One of the wonderful things about living your whole life in the same place (and in my case, 45 years in the same house) is the ability to mourn people you’ve never met.
Those who move away from the old neighborhood-whether that be a four-block square or an entire ZIP code-clearly have memories and even make periodic returns like the Capistrano swallows. But the ones who stayed behind have a special gift for appreciating native things.
Which is why I found myself sitting in front of my computer Saturday night with tears in my eyes.
David Brenner, South Philly’s magnificent jokester, was gone. And here I was at my kitchen table, mourning as if I’d lost a family member.
In a way, we all have.
Not once in my 52 years had I met the man. Not once had I been to a show, not even during my ignominious summer as an incompetent usherette at the Valley Forge Music Fair. I didn’t know anyone who actually knew him, never sent a fan letter, never stood within 6 (or even 20) degrees of separation from him.
But he was from Philly, and I was from Philly, we’d walked the same streets, eaten the same mustard-slathered pretzels (one of his books was titled Soft Pretzels With Mustard), rooted for the same teams, voted for the same candidates and mangled the same diphthongs.
That is one of the major reasons I felt such a connection to Brenner. His voice dripped with Philly Phonics, that distinctive variation on a good-natured urban whine.
When I was an adolescent I’d come home from school and watch The Mike Douglas Show. Sometimes I’d alternate with the breathless, melodramatic soaps, but Mike was local and I was loyal to brand, so he usually won out. On a number of occasions he’d have guest hosts, one of whom was the funny man.
Brenner was sweet, funny, corny in a hip nerd way-and clean. There wasn’t a mean bone in his lanky, angular body. He made fun of no one but himself except in the most good-natured way.
He didn’t use any of George Carlin’s immortal dirty words, and there wasn’t a whiff of self-importance about this very important star.
There was no chance, no hope, and more important, no desire to hide his origins. Elocution teachers would lose money with him.
That unapologetic love for his origins made him in turn beloved by his native posse. Like the great Bill Cosby, sage of North Philly and a fellow Temple alum, Brenner always let the rest of us “Fluffyans” know that he might be chatting it up with the legendary Carson but he’d just as soon be at home drinking a Schmidt’s and having a cheesesteak with the guys.
As my friend Cathy reminded me, Brenner was shocked at the wide open spaces in the suburbs when he moved out there. This son of the rowhouses couldn’t figure out why every other house was missing.
That was the sweet hallmark of his humor, self-deprecating and yet immensely proud of its origins in the urban asphalt.
The breed of comedians like Brenner is almost gone. There’s Cosby, and a very few others who eschew profanity and risqué subjects (now a specialty even among women like potty-mouthed Sarah Silverman). The ability to make people laugh legitimately, having them reflect upon the strange yet endearing minutiae of life, is a dying art.
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Christine M. Flowers is a lawyer and columnist for the Philadelphia Daily News.
Editorial, Pages 14 on 03/18/2014