Watching Martin Scorsese's film of Fran Lebowitz, Public Speaking, I wondered if she had lost some of her rapier wit. But perhaps anyone, filmed talking for an hour, would get a bit tiring. Though I did like her disdain for technology and her belief in the need for a cultural elite. And even her predictable complaint about tourists was amusing, as she told of passing them on the street and catching bits of their conversations, like the fact that they didn't like the singing waiters at such-and-such a place. And how she'll stop and say to them: "Really? We'll get rid of them then. Because we created them for you."
Talking about Dorothy Parker, she moved on to James Thurber, giving the indication that he was one of her comic heroes. She told of the day his commemorative stamp was issued in his hometown, the name of which she couldn't remember - even though, it seemed from the story, she had been there for it. "Wherever it was he was from in Ohio," she said dismissively, as if Ohio were somewhere in the Hindu Kush. She sounded like a living, breathing, talking version of the Saul Steinberg poster View of the World from 9th Ave. "Cincinnati," she said finally, giving it a wild, Manhattanish stab.
James Thurber not only grew up in Columbus, he wrote about it constantly. My Life and Hard Times, one of the great works not just of American humor but of American literature, begins: "I suppose that the high-water mark of my youth in Columbus, Ohio, was the night the bed fell on my father." If you're a lover of Thurber, you know about Columbus. Especially if you've been there for the issuing of a stamp in his honor. Being a New Yorker is not an excuse.
