Apr 262007
Boy, to hear you tell it around here, Hotel California is the worst thing ever recorded, and another thing…Hey, that’s not Jan!
Boy, to hear you tell it around here, Hotel California is the worst thing ever recorded, and another thing…Hey, that’s not Jan!
Wow. That *was* a different era, wasn’t it? Interesting how little rock and roll has really changed — I mean, comparatively speaking.
I “google’d” Geri Reischl and thought that this line in her bio was amusing: “Geri Reischl is known fondly to millions of people around the world by the nick name “Fake Jan” for replacing Eve Plumb in nine episodes of the Brady Bunch Hour during the 1976-77 television season.” Fake Jan, that’s great. I seem to recall that they also had a Fake Cindy in one of the reunion shows in the 80’s and 90’s. And I saw something online recently about Maureen McCormack being part of a show called “Celebrity Fit Club” on VH1. What??? Oh, Marcia Marcia Marcia. 😉
Marcia had to go on Celebrity Fit Club? She was on some sitcom about 5 years ago, and she still looked fantastic. However, I must say, few moments in pre-adolescent sitcom watching topped the real Jan’s run across the Magic Mountain theme park in hopes of finding her dad’s blueprints.
I miss variety shows. I’d rather all those American Idol contestants were just rounded up and trotted out to do bad sketch comedy and sing medlies. Young Amanda Bynes would be perfect for the Carol Burnett hosting role.
MEMORANDUM
FROM: Rock Town Hall
TO: Chickenfrank
RE: Jan Brady’s boobs
Chickenfrank, if memory serves, you had some important insights on Jan Brady’s Magic Mountain blueprint hunt, back in the days when you were writing your teevee column.. I wonder if there’s any way you could share? I remember finding them enlightening at the time.
Thanks —
HVB
/ac
Great memory, HVB. I do remember that Jan episode as being pivotal in my desire to be able to watch the Bunch without my parents. (also, it wasn’t Bea Arthur or the cutting edge themes that kept me tuning into Maude) That does bring up a funny theme from years ago about the fickle hand of fate in regards to the development of child stars. Shouldn’t TV producers conduct an extensive physical interview with the mother of a kid star before casting the child? For every fortuitous homerun you hit when a Jan, Annette Funicello, or Britney naturally allow you to transition your demographic upwards, there’s always the ignominy of having a Tina Yothers or Erin Moran develop into a puberty disappointment. Genetics are such a dice game.
I think there was a band named Fake Jane which I always thought was a great name.
Wow. I like the fact that, except for the one establishing yes-it’s-really-them shot, there are no closeups. The grim-forced-march faces on everyone except the “parents” in their quick cuts tells all.
Of the many well-worn anecdotes I’ve related about the two-hour seminar with Sherwood Schwartz I once attended, the one that might be less eye-rollingly overtold is the one where he said that Robert Reed hated the show from Day One, and told Schwartz that, but also told him that he was aware that this was a bunch of kid actors who were looking to the adults for cues on how actors behaved, so he would suck it up and be a pro. And more than 20 years later, even after Reed died, Schwartz always told that story because he appreciated Reed so much for that that he wanted everyone to know.
A moment with “the Google” says that it’s true, but a moment with Google Images says it’s hardly necessary.
Can I just rant about the dimwit neighbor of mine who’s been out in front of his house for FORTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES, in the middle of dinner time, with his bloody gas-powered weed-whacker, doing I haven’t a clue what, but doing it with incessant, droning loudness. Fucking A, man! I feel like throttling this guy. How many fucking weeds does he need to whack?! Is he trying to use the gadget to mow his fucking lawn or something?!
Aaaaarrrgggh!
Turns out it’s not a weed-whacker, but some knuckleheaded contractor who thinks using a leaf blower will speed the movement of construction dust off this guy’s front lawn. I watched him for a few minutes, roaring away to no effect, and contemplated walking a broom over. I have *no* doubt using such an ancient, efficient device would speed matters up — and get rid of this godawful headache.
It’s a beautiful, 75-degree evening out there, and it’s being ruined by this dipshit. I am pissed! Hear me roar!