it's true what they say, about the taste and the no accounting for it

I'm glad yesterday's photo essay was such a hit; I was thinking in the middle of the night about all the ways I could have made it that much funnier. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I can only remember being upset that with all that thumbs-upping, I hadn't thought to make reference to The Fonz.

I suppose, rather than posting my entry in haste, I should have just sat on it.

Did you know that one year for Channukah Chanukkah Hannukah Hanukkah Hannuka Bxxxralllzxjllsfj the Festival of Lights, my parents gave me a Fonzie tee-shirt?

I think I was nine years old, and I was in heaven. The shirt itself was this hideous pinkish-beige, and the material, I'm certain, 50/50 at best. But it had this enormous square picture of The Fonz sitting astride his motorcycle, looking as cool as a 5' 6 1/2" Jewish guy could possibly look ever, and I wore that thing again and again, until the image peeled away, completely fractured.

I really have no idea what drew me to Fonzie, except that crushing on him is (inexplicably) what all the prepubescent girls were doing. And sometimes, when you're nine, you follow the crowd, even though your heart belongs to Mr. Clean.

Now that guy, all polished and buff and slightly naughty with that earring in his left ear: I swear to god, he made me swoon.