Pretty boys, floatin' my boat

Long, long ago, in another century, I stood in line for hours with thousands of other barely teen-aged girls to see the sneak preview of Bye, Bye Birdie at the Paramount theater. Why, you ask? Because I was in love, my pretties. With Bobby Rydell.
You thought I was kidding about that other century thing, didn't you?
Aw, me. It makes me sigh just thinking about the feelings that boy inspired in my very young, woefully underdeveloped breast. Bobby was the dreamiest guy I had ever seen and I was sure we were destined to be together.

Until I actually thought about it. Let's see. Me in Seattle in the 7th grade. Him a famous singer and sometime actor, probably in LA. (I was a little sketchy on that detail, but knew wherever he was, it was a long way from where I lived) So I transferred my crush to Mike Ziegler, a boy in my junior high I considered a Bobby double. Okay, I didn't have any better luck attracting Mike's attention, but still. The possibilities kept me warm and fuzzy for a long time.

A Very Long Time.

Since then I've never been drawn to an actor/singer/hunk-of-the-moment quite like I was to Bobby. Well, okay, there was Steve McQueen. He actually French kissed on screen in an era when smooches were very dry. And George Chakiris. I mean, c'mon. Those lips, that chin, that nose, that hair!

But, ahem, I digress. Diggin' movie stars etc has a long, exalted tradition. Can you say Rudolph Valentino? And I remember my mother going to the neighborhood theater with the lady next door specifically to ogle Chuck Connor (of TV's The Rifleman fame) --hopefully sans shirt. My mother. In the evening. Without my father.

So I leave you with a question. Who spins your wheels? Here's a little inspiration in case you're coming up blank.



Now, ladies, I ask you. Can you say, "Hell, yeah!"?