Bluemerle

Donny? please

Bobby? fat

David? Delicate


What set my tweeny-bopper heart on fire?
Rawr.
Tell me where it hurts, babe'.



Here's why I hate my mother: I never got to hear Chad Everett sing.

My sister and I snuck downstairs to the family room to watch special guest star Chad Everett sing on the Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour.

Of all the times for my mother to be on one of her unpredictable, rare and short-lived efforts to introduce some bedtime structure into her children's lives. 355 days out of the rest of that year, she didn't give a rats patootie. This one, single greatest, special irreplaceable night of Chad Everett talent, bed at 9:00.

We hid behind the Ethan Allen armchair, but we got busted.

Ain't no sunshine when Chad is Gone.

I was sure I was going to grow up and be both Josephine Gannon, M.D.,
AND Mrs. Chad F. Everett.

UPDATE: Hmmmm.


While I sighed at every snap of Joe Gannon's latex gloves, across town, my teen-aged, liscensed-to-drive Future lurked in the Wells family manse unaware of my designs



Pretty Darn Close, if you ask me. Only the profile is better.