NOTE: This was the first column of colleague Hillel Tryster in the JPost. 
  Sam Orbaum’s response (letter to the editor) follows.

12/5/00

A letter to the editor

By: Hillel Tryster

The Editor, The Magazine,

The Jerusalem Post

Dear Ruthie,

I hope you will forgive the economy of this correspondence, as I'd like to address you in your twin capacities, as Magazine Editor and as Jerusalem Post Agony Aunt. To be invited to contribute a column is, frankly, a bolt from the Blum and as much proof as one could ever desire that Ruth is stranger than fiction.
    Being possessed of a sometimes inexplicably associative mind, I should not have been surprised that the first image that came into it after hearing your offer was one of my brother as a small child. In the photograph in question, he's standing in a pair of our father's shoes and doing a very poor job of filling them. That's how I feel about the impertinence of trying to follow an act like Alex Berlyne's.
    Nonetheless, I'm prepared to take a stab at it, if you're prepared for me to do some learning on the job. I am fully aware that this has lately become standard practice for Israeli prime ministers; however, I also realize that a responsible columnist ought to have a less frivolous occupation held before him as an example.
    It is my firm belief that the task at hand requires, in addition to a modicum of writing skill, stability in one's personal life and I would like to impress upon you how well qualified I am in this regard.
    Although I don't wish to appear boastful, it is a fact that there are five fewer failed marriages in my past than there are failed driving tests.
    I expect you have more than a passing interest in the proposed content of the column. Though I'm besotted with trivia, am a sucker for a laugh, and tend to drop old song lyrics as readily as a burlesque clown drops his trousers, I am, sadly, unable to provide any first-hand reminiscences of Manchester in the 1930s. Nor, for that matter, have I sired triplets (though my memory is far from perfect, I am prepared to trust it in this case.) I do have four cats (the only legacy of my last marriage for which I don't require treatment) but I'm loath to mention them too often, lest the publicity go to their heads. In searching for inspiration, it did strike me that I could keep the column running for years by simply listing all the subjects of which I'm totally ignorant.
    My day job, which you are about to advise me - strongly - not to give up, has been almost continuously in the world of film archives. My writing in this newspaper, which began in 1983, has also been almost exclusively on film- or entertainment-related topics. It's at this point that I must make a confession. In spite of what you may think is implied by the above lines, ever since my earliest childhood the only thing I've ever really wanted to do was write about Sam Orbaum. As fate would have it, now that the way seems clear to writing about whatever I like, you already have someone covering that topic, fairly adequately, every couple of weeks. I can't recall the chap's name offhand, but I'm sure you know to whom I'm referring.
    Naturally, this is a blow, but since this letter is just between the two of us, I can indulge myself on the subject for a few lines. My first encounter with Sam Orbaum, for example, makes for gripping reading. It was in the early '90s of the last century, on one of those rare occasions when I actually showed my face at The Jerusalem Post. As you are certainly aware, the presence of an unfamiliar face among the cubicles can cause great alarm and Sam was the first to notice me skulking about. I was probably looking for a working keyboard at the time and you'll agree that for sheer laughs there's very little that can top that admission.
    Boldly defending his newspaper, Sam asked me who I was.
    I don't remember his exact words, but it was something like: 'Halt! Who goes there? Friend or freelancer?'
    I told him my name, thinking that, since it had already been the byline for several hundred articles published in the Post, this would instantly clear everything up. I couldn't have been more wrong, for Sam replied by telling me that he'd always assumed my name to be someone else's pseudonym. My identity trembled and I thought of Edward Lear.

SOMETIME IN the late 1850s, the great nonsense writer was sitting in a railway carriage with an elderly gentleman, two ladies, and two little boys. The boys had a copy of Lear's Book of Nonsense, which prompted the gentleman to explain that 'Edward Lear' was the pseudonym of the Earl of Derby. One of the ladies questioned the veracity of this information, as she had friends who claimed to know Mr. Lear personally. This brought about an angry assertion that there was definitely no such person as Edward Lear. At this point Lear had had enough and proved his existence by, among other things, removing his hat to show it marked inside with his name.
    I was, unfortunately, bareheaded when I was thus challenged and have always felt Sam's eventual acceptance of my story to be a sign of great gullibility. By the way, I'm not regurgitating this tale due to any long-held grudge. It's simply that pseudonyms never forget. Or is it pachyderms? I forget, but my derm has been pretty pachy lately anyway.
    There is a second confession I ought to make. For a long time I myself thought that 'Sam Orbaum' was a pseudonym. I envisioned the name having being cleverly fabricated from some old Eastern European Walpurgisnacht tradition. You know the kind of thing I mean, where gaily-costumed children would ring the doorbells of the terror-stricken peasants and cry: 'Sam or Baum!' before the tradition was discontinued because of the violence it provoked. I have since firmly come to believe in Sam's existence and I do hope it's mutual.
    If I may offer you some practical advice: You're in the business of selling newspapers, so it might not be a bad idea to orchestrate a feud between Sam and myself, along the lines of the one that did such good for the radio careers of Jack Benny and Fred Allen. If, for example, I were to challenge him to a Scrabble match - no, forget that, he'd wipe the floor with me. If it were my floor that got wiped it'd be worth it, though. If you've seen my floor lately, you know what I mean and if anyone's seen my floor lately they must have had X-ray vision.
    Maybe something physical would do the trick. If a few reporters just happened to be present and we were to get into a knock-down, drag-out fight, pulling out each other's hair - no, it would have to last longer than that. But these are merely ideas. Maybe together we can come up with a gimmick that will do for the Post's circulation what Mabat Lahadashot did for the 'Carmel-Herzliya Newsreel.'

LASTLY, THERE are a couple of purely technical points that need to be raised. Yes, I do insist on all the customary perks of Jerusalem Post columnists and no, I fear it will not be possible to compromise on the size of the truck used to deliver my hate mail.
    The other point deals with the column's title. It is actually out of character for me to be worrying about such a thing. Frequently, when I'm asked to give lectures, it is a source of frustration to me that more time and energy is spent on the title than on the content.   However, the title of a column making regular appearances does require a little more consideration.
    Since I do not intend to concentrate on politics, 'Telereview' is out of the question, but a few other possibilities suggest themselves. 'On the Buses' is one, not because I intend the column to be an ongoing tribute to the old Reg Varney sitcom, but because of where I will probably write most of it.
    Though I might never come close to the quality of 'With Prejudice,' there will be times when I shall address similar concerns and one could choose a title hinting at this link. 'With Trepidation' might convey my humility at the task ahead, or, alternatively, we could telegraph my superficiality to the reader by calling it 'Without Depth.'
    One could develop this further and even use the title to define my relationship with Sam Orbaum. If you wished to emphasize our common attributes, the obvious title would be 'Without Hair.' I would imagine, though, that it is more important for you to help the reader to differentiate between us, in which case it would be hard to improve upon 'Without Triplets.'
    I'm looking forward to your expert advice,

    Pseudonymous Virgin Columnist

    Jerusalem

Dear Pseudonymous Virgin Columnist,

    Boy do you have problems!

    You have just landed the job of producing copy every other week - which can be more difficult than giving birth to a baby and even triplets when at least gravity is on your side. Also, you will share the page with Sam Orbaum with whom you evidently have a schizophrenic obsession while trying to follow the tradition of the late great Alex Berlyne, whom you clearly admired.
    As you can see, I decided to call your column 'Carte Blanche,' but don't read too much into this. Since you ask to be treated like all other columnists, I must clarify that this is the title of your column and not a reflection of your expense account.

    Good luck, you will need your pachy derm,

    We take our (name-tagged) hat off to you!

    P.S. Don't give up the day job.

 

19/5/00

POST-HUMOROUSLY YOURS

    Your new humorist Hillel Tryster suggests orchestrating a feud with his alternate, Sam Orbaum, to drum up publicity. There's no need. I hate him already.

    I have to assume it was me Tryster was referring to in his opening shot ('A letter to the editor,' May 12), because of that mention of the baldness thing, and something about triplets, which is right there in my CV, and the reference to a curious alias that was known to be used posthumously by Anon., after whom I was named.

    Thus, if the Sam Orbaum he mentions is specifically me (and not the only other authenticated person of that name, a seven-year-old boy in Leeds), the feud has begun.

    What really rips my gatkes is that, when I no longer had to cope with alternate-week competition, I looked forward to a few languid years of getting by on minimum effort, unchallenged by anything funnier than a book ad. And along comes this new guy, and he shows promise.

    (Good luck, Hillel. Make Alex proud.)

Sam Orbaum, Jerusalem