Yeah, I know Clearasil doesn't have a man of the year. But it should. If Time can have one-especially if it chooses all of middle America as its "man"-then I think. Clearasil can. There are probably as many persons with pimples as there are readers of Time. More, if we're lucky. And certainly there are five times as many pimples as there are Time readers.

Then why Clearasil, and not Tackle or Propah Ph? Why Clearasil, developed by a pharmacist for use by his own wife? I don't know. But Bobby Sherman would win the honor because more pimples and their owners worship him than anyone else.

Whatever. At any rate, Bobby came to Boston last week to make dizzy the heads of Boston teenyboppers, and presumably to make a little money. Or a lot. WRKO trumpeted, as only AM radio can, the good news of his coming, and the acne generation prepared. And it wasn't going to be at Boston Garden or the B.U. Armory, but at Symphony Hall. The movement had respectability.

It was with understandable excitement that I headed for Symphony Hall to hear this latest in a series of singing, idols. The first funny thing to happen was my purchase of a $5.75 ticket. I wondered what portion of that would go into Bobby's shampoo fund. With my very own money would he buy a tube of shampoo, and with his very own hands, rub it into his scalp? That was something to consider.

But thoughts had to wait. The fans were storming the gates because showtime was drawing near. Bobby was tucked away in some dressing room, and would soon be thrown to his screaming admirers. While most scrambled to their seats, a few of the real die-hards were crowded around the door that led to the dressing room.

Diane and Joyce, both 13, were at the door which led to the dressing room pleading with some guy, supposedly Sherman's manager, to let them in. Clutched in Joyce's fingers tight, the Instamatic. Diane held the autograph book. The time had come. But Bobby's managers would not be his managers if they were susceptible to the hysterical cries of teenage girls. The big, bad man wouldn't let them through the door.

A new strategy, then. "Will you take two pictures of him?" they begged. "Please, please! " They turned to the two riot cops who had just arrived and offered one of them a dollar to go take two pictures of Bobby. The price rose to two dollars. But that was all, and the cop wasn't interested. Police payoffs are fine, but at two dollars, why take the chance?

Another girl, Janice, arrived and was let through almost immediately, if only for a few seconds, for she bore gifts. Janice took in a poster for Bobby, which, she said, was just a "drawing" of him. Janice came back a few moments later with a letter in a pink envelope. She wasn't talking about the contents.

Meanwhile, the preliminary performer was getting shit from the eager Bobby Sherman audience. He was singing folk songs, and the fans didn't go for it. There were persistent chants of "We want Bobby!" Imgine the insult. Here you are playing second to Bobby Sherman and you're getting shouted down. Shouted down in a Dorchester accent even. It came time for him to go, and he said a deathly cold "Goodnight" and disappeared. The fans cheered wildly.

Soon a door on the side of the stage opened slowly. The crowd gasped. But it was only the emcee. After offering a few words, he unfurled one of the Bobby Sherman posters on sale in the lobby. For the first time that evening, the crowd screamed hysterically. Flash bulbs popped. He promised that after a brief intermission, Bobby would be theirs. Pandemonium.

I wandered around during the break trying to meet girls. Girls of 15, 13, 11, 9. I met Donna, president of the Bobby Sherman Fan Club of Waltham. She hadn't slept for two nights, but had laid on her bed gazing through the semi-darkness, punctured only by her night light, at the pictures of Bobby which covered every square inch of wall space. Pictures of him even lined her bureau drawers. She considered Bobby her roommate. She had never heard of Frankie Avalon.

Rence, trying to calm herself with a loud piece of Juicy Fruit, was a bit more passionate in her devotion to her idol. She sleeps with a poster of him and, in an effort to make their relationship a bit closer, keeps duplicate diaries and periodically sends Bobby the contents of one. This will keep him informed about her activities, she figures. No, Rence said, Bobby hadn't returned the favor. But she decided that his failure to do so indicated only that he didn't keep a diary.

There was a third girl who proved to be distinguished as a fan. Maryann had reproduced Bobby's face on a piece of cloth and had sewn it in her panties.

But back to the stage. A group of four had come out to play a few songs. There were the guys who play the music while Bobby sings, but first they intended to perform a few tunes on their own. The crowd was patient. After all, if Bobby let them play for him, they couldn't they couldn't be all that bad.

But they were. The first thing they did was the Beatles' song "When I Get Home." My thoughts returned to that summer night in 1965 when I jammed into Shea Stadium with 60,000 others to hear, and occasionally see, the Beatles. Could Bobby's fans possibly be going through the same emotional throes? Impossible.