Thursday, August 31, 2006

I Used to Lust After Them. My Name is Charlie.

"Once upon a time there were three little girls who went to the police acadamey..."

Was it really thirty years ago? I'd cry to my mother to let me watch "Charlie's Angels." She'd always say no, but I kept it up until the opening credits were over. It was the sequence with Jaclyn Smith, the last quick edit, to be specific, where she'd flip her hair around, a feathered bang landing in front of her left eye. I'd then give up the fight and go to bed happy, then get caught at 9:30 sneaking peeks at the show from behind the sofa. At that point Mom would let me stay up, figuring I'd be exposed to T&A sooner or later. I hadn't developed the faculties to realize that what I was feeling inside was the act of pursuing more furtive pleasures with Kelly Garrett. All I knew was that she, and the other angels, were a different form of pretty than my mother. She probably smelled pretty, too.

They've all held up really well. In varying degrees, that is. Like different wines. Look at Farrah, for instance. She would be a bottle of Yellow Tail you find at your local drugstore. It's ubiquitous and everywhere, but you wouldn't let it sit on your rack for years on end, because its bottled for immediate consumption. It still has a pretty looking bottle, though. And if you took it to a wine party, you'd get some raised eyebrows. Ironically, my stepdad used to call Farrah "Yellow Tail." As in "Boy, don't tell your mother, but I wouldn't mind drilling into some of that yellow tail." These days, Farrah's rocking too much exposure to the sun, a possible addiction to pills, and probably had some work done. You still wouldn't scoff at her if she walked past. And she held it together the other night on the Emmys, as well.

Jaclyn Smith aged like a prized burgundy kept in perfect cellaring conditions. She broke out the bangs for one night, along with a gown slit up the front to show off her legs, and tapped into the seven-year-old with horn-rimmed glasses that that still occupies this adult body. For six minutes, I was in 1976 again.

But will you look at Kate Jackson? Sabrina Duncan was always the angel that appealed to me the least. Probably because she never wore a bathing suit; stayed behind with Bosley to run command on the operations; and dressed, let's say, like a tomboy. "Lesbian" was such a gauche, derogatory term in 1976.

Looking at her in that photograph, Kate Jackson looks so soft and, well, womanly. She's an absolute lock for a MILF. If she had grandchildren (I wiki'ed all their personal information before sitting to write this), she'd be entering the rarified air of Grand-MILF (please don't ask me to spell that out. No one's that daft). In that regard, she's like a young merlot tossed in the corner of a basement bar, and ignored for thirty years. But the basement had the proper cellaring conditions, and the wine came around. The tannins softened, and the wine gained this elegance that wasn't noticeable when you first bought it.

When my friend Chris used to live in a loft on Belmont, across the alley from the Alley, he had a neighbor who called herself "Stick", that Chris said looked like Kate Jackson. So Whitley from Ravenswood and I would then ask, "Which one? Kate Jackson circa 'Charlie's Angels', or Kate Jackson around the time of 'Scarecrow and Mrs. King?'" It was really funny when we were smoking dope, 'cause then we'd bring up "The Rookies" and "Dark Shadows." Stick would pass by, and we'd say "Kate Jackson" like Chris would say it, and laugh until we nearly pissed our pants.

Turned out Chris was right all along.

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