The Fran Lebowitz Reader (9 page)

These data unquestionably support my theory that modern science was largely conceived of as an answer to the servant problem and that it is generally practiced by those who lack a flair for conversation.

It is therefore not surprising that only after Abolition did science begin to display its most unsavory features.
Inventions and discoveries became progressively less desirable as it became harder and harder to get good help.

Prior to the advent of this unfortunate situation the scientist was chiefly concerned with the theoretical. His needs properly attended to, he quite rightly saw no reason to disturb others by finding a practical application for his newfound knowledge. This resulted in the establishment of schools of thought rather than schools of computer programming. That this was a much pleasanter state of affairs than presently exists is indisputable, and one has only to look around to see that the unseemliness of modern science is basically the product of men whose peevish reactions to household disorder drove them to folly. Even in those cases where a practical touch was indicated one notes a tendency toward excess.

A typical example of this syndrome is Thomas Edison. Edison invented the electric light bulb, the purpose of which was to make it possible for one to read at night. A great and admirable achievement and one that would undoubtedly have earned him a permanent place in the hearts and minds of civilized men had he not then turned around and invented the phonograph. This single act led to the eventual furnishing of small apartments with quadrophonic sound systems, thereby making it impossible for the better element to properly enjoy his
good
invention. If one follows this line of thought to its logical conclusion one clearly sees that almost without exception every displeasing aspect of science is, in one way or another, a hideous corruption of the concept of reading at night. Reading is not a particularly popular pastime—hence the warm welcome the majority of the population has extended to such things as snowmobiles, tape decks, and citizen band radios. That these newer appliances have not entirely taken away the appetite of the public for electric lamps can only be attributed
to their unwillingness to let perfectly good empty sangria bottles go to waste.

Scientists are rarely to be counted among the fun people. Awkward at parties, shy with strangers, deficient in irony—they have had no choice but to turn their attention to the close study of everyday objects. They have had ample opportunity to do so and on occasion have been rewarded with gratifying insights.

Thus electricity was the product of Franklin’s interest in lightning, the concept of gravity the outcome of Newton’s experience with an apple, and the steam engine the result of Watt’s observation of a teakettle.

It is only to be expected that people of this sort are not often invited out. After all, a person who might well spend an entire evening staring at a kitchen utensil has little to recommend him as a dinner companion. It is far too risky—particularly if the person in question is moved to share his thoughts with others. Physical laws are not amusing. Mathematical symbols do not readily lend themselves to the double entendre. Chemical properties are seldom cause for levity. These facts make it intolerable for a gathering ever to include more than one scientist. If it is unavoidable, a scientist may be safely invited to dinner providing that he is absolutely the only member of his profession present. More than one scientist at the table is bad luck—not to mention bad taste. Legend has it that the atom was split when a bunch of scientists working late decided to order in a pizza. Indeed a terrifying story and one made all the more chilling when one learns that a number of their colleagues smarting from the snub of being excluded from this impromptu meal spitefully repaired to an all-night diner and invented polyester.

During a recent luncheon with a practicing member of the leisure class the subject of fingernail care chanced (as it so often does) to come up. My companion chided me for what she considered to be the disgraceful condition of my fingernails and suggested quite strongly that I accompany her to the inordinately tony establishment that is responsible for the impeccable condition of her own. Upon learning the cost of such an outing I curled my upper lip in an attractive yet forceful manner and declined her invitation with little regret. I was, however, helpless against the demands of my constantly questing mind and felt compelled to inquire as to what exactly could be done to fingernails to warrant such expense. “Why,” replied my friend, “they shape them, they wrap them, they polish them, and if I need it they give me a transplant.” “A transplant,” I repeated. “What do you mean, a transplant?”

“Well, if I break a nail and I have the broken piece they put it back on. But if I don’t they use someone else’s nail from the nail bank.” “The nail bank?” I repeated again.

“Yes,” she said and began to explain further, but I must confess that I was no longer listening, for I was far too intent on my own imaginings. I left the table in a daze and remember little of the hours that followed, since my mind was reeling with vivid nail bank visions. I have finally managed to get some sort of grip on this thing and here is how it works:

Every year there is a nail drive. Volunteer nail workers set up shop in such likely establishments as finishing schools, health clubs, secretarial pools, and Henri Bendel’s. The donor enters the room set aside for this purpose, lies down on a portable Ultrasuede chaise longue, and extends her hands. The volunteer nail worker carefully clips three nails from each hand (any more would be dangerous; any less, uncharitable) and then offers the donor a glass of Knox gelatine so that she may regain her strength. The nails are then placed in sterile containers and rushed to the nail bank. There they are typed accordingly:

When the victim of a broken nail is brought into the salon a team of dedicated manicurists matches the victim’s type with the specimens on hand and performs the transplant with meticulous skill. There are, however, frequent shortages and it is not uncommon for a victim to wait days for a compatible type. Measures, of course, have been taken to alleviate this situation. During the annual nail drive volunteers comb the city in an effort to convince those girls too selfish to donate in life to do so in death. These girls carry upon their persons cards that in the event of their demise instruct the authorities to clip so that another might receive the gift of renewed
length. When one of these girls meets with a fatal accident that miraculously leaves her nails intact, a manicurist is raced to the scene and the procedure is carried out with dignity and dispatch.

Now, it sometimes happens that there are two girls in need of the same type nail but only one such nail is available. In a case like this the nail properly goes to the better tipper, but occasionally both girls are equally matched in this department. When this occurs the girls are brought before a judicial body known formally as the Emery Board. The Emery Board is composed of four experts in the field: a hairdresser, a headwaiter, a doorman, and Another Woman. The board members ask the girls the following pertinent questions:

1. Where are you going this evening?
   
2. With whom?
   
3. Wearing what?
   

The girls are then asked to leave the room while the judges confer. More often than not a decision is reached based upon the answers to the board’s questions, but from time to time there is a deadlock. In such a circumstance the girls are not without recourse, for they can then turn to the Court of Appeal. The Court of Appeal is presided over by a temperamental photographer and a dictatorial fashion editor. The Court of Appeal is a visual rather than a verbal institution and favorable judgments are awarded solely on the basis of polish. Decisions of the Court of Appeal are final. Recently, however, it was discovered that the judges had ruled against a girl who lived on Beekman Place in favor of one who resided in the West Seventies. The judges were understandably relieved when this decision was overturned, for they, too, are firm believers in that wise old adage: Nothing succeeds like address.

I was in certain respects a rather precocious youngster. My glance, right from the start, was fraught with significance and I was unquestionably the first child on my block to use the word
indisposed
in a sentence. My childhood was not, however, quite the gay whirl that one might imagine from the above statements. As a whistler I was only fair and I am to this very day unable to assume even a humane attitude in regard to gerbils. But then as now, I was always capable of dealing with the larger issues—it was, and is, the little things that get me down.

I did not learn how to tell time until I was nine years old. This is an unusually advanced age at which to master the art, except perhaps in Southern California.

My parents were understandably upset about my inability to tell time, for they possessed the foresight to realize that any child who talked back with such verve and snap would one day need a lawyer who charged by the hour. Furthermore, their infinite wisdom told them that it was exceedingly unlikely that the bill would arrive reading: Consultation on contract with agent,
$150.00. One and one-half hours. From big hand on twelve, little hand on three, to little hand on four, big hand on six.

Their concern for my future well-being drove them to frantic efforts in an attempt to instill in me the knowledge that so painfully eluded my grasp. Night after night I sat at the kitchen table and surveyed a bewildering array of clocks made from oatmeal cookies, peanut butter lids, and crayoned circles of colored paper. They spelled each other—first one parent and then the other—taking turns on watch, so to speak. They were diligent, patient, and kind and I nodded my head and looked alert, all the while seething with fury at the injustices of a world in which we didn’t have Christmas but we did have Time. As the days wore on and my ignorance persisted, my parents toyed with the idea of renting me out as a parlor game or at least trading me in for a child who couldn’t learn something else—so weary were they of round, flattish objects.

Outside intervention came in the form of an offer of help from my aunt to take me on for the week of my winter vacation. I was duly dispatched to Poughkeepsie, where I was alternately bribed with banana milk shakes and tortured with clocks devised from paper plates, circular throw pillows, and overturned frying pans. At the end of the week I was returned to my parents a thing that was once a child—as ever unable to tell time and newly addicted to banana milk shakes in a household that considered blenders frivolous.

Some months later I was taking a bath when I suddenly shouted “Eureka!” and at long last such concepts as twenty of eight and ten after twelve were touched with meaning.

It should be readily apparent to all that under no circumstances will I ever consider yielding the need for such hard-won knowledge. That there does indeed exist the very real danger of such a possibility is entirely due
to the invention of the digital clock. I spent the best years of my life learning to tell time and I’m not stopping now. Neither should you. Here’s why:

1. Regular clocks tell real time. Real time is time such as half-past seven.
   
2. Digital clocks tell fake time. Fake time is time such a nine-seventeen.
   
3. Nine-seventeen is fake time because the only people who ever have to know that it’s nine-seventeen are men who drive subway trains.
   
4. I am not a man who drives a subway train.
   
5. You are not a man who drives a subway train.
   
6. I can tell this without even seeing you because anyone who has to know that it’s nine-seventeen cannot possibly risk looking away.
   
7. Real watch faces are in the shape of watch faces because they must accommodate all of the things that make up a real watch, such as numbers, hands, and little minute lines.
   
8. Digital watch faces are in the shape of watch faces for no apparent reason. This cannot help but have an unsettling effect upon the young.
   

Now that I have set the record straight on the matter of Time I should like to direct your attention briefly to another unacceptable invention:

1. The rigors of learning how to do long division have been a traditional part of childhood, just like learning to smoke. In fact, as far as I am concerned, the two go hand in hand. Any child who cannot do long division by himself does not deserve to smoke. I am really quite a nice girl and very fond of children but I do have my standards. I have never taught a child to smoke before he has first taken a piece of paper and a pencil and demonstrated to my satisfaction that he can correctly divide 163 by 12.
   
2. Pocket calculators are not inexpensive and, generally speaking, parents would be better off spending the money on themselves. If they
   must
   throw it away on their offspring they would do well to keep in mind that a pack of cigarettes rarely costs more than seventy-five cents.
   
3. It is unnatural for
   anyone
   , let alone a
   child
   , to be able under any circumstances whatsoever to divide 17.3 by 945.8.
   
4. Pocket calculators encourage children to think that they have all the answers. If this belief were actually to take hold they might well seize power, which would undoubtedly result in all of the furniture being much too small.
   

I am not personally a parent. But I do have two godchildren and am expecting a third. I am naturally concerned for their future. If I ruled the world you could bet your boots that none of them would ever set their eyes on any such contraptions as digital clocks and pocket calculators. But alas, I do not rule the world and that, I am afraid, is the story of my life—always a godmother, never a God.