Waldron and Croce. Huh?
I got into a fight with my first publisher, Peter Workman. He objected to ‘R. F. Laird’, thought it sounded too F. Scott Fitzgerald for his taste. So I laid down the law. Not the first time. I told him I was the third R. F. Laird in my family, and I was honoring all of them, Senior, Junior, and the Third. Should I have signed my work Robert Fisher Laird, III? He conceded.
Croce died ar 30. Good God. If I’d have died at 30, there would be no Boomer Bible. All that would be left is The Reckless Twenties, finally released last week.
What’s the other name here? Arthur Waldron. The real luminary I knew at Harvard. He was a graduating senior when I was a freshman. He has his own wiki page.
He’s become a China scholar. In those days he was a Russia scholar. He used to amble across the street to Adams House, where he planted himself in their common room with a pint of milk and made them irate. See, he was a born-again Constitutionalist, having been a Soviet Communist after Taft, with a year abroad in Russia, and he was feeling his oats. He knew everything and they knew nothing. He was the Harvard valedictorian. Yeah. That smart. Adams House. Potheads and political science A-holes with mimeograph machines. No match for a Waldron. He thought I was wasting my talent, my life. I wasn’t, of course. But he was. IMHO.
But back to Jim Croce. South Philly guy. Or that other midwestern fella my wife loves more than me. Her theme song. And I haven’t even mentioned Tom Waits.
He says ‘quicker.’ I say ‘faster.’ It all comes out in the wash. Would I lose an argument with Arthur Waldron these days? Guess it would depend on who was keeping score. Do I admire Arthur Waldron? You bet I do. But I would never trade with him. He can’t say this.
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