January 2001     PAH! #125

I have expanded by one the categories of men whom I would describe as “you-poor-bastard-you"

The longstanding category has been any man I see at a mall pushing a double stroller. Once I saw a young couple with two sets of twins under the age of five.

You-poor-bastard-you.

It is a phrase I mentally mutter in total empathy. It is the same look union members give to picketing workers. A nod of solidarity, a subtle thumbs up.

It is also the look I reserve for any adults who are just seconds away from throwing a caterwauling child over their shoulders and walking out into the parking lot.

(In wartime, the sign of surrender is a white flag. In parenthood, it is the hoisting high of kicking legs. In Vietnam, we pushed helicopters overboard and fled. In stores, we abandon shopping carts it took us thirty minutes to carefully fill with bargains.)

The second and most recently added category of men who I would describe as “you- poor-bastard-you” is Men Who Are Al Gore.

Who robbed him of the U.S. presidency but by whom I cannot say. The Supreme Court? Katherine Harris? Confused, geriatric voters? I don’t consider Ralph Nader the spoiler since, had Florida vote gone as intended, Gore would right now, Nader-or-no-Nader, be picking his cabinet and Bush would be picking between raspberry and grape jam for his daily PBJ. Gore would’ve gotten the votes. Everyone knows that. Even -- ESPECIALLY -- the Bushes. Al Gore, you- poor-bastard-you.

I told my wife I know exactly how Gore feels.

“Oh, how?” she said.

“Letterman,” I said.

“Puh-leez,” she said.

Ten years ago, David Letterman’s head writer saw the print version of this column, liked it, and phoned me. He said that “Late Night” was seeking to fill a comedy writing position. He wanted me to submit material.

I did.

He said it was okay, but not good enough.

So I worked on it. Two years later, the show contacted me again. I did not solicit them. They came to me.

I emphasize that because that is the proudest point I can make about my example.

That's my highlight.

I didn’t, for the second time, get a job on the Letterman show. “Close,” they said.

“So, you see,” I told my wife, “I can feel Al Gore's pain. I came this close to landing my dream comedy writing job for which I had been preparing my entire life, ever since I used to study audio cassette recordings of’Maude’.”

That’s how I spent countless hours in my early teens, listening to cheapo cassette audio recordings of Norman Lear sitcoms.

 “You did THAT?” she said. Learning something new about your spouse after twelve years of marriage isn't necessarily a delight. “You-poor-bastard-you,” she said.