Anyone who wasn’t comatose during their American History 101 class knows “A Day That Will Live in Infamy” refers to Dec. 7, 1941. But Liz Clark of Garden City, Long Island, had her own DTWLiI — April 3, 1959, when she was 13.

Liz was my sister-in-law’s college roommate. She had dark red hair, bright green eyes and a burbling laugh that could melt stone hearts. She was also fiendishly smart and tons of fun. I met her when my s-i-l brought her home for a Christmas break, and haven’t been the same since.

In addition to Liz, her DTWLiI had three other protagonists, a supporting cast of five and a potential audience of millions.

The first main player was Liz’s dad, Gene, a sweet, easygoing guy with a childlike sense of fun. And since Liz’s only sibling was a much older brother already long gone from the house, she was the orchard of her father’s eye.

The second protagonist was a celebrity named Edd Byrnes. He had a long, successful showbiz career, but he was famous only for his role on the TV show “77 Sunset Strip.”

“77 Sunset Strip” was a detective show, and in it Byrnes played what we now call a valet, but in those more straightforward times was called a parking lot attendant. His name in the show was Kookie, based on his delightfully spacey personality and his “beatnik” verbiage, which was so contrived and crappy it would’ve given Jack Kerouac the dry heaves.

In typical TV implausibility, for all his ditziness Kookie served a vital role. His apparent idiocy was a perfect cover for gathering intelligence for the detectives, or as he put it, getting “the word on the street.”

Though intended to be a marginal character, Kookie ended up stealing the show due to one thing — he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. And in addition to stealing the show, he stole the heart of every American schoolgirl — including, if not especially, Liz Clark’s.

Byrnes may have been a skilled actor, but that was irrelevant. What catapulted him to fame was his trademark gesture — combing his beautiful dark-blond locks, which he did throughout the whole damned show. He even made a record, “Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb,” which was as moronic as it was best-selling.

I loathed him. After all, I reasoned, what did he have that I didn’t? The answer, though as obvious as the fine Semitic nose on my face, eluded me. And good thing it did, because had I figured out the hideous truth, it would’ve plunged me into a lifetime of drink, drugs and despair.

–

The Kook and the cookie

–

The third star was a true luminary who needs no introduction — Dick Clark. He had a lifelong career in The Big Time and hit the spotlight — and this tale — with “American Bandstand.” “Bandstand,” broadcast from Philly, was a five-day-a-week rock-and-roll show that had kids dancing to the latest tunes and usually featured a famous singer or group lip-syncing their latest hit.

The dancers were 100% urban and as foreign to a kid from My Home Town as visitors from Alpha Centauri. All the guys looked like 25-year-old dropouts from Willie Sutton Voc Tech, and the girls post-grads from Our Lady of Beehive High, where they were all members of The Future Gun Molls of America Club. Their sinister miens aside, they were fine dancers.

But my snotty attitude to the contrary, Dick Clark had his finger on the pulse of America’s Cherry-Coke-and-Clearasil set, and the show was wildly popular for its whole 13-year run.

While the show was headquartered in Philly, Clark had arranged a special show in NYC with a very special guest, Edd Byrnes. This was immediately noticed by Liz, and once noted, she started to scheme how she could meet her heartthrob, now that he’d be right in her backyard.

And she not only schemed — she succeeded.

Liz had a family friend connected to the show who arranged for Liz and five of her besties to meet The Great Hunk himself on the show, live and in person.

To cap this stellar occasion, Liz came up with the n’est plus ultra of sealing the deal: She baked a two-foot, comb-shaped cookie. And as a crowning touch, on its handle, spelled out in chocolate chips, was KOOKIE.

At last the glorious day arrived, and the six Nassau nymphets, scrubbed and clad in their Easter finery, piled into Gene’s brand-new Olds Rocket 88 for the thrill of their lives.

–

How the cookie crumbles

–

When they got to the theater, a producer met them and told them the plan: Just before the end of the show, Kookie would stand center stage, and the girls would be introduced. Then Liz, as their mover, shaker and baker, would step forward and present her gargantuan cookie-comb to the man of her dreams.

It was a perfect plan … and one destined to go awry.

In the middle of the show, Kookie suddenly got struck by a horrific toothache. They whisked him away to scrounge up some painkillers so he could finish the show, which he did. But he was too pain-wracked to face the cookie presentation, much less go through with it. The news was relayed to the girls by a kindly usher, who did it so gently they managed to hold back their tears till they got back in Gene’s car, when they all dissolved into unrestrained wailing.

As Gene pulled out of his parking place, he noticed a limousine on its way out the exit, and in its back seat was none other than Kookie himself.

“Look, girls,” he shouted, “There he is!”

Immediately the hysterical sobbing turned to hysterical shrieking, which galvanized Gene into action. He gave chase, full of the cockamamie idea that he could follow the limo till it stopped, when the girls could give Kookie the cookie, as God had intended.

But, alas, amidst all the din and excitement, Gene miscalculated his final turn in the garage, and as the limo peeled off into the distance, he plowed into an abutment.

Ultimately, it probably wasn’t all his fault. His car, a tribute to Dee-troit Iron, was about as big as the Hindenburg and had slopgut steering and suspension, which meant it could fly in a straight line at 100 mph but couldn’t corner at 10.

The shrieks returned to sobs as Gene drove back to his original parking place and checked his newly reconfigured grill. When he got back in the car, while not sobbing himself, his eyes were more moist than dry. But still, he managed to rise to the occasion.

“Just a second,” he told the girls. “Take a look at that.”

He pointed at an oil spot on the garage floor, several places away.

“What is it?” asked Liz.

“Why, it’s oil from Kookie’s limo,” he said.

Then he got out of the car, and with his pocket knife, cut his handkerchief into six roughly equal pieces. After that, he dipped each piece in the oil, came back and gave one precious remnant to each girl.

OK, so it wasn’t like having a handkerchief Elvis the Pelvis had used to mop his brow, but it was good enough to reduce the uncontrolled blubbering to mere snuffles. Which under the circumstances was a major victory.

As for Liz’s oeuvre — the Great Kookie Cookie? To prevent something of such totemic value from going to waste, Liz went back to the theater and gave it to the nice usher, telling him to share it with his friends. Certainly, at that point, the girls’ appetites had fled as fast and fully as Kookie’s limo.

I’m still in touch with Liz, and I’m glad to say she now laughs at that painful episode and has almost fully recovered from it. Another 60 years or so, and she should be at 100%.

–

A final note on fame

–

People are so blinded by celebrities’ glitz, glitter and gelt that they lose track of where stars truly fit in the scheme of life. So while we’re in a downtown bucket of blood, drinking Bud Lite and munching on Beer Nuts, they’re on a yacht in the Cote d’Azur, sipping champagne from a silk slipper and talking about trading in the Maserati for a Ferrari. But though that may indeed be true, ultimately it means nothing.

For example, the big kahuna of this column is Dick Clark. He achieved a level of fame, fortune and adoration beyond our wildest dreams, and by any measure was a star’s star.

Yet for all that, the true star of this “Bandstand” episode was none other than Liz’s dad.