Just came up with the title. Phone. Dial tone. Library of Congress. L.O.C. = Tone L.O.C. Now I don’t feel so bad wasting time on this. But yeah, trying to reach out (yet again) to the Library of Congress for help tracking down an old National Enquirer article (which is going to be part of a great TWER story) and after some back and forth via the automated web form and random LinkedIn stalking (premium has its perks, people), decided to go through the front door again. Which I was sure actually didn’t open. And it doesn’t. Three options, dead end, “Please call…” the exact same number I just called. But still, it sounded so fancy. Straight out of All The President’s Men—even the “from a rotary phone…” option. When’s the last time you heard that?
Oh wow, it’s my hundredth post.
Wes Anderson should get on this.
I just Googled and knew there had to be a dozen image search results for this thing and yep, but I saw it today searching for old columns in Collier’s at the library and I was just ‘yes, there it is.’ The trip would be a success now, even if I didn’t find anything. I did, but this is still the first thing I clicked on from the jump drive. And I just read it. OMG, she wouldn’t have made it across the Atlantic Ocean without Lucky Strike. And they want to ban tobacco in New York or something, right? Or wherever it is. We’re grooming the future of this country on smoke free campuses where kids study about heroes who sucked down Lucky Strikes to make the history they’re studying them for. Or something. I don’t know, it’s just awesome. She’s awesome — “her name matches her passion” as Sadie once said — so of course she’s in some giant 1928 Lucky Strike ad just staring at us and being like, cigarettes don’t kill you, these things kept me alive. Four thousand miles of Lucky Strikes. They’re toasted.
I used to write celebrities all of the time in middle school (addresses magically acquired via proto message board things in the pre-net’al world of Prodigy). Early middle school. Early 90s. Well maybe ’91-92 and stuff. Mostly women. Mostly supermodels. More on that later, God willing. Every now and them one would write back with a personal note, and THAT was a special week of summer. I’ve had the Julie Newmar one on the wall for a while (probably use it in conversations once every other year or so). “Purr…fect.” Pretty hot. (I AM purr…fect.)
Found the Park Overall one a while back. Took a picture of it. Just found the picture of it. I’m sure she said that to all the young weirdos. (You know, thinking about it, thinking about who Park Overall was in 1991 or so, I was probably the only young weirdo. Well, maybe not. America’s a big place. But I hardly ever even watched Empty Nest. Mostly just when I was down at Grandmama’s in Auburn chilling with popcorn in the night glow of family.) But still—made me feel special. Still does. The kind of thing Maria Von Brainpickings would do a post on when it was discovered in some university archive’s Jeremy Henderson collection.
By the way, I know that sounds lame and fratty or church rap whatever, but that “totally slammin’ house party” was totally slammin’, it was a punk show (in high school! Exhaust was there, and some anti-Nazi band, which were things). They were just trying to be cute.
Back to computer filing.
I was at the library doing some mascot research and saw an elephant ((M. Advertiser, Oct. 30, 1959) and thought I was in the right place. And I was. Because anywhere there’s a picture of an elephant high stepping over Jayne Mansfield (trying not to bust, as it were) is the right place.
But seriously, what the hell were they thinking? She’s two feet away from instant elephant death, which would suck so bad.