My family always watched Ed Sullivan on Sunday night.
Just like Uncle Miltie, Liberace, and the Friday Night Fights, good ole wooden Eddie was a staple of life.
At the beginning of each show, my brother and I would always stand in front of the minuscule screen and adopt Ed's crossed arm stance, to the delight of my parents.
When I heard the Beatles were going to be on his show, my interest was borne more from curiosity than anything else.
Oh sure, I heard them on the radio, and yes, I liked their music.
But it was no big whoop.
In fact, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't be hearing Topo Gigot's adorable, "Oh Eddieeeeee, I luff you".
When Ed introduced "those boys from England", my brother and I were still clowning around.
I undid my ponytail and shook my head, so my hair all but covered my face, and played air guitar while my brother pummeled pretend drums.
But, when the screams of the predominantly female audience began to all but drown out the music, something happened, something snapped.
As the tiny black and white screen filled with their images, and those deep and meaningful words, "I want to hold your hand" came forth, seeking my heart, and my heart alone, I had a religious experience...
or perhaps my first sexual experience.
Unaware of anyone else in the room, I rushed towards the television, gripping it on both sides.
With my pudgy little prepubescent cheek pressed against the warm glass, I began to weep.
Tears of gratitude, pain, long-suffering, joy and elation streamed down my face.
I knew, knew with all my heart and soul they were singing to me, and to me alone.
Yes, they wanted to hold MY hand.
Those hairy little boys in their tight shiny suits wanted ME.
My mother, the woman to whom I was accidentally, genetically linked, spoke words, that to this very day, I can't remember.
But, I do remember my head spinning around on its axis, ala Linda Blair in the "Exorcist".
And I spoke...
hell; I spewed the heretofore unspeakably angry words, "SHUT UP!" Now normally, such an outburst would have resulted in severe violence perpetrated upon my person.
But not this time.
Fire must have blazed from my glassy eyes, foam oozing from my clenched teeth, because I remember a stunned silence falling over the living room, as my head righted itself, and my loving gaze returned to them.
The rest of the evening is a blur.
I remained in my trance-like state, the family maintaining a safe distance, speaking in hushed tones; presumably about "the problem".
I don't imagine that many women are aware of the exact moment that their pubescent hormones kicked in, but I, oh yes, I shall never forget mine.
Ohmigod, the Beatles...
how things changed.
No longer was I that quiet, acquiescent little girl.
Nope, now I was a teenager.
My best friend, Linda, and I would talk on the phone for hours, purposely assuming strange positions on the floor, with our feet planted high against the wall.
Hell, we were teenagers.
We were supposed to do that, right? I mean, come on, if Sandra Dee did it, you can bet your sweet ass it was proper teenage protocol.
Linda and I practiced Sandra's Lolita-like pout, and wide eyed gaze in front of the mirror for hours, wore the same pedal pushers, and perfected tossing our hair with the same insouciance.
My life would have been complete had my mother let me bleach my naturally dark brown hair to Sandra's golden blonde hue.
One afternoon, Linda appeared at my front door, out of breath and red faced.
All attempts at a Sandra Dee's innocent detachment, out the window.
Barely able to speak between gasps for breath, Linda told me the unthinkable had happened.
THEY, THEM...
THE BEATLES...
were coming to Miami Beach! Thus began my period of true fame in my previously undistinguished junior high social life, aside from of course, from my uncanny Sandra Dee-like persona.
You see, I...
yes, I...
touched George Harrison.
Just like Uncle Miltie, Liberace, and the Friday Night Fights, good ole wooden Eddie was a staple of life.
At the beginning of each show, my brother and I would always stand in front of the minuscule screen and adopt Ed's crossed arm stance, to the delight of my parents.
When I heard the Beatles were going to be on his show, my interest was borne more from curiosity than anything else.
Oh sure, I heard them on the radio, and yes, I liked their music.
But it was no big whoop.
In fact, I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't be hearing Topo Gigot's adorable, "Oh Eddieeeeee, I luff you".
When Ed introduced "those boys from England", my brother and I were still clowning around.
I undid my ponytail and shook my head, so my hair all but covered my face, and played air guitar while my brother pummeled pretend drums.
But, when the screams of the predominantly female audience began to all but drown out the music, something happened, something snapped.
As the tiny black and white screen filled with their images, and those deep and meaningful words, "I want to hold your hand" came forth, seeking my heart, and my heart alone, I had a religious experience...
or perhaps my first sexual experience.
Unaware of anyone else in the room, I rushed towards the television, gripping it on both sides.
With my pudgy little prepubescent cheek pressed against the warm glass, I began to weep.
Tears of gratitude, pain, long-suffering, joy and elation streamed down my face.
I knew, knew with all my heart and soul they were singing to me, and to me alone.
Yes, they wanted to hold MY hand.
Those hairy little boys in their tight shiny suits wanted ME.
My mother, the woman to whom I was accidentally, genetically linked, spoke words, that to this very day, I can't remember.
But, I do remember my head spinning around on its axis, ala Linda Blair in the "Exorcist".
And I spoke...
hell; I spewed the heretofore unspeakably angry words, "SHUT UP!" Now normally, such an outburst would have resulted in severe violence perpetrated upon my person.
But not this time.
Fire must have blazed from my glassy eyes, foam oozing from my clenched teeth, because I remember a stunned silence falling over the living room, as my head righted itself, and my loving gaze returned to them.
The rest of the evening is a blur.
I remained in my trance-like state, the family maintaining a safe distance, speaking in hushed tones; presumably about "the problem".
I don't imagine that many women are aware of the exact moment that their pubescent hormones kicked in, but I, oh yes, I shall never forget mine.
Ohmigod, the Beatles...
how things changed.
No longer was I that quiet, acquiescent little girl.
Nope, now I was a teenager.
My best friend, Linda, and I would talk on the phone for hours, purposely assuming strange positions on the floor, with our feet planted high against the wall.
Hell, we were teenagers.
We were supposed to do that, right? I mean, come on, if Sandra Dee did it, you can bet your sweet ass it was proper teenage protocol.
Linda and I practiced Sandra's Lolita-like pout, and wide eyed gaze in front of the mirror for hours, wore the same pedal pushers, and perfected tossing our hair with the same insouciance.
My life would have been complete had my mother let me bleach my naturally dark brown hair to Sandra's golden blonde hue.
One afternoon, Linda appeared at my front door, out of breath and red faced.
All attempts at a Sandra Dee's innocent detachment, out the window.
Barely able to speak between gasps for breath, Linda told me the unthinkable had happened.
THEY, THEM...
THE BEATLES...
were coming to Miami Beach! Thus began my period of true fame in my previously undistinguished junior high social life, aside from of course, from my uncanny Sandra Dee-like persona.
You see, I...
yes, I...
touched George Harrison.
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