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LAUGHTER, HOPE & A SOCK IN THE EYE
by Rahne Alexander

In the early threads of the Web I maintained one claim to fame, which was a site devoted to a then-exhaustive bibliography of Dorothy Parker's work.

This bibliography was the only thing of any real value to be salvaged from the wreckage of my undergraduate career, and even it was developed as an appendix to a make-work "thesis" paper. To that date, there was still very little academic work about Dorothy Parker cluttering up the journals, which particularly bothered me because no-account clowns like Rousseau and Rand garnered all sorts of praise from my glassy-eyed Reagan Youth cohort. But that's neither here nor there; what's important is that I'd somehow managed to hold on to a tiny scrap of academia and champion it via URL until libraries actually linked to me, fiercely denying that The Academy had not spit me out the moment I landed on its dry little tongue. It gave me hope that I wouldn't wind up a total disappointment.

For years I maintained this small site, always thinking that at some point I'd manage to update it with current research but never quite finding the time. Still the library links kept popping up. From time to time I'd connect with a respectable Dorothy Parker fan, and as the garden of links continued to sprout, more and more requests for homework help arrived.

Most of the time the questions were on the order of "Which biography is best?" and "Which books/stories/poems can you recommend?", and I'd respond to them as I found the time. Others didn't deserve response because of their unique blend of laziness and stupidity. Those I'd usually ignore; sometimes I'd send a stern reminder about the importance of original research. But in every case, my correspondent seemed clear that I was a mere minion and not Dorothy Parker herself.

In December 2000, I received this e-mail message:

I just want to ask u a few queastions. One is Where was u born, when,.

I need a bibliography on u. Can u please send me one full page of info please. Thank you.

Matt P.

It took me two days to formulate my in-character response. Accepting his challenge to respond in my imagined Dorothy Parker voice, I proffered a buffet of deliberate misinformation concocted to embarrass him or his teacher; perhaps both.

Mind you, at the time of this writing, I had never yet visited Baltimore. Trapped in my dazzling Northern California-shaped bubble, I'd have been hard-pressed to locate the city on a map in spite of the number of times I'd watched Serial Mom. I could have just as easily selected Neptune, New Jersey – an absurdly-named town with close proximity to Parker's true birthplace and it being a town I had actually visited.

Baltimore, believe it or not, came through as a city featuring a ready menu of venerable restaurants with websites. I ached to discover some place that had been continuously running since at least 1893 – the year Parker was born – and if I had it to do over again now I'd probably name Patrick's or The Horse You Came In On, but given my intent, authenticity was easily-sacrificed. Obrycki's Crab House proudly announced that it opened in 1944, when our Dottie was 50. It would do, if my cover were to be blown, but perhaps not until Matt discovered he'd be repeating sophomore English.

Two days later, Dorothy Parker responded to Matt with a generous helping of asshole casserole.

Dear Matt:

Thank you ever so much for your e-mail. People so rarely write to me these days, if they remember me at all. Everyone is up in arms about these charlatans who have been told they can write – Kurt Vonnegut! Ha! Doris Lessing! Ha Ha! That horrible Annie Proulx? We all deserve Pulitzers just for spelling her name correctly.

For my money, you should still seek out the works of Heywood Broun, who was undeservedly underserved. Hemingway was no slouch, nor Fitz of course. I enjoyed Maugham well enough, considering what he wrote about. I'm working through some Camus just now, but I continue to fail to see the point.

But, dear Matthew, you requested information about yours truly, not my venerable colleagues.

I've always told people I was born in West End, New Jersey. It did seem to be an upscale announcement at the time. But the cold truth is I was born in a fish restaurant in Baltimore in August of 1893. My mother's fancy had been caught by a deep sea fisherman based out of Point Pleasant. They had sneaked away from my father for the weekend, only to find that one of the primary properties of consuming swordfish is inducing early labor.

I believe that the restaurant in which I made my debut still exists – Obrycki's on Pratt Street. They apparently make a big deal about their crab cakes, although I'm usually fine with an Oliver Twist and a side of creamed cucumbers.

You can find many of my books for sale at independent booksellers such as The Strand. Those large bookshops like Amazon don't know their ass from their elbow, and they keep insisting that I come and record my stories and poems. Nothing doing, I say. Shirley Booth did a corker of a job the first time around, and I say her let her keep the gig.

Me, I'm going back to my wet bar because my glass has been empty, lo these thirty seconds.

Have a wonderful day, young scholar.

Dorothy Parker

From that day until this, I have never received another request for help with some hapless student's Dorothy Parker homework.

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