opinion Battalion/Psfi August 18,1! The meter reader cometh to get ye Editor’s note: Art Buchwald is recycling some of his best columns whilst he and his family soak up the sun and enjoy the soft sea breeze of the Falkland Islands, other wise known as “Maggie’s Vineyard.’’ by Art Buchwald In all the fuss about the energy shor tage, no one has mentioned the meter reader. When I say the meter reader, I mean the person who comes to your house to read your electric meter. For years, no one had paid any atten tion to him. He would ring your doorbell and yell, “Meter reader here to read your meter!”, and you’d let him in and he would disappear, and when he returned, you’d shout at him rudely, “Shut the door when you leave!” But now he has become the most im portant person in the lives of many of us. Just the other day, we were all eating dinner when the doorbell rang. My son answered the ring, and came into the di ning room, his face white. “It’s the meter reader. He wants to read our meter.” My wife said, “How did he ever find us?” “Barbara Walters said it to President Carter on her show,” I said. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckled, and he went downstairs. The family all waited in the kitchen. “Why is he taking so long?” my wife asked nervously) as she twisted the dish towel. “Be calm, everybody,” I warned. “Pre tend nothing has happened. Ask him to come into the dining room.” The guy came into the dining room carrying his route book. “Where’s the meter?” he asked. “Would you like to have dinner?” I asked. I put my arm around her. “It’s all right, dear. The man is only doing his job.” “What kind of person would sneak into somebody’s home and inform on them as to how much electricity they had used?” she said. “Nope. I’ve been offered dinner in every house I’ve been to today. I’m stuf fed. Just tell me where your meter is and I’ll be out of here.” “You don’t want to go into our base ment,” my wife said. “It’s so messy. We’ll tell you anything you want to know.” “I have to check your meter,” he said. “I checked it yesterday,” I assured him. “It’s working fine.” “I have to read it.” “I’ll send my son to read it,” I said. “He’s great at reading meters. Here, have a glass of wine.” “I’m sorry, but I have to read it myself. It will only take a minute.” “Do you have a search warrant?” my wife asked. He looked surprised. “I don’t need a “Hush, he’ll hear you and add a cou ple of hundred kilowatts just for spite.” “I can take him, Dad,” my son said. “Let me use karate on him.” “Will you all shut up! He’s got us over a barrel. Electric meters never lie.” The man came up whistling. “Give it to us straight,” I said. “We can take it.” “You used 1,500 kilowatts of electricity this month,” he replied. My wife almost collapsed. I blanched. “Does the electric com pany have to know?” “Yup,” he replied, writing on his route book. “I’ll see you next month,” he said cheerfully. My wife gazed at him. “I just pray your mother never finds out what you do for a living. Governors get no respect by Arnold Sawislak United Press International WASHINGTON — The National Governors Association demonstrated again last week why it is the Rodney Dangerfield of American politics. The NGA, formerly called the Nation al Governors Conference, has been in business since early in the 20th century, but until recently was regarded as a large ly social organization. It held summer meetings at fancy re sorts and on cruise ships to give gov ernors a yearly break from the drudgery of the statehouses and an opportunity to talk a little shop with their peers between parties and golf games. It had little clout as an organization for several reasons. First, governors were unaccustomed to collective action. They were First Banana in their states and often didn’t take to the idea of letting any organization speak for them. Second, there were few issues that they agreed upon enough tojustify estab lishing a united front. Finally, the organi zation was really not geared for political action. There was an NGA staff, but it didn’t have the professional expertise and political know-how to play in the big leagues. The situation began changing when the idea of revenue sharing emerged. The governors found in it an issue they could unite on and a reason for devoting both time and resources to development of a strong Washington staff. They even were able to start working together as a group rather than as individuals. They got some results, too. Presidents Nixon, Ford and Carter found the gov ernors helpful in their struggles with Congress. But there was and still is a fatal flaw in the NGA’s ability to present an effective political instrument. Years ago, to keep the organization from being used as a sounding board for the political party that had the most gov ernorships, the NGA wrote rules requir ing two-thirds majorities to approve the most routine policy statements and three-fourths votes to pass anything brought before their meetings without having been subjected to a lengthy com mittee process. This prevented anyone from sandbagging the minority, but it also made action hard to achieve. That’s what happened last week. The NGA leadership wanted to use a little muscle in its long and frustrating nego tiations with the White House over who gets what in the “sorting out”of ment programs under New Fed So the leaders threatened it the White House and take their rectly to Congress instead of wain an agreement with President! This was a perfectly acceptablep f* J uer semester, $33.25 per school year and $35 per full year. Advertising rates furnished on request. Our address: The Battalion, 216 Reed McDonald Building, Texas A&M University, College Station, TX 77843. The Battalion is a non-profit, self-supporting news paper operated as a community service to Texas A&M University and Bryan-College Station. Opinions ex pressed in The Battalion are those of the editor or the author, and do not necessarily represent the opinions of Texas A&M University administrators or faculty mem bers, or of the Board of Regents. The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspaper for students in reporting, editing and photography clas ses within the Department of Communications. Questions or comments concerning any editorial mat ter should be directed to the editor. . United Press International is entitled exclusively to the use for reproduction of all news dispatches credited to it. Rights of reproduction of all other matter herein reserved. Second class postage paid at College Station, TX 77843. The recent death of Charles Estes, head of the Department of Architecture at Texas A&M, is a severe loss to the profession of architecture, as well as to his immediate family and friends. I had the good fortune to work with Charles Estes as a visting professor at Texas A&M over a period of a year and a half and grew to admire his quiet com- petancy in architecture, in teaching and in administration. After an extraordi narily successful career in Caudill, Row lett and Scott, a major national firm, he came to Texas A&M dedicated to passing along his quiet, fully professional com- petancy to young men and women. Architecture needs his kind of leader ship and, with the death of Charles Estes, a leader of the first rank has been lost. I voice the feeling of architects across Texas and across the nation in acknow ledging the contribution of Charles Estes and grieving at his untimely death. For tunately, his influence at the University will doubtless remain for many years to come. I am 36 years old, have brown hair and hazel-green eyes, stand 5’11”, and weigh 200 pounds. My hobbies include reading, woodcrafting and writing poetry and essays. As an inmate laborer, I earn only a meager 50 cents a day, and couldn’t even pay for this ad, and that is why I am asking you if you would please print this letter in your paper. Surely there must be at least one person who cares enoal help me through this experiencebf ing to me. Thank you very much. Clarence Bl D.O.C. #211 Indiana State Per Michigan City, Indiana iff Berrys World Clovis Heimsath Fayetteville Inmate wants letters Editor: I am writing you in the hopes that you will help me in my endeavor to find someone to write to. I am an inmate in the Indiana State Prison, and since I am from Pennsylvania and have no family or friends, my time here has been very lone ly and isolated. Watching the other guys here receiv ing mail day after day, while I seldomly get any, sends me to the depths of despair at times. Even one letter would go a long way towards lifting me from these depths and making my life here more bearable. ©1882 by NEA. Inc. "What is the message today, Mr. President?" Sc tl lir 'Sf € 4 sho/