The third season of Saturday Night Live is out in a DVD box set and my goal to watch the entire early run continues on apace, which is a good thing. I watched the first three episodes last night (Steve Martin, Madeline Kahn and Hugh Hefner) and will yammer about them later this afternoon, but let me bring about an aura of foreboding by telling you this:
The most disturbing part about SNL's 1977-1978 season was not Hugh Hefner singing "Thank Heaven for Little Girls" during his opening monologue (nor was it Laraine Newman cavorting about as the Femlin during the cold opening.)
Gee. I hope I haven't set the foreboding bar a little too high here.
