In keeping with the gut-check spirit of the latest annual motion picture arts and sciences taffy pull, it's seems only fitting that we finally, at long last, get the first official gander at what some local bargain hunters apparently found wedged inside the bottom drawer of a desk purchased at a recent Bruce McNall garage sale.
Rumor has it said piece of not-so-modest office equipment was once used by whoever has hopefully never yet been allowed to live down the fact that they did time as the head writer on that infamous late-night TV talk-show train wreck, "Thicke of the Night", back in 1983/84. And, according to a lengthy notation scrawled on the remains of a receipt (for a brief afternoon stay at a long since gone Sunset Blvd. motel), that for years remained tucked inside a previously undetected top drawer compartment, the desk in question initially was picked up for a song and a dance (plus, something apparently to do with the application of an unspecified aerosol spray) by someone at Metromedia during one of the many Flynt Publishing, Inc. in-house purge/makeovers during the early-1980s.
How this ornate, yet no longer handsome, cherry wood item came to be in the ultimate possession of the once proud, coin-collecting/former hockey honcho/ex-con, is anyone's guess. Although, based on the width of the rolled-up Toronto Argonaut cap (the actual cause, it seems, for the jammed-up lower drawer in the first place), as well as the size of the (hopefully just) chili dog spill along the inner sweat band of the aforementioned accessory, there does exist the possibility that the next chapter in the evolutionary journey of this particular furniture piece was set in motion by one of the few successful Stanley Cup playoff wagers ever pulled off by the late John Candy during his brief run as a Lake Arrowhead timeshare associate with J. Abner Symington, longtime legal cornerman for well traveled super-sized multi-network top dog, Fred Silverman.
Which brings us to the totally unexpected treasure retrieved from its inadvertent hidden lair by a team of resourceful southland Cub Scouts brought in to assist with the ongoing bit of court-ordered commerce conducted every other weekend inside Mr. McNall's decidedly unspectacular Palmdale carport .
Talk about goldmine. Yes, Virginia, way before a certain nowadays, conscience-free, legal eagle (that's right, everybody's favorite on-air pit bull, TMZ's Harvey Levin) was big and smarmy enough to spend his day hiding behind a three-letter-shingle, safely inside the cubicle of his choice, there was a time when even such a princely fun guy as this full-of-it swell head had to knuckle down and get his next to nothing bones up the old fashioned way.
In other words, what follows is this present day dirt diggler's long thought-to-be-lost, try-out spec attempt to join the would-be staff of "The Hollywood Dish Rag", the never-quite-got-off-the-gutter-ground celebrity dis-like gossip sheet, co-hatched by used-to-be-nose-worthy old school Hollywood fun-hun, Rona Barrett, and former News Corp V.P. flameout, Rudy Bruno, during a heady moment when each found themselves waiting in line to use the restroom at one of Morey Amsterdam's semi-legendary Purim parties.
*DATELINE H-WOOD: OSCAR'S BACK AND GANDHI'S GOT 'EM!
Greetings from Tinselburg. And well, here be the latest like word, about what it is, and what it just was, I'm not sure why, maybe just because. But ever since "Gandhi" took that more noble-minded, high road route to Oscar night glory, everyone in these here parts has been scouting around for all sorts of epically proportioned, intimately designed, holier-than-thou, bio-like pix, from both good and not-so-good times, going way back yon. You know the type. Historical and inspirational-like stuff that's in close quarter touch with the wide awake hearts and minds of today's overactive public and their ever-increasingly growing need to believe in something (anything) other than frequent sex, corporate greed, high fiber cereals, and/or foreign automobiles. Most of which still remain way too small for this big boy's downstairs package, if you know what I mean.
It helps of course if these once upon a time figures were also the kind of upbeat human hairpins that, despite being like totally frustrated and/or altogether misunderstood during their assorted not-so-merry pathway ordeals, still managed to somehow carry enough of a slap happy tune straight into the face and unwelcome arms of any real, or occasionally imagined, out there obstacles. What better way, some might say, to illustrate the often times rude and tragic limitations forever present in life's eternal crap shoot. And, in the end, hopefully still give the kids something hip, fun, or whatever, to dance to.
So, like hey, if there's a barn, and if someone groovy enough is still in there who's not yet appreciated by an as yet uninformed general public, then……what are we waiting for?? Let's put on a show!
And, from what my sources tell me, currently being planned over many a Chinese chicken salad about town, are a whole slew of halo-tilted cinematic treatments which, if all systems are go and the right lights are green, should result in mucho overtime for all sorts of reasonably talented, semi-wide awake, clothes minded gals and guys still responsible for breaking frocks down there in ye olde wardrobe salt mine. Which should, no doubt, prove to be a real boom for all those would-be historically minded rearview mirror blowbrains who insist on disputing the accuracy of Hollywood's "K"lass product every time the dream merchants decide to focus their cameras on some of the important men and women who couldn't help but contribute greatly to the more often than not necessary back-story to our forever balance due, collective-like, past.
In other words, some of the hottest cin/vid bios currently being bandied about both near and far are as follows:
*NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI: Danny De Vito or Christopher Lloyd are said to have the inside track on this one. What, no Andy Kaufman? Worse yet, no Rhea Perlman, as it seems SCTV's Andrea Martin is already well on board, ready, willing and extra eager to handle the tricky part of Cecilia, the sympathetic Medici family turncoat who wound up blowing way more than just the usual whistle, so to speak. Apparently, Bernardo Bertolucci will be calling the money shots on this sure thing. Hopefully someone will have enough good sense to remind Il Maestro to, "Hold the butter!"
*MARCEL PROUST: With Donald Sutherland now out of the running, would someone please give Merv Griffin a call. Because the never ending repair job on Zsa Zsa's Trousdale manse has recently taken on a life of its own (due mainly of course to the Hungarian house frau's ongoing preference for pet ferrets, and not, as reported, because of the weekly cockfights staged by her live-in team of "unknowingly" illegal housekeepers), vapor-prone Lady Z seems to be hanging around the Bev Hilton even way more than usual. If not passed out at Trader Vic's, her Royal Zsaness can usually be found wedged onto Eva's already too crowded palatial penthouse couch, trying unsuccessfully to help little sis and her glum chum rover boy during their nightly ultra-competitive Wheel of Fortune battles against "Laugh-In" kook, Ruth Buzzi, and former "Three's Company" Roper-doper, Norman Fell. Which, no doubt, means it's a safe bet the Mervmeister is, or, will be shortly, itching to get his bad old soft self as far out of the house, as soon as possible. Even if that means putting up with an early AM call-time and every so often being required to really say, "Oooooooh" every time dictatorial director Sam Peckinpah lets loose with another profanity laced earful. Oh well, who said life was supposed to be fair?
Besides, considering Merv's often times conflicting heap of warm and fuzzy self-esteem, plus his periodic tendency to forget where he came from, it's a wonder he can ever remember who he let borrow his favorite Winnie the Pooh socks? Or, as the world keeps on yearning, His Mogulness really is no different than you or I, except for the fact that now he's able to receive a more consistent variety of room service, plus all the tennis shorts he'll ever hope to fill out, or need to periodically get improperly pinched in. You go, guy! And make sure you bring Jack Sheldon with ya!
*MARY BAKER EDDY: Donna Reed finally gets a chance to prove that her Supporting Actress Oscar for playing a thoughtful tramp in "From Here To Eternity" was no fluke. And, by doing so, makes us all heal a little better with this can't miss story of the famed Christian Scientist founder. Like, it's about bloody time! Hal Ashby will be helming this inspiring tale of pre-tough love and not-so-cozy spiritual self-sacrifice, with Eric Roberts all set to play Mary's high-strung estranged son, Union army deserter, Nathan Osgood Eddy. Sounds like a definite winner. Here's hoping Eric can deliver as promised, and is more or less in the mood to say it not spray it, when he tries to persuade fellow righteous dude, Mickey Rourke, into signing on as Frazier Murtaugh, Nat's do ask/do tell undercover bunk mate during a furtive, yet festive, springtime break out behind enemy lines.
*MALCOLM X: At last glance, big screen tough guy Jim Brown was still in control of this timely project. Word has it the former gridiron great is waiting only for Jerry Van Dyke to finish his latest Little Rock dinner theater engagement, a supposedly hoot-filled cabaret-style version of Brecht's "Arturo Ui", so both he and the excitable Midwest rib-shtickler can tackle this important story of the highly influential Afro-American leader together. In other words, no need to worry about anyone selling out this time, man, that's for damn sure. Ya dig?
*WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON: Tiny, tough-talking tunesmith, Paul Williams, has been up and down the many mean thoroughfares of this once desert town for what seems like years now with this brief, yet telling all, tale of the 9th U.S. president riding sung in his hip pocket, just waiting for the perfect chance for the chilly side of this unfortunately tragic matter to all of a sudden get hot again. And, it's only been in recent weeks that those in the know at Russ Meyer's Hugh Mung Productions have seen fit to return any calls coming from the wee one's perpetually impatient people. See what happens when word leaks out that veteran top-heavy gals Candy Samples and Kitten Nativadad are both apparently on the short list to bust things up accordingly as Norma La'Francois, President-Elect Willie's shady behind-the-scenes D.C. mistress, and occasional below the beltway psychic advisor, who, it seems, brought everything her bustle couldn't already hustle to the executive branch stable once she assumed the highly unofficial position of weekend White House muleskinner. All of which only helped add to the growing conspiratorial whispers about what she knew and when she knew it, regarding the mysterious whereabouts of the soon-to-be-late Commander in Chief's rain slicker and favorite cardigan, just prior to his ill-fated inaugural address.
*MOMS MABLEY: This here's the part that Pam Grier has been searching for ever since she sauntered off the train at LA's Union Station way back in the swingin' summer of 1967. Lately there's been some talk that Meryl Streep may want to muscle in on this project once she has her child, which, I'm sure, would severely silence any harsh critics out there who still feel that the latest oh-so-marvelous one is in the mood to coast a bit now, having just snagged her second Oscar in the last four years. Whatever the case may be, the competition to see who finally plays the longtime, side-splitting, toothless Apollo legend should be mighty fierce. Especially if, as rumored, tough-minded tootsie Jessica Lange decides to join in and make it three-way battle for the ages. Even so, most smart money is on pistol packin' Pam to be the last hot mama standing when this major full-court fox-off finally grinds down.
*EMILY DICKINSON: As hard as it may be for some to believe, Barbra Streisand is still planning to get this prestige project off the ground, just like she has been ever since those bleak days when she and Jon "Snip-Snip" Peters put their emergency last minute film saving editorial touches all over the nail-biting conclusion of "For Pete's Sake". Luckily, Marvin Hamlisch and George "Funkadelic" Clinton recently joined forces in an effort to make sure that Babs has enough boffo tunes to belt out if and when this deep sleeper ever gets a chance to open wide at an otherwise unsuspecting Cineplex near you.
*ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER: Bobby De Niro has shown more than just a casual interest in this would-be can't miss project, which is currently being set up as a five-part HBO marquee mini-series. Could it be that this intense method lad would actually like to direct himself for a change? You bet he's talkin' to you! And if all goes according to plan, and Bob's imposing will is in fact allowed to be the only one, then look for cute Carol Kane to snag the tricky part of Dagmar Schwihoffer, Schopie's favorite Frankfort barmaid.
*SACAJAWEA: Joan Collins, in her triumphant return to the big screen, is the best bet for this plum role. Those being discussed for the key parts of Lewis and Clark are Albert Brooks, Stanley Myron Handleman, London Lee, Jerry Stiller, Jackie Mason, Shelley Berman, Jack Weston, George "Goober" Lindsay, and most recently, stalwart Catskill funnyman, Jan Murray. Even so, it's still hard to say what director Dick Benjamin had in mind when he signed on for this one. Although, with Gene Wilder already locked in as Thomas Jefferson, there's no telling where this particular trail of uncharted westward wackiness is going to eventually lead to, especially now that moody, pout-along playwright, David Mamet, has accepted a last minute request by producer Saul Zaentz to dive in head first and quickly figure out the best way to properly buff up the polish job wise guy bookends, Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel, recently did on Robert Towne's legendary landmark original.
*FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE: Al Pacino and Francis Ford Coppola are rumored to be back together again with this one. A super script by Joan Didion is already in place, just waiting for Pat McCormick and Bernie West to finish their once-a-month all-night card game with Ernie "Voice of ABC" Anderson and reliable party pal, Robert Ridgley. Hopefully these two wisenheimers will still have enough fuel left in their well oiled tanks to add just the right amount of necessary final touches needed before either of the Godfather boys comes down with a sudden case of cold feet. Or, worse yet, start to seriously think about going back on the offer producers Irwin Winkler and Robert Chartoff hoped to never see refused.
Luckily, neither Oscarized gent still owns a prizewinning race horse. Although, rumor has it Irwin's wife, Madge, once had a cute little Corgi around the house that she either misplaced, or apparently just lost track of ever since the poor four-legged fella got spooked during her recent surprise birthday blow out for longtime cabana bunkmate, Bob Denver, when, as luck, and a certain amount of swiftly consumed peppermint schnapps would have it, banjo boy George Segal apparently felt the need to vomit all over Deutschland diva Hanna Schygulla's somewhat excitable schnauzer, Fozzibinder.
*MAX ERNST: Henry Winkler, in what looks to be a comeback of sorts, seems to be everybody's dream choice to play the granddaddy of all dada. Apparently, supreme extreme shlockmeister, John Waters, and musical dynamomo, David Byrne, have changed their tune about bringing this zany madcap-a-thon to Broadway, and are now prepared to let soul-selling hoofer/director Bob Fosse finally make the screen musical some said would never be done. Veteran laugh doctor Elaine May is already doing a manic rewrite on Betty Comden and Adolph Green's initial Broadway bound book at this very minute. Or, at least has been ever since she concluded her high-gear ghost job on Skip Stephenson's off-the-wall "Real People" expose, "Schlatterized For Your Protection", soon to be featured in the summer issue of Granta.
*GRANGER and FATINA BURROWS: This nowhere but uplifting story about the quirky life and hard living times of snide minded comedian Orson Bean's politically pro-active parents, during the bleak days of depression-era Vermont, is suddenly now on everyone's hotplate. It's primary focus, of course, is obviously Granger Burrows, a relentlessly sticky labor leader of note, who was not only indirectly responsible for the big maple syrup slow down of '34, but also one of the chief primary architects behind the eventual hard fought, and highly divisive, regional change-over to a more responsible and less environmentally traumatic means with which to disassociate an appropriate amount of sluggish sap from an otherwise unwilling and/or uncooperative forest of ultra-colorful New England maple trees. Or, so the police said.
Fatina, Granger's more than equal better-half, was a feisty outspoken early crusader for women's personal health issues who not-so-quietly became the overly persuasive guiding force behind the local reevaluation and subsequent adaptation of a more inclusive Dewey decimal system. Which, for years (other than, of course, the big hunk of granite near the Highway 7 turn-off, that was sculpted to look suspiciously like glamorous movie queen, Kay Francis), was the primary pride and joy of Chittenden County, Vermont's longtime liberal playground, and summer resident home (on the shores of Lake Champlain near Basin Harbor) for the Burrows family summertime pet project, the Trotsky-At-Twilight Tappin' Society, a more or less, elite-free, fellow traveling dance workshop, that, during the winter months, was based in the unfinished attic of the Bazarov Tool & Die shop in Newark, New Jersey. Where, for many years, (according to recently discovered court transcripts found buried beneath a Jersey City beauty parlor/clam bar & weekend dialysis center) it apparently flourished, with an uncertain amount of partially observed style, under the heel and toe supervision of Granger's high-stepping ex-con cousin, Splayne Hanrahan.
Crafty, left-leaning, award-winning lensman, Haskell Wexler, wants to direct this fond look back at the way some of us think we were, with Richard Dreyfuss and Jamie Lee Curtis all set for the leads. Penciled in to play young Orson (when he was still just teen wiseacre Dallas Frederick Burrows, second cousin to button-lipped U.S. Pres. Calvin Coolidge, and, when available, part-time country club caddy for mulligan madman, Boston Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey) is pretty boy Matt Dillon. For an extra added bonus, look for human hotfoot, Michael Keaton, to liven thinks up as kooky chum, Bill Cullen, once Orson hits the Big Apple. Which, by the way, is where TV hackjob, Marilu Henner, gets to strut her sassy hot stuff as lusciously lowdown Tina Louise, Orson's every so often on and under Broadway babe in arms, during his killer mid-50's run in the envelope nudging romp, "Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?"
Despite this side road look back at Orson's trying to make it there times in Gotham, as both a legit Great White Way rising star and a supposedly only slightly blushing red scare menace, the central arc of this lively mix & match memoir centers mostly on the emotionally challenging days Orson spent as a highly gifted mouth breathing youth, forever guided by the collective will and uncompromising proletariat-based views commonly shared by his progressively idealized folks. Which, not surprisingly, were typically also echoed by the loyal, Burrows household help staff, a displaced family of Nova Scotia gypsies. Especially, whenever it came time for their notorious curbside three-card Monte games to temporarily be shut down, either by the nervous next door sewing circle, or the occasional watch-dog dragnet conducted by the local two-man town constabulary.
Thankfully, in keeping with today's expanded desire for unnecessary cutting edge entertainment, an inappropriate amount of screen time will be spent documenting a few of the more casual moments of Orson's well spent reckless youth. These of course being those numerous occasions when he found time to pick up a few important psycho-sexual pointers from a succession of endearing coeds periodically funneled into the local school district by a nearby teacher's college.
All of which means that any necessary lessons learned by Orson (both at home, and, when available, Room 6 at the Green Mountain Gateway Lodge in Rutland) will certainly be on all fours display throughout much of the film's somewhat exhaustive running time. Thereby allowing us many a chance to repeatedly see Orson re-discover a convenient way to convince himself how to both recognize, and every so often, actually experience a memorable moment or two of almost true, inexpensive love. At least during daylight hours. Which, in the end, I'm sure, is something many of us will have trouble getting through properly on just one box of Kleenex and/or the usual supply of hard to open wet-naps.
In other words, the "big picture" here is a mighty strange, yet wonderful one. And that, in a nutshell, is just one of the many nuggets of walk away wisdom young Orson was able to systematically glean while crouched at the scruffy knees of his overly inspired, hammer and sickle loving, small town mom and pop. Whatever he picked up with his suave sounding yet cantankerous Uncle Max from Montreal, during a midsummer fishing trip to Lake Winnipesaukee with the bouncy Moreau twins, Danielle and Giselle, will have to wait, I'm sure, for a very special sequel. Hopefully, just in time for dads and grads of all allowable political stripes, and, more or less, reasonably attractive state sanctioned solids.
*SOREN KIERKEGAARD: Robert Culp, Robert Duvall, Robert Goulet, Robert Klein, Robert Mitchum, Robert Preston, Robert Redford, and Tom Poston are all still in the running for this challenging role. Rumored to be itching for a chance to act cute and spread things out accordingly as Regina Olsen, Kierkie's haunting teenage heartthrob, are Nastassja Kinski, Diane Lane, Tatum O'Neal, ever dependable bimbo bombshell, Pia Zadora, and, at last glance, hot new up and comer, Molly Ringwald. Look for legendary Spanish surreal cutup, Luis Bunuel, to come out of retirement to make his second American debut with this one. But, only on the condition that last producer standing, Mel Brooks, hold his hat (and Racing Form) without using his hands, and Bea Arthur (already locked in as Mabel Landau, Kierkegaard's long suffering evil-eye stepmama) promises to crawl away from her endless round of Crazy Eights with co-star Sandy Dennis whenever it's her time to spit on the master auteur's forever rotating pair of just polished high-buttoned shoes.
*ULYSSES S. GRANT: In this telling account of the grumpy Union Army general and eventual 18th U.S. President, veteran cigar chomping comic icon Alan King finally reveals to the American public what most of the better tipped pit bosses in Vegas have already known for years now. Namely that, when push comes to shove, Al baby can certainly act up a storm if somehow given the proper material to match the unlimited talent that some still wide awake William Morris mucky-wuk, must surely now claim to have been so certain, and well aware of, all along. Chi-Town hotshot Billy Friedkin is, of course, as anxious as an unfed ferret to helm this surprisingly patriotic portrait of the bearded and brawling Civil War leader. For the key role of Estelle Lopatkiewicz, General Uly's tragic battlefront main squeeze, all bottles have seemingly spun in the direction of either Lainie Kazan or Anna Maria Alberghetti.
And finally, this word from the entertainment wire……
"Who Knew?: The Other Side of Hugh Beaumont" by former Van Dyke semi-regular, Richard "Mel Cooley" Deacon, just published by End Around Ltd. in association with Daveko Pay Press, is now out and in the stores, generating tons of curious interest from all those hankering to make whatever kind of filmy movie they can about this fine late actor's highly regarded on-screen career of sorts, and, of course, his not-so-public, under the radar, private life, as well.
According to some of the earliest and fastest readers on both coasts, "Who Knew?" takes a chilling look at some of the more shadier, and, at times, altogether questionable moments in Hugh's up and down pursuit of almost, but not quite, reachable stardom. And, as such, it deals with his early performing life as a clumsy member of his parent's experimental ("No Socks!/No Belts!", but thankfully plenty of wigs & high heels) theatre arts group, Hambone-A-Roni, in Schenectady, New York; his college summers as a not exactly graceful song and dance gagman in Provincetown, Massachusetts; his war torn years as a disgruntled contract player at Monogram Pictures; and finally, his salad fork days when he broke through to network television and fleshed out the immortal role of Ward ("June, where are the boys?") Cleaver on the highly successful family classic "Leave It To Beaver".
Sadly, once this goofy gem was syndicated, little if any residual scratch ever made it into the high pockets of Hugh's reasonably well cinched clam diggers. A sore spot, for sure, on an otherwise handsome bit of terrific resume. But then, that's the business of show for ya. So, read it and weep, and be prepared for a good cry. Especially when you find out how Hugh got bounced from "Hollywood Squares" after Marlon Brando snuck owl-eyed pipsqueak, Wally Cox, in the studio back door while he was off escorting Charley Weaver to the nearest restroom because the old coot had apparently lapped up too much pre-show Fresca.
Meanwhile, helping to make some of the more juicer aspects of Hugh B's Q-T hush life a little easier to swallow, some certifiable balls out details surface which shed new and improved light on his legendary feud with Bob Crane, which apparently stems from a bizarre incident in 1962 when their impromptu onstage slapfest shut down an early morning Totie Fields show at the Albert Pick Motel Fur Trapper Lounge in Woonsocket, Rhode Island.
Needless to say, un-zipped fly-on-the-wall Dickie Deacon covers this three-way meltdown in such high wire style that you can almost smell Hugh's hot under the collar sweat, as it soaks up any Old Spice still clinging to his snug fitting turtleneck; feel the excess Vitalis on Bob's crush-proof pompadour; and, best of all, swear you can hear the rimshot snap of Totie's girdle when she parks her size-6 into Crane's unprotected nuts, then orders Hugh to, "Just bring me the head of the horse you two bastards rode in on, and we'll call it a night!"
Early indications are that Alan Alda and Mike Farrell are each vying for the rights to this project. Surprisingly enough, handling the negotiations for the suddenly all too reclusive Mr. Deacon, is Ken Osmond, everyone's favorite once upon a time TV smarm boy, Eddie Haskell. And, from what my sources at Tail-Of-The-Pup tell me, Hazben-Willgrovel, the new start-up prod company co-founded by Bill Bixby, Ray Walston, John Astin, Marty Ingels, Forrest Tucker and Larry Storch, is seriously thinking about getting into a major bidding war with the former "M*A*S*H" idiot box stars in order to obtain this sizzling property and quickly package it in time for next year's Oscar clambake, with James Brolin set as Hugh, and hopefully, Elizabeth Ashley soon to go down as his snarling, cat-like, love-starved, kid half-sister Margo, who it seems did way more than just prowl around the backwoods of northern Michigan with Hugh during their teamed-up time as headliners for a somewhat nightmarish, yet forever memorable, 1968 summer stock marathon run thru of "Cactus Flower", "The Owl and The Pussycat", and "Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?"
It's safe to say a bigger story hasn't been stepped into in these parts since Dick York chose not to return as Darren Stevens for the last couple of seasons of "Bewitched".
On an even more strange-but-true note, due to the overwhelmingly rapid success of "Gandhi", several consulting firms are currently testing the waters to determine the profit-like feasibility of whether or not McDonald's, Whammo, Inc. and Columbia Pictures should go ahead as planned with their far-reaching idea of developing a chain of "Gandhi Fast Food For Thought" non-restaurant/think tanks, initially in Southern California, and then hopefully all around our mixed-up, war torn, troubled globe. And well, who said American ingenuity, and occasionally well thought out, high-risk know-how, went out the window soon after the debut of both "The Phil Silvers Show" and the unstylish arrival of the original Thom McCann Hush Puppy?
In other words, folks, life's a banquet. And since most of it's still piled up out there just waiting, be sure and pull up those legwarmers and wade in wherever you can. Hopefully, before the credits start rolling. But, watch out, be careful you don't sleep through another feature, or two, or else you'll soon be in to whoever for the big whatever, and you'll have no one else to blame but yourself. And, of course, the schmuck with the cowboy hat who keeps insisting on sitting right there in front of you during whatever's left of your suddenly new and improved, present-like tense, night at the local Bijou.
And, like that's that. Ta-ta, for now.
*LEVIN, out (And About!). (5/83)
For all intents and in-your-face purposes, what's most impressive here is to suddenly get a whiff of just how long this goofy-for-gossipy dude has been down there punching, below the belt, straight out of the bag. In other words, there's no telling how far the lowest road might take you, especially if you act like you know it all, and can't pretend you don't know any better.
Now, ain't that there the rub to beat all pre-existing rubs?