Candace dear, heart of my heart, take your hand off that package of fabric softener! It may produce an insoluble curd, and you wouldn’t want that, would you? “The biggest problem the consumer has in selecting shoes is not fashion, though that may be his first consideration, but selecting a shoe that will not ultimately lead to the distortion of his foot.” And don’t forget about shirts that develop a yellow tint! And thermal flame-resistant underwear—especially quilted polyester fiber-nylon shell suits—which, once ignited, melts to form a burning, sticky, adhering plastic! And paint failure! And pie mixes laced with esters, ethers, and aldehydes of undefined character! And bicycles with poor pedal design! And dimensionally unstable rayon blankets! And electronic organs that make popping sounds! And coffee mills that adversely affect the flavor of the beverage! And travel irons whose soleplates blister! And desk fans with high noise levels! And electric shavers with tendency to irritate neck! Recall, too, that purchasing a camera, whether new or used, can be a risky operation for the uninitiated! That few diamonds are entirely free from every sort of defect or flaw! That with today’s watches a fairly high price gives no assurance of reliable performance or durable construction! That tire-gauge designs leave much to be desired! And, finally, that the custom of going around without a hat or shirt in hot sunny climates, and allowing children to do so, should be strongly discouraged!
O brave Consumer Bulletin Annual, holding the line in a world where the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity! You give me touchstones with which to protect myself against the deceptive pricing, false gift offers, spurious claims, bait advertising, and general rascality of the American economy. “A good spring should be noiseless, or comparatively so. Push on it in quiet surroundings.” Of course. Do you mind if I take this spring into the elevator with me for a moment? And close the doors, will you, floorwalker? And what are you grinning about? “For durability, loops of a terry towel should be thickly packed and firm. Check firmness by inserting a pin into a pile loop, raising it up from the towel slightly.” Pin poised, I advance into the murky depths of the towel store, clearly a man with a mission. In the department store, I stand bent over a portable refrigerator, inspecting a tray of ice cubes with my jeweler’s loupe. Yes, it has taken them much too long to freeze. Quickly I unfasten the jesses that bind Hugo, the killer hawk, to my wrist. Dubious refrigeration shall not go unpunished! Now Hugo is aloft, heading for Panda, Iowa, where the worthless devices are manufactured. See him soar!
And now Port Moresby. Come, Candace, let me coax you out from under that bell jar, into which you have repaired to guard delicate ears against sound of china crazing in the kitchen. Come, Candace, and don’t worry about the packing. The only appliance I plan to take with me is Hugo.
MONUMENTAL FOLLY
As the Bicentennial observation, after some hard sledding, finally mushrooms into high gear, it occurs to us that there is one thing America has a sad paucity of: Monuments. Every tacky little fourth-rate déclassé European country has monuments all over the place and one cannot turn a corner without banging into an eighteen-foot bronze of Lebrouche Tickling the Chambermaids at Vache While Planning the Battle of Bledsoe, or some such. Whereas Americans tend to pile up a few green cannonballs next to a broke-down mortar and forget about it. The Bicentennial, then, demands tons and tons of new monumentation—a terrific way of polishing up the country, and work for our hard-pressed foundrymen, too. Herewith, some suggestions.
VALIUM
Valium is what keeps airplanes in the air, cars on the highways, and the furnace rattling. These functions are often mistakenly attributed to Petroleum, but America knows better. In a time when ever more gruesome Revelations daily fritter the nerves, it is reassuring to note that domestic reserves are estimated at two million barrels a day of yellows and three million barrels a day of the 10 mg, or blues.
JEANS
A monument to the noble Jean, which has enriched all our lives. The Jean was invented by Claude Lévi-Strauss in 1932, while the great anthropologist was seeking the “deep structure” of the human trouser. Named for his dear friend Jean Replete (the great animal psychiatrist), the word is properly pronounced “zhhaun,” but many people have forgotten. Challenged briefly in the late ’30s by a ludicrous entity called the T-Short (big pockets), the Jean triumphed to become the key pant of the American plenitude in the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s.
THE LOOPHOLE
The Loophole is to the twentieth century what the frontier was to the nineteenth—a way out, a psychological fire escape. Loopholes, however, are not for everyone. They are hidden, like Easter eggs, and can only be found with the assistance of highly paid counsel. This monument is suitable for corporate plazas and also looks very handsome atop grain elevators.
NOSTALGIA
In Bicentennial America yesterday is terrific. Instead of yearning forwardly, which makes more sense in terms of the possible, we yearn backwardly, and who cares for “sense” anyhow? Gazing at a pile of old knickers, or an old duffel bag with our serial number stenciled on it, or an old cracked putter, we are suffused with a nameless emotion, which is called Golf. (We used to carry our clubs in the duffel bag, and if you think we weren’t laughed at, you are wrong.) This monument is specially designed for closets, attics, and abandoned movie houses.
CONSCIOUSNESS-RAISING
It is always better to be conscious. When you are not conscious, in Bicentennial America, you frequently awake to find that your shoes have been stolen by a member of Congress who has sold them on 14th Street to pay for a new weapons system. But having Consciousness is not enough; Consciousness must be raised, higher and higher and higher and higher. At its giddiest height, Consciousness sometimes lets you down. Supremely conscious, you find that what you are conscious of is the fact that everything is not too great.
DISASTER
Disaster is delicious. A good sack o’ woe, budgeted at $6 million, will deliver 177 thrills and 22 frissons per hour. These elegant productions, from which all skin, bone, and gristle have been removed for easy intake, have a moral dimension, too. They vaguely remind you of fate, or something, the haunting contingency of human life, or something. Mostly they take your mind off your life, that ridiculous enterprise, and put your mind on someone else who is actually on fire. Well, you’re better off than that dummy, aren’t you? Meanwhile, the army ants of capitalism are chewing off your shoes.
DÉTENTE
When two people agree not to harm each other today, or in the immediate future, this is cause for rejoicing. How much more satisfying, then, when two superpowers agree to the same thing. The rope of international tensions can be taut or slack; the thing to remember is that it is tied around all our necks, and when someone tries to drive a tank across it, or many tanks, he should be looked at peculiarly.
PUBLIC RELATIONS
Public Relations is the art of putting the best possible face on the matter. If the matter is a coal mine, corporate thuggery, or an open sewer, Public Relations becomes high art indeed. The intent is to protect us from reality, which bites. All of the best Public Relations men in the whole world live in America, in houses made of shining Gleem.
DIVORCE
Divorce is good in other countries, but nowhere is it as good as it is in our own—the sacred Elmer’s glue which cements the social fabric. Without the sacrament of Divorce, who would be silly enough to get married? Nobody, except for people who don’t care one way or another, the fifteen percent of the population who are always, in America, “undecided,” those clunks. What darkens the future of Divorce in America is the profession of law, which can make the whole process very unpleasant. It might not be a bad thing if jurisdiction were taken away from lawyers and given instead to plumbers. Plumbers know all about joining and unjoining and are slightly cheaper.
PROGRESS
Progress is wonderful, and continues to become more wonderful with each passing fiscal year. Progress is the basic American idea, and no country’s Progre
ss exceeds our own, by executive order. Progress is often the target of cheap sneers by sour yawpers, but even a sour yawper can ascend dark stairs holding a silver candlestick in his hand. If Progress continues to butter up the quality of life at the present rate, everyone will be unbearably happy by breakfast, 1999. Huzzah!
THE DASSAUD PRIZE
As a preliminary to the Paris World Exhibition of 1900, the firm of Dassaud Frères, instrument makers, sponsored a grand scientific competition with a prize of 50,000 francs. Object: to find—that is to say, locate in time and space—God. A number of brave and gifted investigators set immediately to work.
The development of superior telescopes was an obvious first step. The apparatuses of Professors Cassegrain and Falconetti kept the Dassaud (and other) workmen late at their benches.
The Dassaud brothers:(l–r) Antoine, Pierre, and Hercule, sponsor of the competition.
Many in the scientific community ignored the Prize and continued to occupy themselves with purely secular pursuits.
The Dassaud Prize became a premier topic of conversation at the city’s most advanced dinner tables. Here, a meeting of the Cercle Métaphysique. (Note electric tramway for presenting meals without the intrusion of servants.)
Henri de Piedmont, a flirter with Darwinism, reasoned that the First Cause was to be sought under the sea, and equipped himself appropriately.
The boy inventor Adolph Tissue and his “machine for sensational emotions”—a promising entry. Tissue later became wanted by the police for Bluebeardism.
The commitment of the American “team” was typically wholehearted. But God was not found in these pestiferous regions.
The efforts of the young Scotsman “Wrong Way” McKim were applauded, up to a point.
Achille Purefoy with his electrical “innerness ring.” The color blindness which followed its use led him to join the Fauves.
The eminent Dr. Morceau succeeded in producing in the laboratory a cross between a printing press and a bat. For this achievement he was sent to Devil’s Island.
The vivid and eccentric Mile. Cavaillon simply . . . thought.
Like that other Tower, with which it was frequently compared, the giant construction of M. Eiffel was both thinkable and unthinkable—what could this madman have in mind? It was known that he bought his slide rules at Dassaud’s.
The Dassaud Prize, perhaps predictably, was never awarded. But can any initiative which produced such advances as the Photographic Rifle and Horse Stopper of M. Zieff be judged a failure? It is for the ages to decide.
Plays
THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY
Notes:
The men are all in their forties.
When MARTHA reappears as the WOMAN in the studio, voice should be altered to sound younger—a degree of disguise.
The men should have slight English accents.
Dialect may be interpreted freely.
All speeches given with the utmost gravity.
(Music: Theme)
(Sound: Car leaving the airport: airport noises)
HUBER (pettish): Still, I don’t see why we were required.
BLOOMSBURY (weary): You weren’t required. You were invited.
(Sound: Plane overhead)
HUBER: Invited then. I don’t see what we were invited for.
BLOOMSBURY (distaste): As friends of the family. You are both friends of the family. (Pause) She was, I thought, quite calm.
WHITTLE (complimentary): You also.
BLOOMSBURY: Of course, she has been trained to weep in private.
WHITTLE: Should we, do you think, have waited for the takeoff?
HUBER: It would have been more respectful.
WHITTLE: Probably she would have been touched.
HUBER: Yes, touched.
BLOOMSBURY: It would not have mattered.
WHITTLE: I thought there’d certainly be weeping.
HUBER: But he provided a crowd. Precluding privacy, and thus, weeping.
WHITTLE: I like to see a woman weep, once in a while.
HUBER: We were the crowd. The two of us. He doesn’t count.
WHITTLE: They have finer feelings than we do, and they are quicker to show their feelings, I’ve found.
(Sound: Another car passing very close)
HUBER (meditating): Of course, it’s inaccurate to say that we are friends of the family. There no longer being any family.
WHITTLE (judicious): The family exists still as a legal entity, I believe. Was there property? Jointly held? This would affect the question whether the family qua family endures beyond the physical separation of the partners, which we have just witnessed.
BLOOMSBURY: She looked, I thought, quite pretty.
WHITTLE: Lovely.
HUBER: Stunning, in fact.
(Sound: Jet making a climbing turn)
WHITTLE (matter-of-fact): Rich girls always look pretty.
HUBER: I’ve heard that.
WHITTLE (to BLOOMSBURY): Did she take the money with her?
BLOOMSBURY (sadly): Yes.
HUBER: You could hardly have done otherwise, I suppose.
WHITTLE: And yet . . .
HUBER: Something for your trouble. A tidy bit, to buy mutual funds with.
WHITTLE (sly): “Mutual funds.”
HUBER (topping him): “Commingling.”
WHITTLE (stern): It would have gone against the grain no doubt. But there was trouble, was there not? For which little or no compensation has been offered?
BLOOMSBURY (weary): There was in fact a great deal of money. More than one person could easily dispose of. But just right as fate would have it for two.
WHITTLE (hearty): Good old money!
BLOOMSBURY (austere): It would have been wrong to have kept it. (Pause) That during the years of our cohabitation it had been our money to cultivate and be proud of does not alter the fact that originally it was her money rather than my money.
WHITTLE: You could have bought a boat, or a horse or a—
HUBER: Presents for your friends who have sustained you in the accomplishment of this difficult and, if I may say so, rather unpleasant task.
WHITTLE: Your friends who often visited you of an evening when you were part of a set, still.
HUBER: Your friends with whom you reveled and even roistered, once.
BLOOMSBURY (quoting): Golden days in the sunshine of our happy youth.
WHITTLE: Yes, I like to see a woman weep, once in a while. Especially a young . . . pretty . . . rich woman. Gives me a tingle.
HUBER: A what?
WHITTLE: A tingle. A frisson, if you prefer.
HUBER (hooting): Listen to him!
WHITTLE: Makes me feel better. (To HUBER) What’d you do with the brandy?
HUBER: I have it.
(Sound: Cork being removed from bottle; WHITTLE drinking)
WHITTLE: Ahhhhh! (To BLOOMSBURY) It will be interesting, Bloomsbury, to see what you can do next. To trace your movements, lack of movements. Follow your wrigglings. Watch your crackup or breakdown, if you choose one of those paths. Those thorny paths. Health, even, is not out of the question.
(Sound: HUBER laughing)
(Sound: WHITTLE laughing)
(Sound: HUBER laughing cut short)
WHITTLE: Health, even, is not out of the question. (Pause) Unlikely.
BLOOMSBURY: Unlikely?
HUBER (detached): Yes, how do you feel?
WHITTLE: Yes, how do you feel?
BLOOMSBURY: How do I Feel?
HUBER: Your emotions. Can you give us a quick reading?
WHITTLE: Just a hint, that’s all we want.
HUBER: There has been a certain amount of stress after all.
WHITTLE: His color’s good.
HUBER: Liver-gray, I’d call it.
BLOOMSBURY: I’ve traded the house.
WHITTLE: You’ve done what?
BLOOMSBURY: Traded the house. For a radio. A radio station, actually.
(Music: “The Star-Spangled Banner,” coming up)
HUBER: A radio station?
BLOOMSBURY: Yes. Broadcasting. (Slightly ironic) One of the glamour industries. It will be an enormously rewarding experience. (Pause) It will be some kind of an experience. (Pause) A learning experience? (Pause) It will go nowhere, I suppose.
The Teachings of Don B. Page 20
