Saturday, February 12, 2005

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment Dallas Edition

Mrs. Linklater's first attempt at this entry was scattered like dust to the wind when the SAVE freaking button wouldn't freaking SAVE.  And WORD wouldn't accept a COPY and PASTE.  [Here's a WORD or two for WORD -- FU.] And she couldn't email the entry to herself because she has to use here on her host's computer which, for some bleeping reason doesn't allow cutting and pasting.  Insert fowl language here:  Chickenbleepingbleep.  Freak. Freak. Freak. And I'm not talking about Jevon Kearse.

Okay, today's Zen moment: When Murphy's Law can apply it will apply.  

Mrs. Linklater was in Dallas on bidness.  So she decided to stay the weekend to visit with friends.  Luckily she brought clothes for the occasion -- her burnt umber TEXAS hoody and her favorite black sweats. Now she can sit at her friend's computer and pretend to write in her journal by doing Scalzi's Weekend Assignment and Patrick's Saturday Six.  She'll be back to add more in this second go round later.  

Okay, where was I? 

Teenage Crushes

Time to swoon for this week's Weekend Assignment:

Weekend Assignment #47: Reveal Your Teenage Celebrity Crush! Oh, come on. We all had one. Share yours, and tell us why that particularly celebrity tripped your teenage trigger.

Here's a hint:  It wasn't Elvis or the Beatles.

For the most part, Mrs. Linklater wasn't too thrilled with the celebrities offered during her teen years. Paul Anka, Fabian and Bobby Darren were too short. And she thought Elvis was a hoodlum. A greaser.  A loser. It wasn't until after he was cold in the ground that she noticed he might have had that certain je ne sais quoi. After he died, they ran an unplugged TV special of him when he was his young and thin self -- all alone with just his guitar, singing to a few googly eyed female fans from a chair on a postage stamp stage.  He was a vision in black.  From his black eyes and dyed black hair to his sleek black leather jacket and pants -- trolling for ladies in the audience with that sly, slanted smile like an alligator waiting to strike.  Mrs. Linklater finally got with the program that night.  But she was in her thirties and he had already fallen off the toilet and died a troubled, pharmacological death.  Too late.

The Beatles didn't float her boat either.  Ever. With all due respect to their fans, especially Salemslot09, she couldn't stand their music, their hair, their suits, or their skinny English nerdliness. Okay their movies weren't bad. Mostly she thought they sang white guy versions of music that black people did a hundred times better in their sleep.  Think Pat Boone's caucasian cover of Tutti Fruitti, which rightfully belongs to Little Richard. On the other hand, Mrs. Linklater has always been partial to their crosstown rivals, the Rolling Stones. THEIR MUSIC. Not the drugged out, emaciated, make up wearing band members, however.

Actually, Mrs. L's teenage crushes were as close as the hallways at her high school. She was wild and crazy about the upperclass boys. They included an actor.  A track star.  The senior class president.  And the boyfriend of her girlfriend's older sister. 

Of course as a gangly, breast free freshman she was invisible to them.  It wasn't until years later that her hair and make up karma kicked in and they crossed paths with her.  All except for the actor who went to Hollywood.  He was gay.  She met the track star at a club and discovered that he was an alcoholic.  Her husband brought home his new best friend one evening and it turned out to be the former senior class president.  Boy did Mrs. L blush out loud that evening. Several years ago, mutual friends fixed her up with the old "boyfriend" of her friend's sister and they are still buddies.  Be careful what you wish for.

Extra Credit: Tell us: Do you still have a little teeny bit of a crush on that celebrity? Yes? No? Maybe so?

Mrs. Linklater has been around enough celebrities to realize that the good ones are just regular schmoes like you and me.  So she is pretty much immune to crushes anymore.  Although Howie Long. . .now there is one smart, athletic dude who looks like someone sculpted him from granite.  But that's NOT a crush.  It's just an appreciation of his wife's good fortune. And it isn't Teri Hatcher by the way. 


robbush6 said...

That's all we get? It wasn't Elvis or the Beatles? I'll take a stab and say Eddie Fischer.

I wouldn't say this outloud in certain circles, okay, any circle, but I had a "thing" for Donny Osmond. Now I've said it. Take your best shot.

jevanslink said...

Eddie Fisher? LOL.  Mrs. L