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Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, No time to whip out a big honking monthly essay for you’s. I’m due soon at the Uptowner tavern/charm school for a meet-up with my gang so’s to make plans for our annual Presidents’ Day costume contest. But first, I’ll swing by my favorite open-24/7 G-Webb where a guy like me can get a jump-start on girding his loins in preparation for the day’s daily shit-storm to follow. Come along if you want, but you leave the tip. Let’s get going.
Bea: Hey there Artie. What’s your pleasure?
Art: How ’bout a nice hunk of the blackest, thickest and cheapest cup of whatever you’re calling plain-old American coffee today.
Bea: Can do, Artie. So what do you hear, what do you know. Any Valentine’s plans coming up?
Art: Heck no, Bea. I’ve been trained to stay away from what-they-call the relationships. Used to be, come the Valentine’s, I’d always give the gal the box of some kind of candy and a nice daffodil. But I guess maybe ’cause I always spent so much time in the dog-house, in return I’d get a new flea collar and a bath. Yeah yeah, I’m always reminded of the words of the great Greek philosopher Socrates from the olden days, when one day he had one of his famous dialogues with his students about the relationship between men and women. To hit the bull’s-eye with a point he wanted them to absorb, he asked of them a riddle, which was this: “What is the difference between a tornado, and an ex-wife?” Know the difference, Bea?
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Bea: Lordy, I do not, Artie.
Art: None. They both get the house. Ba-ding! And that just goes to show you, Bea, that even thousands of years ago divorce was no cakewalk on the beach. But the difference is that in the day and age of the modern times, divorce is no more uncommon than the common cold. For crying out loud when I was a kid, the word “divorce” was so scary that whenever you heard it, the first thing you had to do was put on clean underwear.
Bea: Indeed.
Art: But to kids today, parents getting the divorce is no big deal. It’s just another routine ritual of growing up, like First Communion, eighth-grade graduation, the first time you got to call your pop from the police station. How ’bout you carve me out another cup of that coffee there would you, Bea?
Bea: My pleasure, Artie.
Art: Trust, Bea. Trust. That’s what makes a relationship work.
Bea: So I hear.
Art: Trust in your spouse as you would your doctor, Bea. But that’s easier said than done, like this couple I knew. The guy hadn’t been feeling A-OK, so the wife hauls him to the doctor’s. Doc examines the guy every which way and tells him he’s got a very serious condition that he needs to speak to his wife about in private.
Bea: Oh dear.
Art: Doctor says to the wife, “Your husband’s condition is so serious that he could die any day. However, there is a way you can save him. For six months, you must cook three extremely well-balanced meals a day for him, vigilantly keep the house spotless from dust, and energetically and creatively cohabit the connubial nighttime boudoir—spiked heels and fishnet stockings a plus. And madam, if you perform these three tasks, your husband will recover to lead a rich and full life.”
So the wife thanks the doctor and meets hubby in the waiting room. Natch’, he wants to know what the doctor said. She takes a deep breath, stares into his eyes and says, “The doctor said you’re going to die.”
Bea: Isn’t that something.
Art: To understand each other’s needs is a big deal to boot, Bea. Like the philosopher Henny Youngman said: “My wife and I have the secret to making a marriage last. Two times a week we go to a nice restaurant, a little wine, good food. She goes Tuesdays; I go Fridays.” Well, I got to run. Hope you have a very nice Valentine’s Day folie à deux. And let me remind you what the famous Greek Anonymous said about that: “The ideal relationship can only be achieved when one partner is blind, and the other is deaf,” Thanks for the coffee and for letting me bend your ear there, Bea—utiful. See you next time.
Bea: My pleasure, Artie. Always nice getting talked at by you. Take care.
(It’s off to the Uptowner. If I see you there, then you buy me one ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
