Perelman. What a writer. This is the third book of his that I have read. All three books are filled with short stories, many of them published previously in the New Yorker and the NY Times and elsewhere. Unfortunately, his gloriously funny books are fading away, like a knish. Like the telephone booth, the Yellow Pages, good Chinese restaurants, cuff links, typewriters, land lines and Roger Daltry’s golden locks.
The most annoying obstacle to reading him is that it is terribly difficult to look up definitions in his prose, all the time, while your eyes are so moist from laughing. You cannot see, you are bent over from excessive hysteria, you have not visited the restroom in four hours, the laundry machine is overflowing with suds, you do not answer your calls, you forgot to eat the half-sour pickles you bought last month for nourishment, there is a fire down the hall that you ignore, because you must get to the next sentence, chapter, page. I blame Perelman for this, he is a bad man, a co-conspirator with Mephistopheles.
His writing is highly addictive, so for those who are prone to substance abuse, mall shopping, Tums, or Pistachio nuts, you should not read it. There are plenty of other genres available, as we all know.
There are many safe ways to get through your free days. You can iron clothes or jog around in your new invisible quarter high socks or cook naan or play mah-jongg or argue about candidates, or engage in a debate on Pepin’s cooking techniques.
But if you have never met this man, be careful. He kills, recklessly, and in the world of comic writers, this is the apogee of compliments.
Lox vobiscum, and give my regards to Broadway.