The Fran Lebowitz Reader (28 page)

The inhabitants of Los Angeles are a warm people, and family ties are so strong that a florist may volunteer the information that his sister-in-law’s stepmother was once married to Lee Major’s great-uncle before one has had a chance to ask.

EVERYDAY LIFE AND CUSTOMS

Everyday life in Los Angeles is casual but highly stratified and can probably best be understood by realizing that the residents would be happiest with a telephone book that contained subscribers’ first names, followed by an announcement that the party had four lines, sixteen extensions and a fiercely guarded unlisted number.

FOOD AND DRINK

A great many people in Los Angeles are on special diets that restrict their intake of synthetic foods. The reason for this appears to be a widely held belief that organically grown fruits and vegetables make the cocaine work faster.

One popular native dish is called gambei and is served exclusively in Mr. Chow’s, an attractive little Chinese restaurant on North Camden Drive. The menu description of gambei reads as follows: “This mysterious dish is everybody’s favorite. People insist it is seaweed because it tastes and looks just like seaweed. But in fact it is not. It’s a secret.” This mystery was recently solved by a visiting New York writer, who took one taste of her surprise and said, “Grass.”

“Grass?” queried her dinner companion. “You mean marijuana?”

“No,” the writer replied. “Grass—you know, lawns, grass. The secret is that every afternoon all of the gardeners in Beverly Hills pull up around the back, the cook takes delivery and minutes later the happy patrons are avidly consuming—at $3.50 per portion—crisply French-fried—their own backyards.”

CULTURE

Los Angeles is a contemporary city, and as such unfettered by the confining standards of conventional art. Therefore the people of this modern-day Athens have been free to develop new and innovative forms all their own. Of these, the most interesting is the novelization, for this enables one, for perhaps the very first time, to truly appreciate
the phrase, “One picture is worth a thousand words.”

DRESS

The garb of Los Angeles is colorful, with lemon yellow, sky blue and lime green predominating, particularly in the attire of middle-aged men, most of whom look like Alan King. It is customary for these men to leave unbuttoned the first five buttons of their shirts in a rakish display of gray chest hair. Visitors are warned that calling the police to come in and button everyone up is a futile gesture; they will not respond.

Teenagers of both sexes wear T-shirts that disprove the theory that the young are no longer interested in reading, and facial expressions that disprove the T-shirts.

Middle-aged women favor for daytime wear much the same apparel as do teenage girls, but after six they like to pretty up and generally lean toward prom clothes.

THE LANGUAGE

Alphabet and pronunciation were both borrowed from the English, as was the custom of reading receipts from left to right. Word usage is somewhat exotic, however, and visitors would do well to study carefully the following table of words and phrases:

Formal:
long pants

Concept:
car chase

TRANSPORTATION

There are two modes of transport in Los Angeles: car and ambulance. Visitors who wish to remain inconspicuous are advised to choose the latter.

ARCHITECTURE

The architecture of Los Angeles is basically the product of a Spanish heritage and a rich inner life. Public buildings, which are called gas stations
(gaz TAY shuns)
or restaurants
(res tur ONTS)
, are characterized by their lack of height and are generally no taller than your average William Morris agent, although they occasionally hold more people. Houses, which are called homes
(HOMZ)
, can be distinguished from public buildings by the number of Mercedes-Benzes parked outside. If there are over twelve, it is fairly safe to assume that they take American Express.

F
riday:
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.

T
hese 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.

1. It is imperative when flying coach that you restrain any tendency toward the vividly imaginative. For 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.
   
2. 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.
   
3. 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.”:
   
   1. Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart oh, let’s say, eightish.
      
   2. Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart around eight, eight-thirty.
      
   3. Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart while it’s still dark.
      
   4. Flight 477 to Minneapolis will depart before the paperback is out.
      
4. Stewardesses are not crazy about girls.
   
5. Neither are stewards.
   
6. You
   can
   change planes in Omaha, Nebraska.
   
7. You are advised to do so.
   
8. 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.
   
9. 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.
   
10. 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.
    
11. It’s not that it’s three hours earlier in California; it’s that the days are three hours longer.
    
12. Room-service menus that don’t charge extra for cheese on hamburgers are trying to tell you something.
    
13. 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.
    
14. Local television talk-show hosts are not interested in the information that the
    Today
    show uses more than one camera.
    
15. 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.
    
16. Never relinquish clothing to a hotel valet without first specifically telling him that you want it back.
    
17. 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.
    
18. If you’re going to America, bring your own food.
    
19. 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.
    
20. 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.
    
21. Calling a taxi in Texas is like calling a rabbi in Iraq.
    
22. 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.
    
23. Do not approach with anything even resembling assurance a restaurant that moves.
    
24. When a newspaper photographer suggests artistically interesting props, risk being impolite.
    
25. Absolutely, positively, and no matter what, wait until you get back to New York to have your hair cut.
    
26. Carry cash.
    
27. Stay inside.
    
28. Call collect.
    
29. Forget to write.