Wakey, Wakey! Here Comes Snakey...

Horatio writes: Byrd is back, thanks to Kris Cooper of New York City for this beauty:

Great to read about Robin Byrd again. Been far too long since I thought about that lady and the way she used to make me feel. But am wondering if anyone else had the same problem as we did. It was not that we were forbidden to watch it. And I did not lack for a TV to watch her performance solo as we had five televisions in my house. The only thing that stood between me and nightly ecstasy was that the Robin Byrd Show started at Eleven Thirty p.m. and it was just too damn late. Every afternoon I would bid my sixth grade school mates adieu in the same way -- we would laugh like little James Earl Jones' at the prospect of watching us some titty on Robin's show that night. Cut to our homes... a spot of homework, dinner with the family, watching some TV, some Fresh Prince perhaps, or a spot of Atari. Anything to kill the time till that magic hour when Robin would appear before us. Same story every night. I would wake up, two or three in the morning, fast asleep on the couch, with Robin having quietly come and gone, and the only stains I had created coming from the pool of saliva that had emerged from my mouth. I would love to know if I was the only New York narcoleptic or was this a commonly experienced technical challenge?

Blue Dot Special

Horatio writes: To thank to the discerning people at New York Magazine for Approving of us in their Matrix (bottom right corner, baby: brilliant, perhaps, but lowbrow, really?) we have a New York question. This was triggered by the astute Mark L. of Brooklyn (but born and bred, Upper East Side) who reminded us that when Time Warner took over the world of cable in the city, they tried and failed to shut down our heroine and role model Robin Byrd, the equivalent of forcing an entire generation of city boys to wear chastity belts. Their fall-back plan to stunt our adolescent development was ripped right from the Cinema Paradiso playbook. They went to the remarkable lengths of superimposing a blue dot on any sexual organ that lived or breathed on the show with the exception of breasts. If a penis or beaver showed its head, a blue dot would swoop down and smother it. Our question is... Just whose job was it to sit in an editing suite and insert the dot? Our imaginations say it was a beautiful, nubile woman in a bikini, but from what we know of the television industry it was more likely to have been a sixty-year-old pot-bellied chain-smoker with plumber's crack. We NEED TO KNOW! Both for the purposes of adding to the storehouse of knowledge and to try and understand why our careers advisor never mentioned this kind of occupation to us in high school. If anybody knows the answer, kindly be in touch.

A Byrd in The Hand

Horatio writes: At last, our first Robin Byrd name check. The Cal Ripken of public access whose impact on our generation is akin to that Lance Armstrong has had on today's:


Anonymous in NYC writes:

Like thousands of others no doubt, I used to beat off to Robin Byrd late night in New York City. If the Yankees were playing in the evening on the west coast, I would sit there with my pants open watching Robin, and flicking the channel backwards and forwards to catch the score of the game. If I touched myself accidentally when the baseball was on, I would agonize for like a month afterwards that I was subconsciously gay.