On Saturday evenings, while the Cold War fomented fears of not if, but when, Oliver's panacea persisted in Peekskill. Lounging in the luxury of a La-Z-Boy, he was soothed by TV's adolescent sirens, who were to Louisa May Alcott's literary maidens what Atari was to Go Fish. Jo's snarky sarcasm, Blair's brilliant ideas, Natalie's Borscht Belt belly laughs, and Tootie's telltale histrionics were as reliable as Reagan's voters. When Oliver went off to university soon after the girls-er, women-had faded from the airwaves, he knew he'd been well-schooled in the 'Facts of Life'.
Comments are closed.
|
"Classic"
|