Tagged as “Things were better in the 1970s.

Blueprint’s Twin Cities Consumer section covers recycling, solar energy, bookstores, cross-country skis, rental agencies, bargain gift shops, wood-burning and more. Practical facts and figures!

I’m working on a project now that involves a lot of long, happy hours going through microfilm of long-defunct Minneapolis periodicals.

In particular, I love this bizarre subscription card boast from a 1980 issue of a short-lived weekly called Blueprint. I mean, recycling, solar energy, bookstores, cross-country skis, rental agencies, bargain gift shops and wood-burning…that’s really about all you need, right? I honestly cannot determine whether this list is meant to sound ironic and glib, comprehensive and authoritative, legitimately counterculture-ish, or if the priorities of the mainstream, left-leaning urban consumer at the dawn of the 1980s were just that strange and far-ranging.

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In ongoing discussions of the enduring importance of Steve Prefontaine, Falling and Laughing introduced me recently to an exciting new term with which I’d somehow been unfamiliar: “Manson lamps.” In honor of Manson lamps and 10,000 dune buggies roaring down into Laurel Canyon, here is Neil Young’s “Revolution Blues.”

Also, while we’re on the subject, don’t forget to check out S. 12th’s ongoing award-winning coverage of the 1970s.

I am so proud of him.

Stephanie, over at your favorite New Jersey-based tumblelog I Can See New York City from My House, has re-posted an anecdotal comment I left on an earlier post of hers about the great Steve Prefontaine. I now re-re-post it here so that it is formally entered into the record:

I was once on the train wearing a Prefontaine t-shirt, a tasteful portrait in red, and some guy asked me if it was my son. I beamed and said “It sure is, sir, and I am so proud of him.” He said “God bless, that’s beautiful.”

How old did that guy think I was, I wonder? I suppose when you pass retirement age anyone under 40 looks the same.

The obvious opportunity I missed is telling the man that I was proud of my son for the specific reason that he once held the American record in the 10,000 meter and appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated at age 19. My beautiful son!

Also, it was Katie that made me the t-shirt in question. This is what the portrait looks like, except in red. Who wouldn’t want that fiery, free-spirited hunk of 1970s vintage young manhood springing forth from their loins?

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Another fine moviesinframes offering: KKLAK’s framing of Lindsay Anderson and Malcolm MacDowell’s O Lucky Man!, from 1973.  
Sometime, when you have a spare eight hours and you think you can handle it, come on over to S. 12th and we’ll watch this and Peter O’Toole in The Ruling Class (1972) back-to-back. It will be a delightful evening devoted to the decline and fall of the British Empire, as recounted through the lens of completely over-the-top epic 1970s surrealism!

Another fine moviesinframes offering: KKLAK’s framing of Lindsay Anderson and Malcolm MacDowell’s O Lucky Man!from 1973.  

Sometime, when you have a spare eight hours and you think you can handle it, come on over to S. 12th and we’ll watch this and Peter O’Toole in The Ruling Class (1972) back-to-back. It will be a delightful evening devoted to the decline and fall of the British Empire, as recounted through the lens of completely over-the-top epic 1970s surrealism!

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Frank Mankiewicz, my political director, said with a wry smile: “Walter Cronkite was just named the most admired man in America. How about him?” We let this intriguing possibility pass as too unrealistic. I later learned from Walter that he would have accepted. I wish we had chosen him.
George McGovern on almost choosing Walter Cronkite as his running mate in 1972. (via.)
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That handsome fellow above is the late Charles Rocket. If you know anything about him at all, it’s probably that he had the misfortune of serving as anchor for “Weekend Update” on SNL during that unfunny interval between John Belushi and Eddie Murphy, and was unceremoniously shitcanned for saying “fuck” on the air. That’s all I knew, anyway.
The other night I watched an episode of TV Party, the New Wave-era Glenn O’Brien-hosted downtown New York cable access show. Rocket was a featured guest on this particular episode, starting the show by performing “Wild Thing” with a heavily distorted accordion run through a fuzz pedal. It was really, shockingly entertaining — weird, funny, audacious, and played completely deadpan. What made it doubly surprising was that Rocket was holding his own against the hippest, most smartass denizens of the CBGBs crowd. Hell, Kathy Acker and Jean-Michel Basquiat of all people were standing in the audience. How much more chic does it get than that? Can you imagine any contemporary SNL star seeming credible enough to perform with the leading lights of contemporary art and literature and getting away with it? Maybe you have more faith in Andy Samberg than I do, but I sure can’t.
It turns out, of course, that Rocket went to RISD with David Byrne, and was a sort of local luminary in the Providence art scene before lighting off to New York to share screentime with, uh, Joe Piscopo — in fact, here’s a moving in-depth obituary from a Rhode Island alt-weekly.
It goes to show, I guess, that more comics would probably benefit from a few semesters of art school. There’s a breezy, deadpan “fuck-you” performance-art quality that I think is missing in contemporary comedy, which seems to favor insincere self-deprecation and interpersonal awkwardness above all else. I’m not sure if Rocket’s subsequent filmography quite lived up the potential I saw in his TV Party appearance, but my point is that it was really a very, very good performance.
Also: yeah, yeah, I know I need a “things were better in the 1970s” tag by now.

That handsome fellow above is the late Charles Rocket. If you know anything about him at all, it’s probably that he had the misfortune of serving as anchor for “Weekend Update” on SNL during that unfunny interval between John Belushi and Eddie Murphy, and was unceremoniously shitcanned for saying “fuck” on the air. That’s all I knew, anyway.

The other night I watched an episode of TV Party, the New Wave-era Glenn O’Brien-hosted downtown New York cable access show. Rocket was a featured guest on this particular episode, starting the show by performing “Wild Thing” with a heavily distorted accordion run through a fuzz pedal. It was really, shockingly entertaining — weird, funny, audacious, and played completely deadpan. What made it doubly surprising was that Rocket was holding his own against the hippest, most smartass denizens of the CBGBs crowd. Hell, Kathy Acker and Jean-Michel Basquiat of all people were standing in the audience. How much more chic does it get than that? Can you imagine any contemporary SNL star seeming credible enough to perform with the leading lights of contemporary art and literature and getting away with it? Maybe you have more faith in Andy Samberg than I do, but I sure can’t.

It turns out, of course, that Rocket went to RISD with David Byrne, and was a sort of local luminary in the Providence art scene before lighting off to New York to share screentime with, uh, Joe Piscopo — in fact, here’s a moving in-depth obituary from a Rhode Island alt-weekly.

It goes to show, I guess, that more comics would probably benefit from a few semesters of art school. There’s a breezy, deadpan “fuck-you” performance-art quality that I think is missing in contemporary comedy, which seems to favor insincere self-deprecation and interpersonal awkwardness above all else. I’m not sure if Rocket’s subsequent filmography quite lived up the potential I saw in his TV Party appearance, but my point is that it was really a very, very good performance.

Also: yeah, yeah, I know I need a “things were better in the 1970s” tag by now.

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Guys like Pete King, they had it made -- those were the days!

You probably read something about this already — Rep. Pete King, a New York Republican who represents some of the more conservative parts of Long Island in Congress, had this to say about the hoopla around Michael Jackson’s death:

This low-life Michael Jackson … Let’s knock out the psychobabble. He was a pervert; he was a child molester; he was a pedophile, and to be giving this much attention to him, day in and day … what does this say about our country? We’re too politically correct — no one wants to stand up and say “We don’t need Michael Jackson.”

Prompting this reply from Rep. Bobby Rush, the Democrat who represents Chicago’s heavily African American 1st District in Congress:

How dare Rep. King utter such scandalous and outlandish comments about Michael Jackson, when he has never opened his mouth to criticize his own colleagues who have been were accused of morally reprehensible, criminal or indecent acts…to millions of African Americans children, specifically, his story of being born to a working class family in Gary, Indiana, to becoming one of the world’s biggest stars illustrates the benefits of hard work, discipline, perseverance and self-determination.

So, non-ethnic white blue-collar outer-borough New York City vs. black-majority inner city Chicago — why does this sound familiar?

The first thing I thought of was Norman Lear. All in the Family and Good Times.

Where did the Bunkers live? Well, OK, Queens technically, but Rep. King’s 3rd District constituents in Long Island share some demographic similiarities with the Bunkers — Pete King himself looks and sounds a lot like Carroll O’Connor. James and Florida Evans raised their family in the Cabrini-Green housing project, not far from Rep. Rush’s home district. Michael Jackson’s little sister Janet even starred in the show, later on in its run.

It’s hard to believe that, after thirty-five years, the culture wars still so closely fit the contours Lear mapped out on these shows. It’s very easy to imagine Archie Bunker sitting in that orange chair with a cigar and giving King’s remarks verbatim (“Whadda’ s’is say about ow-a country, Edith?”). Rush’s view of Jackson lifting himself out of poverty through work, family and perseverance also follows the underlying themes that Lear and the show’s other creators were putting across in Good Times. Michael Jackson was first and foremost a cultural hero — just watch this clip of little Michael Evans from the second or third season, and the impact is clear.

Two views of the same subject that have essentially remained unchanged since the mid-1970s.

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If the Gmail banner ad above (imploring me to call “call NOW for special rates”) checks out, reader, I am one phone call away from an airplane ride with Berry Friedan and Shirley Chisholm.

If the Gmail banner ad above (imploring me to call “call NOW for special rates”) checks out, reader, I am one phone call away from an airplane ride with Berry Friedan and Shirley Chisholm.

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