R A N D Y C O H E N W E E K
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(Please: Randy Cohen is a genius of America. He is a writer of rarefied
satires (personal and political) and, accordingly, his work rarely
appears in popular periodicals. He has written for The New Yorker, the
Nation, and Late Night with David Letterman and, a few years ago, he was
fired as head writer of The Rosie O'Donnell Show. He currently writes
and edits the News Quiz for Slate, the on-line magazine. (Do visit!) He
has also written books, but because the world is as it is, his classic
collection, Diary of a Flying Man (Knopf), is out of print. As meager
recompense, this week we are reprinting selections from it, for no good
reason at all.)
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BACKYARDS
I was exhausted. I needed to get away, to light out for the territory,
to reconnect with the real America, the one along two-lane blacktop
roads, preferably in disrepair. I craved the rough-hewn wisdom residing
in towns with populations under 7,500 and willfully eccentric names: Gee
Gaw Gumbo, Louisiana; Donkey Mustache, Utah; Inky Dinky Spider Down Your
Pants, Kentucky.
Unfortunately, there wasn't a small town on the continent that didn't
have a contract with a major publisher, no colorful coot without a
commitment to Charles Kuralt. And so, packing a few necessities into my
car, a '79 Buick Electra I'd named Alexis de Tocqueville, I began a
voyage that would take me from suburb to suburb, by backyard across
America.
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MAPLEWOOD, NEW YORK:
"Popsicle Pete doesn't come around anymore," Dee Dee Daniels tells me
when she comes outside to say good night. I was surprised how readily
the Danielses had assented to my request to pitch my tent out by their
pool. Clearly, I'd underestimated the kindness and generosity of the
American people. (Fully 82.6% of us in the USA are kind and generous, I
read on the top of a pile of newspapers stacked by the Danielses' garage
for collection by the scouts. Now I had names.)
"Not for years. He was run out of town in 1975 when he got caught
dealing fireworks and pornography out of his truck."
These days, if you live in Rye and want a Fudgsicle, you drive over
to the 7-11. Life is change. But it is still a Fudgsicle when all is
said and done. The Danielses understand this almost instinctively; they
shed no tears for the Popsicle Petes of bygone days. And I, after years
of Haagen-Dazs rum raisin, am beginning to see it, too.
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CRESTVIEW, OHIO:
Lulled by the sound of trucks passing on the Interstate, as rhythmic and
soothing as waves crashing on the shore, I sit on the Kurtz's redwood
deck, sharing a Tab with my hosts. There is serenity here, an ease
embodied in every detail of their lives. Consider the
aluminum-with-nylon-webbing lawn chairs on which we sit. Like the
furniture in the traditional Japanese home, they are brought out only
when needed; when not in use they are stored away in the garage, near
Jack's cache of automatic weapons. But America is a land of progress,
and this virtue too is present in our lawn furniture. To clean, simply
hose them down. What's more, this chair is so light that a child can
carry it, although when unfolding it, often as not he'll pinch his
fingers.
"A little Bactine and a Band-Aid soon put matters right," smiles Jack
Kurtz, a man unruffled by life's little vicissitudes. How differently
we'd respond in Manhattan. We'd sue.
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PINE RIDGE ESTATES, INDIANA:
Resting on the flagstone patio of the Tilghman family, I use my
binoculars to watch the 11:00 news through the window of their recroom.
(My lip-reading skill, perfected while observing the marital squabbles
of the couple across the air shaft from my apartment, is proving
valuable.) I notice that my hosts eschew store-bought cigarettes in
favor of rolling their own. There's the frugality, the self-reliance so
esteemed by Emerson and Thoreau! And to economize still further, the
Tilghmans take deep drags and hold the smoke a long, long time. Wise
husbanding of resources! Those who associate such thriftiness with a
dour temperament are surely in error, for the Tilghmans are a frolicsome
couple, giggling constantly, even at the weather report. Blithe spirits!
Americans!
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PLEASANT GLEN, IDAHO:
Up early for a brisk wash in the Lindners' birdbath. It was necessary to
crack the ice that coated the surface; conditions are rougher than I'd
anticipated. Still, I had the fortitude to decline their offer to sleep
in Oscar Lindner's hobby room. (It is rare to see such an extensive
collection of Third Reich memorabilia outside a museum.) Sticking with
my plan to lead the outdoor life, I made camp over by the swings. I did
accept Oscar's loan of his Norelco cordless razor. I can share his
enthusiasm for its rotary heads. A close shave! And how liberating to be
rid of the cord, to cut the umbilical that would bind me to the house. I
had a sensation of true freedom I'd not known since the day my final
divorce decree came through. Here is unfettered man!
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CASA BUENA ESTATES, CALIFORNIA:
When Bud and Betty Enslen took me to Cap'n Eddie's Surf'n'Turfeteria, I
expected only a break in my spartan routine of cooking on borrowed
briquettes. But as we walked up to the salad bar, I saw not just the
canned chickpeas, the pickled beets, the bacon bits, the creamy
Roquefort-style dressing; I saw the limitless bounty of America. For the
first time, I apprehended the phrase "amber waves of grain," and I knew
that our skies were truly spacious, our plains indeed fruited. Simple
fare? Perhaps. But it was a decent honest meal, redolent with the
productive might of our fields, farms and factories. And Cap'n Eddie
offers identical dining in 32 states, a unifying force binding us into
one nation, one folk, one culture, just like the pledge the Enslen kids
say at school. From sea to shining sea. With a choice of beer, wine, or
sangria.
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SUNNY MEADOWS, TEXAS:
I lay in my sleeping bag in Stan and Janet Gilbert's backyard, gazing at
the stars and listening to the conversations from the cocktail party
flowing around me, and hoping nobody would step on my stomach in the
dark. Janet Gilbert says that a powerful backhand is essential to a good
game of tennis and proudly describes her own progress in mastering this
skill. Off to my left, someone suggests that it must be difficult to
improve your game by taking lessons in a motel room. Surely this is so,
and one must admire her all the more for persevering in such cramped
conditions. The strength of will that enabled her forebears to settle
this vast Texas prairie is still very much alive, over by the big
satellite dish, sipping a blue margarita. (I later learned that Janet's
family never traveled west of Reading, Pennsylvania, but the theory
still holds.)
As I listen to these people chatting and laughing, I feel a renewed
confidence in our nation and its citizens. They abide, they endure. Each
morning waffles are dropped into toasters, and kids are dropped off at
school. Soon they'll grow, apply for their learner's permits and, if
they pass the written test and can parallel park and nothing turns up in
the urinalyses, be off into the world.
And tomorrow morning I too will be off to another suburb, another
backyard -- off into the heart of America.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
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The Service Industry (In no particular order):
The Service Industry, Part Two The Chronicles of Man: The Magazine for Men. Episode VI: The Mystery in the Mailroom.
The Service Industry, Part Two The Chronicles of Man: The Magazine for Men. Episode VIII: The Discovery of a New World.
The Service Industry, Part One The Story of Fanfare: The In-FlightMagazine of the Gulfstream Jet Set. Episode IV: Office Politics.
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Randy Cohen Week Diary of a Flying man
Film Review "200 Cigarettes"
The Top Ten Censored Press Releases of 1998 No. 8: Barbie Doll Savings Program Strengthens Bond Between Little Girls and Their Dreams
The Top Ten Censored Press Releases of 1998 No. 9: Old Hollywood Falls Out to Honor Funnyman, Tim Conway, as 'Veteran of
the Year'
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