The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

  Precious Little was an interesting fellow, though rather given to ancestor worship (other people’s ancestors—he had none of his own to speak of) and Homes and Gardens had known him for years. His association with the Los Angeles Police Department was not exactly professional. He was not an officer of the law or even really a crime buff—it was, to be perfectly frank, quite simply that he had a most singular fondness for uniforms. Whatever his shortcomings, Precious was on the right side of the law and Homes and Gardens had aided him previously.

  “Have our bags packed, my dear,” said Homes and Gardens as he reached for the cocaine bottle, “I’ll just do a few lines and then we must depart immediately.” I made all haste and soon found myself sitting comfortably in the first-class compartment of a 747. A young woman in an ill-fitting pantsuit came to take our drink order. Homes and Gardens looked at her keenly yet disdainfully and said, “Stolichnaya straight up—for I can see that you had a difficult time of it, what with the five whiskey sours you consumed before finally meeting that account executive, and the poor-quality but large quantity of marijuana that you smoked with the sales manager you ran into this morning when leaving the account executive’s apartment in the East Seventies near Third Avenue.” The young woman gasped in disbelief and stuttered, “But, sir—how did you—how did you …?”

  “Elementary,” he said coolly, “all stewardesses are alike.”

  I chuckled appreciatively. Homes and Gardens turned to me and said, “Now, my dear, I will tell you all that Precious told me, so that you are prepared to observe me observing the situation. It seems that a certain captain in the Los Angeles Police Department, you know who I mean, has been giving estimates to the press about the number of people involved in an underage homosexual sex scandal. Precious feels (and not without reason) that the situation is being exaggerated—you know how our captain brags—and I have been asked to investigate the matter more thoroughly, for my way with a number is legend.” “Yes indeed,” I agreed, “they’ve certainly chosen the right man.” Homes and Gardens lit his pipe and I sat back with a magazine. The rest of the flight was uneventful except for a slight altercation caused by some passengers who resented Homes and Gardens telling them how the movie ended before it even started (“Saw it at a screening last week,” he confided to me triumphantly), but it was all soon settled and we arrived on schedule.

  Precious Little had sent his matching car and driver and the ride to the hotel was a pleasant one. The Beverly Hills has in recent years lost a bit of its cachet, but Homes and Gardens is rather attached to its paging system and I myself am partial to its distinctive pink notepads.

  No sooner had we settled into our bungalow (rather far from Halston’s but right near the main building) than Precious himself arrived. “My Sher, my dear,” he greeted us effusively and kissed us each on both cheeks, “you must come with me at once. That captain is becoming absolutely impossible. Daily his figures become more ridiculous and I have it from a very good source that he’s hours away from talking to Rona.”

  “Well, well, Precious,” said Homes and Gardens crisply, “that, of course, must be prevented, although it is unlikely, don’t you think, that she’ll take his call?” We all agreed and once more I was struck by Homes and Gardens’s acute sensibilities.

  The three of us got into the car—Homes and Gardens electing to sit up front, in order, he said, that he might see more clearly, although I imagine that what he wanted to see more clearly did not entirely exclude Juan, Precious’s superbly café-au-lait driver. Homes and Gardens is, after all, a man of many interests.

  We made an extensive tour of the various neighborhoods—Homes and Gardens gazing intently at every detail while Precious pointed out the homes of the stars. Our inspection completed, we repaired to Mr. Chow’s, where we were welcomed extravagantly.

  Precious and I looked at Homes and Gardens expectantly, but he avoided our eyes and I must confess that my heart sank as I allowed myself to feel for the very first time some doubt about my roommate. My spirits rose, however, when Homes and Gardens smiled precisely and said, “Oh, look, there’s Liza, doesn’t she look great?” I turned around and was pleased to see the celebrated entertainer waving cheerfully in our direction. We exchanged nods and turned our attention once again to Homes and Gardens, who was now obviously ready to address us.

  “It’s quite a simple thing really, reminds me in fact of the case involving the disappearance of a makeup artist at the pret-à-porter some years back. We knew for a fact that a makeup artist was missing—what we didn’t know was just which makeup artist it was. Everyone, as you can imagine, was in a veritable tizzy, until I pointed out that we had only to examine the faces of the models, note which ones were most painfully lacking in cheekbone definition, inquire as to who did the makeup and thus we would have the name of the missing artist. From there the actual discovery of the young man took but a moment. Now, in the instance at hand, I must say we were most fortunate that the areas involved were not the very best, for had we been concerned with say, an area like Bel Air, we would have been confronted with the problem of ample household help. Since, however, we were dealing with such locales as Brentwood my work was quite trifling. You may have noticed, my dears, that I took much interest in the landscaping and I found exactly what I thought I would. A great many of the lawns were overgrown and needed cutting in the most dreadful way. I further learned that in many of the houses the garbage had not been taken out for days, nor had newspapers been delivered in quite some time. So many chores and part-time jobs left undone pointed to one thing and one thing only—that these neighborhoods were suffering from a dearth of underage boys. I simply counted up the amount of neglected work and can now present you with an accurate tally:

  1,582 children under the age of fourteen are being exploited sexually in the Los Angeles area. 1,584, to be exact, but the other two are movie stars, which is, I regret, not illegal.

  At least 10,000 local adult males actively pursue boys under the age of fourteen, but only 1,183 actually catch them.

  8,000 juveniles from fourteen to seventeen years of age are used sexually by approximately 14,000 adult males (rather slim pickings, that) but 28,561 adult males are used to far greater advantage by 19,500 very crafty juveniles, many claiming to be from fourteen to seventeen years of age.

  Homes and Gardens sat back with a satisfied air and Precious Little and I congratulated him heartily. Once again Homes and Gardens’s admirable talents had triumphed, and on the way out of the restaurant we saw Barbra and Jon snubbing Kris.

  Or Not CB:

  That Is the Answer

  It was with considerable approval that I listened one Sunday evening to my weekend host instruct his chauffeur to drive us, his guests, back to New York. The source of my approval was my firmly held conviction that public transportation should be avoided with precisely the same zeal that one accords Herpes II. And, I must say, in view of my slender means and broad acquaintance, I have on the whole, been remarkably successful in escaping both. It was, therefore, in excellent spirits that I settled myself comfortably in the back seat of the car. I smiled fondly at my companions, lit a cigarette, and entered enthusiastically into a discussion of the entertaining personal habits of those not present. Under such circumstances it is easily understandable that I did not, at first, pay much attention to what I innocently believed to be the harmless mutterings of the driver. It was not until a silence, afforded by a lull in the conversation, allowed me the opportunity of genuine eavesdropping that I became aware that someone was muttering back. I studied my fellow passengers and was much relieved to conclude that neither one had been concealing a secret knowledge of ventriloquism. That the chauffeur might possess such an intricate skill was quite out of the question. Overwhelmed by curiosity I asked him outright for an explanation. He replied that he was talking on the Citizen’s Band radio he had recently installed in my host’s automobile. The answering mutter was that of a truckdriver fifteen miles away. I asked him what he ho
ped to gain by this repartee. He replied that he was trading information on weather, traffic, and police radar cars.

  I glanced out the window. It was a clear, starlit September evening. The traffic was bumper to bumper. If there was a police radar car in the vicinity it was probably reading the paper. I offered the chauffeur these observations. He responded by saying that he was finding out what the conditions were fifteen miles ahead of us. I replied that it was Sunday night, that we were on the Merritt Parkway bound for New York, and that ahead of us we would find the exact same conditions as those that currently prevailed except that they would become progressively more cosmopolitan. He ignored this news, preferring instead to resume his muttering. Seeing that this wasn’t the first time I’d been thrown over for a truckdriver, I sat back to listen to what I imagined would be a distinctly lackluster conversation. What transpired, however, was unintelligible in a way I had not expected, for they spoke in a code that seemed totally devoid of meaning. This, I discovered, was CB slang—a special language used by those so inclined. As this was my first encounter with Citizen’s Band radio, I feel justified in having responded with mere distaste. I knew nothing about it. Now more than a year has passed. I know a lot about it. And yes, I am appalled—yes, I am horrified—and yes, I take issue.

  I originally planned to take issue in the form of an exchange of letters between Oscar Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas written in CB slang. I labored diligently but with little success, for CB slang as a means of communication is irretrievably butch. It is, in fact, safe to say that if the population of the United States was relieved entirely of its girls and its male homosexuals, CB slang would be English.

  I am eminently qualified to make this statement, as I studied intensively for the aforementioned project. Thus I am confident in my contention that when it comes to CB slang I am virtually fluent. This surprises me—for I carry with me the memory of a youth fairly teeming with French tutors, all of whom eventually admitted defeat and announced that I had no ear for language. Perhaps, perhaps, but it matters not, for it turns out that when it comes to lingo I’ve got an ear and a half. Clearly, my linguistic ability was not the problem. I did what I could. I assigned to Lord Douglas the CB “handle” (or nickname) of “Jailbait.” For Mr. Wilde I chose “Jailbird,” thereby achieving an enviable symmetry. I read scores of their real letters. I ground away at the CB dictionary. I tried full translations. I tried partial translations. I tried footnotes. To no avail. CB slang is, after all, a limited tongue concerned primarily with four-car collisions, radar traps, shifting gears, and stopping for coffee. Mr. Wilde’s and Lord Douglas’s thoughts were elsewhere. There are, for instance, no CB equivalents for the words “gilt,” “narcissus,” “insouciance,” or “honey-haired boy.” And even the most perfect epigram suffers when interpreted in a language that refers to a bed as a “snore shelf.”

  Fortunately, I am a plucky sort and more than willing to express my displeasure in another manner:

  The very word citizen implies a preoccupation with democracy that cannot help but be construed as fanatical. And not without reason, for entree to the world of CB is wide open to all and sundry—particularly all. It is harder, I assure you, to get into Macy’s.

  * * *

  To the average (and you will look long and hard before finding anyone so aptly described) CB aficionado his radio is his hobby. A hobby is, of course, an abomination, as are all consuming interests and passions that do not lead directly to large, personal gain.

  * * *

  CB radio is a common bond. Any bond that cannot, upon demand of the bearer, be converted immediately into cash is sorely deficient in both refinement and dignity.

  * * *

  CB slang is on the one hand too colorful and on the other hand lacking a counterpart for the words pearl gray.

  * * *

  Citizen’s Band radio renders one accessible to a wide variety of people from all walks of life. It should not be forgotten that all walks of life include conceptual artists, dry cleaners, and living poets.

  * * *

  CB communication consists almost wholly of actual information. It is, therefore, of no interest to the civilized conversationalist.

  The Word Lady:

  Most Often Used to Describe

  Someone You Wouldn’t Want to

  Talk to for Even Five Minutes

  For years and years people who had them referred to their girl friends as their girl friends. With the advent of that unattractive style known as hip, many people stole the term old lady from perfectly innocent black jazz musicians and began using it in regard to their own girl friends. Then came women’s lib and quite a number of people apparently felt that the word old was sexist. These people began to call their girl friends their “ladies.”

  Lest you get the impression that I am totally opposed to the word lady I rush to assure you that I think it is a perfectly nice word when used correctly. The word lady is used correctly only as follows:

  A. To refer to certain female members of the English aristocracy.

  B. In reference to girls who stand behind lingerie counters in department stores, but only when preceded by the word sales.

  C. To alert a member of the gentle sex to the fact that she is no longer playing with a full deck. As in, “Lady, what are you—nuts or something?”

  D. To differentiate between girls who put out and girls who don’t. Girls who put out are tramps. Girls who don’t are ladies. This is, however, a rather archaic usage of the word. Should one of you boys happen upon a girl who doesn’t put out, do not jump to the conclusion that you have found a lady. What you have probably found is a lesbian.

  Taking a Letter

  As one with a distinct aversion to newspapers I rely heavily for information on the random remarks of others. Therefore my sources are far from impeccable. They are, however, not without a peculiar whimsical charm all their own and thus not to be taken lightly. For example, I was recently informed that the United States Postal Service was considering cutting its deliveries down to three days a week. The informant was a source close to his mother and therefore reliable. My immediate reaction was one of shock and dismay until I remembered that in my neighborhood a week that sees three whole mail deliveries is a thing rare and precious. I began to wonder why it was that my local mail service was so far ahead of that of the rest of the nation and decided to make discreet inquiries.

  My neighborhood is located in Greenwich Village, a quarter of the city well known for its interesting artistic qualities. These qualities are to be found not only in its atmosphere and residents but also in its public servants. There is, in fact, not a single local postal employee who does not possess a temperament of such lush moodiness that one assumes that only an unfortunate lack of rhythm has kept them from careers devoted to the composition of tragic opera. Exhaustive research soon established that this was no accident but a carefully planned effort to bring the post office closer to those it serves. The Greenwich Village Postal System is a separate entity dedicated to the proposition that nowhere on earth are men created more equal than downtown on the West Side. Thus its offices exhibit a clean Bauhaus influence. The wanted posters refer to desires more personal than federal. Uniforms are chosen on the basis of cut and fabric. And they have punched up the official motto with the Greenwich Village Addendum so that it reads as follows: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night can stay these couriers from swift completion of their appointed rounds. However, offended sensibility, painful memory, postman’s block, and previous engagements may stay the courier for an indefinite period of time. C’est la vie.” Closer examination of this motto reveals these inner truths:

  Offended Sensibility

  A Situation of Offended Sensibility is declared when an assigned route contains the following:

  Architecture of unpleasant proportion.

  An excessive number of conceptual artists. The official definition of “excessive” in such cases is stated as “More than two if dead,
more than one if alive.”

  Musicians who are awake.

  Dandyish house pets.

  Ethnic restaurants featuring interesting food.

  Painful Memory

  A Situation of Painful Memory can be invoked when a courier is called upon to deliver mail to districts in which: