For a brief period in the mid-1970s, I can remember only one thing about my life:

I was obsessed with Farrah Fawcett Majors.

I had recently felt my first rush of testosterone as I slipped into puberty, and I distinctly remember wandering the aisles of the B&B shopping center, only to be pulled in by a poster of a woman with honey-golden hair and a red swimsuit.

It was Farrah's famous first poster.

But it was only the beginning of my Farrah fanatacism. I combed through old copies of my grandmother's "National Enquirer," cutting out and collecting photos. I saved my allowance money, forgoing my usual musical selections to buy each successive Farrah poster. I watched the wretched "Charlie's Angels" religiously--and sat through the equally wretched "Logan's Run" and "Saturn 3"--just to see her on screen. I even joined the Farrah Fawcett Fan Club, and received a personalized membership card. Lo, these many years later, I can still see it: a light pink credit card with a smiling photo of Farrah and my name--my very own name!--embossed on it.

Farrah has always held a special place in my heart since that time--even through all her idisyncratic downs and, well, downs. She is, and will always be, my first crush.

So perhaps you think I might watch "Behind the Camera: The Unauthorized Story of 'Charlie's Angels"' tonight on NBC. I thought about it. I really did. But then, I thought of buying posters at the B&B Shopping Center. I thought of pink fan club cards. I thought of Farrah's hypnotic stare (along with other parts which shall remain unmentioned) captivating my 12-year-old mind. And somehow, I knew this movie would sully those fond, sepia-hued images in the theater of my mind.

I'm visiting my parents this coming weekend. They still have much of my childhood, packed away in storage boxes. And I find myself thinking maybe--just maybe--packed away in one of those boxes is a small pink fan club card with my name on it.