The Fran Lebowitz Reader (11 page)

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

This is difficult to determine unless one is prepared to look at the situation very closely.

The favored mode of transportation is infecting a visitor and then hoping that he goes someplace.

The chief products of Mars are tiny little polyester leisure suits and miniature graduate schools.

I had barely recovered from the appellative blow struck by SoHo (
So
uth of
Ho
uston Street) when I received a quick left to the sensibility in the form of NoHo (
No
rth of
Ho
uston Street). Head bloody but unbowed, I dropped my guard and TriBeCa (
Tri
angle
Be
low
Ca
nal 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:

NoTifSoSher (
No
rth of
Tif
fany’s,
So
uth of the
Sherry-
Netherland) is a two-block stretch of Fifth Avenue much favored by shoppers, hotel guests, and strollers from all walks of life. Its attractive jewelry displays and one-way traffic have made it one of the most desirable locations in the city. The undisputed king of the parade route, NoTifSoSher is beloved by Irishmen and war veterans alike. A must-see for taxi-hailers.

A little-known section of town, BeJelfth is a whimsically placed block of West Fourth Street (
Bet
ween
J
ane and
Tw
elfth). Truly a cabby stumper, BeJelfth is a favorite meeting place for dogs both large and small. The delicatessen on the corner is a veritable Mecca for thrill-seekers who never fail to be amazed by the dizzyingly skyrocketing prices.

Long a bastion of male camaraderie, this eccentrically shaped area is bounded on the east by the beginning of Christopher Street and on the west by the Hudson River. Although positively reeking with unconventional charm, Little Humility is a snap to find as it deviates not an inch from the beaten path and abounds with cunning little bars and irresistible tractor-trailer trucks. Those who frequent this district have every right (and every left) to refer to it proudly as the Keys to the City.

Summer has an unfortunate effect upon hostesses who have been unduly influenced by the photography of Irving Penn and take the season as a cue to serve dinners of astonishingly meager proportions. These they call light, a quality which while most assuredly welcome in comedies, cotton shirts, and hearts, is not an appropriate touch at dinner.

It is not surprising that a number of such hostesses seem to be associated with the world of high fashion, for it follows that a person whose idea of a hard day’s work is posing for Deborah Turbeville might also be of the opinion that parsley is an adequate meat course.

Thin, almost transparent slices of lemon do indeed go a long way in dressing up a meal but they should not be counted as a separate vegetable.

*   *   *

Cold soup is a very tricky thing and it is the rare hostess who can carry it off. More often than not the dinner guest is left with the impression that had he only come
a little earlier he could have gotten it while it was still hot.

*   *   *

A salad is not a meal. It is a style.

*   *   *

Japanese food is very pretty and undoubtedly a suitable cuisine in Japan, which is largely populated by people of below average size. Hostesses hell-bent on serving such food to occidentals would be well advised to supplement it with something more substantial and to keep in mind that almost everybody likes french fries.

*   *   *

Vegetables are interesting but lack a sense of purpose when unaccompanied by a good cut of meat.

*   *   *

Water chestnuts are supposed to go in a thing, not to be the thing itself.

*   *   *

White grapes are very attractive but when it comes to dessert people generally like cake with icing.

*   *   *

Candied violets are the Necco Wafers of the overbred.

There are a number of restaurants in New York that cater primarily to the confirmed bachelor. These establishments share many characteristics with the summer hostess and then some.

One such local eatery is a remodeled diner that looks like what Busby Berkeley would have done if only he hadn’t had the money. It is open twenty-four hours a day—one supposes as a convenience to the hungry truck driver who will belly up to the takeout counter and bellow, “Two cucumber soups—good and cold; one endive salad—red wine vinaigrette; and one order of fresh asparagus—hold the hollandaise.”

Saffron should be used sparingly if at all. No matter how enamored one might be of this seasoning, there are few who would agree that it is equal to salt in the versatility department.

*   *   *

A native-born American who has spent the entire day in what he knows to be New York City and has not once stepped aboard a ship or plane is almost invariably chagrined and disoriented by a menu that uses the French counterpart for the perfectly adequate English word
grapefruit.

*   *   *

Watercress is pleasant enough in a salad or sandwich, but when placed alongside a hamburger it is merely an annoyance.

*   *   *

While it is undeniably true that people love a surprise, it is equally true that they are seldom pleased to suddenly and without warning happen upon a series of prunes in what they took to be a normal loin of pork.

*   *   *

People have been cooking and eating for thousands of years, so if you are the very first to have thought of adding fresh lime juice to scalloped potatoes try to understand that there must be a reason for this.

Technological innovation has done great damage not only to reading habits but also to eating habits. Food is now available in such unpleasant forms that one frequently finds smoking between courses to be an aid to the digestion.