Okay, if there were a third person in the Fred Rogers-Bob Barker-who's hotter debate in the 70s and 80s - and we're talking a distant third, like the distance between the Franklin Pharmacy in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey and the fourth ring of Saturn - and assuming I didn't give the nod to 80s heartthrob Jack Wagner during his General Hospital turn as rock balladdeer-cum-police officer-cum-man beheaded in South America in a freak accident, Frisco Jones - it would have to be Dan Fogelberg. My vivid recollection of his feathered hair and bearded face from the cover of his greatest hits album still makes the blood run through my instrument, if you know what I mean.
He's dead now.
Hard to believe, I know, but the thing you have to understand is what it meant for Dan Fogelberg to truly be alive. For my part, I can honestly say that my life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man.
Also, I never did figure out which way this album cover was supposed to be oriented. And now, we'll never know, will we?