Thomas Meehan died

[Exapno_Mapcase]

Most people, if they’ve ever heard of Thomas Meehan, know him because he wrote the books of “Annie,” “The Producers” and “Hairspray,” which not only won him three Tony Awards but also the distinction of being the only book writer of three shows to run more than 2000 performances.

Me, I don’t care. I fell in love with Meehan 50 years ago for his collection of New Yorker humor pieces, Yma, Ava; Yma, Abba; Yma, Oona; Yma, Ida; Yma, Aga . . . And Others.

He worked for a decade at the New Yorker, where he wrote one of the magazine’s classic humor pieces, “Yma Dream,” about an imaginary cocktail party for the Peruvian singer Yma (pronounced EE-ma) Sumac. In a feat of dazzling wordplay, Mr. Meehan portrayed a beleaguered host opening his door to a series of guests, all with disyllabic first names, including Ava Gardner, Abba Eban, Ida Lupino, Ilya Ehrenburg and on and on: “The bell rings again, and I am pleased to find Oona O’Neill, Charlie Chaplin’s wife, at the door. She is alone. I bring her into the room. ‘Oona, Yma. Oona, Ava. Oona, Abba,’ I say.”

Finally, actress Uta Hagen joins the party, and the round-robin introductions become a blizzard of dadaist nonsense : “Uta, Yma; Uta, Ava; Uta, Oona; Uta, Ona; Uta, Ida; Uta, Ugo; Uta, Abba; Uta, Ilya; Uta, Ira; Uta, Aga; Uta, Eva.”

As with any good humor piece, it needs to be seen in full, as the joke grows and grows and grows. It’s a masterpiece.

I’ll even forgive him for Spaceballs.