My Berlin Call

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, November 16, 1997; Page F01
The Washington Post 

The world needs a new Isaiah Berlin. Let it be me.

Berlin, the noted Oxford scholar, died recently. He was very
famous. Well, okay, I never heard of him -- I thought maybe
Irving Berlin died again -- but he must have been a huge deal
because the New York Times front-paged his obit and filled up
a whole inside page with praise: "Sir Isaiah defied classification
. . . a bon vivant, a sought-after conversationalist. Sir Isaiah
seemed to know almost everyone worth knowing in the 20th
century. Freud, Nehru, Stravinsky, Boris Pasternak, T.S. Eliot,
W.H. Auden, Chaim Weizmann, Virginia Woolf, Aldous
Huxley, Bertrand Russell and Felix Frankfurter."

(Yeah, but was he ever on "Larry King Live," like Kato
Kaelin?)

I want an obit like that. Of course I don't know that I can
measure up to Sir Isaiah. He knew Nehru and Frankfurter. I've
worn one, eaten the other.

He defied classification. In the '60s I simply tried to avoid
classification.

What a life Sir Isaiah led. Eating. Drinking. Partying.
Schmoozing. He was like Sammy Davis Jr., but with two good
eyes.

I need to change my life. The way it's going now, my obit will
run just below the one that said: "J.W. Tinklepaugh, 51, died
recently while attempting to give himself a colonoscopy. Mr.
Tinklepaugh was employed in the fast-growing amusement field
as a coin-changer. He spent much of his spare time at a
Laundromat. He once bowled a 194. Funeral arrangements are
pending, as no one has claimed his body yet."

Sadly, I have no bona fides as a bon vivant. Last week People
came out with its list of the world's sexiest men, and I wasn't on
it. Again. In fact, there wasn't one fat white bald guy on it. Not
even Marlin Fitzwater!

George Clooney was named "The Sexiest Man Alive."
(Although I think there was a write-in for Sir Isaiah from the
Queen Mum.) What does Clooney have that I don't? I mean
other than his fabulous Batman suit, a starring role on "ER,"
chiseled good looks and a coterie of drooling babes?

(But how about his mind? Does he know the capital of
Missouri? Did he ever play Yahtzee with Sir Isaiah Berlin?)

People also named its runner-up 10, divided into categories.
Sexiest Explorer: someone named Jerry Linenger, whose
apparent qualification is that he spent 133 days aboard Mir,
and none of the toilets exploded while he was up there. Sexiest
Businessman: The guy from Virgin Atlantic, Richard Branson,
photographed in a terry-cloth robe that he apparently picked
up at Hugh Hefner's pad. Sexiest Royal (a short list): Prince
Felipe of Spain, who's pictured wearing a puka shell necklace.
(Phil, sweetheart, it's the '90s. Don't they have calendars in
Spain?) Sexiest Anchor: Matt Lauer, who ought to thank God
for his spinal cord, or else his head would float away like a
balloon. Sexiest Author: Serial Shirt Remover and Tree Cutter
Sebastian Junger. Etc.

So I'm not sexy. And though I talk a lot, nobody has ever
called me a "sought-after conversationalist." Often at home
when I begin talking, the room clears out. I am human Glade.

I do have my own radio show. Hundreds tune in. My audience
is full of deep thinkers and beguiling conversationalists. Here's
an example.

Me: You're on the air.

Caller: Yeah, I wanna fire the football coach. He's a moron. I
hate his offense. I hate his defense. He's a moron. A monkey
could come in here and do a better job. My dog knows more
about football than this moron.

Me: I gather you think he's deficient in some areas.

Caller: He's a freaking moron.

Me: And what qualifies you as a football expert?

Caller: I drive a beer truck.

I used to imagine ways of making my resume more urbane. All
the news about the British au pair last week reminded me that I
used to think that having an au pair was an extremely
sophisticated thing. My main reason for having children was so
I could hire an au pair. I loved saying "au pair." It sounded so
continental. I believe it means "jailbait" in French.

I would set very high standards for my au pair. Education,
ambition and love of children would be important, of course.
But foremost, my au pair would have to be Scandinavian.
She'd also have to answer a detailed questionnaire, including
"What I want to do most in America is . . . "

Correct answer: " . . . fold underwear in the basement with the
man of the house."

So where am I? What's my obit going to look like?

"Anthony Irwin Kornheiser died a broken man trying to be the
next Isaiah Berlin. He never went to Oxford. He was never
sexy. He never had an au pair. And the only person who ever
called him `Sir' was a kid working at McDonald's." 

© Copyright 1997 The Washington Post Company

The Tony Kornheiser Unofficial Home Page