Notes from the Anglo File

The bumper-sticker (custom made, mind you) says it all:

"WARNING: Gilbert & Sullivan Freak Behind Wheel"

You know, even if you're just some random schmoebert driving behind me, that I'm a little, well, off.  I'm a little, well, smitten with all things Britain.  I'm a little looney.

Just a li'l.

(To be said with a traditional Cockney glottal stop.  Of course.)

Anglophiles are a unique breed, and we're all a bit muddled, a bit befuddled, because, see there's the whole identification issue-- identifying with your oppressor.  After all, Good King George did try to fuck our shit up for daring to take flight, lest we forget.  But for an American who is, after all, half-Israeli and 100% Jewish to boot, that whole dynamic seems almost a bit irrelevant.

I fell in love with English culture years and years ago.  Too much "Monty Python's Flying Circus" exposure at a time when the brain was extremely soft, malleable, and porous.  It's settled some now, but the damage has been done.  And it was done unto others.

Our elementary school had a program where 5th graders were paired up with 2nd graders.  The purpose of this was that the 5th graders would get together with their 2nd grade "book buddies" in the library once a week and read the 2nd graders stories.  Mentoring at a very young age.  It worked-- my book buddy and I are Facebook friends.  And she's fucking hot as balls now, but I digress.  Anyway, I can still vaguely remember reading young Carly "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs."  It was a swell time.

Anyway, the culminating event of the Book Buddy program was that we 5th graders were to write a book specifically for our 2nd grade book buddy.  Every page of the book would be laminated (in case, I guess, our book buddy became violently ill while reading it) and spiral bound by the school librarian, and entered into the permanent school library collection, for future impressionable youths to enjoy.  Some 5th graders wrote their takes on traditional fairy tales, some wrote stories where vegetables came to life and some wrote about things that had happened to them in their own lives, like breaking bones or getting puppies.

My story concerned Queen Elizabeth II getting kidnapped by members of the IRA and being hidden away inside the clock tower of Big Ben, and then rescued by members of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guard, assisted by Detective Inspectors from the London Metropolitan Police Department.  That Carly is Facebook friends with me today, and that, to my knowledge, she has never been the recipient of inpatient psychiatric treatment, is nothing short of miraculous.

I'm the kind of Anglophile who believes that everything coming from the British Isles is better than things in America.  Hobnobs taste better than Chips Ahoy.  The English Ford Focus is cooler than the American one-- at least it was for years, until the latest American restyle.  G&S is better than American musical theatre.  The monarchy is cooler than the presidency.  British comedy is funnier than American comedy.  British men's clothing is sharper than American men's clothing.  The British are more refined, more tasteful, more... correct than Americans.

That last point, however, gave me a moment's pause today as I looked through a slideshow from the Queen's Jubilee celebration.

Observe:

Mm-hm.  And let's not ignore...

And that, my friends, is how an American Anglophile gets bloody well humbled.

God Save the Queen.

Shocked, and Horrified

This post might offend some of my readers. If you think I'm going to apologize for that, you might want to re-familiarize yourself with Magpie's disclaimer at the top of the screen there, Punky Jewster.

I read in the paper yesterday morning that there was an accident at an airshow.

I know, right? I was stunned, too. Let's spoon each other till we both get over the shock.

Now, I know that I've been accused, by many a person, both smart and dumb, of great cerebrally-based crime of thinking too much. If it makes you feel better, I haven't given this subject matter much thought at all, but I have to say I've given at least a little bit of thought about the subject of airshows, every now and again, and I have to confess that I just don't understand.

I don't know whose idea it was in the first place. I doubt it was one of the Wright brothers, they seemed far too serious about the whole aviation thing to turn it into some sort of testosterone-fueled spectacle that would inevitably culminate with fire, gasoline and huge chunks of metal raining down on slack-jawed spectators.

It must have been some asshole who came along later.

Someone, perhaps, with roots in the circus. Some carnival barker type with a beaver-fur top-hat and a monocle who was like, "I know a way to make lots of money and scare the bejesus out of people-- all I need are a couple cheap planes and a few drunken, divorced pilots who aren't afraid to die-- or who perhaps might want to."

What I don't understand even more than airshows are the people who go to airshows. Now, this is the part where I might offend somebody, but, if you go to airshows, there's something seriously wrong with you. You want to see people die. There, I said it, and, you know what, it feels orgasmic. You're a sick, twisted duck-fucker and you'll crane your neck in any way possible so that you can get a better look at some Blue Angel's torso falling to the earth whilst engulfed in flames.

Not only that, you may even be vaguely suicidal. In that annoying, passive way, though. You're content to just kind of sit around on some tacky, plastic lawn chair and hope that you get killed by a piece of turbo fan or a pilot's neck traveling at some high rate of speed.

You're not there to be amazed and awed. You're there for death. Carnage. Horror.

(The horror.)

I like reading articles about airshow crashes-- they inevitably say something like, the airplane crashed to the ground in a fireball in front of "shocked and horrified" spectators.

Please. They're not shocked or horrified. They're thoroughly nonplussed and suitably pleased. In fact, if an airshow goes off without a hitch, I'll bet there's inevitably some maniac who goes and asks for his money back.

You know what would have been really coolballs? If, during WWII, we took every Japanese pilot who was captured as a POW and made them perform in airshows to entertain the American public. I mean, we'd have to make sure they were totally the kamikaze guys, and the airshows would consist simply of them either crashing into each other in mid-air or just making spectacular nose-dive, dive-bomb runs to the earth.

I think that would have boosted our national morale in a big way.

If that idea sounds too mundane, perhaps, for an extra fee, the high-rollers in the crowd could be sold or rented a surface-to-air missile launcher to try to take out some of the airshow participants. I mean, call it "Audience Participation" night or something. I think that would be immensely popular, because, that way, you're not just hanging around in that tacky, plastic lawn-chair just waiting for the eventual inevitability of an airshow accident, you can make it happen!

Shocked and horrified? Please.

Your Captain vs. the Volcano

In the passing fleetingdom of websurfing one day this weekend, I came across an MSN.com headline that said,

"WHY CAN'T WE JUST FLY UNDER THE VOLCANO CLOUDS?"

And, as I read this and pondered it a little bit, I thought to myself, "Wow-- now if that isn't a sentiment that accurately expresses what it's like to be an American, then I don't know what is."

Besides, maybe, "Give me back that fillet of fish."

By the way, you can have that as your ringtone. Just thought I'd mention it.

Anyway, I wasn't going to write about the volcano, because it's just all over the news, and as I think you know, I try my best to eschew whatever is all over the news, or all over the place, unless it's my dog's feces on the kitchen floor. I mean, that there's good blog fodder. Seriously, if you're ever feeling creatively cramped-- get a puppy. You'll suddenly have lots to blog about.

So, right, I wasn't going to blog about the volcano, because it's kind of hogging the spotlight and I don't think it especially needs another ounce of attention from me. Besides, its name is fucking impossible to spell, and my wife, (sometimes in conjunction with fellow reader/blogger Colleen) edit(s) these blog entries in her/their spare time so I don't want to give her/them too much of a challenge, especially when I'm always spelling "occasion" and "synagogue" wrong.

But, this headline made me think twice about blogging about the volcano. It struck such a negative chord with me-- such an unctuous, self-important, bratty statement. It was as if an angry, American child had its arms folded in front of its pouty chest, its face contorted in a butt-ugly frown whining,

"Can't we just fly UNDER the volcano smoke?" Immediately followed by, "I HATE you! You never let me do anything FUN!" The culmination of this tirade is the angry American child running upstairs (being sure to stomp on each step) and violently slamming his/her door before throwing him/herself onto the bed in the trademark "prone moan" position (this is opposed to the "supine whine position" favored by terminal ICU patients and Chinese prostitutes.)

I'm pretty amazed at how this particular volcanic eruption is being treated in the media. Far-off volcanoes are reported on with a mixture of awe and seriousness, especially when they kill or threaten to kill great numbers of people. Pompeii, anyone? This one is being treated in rather the same way as a fatal accident on a major highway during rush-hour is treated by traffic reporters: as a big pain in the ass.

I sometimes pray that, if I am to die in a car wreck to let it occur on some untravelled back road at around 2 o'clock in the afternoon. That way, my untimely death might be treated by local news reporters as the shocking tragedy that it is, and not an annoyance to sweaty, Nutrigrain-chewing cubicle jockeys who are lip-synching to "Like a Virgin" inside their used Acuras.

I want to be a little more in this life than an inconvenience. That isn't too much to ask, is it?

Well, this poor volcano is being treated that way. It's just a big pain in the fucking ass to the flying public. I get it-- you have places to be. Your mistress is waiting for you in Galway. You have a Looney Convention in London. You need to visit your sick gram-grams in Napoli.

I understand. Thank you for your patience. Your call cannot be completed at this time. Go fuck yourself.

See-- the thing is, Volcano, we're Americans. And we have somewhere to be. You're lucky you're a volcano with big goddamn smoke plumes and ash and shit and not just a big dirt hill, or we'd all just get in our SUVs and drive the fuck over your dump-ass. You know, on Day One it was like, Oh, cool-- a volcano. That's pretty decent. But then, on Day Two, we Americans were starting to get a little sick of your bullshit. I mean, Alyssa Milano's got a new show on ABC, and she's fucking hot. You're hot, too, Volcano-- but not in the same way Alyssa Milano's hot.

And now it's Day Five of your macho, I'm-gonna-spew-big-goddamn-smoke-everywhere-and-fuck-up-your-vacation-plans. And it's like, okay, we see you, you're really cool.

But we Americans are cooler. And, if this is some kind of pissin' contest, Volcs, whip it out and let's duel. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours.

Just Give Me the Chocolate Thingie

If you wake up one morning with a hankering for some cocoa ensconsed within a flakey, buttery crust, and you decide to satiate this need by going into your local, friendly Panera-- don't try to order a chocolate croissant.

They don't sell them.

Nope. No matter how absurd that sounds, nowhere on their menu will you see the words "Chocolate Croissant." You will see, however, if you look hard enough on the counter where the baked goods reside, mingling with each other, objects that look suspiciously like croissants, dribbling luscious chocolate out of their rears, and their fronts.

Panera calls these "Chocolate Pastries."

Sometimes, on days when I'm fortunate enough to have to visit an ATM to deposit a check, I'll pop into the Panera that's three doors down from the bank to get a cup of coffee. Now, I'm sure most of you will agree that there's very little that goes with a cup of coffee than a chocolate croissant. Imagine the warmth of the coffee melting the chocolate as the sinfully delightful confection slides effortlessly down your gullet. Mmm. Almost pornographic, isn't it?

When I went into Panera a few weeks ago (I get a monthly paycheck-- I know, it's like the fucking CCC, for Christ's sake) and I noticed that Panera refers to chocolate croissants as "chocolate pasteries" I tried to subvert the dominat paradigm by announcing to the apron'd clerk that I would like a medium coffee and "a chocolate croissant." She went to go pull out the coffee cup, emblazoned with a large letter "M" to avoid confusion, when she stopped, evidently confused anyway, apparently by the latter part of my order. She cocked her head and furrowed her brow, the way my dog does when I ask him philosophical questions.

I sighed.

"Sorry-- a chocolate pastry."

She smiled, nodded, and proceeded to grab me one chocolate croissant. At least she used a piece of wax paper.

Americans get upset when foreigners refer to us as dumb. Being undumb, I can appreciate that. Because my father is foreign, I have to listen to him regale us with examples of the dumbness of America and Americans. Frequently. It's basically his favorite topic of conversation, after he exhausts singing the praises of my sister. He wants me to ghost-write a book for him about how dumb America it is. He's already got what will probably amount to volumes of anecdotes and stories to support his beliefs. He's even picked the title-- and it's snappy, too.

"AMERICA: DUMBEST FUCKIN' RETARD COUNTRY EVER"

Look for it in bookstores about a year-and-a-half after I lose my current job. I'll keep you updated.

Now, I will not even waste space on this blog arguing that lots of Americans aren't dumb. They are. I know that. You know that, even if you're dumb. (Of course, you're reading this blog, so we already know that you're not. You're sexypants.) I do not, however, share the McDonald Coroporation's (yeah, they own Panera. Crazy, right?) belief that Americans are too stupid to a.) read the word "croissant" and b.) pronounce the word "croissant" in a spontaneous, order-taking situation.

Now, we know that McDonalds thinks Americans are stupid and has for decades. I mean, they invented the picture menu, for Christ's sake, not to mention numbers for food. Perhaps you remember ordering a "Number 2" recently and not, thankfully, receiving a piece of stool in a box-like paper container.

Maybe they think Americans of a certain vicissitude cannot handle the word "croissant" because it is French. Well, I think a relatively large percentage of Americans have been saying French words for a long time and nobody's ever died of it yet. We've been saying "art deco" since the 1930s, haven't we? Haven't we done okay with referring to Demi Moore as "that slutty, brunette cougar?" "Brun" from the French word for "brown," "ette" to indicate that she's a small(ish) female.

Every asshole in town says good-bye to you before a trip with "bon voyage" before they go read your mail and break into your home to masturbate on your sofa pillows. And every pervert, scumbag and ESPN announcer knows how to say "menage-a-trois" when it matters most. We all know the skinny prig in the white vest with his nose in the air at a restaurant is called the "maitre-d."

So, why can't we be expected to say the word "croissant" at Panera?

Do they think it's going to negatively affect sales if the simpletons of the American world walk up to a counter, want a delicious chocolatey treat and won't order it because they can't pronounce the word on the menu?

Yes. That is what they think.

And, you know what? They're right.

At a local bagel chain, they offer sumptuous, flakey, square, layered, chocolate-infused, confectioner's sugar dusted delicacies, and they put them right by the cash register, so you just can't resist adding one of those lovely mothers to your order. For months, I longed to try one, but I didn't know how to pronounce their name.

"Beignet."

I was petrified of looking like an incompetent, idiotic, yes, American asshole in front of the 19-year-old pony-tailed chippy behind the counter-- like she knew how to pronounce "beignets." Finally, after months and months, I summoned up every ounce of courage and decided, "Okay, that's it-- today's the day. Today I am going to order one." And I sauntered bravely up to the counter, slapped my $1.15 on the counter, cleared my throat, and confidently said,

"I'll have one of, uh, one... one of those chocolate thingies, please."