Fran Lebowitz, �The Fran Lebowitz Reader�
It�s been a while since I put up a recent review. Sorry about that. Let�s get started.
I first got the impulse to read Fran Lebowitz after I read Drinking, Smoking and Screwing. In that anthology, she had an essay about smoking in hospitals, which I loved and it ain�t easy to write something that I love.
But I also had a million other books that I wanted, and we had three copies each of her two titles. I could afford to put her off for a while.
Two years later, those six copies were still there. My coworker was clearing out the humor section, trying to get rid of the deadwood. Lebowitz was considered deadwood.
What this means is that they were going to be dumped. This also means that I could get them for free.
Score.
Still, I put it off. For a little while anyway. As it turned out, I had planned to take this book with me to Kaua�i, as my pick for the letter F. I ended up forgetting it, and the letter F ended up being the only book I didn�t finish during my vacation.
So I finally got to it, after a couple of false starts. And I thought it would be just what I needed � light-hearted yet still pointed barbs at society. But society was just too prevalent and the pressure was too high for me to forget about my own situation.
Instead of putting the book aside for later, however, I kept reading with my face impassive, no reactions from her musings, me looking like I was reading a textbook on biology rather than humorous essays.
I started chiding the book. C�mon, I read parts of this before, and it was funny. It is funny. Saying something like, �Never, for effect, pull a gun on a small child. He won�t get it.�
Or passages like, �I call the phone company and try to make a deal, as actual payment is not a possibility. Would they care to go to a screening? Would they care to attend a party for a heroin addict? [...] It seems they would not. They would like $148.10. I agree that this is, indeed, an understandable preference, but caution them against the bloodless quality of a life devoted to the blind pursuit of money.�
But it just didn�t seem funny now. I was a total blank slate as I scanned it all, just words on a page. And I know that it�s not her, it�s me. I�m putting my problems on her and expecting her to make them all better.
And besides, there�s something about her subjects that make her a little dated. It may have been humorous to write about being a sore thumb in high class social settings in 1974, but now I can go to other blogs like madamepierce or smartypants.
Hell, I can write about these things.
I should explain. About 13 years ago, a trust was set up in my dead uncle�s name. Called the [Ed. note: Name of organization censored at the insistence of its organizers, who apparently never heard the theory that any publicity is good publicity.], the organization would honor teachers from the Contra Costa area with a cash reward, given with no restrictions. The recipients of the award could blow the money on hookers and heroin if they wanted to, and the committee couldn�t say anything about it.
These awards are now up to $10,000 each. That�s a lot of heroin.
Nobody on the organization is paid, so they raise the money though corporate donations and by holding an award dinner, at $140.00 a plate. Despite us being family members, we�re still expected to pay the full amount.
This award dinner has been held for 13 years now. For nine of these years, I was barred from attending. The reason? My hair always seems to be some goofy color, and my mother didn�t want to be seen in public with me. There may have been extenuating circumstances, but it always came down to my hair. �Look,� my mother would say, �This event is for other people, and I don�t want you to take attention away from other people.�
�What do you think I�m going to do,� I asked. �Rush the stage? It�s not like I�m hoping up and down screaming, look at me! Look at me!�
�But you practically are doing that with your hair. There are a lot of judges and dignitaries, and none of them are going to have green hair.� (Or blue hair, or purple hair, or whatever colored hair I happened to have at that time each year.) �That�s the same as jumping up and down and shouting for attention.�
Anyhoo, four years ago, my hair happened to not be dyed any peculiar color, and she asked if I wanted to go, with the stipulation that I couldn�t add any color. I also had to keep my pants on.
Fresh Prince had it right. Parents just don�t understand.
But I agreed and went. And it was great. It was neat to see these teachers, all more dedicated than any that I ever had, get all gooey over being recognized for their hard work. It was more fun, however, to get a five course meal, plus an hour of appetizers, with an unlimited open bar for the entire evening. Since then, I�ve looked forward to the event, though every time seems like it will be the last time that we�ll go. A dinner that costs one hundred and forty dollars � each � is really outside the reach of my family or me.
But it is a special occasion, held in honor of a family member, and that�s probably why we keep going. And this time, I got to bring a date. And there wasn�t anybody I would rather take than The Ex.
Despite the fact that we�ve broken up, I love spending time with this girl. We always seem to have a ton of fun around each other, but never more so when we�re in a social setting. We�re both exuberant, filthy minded, sarcastic, intelligent and sociable, and we�re not easily embarrassed. And it�s been a long time since we�ve been able to be this way in a situation filled with free booze!
Of course, I also dyed my hair purple about a month ago. The evening before, I bought some temporary black dye and ran it through my hair. It didn�t take. While my hair was technically black, you could still see small streaks of purple, giving my head the appearance of an overripe plum. The Ex had recently dyed her hair bright red, which had now faded to a reddish-orange.
We would obviously be the fruits of the event.
We walked in, and within ten minutes, just long enough for me to check my trench coat in with the coat check, and get my first glass of champagne and my first tumbler of Jack Daniel�s and coke, we�re ambushed by the paparazzi. I don�t blame them � we looked hot, and we were the only people under 40 and not dressed in black and white.
We stalk out the servers with their appetizer trays, and discover one of the items is a scallop wrapped in bacon. The only way it could be better is if it were bacon wrapped in scallops, and then wrapped again in bacon. Forty-five minutes and two more Jack and cokes later, we�re shepherded into the dining room.
During the second course and second glass of wine, we decide the pinot noir is so good that we must find more. After a few attempts of stealing other patron�s glasses, we stop a server and with a wink and a smile, ask if it would be possible to get more.
She smirks back. It�s obvious this chick likes booze as well. She comes back and refills our glasses, nearly to the brim. She also refills our glasses five more times during the night. The person to our left happens to be the person who made the raspberry liquor we�ll be having with dessert, we watches us getting more wine and smirks at us, and then calls the waitress over to refill his own glass.
After two awards are presented, I decide I want to use the bathroom and have a cigarette. The Ex joins me. There�s nobody outside at first, but another woman soon lurches out the door. �Oh, thank God,� she shrieks upon seeing us. �Some people still smoke in this world! Gimmie a light!�
Here�s a tip for the sociably awkward: need to find some funny, interesting, fun people in the middle of an awkward social setting? Smoke. Our group quickly grew to five, and our cigarettes smoked grew to three each. By then we had finished all our booze that we had carted out with us, and we all stumbled back inside.
As it turned out, the last award had already been presented. There were two more glasses of wine at our table for each of us, along with two huge lamb chops. Most people had already finished their courses, and servers were clearing plates. One server moved toward my plate and I growled at her. She pulled back and asked if I wanted more wine. I did.
Dessert came, a choice between some chocolate cake and something with apples (by this time I couldn�t make things out very clearly.) The raspberry liquor was poured.
I hate chocolate. Always have. I especially hate dark chocolate cake, which to me tastes like bugs marinated in dirt. But I tried a bite of this stuff, and washed it down with the liquor.
And it was so fucking good that I nearly cried.
I turned to the German who made the stuff and told him, his smirk grew nearly lecherous. �Yes, you know, this liquor makes many, many things taste very good.� He raised his eyebrow.
I looked at him for a moment. �You�re making an innuendo, aren�t you?� I said, pointing an accusing finger.
His smile broadened, and he called the waitress over again to refill our glasses.
So let�s do the count: Three whiskey and cokes. One white wine, six red wines, and two shots of this raspberry liquor.
This is so much fun.
The head chef and master of ceremonies, [Ed. Note: Name and link have been removed for similar reasons as listed previously.], comes down to our table to thank the German for donating the booze. [CENSORED] has obviously been enjoying the wine as well, and with a quick flourish, he holds his finger to his lips and starts to pull out a silver flask.
But this isn�t a flask in any way that you or I might think of a flask. He keeps pulling, and the flask keeps sliding higher and higher out of his pocket, like a magician pulling a handkerchief out of his sleeve. The thing is about the size of a goddamn photo album. He motions to the three of us and leans forward conspiratorially.
�Give me your coffee mugs,� he says to us.
We follow our instructions.
It turns out to be cognac, slightly heated, smelling robust and slightly sweet. We take our customary small sip, and it�s so fucking good that neither of us can help but swallow the entire contents of our cups greedily. Our server came to take the last of the plates. I took the remainder of my money and folded it into my palm.
�Hey,� I said to her, in a soft drunk whisper, �We wanna tip you.�
�Oh, there�s no need to do that,� she said.
�Well, then just shake my hand then,� I said. She took my money with the expertise of a drug dealer.
The event had concluded and most people had left by this point. The Ex and I stayed to trade further innuendoes with the German, he�s finally called away, and the two of us walk outside again to smoke. By this point it was obvious that neither of us were going to do any driving. My brother-in-law, who either had the long-term cognizance to stay sober, or didn�t realize he would be put into this situation, was suddenly recruited to make two trips. He hadn�t returned yet so we went to collect my sister, who was waiting with us.
And our coffee mugs were filled once again with cognac. I looked around, and hazily made out the German from across the room, who smiled, pointed at us, and winked.
We shot down the rest of the booze. I went back to the coatroom, which was now abandoned. My trench coat was no longer in there. I started babbling to a member of the staff. Nobody seemed to know anything. A dinner that costs $140 a plate doesn�t seem like a place where somebody would want to steal my jacket, but there wasn�t any other explanation. Finally, a member of the country club crammed a card into my hand saying if it didn�t show up the next day, they would get me a new coat.
I regained consciousness for a short time in the car, The Ex holding me around my chest, head buried in my shoulder. I don�t remember getting inside.
At my aunt�s house, I remember coming to just as The Ex was starting to puke. I started to help, but my aunt, a former nurse, pointed me toward my room and ordered me out. I obeyed. The next day, she commented that it seemed The Ex would never have what it took to be an alcoholic.
�I suppose you could try to be a drunk,� she said, �but it seems that you�re not able to hold it in for long.�
The next morning The Ex came in and curled up next to me. We tried to fill in gaps for each other. We didn�t fill many.
And it was awesome.
Oh, and as for my coat? Somebody brought it back the next day. The club is supposed to ship it to me. In any case, you can�t say we were the only ones who were trashed.
