The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

  Lesson Four: Heat

  The arrival of winter seems invariably to infect the tenant with an almost fanatical lust for warmth. Sweaters and socks he may have galore; yet he refuses to perceive their usefulness and stubbornly and selfishly insists upon obtaining his warmth through your heat. There are any number of ploys available to the resourceful landlord, but the most effective requires an actual cash outlay. No mind, it’s well worth it—fun, too. Purchase a tape recorder. Bring the tape recorder to your suburban home and place it in the vicinity of your heater. Here its sensitive mechanism will pick up the sounds of impending warmth. This recording played at high volume in the basement of the building has been known to stymie tenants for days on end.

  Lesson Five: Water

  It is, of course, difficult for the landlord to understand the tenant’s craving for water when the modern supermarket is fairly bursting with juices and soft drinks of every description. The burden is made no easier by the fact that at least some of the time this water must be hot. The difficult situation is only partially alleviated by the knowledge that hot, like room, is a matter of opinion.

  Lesson Six: Roaches

  It is the solemn duty of every landlord to maintain an adequate supply of roaches. The minimum acceptable roach to tenant ratio is four thousand to one. Should this arrangement prompt an expression of displeasure on the part of the tenant, ignore him absolutely. The tenant is a notorious complainer. Just why this is so is not certain, though a number of theories abound. The most plausible of these ascribes the tenant’s chronic irritability to his widely suspected habit of drinking enormous quantities of heat and hot water—a practice well known to result in the tragically premature demise of hallway light bulbs.

  Success Without College

  The term stage mother is used to describe a female parent who, to put it kindly, has taken it upon herself to instill in her child theatrical ambition and eventual success. The entire upbringing of the child has this goal as its basis and has undoubtedly resulted in the creation of more than a few stars.

  Ours, however, is an age of specialization and keen competition and it is naive to assume that this sort of childrearing technique is confined to the world of show business. Below are some examples:

  The Architecture Mother

  The architecture mother does indeed have her work cut out for her. Her days are filled with the difficult task of impressing upon her youngster the need for economy of line and the desirability of wiping one’s feet before coming into the machine for living. Other mothers have children who pay attention, who realize that form should follow function, and that there’s such a thing as considering the reflective qualities of glass before going out to play. Other mothers can relax once in a while because their children listen the first time without having to be told over and over again, until I’m sick of hearing myself say it, “Less, less, I mean it, less. And I’m not going to say it again.”

  The Television Talk Show Host Mother

  Here is a job that presents such a multiplicity of problems that relatively few have entered the field. The work is arduous and the hours long, for it is still too soon to tell whether the child will be early morning, midafternoon, or late night. Hardly a facet of modern life can be disregarded. “Vegas, darling, the ‘Las’ is strictly for them. Just plain Vegas. That’s right. Now what do we do in Vegas? No, darling, that’s what they do in Vegas. We play Vegas. We are playing Vegas. We played Vegas. Let’s not forget our grammar. Let’s have a little consideration for the English language here, please. Now, when we play Vegas what else do we do? That’s right—kill them. Kill them in Vegas. Killing them in Vegas. Killed them in Vegas. And what do we do when things get interesting? Well, yes, we can bleep sometimes, but that’s not what pays allowances, is it? That’s not what buys bicycles. No. We sell a little something. We cut to a commercial. We have a word from our sponsors and we break the stations. Good. Now, here’s a book. What do we do with books? No, and I don’t want to have to say it again, we don’t read books. You want to read books or you want to be a television talk show host? You can’t have it both ways. We don’t read books. We mean to read books. And where do we mean to read books? That’s right—on the plane. We meant to read it on the plane. And why didn’t we? Come on, we’ve been through this a thousand times. I’ll give you a hint—but this is the last time. O.K., here’s the hint—it starts with D. That’s right, Duke. We meant to read it on the plane but we ran into the Duke—Duke Wayne. Very good, darling, terriffic. I think that’s enough for tonight. Just a minute, young man, where do you think you’re going? To bed? Really? Without a quick rundown of tomorrow night’s guests? That’s how you leave a room? Very nice. Excellent. Eighteen hours a day with this and you just leave the room without a quick rundown of tomorrow night’s guests. That’s no way to be a television talk show host and if you don’t learn now you’re going to find out later the hard way. I mean it. I don’t like to say it—I am your mother—but you’re going to be canceled, I mean it. What? Who? Cloris Leachman? Gore Vidal? Shecky Green? Dr. Joyce Brothers and Jim Bouton? That’s my baby. You’re a beautiful guy, darling. Good night.”

  The Mortician Mother

  The burden borne by the mortician mother is not an easy one. For she must spend virtually every waking hour policing the behavior of her child. Is that giggling she hears? Wearily she must go to his room and admonish him for the ten thousandth time, “Could you look a little somber, please? I mean, is that too much to ask? A little dignity? A little sorrowful understanding? Other kids manage to look somber without having to be told every twenty seconds. Other kids can be trusted alone for ten minutes without a lot of laughter. Other kids don’t shrug their shoulders and walk away when their mothers ask for a little opinion on how they look—other kids say, ‘Very lifelike’ in a nice hushed tone the first time they’re asked. Other kids can wear a carnation a whole day without it wilting. I don’t know where I went wrong with you. I don’t know where you got this taste for simplicity, not even simplicity: just ordinary cheapness if you ask me. Oh yes, don’t think I don’t know about that plain pine box you’ve got in here. I’m not stupid. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Know-It-All. There is such a thing as solid mahogany with real brass fittings and satin lining and the sooner you learn that the better off you’ll be.”

  The Headwaiter Mother

  Few appreciate the problems that beset the mother of the aspiring headwaiter. Not only has she to contend with the difficulty of instilling in him a passion for the unnecessary flourish but she must also curb his every naïve instinct for friendliness. “How many times have I told you not to answer the first time you’re spoken to? How many? And what is this helpful business all of a sudden, may I ask? Where did you pick that up? Is that what you want to be when you grow up? Helpful? Fine. Wonderful. Go, be helpful. Be a Boy Scout for all I care. Yes, a Boy Scout—because that’s how you’ll end up if you don’t stop fooling around. I’m not the one who wants to be a headwaiter. I’m not the one who said, ‘Oh, Mommy, if you mold me into a headwaiter I’ll never ask you for another thing, not ever.’ So I’m not the one who’ll suffer. You want to be a headwaiter? Act like a headwaiter. A little ignoring, please. A little uncalled-for arrogance. You want to be obsequious? Believe me, there’s a time and a place. Princess Grace comes in, David Rockefeller, Tennessee Williams, O.K., fine, good, then be obsequious—you have my blessing. But I don’t want to see it all the time. I don’t want to see it for some expense account jerk who’s out on the town. I don’t want to see it for every leisure suit with two on the aisle for A Chorus Line. Understand? A little more influence peddling and a little less with the warm welcome, O.K.? Your father and I aren’t going to be here forever, you know.”

  The Restaurant Critic Mother

  The restaurant critic mother is a proud woman. So proud, in fact, that those who know her have pretty much had it up to here with listening to what a picky eater she’s got on her hands. But her pride is understandable, for
she has earned it. For years she has asked, “How was lunch, dear?” only to be answered with a terse “O.K.” Over and over again she has drilled her little charge until the happy day when her question elicits this rewarding response: “Mommy, the sandwich was superb. The Wonder Bread softly unobtrusive, the perfect foil for both the richly poignant Superchunky Skippy and the clear, fragrant Welch’s grape. The carrot sticks were exquisitely sweet, yet asserted their integrity in every glorious crunch. The Yoo Hoo was interesting—adolescent but robust—and the Yankee Doodle, a symphony of snowy creme filling and rich, dark cake; the whole of it bathed in a splendor of chocolate-flavored icing that verged on the sinful.”

  Specialty Banking:

  A Numbered Account

  Not so long ago, in Manhattan’s fashionable East Fifties, there appeared an institution called the First Women’s Bank. This prompted me to speculate:

  Is this a mere fad or an actual trend?

  What is the First Women’s Bank really like?

  Can we look forward to the opening of a competitive establishment to be known as the Other Women’s Bank?

  I have mulled this over and have been successful in formulating answers to all three questions. My original intention was to answer these questions in order, but I eventually chose another plan of action. Lest you get the wrong impression, I hasten to assure you that this in no way constitutes a flamboyant display of perversity. It is simply that I changed my mind—which is, after all, a woman’s prerogative.

  What Is the First Women’s Bank Really Like?

  Rather than attempt to answer this question by utilizing the methods of the investigative reporter—legwork, research, and digging for facts—I decided instead to employ those of the irresponsible wag: lying on the sofa, talking on the phone, and making things up. This procedure proved quite satisfactory and has resulted in the following report.

  The First Women’s Bank is called the First Women’s Bank only in deference to convention. It is not the real name. The real name is Separate Checks. When a typical customer (for the purposes of clarity we’ll call her Jane Doe) enters the bank she has three windows from which to choose:

  PAYING: BACK

  IS: RECEIVING

  NO: ACCOUNTING: FOR TASTE

  Should Jane find these departments inadequate for her needs and experience a momentary loss of faith, she has only to remember that her bank offers every possible convenience—a Christmas Club, a Hanukkah Club, and a Bridge Club—in order to regain her former confidence. Thus fortified, even the knowledge that the bank closes two or three days a month for cramps will not deter her from venturing into the area reserved for a more serious business. Here she will be confronted by a neat row of desks, each sporting a dignified oblong nameplate: Madge, Delores, Wilma, and Mary Beth respectively. Jane chooses Mary Beth and sits down. Mary Beth pours Jane a cup of coffee, apologizes for the state of her blotter, and asks Jane what’s bothering her. When Jane asks Mary Beth how she knew something was bothering her, Mary Beth just smiles and says, “Woman’s intuition.” Jane explains to Mary Beth that she needs to borrow eleven hundred dollars to repair her car, which was severely damaged in an accident resulting from Jane’s attempt to execute a sharp right turn while applying lip gloss. Jane is eager to have the car fixed before her husband returns from his business trip. Mary Beth understands, of course, and an arrangement is made whereby Separate Checks agrees to lend Jane eleven hundred dollars if Jane will lend Separate Checks eight place settings of her good silver for their next board luncheon. Her business successfully concluded, Jane takes her leave—happily reciting the bank’s catchy slogan, “Bottom Dollar: Tops to Match.” She is eleven hundred dollars richer and more firmly convinced than ever that Separate Checks is the permanent wave of the future.

  Is This a Mere Fad or an Actual Trend?

  The answer to this question is “An actual trend.” The success of Separate Checks will cause an outbreak of specialty banks, each catering to an extremely specific group.

  Children

  This institution will be called the First National Piggy Bank. It will offer to its customers a unique service—Banking by Color. It will be fully equipped with high-quality crayons, which will be attached to anchored chains. The bank’s motto will be “Our Checks Bounce Higher Than Yours Do,” and instead of patterns, its checks will be available in a variety of flavors: Red Raspberry, Chocolate Marshmallow, Vanilla Fudge, and Black Cherry. The employees will be kind but firm, and those dealing with the more intricate procedures such as Advance on Next Week’s Allowance Loans will sit behind desks bearing their nameplates—Uncle Ralph, Aunt Marcia, Uncle Harold, and Auntie Ruthie. Should one of the customers default on such a loan he will be sent to his room without dessert for 6½ percent of each month he is overdue. If this fails to bring about the desired result the bank will have no recourse but to garnishee the debtor’s birthday money until the loan is repaid. Hours: After School and On the Weekend When the Homework Is Finished.

  Homosexuals

  The First National Raving Bank will distinguish itself by being the only bank in town with a two-drink minimum. Special features include the availability of three-dollar bills and checks bearing either a portrait of Ronald Firbank or all of the lyrics to “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Should a customer of the bank wish to apply for a credit card he need only enter the business area, where he will find Mr. Eugene, Mr. Randy, Mr. Joel, and Eduardo, ready and willing to furnish him with the information that Master Charge isn’t the only game in town. Hours: After.

  Psychiatrists

  The New York Bank of Self-Pity will not be housed in a single building but rather in a complex, since nothing is that simple. If one of the customers is overdrawn he can attempt to convince the bank to make good his check, as it was their inability to deal realistically with figures that caused the error. If he is desirous of establishing a more meaningful relationship with his account he is free to lie down and discuss it with one of the self-destructive and immature employees. The pens in this bank are thoughtfully equipped with ink that blots symbolically. Hours: 10:10—10:50.

  Can We Look Forward to the Opening of a Competitive Establishment to Be Known as the Other Women’s Bank?

  Undoubtedly. The telltale signs will be safety deposit boxes filled with expensive baubles, a sultry look, and a tendency to be alone at Christmas. Hours: Tuesday and Thursday Afternoons.

  The Right of Eminent Domain

  Versus the Rightful Dominion

  of the Eminent

  Generally speaking, laws are designed to protect the public from harm. Generally speaking, harm is seen as physical peril: Generally speaking, physical peril is not a particularly interesting subject. True, there are those laws which endeavor to shield the public from financial disaster. Truer still, financial disaster occurs anyway. And truest of all, the public is not a particularly interesting group.

  Thus our system of law is something less than captivating, for it consistently fails to deal with the three questions of greatest concern. The three questions of greatest concern are:

  Is it attractive?

  Is it amusing?

  Does it know its place?

  One can see at a glance that these three questions not only encompass all contingencies covered by the present system but, more importantly, they confront without flinching the genuine hazards of modern life. They are therefore the only possible basis for any reasonable system of justice. And henceforth they shall be regarded as such. If you must reply in the negative to any of these questions you are committing an illegal act. For the purposes of clarity I shall consider each question separately, although it should be quite apparent that they are all three as brothers.

  Is It Attractive?

  When I was in grammar school it was customary at the beginning of each year for the teacher to explain the principle of individual freedom in a democracy by stating: “Your right to swing your arm ends where the other person’s nose begins.” An admirable sentiment—unquesti
onably. But one somehow lacking in that little something extra that makes it all worthwhile.

  Quite simply, it misses the point. I, for one, would much rather be punched in the nose than in the sensibility. And so I offer this in its stead: “Your right to wear a mint-green polyester leisure suit ends where it meets my eye.” Should you choose to disregard this dictate you shall be arrested for bad taste.

  In order to administer to all of the worms that will come crawling out of this hitherto unopened can there will be appointed a Commissar of Good Looks who shall issue a manifesto detailing the following offenses:

  A. The Construction of Buildings That Look Like Gigantic Electric Shavers.

  B. Television Commercials and Magazine Advertisements That Use Real People Instead of Models.

  C. Cigarettes That Come in a Choice of Colors: If White Ones Were Good Enough for Edward R. Murrow They’re Good Enough for You.

  D. Ice Cubes That Come in a Choice of Shapes: Flowers Belong in One’s Lapel, Not in One’s Bourbon.

  E. Airports That Have Fallen into the Hands of Graphic Designers with a Penchant for Bold Simplicity.