Joanie Loves Chachy
I think it's great that Happy Days is on t.v. again. It warms the cockles of my heart to come home from a mundane day of assessing tickets to watch Jaonie and the Fonz win a seven-hour dance marathon at the sock hop. Also, because it was my favourite show as a child, seeing Happy Days on t.v. always takes me back to, well, happy days.
I was a ravenous toddler who, in those strange, surreal days before preschool, would wait with barely-concealed excitement for our cuckoo clock to announce the 3 p.m. hour each week day. When this herald finally sounded, I would scream, "HAPPY DAYS!" and race over to the television set, where I would sit, enrapt, for half an hour each day.
My mother asserts that I also had a strange obsession with Arthur Fonzarelli, in particular. Whenever he came stutting onto the screen in his leather jacket and impossibly-tight denim, I would squeal with delight and shout, "Daddy! It's my Daddy!!" The entire family is mystified to this day, since my father, with his shock of white hair and ample frame, is about the furthest cry from the Fonz as any man could get.
I was a ravenous toddler who, in those strange, surreal days before preschool, would wait with barely-concealed excitement for our cuckoo clock to announce the 3 p.m. hour each week day. When this herald finally sounded, I would scream, "HAPPY DAYS!" and race over to the television set, where I would sit, enrapt, for half an hour each day.
My mother asserts that I also had a strange obsession with Arthur Fonzarelli, in particular. Whenever he came stutting onto the screen in his leather jacket and impossibly-tight denim, I would squeal with delight and shout, "Daddy! It's my Daddy!!" The entire family is mystified to this day, since my father, with his shock of white hair and ample frame, is about the furthest cry from the Fonz as any man could get.