Take Mr. Fulghum's most famous essay. It delights me; it's clever and cute and true. As a writer, I admire the hours of brainstorming and winnowing and distilling and honing and wordsmithing required to make such a jewel ...
... even as my Inner Bitch mocks it: You learned everything you need to know in kindergarten? Really? What about "Don't lie"? Where's that on your list, Mr. Fulghum?
I could have used that lesson last Tuesday night. Could have saved me from acting the fool.
Oh, wait. That's my issue, not his.
Ahem. Let's move on.
***
Robert Fulghum is standing before a mid-size crowd, holding a mike.
He is shorter than I imagined, more dapper. Bow tie. Casual shirt. Sport coat. Wire specs. White hair and beard. Roundish. He looks like a Santa who has lost 50 pounds and has taken an off-season job teaching anthropology at the local state college.
I am late. FYI: If Aurora is Kansas, Highlands Ranch is New Mexico.
Mr. Fulghum is telling stories. From young teens to really old people, everyone in the room is putty in his hands. As I take a seat, everyone is laughing.
It's not the snorting laughter you hear when David Eggers or Bill O'Reilly speaks. This laughter has a fresh bouquet, with hints of ruefulness and a soft finish.
Sigh. I am not as sweet as all that.
Give me Annie Lamott with her alcoholic mother or Frank McCourt's sorry childhood or William Styron's visible darkness or Annie Dillard's beetles as they bite and paralyze and suck the guts out of live frogs.
Aromas of dirt and nightdarkness, a full mouth with a complex, round finish.
He is shorter than I imagined, more dapper. Bow tie. Casual shirt. Sport coat. Wire specs. White hair and beard. Roundish. He looks like a Santa who has lost 50 pounds and has taken an off-season job teaching anthropology at the local state college.
I am late. FYI: If Aurora is Kansas, Highlands Ranch is New Mexico.
Mr. Fulghum is telling stories. From young teens to really old people, everyone in the room is putty in his hands. As I take a seat, everyone is laughing.
It's not the snorting laughter you hear when David Eggers or Bill O'Reilly speaks. This laughter has a fresh bouquet, with hints of ruefulness and a soft finish.
Sigh. I am not as sweet as all that.
Give me Annie Lamott with her alcoholic mother or Frank McCourt's sorry childhood or William Styron's visible darkness or Annie Dillard's beetles as they bite and paralyze and suck the guts out of live frogs.
Aromas of dirt and nightdarkness, a full mouth with a complex, round finish.
.
***
.
I have not come to hear Mr. Fulghum read, or to buy his book, or to ask him to sign it. I have come to take him to a milonga.
A month ago, when the Tango Colorado listserv went up in flames yet again, TeacherTom posted Mr. Fulghum's essay, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." It seemed to help.
By the way, TeacherTom added, the guy tangos. Read his blog.
Robert Fulghum dances tango. He is a beginner. He is addicted.
Hmm-hmmm. My kind of guy.
A month ago, when the Tango Colorado listserv went up in flames yet again, TeacherTom posted Mr. Fulghum's essay, "All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten." It seemed to help.
By the way, TeacherTom added, the guy tangos. Read his blog.
Robert Fulghum dances tango. He is a beginner. He is addicted.
Hmm-hmmm. My kind of guy.
.
***
.
When the Tattered Cover advertises Mr. Fulghum's book signing--on the same day as TeacherTom's midweek milonga--what could be more proper than to invite him?
Here's a lesson from Tango Kindergarten: If you meet another dancer, help them get their groove on.
I call Mr. Fulghum's publicist. Am passed through to voice mail. The kiss of death.
Nevertheless, on behalf of Tango Colorado, for which I have absolutely no authority, I invite Mr. Fulghum to TeacherTom's milonga.
The publicist calls back. I am to send an email to be forwarded to Mr. Fulghum.
The email goes to the publicist, who forwards it to the literary assistant, who forwards it to the author, who responds to the literary assistant, who responds to me:
"It is within the realm of possibility" that Mr. Fulghum will accept the invite, the literary assistant says. I am to attend the book signing and stand by. Pending media obligations, etc. ...
Translation: Mr. Fulghum would prefer not to commit but to play it by ear. Typical author.
Hmm-hmmmm. My kind of guy.
Here's a lesson from Tango Kindergarten: If you meet another dancer, help them get their groove on.
I call Mr. Fulghum's publicist. Am passed through to voice mail. The kiss of death.
Nevertheless, on behalf of Tango Colorado, for which I have absolutely no authority, I invite Mr. Fulghum to TeacherTom's milonga.
The publicist calls back. I am to send an email to be forwarded to Mr. Fulghum.
The email goes to the publicist, who forwards it to the literary assistant, who forwards it to the author, who responds to the literary assistant, who responds to me:
"It is within the realm of possibility" that Mr. Fulghum will accept the invite, the literary assistant says. I am to attend the book signing and stand by. Pending media obligations, etc. ...
Translation: Mr. Fulghum would prefer not to commit but to play it by ear. Typical author.
Hmm-hmmmm. My kind of guy.
.
***
.
"She was a player," Mr. Fulghum is saying with broad admiration.
What's this? Santa-Sweetie consorts with That Kind of Woman?
Turns out, he means playful.
Mr. Fulghum is a prankster. He likes to throw out silly invitations to play. He says "Happy Birthday" to strangers. In tense situations, he puts a big red ball on his nose, like a clown.
His stories go on in this vein for a half hour. They're very funny and very sweet. I laugh along with the crowd, but I have more than half a mind on the clock. We need to be out of here by 9:30 or the milonga's a bust.
As he winds down, I calculate how many people are in the crowd, how many are likely to buy the book in hardcover, how many are likely to stand in line to have it signed, how many are likely to chat on and on.
Mr. Fulghum has a generous heart and a genuine liking for people. He takes our picture. More than once he says we are his kind of guys.
He is going to chat on and on. We are going to be lucky to make it out of here in time for the milonga.
What's this? Santa-Sweetie consorts with That Kind of Woman?
Turns out, he means playful.
Mr. Fulghum is a prankster. He likes to throw out silly invitations to play. He says "Happy Birthday" to strangers. In tense situations, he puts a big red ball on his nose, like a clown.
His stories go on in this vein for a half hour. They're very funny and very sweet. I laugh along with the crowd, but I have more than half a mind on the clock. We need to be out of here by 9:30 or the milonga's a bust.
As he winds down, I calculate how many people are in the crowd, how many are likely to buy the book in hardcover, how many are likely to stand in line to have it signed, how many are likely to chat on and on.
Mr. Fulghum has a generous heart and a genuine liking for people. He takes our picture. More than once he says we are his kind of guys.
He is going to chat on and on. We are going to be lucky to make it out of here in time for the milonga.
.
***
.
The etiquette of these events is straightforward: I must buy the book and I must ask him to sign it. I will give it to my mother, who is about Mr. Fulghum's age and enjoys simple stories of goodness and sweetness and light.
In the midst of planning, my ear catches on
"... Homer."
Come again?
In the midst of planning, my ear catches on
"... Homer."
Come again?
.
"Abestos gelos," Mr. Fulghum is saying. Greek for fireproof laughter. He corrects himself: unquenchable laughter.
But I like the first way he said it: fireproof.
The people of Crete have inhabited their island for longer than memory serves, way before Homer, says Mr. Fulghum.
They have been through every form of mayhem that nature and man can conjure. And they are still standing, with decency and humanity and lighthearted, playful good humor.
They are my kind of guys, he says.
Shadrach. Meshach. Abednego. The Crete-ans would have recognized them, walking unharmed in the fire, surviving the furnace. Aromas of smoke and nightdarkness.
"I believe imagination is stronger than knowledge, that myth is more potent than history," Mr. Fulghum wrote in a previous book.
Mr. Fulghum is not merely a prankster; there is a touch of trickster in him. He is Coyote, using play to reveal truth.
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