Checkers Anyone?

My bed has four pillows too!

Scouring the online, one is bound to find some comparison, sound or unsound, of his or her favorite celebrities. The comparison is likely to come in a few ways, drawing upon looks, interests, quips, styles, number of adopted children, what non-profits they contribute to, etc. This is a short photo-savvy comparison (appreciation) of two of today's curviest, pout'iest, bodacious'est starlets: Christina Hendricks (05/03/75) and Kat Dennings (06/13/86). I am a firm believer in the power of curves, especially the lasting control such things maintain in Hollywood. 

Kat began in commercials, Christina in children's acting theatre. Eventually both would make it to television, starting with lesser shows and moving their way to prime-time. Mad Men is the premier vessel for CH and the more recent 2 Broke Girls finds KD serving up a fantastic meal for the eyes. Each has their share of film credits, and Christina has decidedly more photo shoots; to my chagrin, images of Kat D actually grinning beyond a smirk are $40,000 apiece - meaning they're hard to come by. Both ladies even have a few "leaked" photos, those being any that have become available to the public which probably shouldn't have. Again, KD looks ghostly in her "leaked" nite-time nudie pix, and CH exudes about the same aura. But I will not feature any of those here, and will not contribute to the already broken privacy each woman strives to secure.

CH favorite food: spaghetti - KD favorite food: pomegranates

The nose on the right and the eyes on the left: A+ gals. 

Right is right.

 Both ladies know how to hold their spectacles properly. 

Is that a handsome man I see typing before me? Actually,

they're both about to jump into phone booths.

Note the prominent chins...something's gotta hold those bubba'licious lips up!

Left is right.

 One of the author's favorites of CH, so much packed into

such a compact bustiere. The rusty red can not be matched, but KD's

deep brown almost black locks keep us coming back

 for more of her homemade cupcakes.

Left is right.

 CH as Joan and KD as Max in their respective uniforms,

current get-ups for two television shows now airing. 

Watch KD's show if you haven't, it's surprisingly arousing and

captivating, in a sympathetic and lurid way all at once. CH has been

making all us men mad for the past five years, and hope she keeps IT UP.

Right is right.

 KD don't smoke. CH does, for our purposes. Is the smoke coming from

her cigarette, or is her bosom actually that hot? Yes.

Thanks for stepping into Mr. Wanka's boat for another mind-bending journey down slide-show tunnels and pitch-black alleys, where only the best tail stands with a high heel tapping the wet street, leaning against a dumpster, biting her fat, PHAT lip.

Joy(ce) Superest Ut Gianna: Vintage Big Boob Revival Beta

Joyce Spaeth relives under the subtle guise of a contemporary starlet Gianna Michaels, who shares some space in the wiki world that, oddly, sadly, Joyce (re Gabrielle Schubert) does not. Joyce maintains a rather welcome place in the world of proto-porn big boob fetish models; fetish only so much that the majority of her images are found in "jugg" type periodicals, often featured in her own one-shot (pun?) magazines, and this is a perfect example. "Jugs of Joy: Volume One, Number One" was the first (apparently) of a quarterly big boob magazine, published in 1976, right in the middle of the four or five truly boob-tastic years for the adult periodical industry. One-shot magazines such as this featured a model all on her own, and the rating of said magazine generally stayed below X.... to some people. To your author, she hasn't appeared in any images that might be considered lewd, however, her modern doppelganger, Gianna, may have appeared in a film or two thought to be pornographic. For the record, if you start to involve ingestion in your act, or mastication of any kind, bingo! you're a pornstar. Thanks Gianna for bringing the curvaceous appeal that Joyce once held to the front of today's adult industry. Like the luckiest farmers, our cocks are superbly peckish; the luckiest chipmunks, our nuts overflow our layout.

Our lovelies spread like the rarest birds. Both pout eagerly, leaving a come hither without the aid of eye-to-eye contact. Gianna gets the apple here.

Undies can be difficult to remove, but gravity has given them what we need. This is one of the better reincarnations of the Joyce, for what once hung in white and black now hangs in full color.  Gianna gets the gold star.

Gianna has a habit of looking directly into the camera, something they obviously forgot to tell her during auditions. The method works here though, to her advantage, much the same way the exact opposite works to Joyce's. Joyce wins this time.

The nail bite is something born out of the "Did I do that?" look of pinup and glamour models of the late 1940s and into the 1950s. The pose will endure for as long as there are things, and stuff. Joyce wins again, thanks to good costuming and backdrops. 

Here again an upside down view of our girls. Joyce is working those boobs and that endless smile like a QVC rep works a Sham-Wow. Both hands baby! Joyce earned it.

The classic over-the-shoulder pose; it never fails. Coupled with perfect ass, mix two large cups, a dash of charm, and you have your pose in elegant production. Gianna, take the cake, lady.

Joy (Joyce) is featured in some outdoor poses at this point in the magazine. Some excellent photos, and some others of her hugging a pool cue. Believe it or not, Gianna shoots pool too! But she doesn't get as friendly with the equipment like the monochrome matron on the left. They both earn their keep with this one, thanks to some sweet abdomen exposure, and facial expressions composed to kill. 

Much like the first spread-eagle composition, the vagina and its various colors and shapes have become more of a visual amphetamine than a mental one. On the left Joyce slightly obscures her bush, but we are okay with that, because everything else going for her photo, up to and including the shade of her nail polish, supports an otherwise vacant notion. That notion is left wide awake on the right, as Gianna lets us all know what her momma gave her, but not too crudely. Less and less hair is now the theme, and not always appropriately, as it seemed during the time of the photo on the left, hair was always appropriate. Joyce wins this time, thanks to a perfect set of stretch-mark bedazzled bosoms and cute tan lines. Don't worry Gianna, we'd all still take you fishing. 

All images represented on the left (above) are from the magazine, Jugs of Joy (1976), featuring Joyce Spaeth/Gabrielle Schubert. All images on the right (above) are culled from various websites, featuring Gianna Michaels/Rossi. The author claims ownership only of the stated magazine.

Vintage Big Boob Revival

During Hurricane Sandy boredom sat in rather comfortably without asking to see if I had any extra plates. An empty seat may have been made available yes, but no one sent a text or left a voicemail suggesting boredom RSVP or maybe bring some chips. So while it has taken another day away from my normal output, there is only one thing left to do: collect images from both a vintage big boob magazine and several contemporary photographs from various websites and construct a sort of revival periodical. This is a re-imagining, and essentially a dramatic second exhibition of a fetish publication from 1970. I have chosen a few pages that best represent the publication (images only) and brought them to date using similar images of current models. Enjoy. Feedback is welcome, as this is the first of what is hoped to be many Revivals...(cue "and If I were a jug o'wine, my flavor would be old").

front cover to Kingsize, vol 1 no 4 1970 /
Kandi Kobain

Page 6 / Lynn Pops

Page 9 / Sunny Leone

Page 15 / Billie Bombs aka Anna Carlene
(easily one of the hottest photos ever)

Page 18 / Daphne Rosen

                    

Pages 28-9 Spread (Michelle Angelo is garters) / Katie Kox and Kristi Klenot

   

Pages 32-33 Spread / Boobs Donna aka Petra Lovka aka Dana Moravova and be-wigged Carmella Bing w/ stud

Page 36 / Stacey Adams

Page 40 / Dors Feline

Page 48 / the luscious Terry Nova

Your author wishes to thank all the lovelies herein for their own fetishes and adding some meat to this visual banquet. Hopefully I have been able to satisfy some of your hunger simultaneously igniting my admiration for both present and past. I claim ownership of the magazine Kingsize which I used to illustrate half of this post; the other images (those without identifying page numbers) have been culled from the world wide web.

What the Shit Happened to Susan, and Joyce Re-Visited

She's been Suzie, Happy, Susan, Darla, Jennifer and Kristen. I first met Darla on the cover of Jaguar magazine, August, 1974, and have been hooked since. A simple hunt for "Darla Hood" will naturally end in unrequited surplus of the "Our Gang" dame, cute handful for Alfalfa and the rest of the boys. This here dame has been written up under a bevy of different names, as was wont of most nude models,  and the trend still continues. Big Breast Archive is a well done website about...that's right, boobs. They list this luscious doll first as Darla Hood, and supply an ample dose of images, including one of the author's favorites, so make your way over to that site and take a guess which one.

These images come from a couple of different publications. Jaguar, obviously, was a great magazine with erotic comic strips, tons of nudity, and represented the 1970s in rather astute fashion. Susan was probably the "healthiest" model, but there has not been enough research on my end to solidify the fact. Enough hip bones and one starts to wonder, so I clutch to my breast the August issue, and cherish it a bit more than other issues of the almost-monthly (9 issues/year).
My attention is first drawn to her hips, and to my pleasure, the bones within are hidden most efficiently by just the right amount of hours spent on the sofa (or in the tub!) with a pint of pumpkin ice cream. Then the rest is taken in, beginning with her eyes. Those eyes, a soft brown behind a curtain of big black lashes, likely pasties, set her apart; quite the inspiration for any eager photographer, and had I been I would never have strayed the course, like Russ and Eve in the 1960s. The 70s was a good decade because it introduced to the world the magic of chubby women...cellulite in celluloid, baby! Susan/Darla helped usher in the first part of the ten years that would define modern pornography, with help from her other plump pretties, like Karen Brown (more on her later), and made it possible for modern starlets now, such as Samantha Anderson, Dors Feline, Carmella Bing (later Bing), even Terri Jane.

Darla's far-out booty (I believe you mean, "Apple Bottom"), sturdy limbs, and long black hair culminate into a sweet package, one FedEx can deliver to my door any day.....sure I'll sign for her, do I need to tip you for the extra weight? Her breasts must measure somewhere in the E-F range, and I'd wager she tipped the scales at around 200. Her smile was something at which one could attempt to shake a stick, but fail hopelessly. The slight misalignment of some of the large front teeth, two full incredibly pout lips, and a little ditch in her chin, not unlike those others her frame displays, give her a soft demeanor, and hell, playing with all those bubbles helps out too. She may have been dealt a kiddie card here and there, but it's subtle enough to not be blatant and crude. Not a bad deal for such an addition to the up-and-coming interest in large[r] women. Even with all this going on below the neck, I think the meat of my captivity, like a spotted cat in a cage, has to do with her eyes. Yeah, they all have fun, but Darla wants you to know it's okay if you watch her have fun on her own. I do not get the "come hither" at all from this lady, sorry Darla if you were sending me those signals, but your peepers speak in different ways. Candy Samples did it, tons of Burlesque dancers did it, and few do it now, but those pasties seem to make a world of difference. I yearn for an image of Darla without them.

My second brush with this bush came in Hanging Melons, volume 3 number 3, copyright 1988, but I believe the pictures are from the 1970s, as that was her prime decade. Another lovely color photo, and she works the garters so well, with that gleeful smile and pretty full muff, and a bellyful of pudge to die for. Ambiguous titles like Hanging Melons makes is hard to find exactly who is who, as many of these types of adult quarterlies were composed solely of nameless gams and hams. Darla is featured only once in this magazine, and it's a shame. Her melons are even hanging! Mary Waters, not technically a chubby woman, makes an appearance or two here as well, her melons well on the line to dry.

The most recent encounter with Susan Burton came just the other week, an issue of Night and Day from 1974, October. Night and Day has always helped the horny male, but after their large scale format of 20 years prior, stuck to more nude photography and cheesy stories. Still, the mag managed to produce some choice models, and Susan Burton is no fly-by-Night floosie, never spreading her pussy or holding her ass cheeks apart, and was content on honest erotic photography; no hardcore stuff. She pushed her tits together on occasion, but that's as far as she went, and I admire that. The black-and-whites here are from that N&D issue.

JOYCE RE-VISITED...
she's so sneaky.
Featured on cover only.

Too Many Turtlenecks

In 1971 Christina Lindberg aka Cristina Lindberg starred in a dramatic, something of an hallucinatory melancholic film, "Exponerad." The film debuted at the Cannes festival and manifested a following for the busty young Swedish skirt. This film marked her third credited role, and was directed by Gustav Wiklund, who I commend with this post. 

From the beginning of the film, with Christina's "Lena" on the lam from who knows what, there is an heir of subtle intrigue, much like hinting at why the chicken crossed the road. We never fully understand why she's running, or from what/whom, but she runs. She runs from demons the entire movie, demons both in her mind and in reality. The premise is that of atypical teen hijinks. A girl's parents leave town for the weekend, she gets bored and decides to become a prostitute for the duration, never really informing her pseudo-mate, "Jan," who is initially upset to the point of violence, but gradually morphs into a lamb for the rest of the story, forever adorning ribbed eggshell turtleneck*. The pimp, who decides to blackmail Lena with nude photographs, is the demon in reality, and a well-acted villain. Everything else is the demon of her thoughts, which are related to the viewing audience as foggy, scary visions of worst-case scenarios. Why does your mind haunt you, Christina? Your fans would like to know. She was no stranger to the seedy side of sex (is there one?), the dark side of erotica, even the silly.

Of the few films of Lindberg's I have been able to sit through (exploitation often has its limits), this one and its director have captured the starlet in her most China Doll glory, with those pout pink lips never fading from the sun it seems, glistening like a lake of blush wine. Her skin is possibly its creamiest, but her bones and soul perhaps most fragile, and Wiklund clearly understands what few before him have about the young actress, exercising her talent, not Cro-Magnonymously focusing on her other "talents." Her breasts are and have always been amazing on camera, coupled with the fact that her gentle heroine is the object of desire in make-believe land, it's no wonder her stardom in the real world skyrocketed. The woman herself is as quiet as her fictitious alter-egos, but just as alluring.

The speaking parts are short but poignant and keep the film from becoming simply a music video for the kick-ass psychedelic blues/jazz soundtrack. The music alone merits buying/renting the film wherever you can...psych! Lindberg's sex sequences, and they are like sequences as opposed to scenes, are brief and enticing, with the aroma of sincere passion, and among the best she's done. There's fucking merit. One gets the notion that Lindberg may stand as the bridge between modern porn and classic exploitation.

*- nearly all of the cast is at one point costumed in a turtleneck.
*b- author claims no ownership of photos represented. This one /\ is from the Christina myspace. 

What the Shit Happened to Joyce?

She's known, or was, as Gabrielle and Joyce and Joyce Spaeth and Cherie Pinegar and Joyce Grable (trying to evoke another glamor girl?) and the list probably goes on. Pre-XXX and XX and X publications (mags, books, film), the models used their real names or perhaps a stage name, and the names generally varied by way of adjusted spellings - see Betty Page, Bettie Page, Betty Paige, and even as Gaby. But then the "artist's handbook of models" become "Busty Babe" with not even a wink to the photographer or the possibility that the customer might actually be an artist for art's sake. So a few years after the blowup of pinup and fetish models, straightforward soft- and hardcore glossy-cover magazines saw light. Magazines the size of magazines! The digest day ended. Black-and-white was still in, and today virtually only in fashion magazines, but the use of color photography to really illustrate all the contours, shadows, freckles, moles, stretch marks and hair follicles to the prospective artist began to take hold, and this issue of Parliament's "Busty Babe," volume one number two, is a perfect example. But who is, who was Joyce? For the money, five bucks for nearly 130 sets of breasts and almost half as much cooch, Joyce, a Denver-ite, was one of the shapeliest of the 1970s solo pinups. Maybe she was a pinup on the pegboard toolbox walls of auto shops. Maybe not. I pin her up here. We don't know a lot of the career of this well-endowed half-Native American woman, nor much of what came before and after said career. I have only seen a handful of publications that might possibly have an image or two of Joyce/Gabrielle/Cherie, but this particular Parliament issue has to be her single best contribution to the world of nude photography. Suddenly I ponder the statistic of nude photography preference when presented with professional, well lit but mood-lighting lit studio photography of elegant nude models, and professional, daylight-lit comfort of your own house kind of studio photography of exaggerated porn-star prototypes. A head nod goes to Candy Barr for the legit prototype, though. Fun fact.

Digressing, most of the photographs in this issue are black and white, and many of them show the pocahontas with headband and long dark hair. Thankfully, the producers left out the bow and arrow bit. This is one of the more accessible shots taken of the hot, slender squaw. 

Tan-lines were in, obviously, and the contrast really motivated the soul of the black/white still, and really punched with color photos. Joyce's negative spaces hold true, but somehow stir her aura of Native American mother-type into So-Cal beachcomber. It's the thought that really counts. Joyce knew what she was doing, and she knew what the trends were of the affluent tit and ass models who stop short of hetero-homo coupled photo shoots. She was solosexual. The best ones were. Another Joyce who came a short while later began solo, and gradually went over the fence, and is a good example of the evolution of the solosexual. But why mess with perfection? Make some flatbread, jewelry and shawls, don yer headgear and strip down to the stockings and make a few dollars. Surprising is the method of appearing and disappearing with such haste nude models of the 70s and 80s employ. 

So what happened to you, Joyce? It seems you packed your envoy, your tipi, your clay pots, your pelts, and skipped settlement. You picked some flowers along the way to remember your territory as it was yours to own, and promptly laid to rest any further development of your career, maintained your throne's host and kept your jewels straight. You left the place cozy, and blessed the couch and the foot of the fireplace with your ass and the sky with your boobs, and set a bar for successors to reach, other pocahonti, other Joyces. How could you leave without saying, well...you said enough. More than, perhaps. With a full pair, a bellybutton sometimes AWOL, and perhaps the best legs of your era, cowboys have been spurring their steeds numb. 

The magazine purports to have interviewed the buxom Chippewa, with selected quotes, stating her preferences in the opposite sex, the usual semi-autobiographical "I like men to play with my..." type of responses. Near the tail end of the journey, and indeed the flipping pages became like hunting for the three rings, Joyce says she likes to take care of her man, pamper and even mother them. There's some esoteric fetishism I will not be blogging about. Perhaps her strong Native upbringing on Roosevelt's grass-hewn buffalo prairies instilled within her the Mother of the earth. If Roosevelt had seen Joyce sitting she-style, wrapping a child's braids in agate, horse hair and pipestone, he would have left a few bulls alive. 

What the shit happened to you, Joyce of the Mother Earth? You flew the planet and left your own globes behind. And now too, like buried artifacts from so long ago, specific tools for specific purposes, we find you on our solosexual archaeological dig. Honey, we dig.

*all photos courtesy of my android and a (now) rainy weekend afternoon. If you or someone you know has any information or material regarding the model represented, feel free to contact me.

It seems the Queen was later found in the dairy aisle.

From my first alcoholic drink (Smirnoff Ice) as a young lad in a small mid-atlantic hill town, the persistency to explore the half-life of my liver has maintained a somewhat unwarranted level of interest.  After the juvenile phase wore off, and buying a six-pack of cloudy bottles seemed so last year, the next logical leap was hops and a brewing process. Drinks you slide wedges of fruit into led the way; eventually the workload was just too much. I possess no cauldron; I know virtually nothing of potions, and the apple I'd give to fair-skinned'd country dames would be simple that...an apple. So the obvious thing to do is to find the right witch to make the brew you seek so you can return with the country gal's heart in a box. Until now my journey has been rife with impostors: sharp, light-headed Spanish dancers, chalky, mouth-puckering Russian hags, and sour, attention-demanding Belgium farm girls. My lantern in the night was met with two glorious jugs, at around nine dollars apiece, of the sought libation. Double-D IPA from Old Dominion is the perfect pill to wash away life and leave a blissful daze as though a snowstorm caught under glass.

The Bomb or the Babe?

She comes with a smile and leaves me with the same, my face just as flush. The inscription on the vessel is reminiscent of certain prominent classic artisans of female portrayal, down to the garters. Naturally the allure is almost immediate, and even at the cost of a single canteen, holds nearly no apprehension to acquisition. For my money, which is modest, the best of this poison should remind the host of flowers, but flowers slowly roasting in the desert. The hootch should arouse a level of intrigue and disgust at the same time, as all things sacred should. The process should inspire the lowly henchman to become an alchemist and experience the vapors. Double-D IPA from the Delaware-based brewery accrues these securities and ends the laborious efforts manifested thus with a serious nap under glass.

Diana Dors on the cover of
Modern Man, March 1956,
 vol. V, no. 9-57

Speaking of double d's, the Queen herself became a fan of the draft and is now a baker in the B-side of town. Her hair has always been the color of buttermilk, and in later years the color of spider's silk. Her figure was at first stunning to the imagination, a hard-to-fathom 35-23-35, just shy of the Queen across the pond. She had the most tempting mouth which appreciated accordingly with age, and still held all of her subject's secrets in her lower lip. Her walk was accompanied by two fresh limbs, toting the majority of all that snow white flesh (the rest held up by our own fantasies), saving those occasions when her 22-ft-long Delahaye Continental with gold-plated panel instruments was the only means of conveyance. 

the UK Queen of Cheesecake
atop her throne.

The carriage she purchased without possession of proper operating credentials, and was later auctioned for over six figures. Her place in the court was well established and she held rule for nearly three decades, until her vices got the better of her, and she became somewhat of an extreme version of her own self. Her face rounded out (another stumper, her face was already splendidly smooth, healthy, and full), but her little pouch of secrets just under her top lip stuck proudly and may have been her saving grace, if not for a willingness to show a bit of over-the-hill cleavage and to tuck her back fat into tight black dominatrix garb. She thrilled her countrymen in black-and-white, but behind the suede curtain her knack for filling her own glass may have overcome the need to rule. She took instead to a bottle and still found a presence in the public eye, just under a different guise, and like Gale Sondergaard's portrayal of the Wicked Witch of the West, beauty and allure can not be disguised. 

Dors aka Fluck,
flucking around in the tub.

Queen Diana "The Lip" Dors, later found in the dairy aisle, clutching an exploded carton of creamer*, UK celluloid priestess for a hot minute, left the forest with a lowly henchman's heart in a box. Now he plays advanced tic-tac-toe games in his breath upon the glass. 

AUTHOR'S CURRENT TRENDS: Swedish Wildcats, The Amorous Milkman, Dors Feline, freedom of speech, Curves to Kill

* - fabricated event for the sake of this blogpost.

all photos taken from author's own collection.

Pretend you're a picnic table

 There are a few bloggers tackling the topic of "vintage" pin-ups, and I have fallen prey to the same fodder. Only this time, the feast is elegant, dignified in its own jus of uncompromising fortuity, and honest. You have been invited to dine with me in class and relish the moments when the water of the 1950s becomes the wine of today. Colonel Sanders may have invented the thigh, the breast, and the leg to 1930s American stomachs, but it was Eve Meyer who brought the menu up a few feet to the eyes and dribbling lips of American males twenty years after. And a further half-century later the best tendons stick yet to my teeth, and that trough in my brain where all the hungry synapses come to spark a conversation stays filled to the brim.
Some of the best pin-up photography of the middle 20th century was contributed by two individuals, Eve and her husband, Russ. Most who know Russ and his work are aware of his interests, almost religiously so, but how many venture to investigate and share in those interests? How many hope to gain a similar vantage point, beyond a short viewing and a mere hand shake below the belt? Russ was a lucky man. He was also brilliant. As the greatest artists find the greatest influence so close to home, he need only roll over and throw a meaty, hairy forearm over the smoldering pinup queen (for my money) that was his wife, and the visual feast you see before you, Eve Meyer.
These are a few of my favorite images of the gal, a meeting with whom I might give my left leg. Have the Colonel fry it up for you first.

These photographs of the great model/countesse were taken from a classy short-live periodical, "Monsieur," which featured pin-up photography, short fiction, fashion for the business class/blue-collar/sporting male, and recipes for cocktails. Imagine what Mad Men could have been had they even approached the topic of rollicking masturbatory practices of the decades slobbering youth! I'm sure a certain miss Page would have beaten Eve to the slot for celebrity name-dropping in MM, but she is slow to get to the testing center of my heart, and Eve smokes a cheap Lucky Strike, gold hair snapping in the side winds of her Robin's Egg blue chevy, passing a thumbs-out Bettie on the side of the road....as I digress, I can't help but wonder how big Bettie's suitcase was, and if she had to flash leg to get you to pull over. Eve would have just started walking to the nearest gas station to chug a classic Coca-Cola and eat a hot dog, and then ask for a tire iron. The look of allure in the image to the left speaks in echoing Death Valley/too hot volumes.

This is why these models still exist, however in the printed form: because of the way they talk with more than their mouths. We know what Beyonce has to say, we know what the fucking Kardashians have to say, and we know what Kate Upton (more perhaps on her later) has to say because the latest GQ's, People's, Us's, and Vanity Fair's have their interviews in them. Monsieur the magazine is no modern/information-laden rag; there are stories about women in aprons, fashion tips for men on how to cock their hats, and recipes for cocktails like the September Morn, the Pousse Cafe, and the Baltimore Bracer. The only ads selling anything are the verso of the front wrapper, and the recto of the rear wrapper; that's the way they made 'em, and smack in the middle or throughout, there is Eve. There is Bettie, there is Dawn Richards and Betty Brosmer, Iris Bristol and June Wilkinson, and on and on.