online community focused on sharing and reminiscing about video, audio, and images that stir our memories of the past – old television, theme songs, commercials, print advertisements, the sights and sounds you remember
Picture this: it’s 2006, the family computer is still 1), a thing that exists, and 2), is the cornerstone of your family room and your after school leisure time.
In this video, follow me as we go back nearly 20 years (what?!) to relive the memories behind the online world that shaped us, like Girlsgogames, Cool Math Games (a computer lab staple!), and the beloved characters that all lived on EverythingGirl.com!
Despite the death of Adobe Flash in 2020, which was required to run these games, there are still many ways to play these games and explore once-forgotten memories! From websites such as Numuki, and projects such as the Internet Archive and Ruffle Flash emulator, these games are all but gone. Tune in to learn more about these projects and the games you used to love!
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Lorraine Warren, the famed paranormal investigator whose adventures with her husband Ed made headlines worldwide, often told stories of haunted houses, cursed objects, and unexplainable encounters. But one of her more unusual tales didn’t involve ghosts at all—it involved late-night television’s master of mischief, David Letterman.
As Lorraine recalled, she was backstage for a TV appearance in California. Ed had been whisked away to makeup in another room, leaving Lorraine momentarily on her own. Out of nowhere, Letterman himself appeared—and without so much as a formal introduction, planted a kiss right on her lips!
Before she could even process what had happened, Ed walked back in. With the quick wit of a man who had seen it all, Ed simply remarked, “You know, sir, a guy usually needs permission to do that.” Lorraine laughed as she recounted the story, jokingly calling Letterman “that incurable romantic,” and making sure to add with a chuckle, “God, I’d never want to be one of his women!”
The timeline is a little fuzzy—back when Letterman was still working on NBC out West, before his move to CBS and the famed Ed Sullivan Theater in New York—but Lorraine never forgot the moment. After all, it wasn’t every day that a ghost hunter found herself haunted by a late-night host with puckish charm.
For someone who faced down demons and possessed dolls, perhaps the most surprising thing of all was that a kiss from David Letterman made it into her long, storied career of unusual encounters.
A recently found report card envelope from West Havelock School, belonging to first-grader Stephen Krauchick (RetroSite founder), offers a snapshot of a time when local businesses played a key role in supporting public education. Printed on sturdy kraft paper and bearing the Chevrolet bowtie logo, the envelope was provided courtesy of Aubrey Johnson Chevrolet, Inc. of New Bern, North Carolina.
From the 1940s through the 1970s, schools across America often relied on partnerships with local merchants to furnish essential printed materials. Budgets were limited, and items such as report card envelopes, homework folders, and event programs were commonly paid for by nearby businesses in exchange for advertising space. This arrangement not only saved schools money but also gave companies a unique and lasting presence in local households.
Chevrolet dealerships were among the most visible sponsors, leveraging their strong community ties to keep their names in front of families year-round. Each grading period, parents would see the dealership’s logo when reviewing their child’s progress—an inexpensive, high-impact form of marketing in an era before mass digital communication. These simple supplies were more than paper and ink; they were a reminder of the close-knit relationship between schools and the businesses that helped support them.
In the late 1960s, the makers of Maypo cereal launched a humorous twist on their famous “I Want My Maypo” slogan by recruiting some of the biggest names in sports. Baseball legend Mickey Mantle, football great Johnny Unitas, and basketball star Oscar Robertson—along with other sports icons—were featured in TV and print ads dramatically declaring, “I want my Maypo!”
The campaign, created by ad man George Lois, played off the tough, competitive images of these athletes by showing them in exaggerated, childlike poses, pleading for the maple-flavored oatmeal. Originally popularized in the 1950s by the animated character Marky Maypo, the slogan was given fresh life by this star-powered approach, turning a children’s breakfast cereal into a pop culture talking point. The ads became memorable for their unexpected humor and helped keep the brand in the public eye for years.
During Mantle’s early years in Major League Baseball — starting with his rookie season in 1951 — player salaries were modest compared to today. The reserve clause in players’ contracts bound them to one team, leaving them with little negotiating power. Mantle’s starting salary with the Yankees was $7,500 — respectable at the time but not enough to live on year-round or support a family.
To supplement his income, Mantle, like many of his teammates, took on blue-collar offseason jobs. Some of his offseason work included:
Working in the mines in Oklahoma (where his father and grandfather had also worked).
Operating a pump truck for an oil company, as suggested by the photo you provided.
Taking part in barnstorming tours (playing exhibition games).
Making appearances or working promotional gigs, once his fame grew.
Mantle’s Roots
Mickey Mantle grew up in Commerce, Oklahoma, a working-class mining town. His family had deep ties to manual labor — his father, Elvin “Mutt” Mantle, worked in the local lead and zinc mines. Mutt was also Mickey’s first and most dedicated baseball coach. This upbringing instilled a strong work ethic in Mickey, and he never saw himself as above a hard day’s work — even when he was the starting center fielder for the New York Yankees.
Mantle on Money and Work
Mantle once remarked on how little money there was in baseball when he started:
“I thought I was doing great when they paid me $7,500 my rookie year. I was just happy to be playing.”
He didn’t reach six-figure salaries until well into his career. By contrast, modern players can earn that much in a single at-bat.
“WIN buttons” from the 1970s refer to a campaign launched by U.S. President Gerald Ford in 1974 called “Whip Inflation Now” (WIN). The campaign was part of Ford’s effort to combat the high inflation that plagued the U.S. economy during the mid-1970s.
Background
After the 1973 oil crisis and years of government spending on the Vietnam War and social programs, the U.S. faced rampant inflation.
President Ford addressed Congress on October 8, 1974, proposing a range of voluntary measures for Americans to curb inflation, such as conserving energy and reducing spending.
The WIN Campaign
WIN buttons were handed out as a form of patriotic encouragement. Americans were urged to wear them to show their commitment to fighting inflation.
The idea was that grassroots efforts—like saving money, avoiding waste, and boosting productivity—would help stabilize prices.
Public Reaction
The campaign was widely mocked and is often remembered as a failed public relations stunt.
Critics said the campaign lacked substance and placed too much responsibility on individuals rather than addressing deeper economic policies.
Some even wore the WIN buttons upside down, so they read “NIM”—interpreted as “Need Immediate Money.”
Legacy
Despite its failure, the WIN campaign is a memorable example of 1970s-era economic policy and presidential messaging.
It’s often cited in history and economics classes as a case study in how not to handle economic crises with symbolism over substance.
This vintage photo shows a fascinating glimpse into air travel from the 1950s. What you’re looking at is an old airplane cabin featuring an unusual amenity: a baby bassinet suspended above the seats, mounted to the overhead luggage rack.
These airborne bassinets were part of early commercial airliners’ efforts to accommodate families traveling with infants. The baby appears to be safely tucked into a canvas-style cradle, and a flight attendant is checking on the child while passengers below watch or relax.
This setup would never meet today’s safety standards, but at the time, it was seen as a convenient way to let parents rest while the baby was secured overhead.
While many recognize the smiling chef on the label of Chef Boyardee cans, few realize he was a real person: Ettore Boiardi, an Italian immigrant whose culinary legacy continues to feed millions.
Born in Piacenza, Italy in 1897, Boiardi immigrated to the United States in 1914. By his twenties, he had already made a name for himself as a talented chef, even helping cater President Woodrow Wilson’s wedding reception at The Greenbrier Hotel. Eventually settling in Cleveland, Ohio, Boiardi opened his own restaurant, Il Giardino d’Italia, in 1924.
Customers loved his food so much that they began asking for takeaway portions of his pasta and sauce. To meet demand, Boiardi and his family started bottling his recipes, using old milk bottles to package his now-famous tomato sauce. In 1928, this side project officially became Chef Boy-Ar-Dee—a phonetic spelling that helped American consumers pronounce his Italian name.
The brand quickly expanded and gained national recognition. During World War II, Boiardi’s factory pivoted to produce rations for U.S. soldiers overseas, earning him a Gold Star award from the War Department for excellence in wartime production.
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Today, the Chef Boyardee label—now owned by ConAgra Brands—remains a household name. It continues to produce popular products like beef ravioli, spaghetti and meatballs, and beefaroni, all while keeping the iconic image of Boiardi on its packaging.
Far from being just a convenient canned meal, Chef Boyardee is a story of immigrant success, culinary passion, and American ingenuity—one spoonful at a time.
In the 1980s and 1990s, Saturday morning cartoons weren’t just entertainment—they were part of a broader marketing strategy designed to sell toys directly to kids. These shows blended colorful characters, high-stakes storylines, and action-packed sequences with one clear goal: move merchandise.
It all started to shift in 1984, when the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) rolled back rules restricting how children’s programming could promote products. This opened the door for shows to be built entirely around toy lines, so long as they weren’t technically “commercials.” The result? A wave of cartoons whose primary purpose was to advertise action figures, vehicles, and playsets—just without calling it that.
One of the early and most influential examples was G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero, which launched in 1983 as a five-part animated miniseries. Created in collaboration between Hasbro and Marvel, the series introduced new characters and gear in sync with upcoming toy releases. Each episode essentially served as a preview for the next round of toys hitting store shelves.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles followed in 1987, turning a dark independent comic into a brightly-colored, kid-friendly franchise. The show’s ever-expanding cast of mutants, gadgets, and villains made it a merchandising powerhouse. In fact, toy ideas often drove the direction of the show’s plots, with new characters or weapons added simply to match what was about to hit retail.
By the 1990s, the formula was fully in motion. Street Sharks, debuting in 1994, was practically reverse-engineered from a toy line. With oversized muscles, bold colors, and gimmick features, the characters were built to stand out in toy aisles. The show followed suit, showcasing their signature powers and vehicles in ways that emphasized how fun they’d be to own.
Behind the scenes, studios were choosing shows based on toy shelf appeal, not storytelling strength. It became common for animation writers to get notes not from producers, but from toy companies. The logic was simple: if a character couldn’t be turned into a toy, why write them into the script?
But as the 2000s neared, this model faced increasing criticism. Advocacy groups and concerned parents began pushing back, arguing that these cartoons blurred the line between content and advertising in ways that exploited children’s impressionability. The FCC responded with stricter rules around advertising to kids, especially regarding shows that aired during weekend mornings or claimed to be “educational.”
Networks, under pressure, began stepping away from overt toy tie-ins. At the same time, the rise of cable TV and digital platforms gave studios more freedom to create content not strictly tied to merchandise. Slowly, the golden age of the toy-based cartoon faded, leaving behind a legacy of plastic nostalgia—and a generation that grew up watching ads they didn’t even realize were ads.
If you were a kid in the late ’90s or early 2000s, odds are your childhood wasn’t just fueled by sugar—it was weaponized by it. This was the golden age of novelty lollipops: candy that doubled as a fashion statement, a toy, or sometimes just a chaotic mess in your backpack. Push Pops, Ring Pops, Baby Bottle Pops, and the short-lived Lollipop Paint Shop weren’t just treats; they were experiences. Messy, colorful, slightly dangerous experiences.
While Lollipop Paint Shop is no longer a thing, you can relive your childhood and try out the other three here! Let us know if you want more videos on retro candies from your childhood
Push Pops hit shelves back in the ‘80s, but they hit their stride in the late ‘90s and early 2000s. The idea was simple: a tube of flavored hard candy you could push up and save for later. In theory. In reality, that cap was either instantly lost or coated in a layer of sticky backpack lint. And trying to bite into one after it dried out felt like gnawing on a sugar geode.
Ring Pops actually debuted in the late ’70s, invented by a man who wanted to help his child kick a thumb-sucking habit. But it was the ’90s reboot that turned them into candy royalty. Suddenly, every playground had kids strutting around like royalty, showing off their syrupy gemstones. Cool—until your fingers turned blue from the dye and the once-smooth candy started forming edges sharp enough to leave a mark.
Then there was Baby Bottle Pop, launched in 1998 and absolutely engineered for kids raised on commercials and catchy jingles. It was half candy, half toy: a baby bottle-shaped lollipop you dipped into sour powder again and again until it was crusted, sticky, and impossible to put down. The bottle shape made it feel interactive, and if you were a kid at the time, the jingle was permanently etched into your brain.
Lollipop Paint Shop followed a similar formula, taking the same powder-dipping concept and turning it into an art project gone sideways. The lollipop came in the shape of a paintbrush, and you’d dunk it into candy “paint” before brushing it across your tongue. It didn’t last long on shelves, but it was absolute chaos while it was here—finger-staining, powder-spilling, high-fructose chaos. It felt more like a craft activity than a snack.
Baby Bottle Pop and Lollipop Paint Shop shared the same core concept: interactive, hands-on candy with powder-dipping mechanics. But where Baby Bottle Pop had structure and branding, Paint Shop leaned hard into the messier, more chaotic energy—and probably stained more T-shirts in the process.
What tied all of these together was their strange obsession with hard, glassy sugar. They were fun, loud, and dangerous in a way candy just isn’t anymore. And let’s be honest—most of us walked away with blue tongues and at least one small cut from the sugar shiv left behind at the end.
