As many of you may be unaware of the full extent of this private interference in the public sector, I offer the following report:
HOSPITALS
Hospitals are, when it comes to the restriction of smoking, perhaps the worst offenders of all. Not only because the innocent visitor must invariably walk miles to reach a smoking area, but also because a hospital is the singularly most illogical place in the world to ban smoking. A hospital is, after all, just the sort of unsavory and nerve-racking environment that makes smoking really pay off. Not to mention that in a hospital, the most frequent objection of the nonsmoker (that your smoke endangers his health) is rendered entirely meaningless by the fact that everyone there is already sick. Except the visitor—who is not allowed to smoke.
RESTAURANTS
By and large the sort of restaurant that has “no-smoking tables” is just the sort of restaurant that would most benefit from the dulling of its ‘patrons’ palates. At the time of this writing, New York City restaurants are still free of this divisive legislation. Perhaps those in power are aware that if the New Yorker was compelled to deal with just one more factor in deciding on a restaurant, there would be a mass return to home cooking. For there is, without question, at least in my particular circle, not a single person stalwart enough, after a forty-minute phone conversation, when everyone has finally and at long last agreed on Thai food, downtown, at 9:30, to then bear up under the pressures inherent in the very idea of smoking and no-smoking tables.
MINNESOTA
Due to something called the Minnesota Clean Air Act, it is illegal to smoke in the baggage-claim area of the Minneapolis Airport. This particular bit of news is surprising, since it has been my personal observation that even nonsmokers tend to light up while waiting to see if their baggage has accompanied them to their final destination. As I imagine that this law has provoked a rather strong response, I was initially quite puzzled as to why Minnesota would risk alienating what few visitors it had been able to attract. This mystery was cleared up when, after having spent but a single day there, I realized that in Minnesota the Clean Air Act is a tourist attraction. It may not be the Beaubourg, but it’s all their own. I found this to be an interesting, subtle concept, and have suggested to state officials that they might further exploit its commercial possibilities by offering for sale plain blue postcards emblazoned with the legend: Downtown Minneapolis.
AIRPLANES
Far be it from me to incite the general public by rashly suggesting that people who smoke are smarter than people who don’t. But I should like to point out that I number among my acquaintances not a single nicotine buff who would entertain, for even the briefest moment, the notion that sitting six inches in front of a smoker is in any way healthier than sitting six inches behind him.
TAXICABS
Perhaps one of the most chilling features of New York life is hearing the meter click in a taxicab before one has noticed the sign stating: PLEASE DO NOT SMOKE DRIVER ALLERGIC. One can, of course, exercise the option of disembarking immediately should one not mind being out a whole dollar, or one can, more thriftily, occupy oneself instead by attempting to figure out just how it is that a man who cannot find his way from the Pierre Hotel to East Seventy-eighth Street has somehow managed to learn the English word for allergic.
The Last Laugh
Coming from a family where literary tradition runs largely toward the picture postcard, it is not surprising that I have never really succeeded in explaining to my grandmother exactly what it is that I do. It is not that my grandmother is unintelligent; quite the contrary. It is simply that so firmly implanted are her roots in retail furniture that she cannot help but view all other occupations from this rather limited vantage point. Therefore, every time I see my grandmother I am fully prepared for the following exchange:
“So, how are you?”
“Fine, Grandma. How are you?”
“Fine. So how’s business, good?”
“Very good, Grandma.”
“You busy this time of year? Is this a good season for you?”
“Very good, Grandma.”
“Good. It’s good to be busy.”
“Yes, Grandma.”
Satisfied with my responses, my grandmother will then turn to my father and ask the very same questions, a dialogue a bit more firmly grounded in reality, since he has not deviated from the Lebowitz custom of fine upholstered furniture.
The lack of understanding between my grandmother and myself has long troubled me, and in honor of her recently celebrated ninety-fifth birthday I have prepared the following business history in order that she might have a clearer vision of my life and work.
My beginnings were humble, of course, but I am not ashamed of them. I started with a humor pushcart on Delancey Street—comic essays, forty cents apiece, four for a dollar. It was tough out there on the street; competition was cutthroat, but it was the best education in the world because on Delancey “mildly amusing” was not enough—you had to be funny. I worked ten-hour days, six days a week, and soon I had a nice little following. Not exactly a cult, maybe, but I was doing okay. It was a living. I was able to put aside some money, and things looked pretty good for a store of my own in the not too distant future. Oh sure, I had my troubles, who doesn’t? The housewives browsing through every essay on the cart, trying to contain their glee in the hope that I’d come down a little in price. The kids snitching a couple of paragraphs when my back was turned. And Mike the cop with his hand out all the time looking for a free laugh. But I persevered, never losing sight of my objective, and after years of struggle I was ready to take the plunge.
I went down to Canal Street to look for a store, a store of my own. Not being one to do things halfway, I was thorough and finally found a good location. Lots of foot traffic, surgical supplies on one side, maternity clothes on the other—these were people who could use a good laugh. I worked like a dog getting ready for that opening. I put in a very reasonable ready-to-hear line, an amusing notions counter, a full stock of epigrams, aphorisms and the latest in wit and irony. At last I was ready; Fran’s Humor Heaven: Home of the Devastating Double Entendre was open for business. It was tough going at first, but my overhead was low. I wrote all my own stock. And eventually I began to show a nice healthy gross and a net I could live with.
I don’t know when it all began to go sour—who can tell about these things, I’m a humorist, not a fortuneteller—but business began to slip. First I took a bath with some barbed comments I was trying out, and then I got stuck with a lot of entertaining anecdotes. I hoped it was just an off season, but it didn’t let up, and before I knew it I was in really big trouble. I tried everything, believe you me. I ran big sales—“Buy one epigram, get one free,” “Twenty percent off all phrases.” I even instituted a “Buy now, say later” plan. But nothing worked. I was at my wits’ end; I owed everybody and was in hock up to my ears. So one day, pen in hand, I went to Morris “The Thesaurus” Pincus—a shy on East Houston who lent money to humorists in a jam. The interest rates were exorbitant but I signed my life away. What else could I do?
But it wasn’t enough, and I was forced to take in a collaborator. At first he seemed to be working out. He specialized in parodies and they were moving pretty good, but before too long I began to get suspicious of him. I mean, I could barely put food on my table, and there he was, riding around in a Cadillac a block long. One night after dinner I went back to the store and went over the books with a fine-tooth comb. Just as I thought, there it was in black and white: the guy was a thief. He’d been stealing my lines all along. I confronted him with the evidence and what could he do? He promised to pay me back a few pages a week, but I knew that was one joker I’d never see again.
I kicked him out and worked even harder. Eighty-hour weeks, open every night until ten, but it was a losing battle. With the big humor chains moving in, what chance did an independent like me have? Then the day came when I knew all was lost. Sol’s Discount Satire opened up right across t
he street. He wrote in bulk; I couldn’t meet his prices. I, of course, was wittier, but nobody cared about quality anymore. Their attitude was “So it’s a little broad, but at forty percent below list we’ll forsake a little subtlety.” I went in the back of the store and sat down, trying desperately to figure something out. There was a sharp rap at the door, and in walked Morris, a goon on either side, ready to collect. I told him I didn’t have it. I begged for more time. I was pleading for my life. Morris stared at me coolly, a hard glint in his eye as he cleaned his nails with a lethal-looking fountain pen.
“Look, Fran,” he said, “you’re breaking my heart. Either you pay up by next Monday, or I’m gonna spread it around that you’re mixing your metaphors.”
With that he turned on his heel and walked out the door followed by the two gorillas. I was sweating bullets. If Morris spread that around, I’d never get another laugh as long as I lived. My head swam with crazy plans, and when I realized what I had to do, my heart thumped like a jackhammer.
Late that night I went back to the store. I let myself in through the side door and set to work. I poured a lot of gasoline around, took a last look, threw in a match and beat it the hell out of there. I was twenty blocks away when the full realization of what I’d done hit me. Overcome by remorse, I ran all the way back, but it was too late. The deed was done; I’d burned my comic essays for the insurance money.
The next day I met with the adjuster from That’s Life, and thank God he bought the fire and paid me off. It was just enough to settle with Morris, and then I was broke again.
I started to free-lance for other stores, writing under a pseudonym, of course. My heart wasn’t in it, but I needed the cash. I was grinding it out like hamburger meat, trying to build up some capital. The stuff was too facile, I knew that, but there was a market for it, so I made the best of it.
The years went by and I was just getting to the point where I could take it a little easy, when I was struck by an idea that was to change not only my own life but that of everyone in the entire humor business. The idea? Fast humor. After all, the pace had picked up a lot since my days on Delancey Street. The world was a different place; humor habits had changed. Everyone was in a hurry. Who had time anymore for a long comic essay, a slow build, a good long laugh? Everything was rush, rush, rush. Fast humor was an idea whose time had come.
Once again I started small, just a little place out on Queens Boulevard. I called it Rapid Repartee and used every modern design technique available. All chrome and glass, everything sleek and clean. Known in the business for my cunning and waggish ways, I couldn’t resist a little joke and so used as my trademark a golden arch. No one got it. So I added another one, and got a great reaction. You really have to hit people over the head, don’t you? Be that as it may, the place caught on like wildfire. I couldn’t keep Quick Comebacks in stock, and the Big Crack was the hit of the century. I began to franchise, but refused to relinquish quality control. Business boomed and today I can tell you I’m sitting pretty. I’ve got it all: a penthouse on Park, a yacht the size of the Queen Mary and a Rolls you could live in. But still, every once in a while I get that old creative itch. When this happens I slip on an apron and cap, step behind one of my thousands of counters, smile pleasantly at the customer and say, “Good morning. Something nice in a Stinging Barb?” If I’m recognized, it’s always good for a laugh, because, believe you me, in this business unless you have a sense of humor you’re dead.
The Fran Lebowitz
High Stress Diet
and Exercise Program
Each year millions of people attempt to shed excess pounds by dint of strenuous diet and exercise. They nibble carrot sticks, avoid starches, give up drinking, run around reservoirs, lift weights, swing from trapezes and otherwise behave in a manner that suggests an unhappy penchant for undue fanfare. All of this is, of course, completely unnecessary, for it is entirely possible—indeed, easy—to lose weight and tone up without the slightest effort of will. One has merely to conduct one’s life in such a way that pounds and inches will disappear as of their own volition.
Magic, you say? Fantasy? Pie in the sky? Longing of the basest sort? Not at all, I assure you, not at all. No magic, no fantasy, no dreamy hopes of any kind. But a secret, ah yes, there is a secret. The secret of exploiting an element present in everyone’s daily life, and using to its fullest advantage the almost inexhaustible resources available within.
That element? Stress. Yes, stress; plain, ordinary, everyday stress. The same type of stress that everyone has handy at any time of the day or night. Call it what you will: annoyance, work, pressure, art, love, it is stress nevertheless, and it is stress that will be your secret weapon as you embark on my foolproof program of physical fitness and bodily beauty.
DIET
The downfall of most diets is that they restrict your intake of food. This is, of course, galling, and inevitably leads to failure. The Fran Lebowitz High Stress Diet (T.F.L.H.S.D. for short) allows unlimited quantities of all foods. You may eat whatever you like. If you can choke it down, it’s yours. The following is a partial list of allowed foods. Naturally, space limitations make it impossible to furnish a complete list. If you can eat something that is not on this list—good luck to you.
Allowed Foods
Meat Candy Rice
Fish Nuts Spaghetti
Fowl Cereal Sugar
Eggs Cookies Syrup
Cheese Crackers Pizza
Butter Honey Potato Chips
Cream Ice Cream Pretzels
Mayonnaise Ketchup Pie
Fruits Jam Wine
Vegetables Macaroni Liquor
Bread Milk Beer
Cake Pancakes Ale
As you can see, T.F.L.H.S.D. permits you a variety of foods unheard of on most diets. And, as I have stated previously, quantity is of no concern. I ask only that you coordinate your eating with specific physical activities. This program is detailed below.
EQUIPMENT
You can proceed with The Fran Lebowitz High Stress Exercise Program (T.F.L.H.S.E.P.) without the purchase of special equipment; it calls for only those accouterments that you undoubtedly possess already. A partial list follows:
Cigarettes
Matches or lighter
A career
One or more lawyers
One agent or manager
At least one, but preferably two, extremely complicated love affairs
A mailing address
Friends
Relatives
A landlord
Necessary equipment will, of course, vary from person to person, but T.F.L.H.S.E.P. is flexible and can adapt to almost any situation. This is clearly seen in the sample one-day menu and exercise program that follows. It must be remembered that it is absolutely mandatory that you follow exercise instructions while eating.
Sample Menu and Program
BREAKFAST
Large Orange Juice
6 Pancakes with Butter, Syrup and/or Jam
4 Slices Bacon and/or 4 Sausage Links
Coffee with Cream and Sugar
11 Cigarettes
Take first bite of pancake.
Call agent. Discover that in order to write screenplay you must move to Los Angeles for three months and enter into a collaboration with a local writer who has to his credit sixteen episodes of The Partridge Family, one unauthorized biography of Ed McMahon, and the novelization of the projected sequel to Missouri Breaks. (Excellent for firming jawline.)
MIDMORNING SNACK
2 Glazed Doughnuts
Coffee with Cream and Sugar
8 Cigarettes
Take first sip of coffee.
Open mail and find final disconnect notice from telephone company, threatening letter from spouse of new flame and a note from a friend informing you that you have been recently plagiarized on network television. (Tones up fist area.)
LUNCH
2 Vodka and Tonics
Chicken Kiev
Pumpernicke
l Bread and Butter
Green Salad
White Wine
A Selection or Selections from the Pastry Tray
Coffee with Cream and Sugar
15 Cigarettes
Arrange to lunch with lawyer.
Take first bite of Chicken Kiev.
Inquire of lawyer as to your exact chances in litigation against CBS. (Flattens tummy fast.)
DINNER
3 Vodka and Tonics
Spaghetti al Pesto
Veal Piccata
Zucchini
Arugula Salad
Cheese Cake
Coffee with Cream and Sugar
Brandy
22 Cigarettes
Arrange to dine with small group that includes three people with whom you are having clandestine love affairs, your younger sister from out of town, a business rival to whom you owe a great deal of money and two of the lawyers from CBS. It is always more fruitful to exercise with others. (Tightens up the muscles.)
As I have said, this is just a sample, and any combination of foods and exercises will work equally well. Your daily weight loss should average from between three to five pounds, depending largely on whether you are smoking a sufficient number of cigarettes. This is a common pitfall and close attention should be paid, for inadequate smoking is certain to result in a lessening of stress. For those of you who simply cannot meet your quota, it is imperative that you substitute other exercises, such as moving in downstairs from an aspiring salsa band and/or being terribly frank with your mother. If these methods fail, try eating while reading the New York Times Real Estate section. Admittedly, this is a drastic step and should not be taken before you have first warmed up with at least six pages of Arts and Leisure and one sexual encounter with a person vital to your career.
The Fran Lebowitz Reader Page 20