By Alex Berger
People don’t actually read newspapers. They get into them every morning, like a hot bath. —M. McLuhan
Journalism is the ability to meet the challenge of filling space. —Rebecca West
A columnist is a person you can shut up simply by turning the page. —A Disgruntled Reader
To err is human, to really screw up you need a computer. —Alex
On April 18, we celebrated National Columnists Day in honor of the anniversary of the death of World War II columnist Ernie Pyle. It is very nice that a day is set aside to honor columnists, even me. But, indicative of our status in the world’s culture, an Armenian folk tale tells the story of three apples that had fallen from heaven. The first was for the teller of a story, the second was for the listener, and the last was for the one who “took it to heart.” Nowhere is there an apple for the one who wrote the story — the ignored author.
Yes, we writers lead a dichotomist’s life. I like to call us the Rodney Dangerfields of the artistic world. We get no respect, either. Why, only yesterday, I received a letter from “The Greatest Fan,” as she called herself. T.G.F. writes: “I think you are the greatest! When I can’t sleep, I read your column.”
Another zealot saw me coming out of Ben’s Deli in Bayside. He asked whether I was really Alex of Berger’s Burg. “That’s right, I am,” I said, smiling.
“Would you do me a favor?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I replied, “would you like my autograph?”
“Not exactly, but when you see Joan Wettingfeld, just tell her that I love her columns.”
And then, I was approached by another enthusiast who asked for my autograph. I was tickled pink. As I was signing her autograph book, I said, “Yes, you admire me now, but will you still admire me after my career begins to go downhill?”
“Don’t be silly,” she answered, “of course I do.”
In reality, my job must seem odd to people of the non-journalistic variety. They can’t comprehend the complexities and pitfalls I encounter when writing a column. “Do you mind deadlines? Do you get eyestrain? Does your back ever act up on you?” they inquire.
“Yes, yes and yes,” I answer, but these factors are not very important to me as a columnist.
I spent a decade in this profession, and I no longer give much thought to approaching complete strangers and asking them the most intimate questions before I am completely sure of their first name. However, I become extremely apprehensive every time I sit down at my computer to write.
My grandchildren (8, 7, 3 and 2) eagerly race to their computer, Gloria eagerly races to her computer, and even elderly folks, living in senior-citizen residences, eagerly race to their computers. But I, a seasoned, hardboiled columnist, dread it.
Folks, take a good look at my picture. Haven’t you noticed a few more wrinkles on my face? These etches of character were not caused by Gloria. They were the result of that @#$%^&@ electronic box, my computer, that is making my life so miserable. When it comes to computers, I am the Woody Allen of electronics.
My fear of computers began one dark and dismal day, when Gloria and my two sons, Jon and Vance, presented me with one for my birthday; heretofore, I had been using an old-fashioned typewriter that printed beautiful-looking columns each and every time.
“Dad,” Jon said, “this little machine will do half your workload.”
“Then why didn’t you buy me two?” I quipped.
“Maybe we should have, Dad,” Vance chipped in, “in case one breaks.”
“If you had bought two, I would have married them and sent both of them off on a permanent honeymoon,” I replied.
Then smarty Gloria added, “they might have a baby and the first word out of its mouth would be e-data.” So, dear readers, that began my death-dance with the computer.
My first few columns were flawless. I was proud of my prowess with the new plaything. However, disaster soon struck. I had just finished typing a column about a Queens rock band. I spent a long time preparing the piece and it was one of my best.
The night before the final printing, I went to bed, pleased as punch at my creation; however, at 3 in the morning, I decided to add one word to that column. One word, did you hear me, just ONE word.
I got out of bed, raced to the computer and filled in that one word. While doing so, I must have inadvertently pushed a wrong button. Gasp and Gadzooks! I froze as the computer was eating up my masterful words. My life passed before me. Cold sweat, heart palpitations, and numbness gripped my body. I called my sons, I called my editor, I called the FBI. But none of these sources was able to piece my Humpty Dumpty together again. So I had to redo it. The second time around never comes out like the first. That wonderful, original column was lost to the world forever.
Then there was the time a Webster dictionary fell on the wire leading to the computer and another completed column traveled to the land of “Never Was.” There were many other mishaps with my faithful companion and, when they occurred, I would exhibit extreme computer rage.
During these periods, I had (and still have) three choices: I could pound the wretched thing to smithereens, I could throw it out the window, or I could drown it with my diet coke. However, whenever these urges strike me, like a mature adult, I immediately calm down. Who wants to be accused of “Mousal Abuse?”
So readers, so far this month I am happy. I had to scold my computer just once. I warned it to behave or I would trade it in for a fountain pen. It certainly listened. See how beautiful this column came out?
Reach columnist Alex Berger by e-mail at: timesledger@aol.com or call 229-0300, ext. 140
