Rick Springfield, sigh, was my second love. And now he’s written his first memoir, with nary a mention of me. This, I venture gingerly to say, is perhaps not a bad thing. Perhaps, much like a General Hospital subplot, we — the female eighth-graders of the world — collectively faked blindness to be with him? Then again, we don’t read celebrity memoirs for the articles, as it were, and yes, this one includes some very handsome photographs. Plus, as BG blogger Amy notes, “I sorta love him for a VH1 thing I saw, like 10 years ago, where these girls had a little dance they did JUST IN CASE they ever met Rick Springfield and he had them doing on stage with them as adult ladies. Come on, how can a guy like that be all bad?” He can’t. Let’s just put it this way: I wanna tell him I could ghost-write, but the point is prob’ly moot.
Anyway! Giveaway! I’ve got a copy of Late, Late at Night right here, with your name on it, unless your name is Jesse, courtesy of Simon & Schuster. And we’re gonna make this wicked easy for you. It’ll go to the first person who e-mails me with:
1) the best-ever quote from, title of, or sheer existence of a celebrity memoir
2) the best-ever brief anecdote about the death-by-disillusionment of a celebrity crush
3) a photograph of her or himself, preferably from the actual 1980s, that constitutes a homage to Rick Springfield
4) wild card: any other Rick Springfield-related awesomeness.
Beat you to this one, though. Same room: Springfield and Duchovny. BG’s head: explodes.
UPDATE: Reader Deb M., though too late for the contest, responded with an entire series of killer pics of her and Rick. Honorable mention!