I really did commandeer that tiny television set once a week sometime after my mother was finished being indoctrinated by Walter Conkrite in order to watch stuff like this:
Well, then. That’s disgraceful. And embarrassing. As are these facts:
1) In the spring of 2000, I accidentally re-purchased all my vinyl PF albums on CD, so I could listen to them as I made myself breakfast-for-dinner nearly every weekday evening during the era when I moved Sports Afield from the East Coast to the West Coast (60- and 70-hour weeks; eek);
2) I once, also accidentally, saw David Cassidy at a supper club at the Rio in Las Vegas, while my husband and his best friend played blackjack and craps—and pretended I was off in the video poker section, behaving like a normal person (they had to concentrate very hard);
3) I own a copy of Come On, Get Happy. (No—it is not readable. Few celebrity bios are.)
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It’s one of those things for the pain it brings
You say to yourself “Hey, couldn’t I live without it?”
Well, I think so. (On the other hand, I doubt it.)
These things come crashing through my mind at the damnedest times.
I’d personally be more ashamed if I ever followed Bono, the soon-to-be toothless round mound of neo-Socialism.