The Fran Lebowitz Reader (30 page)

But it wasn’t enough, and I was forced to take in a collaborator. At first he seemed to be working out. He specialized in parodies and they were moving pretty good, but before too long I began to get suspicious of him. I mean, I could barely put food on my table, and there he was, riding around in a Cadillac a block long. One night after dinner I went back to the store and went over the books with a fine-tooth comb. Just as I thought, there it was in black and white: the guy was a thief. He’d been stealing my lines all
along. I confronted him with the evidence and what could he do? He promised to pay me back a few pages a week, but I knew that was one joker I’d never see again.

I kicked him out and worked even harder. Eighty-hour weeks, open every night until ten, but it was a losing battle. With the big humor chains moving in, what chance did an independent like me have? Then the day came when I knew all was lost. Sol’s Discount Satire opened up right across the street. He wrote in bulk; I couldn’t meet his prices. I, of course, was wittier, but nobody cared about quality anymore. Their attitude was “So it’s a little broad, but at forty percent below list we’ll forsake a little subtlety.” I went in the back of the store and sat down, trying desperately to figure something out. There was a sharp rap at the door, and in walked Morris, a goon on either side, ready to collect. I told him I didn’t have it. I begged for more time. I was pleading for my life. Morris stared at me coolly, a hard glint in his eye as he cleaned his nails with a lethal-looking fountain pen.

“Look, Fran,” he said, “you’re breaking my heart. Either you pay up by next Monday, or I’m gonna spread it around that you’re mixing your metaphors.”

With that he turned on his heel and walked out the door followed by the two gorillas. I was sweating bullets. If Morris spread that around, I’d never get another laugh as long as I lived. My head swam with crazy plans, and when I realized what I had to do, my heart thumped like a jackhammer.

Late that night I went back to the store. I let myself in through the side door and set to work. I poured a lot of gasoline around, took a last look, threw in a match and beat it the hell out of there. I was twenty blocks away when the full realization of what I’d done hit me. Overcome by remorse, I ran all the way back, but it was too late. The deed
was done; I’d burned my comic essays for the insurance money.

The next day I met with the adjuster from That’s Life, and thank God he bought the fire and paid me off. It was just enough to settle with Morris, and then I was broke again.

I started to free-lance for other stores, writing under a pseudonym, of course. My heart wasn’t in it, but I needed the cash. I was grinding it out like hamburger meat, trying to build up some capital. The stuff was too facile, I knew that, but there was a market for it, so I made the best of it.

The years went by and I was just getting to the point where I could take it a little easy, when I was struck by an idea that was to change not only my own life but that of everyone in the entire humor business. The idea? Fast humor. After all, the pace had picked up a lot since my days on Delancey Street. The world was a different place; humor habits had changed. Everyone was in a hurry. Who had time anymore for a long comic essay, a slow build, a good long laugh? Everything was rush, rush, rush. Fast humor was an idea whose time had come.

Once again I started small, just a little place out on Queens Boulevard. I called it Rapid Repartee and used every modern design technique available. All chrome and glass, everything sleek and clean. Known in the business for my cunning and waggish ways, I couldn’t resist a little joke and so used as my trademark a golden arch. No one got it. So I added another one, and got a great reaction. You really have to hit people over the head, don’t you? Be that as it may, the place caught on like wildfire. I couldn’t keep Quick Comebacks in stock, and the Big Crack was the hit of the century. I began to franchise, but refused to relinquish quality
control. Business boomed and today I can tell you I’m sitting pretty. I’ve got it all: a penthouse on Park, a yacht the size of the
Queen Mary
and a Rolls you could live in. But still, every once in a while I get that old creative itch. When this happens I slip on an apron and cap, step behind one of my thousands of counters, smile pleasantly at the customer and say, “Good morning. Something nice in a Stinging Barb?” If I’m recognized, it’s always good for a laugh, because, believe you me, in this business unless you have a sense of humor you’re dead.

E
ach year millions of people attempt to shed excess pounds by dint of strenuous diet and exercise. They nibble carrot sticks, avoid starches, give up drinking, run around reservoirs, lift weights, swing from trapezes and otherwise behave in a manner that suggests an unhappy penchant for undue fanfare. All of this is, of course, completely unnecessary, for it is entirely possible—indeed, easy—to lose weight and tone up without the slightest effort of will. One has merely to conduct one’s life in such a way that pounds and inches will disappear as of their own volition.

Magic, you say? Fantasy? Pie in the sky? Longing of the
basest sort? Not at all, I assure you, not at all. No magic, no fantasy, no dreamy hopes of any kind. But a secret, ah yes, there is a secret. The secret of exploiting an element present in everyone’s daily life, and using to its fullest advantage the almost inexhaustible resources available within.

That element? Stress. Yes, stress; plain, ordinary, everyday stress. The same type of stress that everyone has handy at any time of the day or night. Call it what you will: annoyance, work, pressure, art, love, it is stress nevertheless, and it is stress that will be your secret weapon as you embark on my foolproof program of physical fitness and bodily beauty.

DIET

The downfall of most diets is that they restrict your intake of food. This is, of course, galling, and inevitably leads to failure. The Fran Lebowitz High Stress Diet (T.F.L.H.S.D. for short) allows unlimited quantities of all foods. You may eat whatever you like. If you can choke it down, it’s yours. The following is a partial list of allowed foods. Naturally, space limitations make it impossible to furnish a complete list. If you can eat something that is not on this list—good luck to you.

As you can see, T.F.L.H.S.D. permits you a variety of foods unheard of on most diets. And, as I have stated previously, quantity is of no concern. I ask only that you coordinate your eating with specific physical activities. This program is detailed below.

EQUIPMENT

You can proceed with The Fran Lebowitz High Stress Exercise Program (T.F.L.H.S.E.P.) without the purchase of special equipment; it calls for only those accouterments that you undoubtedly possess already. A partial list follows:

Necessary equipment will, of course, vary from person to person, but T.F.L.H.S.E.P. is flexible and can adapt to almost any situation. This is clearly seen in the sample one-day menu and exercise program that follows. It must be remembered that it is absolutely mandatory that you follow exercise instructions while eating.

Sample Menu and Program

BREAKFAST

1. Take first bite of pancake.
   
2. Call agent. Discover that in order to write screenplay you must move to Los Angeles for three months and enter into a collaboration with a local writer who has to his credit sixteen episodes of
   The Partridge Family
   , one unauthorized biography of Ed McMahon, and the novelization of the projected sequel to
   Missouri Breaks.
   (Excellent for firming jawline.)
   

MIDMORNING SNACK

1. Take first sip of coffee.
   
2. Open mail and find final disconnect notice from telephone company, threatening letter from spouse of new flame and a note from a friend informing you that you have been recently plagiarized on network television. (Tones up fist area.)
   

LUNCH

1. Arrange to lunch with lawyer.
   
2. Take first bite of Chicken Kiev.
   
3. Inquire of lawyer as to your exact chances in litigation against CBS. (Flattens tummy fast.)
   

DINNER

1. Arrange to dine with small group that includes three people with whom you are having clandestine love affairs, your younger sister from out of town, a business rival to whom you owe a great deal of money and two of the lawyers from CBS. It is always more fruitful to exercise with others. (Tightens up the muscles.)
   

As I have said, this is just a sample, and any combination of foods and exercises will work equally well. Your daily weight loss should average from between three to five pounds, depending largely on whether you are smoking a sufficient number of cigarettes. This is a common pitfall and close attention should be paid, for inadequate smoking is certain to result in a lessening of stress. For those of you who simply cannot meet your quota, it is imperative that you substitute other exercises, such as moving in downstairs from an aspiring salsa band and/or being terribly frank with your mother. If these methods fail, try eating while reading the
New York Times
Real Estate section. Admittedly, this is a drastic step and should not be taken before you have first warmed up with at least six pages of Arts and Leisure and one sexual encounter with a person vital to your career.

Occasionally I run across a dieter with an unusually stubborn weight problem. If you fall into this category, I recommend as a final desperate measure that you take your meals with a magazine editor who really and truly understands your work and a hairdresser who wants to try something new and interesting.

N
ew Yorkers whose formative years were spent in more rural environments are frequently troubled by their inability to spot seasonal change. Deprived of such conventional signs as caterpillars, yellow leaves and the frost on the pumpkin, these bewildered citizens are quarterly confronted with the problem of ascertaining just exactly when it is what time of year. In an attempt to dispel this sort of confusion I offer the following guide:

AUTUMN

Autumn refers to the period beginning in late September and ending right before January. Its most salient visual characteristic is that white people all over town begin to lose their tans. New Yorkers, however, being somewhat reserved, it is not good form to try to rake them up and jump in them. Recent air-pollution control laws have also prohibited their burning, no matter how nostalgic one is for the homey scent of a roaring bonfire. Another marked feature of this season, and one not unrelated to the aforementioned, is that there
are
white people all over town, a fact worth noting in this context as it signals a mass return from the Hamptons (see Summer).

Nubbier, more textured fabrics start to make an appearance and shoes begin gradually to become more bootlike.

Politicians begin to spout brightly hued wild promises, but it is unwise to pick them, particularly early in the season, and on the whole one is far safer in sticking to the cultivated varieties.

WINTER

Winter begins where autumn leaves off, but has a lot more staying power than its quicksilver antecedent. As this season progresses one begins again to note fewer white people on the street (see Barbados) and more black people on television (see landlord’s attitudes toward supplying heat; see landlords in person in Barbados).

Outdoor fashion shootings become sparse and are replaced by illegal aliens selling outsized pretzels and cold chestnuts.

Due to the dangers of the chill air, buses tend to band together in herds and Checker cabs pair off and retire to their garages for mutual warmth and companionship.

Although the frozen ground is hard and unyielding, often city contracts covering vital services come up for renewal (see Autumn, Spring and Summer) and mayoral press conferences are abundant.

Along about February, literary agents begin to turn green while talking on the telephone to their cinematic counterparts, and almost as one fly West to negotiate. Shortly after their return they will begin to lose their tans, but this is
merely an example of the exception proving the rule and should not be taken by the novice as a sign of autumn. It is still winter, so try to regain your bearings by determining which out-of-season fruits are the most expensive.