F. Furniture Made to Resemble Objects That Were Played with by Small Children in the Nineteen-Forties.
G. Long-sleeved T-Shirts Stenciled to Look Like Dinner Jackets and Invariably Worn by Those Who Would Have Occasion to Wear a Dinner Jacket Only While at Work.
The penalty for those responsible for any of the above-mentioned crimes shall be ninety days spent in the company of the inventor of the male centerfold or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
Is It Amusing?
Once upon a time, long, long ago, people wanted to be well spoken. Those capable of an elegant turn of phrase were much admired. Wit was in great demand. It was the day of the epigram.
Time went on, and by and by it came to pass that people were chiefly interested in being well liked. Those capable of a firm handshake were much admired. Friendliness was in great demand. It was the day of the telegram.
Presently it appears that people are mainly concerned with being well rested. Those capable of uninterrupted sleep are much admired. Unconsciousness is in great demand. This is the day of the milligram.
Far be it from me to make noise while you’re asleep but I should like to notify you that you are under arrest for being boring. The Commissar of a Way with Words suspects you of one or more of the following:
A. Rather Than Attempt the Art of Conversation You Prefer to Communicate with Your Fellow Man by Hugging Strangers Who Are Reliving the Bad Parts of Their Childhood While Immersed in a Swimming Pool Filled with Warm Water.
B. You Think That the Women’s Liberation Movement Does Have a Sense of Humor.
C. You Use in Conversation Phrases That Appear on T-Shirts.
D. You Share David Susskind’s Apparently Inexhaustible Interest in the Private Lives of Deservedly Unknown Homosexuals.
E. You Feel the Need to Discuss Your Innermost Thoughts on a Weekly Basis with Six Other People, One of Whom Is Being Paid to Listen.
F. You No Longer Feel the Need to Discuss Your Innermost Thoughts on a Weekly Basis with Six Other People, One of Whom Is Being Paid to Listen, Because You Feel That Erica Jong Has Said It All for You.
G. The Letters est Have Meaning for You Beyond Eastern Standard Time.
H. You Are the Host of a Television Talk Show Who So Firmly Believes That Everyone in the Whole World Is Just About to Play Las Vegas for Two Weeks That You Introduce Your Next Guest as “Dr. Jonas Salk—a Beautiful Guy.”
Should you be found guilty you shall be sentenced to a one-year subscription to Psychology Today or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
Does It Know Its Place?
Under the jurisdiction of the Commissar of What Is Appropriate the adage “A place for everything and everything in its place” has been broadened to include “A place for everyone and everyone in their place.” You are not in your place or are responsible for something not being in its place if you are to blame in any of these instances:
A. You Are a Man Who Attends Consciousness-raising Meetings.
B. You Are a Woman Who Attends Consciousness-raising Meetings.
C. You Are a Dog and You Live in New York, Probably in My Neighborhood.
D. You Are an Army Camouflage Combat Uniform Being Worn by Someone Who Is Not a Soldier in Southeast Asia.
E. You Are Wall-to-Wall Carpeting and You Are in the Bathroom.
F. You Are on Your Way over to My Apartment and You Have Not Called First.
G. You Write Poetry and You Are Not Dead.
Those convicted of any of the above-mentioned crimes shall be subject to being either a dessert served in a brandy snifter or seventy-two months in Los Angeles—whichever comes first.
The Family Affair:
A Moral Tale
The addition of the prefix natural to the word childbirth assumed that there was such a thing as unnatural childbirth. Advocates of this concept pointed out that for thousands of years people had babies in the privacy and quietude of their own homes or rice paddies simply by lying down and breathing deeply. This business of rushing to the hospital, being shot up with drugs, and attended by doctors was wrong. It was not meant to be. Some listened. Some did not. Some of those who did not, did not arrogantly, with a strong, pure belief in the righteousness of their unnaturalness. They liked rushing to the hospital. They loved being shot up with drugs. They adored being attended to by doctors. To them unnaturalness was the way of life. Secure in their commitment to artificiality, they greeted each other with knowing looks and bade each other good-bye with a whispered “à rebours.” They were content and they believed themselves to be as sophisticated as was possible under the circumstances, which were undeniably heterosexual and therefore limited.
Then little by little there began to circulate among this group an unsettling rumor. Dark mutterings were heard. The fast crowd was seen less and less frequently in the better waiting rooms. After months of hushed speculation the truth was uncovered: a certain chichi element had found a way to have children that made mere unnatural childbirth look like eating your own placenta. This set had entirely dispensed with bodily function and were obtaining their children in bars.
The most popular of these bars was called Chicken Little and was located in a brownstone on a fashionable street near the East River. Prospective parents on the prowl would arrive at this establishment by taxi or private car, knock smartly on the lacquered chocolate-brown door, and present themselves to a deceptively kind-looking septuagenarian known only as the Grandmother.
Upon passing muster, they either sat at small tables or leaned against the bar and tried to look loving as they cruised the children. They talked very little and then only to remark on the quality of the trade with such comments as “Think he looks like me?” “There’s a student council president if I ever saw one,” and “Do you think she’ll make her bed?” The most aggressive were known to sidle right up to promising-looking tots and murmur, “Like to play catch, fella?” Or to take particularly blond little girls aside, slip them homemade chocolate chip cookies, and let them know in no uncertain terms that there were plenty more where those came from.
The children were not without ploys of their own and some of the little tykes would stop at nothing. As the evening wore on and most of the really permissive-looking adults had been picked off, it was not uncommon for the desperate unadopted to be seen furtively applying calculatingly cute arrays of freckles across the bridges of their little noses with cleverly concealed brown eyebrow pencils, or announcing in loud, bound-to-be-overheard voices that when they grew up they wanted to be doctors.
No careful observer of this scene could help but notice that certain patrons bypassed the main area and headed immediately for the back room. The back room was reserved for those with more specialized tastes. Here the toddlers would leave one of their overall suspenders unbuttoned to indicate their special preference. An unbuttoned left suspender meant: I talk back.… I don’t do my homework.… I will wet my bed until I am fifteen.… I will make your life a living hell.… You won’t know what you did to deserve me. This group quickly gravitated toward the adults who carried their cigarettes in their right hands, which meant: Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.… How can I help? … I didn’t mean it that way.… Where did I go wrong?
An unbuttoned right suspender meant: It was my fault.… I’ll try to do better.… I cannot tell a lie.… I guess I’m just no good. This gang invariably found their way to the adults carrying their cigarettes in their left hands, which meant: No dessert.… Go to your room.… I threw them away.… We don’t have Christmas.
As you can well imagine, a situation such as this could not go on forever. Other unnaturally inclined parents began to flock to Chicken Little. Soon they were coming in from out of town. “The weekends,” said the cognoscenti, “are absolutely impossible. I mean, did you see those children in there last week? Strictly Remedial Reading, I mean really.”
Finally all this activity attracted the attention of the police and late one Saturday
night Chicken Little was raided. “Up against the wall, mother luckers!” shouted the cops to a group of children holding tightly to the hands of suspiciously aproned women. “Hell no, we won’t grow!” the children screamed back. Suddenly a little boy broke loose from his newly acquired mother, ran to the bar, and grabbed for a bottle of milk. “Hold it right there!” yelled the officers of the law. Their warning went unheeded and the little boy was quickly joined by three other children of the sort who don’t know when to stop. They all drank greedily from their respective bottles and fixed the police with impish grins, flaunting their milk mustaches. The boys in blue, pushed beyond their limits, let loose with a volley of fire. All four children were killed. And such was the tragedy of Quenched State.
Guide and Seek:
I’m O.K., You’re Not
Throughout history, people have exhibited an unfortunate tendency to band together in groups. The reasons for this phenomenon vary widely but they can be divided into two general categories: common need and common desire. In the common need division (and I assure you that the word common has not been carelessly chosen) we find such things as leftish political parties, barn raisings, prides of lions, gay liberation, retirement communities, Ms. magazine, armies, quilting bees, the Rockettes, and est-type programs.
Under the heading of common desire—previous parenthetical comment likewise applicable—belong rightish political parties, exercise classes, the Chicago Seven, entourages, the New School for Social Research, fun crowds, and est-type programs. That some, if not all, of the particulars in each category seem to be interchangeable is due to the fact that need and desire are, like cotton madras, inclined to bleed.
The more vigilant among you may have observed that est-type programs appear in both categories. The reason for this is twofold: one, because those who participate in such programs are as desirous as they are needful, and two, because such programs are the very essence of groupness and therefore the most spectacularly unattractive. That I am totally devoid of sympathy for, or interest in, the world of groups is directly attributable to the fact that my two greatest needs and desires—smoking cigarettes and plotting revenge—are basically solitary pursuits. Oh, sure, sometimes a friend or two drops by and we light up together and occasionally I bounce a few vengeance ideas around with a willing companion, but actual meetings are really unnecessary.
I am therefore dismayed that programs such as est seem to be proliferating at a rate of speed traditionally associated with the more unpleasant amoebic disorders—rate of speed being only one of their shared characteristics. As this craze for personal fulfillment shows no signs of abatement, I am afraid that we shall soon be witness to programs catering to needs and desires hitherto considered overly specific. Following are a few possibilities.
rip
rip, an acronym for rest in pleasure, is an organization for those deceased who feel for one reason or another that they are just not getting enough out of death. The name of the leader of this group is not known—he is, at best, an elusive figure but it is generally accepted that rip was started in response to the needs of a small coterie who often confided in one another their sporadic fears that somehow they really didn’t feel that dead. Thus it is believed that Judge Crater, God, Amelia Earhart, Adolf Hitler, and the Lindbergh Baby are responsible for the foundation of this program.
The insecurely departed meet whenever the spirit moves them and their sessions consist largely of answering honestly a series of settling questions on the order of: “Are you saving your receipts?” “Are you coughing?” “Are you on a low-carbohydrate diet?” “Are you waiting for a check?” “Are you on hold?” “No?” responds the leader. “Then obviously you are dead. If you are dead there is no way you are not having eternal peace. If you are having eternal peace you are free from responsibility and the eventuality of being annoyed. There you have it. What could be more pleasant?”
There are certain deprivations attendant to rip sessions. Members are not allowed to go to the bathroom, to stretch their legs, or to eat. And although there have been no complaints from members, there are always those skeptics, those malcontents, those tearer-downers, who are convinced that were rip properly investigated more than one skeleton would come tumbling out of the closet.
lack
lack, or loutish and crass kollective is a program dedicated to the proposition that vulgarity and bad taste are an inalienable right. The lackies, as they are sometimes called, meet if they feel like it at program headquarters, which is known as La Gaucherie. La Gaucherie is densely furnished with seven thousand always-in-operation console color televisions, nine hundred constantly blaring quadrophonic stereos, shag rugs in six hundred and seventy-eight decorator colors, and an eclectic mix of Mediterranean-style dining room sets, fun sofas, interesting wall hangings, and modular seating systems. These members not otherwise occupied practicing the electric guitar or writing articles for Playgirl sit around in unduly comfortable positions expressing their honest feelings and opinions in loud tones of voice. Male lackies are encouraged to leave unbuttoned the first five buttons of their shirts unless they have unusually pale skin and hairy chests, in which case they are required to do so. Female members are encouraged to encourage them. Both sexes participate in a form of meditation that consists of breathing deeply of musk oil while wearing synthetic fabrics. The eventual goal of this discipline is to reach the state of mind known as Los Angeles.
hurts
hurts stands for hypochondriacs usually r terribly sick, and sessions, which are called clinics, are held every twenty minutes in a hall known as the Waiting Room. The members file in, sit on uncomfortable leather-look couches, and read old issues of Today’s Health until the leader, a tall, distinguished, graying-at-the-temples gentleman named Major Medical, calls the meeting to order. Members must undergo an initiation ritual, the Blood Test, before they can compare symptoms. Symptom comparison varies from session to session but all who belong to hurts are ever mindful of the program’s motto, “There’s no such thing as just a mole.” Not infrequently the symptom comparison gets out of hand as each victim tries to outdo the other. On such occasions Major Medical finds it necessary to remind the group members of the sacred oath they took when they received the privilege of wearing the Blue Cross, and must admonish them with a painfully intoned “Patients, patients.”
A World View
Departure
I board a Trans World Airlines jet to Milan the first stop on my whirlwind tour of the Continent. The plane is full of Italians (something I hadn’t quite counted on). I am armed with three cartons of duty-free Vantage cigarettes and a long list of phone numbers I know I will never use. I mean I just can’t see myself calling someone and saying, “Hello, you don’t know me but my hair dresser occasionally sleeps with your press agent, so why don’t you show me Paris.” The flight is uneventful except that the gentleman to my left, a Milanese flour manufacturer wearing a green mohair suit, falls in love with me and I am compelled to spend the last three hours of the trip pretending to be in a coma.
Milan
Milan is quite an attractive little city. A nice cathedral, The Last Supper, a very glamorous train station built by Mussolini, la Scala, and many other enjoyable sights. There are two kinds of people in Milan. The people who work for the various Vogues and the people who don’t. The people who work for the various Vogues are very sociable and enjoy going out. The people who don’t work for the various Vogues may also be very sociable but they probably don’t speak much English. Almost everybody I meet in Milan is a Communist, particularly the rich. Milan is a very political place and the city is full of Communist graffiti and soldiers. Everyone in Milan is very well dressed.
In Milan you do not get matches for free. A double book of matches costs one hundred lire, which is more than fifteen cents in real money. I was appalled by this and resented it tremendously whenever anyone asked me for a light. Whenever anyone offered me a light I was overwhelmed by this largesse and felt that I had
won something.
There is a severe change shortage in Italy. When you make a purchase that requires that the shopkeeper give you back coins he gives you candies or stamps instead. If this should happen to you, you should under no circumstances handle these stamps cavalierly. There are apparently no post offices in Italy, so if you want stamps this is your best bet. Everyone in Milan works and if it rains in Milan they blame it on Rome.
Rome
Nobody in Rome works and if it rains in Rome and they happen to notice it they blame it on Milan. In Rome people spend most of their time having lunch. And they do it very well—Rome is unquestionably the lunch capital of the world. Rome is very architectural and they have quite a lot of art there. The Romans are very nice people and interested in the opinions of others. As you leave the Vatican Museums you will notice to your right a suggestion box. I suggested that they put an acoustical tile ceiling in the Sistine Chapel to cut down on the incredible din produced by the German tourists. They could then reproduce all of Michelangelo’s scenes in acrylic paint, thereby preserving the form and adding a little function.
I was in Rome for about two weeks, during which time there were five major strikes. I don’t know what the strikers wanted or whether or not they got it, but it probably didn’t matter. Going on strike in Rome is much more a matter of style than it is of economics. Rome is a very loony city in every respect. One needs but spend an hour or two there to realize that Fellini makes documentaries.
There is no such thing as rock and roll in Italy, so all the kids there want to be movie stars instead of heroin addicts. This is very pertinent news if you have a taste for the underaged because it means that it is possible to have an entire conversation with a fifteen-year-old without feeling as if you have to throw up.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 5
