Let 'Er R.I.P.

Gene Weingarten is dead. It’s sort of okay; he was old. He lived a full life. His funeral is at 11 a.m. tomorrow. You are welcome to attend if you wish. Flower bouquets, like the one above, can be purchased online and delivered in time, here.

I was informed of my death two days ago, via Google Alerts, which I subscribe to. I then quickly received confirmation from my friend Christine Lavin, the folksinger, who found the obit online and was instantly alarmed, and was just emailing to commiserate.

The man who died was, so far I know, or he knew, the only other Gene Weingarten alive. I didn’t know the guy at all except for four surreal minutes we once spent on the phone, which resulted in one of the oddest columns I ever wrote. As a tribute, I am going to re-publish the column here, intact and in full. Unlike most of my columns based on interviews, this one contained no editing, and no lines were deleted for being extraneous or irrelevant or unfunny. The phone call is in this column, verbatim.

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By Gene Weingarten

March 16, 2003

Writing a column in a weekly magazine is a pretty good gig, but it has one big drawback. You can never take a vacation. Sure, you could always find a guest columnist, but you know how that goes: One day you're giving a break to some young hotshot like Hank Stuever, and the next day they've renamed your column "Hank's World."

So I've been vacationless for two years now -- and I saw no end in sight until the other day, when a reader e-mailed me a tip so improbable I thought he had to be mistaken. He wasn't. Excited, I consulted directory assistance and made a phone call:

Gene Weingarten: May I speak to Gene Weingarten?

Gene Weingarten: This is he.

Gene Weingarten: Hi. My name is Gene Weingarten.

Gene Weingarten: This is he.

Gene Weingarten: No, I mean I'm Gene Weingarten.

Gene Weingarten: That's your name, too?

Gene Weingarten: It is. I'm a writer for The Washington Post. Would you be interested in writing my column when I'm on vacation?

Gene Weingarten: Ha ha.

Gene Weingarten: No, really. The Post doesn't allow ghostwriters, but with you doing it, it wouldn't be a lie! It's easy -- mostly I just make fun of things, like little hick towns.

Gene Weingarten: I live in Indian Springs Village, Alabama. Population 2,250.

Gene Weingarten: I see. Well, I also make fun of politicians.

Gene Weingarten: I'm the mayor.

Gene Weingarten: I see. Well, what the heck. That's probably not a problem. I'll bet that even though I sound like Ratso Rizzo and you sound like Jethro Bodine, we have a lot in common.

Gene Weingarten: Could be. I've never met another Gene Weingarten.

Gene Weingarten: Neither have I. Are you a funny guy?

Gene Weingarten: I read the comics pages.

Gene Weingarten: There you go. You could write about the comics. What's your favorite strip?

Gene Weingarten: "Garfield."

Gene Weingarten: The comics probably aren't the best topic. What else do you like?

Gene Weingarten: I like contemporary music.

Gene Weingarten: Me, too!

Gene Weingarten: John Philip Sousa, for example.

Gene Weingarten: John Philip Sousa?

Gene Weingarten: Yes, marching music. I love marching music. Also Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller. I'm 68. To me, that's contemporary.

Gene Weingarten: You know, all that really matters is that you share my sort of smart-alecky view of the world.

Gene Weingarten: I'm not a cynic.

Gene Weingarten: You don't have to be. You just have to think like one. For example, complete this sentence: When I watch George W. Bush give a speech, I can't help thinking that . . .

Gene Weingarten: . . . he's doing a great job!

Gene Weingarten: Ah.

Gene Weingarten: I hope The Washington Post isn't mired in negativism.

Gene Weingarten: Certainly not!

Gene Weingarten: You know, in this part of the world, The Washington Post is in the same category as the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times. Y'ever hear the phrase "liberal"? Well, we're a very conservative bastion. Down here, we see a couple of fellers with their feet up playing checkers, sittin' drawin' welfare, well, we take a dim view of that.

Gene Weingarten: Actually, politics is boring. You know, the best sources of humor are the eternal verities, like birth and death. Everyone can identify with things like that. A humor columnist just needs to look at it with a sense of mischief. Let's try one more exercise.

Gene Weingarten: Okay.

Gene Weingarten: Complete this sentence: Every so often, when attending a funeral, I get the urge to . . .

Gene Weingarten: That's easy.

Gene Weingarten: All right!

Gene Weingarten: Cry.

Gene Weingarten:

Gene Weingarten: The mood just gets to me, you know?

Gene Weingarten: Gene, I'm not sure you have what it takes to be a humor columnist.

Gene Weingarten: Why?

Gene Weingarten: You're a really nice guy.

Gene Weingarten: I'm sorry.

Gene Weingarten: It's okay. Don't feel too bad.

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When a humor columnist is interviewing someone, that person is something of a thing to him: a puppet you hope you can maneuver into saying entertaining things, ideally confirming the point you hope to make. Strategy is involved. Sometimes, you prepare far longer for an interview than the interview itself will take. That was true here.

Mr. Weingarten turned out to be gracious and amiable and pleasantly bland and fuddy, and possibly a bit narrow-minded — but, when properly steered, was exactly what I had hoped for: Someone as different from me as possible. After those four minutes, during which I’d gotten exactly what I was hoping for, we exchanged pleasantries, said our goodbyes, and that was that. I never really thought about him again; I moved on to the next subject. Gene Weingarten the small-town mayor wasn’t exactly real to me.

I never knew the things about him that I just read in his obituary. I did not know that that there was tragedy in his life, that he outlived two sons and a brother. I didn’t know that he was a Little League baseball coach, or that he had a vast family with seven great-grandchildren. I didn’t know that he loved to fish, but loved even more teaching others how to do it.

I knew he was too socially conservative for my taste; I didn’t know he was a humanitarian who was unselfish with his time. I didn’t know that in retirement he became a literary counselor for Better Basics, an Alabama charity that provides books and literacy outreach directly to vulnerable communities in rural Central Alabama. I didn’t know that he was a reliable volunteer at Oak Mountain Mission, a charity that supplied food, clothing and financial assistance to the poor, and that supported shelters for the homeless and for victims of domestic violence. None of that was in the four-minute caricature I had drawn.

I didn’t know any of that about the other Gene because I didn’t need to know any of that. That is the nature of quick-hit journalism. We like to write it, and move on. People like to read it, and move on.

And now, as far as I know, I am the last Gene Weingarten on the planet. I thought it might feel good, but it doesn’t. I feel a little lonely, and a little diminished, like maybe I’m less than half the man I used to be.

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Now for today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll, keyed to the end of the year.

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Please send in questions and observations for me to answer in real time. Send them here, to this special orange button:

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Okay, let’s face a fact. Nobody is reading this. It’s the start of the week between Christmas and New Years. Nobody reads anything. I could send out a DickPic and no one would complain because no one will see it.

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For those who haven’t seen it, you have to watch this splendid beatdown of one of right-wing radio’s most leprous beings. And the beatdown was at the hands of his own producer.

To me, the thing that puts Rogan over the top as a semi-human schmuck is how quickly and hypocritically he reduces the gravity of the error when it becomes plain who actually said that thing. What seconds before had been evidence of senility requiring immediate firing, psychiatric counseling, institutionalization, electric shock therapy, preventive prefrontal lobotomy, etc. suddenly becomes an amusing little gaffe.

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Speaking of beatdowns, check this one out. No one even needs to beat this guy down. He did it himself. Advice: If you are an ignorant half-wit flag-waving xenophobe, don’t tweet.

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And finally, speaking of sputtering lunatics with a full diaper load, I hope you all saw Donald Trump’s warm and cuddly Christmas message to the country. Please consider, once again, what sort of person would be an avid supporter of that sort of person. Be as charitably as you can. (You couldn’t be charitable, could you? Neither can I.)

For questions and observations:

And, should you feel magnanimous in this season of charity and goodwill to man and women and children and Gene Pools:

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We have arrived at the highly touted real-time questions and observations part of The Gene Pool. In response to our entreaties, many of today’s Q’s and O’s are related to sexual awakenings, or to lame and funny excuses. If you are reading this in real time, please remember to keep refreshing your screen to get real-time responses to your observations and questions.

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Q: I hate parties.  I hate having to be "up on stage" for hours straight.  I feel the need to entertain and be entertained, and be charming, and polite, and fascinated by what others are saying. As they say, this just don’t come natural. Yes, I have a certain neurosis about this.  Therefore I go to very few parties, which means I have had to come up with more than a few different excuses. After a while I stopped trying and just gave preposterous excuses, so my would-be hosts understood my agony, and understood my desperation to come up with any excuse, and laughed.  My favorite was that I had "a flare-up of endometriosis."  I am male. 

A: You sound like me. Exactly like me.

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Q: I had a huge crush on a girl my age well before we went to kindergarten, so it must have been at age 4 or (very slightly) under. My family moved when I was 3, and the experience fixed the timeline for a lot of memories that otherwise would probably have been blurred by aging and the unreliable workings of the human brain. I also remember thinking back then that the Sunbeam Bread girl was in some mysterious way alluring.

My early real crush -- which I realized later was based solely and therefore flimsily on cuteness (hers, obviously) -- lasted through second grade, when my proto-lust-object lost my esteem by cheating at "four square". As for whether my sense of moral principle emerged earlier than my sexuality, I cannot recall.

A: Years ago, I wrote a screenplay in which the protagonist was such a horny guy that he once masturbated to the only alluring thing in immediate eyesight, which was this:

Q: My 4th grade teacher was a former Miss Nebraska, with those classic tall stature, high cheekbone looks. And as she swung in to play the organ in church, her dress shortened a little on her legs. She was taller than me and still handsome when I met her in my 20s. She remembered me.

A: I love your question because it gives me an opportunity to revisit a controversial comic  strip, which happens to fit in with the ongoing sex theme of The Gene Pool. .

A few years ago, a reader sent me this episode of “9 Chickweed Lane,” wanting to know what the heck was going on.  The writer and other readers had various interpretations, which ranged from the relatively innocent – The men were shrinking in shame because of the lust they were feeling in front of their wives –  to the grody, that them men were shrinking low to hide their erections. 

I looked at this toon and was pretty sure what the cartoonist was doing, and it was even grodier than that, and … y’know, wrong..  Before I answered, I emailed him – his name is Brooke McEldowney, and he is (surprise!) male.  He said I was right.  So only then did I publish it.   Then men were scootching down in their seats so they could see under the piano and up her skirt.  There might also be an intimation of erection, too, he said. 

9 Chickweed Lane is a pretty wild strip, still going strong, still flying under the radar, and still pretty risque.  This, for example, is today’s.   9 Chickweed embodies what I think is a principal feature of humor columns and strips: Their audiences are self-limiting. Those who read 9 Chickweed know what they are getting, like it, appreciate the edge, and will never complain.

TIMELY TIP: If you’re reading this right now, on an email: Click here to get to my webpage, then click on the top headline (In this case, “Let ‘Er R.I.P…”) for the full column, and comments, and real-time questions and answers. And you can refresh and see new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post.

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Q:  The thing about excuses is that the best excuse is never as good as doing right.  And right the excuses that bother me the most are from those who will forever vote for Trump.  Why?  How can they do this to us? 

A:  By and large, Trumptlers don’t feel they need an excuse.  The ghastly package of neurosis and dishonestly and cruelty and selfishness and bigotry that is Trump himself, in their view, has normalized their own dysfunctions.  Nothing to apologize for. Like Trump!

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This is Gene, and this just in:

Here is an addendum to the American chauvinist thickhead on Twitter, the one with the Statue of Liberty brag.

It seems that several people responded to his tweet, pointing out his submoronic error.  

His response to them?  Ready? Verbatim:

“I thought Elon Musk taking over would let freedom ring on this site.  Guess I was wrong.  Sorry, but these colors don’t run.” 

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Q: For Christmas, child received a hand-made stuffed reindeer with a red nose. He has christened it with the diminutive “Roo Roo”.

A: Kid’s gonna be a comic genius.

Q: Are you going to lie and tell us that you didn't know in advance that Gene Weingarten was a mayor, and just lucked into that disclosure at the exact right time in the column??? 

A: I am not.  In fact, I did not say that.  I talked about arduous preparation.  By the time I called him, I knew basically two things: That he lived in a hick town, and that he was the mayor.  Through my questions, I maneuvered those disclosures to the right places.   For the rest, I had to wing it.   Garfield and Sousa were pleasant surprises. The degree of his fuddyness was the best surprise. I liked him.

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Q:  It was my birthday, and I was working in a typical downtown DC midrise office building. I decided to treat myself to lunch and a stroll to celebrate my big day. As I was returning from lunch, a bird pooped on my head. Some birthday present, right? So I proceeded to return to my office and made a beeline for the communal bathroom. As I was washing my hair in one of the sinks, the big boss entered. I immediately worried how the scene would look to him. IOW, is this guy secretly homeless and using our bathroom to bathe? Are the suit and tie all a ruse? While we didn't work closely together, we knew each other. I figured there was no use in trying to hide what I was doing, so I told him the truth: "Bob, today is my birthday, and a bird pooped on my head." He cocked his head, sort of smiled, and said, "Oh. Sorry to hear that." And then I resumed scrubbing. 

A: As I related barely two weeks ago, on a trip to Kansas City to attend the funeral of a close friend, we had to miss the night-before party because, as I explained to the host and new widower, “Our rental car got its rear window smashed in but no other damage was done so we could have still come out but we went to our hotel room to call the cops to report the vandalism and when we got back to the car, the thieves had returned.  They were wearing ski masks,  and were IN the car, and when they saw us coming they leapt out of the car, and into theirs, and drove off giving me the finger, and when we got to the car we noticed that they had applied a hammer and screwdriver to the ignition switch in an idiot attempt to hotwire the car, resulting in the ignition assembly it dangling a foot below the steering column, like  horse’s schlong. 

Q:  Excuses, Excuses: In my ill-considered youth, I taught college freshman composition to mostly semi-literate math majors who hated every minute of class time almost as much as I did. However, I did teach one evening class that was peopled mostly by adults (that is, at least over 21 and gainfully employed during the day), and since they were generally conscientious and motivated, I was tempted to cut them some slack. On the night of a scheduled exam, a usually reliable and diligent student arrived almost at the end of the hour. His excuse? He was studying for his pilot license and that night he had been scheduled to man his first solo flight. Well, wouldn’t you know, he ran into some heavy weather up there in the wild blue yonder, and it took him forever to land safely (something about “flying with instruments”). The explanation struck me as pretty far-fetched, but I was so impressed with his story that I gave him a pass for imagination and invention. – Sara Kane

A: It does indeed sound like The Big Lie.   The more audacious, the more believable ask any Trumptler.

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Q: I once bailed out on a date at the last minute, I had second thoughts or cold feet or something, so I called and told her my brother had been in a motorcycle accident and was in the ER.  She bought it, of course.  Until she bumped into my alive and well brother two weeks later.  And then she bumped into me shortly thereafter.  I don't know if she was mad that I had bailed, or if I used such a crummy excuse.  I decided to mark it down as a life lesson, not sure she isn't still mad.  In reality, she should be.

A; Okay, sometimes the Big Lie doesn’t work.  But you deserved what you got.  A skilled liar never tells a tale that can be easily disproved.   You never should have named someone known to your mark and physically proximate.  Rookie error.   

Q: I had a friend who worked with kids at a school. She swore this was true- a family called in to say their child would be late to school because he swallowed an ice cube and it was stuck in his throat, and he couldn't breath, so they had to wait until it melted before they could bring him to school.

A: Spectacular.  Except for the “couldn’t breathe” part.    If you mean “swallowed” literally, food stuck in your throat or esophagus doesn’t affect breathing.  If you mean that it got caught in the trachea, well, that cube probably wouldn’t melt fast enough to prevent death from asphyxiation. So. 

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Q:  I am the guy who just sent in the thing about endometriosis.  I also once said I couldn't go to a party because I've been "flattened by a steamroller."  "Sorry you're sick,' they said. "The flu?"  And I said, "No, I was flattened by a steamroller." 

A: Thank you.

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Q:  When we were first married, (in 1980) my husband and I adopted a puppy. We loved him so much, but he was a champion chewer!  One day he chewed and actually ate our electric bill rendering it unpayable.  I had to call the electric company and tell them my dog ate my electric bill.  Yes, the person from the electric company burst out laughing.  At least she believed me. 😅

A: Excellent. 

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This is Gene.  To the person who sent me a note about meeting your eventual spouse at age six.  It’s a fascinating story, but I’m not convinced it’s true, because of a certain detail.   I can’t publish it anonymously until I know who you are.   Please send your email.  and , if you are willing, your phone number.   I will publish neither, of course.  But I have to be convinced it is true.

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Q: I should let you know that, largely inspired by your own experiences with a bidet, I bought my wife one for Christmas. When I went to install it, I didn’t like the looks of the tee valve it came with so I’ve ordered a better one and will have to wait until the weekend. You also admitted to hiring a plumber, so if my upcoming efforts turn tragicomic I’ll report them, but while I’m still writing with a level head I want to preemptively absolve you of any blame.

A: It’s Christmastime in the city.  Not a time for lying.   “I bought my wife one for Christmas,” is a lie, unless you live apart or the two of you use different bathrooms.   You bought yourself one for Christmas, and will magnanimously allow your wife to use it.   

The shaky tee valve worries me.  Did you buy a bargain-basement  bidet?  If so, you might regret it.  Top of the line, I believe, is a Toto.  

This was me, on the bidet.  As it were. 

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Q: What excuses do many on the far right use for refusing:

(1) A Digital Rectal Exam: might make me gay.

(2) Amphetamines: would make me woke.

A: A sign of our times. Until I got to (2), I assumed that (1) was real. Good offerings. Any other fictitious entries?

Q: On the subject of fruitcake, I have a family connection of sorts.  My father's first business partner heard a calling to the church and became a member of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance (AKA The Trappists).  They're the monks who are supposed to keep a vow of silence but even they realize they have to interact with the rest of the world at times.  This man took the name Mark and eventually became Father Abbot Mark of Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia.  This monastery is famous for making and selling fruitcakes.

Father Abbot Mark would send me and my wife a delicious fruitcake every year in a Holy Cross Abbey tin.  The tins collected over time.  One year, my wife decided to fill a tin with chocolate rum balls and send it to the abbot.  He wrote us back and in the letter said at first he feared it was another complaint about fruitcake which had been sent back.  He was delighted to see a Christmas treat inside for him and his fellow monks.  

Father Abbot Mark has left us, but we still believe Holy Cross Abbey fruitcakes are some of the best in the world.

A: When I told Rachel that someone had written in to say how much he liked a certain fruitcake he got sent every year, she said, immediately, “Was it from Holy Cross Abbey?”  Rachel grew up in Virginia.

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Q: Are you people actual factual sociopaths? Sandwiches should be sliced vertically so that the halves are symmetrical. I will grudgingly accept diagonal for ease of eating, but horizontal?! That way lies madness. 

A: You care about symmetry?  I bet you are also one of those people who can’t stand to have food touching other, different food on your plate.   You probably also have to sit facing forward in a Metro. 

I do have an observation that I share only reluctantly, because I hate to admit error.   In the sandwich poll, I gave two options for how to single-cut a sandwich:  straight across, into two rectangles, or diagonally, into two triangles.   At least two readers told me I had left out the best option:  Into two trapezoids.  It took me a while to figure out what they meant, but I did, and tried it, and they are right. 

You position the knife so it is diagonal, and then rotate it about an inch either clockwise or counterclockwise.  The results appear to be the two-triangle solution, but there are no flimsy points from which goo leaks. 

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A: You say, regarding my question about the overly blended family, where the grandparents-to-be chose adoption for the too-young kid lovers.  You said, “Yes, but to state the obvious, there was no potential genetic health problem there.  It raises the question – did the baby need to be adopted?  I don’t have a good answer.  I think it might depend on the age of the parents, and the age they were when they met?   Please speak up about this.”  

Well, the parents-to-be were underage teens who got down to business very quickly upon the family blending.  Within a year, I believe.  I got the sense that the grandparents-to-be put more blame on the slightly older boy for doing the seduction.  The older couple clearly didn’t think either teen was mature enough to handle parenthood - the couple was out doing the legwork for adoption that the kids should have been more involved in, after all.  We never even met the actual children.  As you point out, there were no genetic incestual concerns, but it was clear there was a boatload of social ones, apart from just the teens being too young.  I believe grandma wanted the grandkid in her life (so, seeking open adoption), but was incredibly shamed and embarrassed about how the child came about and couldn’t bring herself to take over mothering duties herself.  Being an older mom was part of it, but that felt more like rationalization to me.  

A: Yes, I just revisited my previous answer and believe it was naive, and wrong.  This is not about genetics at all, or even even primarily about the child belonging to two  teenage parents living in the same house as brother and sister..  As you say, it’s about two teenagers unfit to parent a child.  The living arrangement would exacerbate the situation, but is not the primary consideration.  Adoption was the right course.  

Q:  Tokyo calls their Disney castle "Cinderella's Castle." don't they?

A: Yes, they do, but the poll stipulated “in the United States.”

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Q:  My life of crime story, triggered by fellow getting a warning lecture for going 8 1/2 miles over speed limit:

Driving up Wisconsin Avenue from Bethesda to Beltway, maybe 10 pm. Going somewhat too briskly. Police car pulls out of side street, officer pulls me over. I provide license/registration, answer a few questions, officer goes back to his car, returns. "I'm going to have to give you a warning", he says, and urges me to obey posted speed limits. I thank him for his consideration, and say that I'm not being a wiseguy, but I have a question -- what prompts him to give warnings vs. tickets?

"That's a good question", he says, "it depends on many circumstances -- road conditions, weather, traffic, whether there was reckless driving or just going too fast. But mostly I'm out of tickets".

A: Excellent.

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This is Gene. It’s Christmas-New Years’ week, so I am calling us down. A special plea today to continue sending in questions/observations so that I’ll have a plethora to use on Thursday’s Invitational Gene Pool. Any subject is permissible. Go wild. Send them here:

Aaaand, if you are in the Xmas Xgiving Xspirit:

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See you on Thursday.