Guest Post: The Day I Met Greg F***in' Brady
While Searching for Oz is scoping out her very own yellow brick road, she made time to submit a guest post here. So, tap your heels and say it with me. There's no place like Oz. There's no place like Oz...
It was Spring 1995, and I was a junior at Texas Christian University. One of my extra-curricular activities was involvement in the Programming Council that organized, planned and executed the various events on campus ( i.e. Homecoming, Parents Weekend, concerts, etc.).
My then-boyfriend, David, was in charge of speakers and booked Barry Williams, more known as Greg Brady, to come talk about being involved in an icon of American TV, The Brady Bunch (entertaining speakers had a greater student draw than thought-provoking ones, such as Alan Dershowitz). We all helped each with each other's events, and David needed asked me if I'd help out with "Greg" (b/c none of you will remember his real name's Barry anyway).
One of Greg's requirements is to have a wireless mic for his speech, but unfortunately, during the test backstage, the mic wouldn't work. To the astonishment of the rest of us, he barked out "don't you have any fucking batteries?" It took a couple of seconds for David to close his mouth and regain composure to answer "no."
Don't get me wrong, we all swore, but it was the fact that it came out of who we only knew as "golly gee Greg" is what bewildered us. Suddenly, the fact that a Brady uttered the word "fuck" caused us to briefly wonder if the world was, indeed, tipped on its axis.
After the performance, Greg and his manager had already agreed to go out "on the town" with the group of us. David asked me and a friend of ours, Robert, (whom I'd nicknamed "Little Shit") to ride with our guests to ensure they didn't get lost driving to downtown Fort Worth.
I sat next to Greg's manager the entire night and we talked about Hollywood, movies, Broadway, etc. and somehow it slipped out that I thought Florence Henderson had so much plastic surgery that she looked like her skin would snap if someone touched her. The manager laughed so hard and said, "Oh, I've got to tell Greg." I almost shat at the thought of insulting his Oedipal crush, but Greg laughed his ass off, though I never was quite sure if it was really funny or the bourbon.
The gathering comes to an end and we've all realized that Greg is, well, plastered. I decided to repay Little Shit for all the grief he caused me and "let" him ride back with the guys to their hotel. Thankfully, the sober manager drove, so Little Shit was safe but we still laugh at the idea – 10 years later – how I abandoned him to ride home with a drunk Greg Brady.
Now, if it had been Peter, then I definitely would've volunteered. He was hot.
It was Spring 1995, and I was a junior at Texas Christian University. One of my extra-curricular activities was involvement in the Programming Council that organized, planned and executed the various events on campus ( i.e. Homecoming, Parents Weekend, concerts, etc.).
My then-boyfriend, David, was in charge of speakers and booked Barry Williams, more known as Greg Brady, to come talk about being involved in an icon of American TV, The Brady Bunch (entertaining speakers had a greater student draw than thought-provoking ones, such as Alan Dershowitz). We all helped each with each other's events, and David needed asked me if I'd help out with "Greg" (b/c none of you will remember his real name's Barry anyway).
One of Greg's requirements is to have a wireless mic for his speech, but unfortunately, during the test backstage, the mic wouldn't work. To the astonishment of the rest of us, he barked out "don't you have any fucking batteries?" It took a couple of seconds for David to close his mouth and regain composure to answer "no."
Don't get me wrong, we all swore, but it was the fact that it came out of who we only knew as "golly gee Greg" is what bewildered us. Suddenly, the fact that a Brady uttered the word "fuck" caused us to briefly wonder if the world was, indeed, tipped on its axis.
After the performance, Greg and his manager had already agreed to go out "on the town" with the group of us. David asked me and a friend of ours, Robert, (whom I'd nicknamed "Little Shit") to ride with our guests to ensure they didn't get lost driving to downtown Fort Worth.
I sat next to Greg's manager the entire night and we talked about Hollywood, movies, Broadway, etc. and somehow it slipped out that I thought Florence Henderson had so much plastic surgery that she looked like her skin would snap if someone touched her. The manager laughed so hard and said, "Oh, I've got to tell Greg." I almost shat at the thought of insulting his Oedipal crush, but Greg laughed his ass off, though I never was quite sure if it was really funny or the bourbon.
The gathering comes to an end and we've all realized that Greg is, well, plastered. I decided to repay Little Shit for all the grief he caused me and "let" him ride back with the guys to their hotel. Thankfully, the sober manager drove, so Little Shit was safe but we still laugh at the idea – 10 years later – how I abandoned him to ride home with a drunk Greg Brady.
Now, if it had been Peter, then I definitely would've volunteered. He was hot.
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