Nobody Reads This Page - “A Seventies Tale”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

“I haven’t found a drug yet that can get you anywhere near as high as sitting at a desk writing, trying to imagine a story no matter how bizarre it is.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

When pondering the 1970’s decade, writers often compare it in some way to the ten-year span that came before. Many have even tagged the period as being a hangover which arrived rudely after a span of enlightenment, rebellion, and experimentation in various forms. Sexual liberties exploded old myths of human behavior. The mystic effects of marijuana and LSD yielded to a harsher subculture dominated by heroin and cocaine and criminal enterprises. The colorful, optimistic art of Woodstock revelers turned darker and uglier, as cities began to default and the economy struggled. We limped out of Vietnam and grew weary of oil shortages and political scandals. It was a time not so pretty to behold. Yet against that backdrop of austerity, a new paradigm began to arise. We turned toward comic excess as a methodology to find relief. And developed habits that might seem ridiculous when viewed in the critical light of today.

 

Huge bell-bottom trousers, massive sideburns and flowing hair, wide ties and lapels, overamplified guitar riffs, and big-block motors chuffing smoke met their nadir as the foundational cracks began to spread. Was America finished as a force of consequence on the world stage? The question had to be asked and pondered, without shyness. Even staunch defenders of what-had-gone-before felt the ground shaking under their boots. There was only one direction to go from the lowlands of Watergate, and the fall of Saigon. From bankruptcies, foreign competition, mass layoffs, and wage-cuts. From the heralded victories of Allied forces over Axis armies, to the muddy intrigue of bloody conflicts in unfamiliar territories.

 

Up! Up! Up!

 

Our quest for escapism manifested itself in odd fads like the Pet Rock and Disco music. Synthesized grunts, groans, and burps became commonplace on the radio. TV programming slipped into a molasses spill of silly shows that were entertaining, yet difficult to explain. Our mood was one driven by need, but shaped by circumstance. Timothy Leary’s admonition to “Turn on, tune in, drop out” gained importance amid the rubble of what this young generation had endeavored to build. We were forced to do more with less, but chafed at this unhappy assignment.

 

Anyone who actually watched Richard Benjamin in Quark understood.

 

For people like my late friend Paul Race from Corning, New York, this naked realism was split into a prismatic spectrum of hues. He collected artifacts that were smartly valued by others in his orbit, like vinyl records, vintage books, and graphic novellas. But most accessible to this writer, because of my Ohio heritage, was the chase to acquire rare beer cans and related trinkets of brewing culture. A more proletarian pursuit that made me respect my friend for his broad outlook upon things of worth.

 

The BCCA had become known during that decade as a group dedicated to stashing and trading cans from regional producers across the nation, and beyond. Hoarding beer cylinders came naturally to those already fond of buying and swilling beverages from home markets, or locations far off the beaten path. Volumes were published and vended to assist those who knew little about scarcity, or resale values. Though actual prices could be difficult to nail down.

 

Beer Can Collectors of America? Or Brewery Collectibles Club of America? Take your pick.

 

Most of us ended up with Billy Beer somewhere in our cupboards, or perhaps J.R. Ewing’s Private Stock, from the primetime soap opera, Dallas. Maybe even Harley-Davidson Beer, or another sudsy drink affiliated with the MASH 4077^th television program. Athletics fans in Pennsylvania snapped up Iron City limited editions, that crowed about Pittsburgh’s successful sports franchises. Putting aside cans did not require much of a financial investment, or a snooty pedigree. It was a blue-collar habit to embrace. My mentor Paul had graduated from Cornell University, but retained the affectation of what he identified as a “Riverside shit bum” attitude. He had grown up in that quiet village without any illusions about his status. That commoner mentality drew us together. I liked his lack of pretentiousness.

 

For myself, beer collecting continued long after the golden era of 70’s craziness. Like my friend from the Empire State, I augmented this greasy routine with scoring lighted signs, mirrors, bar items, ashtrays, and anything related to brewerania. My zeal for sipping and saving frequently made family members shake their heads and look away. Though in modern terms, it was less of a priority by far than when I did not have responsibilities to consider.

 

Online selling eventually exploded this dependable structure of haggling and dealing over wares, unfortunately. A can of interest that I might have taken for fifty cents could suddenly be listed on a site like eBay for many times that minimal amount. Flea market vendors liked to use their newfound resource to jack up prices. The resulting rise meant that oddball items were looked upon with more sobriety, in the balance. Things I might have wanted, if gotten for a pittance, surrendered their luster when seen in a glare of artificial, cyberspace popularity.

 

Fun was the component most important overall. When the innocence of this hobby disappeared, the naïve joy of hunting and gathering also evaporated. It would never be quite the same, again.

 

Regardless of such changes taking over, when something truly of interest comes along, today, I continue to fit it somewhere on my crowded entertainment center. Or on shelves in the front bedroom, the kitchen, and home office. Nearly every space has at least a few of these trinkets on display. I feel no shame for making my preferences known. Labels long lost to history are represented everywhere. Some of these venerable names have been revived, after long periods of market absence. Others simply faded away, never again to return. But every one represents a part of our culture worth honoring through preservation. Someone, somewhere, drank all of these flavorful creations, and was revived in spirit.

 

In the Ice household, such vibes of the 1970’s are still present and undeniably refreshing.