I was reminded today that going back to the office may not, in fact, be the blessed return to normalcy some had anticipated:
It’s jarring, isn’t it? Wait - right - I remember now, this is what it was like. In-house graphics ginning up enthusiasm for some gruesome meeting full of buzz-words! Gah!
The office was empty on Monday, though. Maybe everyone was getting ready for the exercise.
I was poking through the papers today, looking for inspiration. Found a great front page and thought “I should set this aside for the Wednesday feature,” but dang: I have 2022 all filled up, and I am in no mood to start worrying about 2023. To be honest, some days I’m tempted to reduce this thing down to haiku. Anyway:
Ray announced her retirement to marry the wealthy Eric Raymond Loder (1888–1966) in early 1912 and left the production of Peggy. She did not appear at the well-attended scheduled wedding ceremony at St Edwards Roman Catholic Church in Windsor because of Loder's failure to sign the prenuptial contract that guaranteed her financial security, but he claimed it was an oversight, and the marriage took place three days later.
In 1913 Loder committed adultery and deserted Ray, ignoring her letters pleading with him to return to her. She filed for restitution of conjugal rights, but Loder did not respond to the legal order, and the couple divorced in 1914.
She returned to the stage, but also the bottle. In 1936, after a long period of depression and hooch-abuse, she checked into an asylum. I suppose they would have called it a nervous breakdown, a term I remember from youth. We all knew the term. It meant you just . . . couldn’t. This was worse than “I can’t even.” You just . . . can’t.
In 1939 she was listed there as “Incapacitated"
But that seems an exaggeration:
Registered as Mrs Eric Loder, at least part of her long stay at the sanatorium was happy. Ray continued to care for her personal appearance, having a liking for smart clothes and hats. she was never visited by family members. Hospital staff later recalled her infectious smile and that she enjoyed walks into the nearby village for shopping and car rides. After her death one of her nurses said, "she was a very quiet lady, small and neat, who did not give any indication of the high life she must have enjoyed”.
She was in the asylum for thirty-seven years.
The front page story concerns an "insane" man who shot J. P. Morgan Jr., blaming him for WW1. Morgan recovered quickly. The assassin was s a German agent, of sorts, and was also responsible for bombing the US Capitol, and he planted a bomb on the SS Minnehaha. It went off, but the ship did not sink. (You may detect a trend.)
I didn't know this: there were four Minnesota-named ships: The Minnehaha, the Minnetonka, the Minnewaska, and the Minneapolis. All were lost in the war.
Ancient history, I suppose, but more interesting than Team-Building Tuesday.
While I was posting the Thrift Store Video last week, I looked for a YouTube version. There wasn’t one. This isn’t surprising. Some of these compilation albums never make it to YouTube, and perhaps there’s not a lot of call for Lawrence Welk budget compilations.
Because YouTube exists to make you bored with what you’re watching and watch something recommended, which will surely be better - or at least somewhat different, which is better - I clicked on the sidebar lists of Welk episodes. They’re fascinating time capsules, and bring back waves of conflicting emotions.
Really. How can one have waves of conflicting emotions about old Lawrence Welk shows? Because I always thought it was plastic and lame, and because my Grandpa loved it. He sat in his comfy chair in the farmhouse and enjoyed his Welk. I didn’t have the same feeling about his other fave, Jack Benny - partly because I somehow associated bald Grandpa with Jack. There was something about the Welk shows that seemed off in a way I could never figure out until now, and it’s this: it had young people who acted as if they were part of the Welk Aesthetic. They were young and modish and smiled and sang with big bright smiles! Unlike the young people who appeared in the music I was starting to appreciate.
The young people in Welkworld, I dimly suspected, were traitors. Or, they were genuinely enthusiastic, which was inexplicable.
I ask you: whatever shall we make of this?
It's 1979. These ads are from Harvest magazine.
We're not talking rye or winter wheat here.
That damned typeface. It was everywhere. It was so modern and forward-looking without being futuristic. It was the look of now.
The Darth bongs are ridiculous, and a red flag to anyone who came over after a date. You may like to get buzzed, but for this guy it’s a full-time career.
“Did I forget your birthday because I was using drugs and all sense of societal obligations were lost in a fog of onanistic reverie? Sorry man”
The “High Guy” may have been a reference to the Hi Guy.
For when you want to look like you’re up for a rumble but really you’re all about the smoke and the mellowness
You’d just throw it away, but it’s all you have, and you can’t stand the idea of being straight right now
Yes, you're an elegant sort, a man of taste and distinction who is not one day away from crushing seeds and stems because the guy who sells you your lid hasn't been around lately and no one knows where he is and that one guy you asked gave you a hard look when you pressed him and said maybe you should stop asking
A typical logo for the day - works on an LP, or a head shop. It was authentic, natural, organic, maaaan, and somehow tied all these modern concerns and pursuits to somethig older and honest, because the 19th century was, like, real, man, they had to get everything out of the dirt
I suspect the person who drew it wasn’t stoned at the time.
I am actually impressed:
Someone who came up with an AWESOME IDEA while high actually had the initiative to do something about it.
Smokeless, so you can “sneak a toke” in a place where it’s forbidden or frowned upon!
Not that you need to, of course, it’s not like you have a habit. No one has a weed habit. It’s just not that sort of thing. No this is nothing like a hip flask at all.