Stretching a Point

A recent e-mail exchange with a friend found us both quoting that femme fatale of the Algonquin Round Table, Dorothy Parker. We also expressed our admiration for the film, “Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle,” where the title character is played by one of cinema’s edgier actresses (employing an even edgier accent), Jennifer Jason Leigh.

In one particular scene where Leigh/Parker is engaging in verbal horseplay at said Round Table with the rest of the wickedly clever literati of 1920’s New York, someone is referred to as a genius, to which our darling Dottie indignantly replies, “No! I don’t think that word is elastic.”

I couldn’t agree with the Missus more. Some words in our culture have taken on a distinctly rubber band quality, stretched past the point of their original power until they’ve become a flaccid assemblage of letters.

One word that’s been unmercifully subjected to the rack is “love.” The Beatles may have been right when they wrote that’s all we need, but do we need it everywhere? Look, I love people, animals, art, literature, music, an ice-cold martini and free bar snacks as much as the next person, but I draw the line when that word is bandied about in business correspondence. Sorry to say, but I have to point the finger at my own gender for this gaffe:

“I’d love to see some copy versions on this by tomorrow” is an e-mail I’d get all too regularly from one of the young women in the marketing/sales department. Or, even more irritating, “I LOVED, LOVED, LOVED the creative you did on the ad campaign!!” Who knew that being praised for a job well done could set my teeth on edge. I half expected to see little hearts in place of the “o”s and often wondered if a love note from one of these “Marie Claire” devotees would take the opposite tack:

“David, I’d really value your input with the creation of a baby. Does convening a quick but productive meeting at ten tonight work for you? Please advise ASAP.”

Another word that’s been shot to hell is “assassination.” This term used to be reserved (and rightly so), for world leaders who were murdered for political reasons (e.g. Kennedy, Lincoln, Sadat, Bhutto, Gandhi). As much as one might like the music of Biggie Smalls, Tupac and John Lennon, they were not the targets of assassination but killed, the first two as a result of a pissing match between rival East Coast-West Coast hip-hop posses, the third at the hands of a deranged maniac. Their deaths were violent, untimely and a blow to the culture, but they didn’t knock political systems off their axis, provoke rioting in the streets or send world markets reeling.

Last, but certainly not the end of the list, is the word “evil.” To persuade all of us good citizens that the end was nigh, George W. Bush referred to the “Axis of Evil” in his State of the Union address in 2002, specifically pointing his finger at Iran, Iraq and North Korea. The dubiously elected “Dubya” may have been ready to soil his tighty whiteys over this triumvirate of mediocre madness, but this Catholic schoolgirl less so. “Evil” is a malevolent talent reserved for God’s only fallen Angel, whether he’s called Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub or Karl Rove. Hussein was a murderous bastard to be sure, but had as much hate for Muslim extremists as we do, Ahmadinejad is a squinty-eyed cur with a Napoleon complex, and Kim Jong-il is a delusional dwarf who I could take out in a mildly interesting street fight. To confer on any of these two-bit punks the label of “evil” is to debase God’s best and only nemesis.

As Mrs. P. herself would say, “What fresh hell is this?”

More of What I Fancy

It was British playwright George Bernard Shaw who observed that America and England are “two countries separated by a common language.”

And he wasn’t just whistlin’ Dixie. In fact, he was “spot on.”

On any fine day here in the States, I’d start up my car, tune the radio to NPR, take it slow over my parking lot’s speed bumps, mail a birthday card at the corner mailbox, wave to the school guard at the crosswalk, exit onto the expressway, finally make it to a nearby retail outlet after being confused by some crap directions, spend a little cash, throw my shopping bags in the trunk, return to my apartment, order Chinese take-out and that’s my day.

On the other side of The Pond, I’d start up the motor, tune the wireless to the Beeb, mind my car park’s sleeping policemen, post a greetings card at a pillar box, wave to the lollipop lady at the zebra crossing, exit onto the motorway, finally make it to a nearby retail park after being googled by some shite directions, spend a little dosh, toss my parcels in the boot, return to my flat, ring up an Indian take-away and Bob’s your uncle.

Even more intriguingly impenetrable is Cockney rhyming slang, where one word is replaced by a two or three word phrase in which the last word rhymes with the original word. Head scratching, no doubt, but a few pithy examples are: Climbing the “apples and pears” (stairs); That’s hard to “Adam and Eve” (believe); I like your designer “Steve McQueens” (jeans); What’s the “lemon and lime” (time); I scored some amazing “Bob Hope” (dope); I drank too much and got “Brahms and Lizst” (pissed).

But nothing belies the image of British propriety than their wanton way with profanity. You don’t have to be a loyal subject of Her Royal Majesty to interject one of these juicy nuggets into your next tirade:

Bum fuck Egypt (the middle of nowhere)

Face like a busted arse (very ugly)

Piss artist (heavy drinker)

Shit-hot (the best!)

Square root of fuck-all (absolutely nothing)

Fuck this for a game of soldiers (I give up)

Fuckwit (an idiot)

Hard shit (bad luck, used sarcastically)

Piss on his/her chips (ruin someone’s good time)

Rare as rocking horse shit (self-explanatory)

And on that saucy note, I’ll end my salute to the land of Parliament, pints and pork pies in the hope that, someday, I’ll get to visit my mate Nigel and hear my mother tongue spoken in all its gobsmacked glory. Now, if they could only do something about the bloody awful weather.

A Bit of What I Fancy

“Glor, someone stole 'haych.’”

This simple statement snapped me to attention for two reasons.

The “haych” in question was part of a very expensive movie encyclopedia I had to fight my former boss tooth and nail to acquire for my own writing needs, so I did not take it lightly when they were hijacked by my co-workers.

The person alerting me to this grievous crime was “Nigel,” a delightful chap who crossed “The Pond” as a relative lad but still retained his charming English accent. Never missing an opportunity to tweak his nose about it, I said, “Nigel, I know all twenty-six letters of the alphabet, and ‘haych’ isn’t one of them.” His reply to my good-natured teasing was always the same. “Glor, don’t make fun!”

Fun? Bollocks! I think I’m like most Yanks. We’re suckers for an English accent. I was supposed to be Nigel’s supervisor, but whenever he’d whine, “But Glor, I cahn’t,” in reply to one of my work-related requests, I’d let him off the hook. He could have stolen my lunch and I would have looked the other way.

Even more beguiling than the accent, though, were Nigel’s colloquialisms. If I expressed a wistful hope for, say, a new computer or the swift completion of a never-ending project, Nigel would bring me back to earth with a deadpan, “Not bloody likely.” “Are you mad?” was his comeback to any question he deemed silly, unreasonable or downright, well, mad. But the one word he uttered that never failed to slay me was “ta,” his appreciative response for the loan of a stapler or the offering of a coffee Nip. I used to keep a box of them in my desk drawer just so I could hear him say it.

Although I stayed pretty close to the Nige after he left the company, the passing of time did eventually take its toll, turning our cascade of contact into a trickle. But thanks to Facebook, that global, non-stop reunion party, I recently re-connected with Nigel to find that he’s moved back to Old London Town.

Scrummy! If I ever jet to Jolly Old, I’ll not only have a mate to get pissed with at the boozer, but I can take the piss by having a go with my British slang on the other punters.

More on that smashing subject in next week’s “The Bite.” Cheers!

Friggin' With the Riggin'

I hate to admit it, but the first time I saw a newspaper headline about piracy off the Somali coast, I laughed hysterically.

“Pirates?” I thought. “Real pirates? With shiny cutlasses clenched in their teeth, gold hoops dangling from their earlobes, squawking parrots perched on their shoulders, roguish patches over one eye and puffy shirts on their backs? Wow!”

The accompanying photo made my visual image even more delightfully ridiculous. Not to denigrate the damage that’s been done to shipping in that part of the world, but “pirate” seems a rather grandiose term for what amounts to a rag-tag group of high-seas hooligans.

Well hell, why not? Why shouldn’t a band of two-bit thugs glorify their job title? Everyone else does.

Have you noticed how many architects there are these days? And I don’t mean in the Frank Lloyd Wright vein. Type the word “architect” into a job board and you’ll turn up all sorts of busy little builders – systems architects, application architects, senior solution architects, information architects, data warehouse architects, etc. Why don’t these folks just cop to it. They’re computer geeks! Intelligent, essential and, I’m sure in some cases, very attractive computer geeks, but geeks nonetheless. I can only imagine that the genius behind such masterpieces as Fallingwater must be rolling in his grave.

Ranking right up there with all the “architects” are the “specialists.” From account executives to payroll drones, all the way down to the guy who delivers the company mail, everyone is a “specialist.” Or, they’re a “consultant,” a buzzword that actually means, “I’ve been unemployed for a long time, with no prospects on the horizon, so I’ll style myself a ‘consultant,’ even though my only consultations have been with Dr. Phil and a bag of Cheeto’s.”

Lately, I’ve been having problems with my own job title (copywriter), which I think is perfectly self-explanatory but, when heard instead of read, leads some people to believe I’m in the legal profession (copyrighter). So I’ve been toying around with changing it and adding a bit of cachet while I’m at it. Something like “English Architect.” Or “Scribe Specialist.” How about “Language Consultant.”

Wait. I have it!

I’ll be a “Copy Buccaneer.”

Aye, matey! A Copy Buccaneer!

Now pass me the grog.