Healing the Wounds of War

---

---

If a TV show makes it to its seventh season, it is likely to be running out of material.

But the writers for All in the Family were still hitting the ball out of the park in the show's seventh season as the Christmas episode that aired on this night in 1976, "The Draft Dodger," clearly demonstrated. It may have been the most poignant episode of that groundbreaking series.

In 1976, America's recently concluded involvement in the Vietnam War was an open wound for many Americans. It had been a divisive war, sparking much social upheaval, and it was no less so once America's participation had ended. My memory is that, more than a year later, people were still being judged by others according to their positions on the war.

On this night 40 years ago, Christmas Night 1976, the Bunkers (Carroll O'Connor and Jean Stapleton) were hosting Christmas dinner for the Stivics (Rob Reiner and Sally Struthers), Teresa (the Bunkers' boarder played by Liz Torres), Archie's buddy Pinky (character actor Eugene Roche) who was a Gold Star father, and David (Renny Temple), a friend of Mike's who, unknown to most of the people at the table on that occasion, fled to Canada to avoid the draft.

David's presence was unexpected. He just showed up on the Bunkers' doorstep. It hadn't been his original destination. He had intended to see his father, but his father wasn't ready to face his son so David went to see his old friend. It was in their conversation that the audience learned he was a draft dodger.

David agreed to join the family for Christmas dinner after being assured by both Mike and Gloria that they would not spill the beans. That was easier said than done when Archie met David and asked him questions about where he lived and why he was spending Christmas with them instead of his own family.

Gloria ran interference for David, but their objective was helped considerably when the doorbell rang, and the audience learned that it was Pinky. Before opening the door, Archie cautioned everyone that if Pinky started talking about Stevie, that was his only son who had been killed in the war.

Pinky was still in shock over that, and Archie told his family that if Pinky started talking about his son, they should steer the conversation in another direction.

---

---

During Christmas dinner Archie asked David if he had any Christmas memories to share. David's reply contradicted information Archie had been given earlier, and that led to the revelation that David was a draft dodger.

Archie found that very disturbing, and that sparked an argument between the conservative Archie and the liberal Mike, who asked Archie when he was going to admit that the war had been wrong. Archie replied that he wasn't talking about the war. He was talking about doing one's duty to one's country. That was a position with which many viewers no doubt sympathized in 1976.

Many other people in America sympathized with David. They believed the war was wrong and refused to participate in it. David wasn't the only young American who fled to Canada. There were tens of thousands of others. The conflict created a huge rip in the fabric of America.

Pinky asked Archie if he wanted to know what Pinky thought, and Archie responded enthusiastically, certain that Pinky would take his side.

But Pinky surprised Archie, everyone else at the table and the audience when he observed that both his son and David did what they thought they had to do. The difference, he said, was that his son wasn't alive to share Christmas dinner with them, and David was. If his son could be there, Pinky mused, he would want to sit down to dinner with David.

"And that's what I want to do," he said, turning to David and extending his hand as the audience burst into spontaneous, heartfelt applause. "Merry Christmas, David," Pinky said.

"Merry Christmas, sir," David replied.

Even today the memory of that moment has great emotional power. I have seen reruns of that episode from time to time. I have watched it with people who supported the war and people who opposed it. And what I have seen convinced me that, while they disagree on most things, nearly all Americans prefer peace to conflict, whether it is between nations or between people.

Given the choice and the opportunity to act on that choice, most people prefer whatever promotes healing and harmony, not whatever sows discord.

---

---

On this night 40 years ago, All in the Family took a giant step toward healing the wounds of war.

Strength in Numbers

---

---

Did you ever have a job in which you felt underpaid and unappreciated, and you deserved a raise, but you kept running into brick walls at work so you fantasized about leaving your job suddenly, but you didn't for any of a number of reasons?

If you have — and most of us probably have — you can sympathize with the situation confronting Mary Tyler Moore in the episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show that aired on this night in 1976, "Look at Us, We're Walking."

Mary hadn't had a raise in three years, and she decided to approach Lou Grant (Ed Asner) about a raise when she realized she had $400 to her name. (I know that doesn't sound like much, but to put it in perspective, when you adjust that for inflation, it would have the buying power of about $1,700 in 2016 dollars.) Before she did, though, she went through all the possible reasons Lou would say prevented him from being able to give her a raise.

But she didn't anticipate the reason he gave. It was out of his hands, he told her. Such decisions were being made by the TV station's new manager.

The station manager wouldn't give either a raise, Lou said, figuring that if one quit, the other would pick up the slack on the production end. His logic was that neither could get a raise because both were good at their jobs. "If we were both incompetents," Lou told Mary, "we'd have 'em over a barrel."

This was a situation, Lou told Mary, that called for solidarity. They should go to the station manager's office and demand that both be given raises.

Mary wasn't especially keen on that idea, especially after the meeting with the station manager. He gave them two weeks to change their minds before he replaced them.

They didn't change their minds, though, and Mary was struggling to occupy the time. Lou was finding projects to keep him busy — like painting a chair for the 27th time. "I figure it will take a year and a half to dry," he said.

Mary was wavering. They had a talk and solidarity was restored.

But Mary was feeling a financial squeeze. When Ted (Ted Knight) and Georgette (Georgia Engel) came by to visit, Mary told Georgette that, for the first time in her life, she was in debt "up to my ear lobes."

"What a classy place to be in debt up to," the ever–positive Georgette replied.

She persuaded a reluctant Mary to accept money from them, then she persuaded a reluctant Ted to give Mary a blank check. ("It's better that way," she told him. "Better for who?" Ted asked.) Pretty impressive for the normally mousy Georgette.

---

---

Neither accomplishment was insignificant, but it was the last straw for Mary. She called Lou and told him she was going to renegotiate her contract.

"Don't tell me things aren't that bad yet," she said into the telephone receiver. "I just accepted money from Ted Baxter!"

In the end they came back to work for WJM — and got what must have been by 1976 standards pretty good raises.

'Wings Over America' Was Amazing Yet Disappointing

---

---

The buzz that preceded the release 40 years ago today of "Wings Over America," a three–record album of Paul McCartney and Wings performing live on their mid–'70s American tour, was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

It hadn't been all that long, really, since the Beatles broke up, and I guess the withdrawal from the excitement of Beatlemania was too great for many fans. The tour was the first time McCartney had performed in the United States since the Beatles toured North America in the '60s, and there was a great desire to hear what McCartney sounded like in concert.

My sense was that there was general disappointment in the album even though it reached #1 on the Billboard LP chart. That was pretty amazing for a three–record set. I guess you had to be an ex–Beatle to accomplish that feat.

Immediately after their breakup, the Beatles embarked on their individual projects. Initially, the most successful ex–Beatle had to be George Harrison with not one but two extraordinarily well–received triple albums, "Concert for Bangladesh" and "All Things Must Pass." McCartney soon surpassed him, though, with several successful albums — but his triple album did not come along until "Wings Over America" hit the stores 40 years ago today.

"Wings Over America" contained mostly songs from those albums. Today it serves as kind of a nice time capsule, reminding us of what McCartney was doing in those first few years away from the Beatles, but at the time many fans wanted to hear McCartney performing Beatles songs. There was still hope, as I recall, that the Beatles would reunite, and that hope persisted for four more years until the assassination of John Lennon. In the '70s rumors of Beatles reunions were as rampant as Elvis sightings.

McCartney did oblige his fans by including live performances of five Beatles songs — but he provided considerably more than that 14 years later in another live triple album, "Tripping the Live Fantastic."

"Maybe I'm Amazed" was the only single released from the entire album, but it was far from being McCartney's most recent studio recording. It first appeared on his 1970 album, "McCartney," an album that was regarded more at the time as McCartney's attempt to cash in on the week–old breakup of the Beatles.

That album opened some wounds among Beatles fans that fester to this day.

But "Maybe I'm Amazed" found a wider audience as a live recording than it ever did as a studio piece. For those who had been following the four Beatles since their breakup, that may have been the most amazing thing about "Wings Over America."

After all, there were more than two dozen tracks on "Wings Over America." About 80% were from albums McCartney had made in the six years since the Beatles' breakup — and many, but not all, had been hits. There was a live version, for example, of "Live and Let Die," McCartney's musical contribution to the James Bond film series. And there was a live version of "Band on the Run," which may have been McCartney's most successful solo record up to that time.

"Maybe I'm Amazed" would have been the choice of few to be the only single from the album. Yet it was — and it was a big hit.

In hindsight, I guess the only single from that three–record set had to be a song that had been out there for awhile, not a recent release. Of course, that opens the door for an argument that a Beatles song should have been the single. But I suppose that gets us into issues of ownership rights and things like that.

I don't know whose idea it was to make "Maybe I'm Amazed" the only single from the album. But whoever thought of it was spot on.

'Rocky' Did It Right

---

---

Mickey (Burgess Meredith): Your nose is broken.

Rocky (Sylvester Stallone): How does it look?

Mickey: Ah, it's an improvement.

---

If there is anything that is almost guaranteed to engage a movie audience, it is a story about an underdog overcoming the odds — and when director John G. Avildsen's "Rocky" made its debut on this day in 1976 movie audiences got enough of that to keep them satisfied until "Hoosiers" hit the big screen 10 years later — although they had plenty of those underdog movies, some good and some not so good, in the interim.

They always do. Movie makers know underdog stories make money. Well, that ones that do it right make money — and "Rocky" did it right.

I well remember the first time I saw "Rocky." It was in a theater in my hometown. Now my hometown theater — well, the one of my early childhood — was one of those spacious theaters with a lobby and a balcony and one truly big screen, but it had been out of business for awhile by the time "Rocky" made its premiere. So I never got to see it in that setting (although I have often wished that I had). I saw it in the more compact theaters in which one sees movies today — more like screening rooms than theaters, if you ask me, but that's a topic for another time. By modern standards, it was rather tiny. It only contained two screens — but that allowed twice as many movies to be shown and, therefore, provided twice as many options for consumers in my hometown.

The arrival of that two–screen theater produced as much buzz in my hometown as the arrival of the first McDonald's.

Anyway, in that more modern moviegoers' milieu, I saw something from the old days of which I have heard but I have seldom actually seen. I saw an audience stand and applaud when the movie was over.

A sport of some kind is always good for that kind of reaction (for a real–life example, one need look no further than this year's World Series, won by the Chicago Cubs for the first time in more than a century) — even though other pursuits can be used. "Rocky," of course, was about an individual sport — boxing. Team sports are good, too, but they teach a different kind of lesson that extols different values. Those movies are tributes to the virtues of teamwork and unselfishness. Movies about individual sports are more about determination, self–sufficiency and resourcefulness.

You couldn't really say Rocky (Sylvester Stallone) was down on his luck. He had never had much in the way of luck. He wasn't a bum, as Marlon "I coulda been a contendah" Brando memorably said of himself in "On the Waterfront." Rocky really could have been a contender. He was a Philly brawler who had squandered his prime and figured he would never get to fight for a title, not even once. (In the words of a Beatles' song, "Isn't he a bit like you and me?")

That was a source of frustration for Mickey (Burgess Meredith), the operator of a gym and trainer of would–be contenders, which, in turn, was a source of friction between Rocky and Mickey.

But then Rocky was offered an opportunity to fight the champ, a fellow named Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers), to mark the occasion of America's bicentennial. The champ didn't take the fight seriously, but Rocky did. He got up in the predawn hours to drink a glass of raw eggs and run in the dark, cold streets of Philadelphia, and he used sides of beef as punching bags in a meat freezer under the management of his friend Paulie (Burt Young).

Mickey swallowed his pride and approached Rocky about helping him prepare for the fight, but Rocky, briefly succumbing to that all–too–human tendency to engage in a little "how do you like me now?" banter, refused. When Mickey walked away, humbled and hurt, Rocky followed and reconciled with him.

---

---

Now, in case you have never seen this movie — and, frankly, it is hard for me to imagine anyone who hasn't seen "Rocky" by now — it is important to realize that Apollo wasn't looking for a legitimate fight. He was looking for more of an exhibition, a fight against an unknown on New Year's Eve. Rocky didn't get his shot at the title because he had been an up–and–coming contender. He was chosen purely at random. The champ saw Rocky's nickname — "The Italian Stallion" — and liked its possibilities as a marketing angle for the fight.

The champ never thought the Italian Stallion would be a serious threat, and he didn't go through serious preparations for the fight, which kind of foreshadowed, in a life–imitates–art kind of way, Buster Douglas' stunning upset of seemingly invincible heavyweight champion Mike Tyson in 1990. In one of my enduring memories from the movie, Apollo's trainer (Tony Burton) watched with alarm a TV report on Rocky's training regimen in the meat locker and kept telling Apollo to come watch the segment. But Apollo was too busy going over marketing plans for the fight.

Many things were finally coming to Rocky after a lifetime of waiting. Here he was getting a chance, at long last, to fight for the title, and he had also found love. Adrian (Talia Shire) was Paulie's sister, kind of plain and quiet. She worked at a pet store and lived with Paulie. She cooked his meals, cleaned his house, did his laundry. Apparently as a younger man he had promised to look after her because the family had concluded she couldn't look after herself. "I don't get married because of you," he yelled at her in frustration the night she moved out of his house — and into Rocky's tiny apartment. Maybe her family thought she was retarded or autistic. Fact was she was just introverted.

It was probably the love story — more than anything else — that made "Rocky" and its many sequels work. Most people probably fantasize about doing whatever they do professionally so well that they receive standing ovations and live handsomely for the rest of their lives.

Most people never achieve that, of course, so they can't relate to "Rocky" on that level (except in their dreams), but most people probably do find love — some don't but most do — and sometimes it is against the odds, in their own minds if no one else's.

On that level, most people probably could relate to "Rocky" in their real experiences — even if they had never participated in a sport, whether team or individual.

Rocky's love for Adrian was at the heart of everything he did. The movie was as much about his commitment to her as it was his commitment to giving his very best shot in the fight of his life. Maybe — no, make that probably — more.

---

---

So much of that is due to Shire's performance. Audiences already knew her as the Corleones' sister from the "Godfather" movies, and she had been nominated for Best Supporting Actress for her performance in "Godfather Part II."

She received a Best Actress nomination for her work in "Rocky" as the shy, sensitive Adrian. It was a powerful performance, all right, and perhaps she should have won — but she won neither Oscar.

"When she hesitates before kissing Rocky for the first time," wrote film critic Roger Ebert, "it's a moment so poignant it's like no other."

In a way, I guess, the audience already knew how the fight between Rocky and Apollo Creed would turn out before it even happened.

It didn't really matter, I guess, if Rocky wasn't a winner in the ring (except it always bothered me that, in the fight scenes in the first and subsequent Rocky movies, when punches landed, they always sounded like car doors being slammed in echo chambers).

---

---

He won the love of his life against all odds.

And so, too, did the movie. It won Best Picture (as well as Best Director and Best Film Editing) at the Academy Awards — in spite of heavyweights like "All the President's Men" and "Network" on the Academy's ballots.

Talk about your underdog–makes–good finish.

And Bill Conti was nominated for — and probably should have won — the Oscar for Best Original Song. "Gonna Fly Now" is such an iconic movie tune now. Forty years later it lives on in more memories than the winner of that Oscar, Barbra Streisand and Paul Williams' "Evergreen."

Take my advice. If you have a daunting task facing you and you need to get pumped up, listen to "Gonna Fly Now." Works every time.

Actually, Conti probably should have been nominated for Best Original Score. But there is a limit for even an underdog's triumphs.

Welcome to Crackerbox Palace

---

---

OK, I know that "Thirty–Three & 1/3," the George Harrison album that was released in the United Kingdom on this day in 1976 (the U.S. release came five days later), wasn't the best he ever made.

Far from it.

But I liked it then, and I like it now, perhaps entirely because it contains one of my favorite songs from Harrison's solo career, "Crackerbox Palace."

I wouldn't underestimate another factor, though.

I didn't get that album the day it came out. I got it a month or so later — after I had been given a stereo for Christmas. This stereo was equipped with an 8–track player so Harrison's album was the first 8–track I ever bought.

My 8–track collection never got to be very large, but as long as I had that stereo, I had the Harrison 8–track, and I played it repeatedly.

Four singles were released from the album. The first was "This Song," which preceded the album by a couple of days.

---

---

It was all right, kind of reminiscent of Harrison's commercial style, I thought — at least up to that point.

There was, as one of the lyrics suggested, "nothing tricky about it." It was a spoof of the court case of "My Sweet Lord" and the allegation that it was a copyright infringement of the Chiffons' "He's So Fine."

(A few months before "Thirty–Three & 1/3" was released, Harrison was found guilty by a district court judge of "subconsciously" copying the Chiffons' song and fined more than $1.5 million, which included about three–quarters of the revenue from the single and a significant part of the revenue from the sales of the three–record set "All Things Must Pass" on which it appeared.)

But "Crackerbox Palace," it seemed to me, demonstrated how much Harrison had learned — especially about writing creative lyrics — from working with John Lennon all those years.

And I've always been a Lennon fan.

"Crackerbox Palace" was released as a single a couple of months after the album hit music stores.

The third single was a 20–year–old Cole Porter tune called "True Love," which was introduced to the music–loving world in the movie "High Society." Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly sang it.

Covers have been done by Jane Powell, Richard Chamberlain, Nancy Sinatra and in a duet by Elton John and Kiki Dee. I think even Elvis did a version of it.

But Harrison's was the only one I know that was done in a blues rock fashion.

---

---

Analysis of a Letter

---

---

"As you pointed out, Sigmund, there's a link between anger and wit. Anger turned inward is depression. Anger turned sideways is Hawkeye."

Sidney (Allan Arbus)

---

In the episode of M*A*S*H that first aired on this night in 1976, "Dear Sigmund," Dr. Sidney Freedman (Allan Arbus) was making one of his frequent visits to the 4077th. There really were times during the series when Sidney seemed to be a glutton for punishment.

But there was a method to his madness. He believed "there's something special" about the unit — a healing quality — so, when he went there one night to play poker, he wound up staying for weeks trying to resolve problems he was having with a case that had turned out badly. After working with a patient for a long time — and believing they were on the verge of a breakthrough — Freedman's patient "listened to the voices" in his head that had been telling him to end his life.

It was a "Richard Cory" kind of tale. At least it struck me that way. I don't know if Sidney's patient was wealthy or not; I only know he had been having problems and was seeking psychiatric help.

Anyway, in a letter Sidney was writing to Sigmund Freud, he referred to the compound as a "kind of spa," reporting that "the waters are pretty good here." (I presume that would only be if they were mixed with some of Hawkeye's and B.J.'s homemade hooch.)

---

---

Speaking of Hawkeye (Alan Alda), Freedman wrote about how Hawkeye had made the rounds in post–op one day "with a personality that had split 2 for 1" — and a pair of diver's flippers on his feet.

Most of Sidney's letter dealt with different ways the M*A*S*H folks found to occupy themselves during their down time — one of which was the poker game. By far the thing that occupied most people's thoughts and actions was a wave of practical jokes that had been sweeping the compound. No one knew who the practical jokester was or who might be his next victim.

The viewer always knew when the jokester had struck, though. One time a bench in the mess hall tipped over when someone sat at the end of it. Another time Col. Potter (Harry Morgan) got black rings around his eyes after using binoculars.

---

---

The joker turned out to be B.J. (Mike Farrell). Sidney found out when he discovered B.J. filling a hole in the ground with water. Frank Burns (Larry Linville) had been digging the holes to be prepared for air raids.

"As loud as you can," B.J. said to Sidney after enlisting his help in the practical joke, "shout 'Air raid!'" Which he did — and Frank came running out of the tent and dove into the hole, not realizing it was full of water.

On what was apparently a very cold first day of spring, the folks in the compound gathered outside for a brief ceremonial unveiling of a cherry blossom they had been trying to grow. They quickly covered it up and returned it to a makeshift greenhouse where it had been kept — and apparently would remain until springlike weather arrived to rejuvenate the frozen earth.

Sidney felt rejuvenated enough by that point to leave, observing as he did that happiness is "like springtime at M*A*S*H. If you can't see it or find it, you just go ahead and make it."

Which is pretty good advice.

It Was More Than a Feeling

---

---

Boston's eight–song self–titled debut album, "Boston," which was released on this day in 1976, was one of the most successful debut albums in American history, selling 17 million copies.

It produced three singles, each of which sold quite well.

"More Than A Feeling," the first single from the album, was arguably the most successful. It's been described as an ode to daydreaming, and it featured a reference to a mysterious Marianne, who, it turned out, was a real person. Band leader Tom Scholz said she was his older cousin, whom he regarded as the most beautiful girl he had ever seen when he was the tender age of 8 or 9 and she must have been in her teens. The song soared to #5 on Billboard's Hot 100 — and even sparked a bit of controversy during the 2008 presidential primary campaign.

Republican Mike Huckabee used the song for campaign promotion, and a former band member made appearances with Huckabee, giving the joint impression that the band had given Huckabee permission to use the song and had endorsed Huckabee's campaign, neither of which was true, Scholz observed in his written request to Huckabee to stop using the song.

Huckabee complied with the request.

It was indeed a popular tune. It showed up in several movies around that time, and many musicians made covers of it. Forty years later, it is still a staple on FM radio.

Actually, as popular as "More Than A Feeling" was, the flip side on that single, "Smokin'," probably enjoyed more popularity than it deserved simply because it was the flip side to "More Than A Feeling."

---

---

Boston released "More Than A Feeling" as a single about the same time as it released the album.

The next single, "Foreplay/Long Time," was released after the start of the new year.

"Foreplay" was an instrumental tune that Scholz wrote around 1969 while a student at MIT. The merging of that tune with "Long Time," another Scholz composition, was described by Rolling Stone as the "marriage of Led Zeppelin and Yes."

Pretty good description.

---

---

Like its predecessor, "Foreplay/Long Time" was a big hit, reaching #22 on Billboard's Hot 100. And, once again, the B side profited from being paired with a Boston hit. In this case, the flip side was "Let Me Take You Home Tonight," the only piece on the album that was not composed by Scholz.

"Let Me Take You Home Tonight" was penned by guitarist and lead vocalist Brad Delp.

The album's third single, "Peace of Mind," was released eight months after the album. I've heard that it was written about Scholz's work colleagues before he found success in the music industry. That certainly makes sense.

"Peace of Mind," like the other two singles, performed well on the charts, climbing to #38 on Billboard's Hot 100.

---

---

I always kind of liked it better than the other two. Maybe it was the acoustic guitar intro.

Whatever it was, I believed from the start that Boston was kind of a bizarre merging of two styles — at once a kind of familiar sort of band playing familiar sort of music while, at the same time, a garage band with a unique sound all its own.

Putting Bowie's Best on a Single Album

---

---

David Bowie, who died earlier this year, was an extraordinary talent, and I really liked many of his songs.

Strangely, though, I think I have owned only two of his albums in my life — "Diamond Dogs," of which I wrote a couple of years ago, and "Changesonebowie," a compilation of Bowie's 11 best recordings from 1969 to 1976 that was released 40 years ago today.

In case you're wondering, there was a "Changestwobowie," which hit the music stores five years later, but I never owned a copy. There just weren't enough songs on it that interested me.

But I liked "Changesonebowie." As I have mentioned here before, I always did prefer Bowie's early stuff — and "Changesonebowie" was the first time that "John, I'm Only Dancing," which was released as a single four years earlier, appeared on an LP.

That alone made "Changesonebowie" worth having, as far as I was concerned.

---

---

Two of the songs on the album — "Ziggy Stardust" and "Suffragette City" — hadn't been released as singles when "Changesonebowie" hit the stores.

Both were on the 1972 album, "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars."

Ziggy Stardust was Bowie's alter ego, a rock star/extraterrestrial messenger. Rolling Stone ranked the song #282 on its list of the top 500 recordings of all time.

---

---

The two "Changes" LPs were eventually combined to form a CD that was released in 1990. It's been in my CD collection all these years.

It's the CD I listened to the day I learned of Bowie's death. It had all the Bowie songs I wanted to hear.

It still does.

The Greatest Hits Album That Darn Near Everyone Had

---

---

I don't know when CD technology was developed, but it wasn't the way recordings were packaged and sold when I was growing up. I was raised on vinyl records that eventually wound up with scratches and cassette tapes that eventually got snarled in the gears of the tape player. It's how we rolled.

In those days, I had some greatest hits albums in my collection — not many, though, probably because the capacity of records and tapes was so limited. Most albums were about 30 to 40 minutes or so when you added up the lengths of the tracks on both sides. (You can get at least twice as much material on a CD.) Double albums really were better deals, but most bands didn't have enough material that qualified as hits for a two–record greatest hits collection.

Besides, if I liked a band well enough to buy its greatest hits album, odds were I already had several of that band's albums in my collection, and the greatest hits package would merely duplicate most, if not all, of the material I had — while depriving me of a band's lesser–known works.

It occurred to me the other night that I have many more greatest hits on CD than I ever had on vinyl — probably because it is possible to get so much more information into the digital format — but one of the greatest hits albums that I did have in my vinyl collection hit the music stores of America on this day in 1976. I am speaking of the "Eagles Greatest Hits."

I never owned many Eagles albums when I was growing up. I liked them. I liked their hits. I just never owned many of their albums. I still don't even though I have completely transitioned to CDs now. I own, as I always have, "On the Border," one of their early albums, and a two–CD collection called "The Very Best of the Eagles" — which is basically the "Eagles Greatest Hits" plus the bonus tracks of the Eagles' post–1975 hits.

("On the Border" was a great example of what I meant when I spoke of a band's "lesser–known works" of which I would not want to be deprived. My favorite Eagles song, "My Man," is on it, and it was never a hit.)

The concept of bonus tracks didn't exist in 1976 although I guess one of the tracks on "Eagles Greatest Hits" would qualify as something of a bonus track. "Tequila Sunrise" was the only song on the album that did not crack the Top 40, but the album would be altogether different without it. It would still be a great collection, but listening to it would be a much different experience.

---

---

All the hits prior to 1976 were in the package — "Take It Easy," "Best Of My Love," "Take It To The Limit," "One Of These Nights," "Desperado." There were 10 tracks in all.

And everyone, it seemed, had the album. Even folks who already had most if not all of the Eagles' albums in their collections. Turned out that wasn't my imagination after all.

A week after "Eagles Greatest Hits" was released, it became the first album to receive the Recording Industry Association of America's platinum award recognizing 1 million shipments in the United States. In 1999 it was certified 26x multi–platinum, making it the all–time best–selling album.

Note that the latter was achieved long after CDs had overtaken vinyl in the commercial music market. It was certified 29x multi–platinum in 2006; that was 30 years after its release.

To date Michael Jackson's "Thriller" is the only other album to be certified 29x multi–platinum. It was released in 1984, and I'm sure Jackson's death spurred sales of all his albums. That's what happened when Elvis died, when John Lennon died, when Frank Sinatra died. I guess it happens when most famous singers die.

Eagles co–founder Glenn Frey died nearly a month ago, but I haven't heard if any of the Eagles albums, particularly the greatest hits package that was released 40 years ago today, has had a boost in sales as a result. Maybe the difference is that the artists I mentioned were perceived as solo acts (except for Lennon, of course, who was a founding member of the Beatles but had been a solo performer for a decade at the time of his death).

But maybe that doesn't matter after all. Frey had a solo career, too, and it was pretty successful, with hits like "The Heat Is On," "You Belong to the City" and "Smuggler's Blues." I guess he will always be remembered, though, for his work with the Eagles. The surviving Eagles, with Jackson Browne, performed a fitting tribute to Frey at the Grammys Monday night.

---

---

Of course, "Take It Easy" — the Eagles' first big hit, back in the summer of '72 — was a highlight of Monday night's tribute. Browne and Frey wrote it; appropriately, Browne sang it at the awards show.

And the greatest hits album that was on music store shelves 40 years ago today undeniably would have been incomplete without it.

Another Milestone for Archie

---

---

All in the Family was always blazing new trails in American television. Most of the time, those trails provoked conversations about isms — you know, communism, racism, sexism, that kind of thing.

In the episode that aired on this night in 1976, Archie (Carroll O'Connor) blazed a different kind of trail for network television — full frontal nudity. Not his own. The nudity of his infant grandson in the series. I'll get back to that in a minute.

What happened was that Mike (Rob Reiner) was taking Gloria (Sally Struthers) out for the evening. It was three weeks since the episode in which the baby was born, and it must have been three weeks in the timeline of the series as well because Mike mentioned that it was the first time in three weeks that they had been able to go out.

That part seemed to be rushing things, I thought. Now, I have never been married, and I have never lived with a new mother — at least, not since I was 3 and my brother was born, and I had no comprehension of time in those days — so I don't know how long it usually takes for a new mother to be sufficiently recovered from labor to go out for the evening, but three weeks seems a little premature to me. Perhaps I am wrong about that.

Anyway, the Stivics were going out for the evening, and Mike had retained one of his students to babysit. Archie wasn't wild about that, especially after the babysitter's boyfriend showed up, presumably so they could study together while she watched the baby. Archie thought they were more interested in studying each other than studying for class — and it followed that they would be more interested in studying each other than keeping an eye on the baby.

So Archie ran them off.

That presented a problem for Archie. There was no one to babysit except him — and he was hosting a poker party at his house. Edith, as I recall, was visiting her aunt who was in her 80s and, apparently, in poor health so Edith didn't appear in the episode.

Archie brought his grandson over to his house, and the poker party soon gave way to efforts to figure out why the baby kept crying. Was he hungry? Did he need to be changed? The card players gave a barbershop quartet rendition of "Rock–A–Bye, Baby" to try to put him to sleep.

---

---

The answer came quickly enough. The baby made a noise that everyone thought, at first, was a burp. But after a few seconds, the looks on their faces confirmed what Archie soon observed: "That wasn't no burp."

His poker buddies made their exit, leaving Archie to change the baby.

And that is when the full frontal nudity part came in.

---

---

It wasn't a lingering shot. It was very brief, actually. But it was a first for network television — and it was controversial in 1975, much more so than it is 40 years later.

As I understand it, summer reruns and subsequent syndicated airings had that scene edited out.

But viewers in Canada can still see the episode unedited.

As far as I was concerned, it was always a nonissue. It was such a fleeting moment, like Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction during the Super Bowl. It was over before most viewers could comprehend what they had seen.

But, as I say, it was controversial, as sexual topics always are.

Never Assume

---

---

Things aren't always what they seem to be — or don't seem to be. I don't know about you, but I learned that the hard way — and, on this night 40 years ago, so did Mary Tyler Moore. Well, I guess she did. That point was uncertain when the episode ended. But the audience sure did learn it.

In the episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show that premiered on this night in 1976, Mary and Mr. Grant (Ed Asner) were going to a seminar in Washington, D.C., that was devoted to politics and the press.

It was going to be like a homecoming for Mr. Grant. He had covered Washington for the Detroit Free Press in his younger days, and he boasted to Mary about the connections he had made; they were the kind of people, he told her, who would show her the Washington that tourists seldom, if ever, saw.

But first Lou had to deal with Ted (Ted Knight) who reminded Lou that he had promised Ted could go on the next free trip that came up. Ted rationalized the decision out loud, suggesting that Mr. Grant had opted to leave Ted in charge of the newsroom because he needed a steady hand at the wheel. Mr. Grant went along with that, apparently figuring it was the easiest way to get Ted off his back. But it was not smooth sailing. Ted insisted that Mr. Grant tell Murray (Gavin MacLeod) that Ted would be in charge while he was away.

Murray didn't take that news well and refused to wish Mary and Lou a good trip when they departed.

Once they arrived in Washington, Lou put out some feelers and waited for the calls from his connections. Mary wanted to go to a restaurant for dinner, but Lou assured her that there were probably five really good parties in progress in D.C. that evening. He said they should wait at the hotel for some calls to come in.

"I've never been to Washington before," Mary protested. "It's my first night in the capitol. I want to see some of it."

Lou told her she shouldn't worry. She was going to see the whole city. At that moment, the phone rang. Lou was sure it was one of his connections, but it turned out to be for Mary. It was someone she had met earlier who invited her to a party at the French embassy.

But Lou nixed the embassy party. "We're gonna do a lot better than that," he assured Mary. So Mary turned it down.

A minute later, the phone rang again — but, once again, it was for Mary.

"What did you do, write your number on a wall?" Lou asked testily.

---

---

Actually, it was a congressman Mary had met earlier at the seminar, and Lou tried to get reservations for the two of them to have dinner at the best place in town. But it turned out that his connection there, the head waiter, had died 10 years earlier.

"I guess he died without mentioning how close we were," Lou told the person on the other end of the line.

The congressman called up and got a reservation there with no trouble, and he and Mary left Lou in his hotel room.

The next day, Mary and Lou compared notes on their evenings. Lou, as it turned out, hadn't talked to anyone after Mary left. He dozed off and thus may have missed calls — if any came in. But he was determined to wait it out again that night. "Sometimes you have to wait around like that if you want a really good time," he told Mary.

He insisted that he wasn't losing his faith in his buddies, but Mary was, and she went out on the town again that night, leaving Lou alone in his hotel room.

When she got back to the hotel later, she went to Lou's room and told him she was sorry he hadn't joined them. They had gone to a party in Georgetown where she met the assistant secretary of Defense.

Lou said he was sorry that Mary hadn't stayed with him that evening. A couple of old friends came by, he said.

Mary was pleased to hear that. She said she was sure he had had a wonderful time seeing old friends again, and Lou said he did.

"John Glenn told the funniest story," Lou said.

"John Glenn the astronaut?" Mary asked. Lou said yes.

"John Glenn is an old friend of yours?" Mary asked.

"No, I never met him before," Lou replied. "He came with Hubert."

"Hubert?" Mary asked.

"Humphrey," Lou replied. "Anyway, it was the funniest story. I thought Eric Sevareid was gonna bust a gut!"

The conversation went on like that. Sevareid wasn't able to stay long, he said, because he was giving Ethel Kennedy a lift. "How did she get home?" Mary asked.

"The Fords gave her a ride," Lou said, referring to then–President and Mrs. Ford. It certainly would have made sense that Lou, as an employee of the Detroit newspaper, would have had dealings with Michigan Congressman Gerald Ford in the years before he became Richard Nixon's vice president and, eventually, his successor. Ford, after all, represented his district in Michigan for a quarter of a century. Nevertheless, Mary made a face.

Lou leaned forward. "Mary," he said, "you don't believe the president was here tonight, do you?"

---

---

"Well, of course, I believe the president was here," Mary replied. "Was Lincoln here, too?"

It was at that moment that the phone rang. On the other end of the line was Betty Ford, the first lady. She was looking for the president's pipe. It was his favorite pipe, and he thought it might have fallen from his pocket. Mary looked and found it under a sofa cushion. She held it out and said, in a mocking tone, "What do you know? The president's pipe."

Mrs. Ford asked Lou if she could speak to Mary so he handed her the phone.

"Hello, Mary?" and the screen showed the first lady speaking on the phone, presumably from the White House. "This is Betty Ford."

"Hello, Betty," the still disbelieving Mary replied. "This is Mary ... Queen of Scots."

A couple of interesting trivia points:

First, I have heard that the people behind the Mary Tyler Moore Show wanted President Ford to make the cameo appearance. But it was the start of an election year, and President Ford was seeking the Republican nomination. It was decided that an appearance on the Mary Tyler Moore Show, which ranked #19 at the end of the 1975–76 season, might be considered an advertisement for — if not an endorsement of — his re–election. So Mrs. Ford was selected instead.

Second, Mary Tyler Moore wrote in her autobiography that Betty Ford was drunk when she filmed her scene. I don't know if that was true. I have seen that episode a number of times, and I can't tell if she is drunk in it — but I do know that a few years later she went through recovery and established the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, Calif., for the treatment of chemical dependency.

Staying Out of the Draft

---

---

When I was growing up, there was probably no other issue that drove as many wedges between friends and relatives as the war in Vietnam.

It was the time of the infamous "generation gap," and you can trust me when I tell you that was no exaggeration. There really was a gap between the generations in those days. Most people above a certain age bought the whole "domino theory" argument and believed containing communism in southeast Asia was critical to our survival, and most people below a certain age thought it was rubbish and that they were being sent to die for nothing.

There were exceptions to both rules, of course. It was hardly unanimous. There were older people who opposed the war, and there were younger people who supported it.

And there were other issues that ripped people apart, of course — race, sex, religion.

But that's business as usual, isn't it? Humans have been dealing with those issues since time began. The real dividing line in America in those days was the war. It was bigger than anything else, and it played a prominent role in every aspect of American life, even its entertainment.

During the war — and for years after U.S. involvement ended — Vietnam was like this open, bleeding wound in American life that no one would even mention, much less treat. It never really surprised me that the Vietnam vets suffered as much as they did after they returned. They were treated as pariahs, blamed for a long and painful war for which they were not responsible.

It must have been especially shocking for any vets who fantasized about being greeted the way their fathers and uncles were welcomed home after World War II.

Those who avoided military service by going to Canada were treated no better. They may have been motivated by principle, but they were treated as cowards. That was some choice. If you went to Vietnam, you were spat upon when you came home. And if you avoided going to Vietnam, ostensibly because you felt the same way about the war as those who spat on the vets, you were spat upon when you came home — if you did.

Coming home, even briefly, from Canada when you were a fugitive from justice meant exposing yourself to the possibility of arrest, trial and conviction.

American television rarely dealt as directly and honestly with the war and the devastating effect it had on people as it did 35 years ago tonight in a holiday episode of All in the Family.

All in the Family didn't always have a holiday–oriented episode, but it was a groundbreaking series from the beginning so, when it did have a holiday episode, it was typically thought provoking.

It was Christmas Day in the Bunker home, and two special guests were there to share Christmas dinner — Pinky (Eugene Roche), Archie's friend who lost his son in Vietnam, and David (Renny Temple), Mike's friend who dodged the draft and was living in Canada.

Archie (Carroll O'Connor) wasn't supposed to know that David was a draft dodger, and the rest of the family did a pretty good job of concealing it from him — but David himself finally spilled the beans.

---

Archie: What the hell ya got in Canada that you ain't got here? ... Huh? What's the answer?

David: Freedom.

Archie: Did you say 'freedom?' "

David: Yes, sir. Freedom.

Archie: Come on, will ya? You got more freedom in the U.S. of A. than you got any place else in the world. This here is the land of the free. Didn't you never hear of that?

David: Mr. Bunker, for some of us, America is not free.

---

This exchange bewildered Archie, as I am sure it bewildered countless Archie types all across the country in those days.

It angered him, too — and I'm equally sure that it angered the Archies in America.

Their belief system could be summed up in a bumper sticker — "America: Love it or leave it."

That belief system was being challenged. And Archie was in full defense mode.

But, in a finish that neatly emphasized the spirit of Christmas, Pinky, the Gold Star father, accepted David the draft dodger.

"I understand how you feel, Arch," Pinky said. "My kid hated the war, too, but he did what he thought he had to do, and David here did what he thought he had to do. But David's alive to share Christmas dinner with us. And if Steve were here, he'd want to sit down with him, and that's what I want to do."

Such an act of generosity surely was in the best tradition of O. Henry.

The Funniest Pink Panther Movie of Them All

---

---

When I was growing up, my family did a lot of things together.

But no experience compared to that of seeing a funny movie with my parents.

Sometimes we would watch funny movies on TV because they had been out of the theaters for years, and TV was the only place you could see them. Most of the time, my parents had seen those movies before, and they knew when their favorites moments were coming up.

But sometimes we caught the movies at the theaters. They were new to my parents on those occasions, and Mom and Dad had no idea when the funniest moments would occur.

Whether we were watching the TV in our living room or the big screen at a theater, I always knew when my father thought something was genuinely funny. He had a laugh that seemed to roll its way up his windpipe, gathering momentum as it did, and then exploded from his mouth — as if there was simply no way he could contain it.

I tended to judge a supposedly funny movie by how many laughs like that it could coax from him.

On many occasions, a movie might get one such laugh from him. The rest of the time, he might give a polite laugh or two when something was supposed to be humorous, but, for the most part, those movies were not genuinely funny.

The more belly laughs a movie could prod from him, the funnier it was.

"The Pink Panther Strikes Again" — which made its debut on this day in 1976 — had him laughing from start to finish.

It was genuinely funny.

Actually, all of the "Pink Panther" movies were family favorites. My mother, as I have said before, was a huge Peter Sellers fan, and both of my parents were devotees of detective fiction.

That made the "Pink Panther" movies naturals — and, for my money, the one that premiered on this day 35 years ago was the funniest of them all.

It was a spoof of everything — from the running gags in the previous "Pink Panther" flicks (we all got a kick out of Clouseau's man servant, Cato, ambushing his employer in his cavernous apartment to keep him on his toes) to the jokes that abounded at the time about then–President Ford's legendary pratfalls and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger's thick German accent.

Most of the humor in the movie derived from the former chief inspector (Herbert Lom) who had escaped from the asylum to which he was sent after Clouseau's idiocy drove him over the edge.

After his escape, the former chief inspector assembled a gang of the world's greatest criminals whose sole objective would be to kill Clouseau — and it became Clouseau's objective to stop him.

Thus, the wheels were set in motion for what may have been the most wildly improbable detective story ever. Even now, I am hesitant to reveal any more of the details — because if you haven't seen it, you should.

Of course, I wouldn't recommend seeing it without seeing the others first. It simply won't be as funny otherwise.

So go ahead and do that.

We'll resume the discussion when the case is solv–ed.

Looking Into the Future

---

---

"I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

Howard Beale (Peter Finch)
Network (1976)

---

I guess everyone knows that speech — if folks don't know it by heart, at least they know the catch phrase — "I'm as made as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore."

That speech by actor Peter Finch in the 1976 movie "Network" has achieved an iconic status in the annals of memorable movie lines — alongside Rhett Butler's "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!" and Vito Corleone's "offer you can't refuse" and all the others that have become virtual cliches.

It isn't necessary to be old enough to remember when the movie was showing at the theaters for someone to be familiar with the line and the context in which it was said.

When Woody Allen quoted (or misquoted, actually) Humphrey Bogart in the title of a movie ("Play It Again, Sam"), it wasn't necessary to tell people that the line came from a movie that was made three decades earlier. Everyone already knew.

But there was really so much more to "Network" than Finch's rage — and some of it has taken years to emerge. Maybe you do need to be old enough to remember the movie to appreciate how much has changed.

When "Network" made its debut 35 years ago today, cable and internet may have existed, but they were technological toddlers. They are much larger, much more mature today, and those who have known no other probably cannot appreciate how prescient Paddy Chayefsky's story really was.

---

---

When I watch it today — and I have probably watched it a dozen times or more since I first saw it on the big screen — I marvel at all the things he anticipated. Maybe you need to be able to remember a world that had no cell phones or personal computers/laptops — no instant information or communication — to comprehend just how on target Chayefsky was.

His story anticipated things like reality TV — albeit in a much more extreme form than anything we have seen in real life — and "news" anchors whose personalities are more important than the news.

His script warned us just how shallow our role models would be in the years to come, how many would resort to exploitation to raise their ratings, how they would be driven by little more than those ratings (which are designed to measure the quantity of the audience and not the quality of the programming).

It was all tongue in cheek, I'm sure. Chayefsky wrote his story to entertain. I don't think for a second that he believed he was being prophetic.

It just turned out that — in many unexpected ways — he was.

The Story of an Awkward Teenager

---

---

Thirty–five years ago today, the screen adaptation of Stephen King's "Carrie" made its debut.

Almost immediately, the final scene, in which a hand reaches up from the rubble and grabs Amy Irving by the wrist, became iconic. Virtually everyone, it seems, even those who have never seen the movie, is familiar with it.

I, however, had not heard of that scene when I saw the movie a few weeks after its premiere — and I jumped in my seat when I first saw it — just as I did a few years later when I saw "Alien" on the big screen or when I saw the climactic scene of "Silence of the Lambs" more than a decade later.

If only one could enact an enforceable law that would prevent people from revealing the ending of a movie like "Carrie" to someone who hasn't seen it. It's like blowing the punch line of a joke ...

It was a story to which anyone who ever felt awkward as a teenager could relate.

Carrie (played by Sissy Spacek, who was mostly unknown at the time, at least in comparison to her status after the movie made the theatrical rounds) was an outcast in her high school, taunted and abused by her classmates.

Life wasn't any better for her when she got home from school, either, with a domineering religious fanatic of a mother (memorably played by Piper Laurie) waiting for her.

Of course, no one realized that Carrie had a very special power — telekinetic power — and Carrie herself was reluctant to acknowledge its existence. But when she was upset, it bubbled to the surface and almost took on a life of its own, and, when she could no longer deny what she saw happening around her, she felt compelled to research the possibility.

If only the folks in her world had been paying attention, they might have seen the tell–tale signs that her power was growing beyond her control and becoming more of a threat to others.

But, as humans are apt to do, they were obsessed with their own lives and didn't notice when a light bulb shattered in the girls' locker room and an ashtray sitting on the principal's desk flipped off and broke on the floor.

From most outward appearances, Carrie was a typical shy teenage girl fully engaged in the emotional roller coaster ride known as puberty.

But, if you were paying attention, she was boiling volcano about to erupt.

Well, I suppose the rest of the story is pretty well known by now. Carrie was set up to be escorted to the prom and then to be elected prom queen — and, as she was being crowned, a bucket of blood would be dumped on her — all of which transpired as planned.

But then the unplanned happened.

Carrie's telekinetic powers took over, slamming shut all exits from the gym and starting a fire that killed everyone who wasn't killed in another way. In a truly zombie–like state, Carrie strolled through the carnage out into the night and walked home, her dress still drenched in blood, where she killed her mother with flying knives that pinned her to the wall in a pose that resembled the crucifixion.

That part was a little heavy handed for me.

Both Carrie and her mother were crushed when Carrie used her powers to bring the house down, leaving a pile of rubble where Irving's wrist would be grabbed in the film's climactic scene.

In hindsight, I guess, that scene had the same shock value for that generation as the shower scene in "Psycho" had for the previous one.

And that really isn't surprising, given the admiration that director Brian De Palma has for the work of Alfred Hitchcock.

Clearly, the name of the high school — Bates High School — was taken from the villain of "Psycho" — Norman Bates. (I don't recall the name of the high school in King's original novel, but I am quite sure it was not Bates.)

And, while it wouldn't qualify as a variation from the book, De Palma used the same violin theme from "Psycho" whenever Carrie had a telekinetic episode.

There were other differences between the movie and the Stephen King book that inspired it — as there always are — but King himself told an interviewer that it was a "good movie" — and so it was.

It is a bit dated now, but it is still a good movie.

Agatha Christie's Last Mystery

It is fitting, I suppose, that a certain amount of mystery surrounds the final books that were published by the all–time best–selling mystery writer, Agatha Christie.

Many people, you see, think — erroneously — that "Sleeping Murder," which was published 35 years ago this month, was the last book that Christie wrote. But it was not. It was the last of her books to be published — and it was published nearly a year after her death.

And that is an entirely different thing.

In fact, if what I have heard and read is true, "Sleeping Murder," which featured Christie's elderly sleuth, Miss Marple, may have been written as many as 35 years before it was published.

Long before they were published, Christie wrote novels that were intended to be the final cases for her primary detectives, Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. The manuscripts, so the story goes, were sealed away for decades until Christie, in the final years of her life, authorized the publication of "Curtain," Poirot's final case.

I don't think Christie ever confirmed the details about when she wrote the books, but devotees of her work deduced, in true mystery reader fashion, that she must have written both during World War II — although some have speculated recently that "Sleeping Murder" may have been written after the war.

No matter. It presented no major continuity problems in the story line of Miss Marple. She didn't die in the end (unlike Poirot) which might have been something of a problem.

Death is so final, as any fan of Agatha Christie must surely know.

And, as many of her fans have observed, the general timing of the story's penning could be determined by the references to a play that opened in London in the mid–1940s.

If Miss Marple died at that time, it would have made it awkward to explain things in novels that had been written since "Sleeping Murder."

But nothing in the story remotely suggested that it was Miss Marple's last case. At the end of the book, the reader could only conclude that Miss Marple had returned to her home in a fictional village near London and resumed her life.

At the time it was published, some people said it was the perfect swan song for Christie. I never thought it was a particularly remarkable story. It was all right, but I really think she wrote better books in her life.

Essentially, the story was about a young woman who purchased a home for herself and her husband — without realizing that she had lived there once as a small child.

Her memories began to come back to her, and it occurred to her that she had witnessed a murder there when she was small — and she and her husband began investigating whether her "memories" were real or imagined.

The story reminded me of so many reports that I have heard in recent years — of people who have repressed memories since childhood and something summoned them to the surface.

I have often heard such people speak of the places where these repressed memories were based as if the places themselves were possessed by restless spirits. Sometimes, when those spirits were "appeased" in some way, they left in peace.

That was the sense I got from the conclusion of "Sleeping Murder:"

---

"Poor Helen ... poor lovely Helen ... who died young. ... You know, Giles, she isn't there any more — in the house — in the hall. ... I could feel that yesterday before we left. ... There's just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like ..."

---

The Reincarnation of Charlie's Angels

---

---

Thirty–five years ago tonight, the original Charlie's Angels began its first season on American television.

And tonight at 7 (Central), the reincarnation of that series will make its television debut. The timing of the premiere of this remake is hardly coincidental.

I won't be able to watch it — I teach a class at the community college on Tuesday and Thursday nights — but I will be interested in hearing what others have to say about it.

The original series, as I recall, was often ridiculed by critics for lacking substance. It was held out as an example of "Jiggle TV" because the "angels" usually wore skimpy or provocative clothes while carrying out their undercover investigations. (I have heard it said that creator Aaron Spelling wanted a bikini in every scene.)

---

---

That was what attracted viewers, critics complained — sex appeal, not clever stories or brilliant acting.

To be honest, I saw nothing wrong with that. I was a teenage boy when Charlie's Angels made its debut, and I watched it, as did my friends, for the same reason that teenage boys probably will today. We were curious about sex.

Savvy marketers know there is money to be made peddling fantasies. The angels of the '70s sure did inspire their share of fantasies (and, to be fair, so did girls in comedies like Three's Company), and the stars knew it.

"When the show was #3, I figured it was our acting," Farrah Fawcett said. "When it got to be #1, I decided it could only be because none of us wears a bra."

Of course, teenage boys in the 1970s had Farrah's iconic poster to inspire their fantasies when the show wasn't on. Today, I suppose, teenage boys will simply go to the internet to find pictures of their favorite 21st century angels. No doubt they will find many — legitimate and otherwise.

Well, that's what motivates teenage boys. I'm well past that stage in my life, and I'd like to hear the opinions of the veterans of the original series, but they've been disappearing in recent years.

Fawcett is gone now, of course. Her fellow angels, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith, are still around — as are Cheryl Ladd (who replaced Fawcett), Shelley Hack (who replaced Jackson) and Tanya Roberts (who replaced Hack) — but the men of the series, John Forsythe (who provided Charlie's disembodied voice) and David Doyle (who played Bosley, Charlie's middle man), are deceased.

So, while it will be possible (in theory, at least) to get feedback from some of the original stars, I suspect, though, that the series remake will be a back to the future kind of experience for TV viewers who remember the original.

Sarah Bull of The Daily Mail wrote back in May — after previewing the program — that its objective appears to be "to live up to the legacy of the original TV series and film remakes."

Interestingly, though, Bull mentioned by name the stars of the movie that was inspired by the series — but not the stars of the original TV series, without whom the movie and the remake that airs tonight would not be possible.

The movies were pretty successful. I presume the series will be, too. But will it be successful because, like the original, it appeals to Americans' obsession with sex? Will it be successful because the writing is terrific and the acting is great?

Or will it be successful because of a combination of the above?

When Buffy Died

---

---

I don't remember hearing the news that Anissa Jones — the actress who played Buffy on Family Affair — had died of a drug overdose at the age of 18.

I just remember that, seemingly overnight, everyone in my school knew about it.

The school year had just begun. Normally, you could walk down the halls and overhear snippets of conversations about trips to the beach or the mountains, playing youth baseball or whatever, different topics, but, 35 years ago, everyone was talking about only one thing.

Everyone was shaken by it. Jones was a teenager, like me, like all my friends — older than we were, actually, more of an older sister chronologically but, because of her TV role, forever like a younger pigtailed sister in our minds. And she was like a friend to all of us, someone we had known since we were small.

But we knew only Buffy the TV character. We didn't know Anissa Jones.

Jones died on this date 35 years ago after a night of partying. Cocaine, PCP, Quaaludes and Seconal were found in her system. The coroner who examined her said it was the most severe overdose he had ever observed.

In those days, I guess, it was harder for people to differentiate between public persona and private life. It was a technologically primitive time — no internet, no cell phones, no cable/satellite TV — and lots of people just assumed that if someone was smiling and appeared happy on TV or in photos on the pages of newspapers and magazines, that person was happy.

The prevailing belief in those days was that stardom was a ticket to happiness.

But Jones, as we all found out, was desperately unhappy.

Her parents divorced when she was a child, then — after a lengthy legal battle — her father won custody of her and her brother, but he died soon after. She moved in with her mother, but their relationship was not good, and she wound up in juvenile hall, classified a runaway.

After she turned 18, she gained access to the money that had been saved during her years on Family Affair — including, I suppose, her earnings from promotional appearances and products that promoted the series, like dolls that were identical to the one Jones' TV character carried with her at all times.

For nearly six months, she and her brother lived in an apartment, and substance abuse, I have heard, was rampant.

That certainly was true on Aug. 28, 1976.

As I say, Jones was 18 when she died. If she was alive, she would be 53, and one can only wonder what she would have done with her life.

It's the question that is always asked about those who die young.

Sometimes I wish I had known — I wish we had all known — how unhappy she was. There probably wasn't anything anyone could have done, but I like to think that maybe someone would have tried.

After all, that's the kind of thing friends do for one another, isn't it?

The Roots of an American Family

---

"When you clench your fist, no one can put anything in your hand, nor can your hand pick up anything."

Alex Haley
"Roots" (1976)

---

On this day in 1976, the publishing world was changed by the publication of a once–in–a–generation kind of book ...

Alex Haley's "Roots."

There had been other books that had come before that had been about the black experience in America. And there were certainly books that came along later that spoke of it in greater detail.

But "Roots" seemed to be unique. Never before (to my knowledge, at least) had a novel told the story of a young black man — captured in 18th–century Africa and sold into slavery in the North American colonies — and his descendants, both slave and free, and the generational struggle to find their way back to their point of origin.

As it turned out, the story wasn't unique. Someone had told it — or something remarkably similar — before Haley did. But I'll get back to that in a minute.

Ostensibly, it was the tale of Haley's own family, his attempt to put a little meat on the bare–bones stories that he said had been handed down in his family from one generation to the next. Initially, it was presented to the public as nonfiction, but, ultimately, Haley had to acknowledge that parts of the story were fiction — if not borrowed fiction.

Haley reportedly said, "Roots is not just a saga of my family. It is the symbolic saga of a people."

In that respect, I suppose, it was really a writer's story — and that is the kind of thing that the writer in me has never been able to resist.

I think, too, that one of the things about it that attracted me was the similarity — in concept if not in actual writing style — to the works of James Michener, a writer I greatly admired.

Michener wrote books that told the stories of places through the generations that lived there. He did it so well, in fact, that my father, who taught religion and philosophy on the college level when I was growing up, used a book Michener wrote on the Middle East ("The Source") as a textbook.

In "Roots," the locales changed — and so did the people, for that matter — but the roots that linked them to one another went back hundreds of years and extended for thousands of miles. Even when you read the more modern stories of his descendants, you were always aware of Kunta Kinte and the influence he continued to have through the oral legacy he handed down to his daughter and was kept alive by succeeding generations.

It is important to remember, after all, that "Roots" wasn't a literal history — even though it was initially promoted as nonfiction. That, at least, is what is on the old paperback copy on my bookshelf — and that edition was printed in 1977.

Haley said it was his family's oral history that inspired the book, and that was logical. Because of the circumstances behind the arrival of most black people in America, there is little documentation that can prove where they were born, when they left their homes or what became of them after that.

Slaves wouldn't have been treated as people. They would have been treated as cargo. If one got sick and died while the ship was crossing the Atlantic, the body would have been thrown overboard, but it is doubtful that much note would have been made of it in the ship's log.

Haley apparently learned all he could and filled in the gaps based largely on educated guesses. Given the circumstances, what else could be done?

I remember reading the book as a teenager, and I found it enthralling. I couldn't pinpoint the sections where Haley had made educated guesses or where he wrote of documented events and/or conversations. I found the reading experience to be smooth and logical, seamless.

But it may not have been as original as it seemed.

Haley (who would have turned 90 last week if he was still living) originally claimed that the inspiration for the book and his own research had been the stories he had been told as a child.

But genealogists challenged his research, and so did a man named Harold Courlander, who published a book in 1967 called "The African." It was the story of an African who was captured by slave traders and brought to America, where he tried to hold on to his African heritage as much as possible.

If you ever read "Roots," you will recognize the premise.

In 1978, Courlander filed suit against Haley, whose dizzyingly best–selling book, by that time, had been turned into an extremely successful TV miniseries as well. Courlander alleged that Haley could not have written "Roots" without the material that had been lifted from "The African."

The parties settled the case five weeks after it was brought to court. The settlement included a financial payment and a statement that read "Alex Haley acknowledges and regrets that various materials from The African by Harold Courlander found their way into his book."

I have never read "The African." Perhaps, in the interest of fairness, I should. But I can say, from having read "Roots," that Haley's work was rich and rewarding — whether it was mostly fact or mostly fiction.

Whatever the truth may be, it was worth reading in 1976. It is still worth reading today.