Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Basket Flashback

I've heard tell that LSD is the gift that keeps giving, unsolicited-trip wise. Of course, that is only what I've heard... It would have to be as all my brain malfunctions have much less illicit sources: microwaves, bad perms, a tour through post-graduate education...

My point?

Oh! yeah... I think attending public school actually gouges its mark deeper into the brain than any silly pharmaceutical ever could - no matter how groovy. (Please, stop mentally referring to me as Grandma - the correct term is "Geezer-tina, the square".)

Anybody remember these?

Photo lifted from

Seems like a lot of people do, and apparently with some sort of wistful sense of nostalgia. I've seen them appear in magazines and vendor sites being touted as the coolest new/old organizational tool. Even to the extent that there are shiny spanking new reproductions being made to catch the imagination of the retro-chic set that don't want to deal with rust or metal labels. Hey, more power to you all.

Me? I must be the only person in the world that snapped a tendon from the force of the knee jerk upon seeing their return. Wire locker baskets!

It was one little article about how to tame your fabric stash with kitschy fun storage solutions. Never has it been clearer that one person's gentle fond memories of school gym time past can be another person's hard, sharp smack to the back of the head... memories of school gym time past.

The term "un-athletic" couldn't even begin to describe me during those far distant days of grade school. Physical Education class was a special treat. In a time before the term "athletics" PC-ed "PE" from the vernacular, I had gym class. Fifties-era styling in an off-campus remote location. Dank, dark locker rooms. The smell of wet hay that I now know to be the unmistakable aroma of aging sweat and damp concrete floors. I'm pretty sure the locker room wasn't quite the medieval cave I remember, but then again, it was in a part of the country that is still today in the grip of cute and cuddly McCarthyism. Just because no photos exist of a rack or iron maiden doesn't mean they weren't there.

So what is my point anyway?

Nothing really. I just had some post-traumatic behavior to stave off and I find whining to be cathartic.

Still and all, I always kind of liked the metal label system on the baskets. Very ... well, uhm, organized.

Oh well, crazy is as crazy does and the dichotomy of melodramatic tendencies reigns supreme.

Hook on!

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