know, most children-themed things from the 50's generally are disturbing or strange to a degree, but you know, in the awesome way. (I wish these posters were movie poster size, because they'd make a ridonkulously wrong and great wall-o-art, plastering an entire wall in the house!)

(Since they're all being sold by one seller, I only made the very first picture below clickable over to the listing, should you feel the need to buy one or 6. I'm lazy. So sue me.)

And now, I present to you: the fuggingest, most fugtastically fugly little hellions.



Because if you don't knock, you'll force your mother into having a very awkward conversation with you about why the mailman is in your house and what exactly he was doing to her involving your Twister mat.



Apparently he's on the "Body by Carrot Top" exercise plan.



Little Jimmy's dad is so busy giving his mom the 3rd degree about why he saw Donald Duck crawling out of her bedroom window, that they didn't take notice to Little Jimmy bleeding profusely out of his jugular.



In a related topic, Children of the Corn do not approve when their parents pay more attention to the Arguing Ducks Show than to them and now they will have to pay, either with bleeding jugulars of their own or being sent "into the cornfield".



Give a sister a break. Maybe she hates him because he's wearing the gayest outfit ever. And anyway, cat appliques are so last year.



Yeah, that one-foot drop to the ground looks really dangerous. Also, why would an 8 year old try to impress a 2 year old anyway? You just know he's gonna grow up to be that 26 year old guy cruising past the high school in his 1975 Ford Econoline van trying to impress the girls with his nunchuck skills, shag carpeting and bottle of Mad Dog. (AKA: how Kim lost her virginity. Ha! Kidding. It was Boone's Farm.)



"The Kids are Alright" by the Who.

Cannibal Pot

While on my quest of collecting the best (ie: worst and most vile) vintage 1950's & 60's cookbooks, I discovered this little gem recently. I almost bypassed it, what with it's glaringly 1970's grotesque-ness of homespun cross-stitched country charm of a cover (kill me now), but then I found that it's actually from 1959. Huh. Betty Crocker, you foiled me again with your witchery. But the best part, however, is the questionable title, which takes a second to sink in your noggin and make the good feelings go away, kinda like chasing a Miller High Life with Jagermeister. (I'm sorry, but I cannot possibly begin to figure out how to type an umlaut over the "A". Also, I'm too lazy.) The book is titled: Betty Crocker's Guide to Easy Entertaining--How to Have Guests- and Enjoy Them.



Well isn't that a nice cook---oh sweet jebus on a Triscuit! How to "have guests" and "enjoy them" made me automatically think of the Twilight Zone episode called To Serve Man (aired in March of 1963). So of course now I really want to buy this thing, unless one of you other happy little carnivores grabs it first. (Click the cookbook pic to go and buy it.) If you're a vintage Twilight Zone nerd like me, then you'll know exactly of what I'm referring. If you're not a TZ fan, it shouldn't take long to realise that it sounds like it's a cookbook for serving human.





..." IT'S A COOKBOOK!"


"Cannibal Pot" by Tommy Steele.

A Marshmallow World

Because everybody in the US of A knows what an Easter Peep is (side note to my international amigos: do you know what a Peep is?), I bring you tidings of Easter cheer the only way I know how: with the unexplainable and time-wasting creative use of said marshmallow abominations, combined with utter geekery to the ubiquitous modern nerdaholics' anthem movie of choice, the Lord of the Rings, as told by Peeps. (Yes. Yes that was a run-on. I worked very hard on it. Thank you for noticing.)

People of the Earth, I bring you: The Lord of the Peeps: The Fellowship of the Peep. (<-- Go to that site if you wanna see the entire storyline of the first episode of LOTR done with Peeps.)







































"A Marshmallow World" by Dean Martin. Yeah, I know it's an Xmas song, so what, you wanna fight about it?

When The Ship Hits The Sand

Continuing on with my adventure in vacation land, one unexpected and seriously interesting stop was to the U.S.S. North Carolina Battleship, a place you'd probably assume was as boring as watching a bowl of dead Sea Monkeys, but in fact was pretty emotionally moving. The ship is massive and you look literally like an ant, dwarfed by the sheer height of this thing. I remember standing on the deck, looking around in amazement, letting it sink in that this was once an actual working ship with thousands of crewmen aboard during WW11, cruising the Pacific and shooting down buttloads of Japanese planes made me misty. And I don't cry. I would rust. The conditions the men have to live and work in, these small, claustrophobic spaces and boiling hot engine rooms is nothing short of heroic. Visiting the battleship was the farthest thing from boring, in fact, we only had an hour to sprint through all the levels of this behemoth (or else we'd miss our plane home) and really, I could have spent hours more exploring it and wondering what ever happened to the guys who once called that ship "home".



Apparently the battleship is haunted, but I didn't capture a single ghost in my pictures, nor did I hear a voice from beyond the grave calling "Kiiiimmm... Avast, ye wench! Batten down the hatches and ahoy, matey! Oooooo....". (Apparently Navy men of the 40's speak like pirates. It's a little known fact.) I was bummed for the lack of ghostery. I was also annoyed that neither Charo nor Tony Orlando showed up on the lido deck to do their song-and-dance disco numbers and that Isaac never did bring me that Mai Tai I ordered.

One kicky little detail of the USS North Carolina was the black and white pictures of men aboard the ship during it's heyday, set up throughout different sections of the ship, like the various parts of the kitchen and control room. Standing in front of a picture of a guy standing in the same spot you're standing in, only 60 earlier was phenomenal. My sister and I referred to the guys in the pictures as "The Hotties". They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Onward to pictures! Some are not the best quality and stupid Blogger makes you shrink your pictures small, so you'll just have to deal with it.





I was standing where the guys made bread. Guys! Making bread! On a ship! Hot guys! I can't take it.



Guys stirring soup. Soup! (Ok, Ok, I'll stop.)



This is a bulk potato peeler, chafes the skin off them and shoots them out. Word was that sometimes the guys would slack and not watch the potatoes (you know how distracting a Betty Grable poster is), and the taters came out the size of marbles and then they'd get in trouble. Oh those wacky sailors.



Something technical that did stuff.



This was the Master at Arms' room and it was behind locked glass, for reasons I don't know. I guess he didn't like people touching his stuff.



One of the medical rooms, which are always creepy, so I hightailed it outta there.

We ended up in the bowels of the ship, way down below. I'm sure there's some sort of actual boat-y name for it, of which I don't know. It gets a little panicky when you know you're that far from the surface of the ship and you have to climb 4 billion stairs to back up. I don't know how the hell those guys did it everyday, let alone when under attack. That's too much like exercise for my taste, thankyouverymuch.



This is where Captain Stubing drove the boat. I love the aqua and deep red color combo, though I'm sure the guys then didn't appreciate it. Men!



The view from the portholes in the captains' driving room, looking out over the shooter dealies. Yeah, I don't know what those things are called either. But I do know that Cher sat on some like it in her "If I Could Turn Back Time" video.



A cute, little old man told me that the ship's bell is important, but I didn't have the chance to find out why. So here's the bell. It's important.


"When The Ship Hits The Sand" by Little Jimmie Dickens

Way-Out Wednesday: Cover Me

(I know I've not been around much, but it's craptastic trying to get back into your old groove when you've been away from it! Yeah, that's it. More like I've been prone to woe-is-me-ing. At any rate, I'm back! Bad news for you.)

So. You know, don't you love it when your no-plans weekend turns into a real plans weekend? I know I don't. This Easter Sunday was supposed to be easy peasy lemon squeezy, but now I have peeps coming over and I have to be, like, a gracious host or something and give them vittles and whatever. Not that I'm a bible-thumpin' betty by any means. In fact, I'm pretty sure at this point my picture is hanging up in most Catholic churches that says "Do not serve or accept checks from this person". But Easter is just "one of things" you do, just because you do. Plus there's ham. So with that, foodstuffs must be bought and the house made to look less tornado-in-a-trailer-park looking. The weird cold weather stunted the growth on my Easter flowers outside, so a quick Martha Stewart-y fix is throwing down a vintage tablecloth and calling it a day. I have no appropriate Easter tablecloths. I've got half a dozen 50's tablecloths with roses on them, but that's boring. So this year, I'm celebratin' jebus with a cowboy print, since I'm pretty sure he was known as "Jebus of the Amarillo Texas Hold 'Em Covenant, of the Bon Jovi Wanted Dead or Alive Sect". (I'm so getting smited. Sorry jebus, but you know how I roll.) This is mine, not for sale, just for fun:



Saloon girl garter belt? Check. Spurs? Check. Fire water? Check. This is gonna be the best jebus-approved Easter yet.

So for Way-Out Wednesday, of course I found more vintage tablecloths apropos for spring, but would make Martha Stewart angrier than a jackrabbit on a greased-up griddle. (I don't know what that means really.) All but the last one I believe are are vintage 50's, the last one is just...well you'll see.

(Each one below is for sale, the pics are clickable to take you to each listing.)



Wha...? Soulless basket weave Italian restaurant wine decanter farm animals? If you say so.



Rooster lived a happy life on Campbell's Chicken Noodle Farm, and is doing his happy dance because it's raining and he loves the smell of soup on rainy days. Rooster does not know that he is the soup.



In the world of fowl, it is customary to bring 2 of your children on an oval platter to housewarming parties as a gift.



Little chick does not like where this is going. Bunny does.


"Cover Me" by Bjork. Or Bruce Springsteen. Or the other 4 jillion bands that share the same generic song name.

I'm Baa-aaack!

Hey y'all! I'm back from my fabulous jet-setting life (read: family dysfunction, vacation-style.) It was...well, whatever the word is for "more than freaking fantastic", staying in a multi million dollar ocean side beach house (yep, multi million dollar beach house, with the ocean right in the backyard), on Holden Beach, a quaint, fancy pantsy island in North Carolina. It's the kind of lifestyle one quickly becomes accustomed to, not that the Dollar Store strip malls and Wal-Mart superscenters aren't an amazingly luxe life to live. Needless to say, being easily-amused mountain folk (where the most tropical locale is Big Bob's Bass-Fishin' Lake and RV Park), the ocean was exactly the kind of "let's get the hell outta here and see something new" trip I needed. Waking up to the sound of traffic is not quite the same as waking up to the sound of waves crashing, I'll have you know. I'll post more pics in the next few days of an education sort and quit yer bitchin', you'll learn something and you'll like it! In the meantime, here's some Rear Window- style peeping of the ghetto in which I had to live in:







It's pretty tragic isn't it? Can you believe I had to have this in the backyard
every day? I feel sorry for me.

And it's like I've been sayin'~birds are indeed flying jerks and are plotting some sketchy human invasion in the not too distant future as we speak. You can't trust 'em. Interesting fact: Seagulls have a blood lust for Cheetos. They will stalk your ass. Sea gulls will invade your personal space, attack your villages and dive-bomb you from the back, ninja-style. True story.





Oh sweet jebus in a Prius, see what I mean? Too close! Mayday! Birds' beaks and fists of fury nearing my 3 foot safety bubble! Give up yer Cheeto booty!