Diary of a
New York
Apartment Hunter
Friday: Awakened at the crack of dawn by a messenger bearing this coming Sunday’s New York Times Real Estate section. First six apartments gone already. Spent a good fifteen minutes dividing the number of New York Times editors into the probable number of people looking for two-bedroom apartments. Spent additional half-hour wondering how anyone who has a paper to get out every day could possibly have time to keep up eleven hundred friendships. Realized this theory not plausible and decided instead that the typesetters all live in co-ops with wood-burning fireplaces. Wondered briefly why listings always specify wood-burning fireplaces. Decided that considering the prices they’re asking, it’s probably just a warning device for those who might otherwise figure what the hell, and just burn money.
Called V.F. and inquired politely whether anyone in his extremely desirable building had died during the night. Reply in the negative. I just don’t get it. It’s quite a large building and no one in it has died for months. In my tiny little building they’re dropping like flies. Made a note to investigate the possibility that high ceilings and decorative moldings prolong life. Momentarily chilled by the thought that someone who lives in a worse building than mine is waiting for me to die. Cheered immeasurably by realization that a) nobody lives in a worse building than mine and b) particularly those who are waiting for me to die.
Saturday: Uptown to look at co-op in venerable midtown building. Met real estate broker in lobby. A Caucasian version of Tokyo Rose. She immediately launched into a description of all the respectably employed people who were waiting in line for this apartment. Showed me living room first. Large, airy, terrific view of well-known discount drugstore. Two bedrooms, sure enough. Kitchen, sort of. When I asked why the present occupant had seen fit to cut three five-foot-high arches out of the inside wall of the master bedroom, she muttered something about cross ventilation. When I pointed out that there were no windows on the opposite wall, she ostentatiously extracted a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and studied them closely. Presumably these contained the names of all the Supreme Court Justices who were waiting for this apartment. Nevertheless I pressed on and asked her what one might do with three five-foot-high arches in one’s bedroom wall. She suggested stained glass. I suggested pews in the living room and services every Sunday. She showed me a room she referred to as the master bath. I asked her where the slaves bathed. She rustled her papers ominously and showed me the living room again. I looked disgruntled. She brightened and showed me something called a fun bathroom. It had been covered in fabric from floor to ceiling by someone who obviously was not afraid to mix patterns. I informed her unceremoniously that I never again wanted to be shown a fun bathroom. I don’t want to have fun in the bathroom; I just want to bathe my slaves.
She showed me the living room again. Either she just couldn’t get enough of that discount drugstore or she was trying to trick me into thinking there were three living rooms. Impudently I asked her where one ate, seeing as I had not been shown a dining room and the kitchen was approximately the size of a brandy snifter.
“Well,” she said, “some people use the second bedroom as a dining room.” I replied that I needed the second bedroom to write in. This was a mistake because it reminded her of all the ambassadors to the U.N. on her list of prospective tenants.
“Well,” she said, “the master bedroom is rather large.”
“Listen,” I said, “I already eat on my bed. In a one-room, rent-controlled slum apartment, I’ll eat on the bed. In an ornately priced, high-maintenance co-op, I want to eat at a table. Call me silly, call me foolish, but that’s the kind of girl I am.” She escorted me out of the apartment and left me standing in the lobby as she hurried off—anxious, no doubt, to call Cardinal Cooke and tell him okay, the apartment was his.
Sunday: Spent the entire day recovering from a telephone call with a real estate broker, who, in response to my having expressed displeasure at having been shown an apartment in which the closest thing to a closet had been the living room, said, “Well, Fran, what do you expect for fourteen hundred a month?” He hung up before I could tell him that actually, to tell you the truth, for fourteen hundred a month I expected the Winter Palace—furnished. Not to mention fully staffed.
Monday: Looked this morning at the top floor of a building which I have privately christened Uncle Tom’s Brown-stone. One end of the floor sloped sufficiently for me to be able to straighten up and ask why the refrigerator was in the living room. I was promptly put in my place by the owner, who looked me straight in the eye and said, “Because it doesn’t fit in the kitchen.”
“True,” I conceded, taking a closer look, “that is a problem. I’ll tell you what, though, and this may not have occurred to you, but that kitchen does fit in the refrigerator. Why don’t you try it?”
I left before he could act on my suggestion and repaired to a phone booth. Mortality rate in V.F.’s building still amazingly low.
Called about apartment listed in today’s paper. Was told fixture fee $100,000. Replied that unless Rembrandt had doodled on the walls, $100,000 wasn’t a fixture fee; it was war reparations.
Tuesday: Let desperation get the best of me and went to see an apartment described as “interesting.” “Interesting” generally means that it has a skylight, no elevator and they’ll throw in the glassine envelopes for free. This one was even more interesting than usual because, the broker informed me, Jack Kerouac had once lived here. Someone’s pulling your leg, I told him; Jack Kerouac’s still living here.
Wednesday: Ran into a casual acquaintance on Seventh Avenue. Turns out he too is looking for a two-bedroom apartment. We compared notes.
“Did you see the one with the refrigerator in the living room?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “today I looked at a dentist’s office in the East Fifties.”
“A dentist’s office,” I said. “Was the chair still there?”
“No,” he replied, “but there was a sink in every room.” It sounded like a deal for someone. I tried to think if I knew of any abortionists looking for a two-bedroom apartment. None sprang to mind.
Called real-estate broker and inquired as to price of newly advertised co-op. Amount in substantial six figures. “What about financing?” I asked.
“Financing?” She shuddered audibly. “This is an all-cash building.”
I told her that to me an all-cash building is what you put on Boardwalk or Park Place. She suggested that I look farther uptown. I replied that if I looked any farther uptown I’d have to take karate lessons. She thought that sounded like a good idea.
Thursday: Was shown co-op apartment of recently deceased actor. By now so seasoned that I didn’t bat an eye at the sink in the master bedroom. Assumed that either he was a dentist on the side or that it didn’t fit in the bathroom. Second assumption proved correct. Couldn’t understand why, though; you’d think that there not being a shower in there would have left plenty of room for a sink. Real-estate broker pointed out recent improvements: tangerine-colored kitchen appliances; bronze-mirrored fireplace; a fun living room. Told the broker that what with the asking price, the maintenance and the cost of unimproving, I couldn’t afford to live there and still wear shoes on a regular basis.
Called V.F. again. First the good news: a woman in his building died. Then the bad news: she decided not to move.
Fran Lebowitz’s
Travel Hints
These hints are the result of exhaustive and painstaking research conducted during a recently completed fourteen-city promotional book tour. This does not mean that if your own travel plans do not include a fourteen-city promotional book tour you should disregard this information. Simply adjust the hints to fit your personal needs, allow for a certain amount of pilot error and you will benefit enormously.
It is imperative when flying coach that you restrain any tendency toward the vividly imaginative. Fo
r although it may momentarily appear to be the case, it is not at all likely that the cabin is entirely inhabited by crying babies smoking inexpensive domestic cigars.
When flying first class, you may frequently need to be reminded of this fact, for it all too often seems that the only discernible difference is that the babies have connections in Cuba. You will, however, be finally reassured when the stewardess drops your drink and the glass breaks.
Airplanes are invariably scheduled to depart at such times as 7:54, 9:21 or 11:37. This extreme specificity has the effect on the novice of instilling in him the twin beliefs that he will be arriving at 10:08, 1:43 or 4:22, and that he should get to the airport on time. These beliefs are not only erroneous but actually unhealthy, and could easily be dispelled by an attempt on the part of the airlines toward greater realism. Understandably, they may be reluctant to make such a radical change all at once. In an effort to make the transition easier I offer the following graduated alternatives to “Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart at 8:03 P.M.”: Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart oh, let’s say, eightish.
Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart around eight, eight-thirty.
Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart while it’s still dark.
Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart before the paperback is out.
Stewardesses are not crazy about girls.
Neither are stewards.
You can change planes in Omaha, Nebraska.
You are advised to do so.
Whether or not you yourself indulge in the habit, always sit in the smoking section of an airplane. The coughing will break up the trip.
Whenever possible, fly with someone who is colorblind. Explaining to him the impact of rust, orange and yellow stripes against a background of aquamarine florals will fill the time you have left over from coughing.
When making bookstore appearances in areas heavily populated by artistic types, limit your signing of books “For Douglas and Michael” or “Joseph and Edward” or “Diane and Katy” to under ten copies. It will take you approximately that amount of time to be struck by the realization that you are losing sales. Announce pleasantly but firmly that it is common knowledge that homosexual liaisons are notoriously short-lived, and that eventually there will be a fight over your book. If this fails to have an immediate effect, remind them gently of the number of French whisks they’ve lost through the years.
It’s not that it’s three hours earlier in California; it’s that the days are three hours longer.
Room-service menus that don’t charge extra for cheese on hamburgers are trying to tell you something.
Fleeting romantic alliances in strange cities are acceptable, especially if you’ve already seen the movie. Just make sure that your companion has gotten the name of your publisher wrong.
Local television talk-show hosts are not interested in the information that the Today show uses more than one camera.
Twenty-four-hour room service generally refers to the length of time that it takes for the club sandwich to arrive. This is indeed disheartening, particularly when you’ve ordered scrambled eggs.
Never relinquish clothing to a hotel valet without first specifically telling him that you want it back.
Leaving a wake-up call for four P.M. is certain to result in a loss of respect from the front desk and over-familiarity on the part of bellboys and room-service waiters.
If you’re going to America, bring your own food.
If while staying at a stupendously expensive hotel in Northern California you observe that one of your fellow guests has left his sneakers in front of his door, try to behave yourself.
Under no circumstances order from room service an item entitled “The Cheese Festival” unless you are prepared to have your dream of colorfully costumed girls of all nations rolling enormous wheels of Gruyère and Jarlsberg replaced by three Kraft slices and a lot of toothpicks dressed in red cellophane hats.
Calling a taxi in Texas is like calling a rabbi in Iraq.
Local television talk shows do not, in general, supply make-up artists. The exception to this is Los Angeles, an unusually generous city in this regard, since they also provide this service for radio appearances.
Do not approach with anything even resembling assurance a restaurant that moves.
When a newspaper photographer suggests artistically interesting props, risk being impolite.
Absolutely, positively, and no matter what, wait until you get back to New York to have your hair cut.
Carry cash.
Stay inside.
Call collect.
Forget to write.
Ideas
Ideas
It was only to be expected that the era that gave us the word “lifestyle” would sooner or later come up with the concept of thoughtstyle. Thoughtstyle can probably best be defined by noting that in the phrase “lifestyle” we have the perfect example of the total being lesser than the sum of its parts, since those who use the word “lifestyle” are rarely in possession of either.
So too with thoughtstyle, and thus we find ourselves the inhabitants of a period during which ideas are not exactly flourishing—denizens, in fact, of a time when the most we can possibly hope to see are a couple of darn good notions. What is the difference, you may now be asking, between an idea and a notion? Well, the primary difference, of course, is that a notion you can sell but an idea you can’t even give away. There are other differences, to be sure, and as can readily be seen by the following chart, I have taken care not to neglect them.
IDEAS NOTIONS
MAKING CHANGE ALGEBRA
ENGLISH ESPERANTO
BLUEBERRY PIE BLUEBERRY VINEGAR
POETRY POETS
LITERATURE THE NONFICTION NOVEL
CHOOSING PICKING
BATHROOMS IN MUSEUMS PAINTINGS IN BATHROOMS
LIGHT BULBS LIGHT BEER
THOMAS JEFFERSON JERRY BROWN
BREAKFAST BRUNCH
DETROIT SAUSALITO
While it may appear to the novice that this just about wraps it up, I am afraid that the novice is sadly mistaken. Ideas are, after all, a subject of some complexity. There are good ideas, bad ideas, big ideas, small ideas, old ideas and new ideas. There are ideas that we like and ideas that we don’t. But the idea that I have seized upon is the idea that is not quite finished—the idea that starts strong but in the final analysis doesn’t quite make it. Naturally, there is more than one such idea, and so I offer what can only be called:
A BUNCH OF HALF-BAKED IDEAS
TRIAL BY A JURY OF YOUR PEERS
ADULT EDUCATION
THE NOBLE SAVAGE
HERO WORSHIP
IMMACULATE CONCEPTION
HIGH TECH
POPULAR CULTURE
FISCAL RESPONSIBILITY
SALES TAX
HUMAN POTENTIAL
SUPER MAN
MAY DAY
BUTCHER BLOCK
SEXUAL POLITICS
METHOD ACTING
MODERN MEDICINE
LIVING WELL IS THE BEST REVENGE
When Smoke
Gets in Your Eyes …
Shut Them
As a practicing member of several oppressed minority groups, I feel that I have on the whole conducted myself with the utmost decorum. I have, without exception, refrained from marching, chanting, appearing on The David Susskind Show or in any other way making anything that could even vaguely be construed as a fuss. I call attention to this exemplary behavior not merely to cast myself in a favorable light but also to emphasize the seriousness of the present situation. The present situation that I speak of is the present situation that makes it virtually impossible to smoke a cigarette in public without the risk of fine, imprisonment or having to argue with someone not of my class.
Should the last part of that statement disturb the more egalitarian among you, I hasten to add that I use the word “class” in its narrower sense to refer to that group more commonly thought of as “my kind of
people.” And while there are a great many requirements for inclusion in my kind of people, chief among them is an absolute hands-off policy when it comes to the subject of smoking.
Smoking is, if not my life, then at least my hobby. I love to smoke. Smoking is fun. Smoking is cool. Smoking is, as far as I am concerned, the entire point of being an adult. It makes growing up genuinely worthwhile. I am quite well aware of the hazards of smoking. Smoking is not a healthful pastime, it is true. Smoking is indeed no bracing dip in the ocean, no strenuous series of calisthenics, no two laps around the reservoir. On the other hand, smoking has to its advantage the fact that it is a quiet pursuit. Smoking is, in effect, a dignified sport. Not for the smoker the undue fanfare associated with downhill skiing, professional football or race-car driving. And yet, smoking is—as I have stated previously—hazardous. Very hazardous. Smoking, in fact, is downright dangerous. Most people who smoke will eventually contract a fatal disease and die. But they don’t brag about it, do they? Most people who ski, play professional football or drive race cars, will not die—at least not in the act—and yet they are the ones with the glamorous images, the expensive equipment and the mythic proportions. Why this should be I cannot say, unless it is simply that the average American does not know a daredevil when he sees one. And it is the average American to whom I address this discourse because it is the average American who is responsible for the recent spate of no-smoking laws and antismoking sentiment. That it is the average American who must take the blame I have no doubt, for unquestionably the above-average American has better things to do.
I understand, of course, that many people find smoking objectionable. That is their right. I would, I assure you, be the very last to criticize the annoyed. I myself find many—even most—things objectionable. Being offended is the natural consequence of leaving one’s home. I do not like aftershave lotion, adults who roller-skate, children who speak French, or anyone who is unduly tan. I do not, however, go around enacting legislation and putting up signs. In private I avoid such people; in public they have the run of the place. I stay at home as much as possible, and so should they. When it is necessary, however, to go out of the house, they must be prepared, as am I, to deal with the unpleasant personal habits of others. That is what “public” means. If you can’t stand the heat, get back in the kitchen.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 19