Bern Book

Dept. of Ink dept.

“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Hi, Pam?” I said. “Thanks for picking up. Are you doing OK?”

“Why don’t you tell ME about when you cheated in second grade by looking at Darwin Hartl’s social studies test?!”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I guess I’m still in attack mode.”

We talked a bit more and things settled down, got more congenial.

I had heard that Pam Bondi was out of a job, and I thought maybe she could manage my career. Get me back to the Baseball Hall of Fame to do my baseball songs. Open some doors at the Tennis Hall of Fame to do my tennis play. Get through to Neil DeGrasse Tyson at “Star Talk” to do my science songs. That sort of thing.

“I heard you might have some time on your hands?” I said, not unkindly.

“Time? How about when YOU wasted your employers’s time in Chicago when you had NO interest in community services?!”

“Um….Excuse me?”

“Sorry,“ she said. “Old habits, you know?”

I do know about old habits. I wasn’t about to toss blame around.

I told her why I was calling, that I could use a manager, and that I thought she had what it takes.

She seemed interested. Or at least, not uninterested.

“I could get together a Bern book,” she speculated.

“Cool!” I said. “Wait…how are you spelling that?”

“I’d love to rip Neil DeGrasse Tyson a new one,” she said, warming up to the project. “I hear there may have been some plagiarism as an undergrad.”

“I’m…I don’t know that we need to play hardball necessarily,” I said.

“It would take me a few days to get the Bern book together,” she said.

“That’s great,” I said. “But….How are you spelling that?”

“I think the director of the Tennis Hall of Fame may have made some sketchy line calls in junior high,” she said.

“I’m not sure we need to go that route,” I said.

“Didn’t you under-report some ancillary income on your 1987 tax return?” she shot back.

“I…I may have….How is that relevant to—”

“Sorry,” she said. “Still kind of in the groove, you know?”

“Maybe we should rethink this,” I said.

“No no,” she said. “I want the job. I’m begging you.”

“Anything else I should know about?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “I did get some tattoos over the weekend. I’m pretty inky.”

“Tattoos?” I said. “Well, that’s fairly common nowadays. Where are they? Arms?”

“Face,” she said. “Think Mike Tyson.”

Bondi

“Well, “ I said, “Anyway. Let’s think about it.”

“Fine,“ she said. “Meanwhile, I’ll start getting that Bern book together.”

“Great!” I said. “Wait….How are you spelling that?”

There was a click, and we were disconnected.

I’m not sure how we will proceed, but I’m cautiously optimistic. It could be a good thing. “Star Talk” ain’t an easy door to open, and I could use some help.

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Here’s a Science Song: “Isaac Newton”: