I looked over to see who the jerk might be. It was me. : Cats and Dogs

I rarely attempt to interpret or define someone else’s artistic effort, whether it is a casual doodle performed during a psychotic episode or a 50-foot mural depicting Mona Lisa in a compromising position.

I feel that art, like moral filth, is in the eyes of the beholder, and one can spend a lifetime debating whether “Winged Victory,” for instance, is a handicapped, semi-naked woman or the soaring spirit of humanity.

The reason I mention this today is due to the controversy surrounding Bob Hope’s appearance at a recent show biz salute to the 200th anniversary of the Constitution that fell flat on its face.

Not the Constitution, the show.

The celebration was held in Burbank, a mythical city created out of scripts left over from the old “Laugh-In” television series.

Hope volunteered to appear for nothing as his contribution toward raising money for a $50,000 sculpture called “Requiem.” One can only guess how much his time would have cost had he sent Burbank a bill.

The house was embarrassingly empty, which prompted City Councilwoman Mary Lou Howard, often referred to as Mama Mary, to remark that the reason the show failed was that “obviously Bob Hope is not the draw he once was.”

The fit, as we almost used to say, hit the fan.

Every veteran who had ever seen Hope perform at military bases from Guam to Da Nang wrote, wired and telephoned their protest to Mama Mary’s assessment of the comedian’s faltering popularity.

The old coots were furious.

Mary Lou Howard had defamed an institution more durable than Coca-Cola, and she was not about to get away with it. She apologized, Hope’s press agent fumed, Hope shrugged and Burbank agreed to make up the $16,000 necessary to cover the show’s expenses.

Which bring us to “Requiem” itself, a part of the city’s Defenders of the Constitution memorial.

I have never actually seen the statue by Erwin Binder, but I do have a poster depicting its likeness. It looks kind of like . . . well . . . a strapless bra for someone with three breasts, each a different size.

I’m not saying that’s bad, mind you. Sometimes when I think of those who defended the Constitution, I think of strapless bras. I think of strapless bras a lot of the time, in fact, but not often for women with three breasts.

I am sure it is only because I never took a course in art that I am ignorant of those shades of meaning implicit in Binder’s work, but I’m glad anyhow that it is being purchased. “Requiem” is so . . . Burbankish.

Forgive me if I seem churlish. I display my ignorance by failing to correctly define art, which is why, as I said earlier, I rarely do so. I was even wrong about the Ventura County United Way fund-raising poster that has come under such fire.

The poster shows an old lady opening a can of cat food and, in bold letters over her head, it says: “She has no cat.”

I took this to represent the start of a campaign to send cats to old ladies to keep them company in their misery and their loneliness.

I already had a Cats for Old Ladies Column in the works when my wife informed me that the poster is not meant to depict old ladies who need cats, but old ladies who are so poor they have to eat cat food.

“Well,” I said, “we have some extra cat food around, so why don’t we. . . . “

“They don’t want cat food, Martinez,” she said. “Just forget the old ladies.”

Well, I’m sorry the old ladies have to eat cat food, but if you look at the poster carefully, you will see that it is fish-flavored cat food, which is a lot better than meat.

There is yet one more reason I am not attempting a critique on Binder’s sculpture.

I was in Solley’s delicatessen recently and sat next to a man at the counter who was reading the Los Angeles By God Times. He was maybe a refrigerator repairman in for a quick breakfast before screwing up someone’s Kelvinator.

“You read this jerk?” he said suddenly, slapping the paper.

I looked over to see who the jerk might be. It was me. I mean, he was reading my column.

“Uh, no,” I said.

I don’t like to talk to people at deli counters. I especially don’t like to talk about me.

“This guy writes satire, see. So what he says don’t mean what he means.”

“Oh,” I said, playing with my eggs.

“In this column, he writes about pit bulls, but he’s being metaphysical.”

“Metaphorical.”

“Yeah. The pit bulls are really Eye-ranians, see, and they’re gettin’ out of hand. So there gotta be laws to control ‘em. That’s what the jerk is sayin’.”

“Why do you call him a jerk?”

“Because he’s wrong. If you’re gonna be metaphysical, you gotta be right. Laws ain’t gonna teach the Eye-ranians a lesson. Bombs are.”

“Well,” I said, “maybe someday he’ll write a column about slaughtering goats and that will be metaphysical for shoving it to the Eye-ranians.”

On the other hand, maybe he’ll create a sculpture that looks like a strapless bra for a woman with three breasts and call it “Defenders of the Constitution.”

Who knows?