A Brady for all seasons

To every season, there is a Brady.

Thirty years ago, as a wee proto-fag cooling his heels in rural Missouri, I wanted to grow up and marry Greg Brady. I mean, come on. He was Johnny Fucking Bravo! Tell me—the unfortunate perm aside—that wasn't a hot slab of groovy teen.

In 1988, watching A Very Brady Christmas, I realized my folly. My heavens, little Bobby is all growed up. Mike Lookinland, will you be mine? Yum.

Last night, ten minutes into the otherwise insipid Still Brady After All These Years 35th anniversary special on TV Land—will someone nuke Jenny McCarthy for the betterment of mankind, please?—I nearly creamed my jeans. Chris Knight! OH. MY. So cool, so smart, so handsome, so unabashedly geeky, so clearly over the Brady business.

Johnny Bravo? What the hell was I thinking?! All along, what I really wanted was Peter.