It was a late-afternoon session for a documentary about the legacy of the show, and the lighting in the studio was that warm, amber hue that makes everything…

So, Alan, do you remember the smell? Not the prop smell of stale coffee and dusty canvas, but the real, lingering, aggressive smell? Mike Farrell’s voice crackles with…

Loretta sat on the porch of her home, the late California sun catching the silver in her hair as she leaned back in the wicker chair. Across from…

It sat in the corner of a dimly lit warehouse in Malibu, buried under a heavy plastic tarp that had turned yellow with age. Jamie Farr pulled the…

I remember sitting on that stage at the collectors’ convention a few years back, and the room was just packed with people wearing olive drab. There was this…

The coffee was getting cold on the table, but neither of them seemed to notice. Mike Farrell sat across from Loretta Swit, the California sun catching the silver…

The interviewer leans forward, the studio lights reflecting off his glasses. He asks a question I have heard a thousand times before, but today, for some reason, it…

The sun was beginning to dip behind the Santa Monica Mountains, casting long, amber shadows across the dry brush of the canyon. Two men sat on a weathered…

The studio lights are bright, and the host of the podcast leans in, adjusting his headset. He looks at the man sitting across from him, a man who…