Free But Enough About You: Essays by Christopher Buckley Page A

Erotic Ceramics.
    Instead, I treated them to a diatribe on my property taxes. Then it was on to the heron—or, as I call it, the “f— ing heron”—that has turned my koi pond into its private sushi bar. I can go on at length on that topic, let me tell you. And would have, if the memsahib hadn’t shot me a glance that said, Dear, why don’t we move on from the heron?
    So I moved on, to another subject worthy of Socratic discourse: the third-floor fire detector. See, it’s right outside the bathroom door, and whenever someone takes a steamy shower and opens the door— weeeoooo weeooo —it goes off. And if someone happens to be usingthe phone and the alarm company can’t call us, the next thing you know, there are six hook-and-ladder trucks and two ambulances wailing up the driveway, with sirens going and—
    “Darling,” memsahib interjects, “I think our guests need more wine. Why don’t you go down into the basement and get some?”
    “Yes, oh light of my life,” I say huffily, feeling like Homer interrupted in mid-epic.
    But as I reflect on my current conversational repertoire—the traffic on I-95 (don’t get me started); the so-called weed remover that seems to promote weed growth (an outrage, really); the mole holes in the lawn (you could break an ankle); the dryer fan in the basement that no one ever remembers to turn off after the dryer is finished (it makes this rrrrr-rrrrr sound); the fireplace that every time you light turns the TV room into a smokehouse despite the new $700 chimney fan. . . . The evidence is, I stipulate, starting to mount: I have become a suburban crank.
    I also talk about the weather. I never used to talk about the weather, unless it involved a hurricane or tornado. Then the other day, I was going on about the water bill and caught myself saying, “I’m seriously considering writing a strongly worded letter to the editor of the local paper.” Memsahib said, “Good idea, darling. Why don’t you?” I caught the look of pity on her face, oh yes. (Or was it . . . self-pity?) She has started to humor me. That wasn’t supposed to happen for at least another twenty years.
    How did this happen? Okay, so I moved to the suburbs. But there’s some undistributed middle at work, surely. I keep up with things. I do. I read the papers every day—three, including the Financial Times . I admit I skim that one, since I don’t understand most of it. To be honest, I don’t hang on Angela Merkel’s every word, try as I might. But that doesn’t stop me from saying with a straight face, “The FT ? Indispensable. Read it every day.”
    I read books—quality books, too, not trash. I can do the Sunday Times crossword, so long as memsahib is at my side. I went to college. I know stuff. Do you know the derivation of the word mayonnaise ? Were you aware that it is one of the few words in the English language of Carthaginian origin? Didn’t think so.
    So, anyway, the other day, I drive over to Galt’s to pick up some more three-quarter-inch river stone for the edging around the fishpond. Because the lawn guys, when they do the leaf-blowing, always blow the smaller stones into the fish pond. Which totally freaks out the koi. I mean, one minute they’re hanging out doing koi stuff, the next there’s this underwater avalanche. And of course we wouldn’t want the f— heron to think that his sushi bar has a badly edged border, would we? Nooo. So I tell the guy at Galt’s—
    “Darling.”
    “What?”
    “I think your readers need more wine.”
    — ForbesLife , June 2013

But Seriously
----
    Reality goes bounding past the satirist like a cheetah laughing as it lopes ahead of the greyhound.
    —CLAUD COCKBURN

SUPREME COURT CALENDAR
    The Court ruled, 5–4, that the police may open fire on vehicles speeding through the EZ Pass toll lanes provided they first fire “an attention-getting warning burst” into the air. In Gonzales v. Texas Interstate Authority , a San Antonio man sued