The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

  This is a field in which accident of birth carries a lot of weight. One can overcome the problem by marrying well and/or making an old man very happy. Such a method is, however, by no means easy and the lazy would do well to seek employment elsewhere.

  If I had to describe myself in just one word, that word would be … Kindly.

  Energetic.

  Curious.

  Pleasant.

  Madcap.

  I cross … Only after looking both ways.

  Town by bus.

  The days off the calendar.

  My sevens.

  On weekends I like to go … Camping.

  Roller skating.

  For long walks.

  Bar hopping.

  To Gstaad.

  I find that a good way to break the ice with people is to ask them where they … Buy their vegetables.

  Shop for appliances.

  Get their pictures developed.

  Winter.

  Poppy is … A red flower.

  Heroin in the raw.

  A type of seed that appears occasionally in bread and rolls.

  My nickname.

  Men make the best … Fried chicken.

  Flower arrangements.

  Drinks.

  Valets.

  As a small child I liked to play … Dolls.

  Doctor.

  Baseball.

  Candyland.

  Mansion.

  I never carry … A briefcase.

  Tales.

  Typhoid.

  Cash.

  My first big crush was on … Tab Hunter.

  Paul McCartney.

  The boy next door.

  My horse.

  So You Want to Be an Absolute Political Dictator?

  This job requires stamina, drive, and an iron will. Not recommended for the shy type.

  My greatest fear is … Meeting new people.

  Heights.

  Snakes.

  The dark.

  A coup d’etat.

  On a lazy Sunday afternoon I most enjoy … Cooking.

  Experimenting with makeup.

  Going to a museum.

  Just lounging around the house.

  Exiling people.

  I think people look best in … Formal attire.

  Bathing suits.

  Clothes that reflect their life-style.

  Bermuda shorts.

  Prison uniforms.

  When confronted by a large crowd of strangers my immediate reaction is to … Introduce myself to anyone who looks interesting.

  Wait for them to speak to me first.

  Sit in a corner and sulk.

  Start a purge.

  The proper manner in which to respond to a chance meeting with me is by … Smiling.

  Nodding.

  Saying hello.

  Giving me a little kiss.

  Saluting.

  When someone disagrees with me my first instinct is to … Try to understand his point of view.

  Get into a pet.

  Discuss it calmly and rationally.

  Cry.

  Have him executed.

  Nothing builds character like … Scouting.

  The YMCA.

  Sunday school.

  Cold showers.

  Forced labor.

  So You Want to Be a Social Climber?

  Of all the occupations dealt with here, this is undoubtedly the easiest to crack. It is also, alas, the hardest to stomach—a fact that seems to have had surprisingly little effect upon the hordes that crowd the field.

  When alone I most often … Read.

  Watch television.

  Write sonnets.

  Build model planes.

  Call the Beverly Hills Hotel and have myself paged.

  Were a female friend to say something particularly amusing I would most likely … Say, “Hey, that was really funny.”

  Laugh delightedly.

  Giggle uncontrollably.

  Say, “You’re so like Dottie.”

  When the phone rings I am most likely to answer by saying … “Hello, how are you?”

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, hi, I was just listening to one of Wolfgang’s little symphonies.”

  If my house or apartment was on fire the first thing I would save would be … My son.

  My cat.

  My boyfriend.

  My mention in Women’s Wear Daily.

  I consider dining out to be … A pleasure.

  A nice change.

  An opportunity to see friends.

  A romantic interlude.

  A career.

  My idea of a good party is … A big, noisy bash, with lots of liquor and lots of action.

  Good talk, good food, good wine.

  A few close friends for dinner and bridge.

  One to which I cannot get invited.

  If I were stranded alone on a desert island and could have only one book I would want … The Bible.

  The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  The Wind in the Willows.

  Truman Capote’s address book.

  Some of my best friends are … Jewish.

  Negro.

  Puerto Rican.

  Unaware of my existence.

  As far as I am concerned, a rose by any other name is … Still the same.

  A flower.

  A color.

  A scent.

  A Kennedy.

  So You Want to Be an Empress?

  Once again we are confronted with the problem of family connections. Do not be deceived, however, by this job’s apparent similarity to the heiress game, for it requires a good deal more responsibility. You would be a very foolish girl, though, were you to let that discourage you, for this is the only sort of work that offers the richly rewarding satisfactions of being served by others.

  Complete the following phrase: Ladies … Room.

  Lunch.

  Watches.

  First.

  -in-waiting.

  My pet peeve about my husband is his … Snoring.

  Habit of leaving the cap off the toothpaste.

  Drinking buddies.

  Stubbornness.

  Imperial concubines.

  I simply don’t know what I’d do without my … WaterPik.

  Answering service.

  Mr. Coffee.

  Official taster.

  I think that the best way to get ahead in the world is by … Hard work.

  Good connections.

  Playing fair.

  Going to a decent college.

  Divine right.

  I always wanted my mother to be … More liberal.

  Less nosy.

  A better cook.

  Young at heart.

  Empress dowager.

  I think people should stand on … Principle.

  Firm ground.

  Their own two feet.

  Tiptoe.

  Ceremony.

  I feel that it is most important to establish … Rapport.

  A decent working relationship.

  A precedent.

  A dynasty.

  The best things in life are … Free.

  Slaves.

  I would most like to spend Christmas in … Connecticut.

  Palm Beach.

  Great Gorge.

  The Winter Palace.

  I think men are at their most attractive when … Playing tennis.

  Sleeping.

  Dancing.

  Laughing.

  Kneeling.

  If I could afford an addition to my house I would build … A workshop.

  A den.

  A patio.

  A sauna.

  A throne room.

  I would most like my son to be … Neat.

  A chip off the old block.

  A doctor.

  Good at sports.

  Crown prince.

  On a date I most enjoy … An art film.

  Bowling.

 
Dinner and the theater.

  Ruling.

  Modern Sports

  When it comes to sports I am not particularly interested. Generally speaking, I look upon them as dangerous and tiring activities performed by people with whom I share nothing except the right to trial by jury. It is not that I am totally indifferent to the joys of athletic effort—it is simply that my idea of what constitutes sport does not coincide with popularly held notions on the subject. There are a number of reasons for this, chief among them being that to me the outdoors is what you must pass through in order to get from your apartment into a taxicab.

  There are, however, several contests in which I do engage and not, I might add, without a certain degree of competence. The following is by no means a complete list:

  Ordering in Some Breakfast.

  Picking Up the Mail.

  Going Out for Cigarettes.

  Meeting for a Drink.

  As you can see, these are largely urban activities and, as such, not ordinarily regarded with much respect by sports enthusiasts. Nevertheless, they all require skill, stamina, and courage. And they all have their penalties and their rewards.

  There are many such activities and I, for one, feel that the time is ripe for them to receive proper recognition. I therefore propose that those in charge of the 1980 Olympic Games invite New York to participate as a separate entity. The New York team would be entered in only one contest, to be called the New York Decathlon. The New York Decathlon would consist of four events instead of the usual ten, since everyone in New York is very busy. It would further differ from the conventional decathlon in that each contestant would enter only one event, since in New York it pays to specialize. The four events would be Press Agentry, Dry Cleaning and Laundering, Party-going, and Dog-owning.

  Traditionally the Olympic Games open with a torch-bearer followed by all the athletes marching around the stadium carrying flags. This will not be changed, but in 1980 the athletes will be followed by seventeen Checker cabs carrying the New York team. The first cabby in line will have his arm out the window and in his hand will be a torch. The passengers in this cab will be screaming at the cabby as sparks fly into the back seat. He will pretend not to hear them. When the parade concludes, the first cabby will fail to notice this immediately and he will be compelled to stop short. This will cause all the following cabs to run into each other. The cabbies will then spend the rest of the Olympics yelling at each other and writing things down in a threatening manner. The athletics teams will be forced to start the games even though this collision has occurred where it will cause the greatest inconvenience.

  Press Agentry

  The two contestants enter the stadium from opposite sides, having first been assured by the referee that both sides are equally important. They kiss each other on both cheeks and turn smartly toward the crowd. They do not look past the first ten rows. They then seat themselves on facing Ultrasuede sofas and light cigarettes. Two moonlighting ball boys race in with coffee black, no sugar. The contestants pick up their ringing phones. Points awarded as follows:

  For not taking the most calls from people who wish to speak to you.

  For waking up the most people who do not.

  For telling the most people who want to attend an event that they can’t have tickets.

  For telling the most people who do not want to attend said event that you have already sent them tickets by messenger and that they owe you a favor.

  Dry Cleaning and Laundering

  Two fully equipped dry cleaning and laundering establishments are constructed in inconvenient areas of the stadium. Several innocent people enter each establishment. These people serve the same function in this event that the fox serves in a hunt. They place upon the counters piles of soiled clothing, receive little slips of colored paper, and leave. Points awarded as follows:

  For ripping off the most buttons. Additional points if buttons are impossible to replace.

  For washing the most silk shirts bearing labels stating DRY CLEAN ONLY. Additional points if shirts are washed with bleeding madras jackets.

  If shirts are white, victory is near.

  For boxing the most shirts requested on hangers.

  For losing the most garments. Additional points according to expensiveness of garments.

  For being the most ingenious in moving ink spots from one pant leg to the other.

  Party-going

  A room exactly half the size necessary is built in the center of the stadium. Too many contestants enter the room. Points awarded as follows:

  For getting to the bar.

  For getting away from the bar.

  For accidentally spilling wine on an opponent to whom you have lost a job.

  For inadvertently dropping a hot cigarette ash on same.

  For making the greatest number of funny remarks about people not present.

  For arriving the latest with the greatest number of famous people.

  For leaving the earliest with an old lover’s new flame.

  Dog-owning

  There has been erected in the stadium an exact replica of a fifteen-block section of Greenwich Village. Twenty contestants leave buildings on the perimeter of this area, each walking three dogs who have not been out of the house all day. The object of the game is to be the first to get to the sidewalk directly in front of my building.

  When all of the points are added up, the contestant with the greatest number of points enters the stadium. He is followed by the two contestants with the next greatest number of points. The two runners-up go off to one side with the referee. The referee takes out a stopwatch. Each runner-up has five minutes in which to explain in an entertaining manner why he did not receive the most points. Whichever runner-up is the more arrogant and convincing is presented with the gold medal. Because in New York it’s not whether you win or lose—it’s how you lay the blame.

  Breeding Will Tell:

  A Family Treatment

  There once appeared in a magazine a photograph of myself taken under obviously youthful circumstances. I assumed that it would be readily apparent to all that this was my high school yearbook picture. I neglected, however, to take into consideration that I number among my acquaintances some people of decidedly lofty background. I was first jarred into awareness of this by a well-born young fashion model who, in reference to said photograph, offered, “I really loved your deb picture, Fran.” Had that been the end of it I would undoubtedly have forgotten the incident, but later on that very same evening an almost identical remark was made by a minor member of the Boston aristocracy. As far as I was concerned this constituted a trend. I therefore felt faced with a decision: either snort derisively at the very idea or create an amusing fiction appropriate to such thinking. Being at least peripherally in the amusing fiction business, I chose the latter and thus have prepared the following genealogy.

  Margaret Lebovitz, my paternal grandmother, was born in Ghetto Point, Hungary (a restricted community), at the very dawn of the Gay Nineties. An appealing child, she was often left in the care of trusted family retainers (my Aunt Sadie and Uncle Benny), as her father’s far-flung business affairs—which were mainly concerned with being conscripted into the army—frequently kept him away from home. Although her mother spent most of her time amusing herself in the cabbage fields, she nevertheless made it a point to visit the nursery every evening and stand guard while little Margaret said her prayers. Margaret’s childhood was a happy one—she and her chums exchanged confidences and babushkas as they whiled away the carefree hours picking beets and playing hide and seek with the Cossacks. Tariff, the family estate, where the Lebovitzes wintered (and summered) was indeed a wondrous place and it was therefore not surprising when Margaret balked at being sent away to school. Her father, home on a brief desertion, took her into his straw-lined study—which was affectionately called “Daddy’s hideout”—and explained patiently that unbreakable tradition demanded that girls of Margaret’s class acquire the necessary social graces such as
fleeing demurely and staying properly alive. Margaret listened respectfully and agreed to begin her freshman year at Miss Belief’s.

  Margaret was a great success at Miss Belief’s, where her taste in footwear quickly won her the nickname Bootsie. Bootsie was an excellent student and demonstrated such a flair for barely audible breathing that she was unanimously elected chairman of the Spring Day Escape Committee. That is not to say that Bootsie was a grind—quite the contrary. An irrepressible madcap, Bootsie got herself into such bad scrapes that the fellow members of her club, the Huddled Masses, were frequently compelled to come to her rescue. Fond of outdoor sports, Bootsie longed for summer vacation and happily joined in the girlish cries of “Serf’s up!” that greeted the season.

  Upon reaching her eighteenth birthday, Bootsie made her debut into society and her beauty, charm, and way with a hoe soon gained her a reputation as the Brenda Frazier of Ghetto Point. All of the young men in her set were smitten with Bootsie and found it absolutely necessary to secure the promise of a waltz days in advance of a party, as her dance pogrom was invariably full. Bootsie’s favorite beau was Tibor, a tall, dashing young deserter and two-time winner of the Hungarian Cup Race, which was held yearly in a lavishly irrigated wheat field. Tibor was fond of Bootsie, but he was not unmindful of the fact that she would one day come into her father’s great plowshare, and this was his primary interest in her. The discovery that Tibor was a fortune hunter had a devastating effect upon Bootsie and she took to her bed. Bootsie’s family, understandably concerned about her condition, held a meeting to discuss the problem. It was concluded that a change of scenery would do her a world of good. A plan of action was decided upon and thus Bootsie Lebovitz was sent steerage to Ellis Island in order that she might forget.