By GORDON GLANTZ
Times Herald Managing Editor

They say you never forget your first.

And I will never forget Farrah Fawcett, my first real celebrity crush.

While the rest of the world continues to obsess about the self-ordained “King of Pop,” Michael Jackson, killing himself — intentionally or not — I’m signaling for a pop-culture time out to dedicate this column to a woman who battled to stay alive against the scourge we know as terminal cancer.

OK, readers ... that spoilsport voice you just heard was from News Editor Ann Cornell. One of her signature phrases, for which we often mock her, is “well, technically.”

And, as the poor soul I force at the point of a stun gun to read and re-read my columns on a weekly basis, it seems as if Ann knows me — or at least my Sunday alter ego — better than I know I myself.

After all, she did parlay her knowledge into a chart-topping 96 percent on the “How well do you know Gordon Glantz?” quiz on Facebook.

Well, technically — as Ann will tell you — my first celebrity crush was actually on Marcia Brady.

But that was kids’ stuff — a mere infatuation.

Farrah was the real deal in Gordonville.

It all began in the late spring of 1976, at an 11th birthday party for a dude named Scott, who lived up around the bend from my steady weekend retreat otherwise known as my father’s dysfunctional household (where the real-life “Brady Bunch” experiment failed miserably, which may be why I was so drawn to Marcia and Co.).

Scott’s parents took us all to McDonald’s — this is back when the non-breakfast food was edible — and then to the movies to see the science fiction flick “Logan’s Run.”

And there she was — in her gorgeous glory. Farrah didn’t have large part, but she was all I could recall of the movie.

By the time we returned to Scott’s mansion for cake and a game of soccer in the backyard, I was riding a lovesick buzz.

I had been struck by the same thunderbolt that found Michael Corleone when his eyes locked on Apollonia while hiding out in Sicily (I can’t say anything more because Ann, unbelievably, has never seen “The Godfather”).

The intrigue was enhanced a night or two later when, while watching television (this is when sitcoms were sitcoms), I saw her in a shampoo commercial.

Someone — one of my evil stepsisters, I believe — said she thought my new crush was married to Lee Majors, the star of “The Six Million Dollar Man.”

While it was like a dagger through my young heart to learn she was already taken, I was at least comforted to know it was by a guy I liked and admired for his ability to leap fences and see from miles away at the command of a Jewish boss named Oscar Goldman.

It also came to my attention that Farrah had been in other commercials, most notably with Joe Namath, and had a few small television roles.

But commercials and bit parts, even in “The Six Million Dollar Man,” were not enough to feed my Farrah fix. Heck, I still didn’t even know this chick’s name.

That soon changed in September of 1976 with the coming of a television show called “Charlie’s Angels,” which fell short on cerebral scripts but had three hot lead actresses who chased down and beat up bad guys.

There she was, in big bold letters, portraying Jill Munroe: Farrah Fawcett-Majors.

Marcia who?

Yes, Ann, Miss Brady — with her mini skirts and sweet smile — may have come first, chronologically, but Farrah will always be first in my heart.

I had that famous bathing suit poster  —actually, one at each of my houses — and bought every magazine with her pictures that my allowance money could acquire.

Many women, my mother included, showed their claws and tried in vain to convince me that Farrah wasn’t really that pretty, stating that she was “all hair.” They told me Jaclyn Smith, another angel, was truly beautiful and Kate Jackson, the third angel, was the only one who could really act.

Yeah, whatever.

I loved Farrah, and love is often blind.

I was not possessive, however. I was willing to share Farrah with my small world.

While the girls in my sixth grade class — as well as females of all ages across the globe — tried to copy Farrah’s patented hairstyle, I was busy starting up a fan club (Whisper: not even Miss Cornell knows this because I just remembered myself) and held swearing-in ceremonies wherein the boys had to place one hand on Farrah’s picture and raise the other and promise to watch “Charlie’s Angels” every week.

But there was no need to uphold that vow. After one season, Farrah announced she was leaving the show.

I was devastated.

Cheryl Ladd, her replacement (she was written in as Kris Munroe, Jill’s younger sister), was OK. And we still had Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson to adore, but it was never the same (even with a Jewish Angel, Tanya Roberts, holding down a role toward the end of the series’ run).

Farrah Fawcett was not just “all hair.” If that’s all you saw, you need an appointment with an optometrist. She was a beautiful woman, inside and out.

Farrah also had the guts to not just be a pretty face. She took acting seriously, re-inventing herself and tackling some not-so-pretty roles (check out TV dramas, back when they made worthy TV dramas, like “Small Sacrifices” and “The Burning Bed”).

Time went by — as time is apt to do — and Farrah got hooked up with second-rate actor Ryan O’Neal and, well, I lost track of her career.

My celebrity crushes moved on to the likes of Stevie Nicks and Chrissie Hynde. And as the opposite sex began to dare to meet me halfway in real life, I had less need for celebrity crushes, anyway (kind of like Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh, who existed only in the young boy’s imagination).

That still didn’t mean I felt no emotion when I learned that Farrah had turned a little loopy (as revealed in a reality show I never saw but heard all about from my wife, who is also a Farrah fan).

And I was truly sorry to learn about her grim cancer diagnosis in 2006, 30 years after I first spotted her in “Logan’s Run.”

Farrah Fawcett died on June 25, and soon found ironic redemption. She loathed the paparazzi and barely tolerated the media.  Like maggots, the voyeurs fixated on Jackson’s sudden death a few hours after Farrah’s battle was lost with the dignity and grace that eluded the gloved one.

While she probably could not have scripted it any better, Farrah deserved more.

It just didn’t seem right that Jackson had to ruin her time to be properly eulogized in the public eye.

In the Page 1 meeting, I quietly suggested that we share space on the front page for both fallen icons. Without having to get too emotional about it, I got my way without meeting with much resistance.

It was one last gift I could give.

To my first.

The one who will not be forgotten.

Gordon Glantz is the managing editor of Times Herald. Contact him at gglantz@... or at 610-272-2500. ext. 212.