Did you ever
wonder when you were going to get your fifteen minutes of fame? I have. And
I’ll bet Andy Rooney did, too, before he got his. During his life, he enjoyed a
full sixty minutes of it. Now that his time has run out, does that mean it’s my
time?
I’m feeling
a little grumpy. Perhaps it’s because Andy’s gone. Listen closely, and maybe
you’ll hear his voice whispering in my ear.
It bugged the heck out of me when I
heard someone on CNN say that Andy Rooney was the nicest and most hard working
man in the world. Do you ever wonder why people feel like they have to talk so
glowingly of the dead? I mean, how hard could it be to write one five minute essay
a week about half the weeks in a year? C’mon. I work all day in an elementary
school, and then I write essays after work or on weekends. I’ve always
suspected Andy was just as much of a curmudgeon as his essays make him out to
be. He was a writer, after all, and writing has a way of bringing the truth out
of people—well, some people. After all, somebody has to write all those lies
politicians who disagree with me are always telling.
I met him in
an airplane once. He would have denied it. He did deny it. We were on the same
flight flying into Atlanta. He was sitting a couple rows behind me in coach,
wearing a baseball cap. The tell-tale eyebrows told all.
Why do we
have the urge to say something to famous people or ask them for autographs if
we have the opportunity? I was eating at a good seafood restaurant in
Charleston, WV once and saw Ed Bradley, also of “60 Minutes” fame, eating
dinner with someone. He was in town for a big story, I forget which one, but
I’ll bet they used the word hardscrabble in it. They always do when talking
about our lush, verdant state. I found a scrap of paper, walked to his table,
and told him something inane about enjoying his work. Then I asked for his
autograph. He graciously signed and I returned to my table, feeling somewhat
embarrassed for interrupting his dinner. I wondered why I’d asked for the
autograph; I don’t collect autographs.
On the
plane, I told my wife to look back and confirm that it was Andy Rooney. She
thought it probably was, but how are you going to know for sure unless you ask?
So after we landed I waited as he shuffled up the aisle (this was only a year
or so ago), and I asked him, “Are you Andy Rooney?” He scowled, just like Andy
Rooney would, and gruffly replied, “No!” and continued walking, looking down.
Perfect, I thought. I just got the brush off from Andy Rooney.
I admit, I
haven’t been a faithful viewer—does it bother you as much as it bothers me that
you never know when “60 Minutes” is going to start because of the football game
or the golf tournament? But in his final essay, which I made sure to watch, he
talked about how much he resents being approached in public. He considers encroachments
on his space and time rude, and he is rude back. He proudly said he’s never
signed an autograph. Thankfully, I hadn’t asked for one.
And it turns
out I’m right that his famous irritation was no act. I heard his daughter
saying that Andy was, in fact, exactly like the person who expressed his pet
peeves to the nation all these years. She said people assume he kept the
household in stitches with his sense of humor. However, she suggested there’s
nothing funny about an irritable man when you live in the same house with him.
But in
truth, he lived a long, productive life as a journalist and writer. A special he
produced at CBS, “An Essay on War” that was critical of the war in Vietnam was
not allowed to air. So he went to work for PBS for awhile. He was also one of
the few mainstream critics of the invasion of Iraq. He had served in World War
II, a war of which he was also skeptical, though once he arrived and saw it
with his own eyes, he supported it. In telling those truths, he makes up for
some of the times he offended people with his lack of empathy.
Though I
don’t believe it, and probably Andy wouldn’t have either, I can’t help but wonder
if he’s at the Pearly Gates right now giving God an earful. Goodbye, Mr.
Rooney, rest in peace.
