Today my eyes passed over a website referenced to the Bundy Ranch, where ranchers and the federal government had a weird standoff about western land use.
Unfortunately for me, my quick scan initially read “Bundy Ranch” to be “Brady Bunch,” so the insipid Brady Bunch theme song started playing in my head and I was beset by images of the chipper Bradys — Carol and Mike, Greg and Marcia, grinning, head-bobbing Alice, and the two little kids that nobody cared about except for the fact that the little girl was “the youngest one in curls.”
My sisters loved The Brady Bunch and idolized Marcia, so we had to watch the show on our one TV set. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand the Bradys, their ludicrous, squeaky clean children, their boring split-level suburban life, and the absurd scenarios that passed for plots. I’d managed to put the whole unpleasant thing out of my mind, but clearly it was lurking there, brooding just below the surface, ready to bubble into my consciousness when I misread “Bundy Ranch.”
Prior to today I really hadn’t read or thought much much about the Bundy Ranch incident. Now I know that I will studiously avoid any news coverage about the matter, because as soon as I read the word “Bundy Ranch” the musical loop of “Here’s the story . . . of a man named Brady . . .” will begin again. Arrgh!
Hey great minds think alike! There is a political satirist, Rocky Mountain Mike, that did a song about Bundy to the tune of the Brady Bunch theme. Check it out:
I hope you’re happy! I spent the larger portion of yesterday trying to remember the middle brother’s name, Peter, and would not cave to a web search in an effort to keep my memory alive. That program encouraged a ridiculous level of hope in kids of divorce, too much happy perfection and not nearly enough human misery. Even old Sam and Alice lived happily ever after.
I’m noticing a trend against Sherwood Schwartz programs, first Gilligan’s Island was under fire and now the Bradys.