Outside the studio on 58th Street in Manhattan hovers a claque of middle-aged women, shuffling their sensible shoes and swearing that the guy is the greatest thing since Clairol. Next to them is a gaggle of teen-age groupies eating their hearts out because their hero is married, of all things. But, as one matron said to a groupie, "It's all right, dear he's ours only for an hour."
On ABC-TV last winter, Dick Cavett, the subject of that stage-door chatter, was caught in the coffeecake crunch of morning television. Up against such...
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