The police, however, were not satisfied with the outcome and the commanding officer, with a hard edge to his voice, declared in an interview, “My five-year-old daughter could do better than that.” This opinion captured the imagination of the public and a vigilante committee was quickly formed. Late that night the Abstract Expressionist was escorted by a firing squad out into the middle of a color field and splattered with bullets—another victim of shifting tastes.
Incident No. 2—“Girl with Submachine Gun”
A group of feminist artists known as Women Against took hostage a group of male representational painters and demanded to know why they depicted women as having breasts. The men answered that they painted women with breasts because women had breasts, and accused the feminists of fear of framing. The women instantly saw the wisdom of this and apologized profusely, explaining that they were severely depressed because they were all having their Blue Period.
Incident No. 3—“Form Following a Function”
The good eye of the whole world was upon a small Italian town when a revolutionary terrorist organization known as the Bauhaus Bombers threatened to turn the Leaning Tower of Pisa into a machine for dying by blowing it up. Intent on avoiding clutter, the Bauhaus Bombers took no hostages but demanded instead that one purely decorative object be destroyed every hour on the hour until their goal was achieved. Just what this goal was, was not known, for they insisted upon secrecy unless proof could be shown that no other terrorist organization had designs on it. Fearing the loss of the historic building, officials acquiesced totally. Truckloads of bric-a-brac were brought into the town square. Under the direction of the Bombers, dozens and dozens of china figurines, clever wall hangings, and superfluous vases were sacrificed to the mysterious cause.
Time went on and still the terrorists refused to divulge their purpose. Daily the crowds grew more restive and the police, faced with the possibility of a riot, finally devised a plan of action. By dressing one of their number in rust-colored wide-wale corduroy and a black turtleneck sweater, they managed to infiltrate the organization. In due time intelligence reached them that the arsenal they had envisioned was instead one mere bomb of exceedingly meager proportions. Astonished that the Bombers would equip themselves so minimally, they questioned their agent as to the reason for this folly. Having spent a good deal of time in the tower he simply looked at them coolly and remarked, “Less is more.”
Much relieved, the police entered the building and easily overcame their adversaries. Once in custody the Bauhaus Bombers spoke freely, maintaining passionately that their cause was just. All they wanted, they said, was for the Leaning Tower of Pisa to be straightened out. Asked why such extreme measures had been taken, they shouted, “Never again!” They then leveled their final and unarguable charge against the sinking edifice: that the Leaning Tower of Pisa was and continues to be blatantly anti-symmetric.
Incident No. 4—“Reclining Chair and Toaster Eating Licorice”
A small but incongruous group of the followers of Dada known as MOMA all dressed in pants and went to the outskirts of Chicago. They then sent a message to the President of the United States demanding a more amusing juxtaposition of laws. Before the President could respond, a well-known consumer advocate charged the members of MOMA with lining a teacup with the pelt of an endangered species. The Dadaists were brought before a Senate subcommittee and forced to accept the terms of an agreement that would compel them in the future to use fun fur or none at all. The members of MOMA bridled at this restriction, as synthetic fabrics had already taken their toll by rendering an iron with nails in it far less witty than was originally thought. Looking back in retrospect, the Senate strictures were a blessing in disguise, enabling the Dadaists to realize that they had invented a form that lent itself to museums—which thereby lifted their spirits and gave them all a good laugh.
Incident No. 5—“ ”
A frightening number of conceptual artists (two) occupied space in downtown Manhattan and, when no one noticed, were obliged to go uptown. There they arranged some rocks in a pattern that announced that they were holding hostage one hundred and sixty-eight videotape cassettes. They demanded that people imagine that this was of any interest. When no response was forthcoming they congratulated themselves heartily on their success and repeated the action endlessly.
Letters
Letters
Owing to the conditions that currently prevail in the world of letters, it is now possible for a girl to be ruined by a book. Owing, in fact, to the conditions that currently prevail in the world of letters, it is now possible for a boy to be ruined by a book.
A book, of course, is not the only danger, for things have come to such a pass that a magazine is safer than a book only to the extent that it is shorter. But magazines all too frequently lead to books and should be regarded by the prudent as the heavy petting of literature.
This warning should be heeded by all concerned, and in order to bring about a less perilous printed environment, I offer the following tips on how to avoid the reading and/or writing of ruinous material.
Women’s Books
Enroll in medical school and specialize in gynecology. It will not be long before disenchantment sets in and you realize that the literary possibilities of the vulva have been somewhat overestimated.
* * *
Women who insist upon having the same options as men would do well to consider the option of being the strong, silent type.
* * *
Having been unpopular in high school is not just cause for book publication.
* * *
Having been popular in high school should have been enough. Do not share this experience with the reading public.
* * *
If your sexual fantasies were truly of interest to others, they would no longer be fantasies.
* * *
As an aficionado of literature it might interest you to know that, in all of Shakespeare, the word assertive appears not a single time.
* * *
Keep in mind that there are still certain subjects that are unsuitable at the table, and that a great many people read while eating.
Poetry
If you are of the opinion that the contemplation of suicide is sufficient evidence of a poetic nature, do not forget that actions speak louder than words.
* * *
Generally speaking, it is inhumane to detain a fleeting insight.
* * *
The free lunch was originated by saloonkeepers during the Depression. Free verse also often originates during depression. If this happens to you, try to nip it in the bud by taking a drink.
* * *
If, while watching the sun set on a used-car lot in Los Angeles, you are struck by the parallels between this image and the inevitable fate of humanity, do not, under any circumstances, write it down.
Special-Interest Magazines
Being a woman is of special interest only to aspiring male transsexuals. To actual women, it is simply a good excuse not to play football.
* * *
Special-interest publications should realize that if they are attracting enough advertising and readers to make a profit, the interest is not so special.
* * *
The exchange of information concerning the whereabouts of the best down comforter or chicken tandoori in New York should, I guess, be permitted between consenting adults in private so long as the young and the literate are left unmolested.
* * *
Sexual congress with heavy machinery is not a special interest. It is a personality defect.
Self-Help Books
There is no such word as actualize. There is no such word as internalize. There is, in fact, but one instance where the letters ize are appropriate here and that is in the word fertilize.
* * *
Mental health is rarely, if ever, achieved by reliving your birth in a bathtub.
* * *
If you want to get ahead in this world, get a lawyer—not
a book.
* * *
Wealth and power are much more likely to be the result of breeding than they are of reading.
* * *
While it may occasionally occur that one’s character shows in one’s face, this is nothing to count on, for one’s face will show in one’s character long before that possibility has had a chance to arise.
Writing:
A Life Sentence
Contrary to what many of you might imagine, a career in letters is not without its drawbacks—chief among them the unpleasant fact that one is frequently called upon to actually sit down and write. This demand is peculiar to the profession and, as such, galling, for it is a constant reminder to the writer that he is not now, nor will he ever really be, like other men. For the requirements of the trade are so unattractive, so not fair, and so foreign to regular people that the writer is to the real world what Esperanto is to the language world—funny, maybe, but not that funny. This being the case, I feel the time has come for all concerned to accept the writer’s differences as inherent and acknowledge once and for all that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is a writer and he’s not too thrilled about it.
Thus I offer the following with the hope that it will bring about much-needed compassion. Points 1 through 5 are for parents—the later explication for masochists. Or vice versa.
How to Tell if Your Child Is a Writer
Your child is a writer if one or more of the following statements are applicable. Truthfulness is advised—no amount of fudging will alter the grim reality.
Prenatal A. You have morning sickness at night because the fetus finds it too distracting to work during the day.
B. You develop a craving for answering services and typists.
C. When your obstetrician applies his stethoscope to your abdomen he hears excuses.
Birth A. The baby is at least three weeks late because he had a lot of trouble with the ending.
B. You are in labor for twenty-seven hours because the baby left everything until the last minute and spent an inordinate amount of time trying to grow his toes in a more interesting order.
C. When the doctor spanks the baby the baby is not at all surprised.
D. It is definitely a single birth because the baby has dismissed being twins as too obvious.
Infancy A. The baby refuses both breast and bottle, preferring instead Perrier with a twist in preparation for giving up drinking.
B. The baby sleeps through the night almost immediately. Also through the day.
C. The baby’s first words, uttered at the age of four days, are “Next week.”
D. The baby uses teething as an excuse not to learn to gurgle.
E. The baby sucks his forefinger out of a firm conviction that the thumb’s been done to death.
Toddlerhood A. He rejects teddy bears as derivative.
B. He arranges his alphabet blocks so as to spell out derisive puns on the names of others.
C. When he is lonely he does not ask his mother for a baby brother or sister but rather for a protégé.
D. When he reaches the age of three he considers himself a trilogy.
E. His mother is afraid to remove his crayoned handiwork from the living room walls lest she be accused of excessive editing.
F. When he is read his bedtime story he makes sarcastic remarks about style.
5. Childhood A. At age seven he begins to think about changing his name. Also his sex.
B. He balks at going to summer camp because he is aware that there may be children there who have never heard of him.
C. He tells his teachers that he didn’t do his homework because he was blocked.
D. He refuses to learn how to write a Friendly Letter because he knows he never will.
E. With an eye to a possible movie deal, he insists upon changing the title of his composition “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” to the far snappier “Vacation.”
F. He is thoroughly hypochondriac and is convinced that his chicken pox is really leprosy.
G. On Halloween he goes out trick-or-treating dressed as Harold Acton.
By the time this unfortunate child has reached puberty there is no longer any hope that he will outgrow being a writer and become something more appealing—like a kidnap victim. The concern, then, as he enters the difficult period of adolescence, is that he receive the proper education in a sympathetic environment. For this reason it is strongly recommended that the teen writer attend a school geared to his dilemma—Writing High. At Writing High the student will be among his own kind—the ungrateful. He will be offered a broad range of subjects relevant to his needs: Beginning Badly, Avoiding Los Angeles One and Too, Remedial Wakefulness, Magazine Editors: Why?, and Advanced Deftness of Phrase—all taught by jealous teachers who would really rather be students. Extracurricular activities (such as the Jacket Flap Club, where students have fun while learning the rudiments of acquiring colorful temporary jobs such as lumberjack, numbers runner, shepherd, and pornographer) are in plentiful supply. The figure of speech team, the Metaphors, are mighty effective. They can mix it up with the best of them, and Janet Flanner, their lovable mascot, is a great campus favorite.
Although the yearbook—The Contempt—is rarely finished in time for graduation, it is nevertheless a treasured memento of the years spent at Writing High. The cafeteria is presided over by an overweight woman of great ambition and serves mediocre Italian food at ridiculously inflated prices. School spirit is encouraged by holding in the auditorium a weekly gathering known as Asimile. Tutoring is available for the slow student, or “ghost,” as he is referred to at Writing High. Upon graduation or expulsion (and expulsion is favored by the more commercial students, who prize it for its terrific possibilities as a talk-show anecdote) the writer is as ready as he’ll ever be to make his mark upon the world.
It is unnecessary to detail the next, or actual career, stage, for all writers end up the same—either dead or in Homes for the Aged Writer. The prospect of being put in such an establishment is viewed by all writers with great dread and not without reason. Recent scandals have revealed the shockingly widespread sadistic practice of slipping the aged writer unfavorable reviews, and more than one such victim has been found dead from lack of sufficient praise.
Not a very pretty picture, I’m afraid, and not a very accurate one either. But don’t be encouraged by that—two wrongs don’t make you write.
In Hot Pursuit
There recently appeared in the New York Post an article concerning the sexual abuse and exploitation of several thousand young boys in the Los Angeles area. Hard facts were on the sparse side but the police department did make some estimates:
More than 3,000 children under the age of fourteen are being exploited sexually in the Los Angeles area.
At least 2,000 local adult males actively pursue boys under the age of fourteen.
More than 25,000 juveniles from fourteen to seventeen years of age are used sexually by approximately 15,000 adult males.
I was, of course, surprised to see so many numbers on a list of what were admittedly allegations and wondered just where they had gotten their figures. It was difficult to imagine the police actually going around counting, so instead I imagined this:
A Study in Harlots
In thinking back on the many exhilarating and arduous adventures that I have shared with my friend Mr. Sherlock Homes and Gardens, I can recall none more perplexing (or more fun) than that which I have chosen to call A Study in Harlots. Of course, The Case of Dom Pérignon 1966 presented its problems, The Afghan Hound of the Baskervilles was hardly easy, and The Baker Street Extremely Irregulars was no piece of chicken, but none was a match for the tale I now tell.
First, allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. John Watson, although Homes and Gardens often refers to me simply as “my dear.” I am a qualified physician with a limited practice in the East Sixties (right near Halston’s) and, I must say, much in demand, for between my own work and my association with Homes and Garde
ns it is generally acknowledged that Dr. John Watson knows exactly where all the bodies are buried. Homes and Gardens and I dwelt, of course, for many years at 221—B Baker Street, but the plummeting pound and outrageous taxes drove us from London, just as it did Mick, Liz, and so many other of our friends. We have taken up residence in Manhattan at an excellent address between Park and Madison (right near Halston’s) and it is here that our story begins.
It was approximately eleven o’clock on a pleasant morning in early December when I descended the staircase of our tastefully appointed duplex penthouse. Homes and Gardens, an earlier riser than I, had already breakfasted and was lying, eyes closed, on the damask-covered Empire Récamier. Edward, a very attractive young man whose acquaintance we had recently made, played Homes and Gardens’s violin for him. Homes and Gardens used, of course, to play his own violin, but that was before we made it. Homes and Gardens stretched a languid hand in greeting, his well-cut silk Saint Laurent shirtsleeve in graceful folds around his wrist, and said, “Watson, my dear, I see that you are a bit weary after your long evening in which you first attended a cocktail party in honor of Bill Blass’s new sheet collection, had dinner at Pearl’s with a number of fashion notables, drank brandy at Elaine’s with a well-known author, danced at Regine’s with a famous person’s daughter, and then went downtown to do it with a stranger.” I fell into a Louis XVI Marquise and looked at Homes and Gardens wonderingly, for all my years of being roommates with him had done nothing to diminish my astonishment at his remarkable powers of deduction. “How did you know?” I asked as soon as I had regained my composure. “I didn’t see you at all yesterday, for you were busy being photographed for L’Uomo Vogue and I had no chance to tell you of my plans.” “Elementary, my dear: The first four items I observed this morning in Women’s Wear Daily, the last I deduced by noting that your indigo blue Jackie Rogers jacket is lying more smoothly than usual against your seriously white Viyella sweater, indicating that your somewhat recherché Fendi wallet is missing.” My hand flew to my inside breast pocket but I knew it was futile, for Homes and Gardens was never wrong. “There, there, Watson my dear, no use getting into a snit about it—your wallet for a moment’s pleasure is a rough trade, to be sure, but I think I have something that will take your mind off your loss. This morning there was a message on the service from Precious Little asking that we take the next flight to Los Angeles, as my assistance is required in a matter of no small delicacy.”
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 11