Not Exactly What I Had in Mind

by Roy Blount

  Not Exactly What I Had in Mind

  Roy Blount Jr.

  This book

  (but not the title)

  is for my boy Johnny B.,

  who can hit

  and also sympathize

  Contents

  Introduction: Strings Attached

  Talking Wrenches

  What You Personally Can Do about the Federal Deficit

  How to High-Falute

  I Had to Get into It with a Wrench

  How to Pack It All In

  If Sheepskin, So Can You

  How to Raise Your Boy to Play Pro Ball

  How May Human Chimneys and Fresh-Air Fiends Share the Same World?

  Can Brunswick Stew Be Upscaled?

  How to Read the New York Times

  Living with Wizardry

  Men, Women, and Projectiles

  Salute to John Wayne

  Getting to the Bottom of Women’s Underwear

  Erma Gets Down

  Back to BBs

  One Man’s Response to a Question Posed by Mademoiselle

  New Renaissance Lyrics

  Let Me Count the Ways (39)

  The Phantom Jukebox

  The Simple Life

  Real People, So to Speak

  What’s So Hot about Celebs?

  Only Hugh

  Can Carl Lewis Be Repackaged?

  Who You Gonna Call?

  On Politics

  Testimonial, Head-on

  As Well As I Do My Own, Which Is What?

  Simple Answers

  Why Did the President Hit Angie Dickinson?

  Does Your Democrat Bite?

  On Point of View

  Do Camp and Lit Mix?

  Who’s the Funniest American Writer?

  Salute to the Bear

  What’s So Humorous?

  About the Author

  INTRODUCTION

  Strings Attached

  Jokes are so diverse that no one man can see them all.

  — Max Beerbohm

  Alas, mankind has yet to invent a system of relationships more natural than money.

  — Vassily Aksyonov

  … and I’m an immaterial girl.

  — Miss Liberty, just before

  leaping into the harbor

  and swimming off

  IF THE TITLE OF this book strikes you as … picky, well, I know what you mean. I have half a mind to break down, plunge into the eighties, and write something heartier, called Greed Works. Do you think I like being out of touch with American values? Not long ago I climbed up into the Statue of Liberty’s head. It felt good in there, and I thought rousing thoughts.

  What a woman! Embosomer of Einstein, Garbo, and Jelly Roll Morton. And Jesse Helms. When her cornerstone was laid, Huckleberry Finn was at the printers. Not being Jesse Helms, I don’t presume to know exactly what she has in mind. But I have a hard time believing that America today is it.

  And she undoubtedly likes capitalism, within reason. So do I. Back before money went crazy, my daddy was president of the national organization of savings and loans. He bankrolled homes for a living. I aim to prosper in my own small business, trying to turn a dollar making unencumbered sense. In an ideal system, I’m afraid I would find myself writing for the common good, as determined by the kind of people who like to serve on committees.

  Say somebody in a bow tie were to knock on my door and announce, “You don’t have to mess with the marketplace anymore! Just sign here and you get a stipend from the Universal League of Free Expression, renewable annually so long as you swear to operate only in terms of high purpose.” It would sound fishy to me. I don’t trust clean money. An American isn’t after a free ride, if he can help it. He wants to sail his own boat, which means getting a grip on the strings attached.

  And that’s where an American is onto something fundamental. According to the New York Times, which has my implicit trust on anything to do with nature’s building blocks, scientists are beginning to believe that everything in the universe, including airplane food and Albania, is made of strings. Here are the details of this hypothesis, as I understand them:

  Nature boasts not just four dimensions but ten (or nine more than Ronald Reagan). Everything is arranged not just symmetrically but supersymmetrically. There are a lot of new subatomic particles, called squarks, sleptons (which would explain the way my hair looks in the morning), hadrons (no, hadrons), gluons, and photinos. And the gluons hold all the others together in strings. And the scientist who got started thinking along these lines was called Theodor F. E. Kaluza.

  And I’m willing to believe it.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if there turns out to be even more to the universe. (These new dimensions, now. Would they be something we’ve heard of? Hope, chewiness? Or would they be hard to describe: something halfway between height and time; something that’s sort of like width only with more brio and it tastes a little like dark meat of chicken?) When my son John was five he asked me, “Does the world have everything in the world in it?” Yes. Although it’s hard to comprehend. Who would ever have thought there would be a man called Theodor F. E. Kaluza? And that’s just the world. In the universe, there is no telling what all, I’ll bet. A squark may have some manner of farms and weather and TV shows inside it; and way on off in the other direction there may be things that think of was new particles. For all we know they call us niblets, say — not having any idea what that means in our language.

  Now. How do we square this with Ronald Reagan’s sense of reality? We square it by bearing in mind that Ronald Reagan makes many Americans feel good.

  But so do drugs, in the short run. Cocaine makes you feel like you’ve got the world on a string because it makes you feel like you have cut through all the real strings. When I think of the strings attached to Reaganism, my mind turns to the federal deficit. Surely we would not be in such great financial shape if we weren’t $200 billion in the hole. So I think it is incumbent upon us, as Americans, to feel like we are a fifth of a trillion short. It’s not easy; but then it’s no snap to take cognizance of the purple mountain majesties, either.

  Maybe I am tied to some kind of old-fashioned symmetry. But I can’t help thinking that eventually we are going to have to dig up that $200 billion somewhere. And I don’t want the Treasury Department to be scratching around at the last minute, reduced to desperate measures. Holding an international raffle, hundred million bucks a ticket, winner gets his face carved on Mount Rushmore. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it’s the CEO of one of our own defense contractors — even though he would presumably tack the $100 million (promotional expenses) onto his next bill to the government. But what if it’s some relative of the late Shah who lives in Gstaad and has little bitty rabbit teeth and a pencil-thin mustache, or the Reverend Sun Myung Moon, or the head of a South American government’s Bureau de Coca? And how many people are there, worldwide, outside of Miami (where they probably don’t want a high profile), who can put their hands on that kind of cash today? Say there are a couple of thousand. That just adds up to $20 billion, that’s a drop in the bucket. And wait a minute: don’t forget the expense of the carving. That kind of work today, you’re lucky to get it done for a couple of billion, even if you throw in a free chance in the drawing for the sculptor. Then you’ve got administrative costs. Plus legal fees — some heir of Teddy Roosevelt sues for infringement. Before you know it you’re only clearing six, seven billion. But the main problem, I think, is it’s tacky.

  But then, what do I know. Ronald Reagan is the most widely beloved American since E.T., and I have trouble believing he exists.

  On the question of whether he truly stands for something, here’s what Ronald Reagan told Tom Wicke
r in 1978: “One thing I learned as an actor. You can’t come over on the camera unless you really believe the lines you’re speaking.”

  In other words, Reagan in 1939 really believed the lines of an ineffectual drunk (Dark Victory); in 1940 he really believed the lines of an exemplary fullback (Knute Rockne, All American); in 1942 he really believed the lines of a liberal college professor (Bedtime for Bonzo); in 1957 he really believed the lines of a hard-ass naval commander (Hellcats of the Navy); in 1964 he really believed the lines of an assassin who knocks Angie Dickinson flat (The Killers); and in 1985 he really believes the lines of a Clint-Eastwood-with-affability who regards a blood-soaked faction in Nicaragua as “the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers,” who observes that Nazi war dead were no less victimized than concentration-camp martyrs, and who adds, “Yes, I know all the bad things that happened in that war. I was in uniform four years myself” (in California, making films).

  Lines, in that sense, are different from strings, in the nature-of-physical-reality sense. But I think Reagan does stand for something. He reminds me of Elvis. “If I could ever find a white boy who could sing like a nigger,” the man who first recorded Elvis had said, “I could make a million dollars.” I think Ronald Reagan caught the eye of a lot of people who, in the same spirit (adjusted for inflation), were looking for a true believer who could grin (and sweeten the pot) like a liberal.

  Years ago I left my home in Georgia, at the risk of losing touch with precious gluons of oral resonance, because in Georgia I sensed a too-shameless concentration of people who loved to fulminate against Russia and smut, who felt it was pusillanimous to survey the world from any other point of view than that of the eagle on the dollar, and who seemed to feel not only high-minded but even tingly when they looked upon the Pentagon as a case of pure need and upon fatherless babies in the ghetto as cases of threateningly unbridled self-interest. And all this in the name of Jesus.

  As far as I can tell, Ronald Reagan is one of those people. Only without the oral resonance.

  “Those people.” A dangerous phrase. Those people we aren’t tied to. You don’t hear Miss Liberty using that phrase. “It takes all kinds,” you hear her saying, with relish. I don’t get the feeling that Ronald Reagan agrees with her.

  I think that Ronald Reagan thinks that those forces, and his smile, and a wealth of imaginary capital, are all America needs. When elements clash with what he has in mind, he sees no reason why those elements shouldn’t disappear.

  You can tell that from his jokes. He jokes about dropping bombs on Russia and exporting dissatisfied farmers. To uncooperative Congressmen he says, “Make my day,” which is what Clint Eastwood (who couldn’t tie John Wayne’s shoes) says when he is itching to blow some punk away. When Reagan was governor of California, and Patty Hearst’s kidnappers were demanding that free canned goods be distributed to ghetto dwellers, he said it would be a good time for an epidemic of botulism. I don’t get those jokes. I am not about to get them. If you ask me, jocularity ought to get down and strum the all-but-inconceivable strings that bind the whole range of Miss Liberty’s children (okay, so she’s not married; she doesn’t need to be made an honest woman) supersymmetrically together. This book is not about Ronald Reagan per se (whatever that might mean). But what I have in mind, roughly speaking, is to pull against the President’s sense of humor without losing hold of mine.

  Well we know we’re not exactly what we have in mind,

  But that’s how things tend to go, I find.

  The mind’s got a job to do and so do we.

  Lord have mercy on reality.

  Talking Wrenches

  What You Personally Can Do about the Federal Deficit

  THERE ARE ECONOMISTS WHO say, “Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s not, you know, money, as you know it.”

  There are economists who say, “It will mean — unless real, drastic, structural steps are taken by next fiscal Thursday — that Arabs will own your grandchildren.”

  All I know is, it is $200 billion. Or $175 billion. Around in there. And it is America’s. Which means it is mine.

  And I am not going to just sit here.

  I am going to think of something the individual American citizen can do to reduce it.

  Here is what I have thought of:

  Buy stamps and throw them away.

  If you go to your local post office and try to give the person at the window twenty dollars and ask him to forward it on up to the person in charge of balancing the federal books, he will be nonplussed. If, however, you buy a roll of twenty-cent stamps and throw them away, you will have pumped twenty dollars into the federal government without requiring it to do anything except print those stamps and sell them to you. The federal government comes out, I don’t know, $19.40 ahead.

  And no one is hurt.

  Another thing you might do is travel to Russia, find a Soviet citizen willing to pair off with you, and send to the Department of Defense an affidavit signed by you and that Soviet citizen (call her Olga Petrova) to the effect that the two of you have declared a mutual nonaggression pact and therefore you authorize the federal government to reduce military outlays by whatever it costs to defend you against Olga Petrova. But that would take something out of the pockets of people who happen to be employed by our military-industrial complex.

  Throwing away stamps doesn’t disadvantage anyone. Mailmen are not deprived of any business, because you are still sending the same amount of mail. In point of fact, the stamp-production complex makes more money — so that all the people employed by it can better afford to buy stamps and throw them away. You see how this thing — anti-philately, we might call it — could gather momentum.

  Okay. It bothers you to buy anything and throw it away. I can understand that. So here is a fallback position: put twenty-cent stamps on postcards. An extra six cents to the federal government on each postcard mailed. It adds up.

  Or you can do this: you can leave an entire new roll of stamps on your windowsill with the window open, allowing sudden rainfall to stick the whole roll together.

  That is what I did recently. And I saw the downside of it. I tried to peel the roll apart. I produced stamp clumps, stamp ghosts, stamp shreds.

  What a stupid, wasteful thing to do! Was I hacked off. But then I looked at the upside. I had reduced the federal deficit.

  You see how ideas like this are born?

  Of course if you do a little arithmetic, it looks like every American will have to throw away five thousand twenty-cent stamps in order to eliminate the deficit entirely. (Now that the cost of sending a letter has gone up to twenty-two cents, there are probably a lot of twenties left over.) That’s twenty thousand stamps for a family of four. So there might be great whuffling clumps of loosened stamp rolls blowing through the nation’s streets like tumbleweed. Still, that’s better than picturing your granddaughter as a harem girl.

  P.S. It has been objected that — because the post office is no longer a part of the federal government, but is run by an independent company catchily known as the United States Postal Service — this proposal will not work. But it is mine and I am sticking with it. Why does no one ever pick apart the ideas of Ronald Reagan? I’ll tell you why: because he owes everyone too much money.

  How to High-Falute

  PERSONALLY I LIKE A good, solid, family-style restaurant that has a name like Rip and Emma’s and is presided over by Emma, who on a slow night will sit down with you while she shells peas. She’ll call you honey and point out the picture of the late Rip with his accordion and tell you about the time he ran for mayor and his opponent called him a liar and Rip came right back and called his opponent a liar and they attempted to resolve the issue by taking public lie-detector tests but they both passed so they tried again and they both failed; so Rip played his accordion and sang his campaign song, which was to the tune of “Blessed Assurance.” At this kind of restaurant, you get seated and served right away as long as you look like a fairly nice person and your nose isn�
��t running.

  But I realize that there are people who prefer swanker places. Eateries called Magna Carta or Le Foie Engorgé, which do not encourage the appetite of anyone who has not just come from racquetball with Cap Weinberger. And everybody looks at you as if you probably don’t know how to eat caniche vinaigrette avec toute la sauce without getting it all over yourself.

  Some feel that the only way to be received and waited upon with any degree of enthusiasm at a restaurant like that is to walk in with one of the Bouvier sisters on your arm and a fifty-dollar bill plastered to your forehead. Not so.

  Oh, it’s one way. It will work — at least until March 1988, when some analysts expect good tables to jump as high as both Bouviers, three twenties, and a platinum tooth.

  But more and more people today are trying less traditional approaches. For instance:

  Becoming the Chef

  Ferrell Trivet had always wanted to dine at Le Haut Falutin, in Manhattan. Whenever he tried to gain admittance, however, the maître d’ sprayed paraquat on him and sent him away.

  Ferrell tried humor: “If you spray me with defoliant, how do you expect me to leave?” But the maître d’ had heard that one before. So Ferrell said to himself, “I know what. I’ll become the chef.”

  Easier said than done. First there were the inevitable dues-paying years at a live sushi counter on Staten Island. Then at an S and M sushi bar in Queens. Then at a place — whose location Ferrell refuses to disclose because he doesn’t want to “bring it one dime’s worth of patronage more than, may God cease to avert his eyes, it attracts already” — where he was forced to prepare baby-seal sashimi.

  Even when, at last, he got through the portals of Le Haut Falutin’s kitchen, it was not as chef. Oh no. It was not even as sous-chef. At the age of forty-seven, Ferrell was expected to perform as saucier.

  Part of the job was congenial to him, although debilitating. It is well known that chefs — like all creative people — can get to hitting the sauce so hard that they turn bright red and scuttle sluggishly around on the floor like nearly done lobsters making a break for it. It is the saucier’s job to do roughly two-thirds of the chef’s tippling — which, depending on the size and intensity of the chef, can be fatal and nearly always causes disorientation, even in Chinese places. Still, Ferrell did not mind.