May 16, 2025 By Nick Jacobs 3 min read

As a teacher, husband, and new father in the ’70s, expectations of what it meant to be a man changed. I can remember telling a friend, “I grew up idolizing John Wayne and had to become Alan Alda.”

For my younger readers, it meant that men raised to admire the strong, silent, macho type like John Wayne had to adapt to the sensitivity and emotional intelligence portrayed by Alan Alda. (Look ’em up, kids.)

Lots of what was normal in the ’70s would be unthinkable now. Things like casual workplace sexual harassment, smoking in offices, restaurants, airplanes, and other public places, racist jokes and overtly discriminatory attitudes, plus homophobic language were all part of the culture. Seatbelts and child car seats were often nonexistent or ignored. Physical discipline at home and in schools was routine. At the school where I taught, a vice principal spent entire days doing nothing but paddling students. And drunken driving was about as common as littering and pollution.

See? We have made some progress.

Meanwhile, my weekends were jam packed. Saturdays meant teaching trumpet lessons all day and playing bar gigs at night in what we called “mouse bnds.” They were bands that played pop music instead of serious jazz. A good mouse band gig paid $20 for four hours, with maybe two drinks, and a 1 a.m. cheeseburger with fries (and years later, stents and heart valves).

One Saturday after a Pirates game at Forbes Field, a few friends, my wife, and I stopped for drinks and food at a bar owned by a Pittsburgh character known as “Froggy.” His bar? Bimbos.

Yes, in the ’70s, “bimbos” was then slang for attractive but supposedly unintelligent women – was considered harmless fun.

Steve “Froggy” Morris was a raspy-voiced local legend known for his hilarious “Diary of a Mad, Mad Saloon Keeper” newspaper ads. In 1967, Froggy bought his first bar with his poker winnings. His Oakland Bimbos quickly became a wild student hangout: whipped cream pies in the face on birthdays, live music, peanut shells crunching underfoot. It did so well, he opened two more.

That is where my story begins.

My Bimbos was a converted supermarket next to the old Greengate Mall in Greensburg. They parked a gutted fire truck inside and set up tables in the bed. The menu was heavy on pizza, peanuts, and beer – and the floor was always littered with those peanut shells.

My friend Mike got me the job playing Dixieland trumpet for a few great years. Saturday nights meant blowing through “Tequila Time” and “The Stripper” for packed crowds. It was the Baby Boomer version of an indoor Coachella – one band, one wild night. And the pay? (Are you ready for this?) Froggy paid $50 a night, plus drinks and pizza. That is almost $500 now, the equivalent to an entire Saturday of teaching trumpet lessons.

Getting home, though, was another story. The year-round drive from Greensburg to Johnstown meant battling fog, snow, rain – and sometimes deer or even bears. I was careful with my drinking because we had two babies at home. But the weather often made the road the bigger hazard.

Later, when I transitioned into health care, people couldn’t understand why I didn’t mind 60-hour weeks. But after juggling elementary, junior high and high school band programs, private lessons, and weekend gigs, it felt like the same schedule – just with slightly better pay.

Those days at Bimbos, the hard work and the fun music are long gone. But while the world keeps spinning forward, the memories and friendships last forever.

Nick Jacobs lives in Windber.