CLOSE
Original image
BambooTrading.com

13 Vintage Internet Ads Begging You to Get Online

Original image
BambooTrading.com

These days, the internet is an integral part of our lives—but it wasn’t long ago that most people had never even heard of the net, let alone used it. Here are a few fun vintage ads from a time when ISPs actually had to sell people on the idea of using the World Wide Web.

Special thanks to Wired Reread, which features scans of old ads from Wired magazine back issues.

1. You Know What She Doesn’t Like

Loni here is a bad girl with no time for knitting discussions. Don’t you want to meet her? Prodigy put this sexy gal at the front and center of this ad from 1995.

2. One Free Call Gets It All

Sex sells, and so does the WWF (the previous name of the WWE). If you thought all the largely unregulated porn sites were over the top in the '90s, you obviously never saw AOL’s WWF portal that was apparently “The Hottest Place In Cyberspace.”

3. Working to Put Service First

Ah the good old days, when two business colleagues could bond by filing their tax returns together from this 1999 ad.

4. Get Flat

It seems that getting your face run over by a steamroller was an attractive option when Pipeline USA released this ad in 1995. At the time, offering a flat rate internet service was a huge deal, since most providers were charging hourly rates—so even something this hideous still seemed like an attractive offer to many customers.

5. That’s Why We Make Modems

These days, we tend to take connectivity for granted. But remember how, before the internet, you had to install the software for anything you wanted to do on your computer's hard drive? This Motorola ad might not have foreseen the popularity of social networks, but otherwise they pretty much nailed how most workers use their days on the computer.

6. Get the Most Out of It

Oh Herbie, you aren’t exactly the poster child for “the cool kids,” are you? That’s OK—as long as you can travel to a galaxy far away while your mom and dad prepare to take a real vacation. What is impressive about this 1983 CompuServe ad is that it names three things we still use the net for: travel booking, financial planning, and gaming.

7. Welcome to Someday

On the other hand, 1982 CompuServe ad writers seemed to believe that white was the only color available for home and clothing design, so they certainly weren’t able to predict everything that would happen in the future (but then again, maybe someday just isn’t yet today).

8. Some Breakthroughs Require Longer Explanations

To explain the Internet today, you’d just have to say “all the cat videos and porn you can imagine." But customers in 1986 needed a little more detailed explanation—especially since cat videos weren’t widely available online at that point.

9. People Like Us

The beauty of this ad is that it really looks like a Geocities page—random, loud, and all over the place. It’s just missing a few dozen pop up ads and some dancing hamster animations. Many of us who started using the net when this ad came out in 1997 still have a touch of nostalgia when it comes to the train wrecks that were Geocities sites.

10. There Is No Wider Door

The concept of Video On Line was pretty revolutionary in 1995, and it would be years before most internet users actually had the technology to handle video streaming in any real capacity. Even so, something about a man chewing a mouse just doesn’t scream “watch videos online” to me. But I guess I wasn’t their target demographic back then.

11. What Excites You?

This ad focused on things that excited Bill Clinton in 1998.

12. A Long, Long Time Ago

If you remember the '90s at all, you remember the constant bombardment of AOL floppy discs and CDs. Amazingly, this ad was from 1993, a year before they decided to introduce their massive distribution of over 300 million pieces of software-turned-coasters.

13. Crank It Up!

This one's not a straight ad, but it tells readers to “get real” ... if you downloaded RealAudio that is. By downloading RealAudio, you would not only be able to listen to radio broadcasts from around the globe and live sports coverage, but even the Oscar Meyer wiener song. How could anyone pass that up?
* * *
When did you get online? Do you remember what ISP you used? Did you have a Geocities page? And what was your search engine of choice?

Original image
iStock
arrow
Design
How Cambodian Refugees Started the Pink Doughnut Box Trend
Original image
iStock

Like the red-and-green cardboard pizza boxes or white Chinese takeout containers, many doughnut boxes share a certain look regardless of where you buy them. This is especially true in Southern California: Order a dozen crullers from one of the region's many independently-run doughnut shops and you’ll likely receive them in a glossy pink box. According to Great Big Story, this trend can be traced back to an influential immigrant business owner.

In the 1970s, Ted Ngoy moved to Southern California as a refugee from Cambodia. Much of Los Angeles's current doughnut scene is thanks to him: He opened dozens of doughnut shops of his own and helped fellow Cambodian refugees in the area get started in the business. Along with passing down entrepreneurial advice, he also inspired them to choose the light pink boxes that he used in his stores. As Ngoy recalled years later, either he or his business partner, Ning Yen, started the trend after asking their supplier for a cheaper alternative to the traditional white boxes. The company was able to offer them pink boxes at a discount. Because red is considered a lucky color in many Asian cultures, the distinctive shade stuck.

Today, many doughnut places in L.A. County are still owned by Cambodian-American immigrants and their families, and they still use the same old-school packaging Ngoy and his partner popularized 40 years ago.

You can get the full origin story in the video below.

[h/t Great Big Story]

Original image
davi_deste via eBay
arrow
Pop Culture
Fumbled: The Story of the United States Football League
Original image
davi_deste via eBay

There were supposed to be 44 players marching to the field when the visiting Los Angeles Express played their final regular season game against the Orlando Renegades in June 1985.

Thirty-six of them showed up. The team couldn’t afford more.

“We didn’t even have money for tape,” Express quarterback Steve Young said in 1986. “Or ice.” The squad was so poor that Young played fullback during the game. They only had one, and he was injured.

Other teams had ridden school buses to practice, driven three hours for “home games,” or shared dressing room space with the local rodeo. In August 1986, the cash-strapped United States Football League called off the coming season. The league itself would soon vaporize entirely after gambling its future on an antitrust lawsuit against the National Football League. The USFL argued the NFL was monopolizing television time; the NFL countered that the USFL—once seen as a promising upstart—was being victimized by its own reckless expansion and the wild spending of team owners like Donald Trump.

They were both right.

Getty Images

Spring football. That was David Dixon’s pitch. The New Orleans businessman and football advocate—he helped get the Saints in his state—was a fan of college ball and noticed that spring scrimmages at Tulane University led to a little more excitement in the air. With a fiscally responsible salary cap in place and a 12-team roster, he figured his idea could be profitable. Market research agreed: a hired broadcast research firm asserted 76 percent of fans would watch what Dixon had planned.

He had no intention of grappling with the NFL for viewers. That league’s season aired from September through January, leaving a football drought March through July. And in 1982, a players’ strike led to a shortened NFL season, making the idea of an alternative even more appealing to networks. Along with investors for each team region, Dixon got ABC and the recently-formed ESPN signed to broadcast deals worth a combined $35 million over two years.

When the Chicago Blitz faced the Washington Federals on the USFL’s opening day March 6, 1983, over 39,000 fans braved rain at RFK Stadium in Washington to see it. The Federals lost 28-7, foreshadowing their overall performance as one of the league’s worst. Owner Berl Bernhard would later complain the team played like “untrained gerbils.”

Anything more coordinated might have been too expensive. The USFL had instituted a strict $1.8 million salary cap that first year to avoid franchise overspending, but there were allowances made so each team could grab one or two standout rookies. In 1983, the big acquisition was Heisman Trophy winner Herschel Walker, who opted out of his senior year at Georgia to turn pro. Walker signed with the New Jersey Generals in a three-year, $5 million deal.

Jim Kelly and Steve Young followed. Stan White left the Detroit Lions. Marcus Dupree left college. The rosters were built up from scratch using NFL cast-offs or prospects from nearby colleges, where teams had rights to “territorial” drafts.

To draw a line in the sand, the USFL had advertising play up the differences between the NFL’s product and their own. Their slogan, “When Football Was Fun,” was a swipe at the NFL’s increasingly draconian rules regarding players having any personality. They also advised teams to run a series of marketable halftime attractions. The Denver Gold once offered a money-back guarantee for attendees who weren’t satisfied. During one Houston Gamblers game, boxer George Foreman officiated a wedding. Cars were given away at Tampa Bay Bandits games. The NFL, the upstart argued, stood for the No Fun League.

For a while, it appeared to be working. The Panthers, which had invaded the city occupied by the Detroit Lions, averaged 60,000 fans per game, higher than their NFL counterparts. ABC was pleased with steady ratings. The league was still conservative in their spending.

That would change—many would argue for the worse—with the arrival of Donald Trump.

Despite Walker’s abilities on the field, his New Jersey Generals ended the inaugural 1983 season at 6-12, one of the worst records in the league. The excitement having worn off, owner J. Walter Duncan decided to sell the team to real estate investor Trump for a reported $5-9 million.

A fixture of New York media who was putting the finishing touches on Trump Tower, Trump introduced two extremes to the USFL. His presence gave the league far more press attention than it had ever received, but his bombastic approach to business guaranteed he wouldn’t be satisfied with an informal salary cap. Trump spent and spent some more, recruiting players to improve the Generals. Another Heisman winner, quarterback Doug Flutie, was signed to a five-year, $7 million contract, the largest in pro football at the time. Trump even pursued Lawrence Taylor, then a player for the New York Giants, who signed a contract saying that, after his Giants contract expired, he’d join Trump’s team. The Giants wound up buying out the Taylor/Trump contract for $750,000 and quadrupled Taylor’s salary, and Trump wound up with pages of publicity.

Trump’s approach was effective: the Generals improved to 14-4 in their sophomore season. But it also had a domino effect. In order to compete with the elevated bar of talent, other team owners began spending more, too. In a race to defray costs, the USFL approved six expansion teams that paid a buy-in of $6 million each to the league.

It did little to patch the seams. Teams were so cash-strapped that simple amenities became luxuries. The Michigan Panthers dined on burnt spaghetti and took yellow school buses to training camp; players would race to cash checks knowing the last in line stood a chance of having one bounce. When losses became too great, teams began to merge with one another: The Washington Federals became the Orlando Renegades. By the 1985 season, the USFL was down to 14 teams. And because the ABC contract required the league to have teams in certain top TV markets, ABC started withholding checks.

Trump was unmoved. Since taking over the Generals, he had been petitioning behind the scenes for the other owners to pursue a shift to a fall season, where they would compete with the NFL head on. A few owners countered that fans had already voiced their preference for a spring schedule. Some thought it would be tantamount to league suicide.

Trump continued to push. By the end of the 1984 season, he had swayed opinion enough for the USFL to plan on one final spring block in 1985 before making the move to fall in 1986.

In order to make that transition, they would have to win a massive lawsuit against the NFL.

In the mid-1980s, three major networks meant that three major broadcast contracts would be up for grabs—and the NFL owned all three. To Trump and the USFL, this constituted a monopoly. They filed suit in October 1984. By the time it went to trial in May 1986, the league had shrunk from 18 teams to 14, hadn’t hosted a game since July 1985, kept only threadbare rosters, and was losing what existing television deals it had by migrating to smaller markets (a major part of the NFL’s case was that the real reason for the lawsuit, and the moves to smaller markets, was to make the league an attractive takeover prospect for the NFL). The ruling—which could have forced the NFL to drop one of the three network deals—would effectively become the deciding factor of whether the USFL would continue operations.

They came close. A New York jury deliberated for 31 hours over five days. After the verdict, jurors told press that half believed the NFL was guilty of being a monopoly and were prepared to offer the USFL up to $300 million in damages; the other half thought the USFL had been crippled by its own irresponsible expansion efforts. Neither side would budge.

To avoid a hung jury, it was decided they would find in favor of the USFL but only award damages in the amount of $1. One juror told the Los Angeles Times that she thought it would be an indication for the judge to calculate proper damages.

He didn’t. The USFL was awarded treble damages for $3 in total, an amount that grew slightly with interest after time for appeal. The NFL sent them a payment of $3.76. (Less famously, the NFL was also ordered to pay $5.5 million in legal fees.)

Rudy Shiffer, vice-president of the Memphis Showboats, summed up the USFL's fate shortly after the ruling was handed down. “We’re dead,” he said.

SECTIONS

arrow
LIVE SMARTER
More from mental floss studios