prompt: draw, title: the pun is always intended in misc. flash fiction

I own a laser-disc of 1962’s ‘The Manchurian Candidate’ which starred Frank Sinatra and Angela Lansbury. My brother Dan bought it for me as a gift and I love it. Now, this isn’t because I’m any particular fan of the film, though I appreciate its place in American Film History. I am just not all that much into political thrillers. Not my genre. It’s not because I’m a fan of Sinatra, either. Dude could sing for a certain value of “sing”, but standards and big bands do little for me and, anyway, he set back Italian-Americans with his mob-stereotype nonsense almost as badly as Tony Danza.

I’m pretty neutral on Angela Lansbury as well. I do own a copy of her “Positive Moves: Senior Aerobic Workout” VHS release, sure, but not for any kind of sexual purposes, I simply find the entire ‘workout VHS’ thing kind of hilarious in how far they stretched (puns intended, the puns are always intended) to find more ways to cash in on the Jane Fonda Workout fad. The “Marky Mark” workout, the Estelle Getty workout, a Barbie doll workout, they just kept shoveling out the drek and I am fascinated by the depths of The Entertainment Industry’s cowardly covetous greed. It’s kind of a sad-laugh, but no, Miss Murder She Wrote is not the draw for me, either. I mean, I don’t even own a functioning laserdisc player at the moment. I couldn’t watch the disc, even if I wanted. If I did, I’d use it to watch super-bizarre early digital-animation tests, mostly.

No, the reason I adore it is the collection from which it was purchased. The “Provenance” of the thing, if you wanna roll fancy. My brother found it on eBay, for sale by someone liquidating the estate of Frank Sinatra Jr the star’s eponymous son. He was known to have been a distant dad at best due to all of his fortune and fame and tackyass Vegas shows and hanging out with mobsters and politicians and mobster-politicians. The beauty of this artifact is in the narrative, in the idea of a famous singer’s sad little failson owning it, so he could watch it over and again, as his only way to commune with his corny whiskey-soaked namesake. I love an interesting narrative more than nearly anything, I facilitate a writer’s group for God’s sake, of course I do, and I love stuff that rips down the notion of fame being desirable, even moreso.

The only thing better would be to buy a baseball signed by Pete Rose and somehow get the actor Paul Giamatti to also sign the orb. Paul’s father Bart Giamatti was the commissioner of baseball who banned Rose from the game, for betting with mafiosos who either knew Sinatra or certainly at least claimed it. In this culture of endless trash, my brother and I are the binmen who’ll sneak the best stuff out before it goes to the dump. It keeps us busy, at the very least.