Pure Drivel  The mystery of Steve Martin is that he can express
intimate knowledge of the ways of the kitten while retaining
machismo cred; eclipse that grumpy Mike Davis to write the
published portrait of Los Angeles this year; dissect linguistics
with the weight of Wittgenstein and the delicacy of a young Mel
Torme--all the while maintaining such consistently pretty hair.
In Martin's book of essays, most of which first appeared in The
New Yorker, he mines the yuks inherent in the rendezvous of high
and low. In "The Nature of Matter and Its Antecedents" he deftly
imagines movie stars moonlighting asscientists: "Kurt and Goldie
discussed their catalogingof 'everydamngrasshopper in
Colorado.'." In "Yes, in My Own Backyard," he takes the
silliestof notions--attributing the birdbath he bought at a swap
meet in Glendale toRenaissance master Raphael--and twists it
into a delirious critique ofhistory, provenance, scholarship,
and lawn furniture. And though the joke is in the concept
(revered Italian genius dallyin