I’ve got 5-4-3-2-1

As a dilettante retrologist, I’m fascinated by how the media has interpreted and presented various social and cultural movements to mainstream America over the years. From the “punk rock” episode of CHiPs to the treatment of the sixties counterculture by “old guard” sci-fi writers (“Permissive child-rearing practices have created a dystopian society of cannibalistic drug-crazed hippies!”) to 1950’s educational films featuring squeaky clean, pencil-stealing juvenile delinquents, it’s pretty much a given that what is presented to the listening/reading/viewing public bears as close a resemblance to the reality as Pringles do to actual potato chips.

There are numerous reasons for these popcult translation errors: laziness, cluelessness, personal axe-grinding, sensationalism by way of capitalizing on common misconceptions or preconceptions, or all or any of the above. Barring the most egregiously ugly or hate-filled examples, they can be highly entertaining and historically informative glimpses into the tectonic cultural shifts that shape our society. (Even the nastier stuff can possess a degree of educational value, but the entertainment factor tends to get lost amidst the overall tenor of the work.)

So when I was flipping though a copy of Young Love #112 (November 1974), and came across this page…

…I thought I was in for a rare treat. Brilliant, isn’t it? It’s so over the top, with the aspirations and ideologies of a heterogeneous movement reduced to some buzzwords and a “OMG, the wimminfolk are wearing pants and waging a jihad against the old order” message. I could totally envision a photocopy of it adorning the front cover of some feminist fanzine, circa 1990, as a bit of ironic (or perhaps not, depending on the ‘zine) appropriation. Based on the title and caption, I was expecting a hard-hitting and thoroughly bizarre exploration of the romantic lives of these new fangled “feminists.”

Instead I got this…

Nothing about why Nancy, the pants-wearing “tomboy,” felt the call to direct action or the root causes of her dissatisfaction, just the story of poor jilted Alex trying to come to grips with a love lost to that “crazy movement” called...feminism.

“Consider yourself lucky, Alex…at least you found out before you took the big step! Now if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to head back to my furnished bachelor apartment for a Hungry Man Salisbury steak dinner and unsatisfying masturbation to late night Cinemax!”

Does Alex engage in some serious introspection about why Nancy left him, and the implications of his behavior in light of modern egalitarian principles? Hell, no! He follows the advice of his creepy friend and hits the ground running in search of a “chick still willing to be female” (thus providing insight into reasons behind the radicalization of Nancy). First up, some bowling lessons with Sally, followed by a tempestuous fling with “gorgeous…intelligent…sophisticated” Franny, an artist who paints in the cutting edge style of mail order black light posters. Neither woman is able to scratch Alex’s itch, so he then turns to “outgoing” Louise, “bouncy” Sandy, and “old-fashioned” Maggi. Still, none of these lovely ladies with their suggestively euphemistic descriptions fit Alex’s exacting, yet unclear standard of perfection.

Just when it seems that shall be no balm in Gilead for our poor, promiscuous protagonist, who should show up unannounced at his door but Nancy, wearing a skirt and having come away from her foray into the world of gender politics with a new sense of her role in the world:

Enslavement by choice. It’s a kooky new world, people, can you dig it? (For a minute there I was worried for the fate of the patriarchy…)

The preceding two panels have been brought to you by Patronizing Obnoxiousness, just one of the fine products of the Condescending Asshole group of Traditional Values companies.

Linda Evans – He’s My New Love (from Beach Blanket Bingo, 1965) – From Check the Cool Wax’s much appreciated direct from the film rip of the soundtrack. It’s a nice bit of pop fluff, but I wouldn’t consider it the high point of Ms. Evans’ career. That honor would have to go to either this or this – I haven’t made up my mind on which. (Edit: The wise sage that is Retro Music Snob pointed out that the vocals were actually provided by Jackie Ward, session singer extraordinaire.)

Crass – Bata Motel (from Penis Envy, 1981) – Based on the events of the past few weeks, I suspect that a large segment of the superhero comics industry and fans of the genre would fail to see the irony in play here.