Brad is a self-loather. He likes to say of himself, “You can’t kill what’s already dead.” He also likes to believe that as he has gotten older, he has lost his appeal. Perhaps it is impertinent to say so, but I would like to report that this is empirically untrue. Slowly, over the two-plus years I’ve worked here, I have discovered that every single person I’ve ever met who also knows Brad currently has or has at one point in recent history had some sort of crush on him. It’s almost weird. Nevertheless, it is a body of evidence impossible to argue with. (And quite harmless and innocent—with due respect, Brad is very taken.)

The alpha and omega of my own personal crush is Brad’s performance on an episode of the ridiculous Stranger-staffed game show Whatcha Talkin’ ‘Bout, Sherman?!, which aired in the mid-90s on public access. Brad was sort of the Vanna White of that show. Except that in at least one episode, viewed by me in a recent VHS-fueled nostalgia trip, Brad was also the Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, and Marx brothers.

The man can pratfall.

I mean, really, really well. Everyone knows he is a funny man. But he also seems to be a gifted physical comedian. Underneath all those torn-up baggy jeans and worn-out plaid shirts is a body just waiting to fall. Perfectly. Hysterically.

Swoon.