Thursday, May 4, 2000

A critic doesn't just dole it out ... she's gotta take it, too

Being a critic means never having to say you're sorry. That's the kick of writing an opinion column. We who type subjective journalism deliver rants and raves in print, then go home and sleep like kittens, not giving a flip who agrees or disagrees.
   In the more than 2,000 columns I've written in the past eight years, I've raved far more often than I've ranted, but readers react most strongly to snark bites.
   A lot of people loved it when I dogged a local movieplex for high prices and bad service. Readers this week seemed to agree with my thumbs-down of last Sunday's rotten TV-movie about John Denver.
   Feels good to hit a collective nerve.
   But it's not all happy snaps. Angry email is still clogging my screen for an offhand reference in a recent screed to Kathie Lee Gifford's oft-photographed offspring, Cody and Cassidy, looking like little bulldogs (which they do, so go blame their genes).
   Funny how any critical words I dare direct toward the beloved Ms. Gifford, Oprah Winfrey, Martha Stewart or Laura Schlessinger seem to set off a segment of readership who consider these women heaven-sent and think I should take my lousy opinions about them straight to Hell.
   I file those messages in the same place I put review tapes of UPN shows.
   Insider info
   People have strange notions about TV and its critics. Because we write about stars and occasionally scribble from Hollywood, some readers think we're directly connected to show biz.
   They call up and ask for Kevin Costner's home address because they've written a script they think he'd love. They demand to know how their incredibly talented daughters can audition for "Friends" or "ER." They want me to get them in the hot seat for "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire."
   For the record: Don't have it; don't have a clue; if I knew, I'd be in it giving Reeg my final answer.
   A surprising number of callers and letter-writers beg me not to cancel their favorite shows or ask if the lawyers on "The Practice" can get their sons out of prison.
   What can you say to them, other than something about waking up, brewing java and smelling it?
   Last week a woman asked me to explain how to hook up her new VCR. Over the phone. Others asked: How old Petula Clark is, whether McLean Stevenson is dead or alive, what they do with food cooked on talk shows and if it's true that Florence Henderson wears dentures and Courteney Cox wears falsies.
   Answers: Read the manual; 67; dead; eat it; yes; no.
   Stuff like this gets a trifle irksome, especially close to deadline, but it's all part of the assignment. Critics may think they're serious journalists, helping readers appreciate, analyze and evaluate various media. But really we're just here to settle bets and answer trivia questions.
   Not a bad way to make a living
   "I want your job" is the phrase I hear most when I'm recognized by a reader at Luby's or the Surf Club. I understand why.
   One of the most enviable aspects of this gig is getting to meet the icons we all grew up watching.
   Sportswriters dream of meeting Sandy Koufax or Muhammad Ali. For TV critics it's Carl Reiner, Andy Griffith, Mary Tyler Moore and David Letterman.
   I've interviewed all of 'em.
   I once shared a chicken burrito with Dick Van Dyke. Dan Rather and I swapped hurricane stories. Fred Rogers ended our interview by hugging me like a long-lost relative.
   The only autograph I've ever asked for was Roy Rogers'. He signed a decades-old black-and-white still for me with the words "Happy trails to you, Roy and Trigger." Now that Roy's gone to the Big Round-up, it's a treasured memento.
   All my life I wanted a job where I'd get paid to read the newspaper and watch television while everybody else is working. That I also make a living writing every day is the bonus because (don't tell anybody) I'd be writing something, somewhere, right now, even if I weren't getting a paycheck for it.
   Writing a newspaper column is autobiography typed out a few paragraphs at a time. The subject may be TV or sports or gardening, but in each installment a little more information leaks out about the columnist. If you've been following along as I've typed in this space since 1992, you know that I'm nuts for Robert Urich, consider Mr. Letterman a living legend, place "Providence" on the icky scale between cilantro and root canals and think Dr. Laura is the meanest woman who ever drew breath.
   Like it or not, you have gotten to know me, Al Franken, in those 2,000 columns. And whether you shared my points of view or vehemently disagreed, you were often kind enough to let me know that at least you'd read them.
   That means a lot. And it means that for all the silly questions and angry diatribes I've endured because I insulted Oprah or exalted "South Park," I've never, ever been sorry.
  
  

 
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