The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

III. HOW PEOPLE WEAR THEIR HAIR

  When it comes to hair, the possibilities are not, fortunately, endless. And while this may be news to sportscasters and hairdressers, it is nevertheless a fact. The evidence is overwhelmingly conclusive and this list proves it.

  People Who Have or Have Had Almost

  the Exact Same Hairstyle

  Victor Hugo and Sarah Caldwell

  William Wordsworth and Frank Lloyd Wright

  W. B. Yeats and David Hockney

  Jean Cocteau and Eli Wallach

  Johan August Strindberg and Katharine Hepburn

  Pablo Picasso and my maternal grandfather, Phillip Splaver

  All of the above is true; and if you don’t believe me, you can look it up for yourself.

  Now that we have learned these elementary lessons, most of you are probably asking yourselves the question, “Well, then, in what ways do people differ from one another?” There are two answers to this question. First of all, everyone has a different—and yes, even unique—size foot. In fact, no two feet are exactly alike—not even, as you have probably discovered, your own two feet. Every single human foot has its own inimitable size, its own distinctive shape, its own little personality. Feet are like snowflakes. Your feet, more than anything else, are what make you you, and nobody else’s are quite like them.

  The second thing that distinguishes you, sets you apart from the crowd, is that everybody in the entire world likes his eggs done a different and special way. When it comes to eggs, everyone has his own subtle preference, his own individual taste. So the next time that someone asks you how you like your eggs, speak right up. After all, you only go around once.

  It is at this juncture that many of you may now be thinking that the state of affairs thus far described is a sorry one indeed. Wouldn’t things be a whole lot better, you may be asking, if, say, egg preferences were uniform but conversation somewhat more varied? Yes, things certainly would be a whole lot better, and yet, although there is a solution to this problem, it is one that could only be brought about by the greatest mutual effort. The solution is this: I will supply a short course in conversational uplift if you will all decide on one universal way you like your eggs. I realize, of course, that it will be difficult for such a diverse and colorful group of foot sizes to come to such an agreement, but if you promise to at least try, I too will do my best.

  Before we tackle the larger and more comprehensive issues of conversation, I feel that a few words on the subject of trying too hard might well be in order.

  Trying Too Hard

  The conversational overachiever is someone whose grasp exceeds his reach. This is possible but not attractive.

  Original thought is like original sin: both happened before you were born to people you could not possibly have met.

  The Larger and More Comprehensive Issues

  Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.

  Polite conversation is rarely either.

  Spilling your guts is just exactly as charming as it sounds.

  Never name-drop at the dinner table. The only thing worse than a fly in one’s soup is a celebrity.

  The only appropriate reply to the question “Can I be frank?” is “Yes, if I can be Barbara.”

  Telling someone he looks healthy isn’t a compliment—it’s a second opinion.

  Looking genuinely attentive is like sawing a girl in half and then putting her back together. It is seldom achieved without the use of mirrors.

  The opposite of talking isn’t listening. The opposite of talking is waiting.

  Hot Not to Marry

  a Millionaire:

  A Guide for the

  Misfortune Hunter

  The recent marriage of a well-known Greek shipping heiress and an unemployed Russian Communist has given rise to the speculation that we may, in fact, be witnessing an incipient trend. It is not unlikely that working your way down may shortly become the romantic vogue among the truly rich—with interest ranging from the merely less fortunate to the genuinely poor. Should this become the case, our more affluent brethren will undoubtedly be in need of some practical advice and careful guidance. Thus I offer the following course of instruction:

  I. WHERE POORER PEOPLE CONGREGATE

  Meeting the poorer person is a problem in itself, for the more conventional avenues of acquaintance are closed to you. The poorer person did not prep with your brother, form a racehorse syndicate with your broker or lose to you gracefully in Deauville. He does not share your aesthetic interest in pre-Columbian jewelry, your childhood passion for teasing the cook or your knowledge of land values in Gstaad. Therefore, it is not probable that the poorer person is someone whom you are just going to run into by chance. He must be actively sought. In seeking the poorer person, one must be ever mindful of both his habits and his daily routine:

  a. The very backbone of the mass-transit system is the poorer person, who when he must go somewhere will usually avail himself of the vivid camaraderie to be found on buses and subways. Should you choose this method, take special care that you do not give yourself away by an awkward and superfluous attempt to hail the E train or by referring to the bus driver as “the captain.”

  b. The poorer person performs most personal services for himself. Thus he can commonly be found in the acts of purchasing food, laundering clothing, shopping for hardware, picking up prescriptions and returning empty bottles. These tasks can be accomplished at locations throughout the city and are all open to the public, which can, if you like, include yourself.

  c. Generally speaking, the poorer person summers where he winters.

  d. Unless he’s an extremely poorer person (i.e., a welfare recipient) he will spend a substantial portion of each day or night at work. Work may occur in any number of places: stores, offices, restaurants, houses, airports or the front seats of taxicabs. With the possible exception of the last, you yourself have easy and frequent access to all such locales—a circumstance that can often be used to advantage, as it affords you the opportunity of making that crucial first gesture.

  II. BREAKING THE ICE WITH POORER PEOPLE

  In approaching the poorer person, one can employ, of course, the same tactics that one might use in approaching someone on more equal footing with oneself. Charm, wit, tact, direct eye contact, simple human warmth, the feigning of interest in his deeper feelings—all of these may be beneficial in establishing rapport. Such strategies are, however, not without risk, for they are every one open to misinterpretation and most certainly cannot be counted upon for immediate results. Poorer people, being, alas, not only poorer but also people, are quirky; they too have their little moods, their sore spots, their prickly defenses. Therefore their responses to any of the above might well be erratic and not quite all that one has hoped. Do not lose heart, though, for it is here that your own position as a richer person can best be exploited and can, in fact, assure you of almost instantaneous success in getting to know the poorer person more intimately.

  Buy the poorer person an expensive present: a car; a house; a color television set; a dining-room table. Something nice. The poorer person, without exception, loves all these things. Buy him one of them and he will definitely like you enough to at least chat.

  III. WHAT NOT TO SAY TO POORER PEOPLE

  It is at this juncture that the utmost care be exercised lest you lose your hard-won toehold. For it is in actual conversation with the poorer person that even the most attentive and conscientious student tends to falter.

  Having been softened up with a lavish gift, the poorer person will indeed be in an expansive, even friendly, frame of mind. He is not, however, completely and irrevocably yours yet; it is still possible to raise his hackles and make as naught all of your previous efforts. A thoughtless remark, an inopportune question, an unsuitable reference—any of these may offend the poorer person to the point where you may totally alienate him. Below are some examples of the sort of thing one really must strive to avoi
d:

  Is that your blue Daimler blocking the driveway?

  … and in the end, of course, it’s always the larger stockholder who is blamed.

  I’ll call you around noon. Will you be up?

  Who do you think you are, anyway—Lucius Beebe?

  Don’t you believe it for a minute—these waiters make an absolute fortune.

  Oh, a uniform. What a great idea.

  IV. A SHORT GLOSSARY OF WORDS USED BY POORER PEOPLE

  sale—An event common to the retail business, during the course of which merchandise is reduced in price. Not to be confused with sail, which is, at any rate, a good word not to say to poorer people.

  meatloaf—A marvelously rough kind of pâté. Sometimes served hot.

  overworked—An overwhelming feeling of fatigue; exhaustion; weariness. Similar to jet lag.

  rent—A waste of money. It’s so much cheaper to buy.

  The Four

  Greediest Cases:

  A Limited Appeal

  Angela de G.

  It is quiet now in the almost devastated East River co-op. Tarps litter the seriously marred parquet floors. Paint-stained ladders stand like skeletons in the somber dimness of insufficient track lighting. Abandoned shades of gray sadly spot a lower wall. Forlorn swatches of fabric in a harsh jumble of acid greens and impenetrable blacks are strewn angrily across a veritable ruin of an Empire Récamier. It is quiet now. Yes. Now. But for Angela de G., the occupant of this cavernous wreck, the momentary quiet is but an all too brief interlude. A precious chunk of serenity in a world that has turned upside down. A world made chaotic and unsure. A world of terror and bleakness. A world of despair.

  Angela de G. is renovating.

  Quietly the small figure sits huddled in a huge coffee-colored sweater that is much too big for her emaciated frame. A sweater so voluminous and ill-fitting that one can barely hear her speak—a sweater, alas, that she could hardly refuse no matter how wretched the cut, how unflattering the hue, how inappropriate the garment to her way of life.

  It was a gift from the designer.

  But Angela de G., as she stares out the window, across the freezing black river and into the bleakness of Queens, seems oblivious to her attire. So great is her present crisis, so encompassing her depression that it is almost—almost—as if even clothes didn’t matter any more.

  As Angela de G. talks, one is immediately struck by the conflict in her voice—low in volume but loud in agony as she pours out her litany of despair—a tale all too familiar to those of us in the social services. Familiar, yes, but nonetheless heartrending, for Angela de G.’s pain is real, her burden heavy. So one listens and one hears. Hears it all—the bitter fighting between the decorator and the architect, the arrogance of the lighting designer, the workmen who are late, the painters who are clumsy. The time and a half, the double time, the shock of hitherto unconsidered legal holidays. Yes, one listens, one hears, and one does, of course, what little one can. Hesitantly, all too aware of the meagerness of one’s assistance, the terrible inadequacy of one’s own ability to cope with such a situation, one offers what is, after all, cold comfort. The name of a little man marvelous with parquet. The number of a non-union plumber in Newark. The hope that she will someday find an upholsterer who knows what he’s doing. Yes, one tries. One makes an effort, puts up a good front. But one knows, finally, that it will take more. That outside aid is needed. And needed badly.

  Angela de G. is renovating.

  Won’t you please help?

  Leonard S.

  Leonard S. is alone. Very alone. All alone. Yes, Leonard S. is by himself now. It was not always this way. Once it was different. Quite different. Last night, in fact. But all that has changed now. All that is over. For this morning, when Leonard S. awoke, he was confronted head-on with a tragedy he had long been dreading. Christopher R. was gone. Yes, Christopher R., dear, sweet, beautifully proportioned Christopher R. had left and Leonard S. was alone. Christopher R., however, was not alone. He was with all of Leonard S.’s cash, half of Leonard S.’s wardrobe, Leonard S.’s portable color television set, and Leonard S.’s exquisite little Ingres drawing.

  Leonard S. hopes Christopher R. is happy now.

  Happy with the way he’s treated Leonard S. Happy with the lies, the deceptions, the cheating. Happy with the way he’s hustled Leonard S.—used his connections, his credit-card number, his account at Paul Stuart’s. Happy with his adolescent arrogance, happy with his unspeakable ingratitude, happy with his exquisite little Ingres drawing.

  Leonard S. is not happy. He is depressed. He is sick and he is tired. He is headachey. His illusions are shattered. His trust has been violated. He doesn’t feel like going to work. He is a broken man like a million other broken men in a cold, unfeeling city. He is unbearably low. He is suffused with gloom. And he just can’t face the studio today.

  Leonard S. talks, and his pain is a terrible thing to witness. Leonard S. loved Christopher R. Cherished him, cared for him, supported him. Leonard S. thought Christopher R. was loyal. Thought he was decent, thought he was different. Different from the others. Different from Timothy M., John H., Rodney W., David T., Alexander J., Matthew C., Benjamin P. and Joseph K. Different from Ronald B., from Anthony L. and from Carl P. But he was wrong. Very wrong.

  He sees that now.

  He must have been blind. He must have been crazy. He must have been out of his mind.

  The phone rings.

  Leonard S. returns from the call and it is apparent that tragedy has struck again. He pours himself a drink. His hands shake. His eyes are twin pools of anguish. He can barely speak, but slowly the sordid story is told. He has been doubly betrayed. What little faith he had left has deserted him completely. Christopher R. is en route to Los Angeles. With Leonard S.’s heart. With all of Leonard S.’s cash. With half of Leonard S.’s wardrobe. With Leonard S.’s portable color television set. With Leonard S.’s exquisite little Ingres drawing.

  And with Leonard S.’s assistant, Michael F.

  Leonard S. says he is through. He says he is finished. He says nothing means anything to him anymore—nothing at all. But perhaps there is yet some hope. Perhaps you can help. All contributions are in the strictest confidence. Anonymity is assured. We dare not speak your last name.

  Mr. and Mrs. Alan T.

  There was laughter here once. Music too. Parties. Celebrations. Catering. Fun.

  But now this Tudor-style home in Bel Air is tense. Those that live here are worn. Nervous. They are doing their best, but the pressure is intolerable, the demands not to be believed. They are suffering the agonizing results of bad judgment. Faulty figuring. Sour deals.

  They have misread the general public.

  There was a time when that seemed impossible. When Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. were riding high. The smartest, the sharpest producing and packaging team in town. Surefooted, never faltering, never a mistake. Residuals, big box office, percentages of the gross, not the net. It all belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. Their respective fingers on the pulse of America. Mr. and Mrs. Right Place at the Right Time. There with the goods. Disaffected youth when America wanted disaffected youth. Black exploitation. Nostalgia. Male bonding. The occult. They predicted every single trend. Right on the money. Time after time. They had contacts. They had respect. They had power. They had four brand-new leased Mercedes all at once. Chocolate brown. Off-white. Silver gray. Deepest maroon. All paid for, compliments of the studio.

  Then it all started caving in on them. A mistake here, an error there. Little things at first: going into general release too soon; giving a twenty-year-old director a budget he couldn’t handle; using an editor with a drinking problem; putting a cute little number in a role that swamped her. Bad reviews. Drive-in city.

  The maroon was the first to go. Then the off-white. Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. live with the sort of despair that few of us can truly understand. They are like wounded deer, like victims of some corrosive disease of the soul. They sit and stare at each other in mou
rnful silence. They know it is only a matter of time. They know the silver gray is next. Then even the chocolate brown will be gone. They castigate themselves and each other. Their plight is all the harder to bear, for these once proud people see it as a failing of their own. An unrelenting self-induced horror.

  Mr. and Mrs. Alan T. missed the boat on science fiction.

  How it happened they simply cannot imagine. All the signs were there: paperbacks selling like hotcakes; huge conventions of future buffs; comic books; toys. A trend about to be. A gold mine. A money machine. A whole new ball game. And where were they? They answer their own question with a horrifying combination of grief and self-loathing. Off on location with some bomb about a Yorkshire terrier possessed by the devil. Yesterday’s newspapers, January’s Playmate of the Month in February.

  Can you come to their aid? Can you help Mr. and Mrs. Alan T.? Try. Please. Make them an offer. They can hardly refuse. Can they?

  Kimberly M.

  Kimberly M. stands alone in the airline terminal. A solitary figure. Staring as the empty luggage carrousel goes round and round. She knows it is to no avail. She has been there for hours. She has waited. She has talked to them all: the representatives, the ground crew, even, in her blinding panic, the stewardesses. She has had her hopes lifted only to be dashed. Her luggage, she knows, is gone. All seven pieces. All a gift from her grandmother. All Louis Vuitton. All the old stuff. The real stuff.

  When it was still leather.

  She cannot quite believe this is happening to her. It must be some dreadful nightmare from which she will soon awake. It cannot be real. But as Kimberly M. hears the metallic voice announcing the delays and cancellations, she knows this is no hallucination, no dream. They have indeed lost her luggage. Where it is she hasn’t a clue. Taken by mistake? In a taxi on its way back to town? En route to Cleveland? Checked through to Hong Kong? She may never know.