For Christmas my daughter bought me a subscription to the British magazine Tatler so that I could feel that I hadn’t quite left everything English behind. While we’ve had Branston Pickle, Savlon, Hob Nobs, TCP, Temple Spa cosmetics and Ormande Jayne perfume brought over by visiting friends, something was still lacking; my body was well cared for but apparently not my mind.
For any American who has never read Tatler, it is a sort of Town and Country meets Vanity Fair with a touch of Vogue thrown in. It is basically a highly incestuous magazine being written by, for and about the stratosphere of society. My sister-in-law, inheriting my copies, once said she loved to read it for the names alone: names like Ticky Hedley-Dent, Balthazar Mattar, Fleur Chenevix-Trench and the Hon. Peregrine Pearson. Established in 1709, the names these days are slowly but rather surely losing their very English edge and a good dose of Pop Culture (only the very wealthiest of course) is being met with a decent smattering of Russian. Social climbing continues unabated no matter what the century.
Since my departure from Britain and the necessary gap in my Tatler reading, the Editor has changed thereby affecting various columns and features. One new column is by Andrew Roberts, the noted historian, who like myself has recently been relocated to the Big Apple. He has many of the same complaints I do; in his Sept. column he notes “They don’t have electronic boards on the subway telling passengers when the next train is coming…; they don’t have chip and pin for credit cards—instead you still have to sign slips of paper; and you can’t catch a cab between 4pm and 5pm…” Right on! What is it with this place? The City of London is just as hard-up as NYC—after all, they have all those historic buildings to maintain—yet they seem to have been able to beautifully maintain the Underground. Credit cards? I’ve had to change one of mine twice in 6 weeks due to identity theft; please bring in chip and pin! And as for taxis, well, I have to plan my day around the 4pm change if I know I’m going to need a cab.
Still, there is one thing on which Mr. Roberts and I don’t agree. He states, “Despite living in the so-called ‘city that never sleeps,’ New Yorkers like to be tucked up in bed by 9.30 and have lights out by 10pm…” Huh??? A small exaggeration perchance? A wee white lie? Dinner at 6.30? Well, Henry Kissinger is getting on a bit these days so if Roberts is dining with him, maybe---though I truly can’t see the Kissingers going in for the Early Bird Special. My own dinner is around 8pm. I may not have to be awake for a power breakfast at 7, but believe me those guys don’t need nine hours of sleep. Maybe Mon.- Weds. is a bit on the quiet side but once we hit Thurs. here in New York the movie rolls continuously until Sun. evening. My daughter has been known to stay out until 5 am. Could it be that Mr. Roberts at 47 is just mixing with the wrong crowd? Those historians, you know, and those busy making history, can be a bit of a stodgy group. Or can it be that he actually prefers sitting at home with the chocolate Hob Nobs?
Me, I’m dabbing on the Ormande Jayne and heading out….I’ve got dinner booked for 8.30, music starting at 9.30 and the main attraction probably not on until at least 10.30. And actually, it’s a Tuesday night!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Meeting My Waterloo
I just finished reading an historical novel set around the Civil War which is, quite possibly, the worst book ever written. For obvious reasons, I cannot tell you the author or title for fear of slander but, believe me, this has given me thoughts of running a Creative Writing course in which this book is the prime text for students to dissect. In fact, it is so awful that when I thought I would discontinue reading it, I had to decide to go on just for the sheer joy of seeing how truly awful it could get and how many anachronisms I could find. I continued with irresistible fascination or possibly an obsessive compulsion and I have got so many laughs out of this that I am now thinking of recommending it as a comedy. Just to clarify how I came upon this opus, I found it on Amazon and only after purchase did I discover online that it seems to have been published by a vanity press. Caveat Emptor, folks!
I haven’t as yet figured out what the story line actually is because two of the main characters have magically disappeared after 14o odd pages--- pun absolutely intended. However, there are quite a few gory battles of various kinds, as one might expect, and endless campfire meals and ---of even more interest--- endless descriptions of ‘making water’ or, in modern parlance, relieving oneself. Not to be too clever and sure of myself, I have read all of this with easy access to the online Etymology Dictionary.
Now, when one character answered another with the acronym ‘O.K.’ I had a great laugh. I had always been made to understand that OK came into usage during the period of the great ocean liners (along with ‘posh’ which stands for Port Over Starboard Home---although this etymology is disputed) when papers were marked OK as in ‘Oll Korrect’ by uneducated seamen. Apparently not! According to the Dictionary it came out of a fad in 1839 for using abbreviations for words and is the only survivor of that craze. Furthermore, there was an OK Club which supported Martin Van Buren’s Presidential election in 1840. One point to my author then, although I dispute whether a poor dirt farmer turned Confederate soldier would have used the expression.
However, when the character goes on to look at a revolting meal and comment “Ugh, gross!” I have to wonder which fraternity he belonged to. The use of the word ‘gross’ as meaning disgusting did not come into use until 1958, apparently, as part of student slang.
Finally, when one of the women politely says she needs to go to the bathroom—oh dear, oh dear. The Etymology Dictionary says “used 20c. in U.S. as a euphemism for a lavatory and often noted as a word that confused British travelers.” (Italics mine)
When I first moved to the UK I learned rather quickly not to use the expression as it produced gales of laughter from friends or mild confusion amongst the general public. Many years later I have returned home wired to say, “Excuse me, where is the Ladies’ Room?” If I remember, I may occasionally ask for the powder room but that term seems to now be archaic and since “ladies’ room” is understood I persist in using that. My daughter and I have both on occasion been corrected and directed to ‘the restroom’ or ‘bathroom’ but old habits die hard.
But at home, it’s the loo: “lavatory," 1940, but perhaps 1922, probably from Fr. lieux d'aisances, "lavatory," lit. "place of ease," picked up by British servicemen in France during World War I. Or possibly a pun on Waterloo, based on water closet.” (from The Online Etymology Dictionary)
After all, when I say I’m going to the loo, I’m not going to have a bath, I’m jolly well going to “make water.”
I haven’t as yet figured out what the story line actually is because two of the main characters have magically disappeared after 14o odd pages--- pun absolutely intended. However, there are quite a few gory battles of various kinds, as one might expect, and endless campfire meals and ---of even more interest--- endless descriptions of ‘making water’ or, in modern parlance, relieving oneself. Not to be too clever and sure of myself, I have read all of this with easy access to the online Etymology Dictionary.
Now, when one character answered another with the acronym ‘O.K.’ I had a great laugh. I had always been made to understand that OK came into usage during the period of the great ocean liners (along with ‘posh’ which stands for Port Over Starboard Home---although this etymology is disputed) when papers were marked OK as in ‘Oll Korrect’ by uneducated seamen. Apparently not! According to the Dictionary it came out of a fad in 1839 for using abbreviations for words and is the only survivor of that craze. Furthermore, there was an OK Club which supported Martin Van Buren’s Presidential election in 1840. One point to my author then, although I dispute whether a poor dirt farmer turned Confederate soldier would have used the expression.
However, when the character goes on to look at a revolting meal and comment “Ugh, gross!” I have to wonder which fraternity he belonged to. The use of the word ‘gross’ as meaning disgusting did not come into use until 1958, apparently, as part of student slang.
Finally, when one of the women politely says she needs to go to the bathroom—oh dear, oh dear. The Etymology Dictionary says “used 20c. in U.S. as a euphemism for a lavatory and often noted as a word that confused British travelers.” (Italics mine)
When I first moved to the UK I learned rather quickly not to use the expression as it produced gales of laughter from friends or mild confusion amongst the general public. Many years later I have returned home wired to say, “Excuse me, where is the Ladies’ Room?” If I remember, I may occasionally ask for the powder room but that term seems to now be archaic and since “ladies’ room” is understood I persist in using that. My daughter and I have both on occasion been corrected and directed to ‘the restroom’ or ‘bathroom’ but old habits die hard.
But at home, it’s the loo: “lavatory," 1940, but perhaps 1922, probably from Fr. lieux d'aisances, "lavatory," lit. "place of ease," picked up by British servicemen in France during World War I. Or possibly a pun on Waterloo, based on water closet.” (from The Online Etymology Dictionary)
After all, when I say I’m going to the loo, I’m not going to have a bath, I’m jolly well going to “make water.”
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
HEALTHY, WEALTHY AND WISE
I have been avoiding writing about this for weeks now but like the Sword of Damocles it has been hanging over me--- only this time the horse hair has finally snapped. Health Insurance. A subject so vile, so hated, so fear-inducing one only need whisper it to give me migraines, ulcers and palpitations all at once. And then I’d have to figure out if my insurance covered me for any of those.
When I decided to return to live in the USA I realized at once that this was something I would have to sort out before even sticking a toe out of the plane. On previous visits I was able to purchase travel insurance which gave excellent coverage for even extended visits. Back in Britain we have, as everyone knows, a National Health Service which makes visits to doctors, stays in hospitals and just about everything, except medication, free. Your prescriptions cost a set price so there are no sky high charges for medications. But---and this can be a big BUT—this does not mean there are no problems. There can be long waits to see specialists, hospital wards can be unpleasant and certain medications can be denied to you. Enter Health Insurance UK style.
Yes, I admit it, I had Health Insurance in the UK. Why? Because like most sane people I prefer staying in a hospital that resembles a luxury hotel rather than one that is like a bunkhouse, I prefer choosing my own specialists to see rather than the ones with whom my doctor is associated and I like seeing them as soon as possible. The charge for this when I left the UK was about one quarter of what I have to pay here in these United States.
In the US if you are buying your own insurance you first have to decide whether to go for an HMO, a PPO or, at a certain age or with pre-existing conditions, a POS---the 3 different types of insurance which dictate which doctors you may see and what you will pay to see them. I was channeled into the POS (Point of Sale; don’t ask me why) so that I could go out of network. If you are reading this in the UK you may not be able to follow this by now. But wait! There’s more! You then have to find what your coverage is. This includes figuring out co-insurance, co-payments, deductibles, in-network, out-of-network, out-of-pocket. … Did someone run a course in this which I missed when I moved to the UK? What idiot sat down and figured out how to make health insurance so complicated? You have to remember to get referrals to see your specialists (unless they are out-of-network), authorizations for certain procedures and pre-certification for hospital admissions. In Britain I picked up the phone to call the Customer Service Rep at my health insurers, told them my GP (who over here is a PMP---Primary Healthcare Physician!!!) wanted me to see a specialist or I needed an op and that was it. Finito! End of story! And I never heard that their shareholders were complaining about not earning enough dividends. You wonder why I have palpitations??
I have a theory: America is run by the Pharmaceutical companies who are in cahoots with the Insurance companies. Unless a drug goes generic the insurance rarely covers it. Medications are what will put you in your grave --- the cost of them that is. And medications are now permitted to be advertised on television! If you weren’t a hypochondriac before, you’ll certainly be one after an hour of television viewing in the USA. If the little green men ever come down from Mars one day, the pharmaceutical companies will go into overdrive in an attempt to get them hooked on some drug to make them breathe better in Earth’s atmosphere. And then those little green men will watch an hour of telly and come away believing that Americans are a race of constipated, dry-eyed, impotent, depressed, heart burnt folk whose women all suffer with PMT and don’t mind sitting down with Jamie Lee Curtis to discuss their irregularity problems while both desperately needing to pee and suffering with restless leg syndrome…
Restless leg syndrome? Didn’t that used to be called “boredom”?
When I decided to return to live in the USA I realized at once that this was something I would have to sort out before even sticking a toe out of the plane. On previous visits I was able to purchase travel insurance which gave excellent coverage for even extended visits. Back in Britain we have, as everyone knows, a National Health Service which makes visits to doctors, stays in hospitals and just about everything, except medication, free. Your prescriptions cost a set price so there are no sky high charges for medications. But---and this can be a big BUT—this does not mean there are no problems. There can be long waits to see specialists, hospital wards can be unpleasant and certain medications can be denied to you. Enter Health Insurance UK style.
Yes, I admit it, I had Health Insurance in the UK. Why? Because like most sane people I prefer staying in a hospital that resembles a luxury hotel rather than one that is like a bunkhouse, I prefer choosing my own specialists to see rather than the ones with whom my doctor is associated and I like seeing them as soon as possible. The charge for this when I left the UK was about one quarter of what I have to pay here in these United States.
In the US if you are buying your own insurance you first have to decide whether to go for an HMO, a PPO or, at a certain age or with pre-existing conditions, a POS---the 3 different types of insurance which dictate which doctors you may see and what you will pay to see them. I was channeled into the POS (Point of Sale; don’t ask me why) so that I could go out of network. If you are reading this in the UK you may not be able to follow this by now. But wait! There’s more! You then have to find what your coverage is. This includes figuring out co-insurance, co-payments, deductibles, in-network, out-of-network, out-of-pocket. … Did someone run a course in this which I missed when I moved to the UK? What idiot sat down and figured out how to make health insurance so complicated? You have to remember to get referrals to see your specialists (unless they are out-of-network), authorizations for certain procedures and pre-certification for hospital admissions. In Britain I picked up the phone to call the Customer Service Rep at my health insurers, told them my GP (who over here is a PMP---Primary Healthcare Physician!!!) wanted me to see a specialist or I needed an op and that was it. Finito! End of story! And I never heard that their shareholders were complaining about not earning enough dividends. You wonder why I have palpitations??
I have a theory: America is run by the Pharmaceutical companies who are in cahoots with the Insurance companies. Unless a drug goes generic the insurance rarely covers it. Medications are what will put you in your grave --- the cost of them that is. And medications are now permitted to be advertised on television! If you weren’t a hypochondriac before, you’ll certainly be one after an hour of television viewing in the USA. If the little green men ever come down from Mars one day, the pharmaceutical companies will go into overdrive in an attempt to get them hooked on some drug to make them breathe better in Earth’s atmosphere. And then those little green men will watch an hour of telly and come away believing that Americans are a race of constipated, dry-eyed, impotent, depressed, heart burnt folk whose women all suffer with PMT and don’t mind sitting down with Jamie Lee Curtis to discuss their irregularity problems while both desperately needing to pee and suffering with restless leg syndrome…
Restless leg syndrome? Didn’t that used to be called “boredom”?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A BRIGHTER SMILE
A few weeks ago Kit and I went off to Radio City Music Hall to see Willie Nelson & Family, “family” being what the accompanying bands and instrumentalists were called as well as those persons brought along to prop up the ol’ fella. Now I must once again hasten to say that none of this was Kit’s doing; this was purely my own indulgence for Country and Western music, an acquired taste no doubt and one that virtually my entire family and circle of friends does not understand in the least.
Be that as it may, Radio City is a place I have only been to previously for Christmas and Easter extravaganzas and then only as a small child or as the guest of my daughter who wanted me to relive being a small child. In those shows the Rockettes kick out their 7 ft. of leg and a Wurlitzer rises up out of the pit like Godzilla over Tokyo Bay. None of that took place with Willie Nelson. The closest we got to that sort of thing was iridescent blue straws provided with beers and by the time Kit bought a beer, the straws were all gone.
Anyway, we were handed what I thought were programs but turned out to be advertising booklets for upcoming shows. An article aptly called “Under the Influence” by one Sophie Harris begins, “The Brits are sometimes puzzled as to why—or really, how---American people can connect to quintessentially English bands. You know, the sorts of bands who drop in kitchen-sink lyrics so specific as to be nonsensical to anyone not brought up on fish and chips and bad dentistry.”
Now hang on a second there, pardner. First let’s deal with the bad dentistry. It is absolutely true that some years ago while in conversation with a stranger at a bus stop in NYC, I was suddenly told that I had very good teeth for an English person. But the days of the Beatles staring out at us with crooked, gapped and somewhat buck teeth are long gone and, Nanny McPhee aside, one can now find in London as many teeth whitening centers and cosmetic dentistry salons hoping to part you and your money as there are in New York. English news readers can blind you with their smiles in HD in just the same manner as Sade Baderinwa on ABC7.
Moving along, I also have to wonder why BRITS –which is to say, English, Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish—are wondering only about ENGLISH bands and Americans? Don’t the Scottish bands also have appeal to Americans? Irish? Welsh? Hmm?
Finally, getting back to the essence of this quote, regarding Americans relating to the kitchen sink (John Osborne where are you now?) lyrics of English bands, well, here’s the thing. Back in Radio City with Willie Nelson I spotted but 3 cowboy hats ( my own not being one of them since we had dined at Gordon Ramsey’s Maze before the show and I thought a Stetson slightly inappropriate). True, the puncher sitting right behind us announced in a voice Willie could’ve heard backstage that he had just flown in from Casper, Wyoming, for the show; there’s dedication for you! But if this concert had taken place in the UK??? Dude, I’m tellin’ you right here, right now, there woulda been Stetsons as far as the eye could see. You hear what I’m sayin’? The Brits unnerstan the Yanks’ kitchen sink lyrics just the same: dirt roads, pick-up trucks, swimmin’ holes and rodeo in Cheyenne. To paraphrase what the old man sang, Mammas are lettin’ their babies grow up to be cowboys all over the dang place. And with good teeth too.
Be that as it may, Radio City is a place I have only been to previously for Christmas and Easter extravaganzas and then only as a small child or as the guest of my daughter who wanted me to relive being a small child. In those shows the Rockettes kick out their 7 ft. of leg and a Wurlitzer rises up out of the pit like Godzilla over Tokyo Bay. None of that took place with Willie Nelson. The closest we got to that sort of thing was iridescent blue straws provided with beers and by the time Kit bought a beer, the straws were all gone.
Anyway, we were handed what I thought were programs but turned out to be advertising booklets for upcoming shows. An article aptly called “Under the Influence” by one Sophie Harris begins, “The Brits are sometimes puzzled as to why—or really, how---American people can connect to quintessentially English bands. You know, the sorts of bands who drop in kitchen-sink lyrics so specific as to be nonsensical to anyone not brought up on fish and chips and bad dentistry.”
Now hang on a second there, pardner. First let’s deal with the bad dentistry. It is absolutely true that some years ago while in conversation with a stranger at a bus stop in NYC, I was suddenly told that I had very good teeth for an English person. But the days of the Beatles staring out at us with crooked, gapped and somewhat buck teeth are long gone and, Nanny McPhee aside, one can now find in London as many teeth whitening centers and cosmetic dentistry salons hoping to part you and your money as there are in New York. English news readers can blind you with their smiles in HD in just the same manner as Sade Baderinwa on ABC7.
Moving along, I also have to wonder why BRITS –which is to say, English, Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish—are wondering only about ENGLISH bands and Americans? Don’t the Scottish bands also have appeal to Americans? Irish? Welsh? Hmm?
Finally, getting back to the essence of this quote, regarding Americans relating to the kitchen sink (John Osborne where are you now?) lyrics of English bands, well, here’s the thing. Back in Radio City with Willie Nelson I spotted but 3 cowboy hats ( my own not being one of them since we had dined at Gordon Ramsey’s Maze before the show and I thought a Stetson slightly inappropriate). True, the puncher sitting right behind us announced in a voice Willie could’ve heard backstage that he had just flown in from Casper, Wyoming, for the show; there’s dedication for you! But if this concert had taken place in the UK??? Dude, I’m tellin’ you right here, right now, there woulda been Stetsons as far as the eye could see. You hear what I’m sayin’? The Brits unnerstan the Yanks’ kitchen sink lyrics just the same: dirt roads, pick-up trucks, swimmin’ holes and rodeo in Cheyenne. To paraphrase what the old man sang, Mammas are lettin’ their babies grow up to be cowboys all over the dang place. And with good teeth too.
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