If we don't get the under 35 year old people involved in nudism it won't last into the 21st Century.

On Sep 7, 2:37 am, "blondie64" <[email protected]> wrote:

> dario have you ever been to a naturist swim in the UK in the last 10 years?
> you geuinely find the age group attending is over 40 y/o let alone over 35
> y/o so givingan enticement for a younger market is good business sense  as
> if you don't start encouraging younger people you will find your member
> would have passed away and your club with it soon afterwards!
> if you look at Eureka's website in Kent UK there have some wonderful shot of
> events in the 70's & 80's which were well attended but it does appear the
> club is less attended now and the atmosphere may have changed?
>
> Ric blondie64

Yeah if we don't get a young crowd in I doubt nudism will last much
into the 1990s.

Just look at this article.

http://www.time.com/time/printout/0,8816,905385,00.html

Monday, Jul. 19, 1971
Modern Living: The Decline of Nudism

Balmy Southern California has long been a natural habitat for nudists.
But now the new permissiveness has caught up with this once-daring
tribe. After visiting a former citadel of the cult near Los Angeles,
TIME Correspondent Timothy Tyler reports:

Mel Hocker, one of the alltime great American nudists, is still out
there in the nude. But he is not smiling and carefree, the way you
would imagine a nudist to be. At 60, Mel sits alone in his little
office, a mass of naked wrinkles, glum, dispirited, forlorn. Forlorn
because just outside Mel's screen door, his own twelve-acre nudist club
—the Oakdale Guest Ranch—is going silently to seed in the dry heat of
the San Bernardino Mountains. In fact, the club's membership in two
years has plummeted from 300 to 60 couples, and it continues to
plummet as the elderly members die off. Another nudist camp near by
recently closed up for good.

"It's the sexual revolution that's killing us," moans Mel, who has
been nude nonstop now for 18 years. "The pornographic movies, the
topless-bottomless bars, the dirty magazines—they're making nudism in
America passé." To show what he means, Mel slips into shower clogs and
takes us on a tour of his camp, mercifully letting us keep our pants
on. The layout of the place hints of its past grandeur: 16 rustic
cabins idling on a hillside, and down on the flat, dozens of vacant
trailer slips where you can almost envision happy, laughing naked
people swarming around gaily decorated mobile homes. But now, Mel
says, the remaining members are mostly middle-aged and elderly couples
who come out only on the warm weekends. The grandiose pool is empty,
tennis and volleyball courts are unused, nets hanging limp in the sun.

The only sounds of life come from a screened hut with a sign on it
that says CORNER NUDE STAND. Inside, a pretty young woman is dancing
nude to a jukebox; the other patrons, mostly older males, sit drinking
beer, droning apathetically and ignoring the woman. A sign on the wall
says NUDI BURGERS. MORE MEAT LESS DRESSING. Hocker sits down, sips a
Coke and brightens somewhat. "I pioneered in nudism, you know" he
shouts over the music. "We were the first nudist place to serve beer,
and we were first with nude dancing. This place has attracted your
professional people, right down to the honorable janitor who pushes
the broom."

Hard to Upstage. Hocker's mind slips gradually back into nudism's
past, and he glowingly recalls how he became a nudist in the sedate
year of 1953. That was back when he was living in Long Beach and
nudism was still considered risqué. In their search for an outdoor
health spa, Hocker and his wife Ann stumbled on nudism. "We were the
talk of Long Beach for a long time," recalls Ann (equally nude), her
eyes gleaming with a certain mischievous pride. After four years
Hocker quit his job as a cost analyst with the Ford Motor Co., bought
Oakdale, an established nudist club just outside San Bernardino, and
made nudism a full-time way of life. "You can't beat it," says Hocker.
"It's so — natural. It just seems right not to wear clothes. You can't
upstage anybody around here with a mink coat or a good suit. Haha. And
then there's the sun. Believe me, after a weekend out here in the
nude, you can really kill 'em on your job."

But in the last few years, as the sexual revolution progressed, the
once tantalizing concept of prancing nude through the woods came to
seem tame indeed to Southern Californians. Even last year's special
event—nude skydiving with music by 15 bare members of the Long Beach
Municipal Band—was sparsely attended. Just as well, perhaps, since one
hapless skydiver was badly scratched when he landed in a buckthorn
patch.

Looking for Longhairs. Now, it appears, Oakdale has only one slim
chance left for survival: a transfusion of good old American public
relations techniques. Earlier this year Hocker decided to hire Sparky
Blaine, a promoter and manager of topless dancing girls, to push
Oakdale back into the big time. For Sparky, 43, Oakdale was a
revelation. He abandoned his Beverly Hills office, together with his
clothes, philosophizing that "I do most of my work by phone anyway,"
and moved right into one of the Oakdale cabins. "Out here," he mused,
"I can float nude in the pool while my nude secretary sits on the edge
and takes a letter—working conditions are marvelous."

Sparky's big job is to promote the Miss Nude Cosmos Pageant, a nude
beauty contest held at Oakdale each summer. His first change has been
to bill the pageant "The Woodstock of the Nudist Movement." He
explains: "We've got to get the longhairs in here. Only way to save
the place. And why not? They took their clothes off at Woodstock. Why
can't they do it here?

"The old nudes have got to step aside or this place is going to die.
What we should do, we should let all the good-looking girls join free,
then we'd have something. It's youth, baby, that's where it's at. The
old blood's dying with the trees." Sparky continues ecstatically:
"Just give me ten showgirls out here, and varoom, the young guys'll
come out of Los Angeles in first gear. I'm putting up a big stand; I'm
gonna have two go-go girls dancing on top of it at night, with
spotlights on 'em, so people can see 'em from the highway."

At 60, Mel Hocker sits alone in his little office, a mass of naked
wrinkles, glum, dispirited, forlorn, brooding about the passing of the
golden age of nudism and wearily watching Sparky Blaine trying to
create a last varoom.