47 years ago, I met the most wonderful girl in the world.  Her bedroom was decorated with a billion books; all but one of Agatha Christie’s(including her Westmacott romance novels, which she’d quietly read, amidst my friends and insane crowds, during expensive Boston Garden hockey games), a poster, book and paperweight (she kept, see pic) from the previous year’s  humoungoidly popular, best-selling book and film, Love Story.

“What can you say about a 25 year-old girl who died?”   We’d seen the movie, and I laughed, teased, and derided Phyl about how schmaltzy, oversentimentalized, and just stupid this nonsense was.  And how could she possibly cry at this crap.

Yesterday I made the mistake of not turning off the tv when this pap came on.  The acting is beyond horrible. The dialogue insipid.  The direction slugworthy.  The story implausible.  Just an abysmal movie.  I bawled through the whole thing.

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”  Not really.