Silver Spoons Indeed

Lauren and I might constantly be writing about stupid stuff on our blogs, but don't let that kid you. We were actually very bright and very articulate children. Sadly, our intelligence has not advanced any into our adulthood. Rather, it peaked at the age of 9, along with our maturity level.

Like all kids, we had our favorite television programs. We, along with millions of American pre-teens, tuned in to "Silver Spoons" week after week. At first, we loved it. Alfonso Ribeiro. Joel Higgins, Erin Grey, Leonard Lightfoot. It is not every day that we get to see such an illustrious assembly of hollywood stars working together on one show.

In case you forget the premise of the show, Rick Schroeder plays an incredibly rich child whose father is inclined to give him anything he wants. Yet, in spite of this extreme wealth, Rick's character remains humble and level headed.

I know you at least remember the train tracks running through the living room of the house.

Anyhow, Lauren and I loved the show at first, but something happened in the later seasons to make us become disillusioned with Ricky Schroeder. I'm not sure what it was, but we surely were not going to sit idly by and let our poor opinions of the Rickster fester. We were going to give voice to our frustrations and annoyances. And what better way than with a letter addressed directly to the Rickster himself?

We holed ourselves up in our attic room, armed with pens, composition paper, envelopes and a few stamps we had stolen from my father's collection.

At this point, we began to author one of the most hateful poison pen letters I had read to date or have since read in the years that have lapsed between now and then. I wish I could quote the letter in its entirety, but too many years have gone by. I can, however, remember the sentence that ultimately ushered in our demise as Hollywood critics. It went, (verbatim):

"Listen, Schroeder, why don't you just take your half baked shit and shove it up your ass."

Keep in mind, folks, I was NINE years old.

Anyway, we wrote the letter, fully intending to mail it. This episode pre-dates the internet. We had to find the address and were not sure how to. But we had the letter tucked safely under my bed (or so we thought) until we were armed with the appropriate mailing information.

However, our plan to mail the letter was foiled when our mother found the letter during one of her infamous cleaning jags.

All I can say is that the confrontation was ugly. We were beaten senseless. We were deprived of many luxuries, like food, water and oxygen for many days. And we were reminded regularly of what a source of sham we were.

As a child, I thought my mother was overreacting. As an adult, I can understand my mother's horror. Her nine year old child, who was tested as reading on a pre-college level in grade 2, had decided to put her verbal gifts to use to write a harassing letter to an aspiring Hollywood heartthrob. She probably had envisioned me as the next poet Laureat of the United States. Instead, I was turning into Siskel and Ebert with a mean streak right before her very eyes.

Naturally Lauren played innocent. For she was even smarter than I. She had realized that if she simply helped dictate the letter and left it in my penmanship, she could avoid the shroud of guilt that would eventually fall about my narrow 9 year old shoulders.

Bitch!

I do not have children of my own, but Jesus, Lauren, Juanita, Laurita..can you imagine if you found such a letter written by one of your cherubs?