MELVIN DURAI'S HUMOR COLUMN - IT'S SO EASY TO BE A CRITIC

I've read only one of his books, but John  
Grisham is among my favorite authors. That's because my 66-year-old mom, who 
hardly reads anything but religious books, recently discovered Grisham and 
absolutely loves his novels. Next to Billy Graham, he is THE MAN.

She appreciates Grisham's simple language and riveting plot. She has so much trouble putting his books down, I worry that she'll forget to take her medication. If she collapses, the  ambulance staff would have to wrestle Grisham's book out of her hands. "The Firm" would have to be extricated from "The Infirm."

I tried to get my mom to read a critically  acclaimed book by an East Indian author, 
but she refused. "Indian writers use too many big words," she said. She wanted to 
keep her nose in a novel, not the dictionary.

Though Grisham's books have entertained millions, the critics sometimes rip them for 
lacking literary quality. Grisham may never go down as one of the great authors of our 
time, but after seeing how much pleasure he has brought my mom, all I can say to the 
critics is this: You try to do better. 

And if you can't, stop bashing Grisham.  Because if you don't, you may get a visit 
from my angry mom. She'll set you straight. After she's through with you, the only thing you'll be criticizing is the size of your hospital bill.

It's so easy to be a critic. It's much harder to actually do something, especially since you have to put up with some annoying people: critics.

I was reminded of this recently when I visited a county agricultural fair and 
watched the Fair Queen contest. One of the contestants had a learning disability and 
wasn't as graceful or articulate as some of the others. But her courage was touching 
and inspiring. I was disappointed to see a group of girls snickering every time she 
walked on stage. Perhaps they could have done better, but they apparently didn't have 
the guts to try. They were as close to being Fair Queens as some other contestants at 
the fair -- the ones in the goat show. The goats weren't too articulate, but they were 
definitely more graceful.

The next evening, I watched my friend Ami compete in the karaoke contest. "Karaoke" 
is a Japanese word meaning "I'm going to try to sing, so please stuff a rice cake in 
your ears!"

About 30 singers competed in the karaoke contest. All were amateurs, which means 
they don't get paid to sing, though I would have gladly paid a few of them NOT to sing.

Some seemed really professional as they belted out their songs, while others should 
have just been belted.

One man sounded like a young John Denver, while another sounded like an old John Deere tractor.

One woman tried to imitate the Backstreet Boys, but sounded more like Backstreet 
Noise.

But it's so easy to be a critic.

That's why I didn't laugh, I didn't snicker. I just listened and applauded. I knew that I couldn't have done better. I wouldn't be Master P -- I'd be Disaster D.

If I had started singing, the entire audience would have run away. Even my mother, if 
she were there, would have dashed off.

She'd be racing home to begin the next John Grisham novel.