Did you really, really have to know that Florence Henderson got crabs in the 1960s from then New York Mayor John Lindsay? I really could have done without that—and not because I always thought Henderson (a/k/a Carol Brady) was so Pollyanna-ish pure.
It just strikes me as a story she didn’t need to share. In her memoir Life Is Not A Stage, the Brady Bunch matriarch reportedly tells a tale of succumbing to the Mayor's advances over some drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Lindsay, as I recall, was quite a looker. And, yes, they were both married at the time. The self-admitted adulteress says that when she went home later that night, she woke up to "little black things" covering her body. She says she called her doctor who told her she had pubic lice. Yuck!
Now, did she share the story to make news for the upcoming bio? Admittedly, it’s hard to sell books by aging actresses who didn’t make it to the finals on Dancing With the Stars. Note to Henderson: I am sure the producers of that show picked you because they thought you were so wholesome and would appeal to their oldest demographic. Glad you did the show before the book. Yes, the price-is-lice story did get a bit of play but nothing much and surely the embarrassment must be greater than the tiny pop this true confession got.
Are we now in for a whole series of unsavory memories from the past to compete with unsavory antics from the present that dominate our news? And, yes, Anthony Weiner, I’m talking about you. Can you just imagine tales of sharing peanut butter and banana sandwiches with Elvis and barfing together on his Blue Suede Shoes or what a really lousy lover JFK was? Nah, that wouldn’t get any attention because everyone already knows that.
