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Showing posts from February, 2019

Misspent Youth: Daisy Duke

Looking back at the pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth.

Ah, Daisy.

You were our Friday Girl, years before we were anywhere near having real Friday night dates.

You were not just a beloved character from the 1980s hit TV show The Dukes of Hazzard. You were a legend. Kids in school talked of you in hushed tones, hearts racing and palms sweating. Your extraordinary ability to rock a pair of short-shorts changed the lexicon forever after your arrival—women didn't wear "short-shorts" anymore; they wore "Daisy Dukes." How many pop culture icons can claim something that eternal?

You inspired legions of young fans to tune in every Friday night to catch a glimpse of the Duke boys' cousin in action. And she was all about the action.

Whether shooting better than men, or driving better than men, or proving how easily rednecks could be distracted by a pair of legs, you were full-on action hero. You were the not-so-secret weapon who sav…

Misspent Youth: Morgan Fairchild

Looking back at the movies, music, television, and other pop culture mainstays of this Gen-Xer's gloriously misspent youth.

Once I decided that Morgan Fairchild would be the subject of the next installment in this series, I did what I usually do and researched online for a bit, just to refresh my memory on details that might've previously been lost to time.

Not that I needed much refresher when it came to Fairchild. Born Patsy Ann McClenny in Dallas, Texas, February 3, 1950, the American actress was everywhere during those oh-so-crucial formative years of my pop culture obsession. She loomed large in the growing ranks of proto-haughty glamour queens, a trope that was hot on prime time TV in the 1980s. The characters she was most well-known for were drop-dead gorgeous and didn't suffer fools lightly. Really, few ever did it better than Fairchild.

This led to an undeniable attraction for adolescent dorks like me: here was a woman who would tell me what to do and unlike when a t…

Depression, the Roommate from Hell, and Fran Drescher

I’ve always thought Fran Drescher was the bee’s knees.

That voice. Love it. Love her.

She’s a true survivor—of Hollywood, rape, cancer, and more. She’s been memorably great in so many movies that left an impression on me growing up, like Cadillac Man, or Saturday Night Fever, or The Hollywood Knights. Plus, there’s The Nanny.

Winter, 1995 was close to the nadir of late-teen angst for me. That would all change for the better, that spring, but those dark, gloomy Northeastern winter days were a struggle. Roommate from hell had succeeded in forcing my escape down the hall and into a single room, and for that I actually owe the SOB a small amount of gratitude. But not much. Dude had a Brett Kavanaugh-esque entitled white man’s rage about him, barely concealed under a similarly arrogant scowl.

Even after I wriggled out from under that stress, I was still miserable. It's obvious to me now that I was, at the very least, mildly depressed. I didn’t talk to many people about much of anything alr…