Disquiet, Please!
Page 26
People may worry, “Isn’t there a danger that if you start lowering your standards they’ll go too low?” As far as I’m concerned, they can’t go low enough.
2001
ANDY BOROWITZ
SUFFERING FOOLS GLADLY
FOR as long as I can remember, I’ve been known as a man who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Not suffering fools gladly has sort of become my trademark, the first thing people think of when my name comes up. You know how Tonya Harding will always be known for the time Nancy Kerrigan got bashed in the knee with a metal rod? Well, replace “metal rod” with “not suffering fools gladly” and that’s me in a nutshell.
At first, I was flattered that people thought I didn’t suffer fools gladly. Not suffering fools gladly implies expertise and discernment, since knowing a fool when you see one is a pretty crucial prerequisite for not suffering them, gladly or otherwise. Plus, not suffering fools gladly suggests that you have far, far better things to do with your time—important things, even. People who think I don’t suffer fools gladly probably imagine that I’m husbanding every free moment to find a solution to global warming or to sort out that intractable Social Security mess. In reality, I spend most of my spare time eating Nilla Wafers and watching ESPN2, but my reputation as someone who doesn’t suffer fools gladly keeps that evocative image at bay.
As flattering as it seemed at first, though, this whole not-suffering-fools-gladly thing has really come back to bite me on the ass. People keep a wary distance from me, and it’s no great mystery why: Your average person doesn’t enjoy being pegged as a fool. As my reputation for not suffering fools gladly has ballooned, I’ve become a social pariah, untouchable and unapproachable. I’m rarely invited to parties, but, when I am, I’m really easy to pick out: I’m the one surrounded by the twenty-foot “no-fool” zone.
Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder how this business about my not suffering fools gladly ever got started. You see, it’s completely untrue. Not only do I suffer fools; I suffer them gladly. I suffer them so gladly, in fact, that it really can’t be considered suffering at all. In my book, fools represent entertainment in its purest form. The time you spend talking to fools, I’ve often said, should be subtracted from your time in Heaven. Back in the good old days, when people at parties still talked to me, I used to hope and pray that I’d wind up talking to a fool. And when he’d mispronounce the title of a foreign film, or misuse the subjunctive mood, or get the name of a Plantagenet monarch wrong, did I “suffer”? I’d hardly call laughing until bourbon came out my nose “suffering.” And it wasn’t the supercilious laughter of someone who doesn’t suffer fools gladly, either. It was the roar of a guy who knows he’s just hit the hilarity mother lode.
But, sadly, those innocent days are long gone. My reputation for not suffering fools gladly precedes me now, and when people meet me they just zip up their pie-holes and turn tail. I’d love to take them by the lapels, look them in the eye, and say, “I know you think I don’t suffer you, but I do—I suffer you gladly.” But I never get the chance. The fact is, fools don’t suffer me gladly, and the irony’s not lost on me one bit.
2001
MARK SINGER
AN ANNOUNCEMENT
I DON’T want people saying they didn’t see this coming, they were caught completely off guard, why didn’t he warn us, any of that. If guys like Mike Eisner and Jay Leno have the courtesy to give a heads-up, there’s no reason for me to be coy. So I’m telling the world right now: I’m going to retire. Any great enterprise must be willing to make personnel adjustments, even at the very top, when circumstances dictate. I recognize that it will one day make sense for me to withdraw from hands-on management of Mark Singer Global Diversified Cottage Industries, whose core endeavor—the writing of magazine articles and the once-every-few-years book—I’ve now guided through three decades of consistent incrementalism. Even as I lay the groundwork for my transition to emeritus status, I’ve continued to appraise the merits and potential pitfalls of my projected scenario for October 19, 2015, when I intend to “celebrate” my sixty-fifth birthday by driving to the most conveniently situated bridge and pitching over the railing my laptop computer, which will serve as a tidy stand-in for all the word-processing devices I’ve been chained to across the decades.
Questions are bound to arise regarding the short- and long-term impact of this decision upon the Mark Singer brand, which has become synonymous with glacially slow wordsmithing in the pursuit of middlebrow accessibility. Let me address some of those.
Does Mark Singer Global Diversified Cottage Industries possess valuable contingent assets?
Possibly, several, though predicting their cash equivalency is no simple matter. I continue to believe, for instance, in the marketability of “Silly Silly Juxtapositions,” the prototype of the “irony flash cards” that I developed twenty years ago, when I first became concerned about the interpretative challenges that preschool-age children confront in coming to terms with postmodern cultural dislocation.
I retain extensive notes for scathing biographies of Wayne Calhoun and Phil Dooley, who, in 1960, hoisted my new bicycle to the top of the school flagpole, let go of the rope, and claimed that it had “slipped.” Could such viscerally experienced raw material be entrusted, during my golden-years phase, to the imagination of a ghostwriter? If not, perhaps Wayne and Phil, who went on to lucrative careers in, respectively, gravel processing and agricultural waste management, could be approached by some buffed-out hirelings armed with blunt objects and be persuaded to render a reasonable tribute—a way of saying, more than a half century later, “Hey, what we did was sort of wrong.”
The possibility also exists that a rich body of epic poetry might effloresce from meditations upon the mystical qualities of certain of my household possessions—my underutilized NordicTrack, the backyard hammock where I so often lay while pondering how soon the stately hemlock infested with woolly-adelgid blight would land on the house, the snowblower that brought such manly pleasure to me and my neighbor Ralph. Or, in the event that my surrogates fail to grasp the inspirational promise of these nonliquid assets, they might nevertheless, in the context of a garage sale, be monetized.
What about contingent liabilities?
Assuming that the statute of limitations has expired for tax-fraud prosecution for fiscal 1997–1999—when, owing to accounting and/or document-archiving irregularities, I neglected to retain receipts for postage expenditures that I went ahead and claimed anyway on Schedule C of my tax returns—none.
Once I’ve formally ceded authority, who will be in charge of day-to-day operations?
I’m aware of criticism that my micromanagerial tendencies and allegedly combative style as a chief executive have undermined what might otherwise be an orderly process of designating a successor. Yet I wonder if these detractors fully appreciate the inherent difficulty of cultivating a protégé within what is essentially a one-person organization. To cite just one timely example: During the interval between the composition of the previous paragraph and the building up of steam to segue to this one, I replaced a lightbulb, folded the laundry, ate a snack, brushed my teeth after a refreshing nap, began alphabetizing last year’s Christmas cards, and chatted with a telemarketer about the weather in Lahore. In addition, even as I’ve been writing this essay I’ve been simultaneously ignoring the deadlines for four others. Easy enough, you say? Try it.
Yes? And? The point?
I’m reminded (who could forget?) of that awfully-sure-of-himself reviewer of my memoir of my adolescent years, Stuff I Wish Hadn’t Happened, who noted, “What we have here is a prime specimen of the classic roomful-of-monkeys school of composition and editing.” Beneath the surface of this rebuke would seem to lurk an inadvertent vision for the ongoing viability of Mark Singer Global Diversified Cottage Industries during the post–Mark Singer era. To which I can only say, sure, technically speaking, some number of chimpanzees, if properly incentivized, might be expected to churn out prose in a voic
e that would approximate my own. But could they also be relied upon to replicate my probably unique repertoire of writing-avoidance strategies? Please.
In brief, what Mark Singer Global Diversified Cottage Industries is experiencing is a natural evolutionary process. You’re born, they send you to school, you settle into a career (or a checkered employment history), you occasionally contemplate the whole dust-to-dust thing, and when you finally retire maybe you get replaced by a relative youngster, maybe by a primate, or maybe you’re just terminally downsized. Yes, things change. In the meantime, there are horizons to be glimpsed, perseverance to demonstrate, clocks (or irritating individuals) to be punched. Work remains to be done—or, depending upon my mood, put off until after I’ve tested the batteries in the smoke detector.
2004
PATRICIA MARX
PLEDGE DRIVE
YOU were just listening to an uninterrupted hour of Patty, featuring some catty remarks about her best friends. Isn’t Patty fantastic? They simply don’t make them like Patty anymore. And that’s why it’s so important to make sure that she continues to be the person you know and love. But Patty can’t do that alone. That’s where you come in. At least we hope so. We’ll be back with Patty talking about her hair in a little while, but right now we want to take a few moments to remind you how much Patty did for you this year.
You’ve come to rely on Patty to provide you with information you can’t get anywhere else. A report on what she had for lunch. The latest on her trying to return a magnifying glass without a store receipt. Whom else can you turn to for news about Patty’s day?
Your other friends give you sound bites, but Patty takes the time to fill in the details about things like the time she got lost in New Jersey. You simply can’t get that level of quality discourse with anyone else, because most people have things to do. Did you know that the average phone conversation you have with Patty lasts twelve minutes and you’re usually the one who hangs up first?
Think about it. Patty has affected your life in immeasurable ways. You’ve become accustomed to a bounty of e-mails from Patty, some of them jokes or petitions that Patty has forwarded along without reading first.
Or maybe you’ve only sat next to Patty on the bus or at the theater, not having any idea who Patty was but grateful that she wasn’t somebody else. If you were trying to read Patty’s newspaper, didn’t Patty let you? And how about the time Patty was using her bank card to gain access to the ATM, and even though she knew you were sneaking in behind her so as to get out of scrounging around for your own card, Patty made no fuss?
Aren’t these services worth a lot to you?
As of three years ago, Patty was totally dependent on parental funding. When that support was cut off, it was touch and go whether Patty would be able to survive another year. A lot of people you know have jobs, but, in order to preserve Patty’s dignity, Patty has declined to work, and so she must count on pledges from friends like you. (Every once in a while, a nice gentleman treats Patty to dinner, but you can’t expect her to live off that, can you?)
Patty’s operating expenses have gone up and up—never more so than this year, because the cost of fancy skin creams, designer leather jackets, and other essential goods has risen disproportionately to the rate of inflation. And Patty really wants to go to Istanbul in April.
I’m not going to tell you how much to give, but I am going to tell you that Patty keeps the book on who gives what. Perhaps you’d like to give at the $10,000 level. Over the course of a year, this is only $27.39 per day—the same amount of money you run through for your daily eight lattes without thinking twice. For just $200, you can underwrite one of Patty’s sessions with Dr. Cates. Throw in an extra $50 and Patty will spend the entire fifty minutes working bravely on her issues involving you. But perhaps you can’t afford that amount. At the $50 level, you can … oh, forget it. Fifty bucks?! You’ve got to be kidding!
When you become a contributor, with a pledge of $100 or more you may select a thank-you gift from Patty. For instance, do you need any clothes hangers? And if you act right away you can also get a magnifying glass with an undetectable chip. Or, for a donation of $500, Patty will blow you.
So what’s stopping you? Call now. Patty is standing by to take your money. Talk to your accountant: Patty could be a write-off. And, if you’d like to volunteer to help out on the phone bank, please do. You’ll get to meet Patty in person. She’s got bagels!
2004
IAN FRAZIER
THIN ENOUGH
LIKE many middle-aged suburban fathers, I suffer from a problem I am hesitant to name. Recently, though, I’ve decided that stating what is wrong with me, and admitting it up front, are essential first steps to a cure. So here goes: For many years now, I have been struggling with anorexia. My physique, well muscled and whipcord thin to all outward appearances, is actually too thin—painfully thin, in fact. Another uncomfortable truth I have to face is that my family has been hiding this reality from me. My wife soft-soaps me with comments like “You know, sweetie, you’re really not thin at all.” The kids chime in with an unhelpful “Actually, we’d be more likely to describe you as fat.” I know there’s a lot of love in what they say, but let’s stop all the lying right now. I am incredibly, incredibly thin, and it’s time we noticed what is going on.
I myself participate in the deception sometimes, when I split a pair of trousers or have trouble fitting into an airplane seat. Who am I trying to fool? Much as I might wish it, that is simply not me. The truth is, I am a stick person. For I don’t know how long, I have literally starved myself trying to attain a body image that bears no relation to how men actually are. The media hammers this image into our brains every day, but now I begin to understand: I can have the same glasses as Karl Rove, wear my belt like Karl Rove, wave from the insides of car windows like Karl Rove. But I will never be Karl Rove, so I might as well quit trying. Even Karl Rove probably can’t look as fabulous as Karl Rove. I have martyred myself trying to become a fantasy.
Before I can hope to move on, I have to fix my crazy eating habits. During the height of my dieting mania, I used to torture myself regularly at the all-you-can-eat supper at Country Harvest Buffet. I would serve myself a platter of ribs, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, biscuits, peach cobbler, iced tea, no other dessert besides pie—and that would be all. Compared with the dishes of food still on the buffet table, my portion always appeared pitifully small, not enough to feed a fairly good-sized bird. And since I’m trying to be honest here and confess everything, sometimes after eating even that trifling amount I would go to the men’s room and not throw up, but smoke an expensive cigar until the feeling passed, if it had existed in the first place. Then, ready for more, I’d return to the buffet. I gloried in this punitive regimen as the pounds melted off, but I did not suspect the pathology involved.
So much to go through just for the evanescent pleasure of looking wonderful in a swimsuit! But conforming to others’ physical expectations was not all to the good, I found. As I approached my ideal weight, I suffered the painful experience of being the victim of sexual harassment on the job. What made it even more confusing and upsetting was that I am my own boss. On several occasions around the office, I made remarks to myself that were completely out of line. Once by the water cooler I grabbed my buttocks. These hurtful words and actions created an atmosphere in which it was impossible for me to do my work. I have since taken a leave of absence.
I see now that the anorexia contributed to this unfortunate situation in two ways—first, by giving me a physical appearance that was extremely “attractive,” in the warped judgment of many (i.e., myself), and, second, by causing nutritional deprivations that broke down moral boundaries, leading me to behave inappropriately toward other individuals (again, myself). I am still undecided about taking legal action, but clearly a lot of soul-searching and emotional sorting out need to be done.
As much of a recovery as I’ve made so far I owe to an often overlooked wonder drug, a
lcohol. People drink alcohol for the pleasure and the taste, sometimes forgetting its medicinal properties. Scientists have failed to explain why consumption of alcohol causes an increase in appetite, but I can testify that it does. After four or five glasses of wine, I am able to overcome my usual food-finickiness and eat half a crock-pot of whatever my wife has made for dinner, and then a couple of baskets of leftover Easter candy. If I sense the appetite starting to flag, I’ll open another bottle of wine, make a few phone calls to distant friends or people I went to high school with, start in on a pear tart my sister brought over, listen to music really loud, eat a bunch more Easter candy, fall asleep on the living-room floor, and so forth. Little by little, this careful process has been building the bulk back on.
But I can never relax. Anorexia is a patient and crafty adversary, always waiting for me to stop stuffing myself for the briefest interval so that it can gain another foothold. In the past few months, I’ve been feeling somewhat safe: I’m of average height, and have managed to attain for extra security a respectable weight of several hundred pounds. Then, just the other morning, I looked in the bathroom mirror and noticed that my head was a bit higher in relation to the towel rack than it had been the day before. Men in their fifties do not commonly go through growth spurts, but apparently that is happening to me. You don’t have to be an alarmist to see where it could lead. I keep increasing in height, I reach seven or eight feet, and all my hard-won weight is stretched lengthwise until I’m a grotesque string-bean skeleton again.