CPAC Synopsis

It took some effort but I was finally able to un-clutter my secret stash. The secret stash -- small Amyl Nitrate bottles; generous links of “Washburn Woo-Woo!”; canteen of commemorative “Then Came Bronson” muscatel; and a pretty amber pill Beloved ordered me to swallow if I ever grew another mustache -- is for consumption during emergencies, such as grease fires or tackling routine home maintenance chores. Because I’m blessed, there hasn’t been a valid reason to crack open the stash. Divine Providence, disguised as flaming animal fat, scorched the hovel’s kitchen long before the stash was lovingly assembled and a very rare, unnamed neurological disorder makes gripping tools impossible.

Juan is not burdened with the onus of constructive versatility.

I thought about adding an amendment to include surprise visits from traveling in-laws but feared serious domestic reprisal should popper react poorly with “Woo-Woo!” It goes without saying that channeling Richard Widmark’s breakout performance in “Kiss of Death” does not lead to pleasant family dining. Usually floating on an emotionally even keel, Beloved would become livid if I shoved her wheel chair-bound mother down the basement stairs. And who could blame her? Anyone foolish enough to cross her hormonally-charged Margino Line knows Beloved’s happy-go-lucky smile can quickly morph into tight-lipped violence. No longer owning cow-like reflexes, my abdominal spread is an easy target for stoned-honed butter knife. But what extended exposure to holy matrimony doesn’t have its little twists and turns?

Ozzie Nelson could have been another Cassavetes had he replaced cardigan with black turtleneck. Caving under corporate pressure, he shelved his dream of mining the dysfunctional family zinc buried inside post-World War II mass consumerism. In later years the toothy B team bandleader lamented his lost opportunity. Three months before succumbing to smog-related emphysema, Ozzie was interviewed by Fly Fish America’s Richard Handler. Handler, best known for introducing soft-core pornography into staid sporting magazine fare, 'single-handedly' transferred Fly Fish America from coffee table top to toilet tank lid. Although long out of print, tracking down “The Other Pole: How Richard Handler Yanked Angling Away from the Finaldi Brothers” is worth the effort.

Here’s my favorite exchange between Nelson and Handler:

Handler: Oz, it is true that you wanted Harriet to be the Joan Vollmer to your William Burroughs?

Ozzie: Yeah. I wrote a script where Harriet, high on Benzedrine, is raking imaginary lizards off an orange tree. David and Ricky are crying, freaking out, running around the backyard trying to make her stop. I crash through the glass patio door with my .45, emptying the clip into the pool, yelling at Harriet to get her ass back inside before neighbors called the cops. The squares at ABC didn’t dig the symbolism. The scene was completely rewritten. As I recall, Harriet accidentally runs over Don Defore’s favorite birdbath and hilarity ensues when I try to replace it before he returns home from whatever the fuck he did for a living. I shot that episode drunk, so the birdbath could’ve been a lawn jockey for all I know.