Pure Drivel

  PURE DRIVEL

  by Steve Martin

  STEVE MARTIN’S talent has always defied definition: an actor who’s kept us riveted for over 25 years, a razor-sharp screenwriter, an acclaimed playwright. In this ingeniously funny collection of humorous riffs, those who thought Martin’s gifts were confined to the screen will discover what readers of The New Yorker magazine already know: that Martin is a master of the written word.

  From a piece sending up the logistics of celebrity (“The Nature of Matter and Its Antecedents”) to a story that is half love letter to Los Angeles and half satiric portrait of a New York writer writing about L.a. (“Hissy Fit”), the book’s pieces, some of which first appeared in The New Yorker, are both hilariously funny and intelligent in their skewering of the topic at hand. With unparalleled literary ventriloquism, Martin imagines what Walter Matthau’s face could tell about how we reveal ourselves to the world, who Lolita might be now, and what goes through the head of a “bad dog.” In perhaps the funniest and most quintessentially Steve Martin piece, “Writing Is Easy,” Martin explains, among other things, how writers in Czechoslovakia might come up with more depressing material than L.a. writers.

  With a playwright’s ear for dialogue, a sense of irony only Steve Martin could muster, and a first-class comic ability to perfectly time the punch line, Pure Drivel will have readers crying with laughter, and marveling at the fact that in addition to all of his many talents, Steve Martin is also a superb writer.

  STEVE MARTIN is best known for the movies The Jerk; All of Me; Dirty Rotten Scoundrels; Roxanne; Parenthood; to Three Amigos!; Father of the Bride; L.a. Story; and Planes, Trains and Automobiles. In 1993 his first original play, Picasso at the Lapin Agile, opened to rave reviews in Chicago and traveled to New York, Los Angeles, and Boston. He appears in the widely praised David Mamet film The Spanish Prisoner, and stars with Eddie Murphy in the forthcoming Martin-scripted film Bowfinger’s Big Thing.

  Advance praise for Steve Martin’s Pure Drivel:

  “If memory serves me, Pure Drivel is the funniest book I’ve ever read. If memory serves me, Pure Drivel is the funniest book I’ve ever read.”—Neil Simon

  “Steve Martin is the only comic performer today whose genius translates intact to the printed page as in this hilarious collection. So writing a blurb for Steve is like pouring a drink for Boris Yeltsin—entirely unnecessary, but a considerable privilege.”—Bruce McCall

  “The book had me barking, but what do I know? All kindling astride, this is a ril, ril funny book.”—David Mamet

  Published by: Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011

  .

  COPYRIGHT 1998 40 SHARE PRODUCTIONS, INC.

  Acknowledgments

  At the time of this writing, I have not worked in a movie for three years. During these years, in which I vowed to do nothing and leave myself alone about it, I accidentally produced several plays, a handful of sketches, two screenplays, and a reorganization of my entire self. The pieces in this book, these essays—I’m not sure what to call them—are little candy kisses, after-dinner mints to the big meal of literature, but to me they represent something very special. They are the offspring of an intense retrospection that enabled me to get back in contact with my work, to receive pleasure from my work, and to bring joy to my work. They also enabled me to repeat the phrase “my work” three times in one sentence, which brought me a lot of joy, pleasure, and contact. I suppose what I’m saying is, if you really want to work, stop working.

  I owe a big gooey blob of thanks to Chris Knutsen, who fearlessly and humorously edited the pieces that appeared in The New Yorker, and to Tina Brown, who charmed me and ran the pieces in a magazine I idolized for half my life, even when it gave me stinking movie reviews. And special thanks to Leigh Haber, who fastidiously edited each piece, both new and old, for this edition. Heavy mitting, also, to my agents Esther Newberg and Amanda Urban, who made sure Hyperion provided me with a full-time makeup artist and a trailer as big as Hemingway’s during the writing of this book. Equal thanks, too, to my philosopherstlawyer Michael Gendler, who makes sure that my vulnerable artistic gentleness is always well paid.

  I am lucky to have friends both literate and funny, and I’ll cite Victoria Dailey, who first published my writing, in the days when the process of writing was so primitive the text was written by hand directly on the computer screen. Her personality and mind are such that she called me once at midnight and said, “I figured out something about you. You’re an a away from being a Martian.” She then cock-a-doodled a laugh and hung up.

  I’d also like to mention good friends to whom I sent fledgling pages in hopes of getting back a critical or favorable comment. They are April Gornik, Jessica Teich, Kathy Goodman, and Elizabeth Meyer. I also have men friends.

  CONTENTS

  A Public Apology

  Writing Is Easy!

  Yes, in My Own Backyard

  Changes in the Memory after Fifty

  Mars Probe Finds Kittens

  Dear Amanda

  Times Roman Font Announces Shortage of Periods

  Schrodinger’s Cat

  Taping My Friends

  The Nature of Matter and Its Antecedents

  The Sledgehammer: How It Works

  The Paparazzi of Plato

  Side Effects

  Artist Lost to Zoloft

  How I Joined Mensa

  Michael Jackson’s Old Face

  In Search of the Wily Filipino

  Bad Dog

  Hissy Fit

  Title Page Drivel

  I Love Loosely

  Lolita at Fifty

  A Word from the Words

  PURE DRIVEL

  A Public Apology

  Looking out over the East River from my jail cell and still running for public office, I realize that I have taken several actions in my life for which I owe public apologies.

  Once, I won a supermarket sweepstakes even though my brother’s cousin was a box boy in that very store. I would like to apologize to Safeway Food, Inc., and its employees. I would like to apologize to my family, who have stood by me, and especially to my wife Karen. A wiser and more loyal spouse could not be found.

  When I was twenty-one, I smoked marijuana every day for one year. I would like to apologize for the next fifteen years of anxiety attacks and drug-related phobias, including the feeling that when Ed Sullivan introduced Wayne and Shuster, he was actually signaling my parents that I was high. I would like to apologize to my wife Karen, who still believes in me, and to the Marijuana Growers Association of Napa Valley and its affiliates for any embarrassment I may have caused them. I would also like to mention a little incident that took place in the Holiday Inn in Ypsilanti, Michigan, during that same time. I was lying in bed in room 342 and began counting ceiling tiles. Since the room was square, it was an easy computation, taking no longer than the weekend. As Sunday evening rolled around, I began to compute how many imaginary ceiling tiles it would take to cover the walls and floor of my room. When I checked out of the hotel, I flippantly told the clerk that it would take twelve hundred ninety-four imaginary ceiling tiles to fill the entire room.

  Two weeks later, while attempting to break the record for consecutive listenings to “American Pie,” I realized that I had included the real tiles in my calculation of imaginary tiles; I should have subtracted them from my total. I would like to apologize to the staff of the Holiday Inn for any inconvenience I may have caused, to the wonderful people at Universal Ceiling Tile, to my wife Karen, and to my two children, whose growth is stunted.

  Several years ago, in California, I ate my first clam and said it tasted “like a gonad dipped in motor oil.” I would like to apologize to Bob ‘n’ Betty’s Clam Fiesta, and especially to Bob, who I found out
later only had one testicle. I would like to apologize to the waitress June and her affiliates, and the DePaul family dog, who suffered the contents of my nauseated stomach.

  There are several incidents of sexual harassment I would like to apologize for:

  In 1992, I was interviewing one Ms. Anna Floyd for a secretarial position, when my pants accidentally fell down around my ankles as I was coincidentally saying, “Ever seen one of these before?” Even though I was referring to my new Pocket Tape Memo Taker, I would like to apologize to Ms. Floyd for any grief this misunderstanding might have caused her. I would also like to apologize to the Pocket Tape people, to their affiliates, and to my family, who have stood by me. I would like to apologize also to International Hardwood Designs, whose floor my pants fell upon. I would especially like to apologize to my wife Karen, whose constant understanding fills me with humility.

  Once, in Hawaii, I had sex with a hundred-and-two-year-old male turtle. It would be hard to argue that it was consensual. I would like to apologize to the turtle, his family, the Kahala Hilton Hotel, and the hundred or so diners at the Hilton’s outdoor cafe. I would also like to apologize to my loyal wife Karen, who had to endure the subsequent news item in the “Also Noted” section of the Santa Barbara Women’s Club Weekly.

  In 1987, I attended a bar mitzvah in Manhattan while wearing white gabardine pants, white patent-leather slippers, a blue blazer with gold buttons, and a yachting cap. I would like to apologize to the Jewish people, the State of Israel, my family, who have stood by me, and my wife Karen, who has endured my seventeen affairs and three out-of-wedlock children.

  I would also like to apologize to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, for referring to its members as “colored people.” My apology would not be complete if I didn’t include my new wife, Nancy, who is of a pinkish tint, and our two children, who are white-colored.

  Finally, I would like to apologize for spontaneously yelling the word “savages!” after losing six thousand dollars on a roulette spin at the Choctaw Nation Casino and Sports Book. When I was growing up, the usage of this word in our household closely approximated the Hawaiian aloha, and my use of it in the casino was meant to express “until we meet again.”

  Now on with the campaign!

  Writing Is Easy!

  Writing is one of the most easy, pain-free, and happy ways to pass the time in all the arts. For example, right now I am sitting in my rose garden and typing on my new computer. Each rose represents a story, so I’m never at a loss for what to write. I just look deep into the heart of the rose and read its story and write it down through typing, which I enjoy anyway. I could be typing “kjfiu joewmv jiw” and would enjoy it as much as typing words that actually make sense. I simply relish the movement of my fingers on the keys. Sometimes, it is true, agony visits the head of a writer. At these moments, I stop writing and relax with a coffee at my favorite restaurant, knowing that words can be changed, rethought, fiddled with, and, of course, ultimately denied. Painters don’t have that luxury. If they go to a coffee shop, their paint dries into a hard mass.

  Location, Location, Location

  I would recommend to writers that they live in California, because here they can look up at the blue sky in between those moments of looking into the heart of a rose. I feel sorry for writers—and there are some pretty famous ones-who live in places like South America and Czechoslovakia, where I imagine it gets pretty dreary. These writers are easy to spot. Their books are often depressing and filled with disease and negativity. If you’re going to write about disease, I would suggest that California is the place to do it. Dwarfism is never funny, but look at the result when it was dealt with out here in California. Seven happy dwarfs. Can you imagine seven dwarfs in Czechoslovakia? You would get seven melancholic dwarfs at best, seven melancholic dwarfs with no handicapped-parking spaces.

  Love in the Time of Cholera: why it’s a bad title

  I admit that “Love in the time of ...” is a great title, so far. You’re reading along, you’re happy, it’s about love, I like the way the word time comes in there, something nice in the association of love and time, like a new word almost, lovetime: nice, nice feeling. Suddenly, the morbid Cholera appears. I was happy till then. “Love in the Time of the Oozing Sores and Pustules” is probably an earlier, rejected title of this book, written in a rat-infested tree house on an old Smith-Corona. This writer, whoever he is, could have used a couple of weeks in Pacific Daylight Time.

  I did a little experiment. I decided to take the following disheartening passage, which was no doubt written in some depressing place, and attempt to rewrite it under the influence of California:

  Most people deceive themselves with a pair of faiths: they believe in eternal memory (of people, things, deeds, nations) and in redressibility (of deeds, mistakes, sins, wrongs). Both are false faiths. In reality the opposite is true: everything will be forgotten and nothing will be redressed. (milan Kundera)

  Sitting in my garden, as the bees glide from flower to flower, I let the above paragraph filter through my mind. The following new paragraph emerged:

  I feel pretty, Oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and bright.

  Kundera was just too wordy. Sometimes the delete key is your greatest friend.

  Writer’s Block: A Myth

  Writer’s block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol. Sure a writer can get stuck for a while, but when that happens to real authors, they simply go out and get an “as told to.” The alternative is to hire yourself out as an “as heard from,” thus taking all the credit. It is also much easier to write when you have someone to “bounce” with. This is someone to sit in a room withand exchange ideas. It is good if the last name of the person you choose to bounce with is Salinger. I know a certain early-twentieth-century French writer, whose initials were M.p., who could have used a good bounce person. If he had, his title might have been the more correct “Remembering Past Things” instead of the clumsy one he used. The other trick I use when I have a momentary stoppage is virtually foolproof, and I’m happy to pass it along. Go to an already published novel and find a sentence you absolutely adore. Copy it down in your manuscript. Usually that sentence will lead you naturally to another sentence; pretty soon your own ideas will start to flow. If they don’t, copy down the next sentence. You can safely use up to three sentences of someone else’s work—unless they’re friends; then you can use two. The odds of being found out are very slim, and even if you are, there’s no jail time.

  Creating Memorable Characters

  Nothing will make your writing soar more than a memorable character. If there is a memorable character, the reader will keep going back to the book, picking it up, turning it over in his hands, hefting it, and tossing it into the air. Here is an example of the jazzy uplift that vivid characters can offer:

  Some guys were standing around when in came this guy.

  You are now on your way to creating a memorable character. You have set him up as being a guy, and with that come all the reader’s ideas of what a guy is. Soon you will liven your character by using an adjective:

  But this guy was no ordinary guy, he was a red guy.

  This character, the red guy, has now popped into the reader’s imagination. He is a full-blown person, with hopes and dreams, just like the reader. Especially if the reader is a red guy. Now you might want to give the character a trait. You can inform the reader of the character trait in one of two ways. First, simply say what that trait is—for example, “but this red guy was different from most red guys, this red guy liked frappes.” The other is rooted in action—have the red guy walk up to a bar and order a frappe, as in:

  “What’ll you have, red guy?”

  “I’ll have a frappe.”

  Once you have mastered these two concepts, vivid character writing combined with adjectives, you are on your way to becoming the next Shakespeare’s brother. And don’t forget to copyright any ideas you h
ave that might be original. You don’t want to be caught standing by helplessly while your familiar “red guy” steps up to a bar in a frappe commercial.

  Writing Dialogue

  Many very fine writers are intimidated when they have to write the way people really talk. Actually it’s quite easy. Simply lower your IQ by fifty and start typing!

  Subject Matter

  Because topics are in such short supply, I have provided a few for writers who may be suffering in the darker climes. File some of these away, and look through them during the suicidal winter months:

  “Naked Belligerent Panties”: This is a good sexy title with a lot of promise.

  How about a diet book that suggests your free radicals don’t enter ketosis unless your insulin levels have been carbo-charged?

  Something about how waves at the beach just keep coming and coming and how amazing it is (i smell a best-seller here).

  “Visions of Melancholy from a Fast-Moving Train”: Some foreign writer is right now rushing to his keyboard, ready to pound on it like Horowitz. However, this title is a phony string of words with no meaning and would send your poor book to the “Artsy” section of Barnes and Noble, where—guess what—it would languish, be remaindered, and die.

  A Word to Avoid

  “Dagnabbit” will never get you anywhere with the Booker Prize people. Lose it.

  Getting Published

  I have two observations about publishers:

  1. Nowadays, they can be either male or female.

  2. They love to be referred to by the appropriate pronoun. If your publisher is male, refer to him as “he.” If your publisher is female, “she” is considered more correct. Once you have established a rapport, “Babe” is also acceptable for either sex.

  Once you have determined your pronoun usage, you are ready to “schmooze” your publisher. Let’s say your favorite author is Dante. Call Dante’s publisher and say you’d like to invite them both to lunch. If the assistant says something like “But Dante’s dead,” be sympathetic and say, “Please accept my condolences.” Once at lunch, remember never to be moody. Publishers like up, happy writers, although it’s impressive to suddenly sweep your arm slowly across the lunch table, dumping all the plates and food onto the floor, while shouting “Sic Semper Tyrannis!”