The news of the death of teen idol Bobby Sherman yesterday finally surpassed all the Trump posts on my social media feed as women of a certain age lamented the passing of their first crush. And gay men whose uncertain feelings could be easily expressed with Bobby.

I get it.

My junior high bedroom walls were an homage to the two Bobbys in my life.

There were the Bobby Kennedy for President campaign posters from his 1968 presidential run, The large black and white face with the toothy grin and shock of Kennedy hair watched over me as I did my social studies homework.

Then there was Bobby Sherman, vibrating in Tiger Beat-saturated color, whoa-oh, his piercing sky-blue eyes gazing back at mine.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, do ya love me?

I had a crush on them both. Bobby Kennedy spoke to my burgeoning political and social justice aspirations, tinged with sadness at the abrupt and tragic ending to his young life in June 1968.

But Bobby Sherman was pure pop fun, dreamy and desirable in ways that at 14, I was just awakening to.

While the rest of the world seemed threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the walls of thousands of teenage girls, a reassuring totem against riots, drugs, and war protests that raged outside.

Three months after the loss of RFK, Bobby Sherman landed a role as Jeremy Bolt, a bashful, stammering logger on ABC’s “Here Comes The Brides.” Teenyboppers across the country fell in love with this adorable, unassuming boy on their TV sets every Wednesday night. The comedy was set in the boom town of Seattle in the 1870s, with the idea of importing marriageable women from New Bedford, Massachusetts, to the town.

While David Soul, who played his older brother, had his fans, it was Bobby who was the breakout heartthrob, as we listened to him croon the show’s theme song.

Thursday’s conversations in the school lunchroom were always centered around the  TV episode the night before. I could join in the excitement when a new poster of him appeared in 16 Magazine, and envy the girls who pulled tuna fish sandwiches out of their Bobby Sherman lunchboxes and thermos.

For someone like me, who was never boy crazy, I finally found a pop star I could “like” and authentically share in the conversation.

His was a safe crush.  Bobby was squeaky clean, suitable for Tiger Beat and 16 Magazines with his dimples. His bubblegum pop, non-threatening smile made him easy to love. He wasn’t sexually dangerous like a Mick Jagger. While the rest of the world seemed threatening, Sherman’s smiling visage beamed from the walls of thousands of teenage girls,  a reassuring totem against riots, drugs, and protests, free sex that raged outside.

Easy Listening

Growing up, my older brother and I shared a common bedroom wall, but when it came to tastes in music, we were worlds apart.

By 1970, his album collection was prodigious. That spring, while our shared wall vibrated with the sounds of Creedance Clearwater, Jethro Trull, Crosby, Stills & Nash, blaring from his Pioneer stereo, I happily lay on my bed listening to the Easy Come, Easy Go ez listening sound of Bobby Sherman on my small GE Celadon green portable record player.

But mine were no ordinary 45’s purchased at Korvettes.

Mine came straight from a cereal box.

The Best to You Each Morning

In 1970 Post capitalized on Bobby Sherman by putting records of his songs on boxes of multiple cereals including Honey Comb and Cinnamon Raison Bran. There were 4 different records available each with 5 songs. Some included Easy Come Easy Go, Hey Mr Sun,  Bubblegum and Braces and Little Woman.

Cut-out cardboard records called flexi records were a popular cereal promotion. No box tops to save and mail off to Battle Creek, Michigan. The incentive to finish off the box quickly to get at the record was smart marketing.  Mom kept me in constant supply.

The sound quality wasn’t very good, and they tended to warp days after they were cut from the cereal box but it was Bobby and  I didn’t mind.

Whoa-oh