The Fran Lebowitz Reader (29 page)

I
t 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.

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
s 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.

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.

C
oming 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?