He has had an emotionally satisfactory but physically crippling sexual encounter.
He consumed a carelessly prepared shrimp curry.
He was snubbed.
Postman’s Block
Postman’s Block is a virulent condition that attacks the more sensitive couriers with alarming regularity. Its symptoms are:
1. The inability to find the right address caused by an inhibiting perfectionism and a belief that the right address—that big address that you always thought you had in you—shall ever elude your grasp.
2. A tendency to misread zip codes coupled with the nagging doubt that they are perhaps not as zippy as all that.
3. A conviction that you are burnt out. That your great days of swift completion are behind you.
Previous Engagements
The Greenwich Village postman does his best to keep his working hours free but he is, of course, not immune to the killing pace of urban life and frequently discovers that he’s booked up pretty solid. This is not surprising since he is a firm believer in the adage “finders keepers” and so is caught up in the dizzying whirl that is the social and business life of others. A look at a page from his appointment calendar reveals the following:
Mardi 6 avril
10:30— Attend board meeting, Ford Foundation
12:00— Conference with agent to discuss Dutch translation
1:00— Lunch, La Côte Basque—Barbara Walters
3:30— Address meeting of United Nations Security Council
6:00— Fashion Show, 500 Club—Stephen Burrows—ready-to-wear
8:00— Screening at Paramount
10:00— Working dinner—Jonas Salk—Orsini’s
Writers on Strike:
A Chilling Prophecy
Major cities are not infrequently afflicted with strikes and demonstrations by doctors, garbagemen, firemen, and police. There is always a public outcry, as those concerned with public safety are quick to envision a city full of burning garbage and contagious murderers. However, garbage in the street, flames in the bedroom, killers on the loose, and spots on the lungs are merely physical inconveniences. Far more serious work stoppages can occur, and politicians and citizens confronted with the more traditional problems can comfort themselves with the thought “Well, it’s a hell of a mess but thank God it’s not the writers.” Because, believe you me, compared to the writers even the Teamsters are a piece of cake.
Imagine, if you will, a rainy Sunday afternoon in New York. All over town, writers are lying in bed, their heads under their respective pillows. They are of varying heights and builds, races, religions, and creeds, but they are as one: whining. Some of them are whining to themselves. Some to companions. It matters not in the least. Simultaneously they all turn over and reach for the phone. In a matter of seconds every writer in New York is speaking to another writer in New York. They are talking about not writing. This is, next to who’s not queer, perhaps the most popular topic of discussion among writers in New York. Ordinarily there are variations on this theme and one reacts accordingly:
Variation on This Theme Number One
You can’t write. You call another writer. He can’t write, either. This is terrific. You can now talk about not writing for two hours and then go out to dinner with each other until four o’clock in the morning.
Variation on This Theme Number Two
You can’t write. You call another writer. He is writing. This is a great tragedy. He will talk to you only as long as it takes for him to impress upon you the fact that not only is he writing but he thinks that what he is writing is quite possibly the best thing he’s ever written. Your only alternative to suicide in this situation is to call a rock musician. This makes you feel smart again and you can get on with the business of not writing.
Variation on This Theme Number Three
You are writing. Another writer calls you to talk about not writing. You announce that you are. Masochistically he inquires as to what it is that you are writing. You inform him modestly that it’s just a little something vaguely reminiscent of, say, An Ideal Husband, perhaps a bit funnier. Your behavior at his funeral the following day is marked by enormous dignity and grace.
There are other variations on this theme but I think you get my drift. Now, on this particular Sunday afternoon a phenomenon has occurred. Every single writer in the city of New York is not writing. Once knowledge of this has spread throughout the entire non-writing writing community, a tremendous feeling of mutual relief and well-being is experienced. For an exquisite moment all the writers in New York like each other. If no one can write, then it is obviously not the fault of the writers. It must be their fault. The writers band together. They will have their revenge on the city. No longer will they lie abed not writing in the privacy of their own homes. They will not write publicly. They will go on strike. They decide to stage a sitdown in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel and not write there.
It takes a while but about a year and a half later people begin to notice that there’s nothing to read. First they notice that the newsstands are quite empty. Then it begins to get television news coverage. There is still television news, mostly lip sync—some ad lib. People begin to get annoyed. They demand that the city take steps. The city assembles a group to go in and negotiate with the writers. The group consists of a fireman, a doctor, a sanitationman, and a policeman. The writers refuse to negotiate. Their reply to a city on its knees? “Call my agent.” The agents refuse to negotiate until they can figure out a way to sell the movie rights. The strike continues. The Red Cross is allowed to cross the picket lines to dispense royalty statements and cappucino. The situation becomes more desperate. Adults all over the country are sitting in bus stations playing jacks. Old copies of People magazine are auctioned off and sold at Parke-Bernet for incredible prices. Librarians begin to take bribes and are seen driving lavender Cadillacs with quilted vinyl roofs and page-shaped rear windows. A syndicate is formed by a group who own several back issues of The New Yorker. They open a membership-only after-hours reading bar, which is fire-bombed by a radical organization that believes that Donald Barthelme belongs to the people.
Finally the National Guard is called in. Hundreds of heavily armed Guardsmen arrive at the Algonquin. They are forced to retreat under a stinging barrage of sarcastic remarks.
Although the writers have agreed not to have a leader, one of their members becomes something of an authority figure. His influence is based largely on the fact that he has on his person a hardcover copy of Gravity’s Rainbow, which he is widely believed to have read in its entirety. In reality he is a disguised labor mediator sent by the city to infiltrate the writers and break the strike. He is insidious and stealthily goes about convincing writers that other writers are secretly writing and will have actual manuscripts completed and ready for publication when the strike ends. He does his work well. The writers leave the Algonquin and go back to not writing at home. When they realize they have been duped, and by whom, they are near-suicidal at their lack of perception. So, then, let this be a lesson to you all: never judge a cover by its book.
A Few Words
on a Few Words
Democracy is an interesting, even laudable, notion and there is no question but that when compared to Communism, which is too dull, or Fascism, which is too exciting, it emerges as the most palatable form of government. This is not to say that it is without its drawbacks—chief among them being its regrettable tendency to encourage people in the belief that all men are created equal. And although the vast majority need only take a quick look around the room to see that this is hardly the case, a great many remain utterly convinced.
The major problem resulting from this conviction is that it causes such people to take personally the inalienable right of freedom of speech. This in itself would be at least tolerable were this group not given to such a broad interpretation of the word freedom or such a slender interpretation of the word speech.
It would further ameliorate the situation we
re these equality buffs to recall that one of the distinguishing characteristics of democracy is the division between the public sector and the private sector. The founding fathers may have had any number of things in mind when they made this admirable distinction, but surely their primary consideration was to protect the articulate against the possibility of overhearing the annoying conversation of others.
Since the Bill of Rights in its present form leaves far too much to the imagination, it is obviously necessary for some sane, responsible citizen to step forward and explain in detail just exactly what is meant by freedom of speech. Being as civic-minded as the next girl, I willingly accept this challenge. Lest you assume that I possess unreasonable and dangerous dictatorial impulses, I assure you that my desire to curtail undue freedom of speech extends only to such public arenas as restaurants, airports, streets, hotel lobbies, parks, and department stores. Verbal exchanges between consenting adults in private are of as little interest to me as they probably are to them. I wish only to defend the impressionable young and the fastidious old against the ravages of unseemly word usage. To this end I have prepared a list of words which should be used in public only as specified.
art—This word may be publicly used in only two instances: A. As a nickname—in which case the suffix ie may be added to form the word Artie.
B. By a native of the East End of London to describe a vital organ, as in the sentence, “Blimy, I feel poorly—must be my bleedin’ ’art.”
love—The word love may be used in public only to refer to inanimate or totally inaccessible objects. A. “I love linguini with clam sauce” is always acceptable.
B. “I love Truman Capote” is acceptable only if one is not personally acquainted with him. If one is personally acquainted with Mr. Capote it is rather unlikely at this time that one would be moved to express such a sentiment.
relationship—The civilized conversationalist uses this word in public only to describe a seafaring vessel carrying members of his family.
diaphragm—Public decency demands that this word be used only to refer to the midriff area of the body and then only by doctors—never by singers.
Ms.—The wise avoid this word entirely but: A. It may be used on paper by harried members of the publishing world who find it necessary to abbreviate the word manuscript.
B. Or by native residents of the south and southwestern portions of the United States as follows: “I sho do ms. that purty little gal.”
honest—This word is suitable for public use only to indicate extreme distaste, as in the sentence “Dorothy has become absolutely unbearable—I think she must be on est.”
internalize—To be used (if at all) only to describe that process by which a formerly harmless medical student becomes a menace to the sick and helpless.
fair—This word is to be used only in reference to a carnival-type event and not as an expression of justice—for not only is such usage unpleasant but also, I assure you, quite useless.
assert—One would do well to remember that as far as public utterance is concerned, assert refers only to that which is two mints in one.
No News Is Preferable
For some it’s the columns, for others the logic, but for me when it comes to the most winning aspect of Greek culture I’ll take the killing of the bearer of bad news. Throw in the bearer of good news and you’ve got yourself a practice that’s nothing short of perfect. And one, I should like to point out, that would make a welcome addition to any culture, particularly one such as our own. I am, of course, well aware that many people like the news—that they consider it to be important, informative, even entertaining. To these people I can only say: You’re wrong. Not that I wish to be curt with you—not at all. I am perfectly willing to elaborate. In order that you might more fully understand the error of your ways, let us consider each alleged attribute separately.
Important
When dealing with a concept such as important one would be well advised to ask: “To whom?” In this way we can more directly attack the problem. And almost immediately we can see that the “whom” is probably not us. We arrive at this conclusion by asking of ourselves the following questions:
Before going to work do I don a highly colored blazer the pocket of which is adorned with a number?
Once so attired, do I sit down at a long, curved counter and make jokes with old athletes and minority-group women?
Do I periodically interrupt this repartee to look into a camera and relate in an authoritative yet warm tone of voice the unpleasant activities of unattractive people?
Do I number among my colleagues at least one who has made a career for herself out of dressing up as a mother and buying dangerous household products?
If our answers to these questions are nos, then I think we can agree that when it comes to the news, “important” is not an appropriate adjective. Unless, of course, you earn your living by delivering papers on a bicycle, in which case the news is important but only when compared to you.
Informative
Strictly speaking, the news is informative insofar as it does indeed provide information. Therefore the questions one must ask here are:
Do I want this information?
Do I need this information?
What do they expect me to do about it?
Answer to Question Number One
No. If a genetically handicapped Scientologist attempts to take the life of the vice-president of the 4H Clubs of Texas with a crossbow and someone knows about it, I would prefer that he kept it to himself.
Answer to Question Number Two
No. If three unemployed psychopathic blacksmiths have stolen the daughter of the inventor of lead paint and are threatening to read to her aloud from Fear of Flying until everyone in Marin County is given a horse, I fail to see how knowing this will help me to find a large but inexpensive apartment in a better neighborhood.
Answer to Question Number Three
I cannot possibly imagine.
Entertaining
In researching this subject I watched a fair amount of television news and read a couple of papers. I didn’t laugh once.
In the interest of fair play I offer two news situations that I find acceptable. One exists. The other does not. Naturally the one that exists is not nearly as acceptable as the one that does not. And this is probably as good a definition of reality as you are likely to find.
Radio News
Radio news is bearable. This is due to the fact that while the news is being broadcast the disc jockey is not allowed to talk.
Personalized News
Walter Cronkite appears on the screen. He fixes you with a weighty yet good-humored gaze. The whisper of a smile plays around the corners of his forthright mouth. He begins. “Good evening, Fran. While you were lying on the couch today rereading old copies of English Vogue and drinking Perrier water your book wrote itself. All indications are that it’s perfect. A source close to The New York Times Book Review called it ‘splendid, brilliantly funny, a surefire hit.’ A reputable Hollywood authority—yes, Fran, we found one just for you—reports cutthroat bidding for the movie rights and many in the industry fear that it will set a dangerously high precedent. On the home front, Lauren Bacall called a press conference this afternoon to announce that she wants to trade apartments with you and an informed expert leaked the information that all of the conceptual artists in New York are moving to East Berlin. Well, Fran, that about wraps it up for now. See you tomorrow night, when things will be even better.”
Social Studies
People
People
People (a group that in my opinion has always attracted an undue amount of attention) have often been likened to snowflakes. This analogy is meant to suggest that each is unique—no two alike. This is quite patently not the case. People, even at the current rate of inflation—in fact, people especially at the current rate of inflation—are quite simply a dime a dozen. And, I hasten to add, their only similarity to snowflakes resides in their
invariable and lamentable tendency to turn, after a few warm days, to slush.
This is, I am aware, though not a particularly popular sentiment, also not exactly a novel one either. I do believe, however, that this is the very first time it has ever been expressed with an intention to substantiate it with well-documented written evidence. In other words, everybody talks about people but nobody ever does anything about them.
What I have decided to do about them is to point out that except in extremely rare instances people are pretty much like everyone else. They all say the same things, have the same names and wear their hair in the same styles. This is not a modern phenomenon but one that has been true throughout all of history. This can clearly be seen in the following orderly fashion:
I. WHAT PEOPLE SAY
Below you will find the complete and unabridged record of the general conversation of the general public since time immemorial:
Hi, how are you?
I did not.
Good. Now you know how I felt.
Do you mind if I go ahead of you? I only have this one thing.
II. WHAT PEOPLE ARE CALLED
This varies from era to era but at any given time almost everyone has the same name. Your average Joe has simply become your average Jennifer. In more ways than one.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 13