Today is the Saturday before Easter. I gave up alcohol and meat for Lent, 46 days to be exact, so when I woke up today I was so excited I felt like running outside and rolling around in the grass.
I started my usual Saturday chores like laundry, cleaning the kitchen, living room and bathroom of my bachelor pad with glee and ran my usual Saturday errands like to the bank and the post office. Got a haircut and washed the car.
I thought I'd stop off at the grocery store where they have Sirloin Tip Roasts on sale. I mused about putting a bake potato in the oven today at 110 degrees so it would be ready by noon tomorrow, then prepare the roast with all the trimmings for a fabulous Beef Bourguignon I'd make in my slow cooker. The thought of opening a vintage California Pinot after church tomorrow tickled me. Yes, today was going to be a great day!
Like Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain, I pranced up and down the aisles of Piggly Wiggly high on life, then docked my grocery cart in the check out line anxious to pay and get home. While I waited behind the customer in front of me, I glanced at the headings of half dozen or so of those worthless tabloids. Just about all of them describing one of the pregnant Kardashians gaining 200lbs, and Tiger's new squeeze giddy about her boyfriend being a sex addict.
I chuckled thinking how pleased I was with myself for never succumbing to reading and believing that stupid trash. Then it hit me like the thought of going to an all night dentist.
There, tucked away in the upper left hand corner of The Globe was the headline PAUL ANKA: I BEDDED ANNETTE
I'm in shock. I'm crushed! How can this be? I walked out to my car like one of the characters in The Living Dead, totally numb. My day is ruined. My life will never be the same. What will I do?
PAUL ANKA?! HOW COULD YOU?!! YOU BEDDED ANNETTE?!!! Under her Mom's nose no less? My first crush?
I won't be posting or reading FR for the next 24 to 48 hours at least. I'm putting on my PJs and boiling a full pot of Chamomile tea then staying in bed until Monday.
Good-bye Cruel World...
What’s truly depressing is that Mickey Mouse Club was one of the very few children’s programs available in the fifties. I hated all of them. All that idiotic dancing and over-acting by kids whose parents probably pushed them into show business just to get them out of their own faces for a few blessed hours each week. But I liked the cartoons.
If you’ve never seen end stage MS, don’t watch this, or if you have a sentimental attachment to what Annette was, don’t watch it.
In late 2012 her husband allowed this series on Annette and her MS to show how bad she has gotten in order to raise funds for treatment with CCSVI for other MSers.
Warning, this is a shocking video.
http://www.ctvnews.ca/w5/annette-funicello-her-life-with-multiple-sclerosis-1.984202
If not...get some lithium...
One day when I was 12 years old, I was in Weile’s, a locally famous ice cream shop outside DC with two BFFs — picture it: that’s three 12-year-old girls. This was back in the day when kids could roam around without fear of abduction.
It was a small shop with booths on either side, and the cause of its fame was not only its huge portions and fanciful ice cream sundaes, splits and other creations with paper umbrellas on top, but also its pink or green whipped cream.
So, in walked the 14-year-old Paul Anka with his manager, and sat in the booth across the aisle from us. You can just imagine the suppressed titters and squeals. However, this was just before the days of Beatlemania; and being well-brought-up Methodist girls, we suppressed the shrieks and just went on eating ice cream demurely, eyes cast down except for a few discreet peeks. I did get a good look at all the orange pancake makeup on his face — he must have been coming off a personal appearance — and that totally turned me off.
He did smile modestly at us, and then he and his manager got busy with the menu. I suppose he might have been offended that we were too shy to approach him — a distance of about seven feet — when leaving before he did.
Beibermania, back in the day. Pretty tame...
Put your head on my shoulder, and you’ll feel better.
My wife and my son danced to “The Times of Your Life” by Paul Anka, at his wedding. Very touching.
Mr. Anka should have kept quiet. If there was anyone who was presented to the world as virginal, it was Annette Funicello.
Sometimes we would rather hold onto youthful memories and dreams. There was no need to needlessly stain them.
ping
Mom didn’t smell anything unusual???
Uhm, that was James Darren, not Paul Anka. Back to history books, buster!
It other news, Annette Funicello says that Paul Anka was the absolute worst male she had ever had sex with......
Nothing worse than a washed up old singer with plaster face who needs to now write a book in order to get back in the limelight.....
He needs to go on a comeback tour of all the senior rest homes......
Hmmm. Did her cooking stink, too?
Annette’s mom had a very big nose I suppose?
Must have been some nose ...
I was upset when it was rumored that Peter Noone was banging Haley Mills.
What the hell was Paul Anka thinking?
I think I understand the outrage here. Regardless of what was going on between/among those kids at the scene, the public image of Annette was that of an eternal virgin, sort of like a younger version of Doris Day (”I knew Doris before she was a virgin” — Oscar Levant), and many here apparently had bought into it. But as a child of Hollywood (Lord forgive me and my illegitimate parents), I could tell some stories about Hollywood, uh, let’s call them parties, but this is not the forum to do it.
If he really admitted this, what a cad. Stay classy Paul...