And in the world of stereotypical chauvinist pigs, there was no influence greater than A. C. Slater, and no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget him, I can’t. Mostly because I had to see him in literally every hotel room I checked into while writing this book, and all I could do was shake my fist in a very intimidating “why I oughta” fashion, while I tried not to succumb to the impulse of renting one of the movies he shared via his iconic dimples on the Extra at the Movies Welcome Channel screen.
