Thank our lucky stars above for the Mad Style postings of Tom & Lorenzo. Those two queens may not have lived through it, but they understand fashion in times gone by. It so happens this era on “Mad Men” — 1966 — is when I first started paying close attention to what women wore, and what it said about them. This post is dead on. In fact, I think that whole party scene was staged to give T-Lo something to write about.
And if you can’t get enough — and who can ever get enough ’60s fashion? — Slate has a slideshow with commentary by the costume designer.
Spring was here and not so much anymore, but the calendar says yes and so it’s time to start thinking Easter. And what does Easter mean? Newspaper-sponsored Peep contests, that’s what — so let’s check out the winners of the Washington Post Peeps Show contest, eh? A fun way to blow five minutes.
And while we’re speaking of Easter and birds, Coozledad’s story of how a four-legged chicken came to live on his place:
Our first chicken was a by-product of a Perdue farm. Every twenty thousand iterations or so of their bloodline of Cornish Rock moribunds they get a chick that manages to form up from two yolks, crack the shell, get up on its multiple legs and avoid the cruel fate of being eaten by its thousands of broodmates. A friend of ours whose father contracted for Perdue told him about us, and he hit on the idea that we might be the perfect kind of idiots with which to place one of these grievous instances of broiler production.
He was right. When my wife broached the subject at dinner I was naively enthused. I pictured a sort of plush chicken car with legs instead of tires.
When it arrived, huddled and wheezing in its travel box, it looked more like a late model sedan pulling a homemade trailer brimming with liquid shit. I wasn’t just deflated, I was a little horrified.
If I had more to do, I’d be the president. Good night and good Thursday.