Growing up in the eighties meant that television became my surrogate mother, father, teacher, babysitter, and at times my best friend. As an only child it also quickly became the brother/sister I never had but always secretly wanted. Maybe not the television itself but as more and more sitcoms came on the air, there were more and more families for me to adopt myself into, and adopt myself in I did. Every week I was guaranteed life lessons from a slew of my new favorite fictitious brethren. Mike Seaver, before snapping and finding religion, taught me how to be cool with the ladies.

It never worked out for me, but still I hung off his every word in hopes of gaining insight I could use at school the next day. Sadly though, most of the time it just resulted in atomic wedgies. Of course it didn’t stop with Mike. There was Theo Huxtable, whose room was honestly filthier than mine, who taught me the importance of fashion. Ladies like a sharp dressed man. OK so maybe I should have stuck with Theo’s advice before opting instead to rock the Cosby sweaters. Not a good look. Not a good look at all and sadly it too landed me hung up by my underpants a few times.

   You would think by now I would start to sense a pattern, but being young meant being stupid so no, I learned nothing. Instead I would channel surf looking for newer and newer families to pester. Of course even better than waiting for night time to arrive so that I could visit new families I discovered TV shows in syndication. What’s this? The Brady Bunch is on three times a day. Sold. Now I know the cool kids all preferred watching reruns of the Monkees, or possibly the Partridge Family, but for me it was all about the Bradys. I don’t know what it was about that family that spoke to me. Maybe because my own parents had recently separated, I could relate to their setup, or possibly I was just so lonely and wanted to be part of something bigger and the Bradys filled that gap. Either way I dubbed myself the seventh Brady. Eighth if we include Oliver, but in my universe he didn’t exist. Nope, it was Bobby, Peter, Greg, Marci, Jan, Cindi, and I alone. Unfortunately being named Greg myself made it a tad more confusing, but I had no doubts that Alice could have helped us sort out that mess. There we were, the seven amigos. Every day for us a new adventure. What wonders would it hold? Maybe we could go to Hawaii, or camp in the Grand Canyon. Better still perhaps we should put on a production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in the backyard. I am sure Sam the butcher would be more than willing to help build the stage, and I was more than ready to play a Dwarf. Sadly being shy meant I was lowered to helping with the lighting, but still there I was. It was an odd time in my life as this fictitious family became every bit as important to me as my own. When Carol lost her voice before the big Christmas pageant I mailed her a get well soon card, or at least my mother said she did.

      Looking back I wonder if she still has it tucked away somewhere. More than likely it’s in a box with other assorted gems I had saved because of the Bradys. I remember buying my first cap gun to help Bobby defend the family against Jesse James, or the whistle I used to mimic the sounds of the U.F.O Greg had cooked up in the backyard to freak out Bobby.