Bob Dylan at the Bitter End

Today, the Bitter End calls itself the oldest rock ’n’ roll club in New York City, and it was certainly an early staple of Greenwich Village’s music scene. Opened in 1961 by future Hollywood film producer Fred Weintraub, the unassuming Bleecker Street coffeehouse quickly gained a reputation for showcasing new talent. One of the earliest acts to play the Bitter End was a then-unknown trio called Peter, Paul, and Mary. In late 1961, the club placed ads in The New York Times urging people to catch the group before they outgrew the intimate room. By January 1962, Peter, Paul, and Mary had signed a record deal, and later that year, they used the club’s signature exposed brick walls as the backdrop for their debut album cover.

When Dylan arrived in the Village from Minnesota in early 1961, he became one of the up-and-coming performers who graced the Bitter End’s stage in its early years. Though he began as one of many young folk singers on the scene, Dylan quickly emerged as the voice of a generation; his songwriting helped to define the 1960s folk revival and position Greenwich Village as the center of a cultural shift. Later, in the 1970s, Dylan returned to the Bitter End not just as a performer but as a fan, dropping by to watch others play or to shoot pool with peers such as Kris Kristofferson. The club briefly changed its name to the Other End under new owner Paul Colby in the 1970s and ’80s, but eventually returned to its original moniker. It remains the Bitter End to this day.

Allen Ginsberg Protests Vietnam

Greenwich Village was a breeding ground for the countercultural energy of the 1960s. Though the neighborhood had been home to artists and freethinkers for much of the 20th century, by the mid-1960s, the folk revival was in full swing, and musicians such as Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, and Phil Ochs were increasingly vocal in the anti-war movement. In March 1966, Vietnam War protests swelled across the country; tens of thousands of people marched on Fifth Avenue in New York City in what was then the largest anti-war demonstration to date. 

More than 20,000 protesters were joined by some of Greenwich Village’s leading counterculture figureheads. In this photo, legendary Beat poet and vocal Vietnam War critic Allen Ginsberg is pictured in an Uncle Sam hat. He’s joined by members of the underground psychedelic folk rock group the Fugs. Formed by poets Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg, the Fugs and their irreverent critiques of mainstream American culture made them a cult favorite in the 1960s Village scene where they frequented live clubs such as Cafe Wha?.

Washington Square Park

Even before the folk revival hit full swing, Washington Square Park was already a sanctuary for musicians and music lovers alike. Throughout the 1950s, people armed with guitars, banjos, bongos, and mandolins gathered every Sunday to sing and share folk, blues, and more music.

But in the spring of 1961, NYC Parks Commissioner Newbold Morris began enforcing a city law requiring permits for musical performances in the park. While the crackdown was said to be supported by nearby residents concerned about crowds, many suspected that authorities wanted to silence the voices of a growing youth movement. 

On Sunday, April 9, 1961, musicians gathered in the park even though permits had been denied. The protest was led by Izzy Young, a pillar in the music scene as the owner of Greenwich Village’s iconic Folklore Center. Police responded with force and arrests in a clash that became known as the Beatnik Riot. That Sunday marked a cultural turning point: a new generation pushing back against authority. The city eventually relented, and throughout the rest of the decade, Washington Square Park remained a hub for protest, performance, and political expression.

Bohemian Style 

Bohemianism took hold in New York long before the Beat Generation or hippie countercultures. In the mid-19th century, Greenwich Village was home to writers such as Henry Clapp Jr., known as the “King of Bohemia” and credited with introducing the Parisian ideal of bohemianism — an artistic and non-materialistic lifestyle — to the American literary scene. A century later, the Village attracted a new wave of dreamers. Through the 1950s, the literary rebels known as the Beats inspired a subsequent beatnik subculture, and in the 1960s, hippies adapted similar ideals into a movement centered on personal freedom and social justice. Their shared bohemian sensibilities helped keep the Village a haven for free spirits and artistic freedom.

The fashion seen around the Village in the 1960s was both eclectic and deliberate, as well as comfortable and carefree. This 1967 snapshot captures the vibe: A young woman in a gingham dress and beads has her face painted by a fellow hippie in a bold-patterned headband and shirt, as both of them audition as extras for the Sidney Poitier film For Love of Ivy. By the end of the 1960s, the bohemian spirit that shaped Greenwich Village had spread far beyond it, reaching its peak just 100 miles upstate at the Woodstock Music Festival, where upwards of 500,000 people gathered in the name of peace, love, and music.

Built-In Air Conditioning

In a world before air conditioning, managing temperature inside a house was an important daily effort, especially when old-fashioned stoves were being used inside. Having two front doors offered a practical advantage in warm weather. Keeping both doors open, particularly if one or both led to a long central corridor running the length of the house, could create a cross-breeze, drawing cooler air into the building. 

This seems to be the case in the folk houses of Kentucky, where one front door opened onto the kitchen with its wood-burning stove, helping to keep the kitchen cool. And in some old houses, one of the two front doors might have opened directly into the master bedroom, helping to cool the space on hot nights. 

Coffin Doors, Newlyweds, and More

Many alternative theories exist to explain why some old houses have two front doors, but they often lack strong supporting evidence. Some suggest that one door is a so-called “coffin door,” reserved exclusively for funerals. But coffin doors, if they existed at all (the theory is questionable), would not typically have been placed right next to a second front door, and would more likely have been placed at the side of the house leading directly into a parlor or living room. 

Other theories suggest that two doors were placed side by side in some kind of architectural quest for symmetry, especially in Georgian-style homes. But there is very little hard evidence, if any, to support this. Also, having one door placed centrally at the front of the house would provide just as much symmetry without adding a possibly superfluous door for the sake of aesthetic balance. 

Still other theories argue that having two front doors offered better options for escape if the house caught on fire; that one door was used as a private entrance for newlywed children; and that doors were a cheaper alternative to glass windows. All of these lack hard evidence, but in certain cases they might have played a part in the decision to build two front doors. 

The Cross Was a Powerful Symbol

Another theory points to the rise of Christianity. For early Christians, the cross carried obvious religious significance. The symbol had existed in various forms long before Christianity, but Christians gave it a distinct meaning through its association with the crucifixion. Making the sign of the cross was believed to offer protection, ward off evil, and invoke divine favor. Some folklorists have suggested that crossing one’s fingers may have developed as a smaller, more discreet version of this protective gesture.

According to one explanation, persecuted Christians used hand signs to identify fellow believers. One such gesture reportedly involved crossing the index fingers while touching the thumbs, helping form the outline of the ichthys, or fish symbol — an important early Christian emblem. While this theory does not fully explain how finger-crossing became associated with luck, it’s another line of thinking for why the crossed-fingers gesture may have carried connotations of blessing, protection, or hope long before it became a secular expression of good fortune.

Evidence for some of these specific stories is difficult to verify, and folklorists continue to debate how much influence early Christian practices had on the modern custom. Nonetheless, the association between the cross and good fortune became deeply embedded in European culture, making Christianity a plausible contributor to the gesture’s evolution.

From Sacred Symbol to Everyday Habit

Whatever its exact origins, finger-crossing gradually moved from the realm of ritual into everyday life. Many customs that began as serious religious or supernatural practices eventually became casual habits. Few people who knock on wood today are consciously invoking ancient beliefs about spirits dwelling in trees. Likewise, most people who cross their fingers are not thinking about pagan wishes or Christian symbols of protection.

Instead, the gesture has become a simple expression of hope. Language reflects this shift. By the early 20th century, English speakers were commonly using phrases such as “keep your fingers crossed” to mean “wish me luck” or “let’s hope things turn out well.” The gesture has become less important than the sentiment behind it.

Today, crossing your fingers requires no ceremony, no partner, and no special belief system. Yet every time someone crosses their fingers in hopes of a good outcome, they’re participating in a tradition that stretches back centuries.

Clackers 

Clackers — alternatively named Clankers or Ker-Bangers — consisted of two polymer balls attached to either end of a string. When swung, these two balls collided with each other, creating the satisfying clacking sound that gave them their name. They became very popular among American kids in the late 1960s and ’70s, but there was one major problem: The balls had a tendency to shatter after prolonged or overly forceful contact, sending sharp plastic shrapnel flying like tiny glass grenades. 

Soon, a growing number of reports of facial and eye injuries emerged, prompting the Food and Drug Administration (which regulated toy safety before the CPSC was formed) to issue a public warning in 1971. Many schools banned the nefarious toy, but it continued to be sold in shops. Eventually, Clackers were banned entirely by the CPSC in 1985.

Belt Buckle Gun

In 1959, Mattel introduced the Agent Zero Buckle Gun — a belt buckle holding a small gun. To fire it, kids had to push out their stomachs, which would make the gun flip out and fire the cap. . While kind of cool in principle, the toy had a major flaw: Any sudden movement could accidentally ignite the cap, potentially causing serious burns. With the CPSC not yet established, it was up to Mattel to do the right thing. The company quietly discontinued the dubious belt buckle gun — a toy that would be instantly banned today — consigning it to the annals of dangerous toy design.  

Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab 

Widely considered one of the most dangerous toys ever produced, the Gilbert U-238 Atomic Energy Lab was a children’s science kit containing actual radioactive material. (At the time, people were aware of the harmful nature of radioactive materials, but not fully aware of the risk posed by lengthy exposure to very small amounts.) Sold in the early 1950s, the $49.50 set came with four samples of uranium-bearing ores, a Geiger counter, and an instruction manual outlining various experiments to try at home. 

Thankfully, the Atomic Energy Lab sold fewer than 5,000 units before being quietly discontinued after about a year — not because of safety concerns, but because of the high price point and poor sales. The toy was never actually banned, which is pretty shocking by today’s standards. 

Lead-Based Face Paint 

In Elizabethan England, pale skin was fashionable, seen as a sign of wealth and leisure. To achieve the look, many women turned to a popular foundation known as Venetian ceruse. Made with vinegar, water, and white lead powder, it certainly cast women in their desired pallor. But used over extended periods, it could also lead to skin discoloration and hair loss; over a long time, exposure to lead can also cause neurological damage. 

Lead was present in other cosmetics at the time, too. Rouge was a common makeup often formulated from white lead with colored dyes mixed in. But Elizabethans weren’t the first to use lead in their beauty regimens: Evidence points to its use not only in ancient Roman times but also as far back as 3500 BCE in ancient Mesopotamia and 3000 BCE in ancient Egypt.

Belladonna Eyes

During the Renaissance era in Europe, especially in parts of Italy, beauty ideals often emphasized large, luminous eyes. To get the desired effect, some women used eyedrops made from Atropa belladonna, a highly toxic plant also known as deadly nightshade. The plant contains atropine — the compound that, in carefully measured, sterile doses, your eye doctor might give you today to dilate your pupils.  

That’s exactly what Venetian women were aiming for, too. But their doses were unregulated and applied repeatedly for the cosmetic effect of big, alluring eyes. The cost was high: Belladonna interferes with the nervous system and often causes blurred vision, extreme light sensitivity, and disorientation, with repeated use leading to long-term vision damage or blindness. 

X-Ray Hair Removal

When X-rays were discovered in 1895, they quickly earned a place in the public imagination as a kind of invisible, modern force that could do just about anything. By the early 20th century, that fascination had spilled into beauty culture, and clinics throughout North American and Europe began offering X-ray hair removal as a painless, high-tech alternative to shaving or waxing unwanted facial or body hair.

The treatment worked by damaging hair follicles with radiation exposure, leading to hair loss over time. Though that was the desired effect, what was not yet understood was the cumulative harm of the technology’s radiation. Many patients developed burns, chronic skin damage, and in some cases, cancer decades later. Eventually it became clear that the medical risks outweighed the perceived aesthetic benefits, and by the late 1940s, X-ray hair removal services were no longer offered.

Tapeworm Dieting

At the turn of the 20th century, weight-loss culture was already established, if much less publicly advertised than today. But it reached new levels with the emergence of tapeworm dieting.  Marketed through advertisements and distributed through unregulated mail-order products, the diet promised effortless slimming by ingesting tapeworm eggs, critters dubbed “friends for a fair form.” 

Once inside the body, the tapeworm would allegedly hatch and go on to absorb nutrients from food, supposedly allowing the host to eat as usual while still losing weight. When a person reached their desired weight, they were meant to take an anti-parasitic treatment to kill the tapeworm and simply pass it from the body. 

In reality, tapeworms can grow up to 30 feet long and cause people to have diarrhea, vomiting, malnutrition, as well as abdominal problems and more serious health concerns; they can also cause complications upon removal. While a 19th-century patent for a tapeworm trap does exist, designed to be used after ingesting the critter for weight loss, it’s likely that many of the marketed products contained laxatives or placebos instead of actual tapeworms, and the trend was all but abandoned by the mid-20th century. 

The Evolution of the Parlor

The parlor’s journey from the monastery to the middle-class home mirrors broader changes in architecture and social life. In medieval Europe, most domestic life took place in a single large hall. Privacy, in the modern sense, was rare. Over time, however, homes — especially among wealthier households — began to develop specialized rooms branching off from that central space. One of these was the parlor: a smaller, more controlled environment for conversation, business, or receiving select visitors.

Early on, the parlor wasn’t always the front-and-center “best room” we tend to imagine today. In some regions, it functioned as a private chamber or even a bedroom tucked away from the main living area. Only later — by the 18th century and especially the 19th century — did it become firmly established as a formal reception room, often located at the front of the house.

That shift coincided with the rise of the middle class in Europe. As industrialization created new wealth, families increasingly sought to display their status through their homes — and specifically through rooms designed to be seen. By the Victorian era, the parlor had become a kind of stage set: a carefully curated space where the household presented its best self to the outside world.

What Was a Parlor Good For?

At its most basic level, the parlor was for receiving guests. Social calls — brief, often highly ritualized visits — were a cornerstone of life in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the parlor provided the setting. Typically located just off the entryway, it allowed visitors to be entertained without granting them access to the more private (and perhaps messier) parts of the home.

But the parlor did much more than host polite conversation. It was also a showcase. By the Victorian era, parlors were often filled — sometimes to the point of excess — with decorative objects meant to signal taste, refinement, and, above all, prosperity. Mass production made a wide array of goods available, and families eagerly filled their parlors with items such as porcelain figurines, vases, mirrors, decorative plates, and framed photographs, as well as ferns in glass cases, taxidermied birds, Japanese fans, peacock feathers, ornate clocks, and richly upholstered furniture.

Much of this work fell to women, who were typically responsible for decorating and maintaining the parlor. Their choices helped define the household’s public image, turning the room into a carefully composed expression of identity and status. Critics at the time — notably sociologist Thorstein Veblen — described this as “conspicuous consumption,” a term Veblen coined in 1899. But for many families, it was simply part of participating in middle-class life.

The parlor wasn’t always a stiff or silent place, however. It was also a center of entertainment. Before the advent of radio and television, parlors hosted a wide range of activities, from amateur theatrical performances to music and games. Families gathered around the piano to sing or dance; guests acted out charades or participated in parlor games such as Sculptor, where players froze into dramatic tableaux. More energetic pastimes — such as Blind Man’s Buff, in which a blindfolded player tried to catch others — could turn the carefully arranged room into a site of chaos. Word games, riddles, and shadow plays offered quieter alternatives, combining amusement with displays of wit and education.

And the parlor’s uses extended even further. In the 19th century, it was not uncommon for families to lay out the dead in the parlor for wakes or viewings, allowing friends and relatives to pay their respects in the home itself. Over time, however, these practices began to shift. As noted in the Oxford Research Encyclopedia of American History, changing middle-class ideas about death moved “a respectable burial from the family parlor to the funeral parlor,” unlinking mourning from the domestic space.

In all these ways — social, aesthetic, and even ritual — the parlor functioned as a kind of public-facing heart of the home.

What Happened to Parlors?

By the early 20th century, the parlor began to lose its place in everyday life. Part of the problem was practicality. Parlors were often the most elaborately decorated rooms in a house, but also among the least used. Maintaining a space that existed primarily for occasional guests could feel wasteful, especially as ideas about home life shifted toward comfort and informality.

At the same time, social norms were changing. The rigid etiquette that governed formal visits began to fade, and families increasingly preferred spaces where they could relax rather than perform. The very qualities that had once made the parlor desirable — its formality, its separation from daily life — began to make it feel outdated.

In response, a new kind of room emerged: the living room. The name itself signaled a shift in priorities. Rather than a space reserved for appearances, the living room was designed for everyday use — a place to read, talk, and unwind. Later in the 20th century, additional informal spaces such as family rooms and rec rooms further blurred the boundaries between public and private life within the home.

The word “parlor” didn’t disappear entirely, but its meaning narrowed. It lingered in business names — ice cream parlors, beauty parlors, funeral parlors — where it retained its association with receiving the public in a designated space. In homes, however, it largely faded from use.

What remains is the idea behind it: that a room can be more than just a place to sit. For centuries, the parlor was where households performed their identity — where they spoke, displayed, entertained, and even mourned. Its disappearance marks not just a change in architecture, but a broader shift in how people think about privacy, status, and the meaning of home itself.