Read Online Overdrive by William F. Buckley Jr. - Free Book Online
Authors: William F. Buckley Jr.
Ads: Link
this is that I was the only entertainer who came out in favor of Proposition 18, the anti-pornography measure on our ballot in 1974, and earned the disfavor of the whole entertainment community. . . ."
I was terribly grieved at the hurt I had done him. His lawyer said it would not have made a substantial difference if the column had retained the qualifier "type" after the first mention of "Pat Boone." (Ignorant of antonomasia? That will be a fine of five thousand dollars!) Five thou was how much money I had to send to compensate the lawyer. I confess that when I wrote out the check, I permitted myself, just that one time, to reflect, with a wink ever so discreet, on one of the clippings I had been sent. It was in the White Plains daily, featured a large picture of Pat in a most pious posture, head slightly downturned on the stage. The caption? "At night he watches the pornies." Oh dear. As Hugh Kenner tells me, and I do not tire of repeating, "Newspapers are low-definitional instruments. Never rely for the exact meaning of what you wish to say on the correct placement of a comma."
Two
TUESDAY
I tried to rise without waking Pat, didn't succeed in doing so, and she kissed me bon voyage with that combination of listlessness, habit, and implicit affection that somehow works, or must, because without it the day begins incompletely. She muttered that I must not be late for the ballet, and I promised. Jerry as usual was a few minutes early, and we got to Kennedy at 7:30, in plenty of time. In the aircraft I checked my speech folder, wrote out an appropriate new introduction, and turned to the mail.
A couple of weeks ago I did a column devoted to examining a public letter sent out by the television producer Norman Lear ("All in the Family," etc.) which letter he had announced as "probably the most important" he would ever write. Its contents were a denunciation of the Moral Majority and a hair-raising description of the threat it poses to the American way of life. My reaction was that that sort of thing (The Moral Majority Is the Greatest Threat to America) has become altogether too easy and fashionable, rather like denouncing Joe McCarthy a generation ago, then looking up expectantly as though your physical and moral courage had clearly earned you a standing ovation. I was careful to point out that Norman Lear is a man of enormous talent, and incidentally that no single simplification urged by the Moral Majority, e.g., in the area of creationist theology, could hold a candle up against the hilarious flights of reductionism at the expense of religion, patriotism, and the free market system regularly urged by Mr. Lear's most famous creation, Archie Bunker.
I myself became addicted to "All in the Family" back during the years when it played at eight on Saturday, when I am generally home. I remember greatly resenting it one Saturday a few years ago (before the age of videocassettes) when Pat reminded me we were scheduled that Saturday night as guests of the Nelson Rockefellers, who were giving a big party at Pocantico in honor of Henry and Nancy Kissinger. This meant I would miss "All in the Family." But life is full of such pitfalls—and at 8:30 on that fabulous terrace, we sat down in our designated seats; and lo, the man seated next to Pat and me was none other than Carroll O'Connor—Archie Bunker: who proved a charming dinner companion.
Fie had just returned from Rome, he told me, having traveled there with an old friend, a Jewish Hollywood producer who was the original anti-fascist. "I mean, when he was a kid, no baseball for Al, he was out there selling flags for money to contribute to Bundles for Britain, distributing leaflets at public gatherings about Hitler and Mussolini, the whole thing. Well," O'Connor's face lit up, "so we travel together to Rome, and a couple of nights ago— Al's crazy, I mean crazy about jazz piano especially, and we wander into one of those late-night clubs and there's a piano player, and Al
I was terribly grieved at the hurt I had done him. His lawyer said it would not have made a substantial difference if the column had retained the qualifier "type" after the first mention of "Pat Boone." (Ignorant of antonomasia? That will be a fine of five thousand dollars!) Five thou was how much money I had to send to compensate the lawyer. I confess that when I wrote out the check, I permitted myself, just that one time, to reflect, with a wink ever so discreet, on one of the clippings I had been sent. It was in the White Plains daily, featured a large picture of Pat in a most pious posture, head slightly downturned on the stage. The caption? "At night he watches the pornies." Oh dear. As Hugh Kenner tells me, and I do not tire of repeating, "Newspapers are low-definitional instruments. Never rely for the exact meaning of what you wish to say on the correct placement of a comma."
Two
TUESDAY
I tried to rise without waking Pat, didn't succeed in doing so, and she kissed me bon voyage with that combination of listlessness, habit, and implicit affection that somehow works, or must, because without it the day begins incompletely. She muttered that I must not be late for the ballet, and I promised. Jerry as usual was a few minutes early, and we got to Kennedy at 7:30, in plenty of time. In the aircraft I checked my speech folder, wrote out an appropriate new introduction, and turned to the mail.
A couple of weeks ago I did a column devoted to examining a public letter sent out by the television producer Norman Lear ("All in the Family," etc.) which letter he had announced as "probably the most important" he would ever write. Its contents were a denunciation of the Moral Majority and a hair-raising description of the threat it poses to the American way of life. My reaction was that that sort of thing (The Moral Majority Is the Greatest Threat to America) has become altogether too easy and fashionable, rather like denouncing Joe McCarthy a generation ago, then looking up expectantly as though your physical and moral courage had clearly earned you a standing ovation. I was careful to point out that Norman Lear is a man of enormous talent, and incidentally that no single simplification urged by the Moral Majority, e.g., in the area of creationist theology, could hold a candle up against the hilarious flights of reductionism at the expense of religion, patriotism, and the free market system regularly urged by Mr. Lear's most famous creation, Archie Bunker.
I myself became addicted to "All in the Family" back during the years when it played at eight on Saturday, when I am generally home. I remember greatly resenting it one Saturday a few years ago (before the age of videocassettes) when Pat reminded me we were scheduled that Saturday night as guests of the Nelson Rockefellers, who were giving a big party at Pocantico in honor of Henry and Nancy Kissinger. This meant I would miss "All in the Family." But life is full of such pitfalls—and at 8:30 on that fabulous terrace, we sat down in our designated seats; and lo, the man seated next to Pat and me was none other than Carroll O'Connor—Archie Bunker: who proved a charming dinner companion.
Fie had just returned from Rome, he told me, having traveled there with an old friend, a Jewish Hollywood producer who was the original anti-fascist. "I mean, when he was a kid, no baseball for Al, he was out there selling flags for money to contribute to Bundles for Britain, distributing leaflets at public gatherings about Hitler and Mussolini, the whole thing. Well," O'Connor's face lit up, "so we travel together to Rome, and a couple of nights ago— Al's crazy, I mean crazy about jazz piano especially, and we wander into one of those late-night clubs and there's a piano player, and Al
Similar Books
