Many years ago, especially MANY years before the Memsahib Era, when
I had more hair and less of the rest of me, I was at P.J. Clarke’s in Chicago
with my chum Doug, when a woman approached me.
Her name, as I recall, was
Jackie. Despite the dim light, I could
see that she was well within tolerances – she had a scruffy Princess Di look
about her, kind of a sexy little piece of brass.
I believe the word for what she did to me was “accosted,” and
she said: “I’ll bet you wouldn't accept if I called and asked you to lunch.” (That's how you know how many years and pounds ago this was.) She did,
and I did.
I don’t remember much about the lunch, except that to her,
Annette Funicello was “Aunt Annette.” Her uncle, Jack Gilardi, was Annette’s
first husband, with whom she had three children.
So Jackie, wherever you are,
my condolences.
*
* *
Annette, Annette. You
didn’t rescue England or shame the Soviet Union like Margaret Thatcher, whose
day of death you shared, but you moved a lot of movie tickets and a lot of
adolescent trousers. More than Baroness Thatcher, anyway. (Although how could
anyone fantasize about Annette?)
As I considered the interesting coincidence of the simultaneous passing of two such different ladies, I was struck by
one element of their individual styles that they shared. One doesn't see women much choose it these days. But I loved the look and
still do.
Annette Funicello, Margaret Thatcher, RIP.
We all pass, and the permanent is
impermanent.
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