Oh the fairest Farrah. Story: My sisters and I used to play Charlie's Angels. We had walkie talkies and everything. We'd circumvent our house—while one waited on the deck for our mom to come into the kitchen to stir the soup, the other two would wait on the other side of the house, watching her put fresh pillowcases on pillows. We'd report back and forth: "Mama has arrived in the kitchen. She is now stirring the soup. Do you copy?" "We copy. Oh...Mama has now entered the bedroom. She is removing the pillowcases..." High-danger, high-intensity spy work. My older sis always got to be Farrah. I mean, it wasn't something you could argue since she had the ultimate in feathered bangs....
You're just a product of loveliness,
I like the groove of your walk, your talk, your dress.
I feel your fever from miles around,
I'll pick you up in my car and we'll paint the town....
Story: About five years ago, going through some old boxes at my dad's place, I found my first diary...in it was a short paragraph I'd written during an overnight with my family in San Francisco. I'd been listening to Thriller on the drive up—my first cassette on my first Wakman, and I had what I think was my first musically inspired spiritual experience. We were crossing a bridge or a large overpass where all of San Francisco was spread out before us. And "Wanna Be Startin Something" was blasting in my ears. In the diary I wrote, "On the way here, I listened to Michael Jackson really loud and looked out over the big city. I felt so powerful!"
