The Fran Lebowitz Reader

by Fran Lebowitz

  As to the question of how you can best apply what you have learned, I believe that it would be highly beneficial to you all were we to examine the conventional wisdom on the subject of things in order to see what it looks like in the light of your new-found knowledge:

  THE CONVENTIONAL WISDOM ON THE SUBJECT OF THINGS AS SEEN IN THE LIGHT OF YOUR NEW-FOUND KNOWLEDGE

  All good things come to those who wait: This is a concept that parallels in many respects another well-known thought, that of the meek inheriting the earth. With that in mind, let us use a time-honored method of education and break the first statement into its two major component parts: a) All good things; b) come to those who wait. Immediately it is apparent that thanks to our previous study we are well informed as to which exactly the good things are. It is when we come to “those who wait” that we are entering virgin territory. Educators have found that in cases like this it is often best to use examples from actual life. So then, we must think of a place that from our own experience we know as a place where “those who wait” might, in fact, be waiting. Thus I feel that the baggage claim area of a large metropolitan airport might well serve our purpose.

  Now, in addressing the fundamental issue implied by this question—i.e., the veracity of the statement “All good things come to those who wait”—we are in actuality asking the question, “Do, in fact, all good things come to those who wait?” In breaking our answer into its two major component parts, we find that we know that: a) among “all good things” are to be found linguini with clam sauce, the Bentley automobile and the ever-fascinating city of Paris.

  We also know that: b) “those who wait” are waiting at O’Hare. We then think back to our own real-life adventures, make one final check of our helpful chart and are sadly compelled to conclude that “No, all good things do not come to those who wait”—unless due to unforeseeably personal preferences on the part of “those who wait,” “all good things” are discovered to include an item entitled SOME OF YOUR LUGGAGE MISSING ALL OF ITS CONTENTS.

  A thing of beauty is a joy forever: This graceful line from a poem written by John Keats is not so much inaccurate as it is archaic. Mr. Keats, it must be remembered, was not only a poet but also a product of the era in which he lived. Additionally, it must not be forgotten that one of the salient features of the early nineteenth century was an inordinate admiration for the simple ability to endure. Therefore, while a thing of beauty is a joy, to be sure, we of the modern age, confined no longer by outmoded values, are free to acknowledge that nine times out of ten a weekend is long enough.

  Each man kills the thing he loves: And understandably so, when he has been led to believe that it will be a joy forever. Doing your own thing: the use of the word “thing” in this context is unusually precise, since those who are prone to this expression actually do do things as opposed to those who do work—i.e., pottery is a thing—writing is a work.

  Life is just one damned thing after another: And death is a cabaret.

  Pointers for Pets

  I feel compelled by duty to begin this discourse with what I actually think of as a statement, but what will more probably be construed as an admission. I do not like animals. Of any sort. I don’t even like the idea of animals. Animals are no friends of mine. They are not welcome in my house. They occupy no space in my heart. Animals are off my list. I will say, however, in the spirit of qualification, that I mean them no particular harm. I won’t bother animals if animals won’t bother me. Well, perhaps I had better amend that last sentence. I won’t personally bother animals. I do feel, though, that a plate bereft of a good cut of something rare is an affront to the serious diner, and that while I have frequently run across the fellow who could, indeed, be described as a broccoli-and-potatoes man, I cannot say that I have ever really taken to such a person.

  Therefore, I might more accurately state that I do not like animals, with two exceptions. The first being in the past tense, at which point I like them just fine, in the form of nice crispy spareribs and Bass Weejun penny loafers. And the second being outside, by which I mean not merely outside, as in outside the house, but genuinely outside, as in outside in the woods, or preferably outside in the South American jungle. This is, after all, only fair. I don’t go there; why should they come here?

  The above being the case, it should then come as no surprise that I do not approve of the practice of keeping animals as pets. “Not approve” is too mild: pets should be disallowed by law. Especially dogs. Especially in New York City.

  I have not infrequently verbalized this sentiment in what now passes for polite society, and have invariably been the recipient of the information that even if dogs should be withheld from the frivolous, there would still be the blind and the pathologically lonely to think of. I am not totally devoid of compassion, and after much thought I believe that I have hit upon the perfect solution to this problem—let the lonely lead the blind. The implementation of this plan would provide companionship to one and a sense of direction to the other, without inflicting on the rest of the populace the all too common spectacle of grown men addressing German shepherds in the respectful tones best reserved for elderly clergymen and Internal Revenue agents.

  You animal lovers uninterested in helping news dealers across busy intersections will just have to seek companionship elsewhere. If actual friends are not within your grasp, may I suggest that you take a cue from your favorite celebrity and consider investing in a really good entourage. The advantages of such a scheme are inestimable: an entourage is indisputably superior to a dog (or even, of course, actual friends), and will begin to pay for itself almost immediately. You do not have to walk an entourage; on the contrary, one of the major functions of an entourage is that it walks you. You do not have to name an entourage. You do not have to play with an entourage. You do not have to take an entourage to the vet—although the conscientious entourage owner makes certain that his entourage has had all of its shots. You do, of course, have to feed an entourage, but this can be accomplished in decent Italian restaurants and without the bother and mess of large tin cans and special plastic dishes.

  If the entourage suggestion does not appeal to you, perhaps you should alter your concept of companionship. Living things need not enter into it at all. Georgian silver and Duncan Phyfe sofas make wonderful companions, as do all alcoholic beverages and out-of-season fruits. Use your imagination, study up on the subject. You’ll think of something.

  If, however, you do not think of something—and animal lovers being a singularly intractable lot, chances are that you won’t—I have decided to direct the remainder of my remarks to the pets themselves in the hope that they might at least learn to disport themselves with dignity and grace.

  If you are a dog and your owner suggests that you wear a sweater … suggest that he wear a tail.

  If you have been named after a human being of artistic note, run away from home. It is unthinkable that even an animal should be obliged to share quarters with anyone who calls a cat Ford Madox Ford.

  Dogs who earn their living by appearing in television commercials in which they constantly and aggressively demand meat should remember that in at least one Far Eastern country they are meat.

  If you are only a bird in a gilded cage—count your blessings.

  A dog who thinks he is man’s best friend is a dog who obviously has never met a tax lawyer.

  If you are an owl being kept as a pet, I applaud and encourage your tendency to hoot. You are to be highly commended for expressing such a sentiment. An owl is, of course, not a pet at all; it is an unforgivable and wistful effort in the direction of whimsy.

  No animal should ever jump up on the dining-room furniture unless absolutely certain that he can hold his own in the conversation.

  The Frances Ann

  Lebowitz Collection

  Following are a few selected pages from the forthcoming auction catalogue of the estate of Frances Ann Lebowitz.

  Length 19 inches (48 cm)

  See i
llustration.

  1. KORD (BRAND NAME)

  Thus is inscribed this important example of popularly priced hot plate. White enameled metal with black brand-name inscription and dials, this two-burner plate was personally delivered to its present owner by Mr. Roper, the absentee building superintendent long thought to be a mythical figure. While actual physical manifestation of Mr. Roper is of keen interest to those scholars and collectors dedicated to a more detailed and esoteric study of Memento Pori, or Reminders of Poverty, it should be noted that his appearance was a singular one and that he himself is not offered with this lot.

  The Kord, however, replaced an earlier hot plate widely believed to have been formerly owned (and used) by all of Mr. Roper’s antecedents.

  The Kord is interestingly proportioned, featuring two burners but lacking room for two pans. This feature possibly derives from the landlord’s insistence on thematic discomfort.

  The Frances Ann Lebowitz Collection, one of the largest ever assembled (in an apartment of that size) of Memento Pori effectively chronicles man’s reaction to having no money from the end of the nineteen-sixties, through latter-nineteen-seventies acquisitions, until the present day.

  All artistic media are represented: carvings in furniture, impressions in wall paint, and works in many metal alloys.

  To explore all the various moods and historic events that influenced the creation of these objects would be a lengthy task. Some are flimsy, some jerry-built and others merely outmoded, but all seem to reflect man’s underpayment of writers on this earth.

  The Kord hot plate with its two burners and two dials reminds us that lack of funds is the ultimate poverty and that there is no way to avoid this fact. Possibly the inscription under each dial states it most clearly: High, Medium, Low.

  2. BROIL KING TOASTER OVEN

  EARLY/LATE NINETEEN-SIXTIES

  Emblazoned on one side with the Broil King logo, a sort of crown, and on the other side with the legend “infra red Bake ‘N’ Broil.” Trimmed in black plastic, containing aluminum rack and glasslike window, ornamental wire and plug.

  Length 17 inches (43 cm)

  See illustration.

  3. IMPORTANT ROWE SLEEP-OR-SOFA SOFA BED SECOND HALF NINETEEN SEVENTY-ONE

  Executed in plywood, upholstered with a foam-type substance and covered in brown wide-wale cotton corduroy; mattress in blue, gray and white ticking, black-and-white clothish label (do not remove under penalty of law).

  Width: 3 feet (.9 m) (when sofa)

  6 feet (1.8 m) (when bed)

  See illustration.

  4. PRIM ROSE CHINA HAND-PAINTED UNDER GLAZE BY NATIONAL BROTHERHOOD OF OPERATIVE POTTERS NINETEEN THIRTY-NINE?

  Once the everyday dairy dishes of Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Splaver of Derby, Connecticut, these dessert and dinner plates were originally acquired at the West End Movie Theater in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Fortuitously (the theater owner was Mr. Splaver’s brother-in-law), these outstanding vessels (once part of a complete set) painted with gray, black and red streaks on a field of white, were obtained without the principals being compelled to attend a wearying succession of Dish Nights. 3 pieces.

  Diameters: 10 1/2 inches (26.6 cm)

  7 1/2 inches (19 cm)

  See illustration.

  5. GROUP OF SMALL BOXES

  MID-NINETEEN-SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The first a red, white and blue cardboard Ambassador toothpick box containing many of the original 250 round toothpicks; two cardboard Gem paper-clip boxes in outstanding shades of green; and a four-color (one an important translucent flesh tone) metal box stating contents of three sizes of Johnson & Johnson Band-Aid brand plastic strips. Interesting packaging error (lacking juniors). 4 pieces.

  Lengths: 2 3/4 to 3 1/4 inches

  (7 to 8.2 cm)

  6. THREE ELECTRICAL ALARM CLOCKS, ONE OF WHICH WORKS LATISH-TWENTIETH-CENTURY

  The first two by Westclox (La Salle, III.), both lacking “crystals” but of interesting design: one almost starkly unadorned, the other featuring horizontally striped border in tones of tangerine and black. The third a functional timepiece with numerals depicted in a pseudo-iridescent green that very nearly approach trompe l’oeil in that they give every impression of being visible in the dark; amusingly brand-named Lux. 3 pieces.

  Lengths: 3 3/4 to 4 1/4 inches

  (9.5 to 11 cm)

  See illustration.

  7. TYPEWRITER

  TWENTIETH-CENTURY

  Remington Rand, gray metal, eleven stuck keys, unwound ribbon; the whole, a mess.

  Length 11 inches (28 cm)

  See illustration.

  8. ANOTHER TYPEWRITER

  TWENTIETH-CENTURY

  On loan from generally anonymous art director, lettera DL, two-toned gray metal; neither lot number 7 nor lot number 8 ever used by present owner.

  Length 10 inches (25.4 cm)

  9. COLLECTION OF FIVE EGGS NOT QUITE AS LATE-TWENTIETH-CENTURY AS ONE WOULD HAVE HOPED

  Representing eggs in two modes, hard-boiled and raw: three of former, two of latter. Together with medium-blue cardboard egg carton and enamel saucepan similarly colored. 5 pieces (at the moment).

  10. PAIR OF INDUSTRIAL QUALITY EARPLUGS EARLY-MORNING

  Pair of vivid-yellow foam earplugs, to no avail. 2 pieces.

  Lengths 1 inch (2.54 cm)

  11. TWO TAN OBJECTS

  TWENTIETH-CENTURY

  One a pepper mill and the other a salad bowl. Both somewhat the worse for wear. 2 pieces

  Height: 3 3/8 inches (8.16 cm)

  Diameter: 6 inches (15 cm)

  See illustration.

  Drawings and Sculpture

  12. ANONYMOUS

  BODY OF ALLIGATOR ON

  ASHTRAY BASE

  Unsigned.

  Ceramic, brown, yellow, blue and white.

  Inscribed FLORIDA.

  Height: 21 1/2 inches (54.5 cm)

  See illustration.

  13. FRAN LEBOWITZ

  A NUMBER OF DOODLES

  Signed and dated ’78.

  Ballpoint pen under pressure.

  5 # 3 inches

  (12.7 # 7.6 cm)

  14. FRIEND’S CHILD

  “GOOD MORNING, MOM!”

  Illegibly signed.

  Crayon on coloring book.

  11 # 7 3/4 inches

  (28 # 20 cm)

  See illustration.

  15. EDITOR

  DON’T WRITE TILL YOU GET WORK

  Unsigned and rather dated.

  Colored pencil on purloined office stationery.

  8 1/2 x 5 1/2 inches

  (21.5 x 14 cm)

  See illustration.

  16. RUGS

  TWO RECENTLY LAUNDERED

  COTTON TERRY BATHMATS

  LATE NINETEEN-SIXTIES

  The first rather mauve in color, the second an unusually common shade of blue; both nice. 2 pieces.

  Approx. 3 feet (.9 m) x 1 foot 8 inches (50.8 cm)

  See illustration.

  The Pen of My Aunt

  Is on the Operating Table

  A furnished apartment? No, I don’t think so. I’m really not interested in a furnished apartment. No, really. Not at all. Not a furnished apartment. High tech? Yes, I know about high tech. Yes, I do. Really, I do. I know all about high tech.

  I know about Sloan-Kettering too, but that doesn’t mean that I feel like going up there and taking a look around.

  No. Absolutely. No. Which building? Really? Oh, I love that building. That’s a terrific building. I didn’t know that you handled that building. You have an exclusive? Well. Aren’t there any unfurnished apartments in that building? Oh. Yes, of course, the market. I know. I see. Yes, that’s true, something else might come up there. Well, all right, but I’m really not interested in a furnished apartment. Not at all.

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m going up there. A furnished apartment. I don’t want a furnished apartment. A furnished apartment is out of the question. I hate furnished
apartments. Although I can’t imagine describing anything even remotely related to high tech as furnished. Equipped would be a better word, or maybe engineered. Every time I see one of those places I’m tempted to ask how many miles it gets to the gallon. Or where the boiler room is. Or the intensive care unit. The last time I was in a place like that I spent the better part of an hour skulking around looking for a brass plate inscribed with the name of the donor. High tech. I can’t believe it.

  Oh, hello. Yes, nice to see you again too. Sure, let’s go right up.

  Well, well, isn’t this something. Oh, listen, I’m sorry but I don’t seem to have a token with me. Do you think I could possibly borrow one from you? What? No turnstile? Yes, just an oversight, I’m sure. Some people just have no eye for detail. Then again, he may merely have been exercising his artistic restraint. He probably thought that the urinals in the living room were enough. A nice touch. Functional too, particularly for someone of his tastes—I mean taste. Well, now there’s something I never would have thought of—a neon basketball hoop for a night light—it absolutely never would have occurred to me. It’s quite an idea, though. Very thought-provoking. Visual humor. I’ve always loved visual humor. I wonder if I know anyone who knows Julius Erving? Probably not. Too bad, he might be interested in this. You know what they say about turnabout being fair play. Maybe at the next Philadelphia game he could shoot the ball into a night light. He’d probably get a kick out of that. I know I certainly would.

  Hmmmm, lookee there, will you. I mean, take a gander at that. A genuine scrub sink with built-in instrument trays.

  No, no, I didn’t notice that.

  A knee-controlled faucet too. Isn’t that handy. Must be just the thing for washing your hands when they’re full. Yes, it certainly does go beautifully with the chrome-plated hand rails and hospital bathtub. All in all, I guess you’d have to say that this is the bathroom that has everything. If you can’t get it here, you can’t get it period. Scrub up, towel off and just enough time for a little brain scan before bed. Nothing elaborate, just something to put your mind at ease and help you sleep.