The Fran Lebowitz Reader (7 page)

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.

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
, 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
, 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
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.”

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 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.

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.

Cannes is very cute. Lots of big white hotels, pretty beaches, starlets, yachts, lavish parties, a casino, and people who speak English. Everybody in Cannes is very busy. The producers are busy trying to get things to produce. The directors are busy trying to get things to direct. The buyers are busy trying to get sellers. The sellers are busy trying to get buyers. And the waiters are busy trying not to take your order. The best way to meet people in Cannes is to sit on the Carleton Terrace and order a drink. A few hours later the waiter will bring you somebody else’s martini. You pick up the martini in an extravagant manner and look around. A few tables away someone will be holding your Perrier with a twist
in a quizzical position and you will be well on your way to making a friend and/or deal.

There are about two hundred films a day shown in Cannes. I saw two and a half. It costs a lot of money to get to France and I can go to the movies in New York. Anyway, you know what they say about screening rooms—in the dark they all look alike.

Paris is a great beauty. As such it possesses all the qualities that one finds in any other great beauty: chic, sexiness, grandeur, arrogance, and the absolute inability and refusal to listen to reason. So if you’re going there you would do well to remember this: no matter how politely or distinctly you ask a Parisian a question he will persist in answering you in French.

I have chosen these definitions, carefully selected from the Unabridged Second Edition of Webster’s Dictionary, on the basis of congeniality with what is perhaps the most current usage of the word
Trick
—that which refers to the object of one’s affectations. By “one” I mean the person of serious ambition in those fields most likely to necessitate the employment of a press agent. Such a person is often, but not always, a homosexual; the primary reason for this being that the heterosexual is far too burdened by his own young to be much interested in anyone else’s. Where the heterosexual
feels a sense of duty, a sense of honor, a sense of responsibility, the homosexual feels a sense of humor, a sense of protocol, and most significantly, a sense of design.