The Fran Lebowitz Reader (24 page)

The first few times she came we coexisted peacefully, if not lovingly, but by the fourth week I began to find the situation intolerable. Although I made every effort to stay out of her way, she was forever following me from room to room brandishing dangerous-looking household appliances and looking at me contemptuously in Portuguese. It was all too apparent that she had very little use for a person who, it seemed, spent all day long lying around the house using up towels and talking on the telephone in a foreign language. After one episode involving a particularly vigorous and disdainful emptying of ashtrays, I accepted the fact that henceforth I would be obliged to spend my day out of doors.

At first, going out during the day was kind of interesting. A lot of places were open, and it was undeniably well lit, though rather crowded and a tad noisy. I did my level best to if not enjoy, then at least to adapt myself. Soon, however, the novelty wore off, and I found it increasingly difficult to pursue my normal way of life in this alien and hostile environment. I was repeatedly harassed and ofttimes insulted by surly doormen who did not smile upon me fondly as I lolled about beneath their canopies, minding my own business and doing the
TV Guide
crossword puzzle. Crowds gathered and trouble brewed as I attempted to keep in touch with a wide circle of friends via public phone. And time after time
I was the innocent recipient of pointed remarks as I caught up on my reading while attractively posed atop the hoods of other people’s parked cars.

Clearly, this could not go on forever; something had to be done, and fast. There were, of course, no easy answers. The problem was a serious one and demanded a serious effort if it was ever to be solved. To this end I was fully prepared to use every possible method at my disposal. Unfortunately, however, the possible methods at my disposal are rarely those involving careful research and painstaking detail. They tend, it is true, more in the direction of harebrained schemes and crackpot theories. In view of this, it is understandable that I was, in the end, unable to come to any firm resolution and can offer only the tangible written proof that I tried.

THE TANGIBLE WRITTEN PROOF THAT I TRIED

It was apparent to me that an apartment, like a sweater, was impossible to clean if one was in it. Following this logic, it was then equally apparent that an apartment, like a sweater, should be sent out to be cleaned. I decided that this could be accomplished by the general establishment of stores for this purpose. So far, so good. The kinks in this thing didn’t show up until I came to the part where one went to pick up the apartment. It was at this point that I remembered the dirty-sweater analogy, and my heart sank. This sensation was simultaneously accompanied by a vision of myself standing at a counter screaming, “This is not my apartment! Don’t you think I know what my own apartment looks like? Mine was the one with the separate room to write in and the two wood-burning fireplaces. This apartment is not mine. This apartment has no separate room to write in, only one wood-burning
fireplace and a loft bed. Believe me, I don’t have a loft bed. That I promise you. So don’t tell me that this is my apartment, it’s just that the rest of it didn’t come back yet. And do you mind telling me how you could lose a wood-burning fireplace?
It was not hanging by a thread.
It was attached to a very substantial plaster wall. This isn’t my apartment and I’m not taking it. No, I wouldn’t rather have this apartment than no apartment at all. I want
my
apartment, the one I brought you. All right, I will—I
will
sue you. Don’t think I won’t. You’ll hear from my lawyer. I’m going to call him right now.”

And with that I saw myself turning on my heel and angrily stalking out. Lamentably, the next thing I saw was myself back outside, in a public phone booth with crowds gathering and trouble brewing. It was then that I decided that if I was going to have to make my phone calls outside anyway, I might as well keep both fireplaces.

A
ll of the things in the world can be divided into two basic categories: natural things and artificial things. Or, as they are more familiarly known, nature and art. Now, nature, as I am only too well aware, has her enthusiasts, but on the whole, I am not to be counted among them. To put it rather bluntly, I am not the type who wants to go back to the land—I am the type who wants to go back to the hotel. This state of affairs is at least partially due to the fact that nature and I have so little in common. We don’t go to the same restaurants, laugh at the same jokes or, most significant, see the same people.

This was not, however, always the case. As a child I was frequently to be found in a natural setting: playing in the snow, walking in the woods, wading in the pond. All these things were standard events in my daily life. But little by little I grew up, and it was during this process of maturation that I began to notice some of nature’s more glaring deficiencies. First of all, nature is by and large to be found out of doors, a location where, it cannot be argued, there are never enough comfortable chairs. Secondly, for fully half of the
time it is day out there, a situation created by just the sort of harsh overhead lighting that is so unflattering to the heavy smoker. Lastly, and most pertinent to this discourse, is the fact that natural things are by their very definition wild, unkempt and more often than not crawling with bugs. Quite obviously, then, natural things are just the kind of things that one does not strive to acquire.
Objets d’art
are one thing;
objets d’nature
are not. Who, after all, could possibly want to own something that even the French don’t have a word for?

In view of all this I have prepared a little chart designed to more graphically illustrate the vast superiority of that which is manufactured over that which is not.

Now that you have had an opportunity to gain an overview of the subject, it is time to explore things more thoroughly, time to ask yourselves what you have learned and how you can best apply your new-found knowledge. Well, obviously, the first and most important thing you have learned is that linguini with clam sauce is mankind’s crowning achievement. But as this is a concept readily grasped, it is unnecessary to linger over it or discuss it in greater detail.

As to the question of how you can best apply what you have learned, I believe that it would be highly beneficial to you all were we to examine the conventional wisdom on the subject of things in order to see what it looks like in the light of your new-found knowledge:

THE CONVENTIONAL WISDOM ON THE SUBJECT OF THINGS AS SEEN IN THE LIGHT OF YOUR NEW-FOUND KNOWLEDGE

All good things come to those who wait:
This is a concept that parallels in many respects another well-known thought, that of the meek inheriting the earth. With that in mind, let us use a time-honored method of education and break the first statement into its two major component parts: a) All good things; b) come to those who wait. Immediately it is apparent that thanks to our previous study we are well informed as to which exactly the good things are. It is when we come to “those who wait” that we are entering virgin territory. Educators have found that in cases like this it is often best to use examples from actual life. So then, we must think of a place that from our own experience we know as a place where “those who wait” might, in fact, be waiting.
Thus I feel that the baggage claim area of a large metropolitan airport might well serve our purpose.

Now, in addressing the fundamental issue implied by this question—i.e., the veracity of the statement “All good things come to those who wait”—we are in actuality asking the question, “Do, in fact, all good things come to those who wait?” In breaking our answer into
its
two major component parts, we find that we know that: a) among “all good things” are to be found linguini with clam sauce, the Bentley automobile and the ever-fascinating city of Paris.

We also know that: b) “those who wait” are waiting at O’Hare. We then think back to our own real-life adventures, make one final check of our helpful chart and are sadly compelled to conclude that “No, all good things do
not
come to those who wait”—unless due to unforeseeably personal preferences on the part of “those who wait,” “all good things” are discovered to include an item entitled
SOME OF YOUR LUGGAGE MISSING ALL OF ITS CONTENTS.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
This graceful line from a poem written by John Keats is not so much inaccurate as it is archaic. Mr. Keats, it must be remembered, was not only a poet but also a product of the era in which he lived. Additionally, it must not be forgotten that one of the salient features of the early nineteenth century was an inordinate admiration for the simple ability to endure. Therefore, while a thing of beauty is a joy, to be sure, we of the modern age, confined no longer by outmoded values, are free to acknowledge that nine times out of ten a weekend is long enough.

Each man kills the thing he loves:
And understandably so, when he has been led to believe that it will be a joy forever.
Doing your own thing:
the use of the word “thing” in this context is unusually precise, since those who are prone to this expression actually do
do
things as opposed to those who do work—i.e., pottery is a thing—writing is a work.

Life is just one damned thing after another:
And death is a cabaret.

I
feel compelled by duty to begin this discourse with what I actually think of as a statement, but what will more probably be construed as an admission. I do not like animals. Of any sort. I don’t even like the idea of animals. Animals are no friends of mine. They are not welcome in my house. They occupy no space in my heart. Animals are off my list. I will say, however, in the spirit of qualification, that I mean them no particular harm. I won’t bother animals if animals won’t bother me. Well, perhaps I had better amend that last sentence. I won’t
personally
bother animals. I do feel, though, that a plate bereft of a good cut of something rare is an affront to the serious diner, and that while I have frequently run across the fellow who could, indeed, be described as a broccoli-and-potatoes man, I cannot say that I have ever really taken to such a person.

Therefore, I might more accurately state that I do not like animals, with two exceptions. The first being in the past tense, at which point I like them just fine, in the form of nice crispy spareribs and Bass Weejun penny loafers. And the second being outside, by which I mean not merely
outside, as in outside the house, but genuinely outside, as in outside in the woods, or preferably outside in the South American jungle. This is, after all, only fair. I don’t go there; why should they come here?

The above being the case, it should then come as no surprise that I do not approve of the practice of keeping animals as pets. “Not approve” is too mild: pets should be disallowed by law. Especially dogs. Especially in New York City.

I have not infrequently verbalized this sentiment in what now passes for polite society, and have invariably been the recipient of the information that even if dogs should be withheld from the frivolous, there would still be the blind and the pathologically lonely to think of. I am not totally devoid of compassion, and after much thought I believe that I have hit upon the perfect solution to this problem—let the lonely lead the blind. The implementation of this plan would provide companionship to one and a sense of direction to the other, without inflicting on the rest of the populace the all too common spectacle of grown men addressing German shepherds in the respectful tones best reserved for elderly clergymen and Internal Revenue agents.

You animal lovers uninterested in helping news dealers across busy intersections will just have to seek companionship elsewhere. If actual friends are not within your grasp, may I suggest that you take a cue from your favorite celebrity and consider investing in a really good entourage. The advantages of such a scheme are inestimable: an entourage is indisputably superior to a dog (or even, of course, actual friends), and will begin to pay for itself almost immediately. You do not have to walk an entourage; on the contrary, one of the major functions of an entourage is that
it
walks
you.
You do not have to name an entourage. You do not have to play with an entourage. You do not have to take an entourage to the vet—although the conscientious entourage owner makes certain that his entourage has had all of its shots. You do, of course, have to feed an entourage, but this can be accomplished in decent Italian restaurants and without the bother and mess of large tin cans and special plastic dishes.

If the entourage suggestion does not appeal to you, perhaps you should alter your concept of companionship. Living things need not enter into it at all. Georgian silver and Duncan Phyfe sofas make wonderful companions, as do all alcoholic beverages and out-of-season fruits. Use your imagination, study up on the subject. You’ll think of something.