The scientists, understandably horrified by the results of their tampering with the natural order, tried to stem the rising tide of heterosexuality by appealing to the rats’ greatest weakness. They chose a small group of rats who had previously been the most hard-core of the S & M crowd. They led them over to the docks on the Hudson River. Here they attempted to stir old fires by tossing into the murky waters those accoutrements most cherished before the move to Soho. First they let dangle and then drop a black leather cap with metal ornaments. The rats responded with agitated tail movements but stayed put. Next they tried a pair of rugged boots complete with menacing-looking spurs. Still no action. Finally the scientists threw into the river a long, snaky leather whip. Their spirits lifted as several of the rats scurried to the edge of the dock. But instinct was overcome by conditioning, and they watched with heavy hearts and defeated eyes the rats desert the sinking whip.
Why I Love Sleep
I love sleep because it is both pleasant and safe to use. Pleasant because one is in the best possible company and safe because sleep is the consummate protection against the unseemliness that is the invariable consequence of being awake. What you don’t know won’t hurt you. Sleep is death without the responsibility.
The danger, of course, is that sleep appears to be rather addictive. Many find that they cannot do without it and will go to great lengths to ensure its possession. Such people have been known to neglect home, hearth, and even publishers’ deadlines in the crazed pursuit of their objective. I must confess that I, too, am a sleeper and until quite recently was riddled with guilt because of it. But then I considered the subject more carefully and what I learned not only relieved my guilt but also made me proud to be among the fatigued.
I would like to share my findings so that others might feel free to lay down their once uplifted heads. I have therefore prepared a brief course of instruction in order to instill pride in those who sleep.
The Fran Lebowitz Sleep Studies Program
Sleep is a genetic rather than an acquired trait. If your parents were sleepers, chances are that you will be too. This is not cause for despair but rather for pride in a heritage that you share not only with your family but also with a fine group of well-known historical figures. The following list is indicative of the diversity to be found among sleepers:
Some Well-known Historical Figures Who Were Sleepers
Dwight D. Eisenhower
While many remember Ike (as he was affectionately called by an adoring nation) for his golf, there is little doubt but that he was a sleeper from childhood, a trait he unquestionably carried with him to the White House. In fact, so strongly committed was he to sleep that one could barely distinguish Ike’s sleeping from Ike’s waking.
William Shakespeare
Known as the Bard among his colleagues in the word game, Shakespeare was undoubtedly one of literature’s most inspired and prolific sleepers. Proof of this exists in the form of a bed found in the house he occupied in Stratford-upon-Avon. Further references to sleeping have been discovered in his work, and although there is some question as to whether he actually did all his own sleeping (scholarly debate currently centers around the possibility that some of it was done by Sir Francis Bacon), we are nevertheless safe in assuming that William Shakespeare was indeed a sleeper of note.
e. e. cummings
The evidence that e. e. cummings was a sleeper is admittedly sparse. Therefore, it is generally accepted that he was perhaps more of a napper.
It is only to be expected that if so many well-known historical figures were sleepers, their accomplishments should be of equal import. Following is a partial list of such achievements:
Some Contributions to World Culture Made by Sleepers
Architecture
Language
Science
The wheel
Fire
I rest my case.
Good Weather
and Its Propensity to Frequent
the Better Neighborhoods
It was once the common belief that the climate was determined by a large number of gods, each in charge of a specific variety of weather. Then came the major religions, and most people came to hold a more subdued point of view that suggested but a single god who got around a lot. Many still take this position, although the majority now ascribe to a theory of weather based largely on cloud formation, air pressure, wind velocity, and other aspects of science. Lastly, there are those who feel that the weather and what it does are entirely the province of honey-throated television announcers with big Magic Markers. So, then, we are presented with three basic theories as regards the controlling factor of weather:
A. God
B. Nature
C. Tone of Voice
To the casual observer it would appear that these three theories are widely disparate. That, of course, is the problem with casual observers. Their very casualness—that trait we once all found so attractive … so appealing … so devil-may-care—is precisely what makes them so quick to judge and therefore so frequently inaccurate. The more vigilant observer would unquestioningly be able to detect a rather striking similarity. That similarity being that all three theories are based quite simply on mere whim—God can change his mind, Nature can change her course, and Voice, as we all know only too well, can change its tone.
Thus we find that by and large the world considers weather to be something, if not all, of a romantic—given to dashing about hither and yon raining and snowing and cooling and heating with a capriciousness astonishing if not downright ridiculous in one so mature. Well, the world may think what it bloody well likes but I for one will have nothing to do with such faulty logic and so have formulated what I believe to be a more reasonable theory.
“Why,” I asked myself, “should the weather be any different from you or me—are we not all one?” When presented with a question of such startling clarity I was compelled to answer, “No reason, Fran, no reason at all.” “Well then,” I continued, “it follows that if weather is no different from you or me, then it must be the same as you or me, in which case that which controls us must control it.” “Can’t argue with that,” I replied, realizing with a start that I was in the presence of a master. “And what,” I queried further, “do you think that is? Only one thing—money. That’s right, money.” “When you’re right you’re right,” was the welcome reply, and with that my companion and I strode off happily hand in hand—a gesture which, while it did lend us a certain September Mornish aspect, was in no way unattractive.
While some may find this argument specious, I offer the following as absolute definitive evidence that it is money and money alone that influences the weather.
1. On August 13, 1975, at 3:00 P.M., the temperature on Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue was ninety-four degrees—the humidity 85 percent. On the exact same date and at the exact same time the temperature on Seventy-third Street and Fifth Avenue was a balmy seventy-one degrees—the humidity a comfortable 40 percent. I know, because I was there.
2. The only recorded instance of rain on Sutton Place occurred when a scene from a big-budget movie was being shot in the vicinity and the script called for inclement weather. The moment the powerful Hollywood director yelled “Cut!” the rain stopped.
3. The reason that then mayor John Lindsay did not send snowplows to Queens during that much publicized blizzard was that he lived on Gracie Square, where on the day in question he was lying on his terrace taking the sun.
4. It is widely believed that in the summer rich people leave New York to go to Southampton because the weather is cooler there. This is not true. What actually happens is that in the summer the cooler weather leaves New York and goes to Southampton because it doesn’t want to stay in New York with a lot of underpaid writers and Puerto Ricans.
5. Generally speaking, the weather is better on the East Side than on the West Side. All in all, the weather considered this arrangement satisfactory except for the problem posed by the better buildings on Ce
ntral Park West. The problem was solved by means of a trade-off with certain buildings in the East Seventies that are largely populated by beyond-their-means airline stewardesses and the proprietors of leather boutiques. Thus the San Remo and the Dakota receive weather appropriate to their architecture and airline stewardesses and the proprietors of leather boutiques are perhaps those among us who most fully understand the meaning of the term “fair-weather friend.”
Plants:
The Roots of All Evil
The Unabridged Second Edition of Webster’s Dictionary—a volume of no small repute—gives the following as the second definition of the word plant: “any living thing that cannot move voluntarily, has no sense organs and generally makes its own food.…” I have chosen the second definition in favor of the first because it better serves my purpose, which is to prove once and for all that, except in extremely rare instances, a plant is really not the sort of thing that one ought to have around the house. That this might be accomplished in an orderly manner, I have elected to consider each aspect of the above definition individually. Let us begin at the beginning:
Any Living Thing
In furnishing one’s place of residence one seeks to acquire those things which will provide the utmost in beauty, comfort, and usefulness. In the beauty department one is invariably drawn to such fixtures as Cocteau drawings, Ming vases, and Aubusson rugs. Comfort is, of course, assured by the ability to possess these objects. Usefulness is something best left to those trained in such matters.
It should, then, be apparent that at no time does Any Living Thing enter the picture except in the past tense. In other words, it is perfectly acceptable to surround oneself with objects composed of that which while alive may have been Any Living Thing but in death has achieved dignity by becoming a nice white linen sheet.
That Cannot Move Voluntarily
Here one is confronted with the problem that arises when Any Living Thing takes the form of an extra person. An extra person is quite simply a person other than oneself. Living things of this nature undoubtedly have their place in both town and country, as they usually prove to be the most adept at typing, kissing, and conversing in an amusing fashion. It must be pointed out, however, that moving voluntarily is the very key to their success in performing these functions; the necessity of having to actually operate them would quite eliminate their appeal.
I have previously stated my contention that plants are acceptable in extremely rare instances. This type of extremely rare instance occurs when one is presented with a leaf-ridden token of affection by an extra person who has provided valuable service. Refusal of a plant thus offered will almost certainly result in the termination of this bond. Therefore, while the decision as to who exactly should be allowed to burden one with such a memento is, of course, a matter of personal conscience, one is wise to remember that talk is cheap, a kiss is just a kiss, but manuscripts do not type themselves.
Has No Sense Organs
It is necessary to remember that, although No Sense Organs does most assuredly guarantee no meaningful glances, no snorting derisively, and no little tastes, it also, alas, guarantees no listening spellbound.
And Generally Makes Its Own Food
There is, I believe, something just the tiniest bit smug in that statement. And Generally Makes Its Own Food, does it? Well, bully for It. I do not generally make my own food, nor do I apologize for it in the least. New York City is fairly bristling with restaurants of every description and I cannot help but assume that they are there for a reason. Furthermore, it is hard to cherish the notion of a cuisine based on photosynthesis. Thus, since I have yet to detect the aroma of Fettuccine Alfredo emanating from a Boston fern, I do not consider And Generally Makes Its Own Food to be a trait of any consequence whatsoever. When you run across one that Generally Makes Its Own Money, give me a call.
Mars:
Living in a Small Way
Not too long ago the United States succeeded in landing on Mars an unmanned spacecraft, the chief purpose of which was to ascertain whether or not anyone lives there. The results are not all in yet but there is, I am afraid, little doubt that the answer will be in the affirmative. It is pointless to assume that the earth alone is afflicted with the phenomenon of life.
There has been a good deal of speculation as to the personal appearance of these foreigners and much has been made of the possibility that this life might be of such exotic aspect that we here at home would be unable to recognize it. An interesting thought indeed, but, alas, like all interesting thoughts it has at its core the basest sort of longing. For as an earthling who has seen, if not it all, then at least all that I care to, I cannot help but be reminded of that immutable truth: if you go looking for trouble you’re bound to find it.
Under the impression that life makes itself evident only in the physical mode, the general public—a perennially lackluster bunch—tends to dwell on such matters as arms, noses, and neck size, thereby envisioning a being that differs from the average Joe only in the most superficial detail. Scientists—a crowd that when it comes to style and dash makes the general public look like the Bloomsbury Set—seem to speak largely of microbes, gases, and liquid states.
This concern with the corporeal is really superfluous. There is, of course, life on Mars and we shall, of course, recognize it, if not by its form, then most certainly by its function, which it undoubtedly shares with our own local brand of life: the will to annoy.
In order to recognize which is life we must first deal with the somewhat broader question of what is life. Here we discover that others have preceded us and provided quite a range of answers. We consider each answer individually but we are invariably disappointed. A bowl of cherries? Too pat. A cabaret? Not in this neighborhood. Real? Hardly. Earnest? Please.
It is by this painstaking method of careful examination and eventual rejection that we reach a conclusion: life is something to do when you can’t get to sleep. Therefore, that which we call civilization is merely the accumulated debris of a chilling number of bad nights.
There is no reason to believe that the Martians are any less nervous than we are (indeed they are very likely more so—their insomnia compounded by the problems of living so far uptown) and therefore they are undoubtedly a thoroughly unpleasant lot.
Let us assume for the purposes of this essay that the Martians are microbes. Microbes are undeniably on the small side, which means that basketball and fashion models are definitely not in the picture. Such deficiency in size is worthy of comment, for the concept of an entire planet that cannot reach the top shelf is seriously disconcerting. Perhaps we can best understand these beings by a careful study of Mars as a whole.
Mars
It is generally accepted that Mars was named for the Roman god of war. This is erroneous. The closely guarded truth is that it was actually discovered by a Roman gentleman of artistic temperament who attempted to use his achievement to romantic advantage. The Roman, his eye on an attractive but elusive Swedish fellow, tried flattery. Great political pressure was brought to bear and he eventually came to understand that the Roman Empire had no intention of allowing any planet of theirs to be called Lars. As you can see, a compromise was reached.
The Land and Its Resources
Mars is the third smallest planet and therefore of interest only to collectors. It is bleak and rocky with no coastline to speak of—a feature that has made it one of the few beach areas within the financial grasp of this writer. Finding a taxi is next to impossible and visitors are advised not to.
Natural resources run heavily to alien vapors and strange stones.
The People and Their Work
The people, as has been stated before, are microbes—a condition that makes them at best peoplettes and at worst microbes. Their work consists mainly of getting visitors to stop making jokes about their height.
Population
This is difficult to determine unless one is prepared to look at the situation very closely.
Transpo
rtation
The favored mode of transportation is infecting a visitor and then hoping that he goes someplace.
Chief Products
The chief products of Mars are tiny little polyester leisure suits and miniature graduate schools.
City Limiting:
The New Geography
I had barely recovered from the appellative blow struck by SoHo (South of Houston Street) when I received a quick left to the sensibility in the form of NoHo (North of Houston Street). Head bloody but unbowed, I dropped my guard and TriBeCa (Triangle Below Canal Street) scored a T.K.O. in the very first sound.
I have been laid up now for quite a while and have had ample time to consider this matter in detail. Yes indeed, I’ve given this thing a lot of thought and I’ve come to the conclusion that this crazed naming of extremely specific areas of the city has yet to come to full flower. An appalling situation—no end in sight—there is not the slightest indication that these area buffs have named their last. It is abundantly clear that such vague terms as Midtown will no longer suffice; it will only get worse and will probably go something like this:
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 8
