Art Buchwald was a writer/humorist who authored 33 books and more than 8,000 newspaper columns. After he died, The New York Times ran his video obituary. It began: “Hi, I’m Art Buchwald, and I just died.” I was among many who thought he was a very funny man.
A few of his quotes:
This is what makes me happy: ...Any music-free restaurant ... A grandson who offers to clean the snow off my driveway and also fix my computer ... An evening in bed with a good book. (My book.) ... A good night's sleep ... As you can see, it doesn't take much to make me happy.
I always wanted to get into politics, but I was never light enough to make the team.
Just when you think there's nothing to write about, Nixon says, 'I am not a crook.' Jimmy Carter says, 'I have lusted after women in my heart.' President Reagan says, 'I have just taken a urinalysis test, and I am not on dope.'
A couple of months ago I had an experience that reminded me of a column he wrote titled, “It’s Downright Un-American.” In it he told of visiting a store where he wanted to purchase a portable typewriter:
The salesman was very helpful about showing me the different models. I decided on one, and then I said, "May I write out a personal check?"
"Naturally," he said kindly. "Do you have any identification?"
"Of course," I said. I produced an American Express credit card, a Diner's Club credit card, a Carte blanche credit card, a Bell Telephone credit card, and my pass to the White house. The man inspected them all and then said, "Where's your driver's license?"
"I don't have one," I replied.
"Did you lose it?"
"No, I didn't lose it. I don't drive a car."
He pushed a button under the cash register, and suddenly a floor manager came rushing over. The salesman had now become surly. "This guy's trying to cash a check, and he doesn't have a driver's license. Should I call the store detective?"
"Wait a minute. I'll talk to him," the manager said. "Did you lose your driver's license for some traffic offense?"
"No, I've never driven. I don't like to drive."
"Nobody likes to drive," the floor manager shouted. "That's no excuse. Why are you trying to cash a check if you don't have a driver's license?"
"I thought all the other identification was good enough. I had to be cleared by the Secret Service to get this white House pass," I said hopefully.
The floor manager looked scornfully at the pass and all my credit cards. "Anyone can get cleared by the Secret Service. Hey, wait a minute. How did you get out here to the shopping center if you don't drive?"
"I took a taxi," I said.
"Well, that takes the cake," he said.
By this time a crowd had gathered. "What happened?" "Guy doesn't have a driver's license." "Says he doesn't even drive. Never has driven." "Lynch him." "Tar and feather him." "How un-American can you get?"
The crowd was getting ugly, so I decided to forget the typewriter. "Never mind," I said. "I'll go somewhere else."
By this time the president of the store had arrived on the scene. Fortunately, he recognized my name and ok’d the check. He was very embarrassed by the treatment I had received and said, "come on, I'll buy you a drink."
"I forgot to tell you," I said. "I don't drink either."
This was too much, even for him, and he pushed me toward the door. "Get out of here," he said, "and don't come back!" . . .
Americans are broad-minded people. They'll accept the fact that a person can be an alcoholic, a dope fiend, a wife beater, and even a newspaperman, but if a man doesn't drive, there is something wrong with him.
That last paragraph came to my mind on the Sunday before Christmas. It was the day before when I’d decided to have my hair cut much shorter than usual – a buzzcut that left what little hair I have no longer than an eighth of an inch. I could not believe how some people reacted. I concluded that a person could announce his belief that the Book of Mormon was the creation of a deceiver, that in the Church people are more often called to positions out of desperation than inspiration, and that there really might be something to the idea of transubstantiation – but if you come to church with a buzzcut, that’s grounds for excommunication.
"Naturally," he said kindly. "Do you have any identification?"
"Of course," I said. I produced an American Express credit card, a Diner's Club credit card, a Carte blanche credit card, a Bell Telephone credit card, and my pass to the White house. The man inspected them all and then said, "Where's your driver's license?"
"I don't have one," I replied.
"Did you lose it?"
"No, I didn't lose it. I don't drive a car."
He pushed a button under the cash register, and suddenly a floor manager came rushing over. The salesman had now become surly. "This guy's trying to cash a check, and he doesn't have a driver's license. Should I call the store detective?"
"Wait a minute. I'll talk to him," the manager said. "Did you lose your driver's license for some traffic offense?"
"No, I've never driven. I don't like to drive."
"Nobody likes to drive," the floor manager shouted. "That's no excuse. Why are you trying to cash a check if you don't have a driver's license?"
"I thought all the other identification was good enough. I had to be cleared by the Secret Service to get this white House pass," I said hopefully.
The floor manager looked scornfully at the pass and all my credit cards. "Anyone can get cleared by the Secret Service. Hey, wait a minute. How did you get out here to the shopping center if you don't drive?"
"I took a taxi," I said.
"Well, that takes the cake," he said.
By this time a crowd had gathered. "What happened?" "Guy doesn't have a driver's license." "Says he doesn't even drive. Never has driven." "Lynch him." "Tar and feather him." "How un-American can you get?"
The crowd was getting ugly, so I decided to forget the typewriter. "Never mind," I said. "I'll go somewhere else."
By this time the president of the store had arrived on the scene. Fortunately, he recognized my name and ok’d the check. He was very embarrassed by the treatment I had received and said, "come on, I'll buy you a drink."
"I forgot to tell you," I said. "I don't drink either."
This was too much, even for him, and he pushed me toward the door. "Get out of here," he said, "and don't come back!" . . .
Americans are broad-minded people. They'll accept the fact that a person can be an alcoholic, a dope fiend, a wife beater, and even a newspaperman, but if a man doesn't drive, there is something wrong with him.
That last paragraph came to my mind on the Sunday before Christmas. It was the day before when I’d decided to have my hair cut much shorter than usual – a buzzcut that left what little hair I have no longer than an eighth of an inch. I could not believe how some people reacted. I concluded that a person could announce his belief that the Book of Mormon was the creation of a deceiver, that in the Church people are more often called to positions out of desperation than inspiration, and that there really might be something to the idea of transubstantiation – but if you come to church with a buzzcut, that’s grounds for excommunication.
No comments:
Post a Comment