Satirizing Portland and More with State Fair of the Union
Maybe it’s because I was born the ‘70’s. Maybe it’s because I’ve been consuming waaaaaay too much Welcome Back Kotter on the Hulu. Whatever the reason, it has become my opinion that the 1970’s reek of Christmas more than any other decade.
Upon further reflection, I believe I must draw some sort of sick correlation between the schmaltz of the holiday and the coked-out, shimmering wonder of that restless decade. I imagine the tinsel on the tree flashing and sparkling as brightly as Diana Ross beneath the stage lights of Studio 54. I imagine the bacchanalia now generally reserved for the office Holiday party as an everyday event in the bars and rec rooms of that long lost era.
So when Christmas comes around, I allow nostalgia to take hold and deck my personal halls with subtle shades of 70’s. And while that time-period produced nothing subtle, I must admit I’ve never let myself really cut loose to wallow in the sheer kitschy joy of it all. If I did, it’s possible the consequences would be disastrous. I might start wearing turtlenecks underneath my sports coats. I might grow a mustache and start calling women “honey”. I might begin having sex with random men in the back rooms of local discothèques.
The ideal 70’s Christmas remains a yuletide dream for me. A dream I may never realize. A dream I intend to share with this series of posts. Merry Christmas, sweethearts.
Playboy Anniversary Issues:
And there are also naked ladies, of course.
Find ‘em at Vintage Pink (no pun intended) on Hawthorne [2500 SE Hawthorne]
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