An att.i.tude of egalitarianism is necessary, as well as an att.i.tude of detachment. There is an unwritten law of dinner table democracy. No matter how famous and powerful some guests or how humble and obscure others, they're all equal when they sit down to eat. Thus there should be no overt aggression or compet.i.tiveness. Evangelizing, pontification, and the telling of jokes are all wrong. An attempt to convert and an a.s.sumption of omniscience are both compet.i.tive acts. And a joke is a rhetorical device that renders the teller dominant and the listener submissive. If a joke is so appropriate to the conversation that you have to tell it, turn the joke into an anecdote.

If, for instance, the talk is about political oppression in Eastern Europe, tell how Czech dissidents have a joke about a shopper who stands in line at a butcher store for fifteen hours only to be told there is no meat. When he complains loudly, a trench-coated stranger steps out of the crowd. "Comrade," whispers the stranger, "control yourself. In the old days if a person complained like that, well . . ." The stranger makes a pistol gesture with his fingers.

The shopper returns home. When his wife sees he's emptyhanded, she asks, "What's the matter, are they out of meat?"

"Worse than that," replies the shopper. "They're out of bullets."

This joke was told in political cabaret skits in Prague before the 1968 Russian invasion. By saying so you remove the onus of telling a joke directly. Otherwise you're attempting conversational bondage and discipline.

More obnoxious than a joke is a heated debate. Not only is it aggressive, but it violates the spirit of conversation as an art form. A conversation is not expected to "decide something" any more than a painting by Matisse is.

And most repulsive of all faults in parlance is advice. It shows every kind of disrespect for the knowledge and judgment of others and combines that with an exhibit of gross lack of common sense in the purveyor. What's never taken should be never offered.

If the att.i.tudes are right then there is no such thing as a wrong subject. Even grandchildren can be discussed if you have adequate detachment to sketch them as the little beasts they are. But, generally, the subjects of conversation fall into three categories: ideas, information, and gossip.

Ideas may be distinguished from their duller cousins, opinions, in that ideas are living things which may be pruned, grafted onto, or forced to blossom as they pa.s.s around the table, whereas opinions are dead sticks most often used in thrashing equally dead equines. "Meryl Streep is able to portray a s.e.xuality that goes beyond the confines of prurience." That's an idea. "Meryl Streep is real good." That's an opinion. Stick to ideas. They're, well, less opinionated-sounding.

Information is something everyone desires and no one has the patience to endure receiving. Who has not suffered an explanation of how pork-belly futures work? But any information can be fascinating if properly conveyed. There is a biochemist in New York who is able to explain cell meiosis in terms of high school romance: how DNA breaks apart the same way a teenager hates to spend time with her family and how that teenage bundle of chromosomes meets up with some cute DNA that moved in next door on a sperm. Then the two of them hook up and start the whole biological ranch house with one and a half baths and a carport all over again. The key is in keeping your terms and concepts general. Avoid jargon. Few computer experts would care to be addressed in Swahili, yet the same experts confound their listeners with bytes, floppy disks, and core dumps.

Gossip is everyone's favorite subject. Of course, gossip is terrible. But so are all of us. No one is going to stop gossiping, so you might as well do it right. Never gossip about people you don't know. This is stealing bread from the mouths of simple artisans such as Suzy or Rona Barrett. Also, it gives others the impression that the people you do know are a pretty dull lot. Announce your gossip with a straight face. Sophistication does not admit to surprise, and knowledge of human nature should preclude disappointment. And present all scandals in a forthright and unexaggerated form. Some degree of honesty must be present in conversation or it lapses into a lower form of art such as literature.

Good conversation may be thought a.s.sured by lively people, smart att.i.tudes, and topics sufficiently worthwhile or sufficiently otherwise. But anything can be spoiled by technique.

There must be a rhythm of exchange among the guests. Everyone must make a contribution even if that contribution is only a pretended inability to swallow a mouthful of soup because of the stunning nature of what's been said. No one should ever be excluded. Nothing is more disgusting than five people talking intimately about something a sixth person has never heard of. You might as well invite that person to dinner and not serve him food. There should be no extended duets unless only two people are present. You should have no honeymoon couples (marital, commercial, or other) at your table. And there should be no seductions evident. Flirtations may be rampant, but they should be public and tend to the amus.e.m.e.nt, or astonishment anyway, of the whole company.

Ideally one guest should have a say; there should be general response; the first guest should make reb.u.t.tal or retraction; and the floor should pa.s.s to someone else. When it does so, the subject should also change at least slightly. Francis Bacon, in his seventeenth-century essay "Of Discourse," said, "The honourablest part of talk is to give the occasion; and again to moderate and pa.s.s to somewhat else; for then a man leads the dance."

Changes of tone and style should be as frequent as changes of speaker and subject. Anecdote should not pile on anecdote but be mixed with observation, quip, hypothesis, question, etc. This is not just for the sake of variety. In conversation, unlike bridge, it's bad taste to follow suit. If Miss A mentions that she knows an actress with 240 pairs of shoes, only a beast would let on that he's met a countess who owns three hundred. It is your duty as host to mitigate such trespa.s.ses. You have to say something to the effect of "Yes, the countess does own three hundred pairs of shoes. But her father was so impoverished by European tax laws that he was forced to marry a wealthy insect, and therefore the lady in question has six feet."

It is, in fact, your duty to see to the smooth running of all conversational machinery. In a perfect situation, this means nothing but keeping the gla.s.ses full. But usually you also need to curtail monopolization by the skilled, solicit partic.i.p.ation from the dull, and excuse that partic.i.p.ation to the spirited. You must dress nettled pride with compliments, perform oral surgery to remove people's feet from their mouths, and, if argument gets completely out of hand, pretend the maid just had a baby in the kitchen.

Remember that trick. You're also the person who will eventually have to make everyone shut up and go home.

An Alphabet for Schoolboys

Consisting of simple verses replete with sound advice on manners and learning and admonishments both moral and otherwise A is for Algebra, thoroughgoing bore. To pa.s.s it is asked you, no less and no more. For though algebra's dreary, complex, and abstruse, Thank G.o.d, out of school, it's of no further use.

B is for Beer. It makes you act lewd And stupid and loud. It's a ruinous fluid For people with taste, for people who think. Beer is not nice. It's a bad thing to drink. The consumption of beer is low-cla.s.s and risky. Stick to gin, vodka, cocaine, and whiskey.

C is the mark you should always have made. It's a simple and forthright and manly-type grade. For an "A" gives your peer group sad indication Of a social life lacking inspiration, While "B" is overreaching for most humankind, Yet displays la.s.situde in the genius mind, And "D" is the sign of a mental defective, And "F" invites violent parental invective. "C" is the best. It shows moderation, The goal of philosophers in each age and nation.

D is for Drugs, that's to say, marijuana. A most common flora with your age of fauna. This herb is mind-widening; it improves your

perspective,

And makes you intuitive, kind, and perceptive. It heightens your senses, sets your psyche free, Causes you to care for ecology, And imbues you with other qualities that Let people sneak up and c.r.a.p in your hat.

E is for Effort. Never let it show. If you look like you're trying, people will know That you have aspirations, that you are ambitious. They'll consider you dangerous, pushy, malicious. Traditional society is not forgiving Of the upwardly mobile. They're made to work for a

living.

F is for Failure, a horrible curse. Success is the only thing known that is worse. People like goof-offs, losers, and quitters. Towards champions and victors they feel little but bitter. Pretend you succeeded and say that you spurned it. But if you succeed, don't let on that you earned it. There's something for which folks have more hate

reserv'd

Than for chance success. It's success

deserv'd.

G is for solid Geometry

Which mystifies you as it mystified me. So much so, in fact, I'm afraid I'm not deft Enough to go rhyme it. I'll make another rhyme on F: F is for Fun-toot-toot! beep-beep! Have it all now. It doesn't keep.

H is for Hard-ons, erections in your pants, During gym, in the lunch line, and at the Y dance. Don't blush, don't blow off your head with a Mauser Because of the rude bulging tent in your trousers. Just wait, relax, thirty years from this fall You'll feel total elation to have one at all.

I stands for Integration, interethnical mix, Where busing gives society's inequities the fix. Don't slug your new schoolmate or whack his nappy

dome.

Don't slap him or tease him or arson his home. Cheer him instead on field, in gym, at race, And win money bet on his oddly hued face.

J is for Jack-off, a.k.a. masturbation. Do it each school night and twice on vacation. It's much less expensive than what you do with your

d.i.c.k

When you're grown up-as you will find all too quick.

K is for Kleenex suffused with your love. (Vid. poem for J directly above.) L is for Latin, a language so peaked Even the Romans of yore do not speak it. If you don't believe what I say, go see Reruns of I, Claudius from the BBC.

M is for "Most Popular," also "Best Dressed," "Best Dancer," "Cutest Couple," and all of the rest. The sleek cheerleader, the lead in the cla.s.s play-She'll wind up fat; he'll turn out gay. The boy who's presently a football star, In a dozen years will sell used cars. The girl who's now the Homecoming Queen, She'll end her days divorced in Moline. Half of her court will be bottomless dancers. The cla.s.s stud will die of testicular cancers. While the Student Council President Will be an Ashram resident. And for the sake of mercy there should be a UN

moratorium

On the kind of things that happen to the earnest

valedictorian.

Remember, the future visits every duress On the victims of adolescent success. Besides, so what if you aren't a social lion? Neither was Zola nor Albert Einstein.

N is for Nike. It's a missile not a shoe. Get yourself an oxford in cordovan, not blue.

O is for Offal, served in the cafeteria. Regard it as you would a vaccination for diphtheria. Lunchroom food is made in order to prepare you For the treatment you'll receive from the girl who will

marry you,