Irene’s just a tease, I hear Katia moves fast

So I had a lot of time to ponder while nervously awaiting the oncoming apocalypse last weekend.  I of course refer to the mighty, ferocious Irene that tore through New York City delivering inconvenience (What do you mean no subways?  Can I at least find a cab?), annoyance (I ordered my General Tsao’s an hour ago.  What’s the hold up?) and a little bit of rain to its inhabitants.

But between growing stir crazy in my StarKist, Poland Spring and Duracell stocked apartment and now hearing all this news on Katia, got to thinking – why is it that hurricanes are the only natural disaster named after people - I mean, it’s called the “1906 San Francisco Earthquake” or the “Great San Francisco Earthquake” not “Earthquake Coco” – and beyond that, when did this whole naming Hurricanes after people thing begin?

The deal with hurricanes (as opposed to say tsunamis, tornados, earthquakes) is that they rarely strike unexpected, and they typically go on for an extended period so you’ve got a little forewarning – and with forewarning you’ve got time to deal with the essentials – like choosing the name of the destructor. 

(Yeah yeah, there is actually a system to this choice.  Or if, rather, you now have the hankering to rewatch this …)

But this whole modern system of Atlantic hurricanes being named exclusively after people began in 1953 – at which point Atlantic hurricanes began to be named not only exclusively after people but exclusively after women.

Alice, Barbara, Carol, Dolly, Edna, Florence, Gail, Hazel – cute as a button waitresses at the local Soda Fountain?  Nope. Not so much girls next door as femme nikitas:  In the early 1950s these were the original hurricanes.

As time went on some saucier gals did finally enter the mix -  Francelia, Gabrielle, Claudette, Kendra – much more suitable names if you ask me.  I mean, you’d expect Edna to make a crackerjack peach cobbler, but you’d expect Kendra to blow like a champ.  And in 1979 at long last the boys were invited to the dance and the he-hurricanes joined the party.

“Oooh – a man – a man.  Finally a man!” Ana and Greta and especially that hussy Flossie just cannot wait.  After all this time, at last there’ll be a man on the block.  Strong, sexy, enigmatic, and just -  manly.

And who enters the scene? The eagerly awaited very first he-hurricane?  This epitome of suavity, mystery and might?

Bob.

The schlubby, impotent Hurricane Bob (I mean, he only kept it up for a week).

Sorry, Flossie.  But hey – later that season you’ll have Frederic to look forward to (20 days and nights.) And in years to come some of Bob’s more studly, worldly bros will join the festivities - Marco, Jose, the dearly departed Klaus – I mean, it’s like a carefully assembled soccer team!

Oh how progressive and welcoming we’ve become.  How diverse our hurricanes have grown.  I must admit, however, that as an African American I do feel a bit neglected.  What’s the deal?  We’ve got a black president but apparently the world’s not quite ready for Hurricane Leroy ….

I’m baaaaaaaack …...

Hi friends!

So I haven't posted in a loooong while -- oh the excuses I could list: busy with work, travel, extreme brunching – but why lie?  I joined Netflix.  I discovered Battlestar.  That about sums it up.  Yes – I’m a nerd (my instant queue is a veritable cornucopia of intercontinental, multigenerational sci-fi geekdom, I'm counting down the days til Doctor Who comes back in September!) but anyway, that is neither here nor there….  to the point -- a new post! (better late than never.)

Which leads us to:  "Better late than never".

This lil phrase comes from Chaucer’s THE CANTERBURY TALES, the original saying (as scribed by Chaucer in Middle English around 1386) being "For bet than never is late".

I was going through THE CANTERBURY TALES in order to give you even more context, but after realizing that the sole purpose of Middle English was to give me a headache and to make the useless letter Y feel special (ride / ryde, made / mayde, lover / lovyere, gift / yift??  (Really, Y? Do you REALLY think you belong in any of these words??)), I figured “screw it”.  I told you the source of the phrase.  Let’s talk about the migrane-inducer known as Middle English for a second.

So here’s our native tongue – about 700 years ago. 

Seriously?  Seriously??   Seriously.

You think Middle English is better on the page? 

“A man moot nedes love, maugree his heed.

Hey may nat fleen it, thogh he sholde be deed,

Al be she mayde, or widwe, or elles wyf.

And eek it is nat lykly, al thy lyf

To stonden in hir grace; namore shal I”

It’s not.

What I find particularly amusing is if you fast-forward a mere 200 years you get:

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate” 

English.  

Sure sure, times change, sayings, phrases, words etc etc.  But you know what happens when you rewind 200 years from today in American English in literature?

“It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered, before the adverse hosts could meet.”

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing. 

So apparently in 15^th – 16^th Century London the English language was a free for all.  The aftermath of the plague, those constantly squabbling Yorks and Lancasters, a king with an unquenchable libido, Lutheranism –  this is all meaningless when you can’t stand the look of the word “prys” and feel deep down in your soul that “purtreye” should henceforth be spelled “draw”. 

Oh will there ever be another English language free for all?  I dream of such a time.  I firmly believe that “narf” should enter the American vernacular and think that “awesome” should henceforth be spelled “tardis”. 

And get rid of Y altogether.  Its fall from grace has already given the poor thing an identity crisis.  Put it out of its misery. 

Roll Out the Red Carpet - It’s Oscar Time! (and it’ll be killer.)

Catherine Zeta-Jones is looking lovely as ever.  It seems Nicole Kidman has now lost all expression from her face – did she recently suffer a stroke?  Does Jen Aniston have a new beau?  It’s about time! What in god’s name is Helena Bonham-Carter wearing? Uh – who is Jennifer Lawrence?

Tis that time again.  Time to be voyeurs.  Time to scrutinize the rich and famous as they march about in an endless parade for our own personal amusement.  Yes, tis awards season.  And as awards season comes to a close with the upcoming 83^rd Annual Academy Awards, I’d like to give a shout out to the whole reason we watch awards ceremonies.  Not to see the winners or the weepy speeches (yawn.  “I’d like to thank the academy.  (sniff sniff) My incredible fellow nominees, you are all so …blah blah blah” DOUBLE YAWN) – no – this is all BORING and not our reason for returning year after year.  And so, I’d like to give a shout out to the bringer of ongoing praise or relentless ridicule – the red carpet.

And so – a history of the red carpet.  Sans embellishment.  With quotes. 

It seems the history of the red carpet dates all the way back to Ancient Greece.  References to it can be seen in Agamemnon, the first part of Aeschylus’ The Oresteia, (if you’ve read The Oresteia you may skip ahead). Agamemnon has just returned home – victorious – from the Trojan War.  His beloved wife, Clytemnestra, is there to herald his arrival. 

“Now, dearest husband, come, step from your chariot.  But do not set to earth, my lord, the conquering foot that trod down Troy.  Servants, do as you have been bidden; make haste, carpet his way with crimson tapestries, spread silk before your master’s feet”

Aw.  How sweet.  What a thoughtful wife.  She has these red carpets placed down to honor him.  And the touched, triumphant Agamemnon strides across them into the house.  What a beautiful gesture.

It should, however, be noted that Agamemnon was only able to win the war by slaughtering their daughter, Iphegenia, and offering her as a sacrifice.  Clytemnestra’s pissed.  And once inside an unsuspecting Agamemnon is about to get himself killed eight ways from Sunday by his wife and her new lover.  Don’t worry.  They’ll both get it in part two.  And don’t worry about that, their murderer (who happens to be Clytemnestra’s (and Agamemnon’s) son, Orestes) will go pretty bat shit crazy in the finale, part three.  (I’ve decided that the Greeks are also the original source of the soap opera)

So this Sunday while you’re watching celebs twirling on the carpet, trying to have clever insights on political matters, spouting out the oh so clichéd “It’s just so much fun to be nominated”, and you’re still trying to figure out who the hell Jennifer Lawrence is, just think about  matricide, patricide, filicide, mariticide, homicide – you know, where that first red carpet led.

I must admit, it seems only fitting.  The vast majority of those who enter, victoriously spouting the “honor to be nominated” BS won’t feel too victorious in an hour or eight, when they’ve had to hold that smile plastered to their faces for an eternity, endure James Franco and Anne Hathaway as their hosts (sorry all – no high hopes for any comedy stylings there), can’t get blitzed during the ceremony cause it’s not the Golden Globes, and won’t even get to leave with a shiny new toy named Oscar.

Colin Firth (mmmm), Melissa Leo, Christian Bale, Natalie Portman (or MAYBE Annette Bening) rest at ease, no red carpet for you.  All the rest – you are really just lambs for the slaughter.  So stride across that red carpet with poise and confidence with no inkling to what awaits you.  Once you step off the carpet and set foot inside the Kodak Theatre, Oscar’ll be waiting.  Smiling.  Knife hidden behind his back, and ready to gut you Clytemnestra-style.

Happy Hunting!

It's COLD. Guard Your Family Jewels

Dude.  It’s cold.  Like friggin cold.  I know, I know – it’s January – I’m not in Florida, Southern California or Hawaii, what should I expect? (ps. did I miss anywhere in the U.S. that isn’t freezing right now? I think the South’s even still dealing with their fortnight-old 3 inches of snow.  [Really guys? grab a shovel and some Morton’s and have at]) Global warming my ass.  It’s frackin’ FREEZING.  Today, as I was trudging through pelting freezing rain, I got a text from a friend who was in town for the past couple weeks and just got back to L.A. – the text read as follows “Long Beach. Clear skies. Nice breeze. Temp of about 75 degrees.”  My response? “Bite Me.”

Oh – how freezing weather brings out the best in us – our polite language surfaces and the most proper, elegant and descriptive of phrases emerge.  Which leads us to:

“I’m freezing my balls off”

Oh, how oft I’ve heard this mellifluous phrase in the past few weeks.  How oft, in fact, I’ve uttered it myself – and I possess no testicles to be threatened by such a cruel fate!  

Oh from whence did this charming saying emerge?

It seems that this was most likely borne out of the saying “Cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey” (Uh …. Huh?)

There seems to be much heated debate between etymologists and academics alike over the source of this expression. (No, really. Debate.  Heated Debate.  About to have a Knife Fight Debate.) 

The rumor is that this phrase came from (wait for it) our seafaring brethren (shocker) from days of yore - something to do with cannonballs and vessels called monkeys and metal contracting in cold weather - but this now seems to be heavily refuted (Ha! You can’t win em all, Nautical Reference).  

What does NOT seem to be refuted by everyone is that the original phrase, as first recorded in 1857 in the journals of sixteen year old Syracuse resident, Charles Augustus Abbey (who would, ironically, go on to BECOME a seafaring man some 8 years later) was in fact that it was cold enough to “freeze the tail off a brass monkey”.  As the years went on, well, other parts of that poor, leprous monkey began to drop.  And, by the latter half of last century, well that affliction had finally reached us. 

Ah our amazing gift with words.  The way we change them with time. 

Start with a metaphor and a coy hint at slight indecency.

Keep the metaphor, replace the coy hint with a blatant less-than-tactful declaration.

Lose the metaphor, keep the declaration, add profanity for emphasis.

Cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey.

Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

I’m freezing my fucking balls off.

Yeah yeah yeah.  Different standards, different times, different norms.  But I must admit, I do miss a bit of metaphor and a sly dash of innuendo from time to time – just to keep the mind fresh. 

Oh the other hand – fuck it!  It’s too fucking cold for higher brain functions.  I’m gonna go watch E! .

New Years Borne Out of Befuddlement. That Pesky Auld Lang Syne

Happy 2011!  Hoping all had a fantastic New Year’s and that any hastily, or thoughtfully, made resolutions haven’t quite been abandoned just yet….

I had, what I assume is, a very common New Year’s Eve experience.  Gathered with friends, champagne, watched the ball drop, and muddled through the ol’ ditty “Auld Lang Syne”.  Twas a giant, enthusiastic, tipsy group sing that came out a little like this:

“May old acquaintance be forgot.

And (mumbling) mmm –mm  something something mind/find/hind/shined/twined (????)

May –  (less sure mumbling) hmmm uh – quantinance all for not

And Old Lane Sign.

(now, with conviction)

Oh Old Lane Sign, my dear.

Or Old Lane Sign.

For something, something – oh my dear

And Old Lane Sign”

And repeat ad nauseum.

I’m sure you get the picture and have even experienced this.  Everyone sort of tries random guessed-at words in the actual English section and then gets all loud, rousing, festive for “Auld Lang Syne” (as if to say Horray!  We KNOW this part!)  It’s like a rendition of happy birthday at a large corporate office when you get to “Happy Birthday, dear ???? ” that “????” is always fraught with disaster but the final “Happy Birthday to you” seems, more or less, to bring a mild sense of redemption.

Got me thinking.  Auld Lang Syne is so ubiquitous this time of year.  Everyone knows it (er, well, part of it).  But no one REALLY knows it.  I mean, what does it mean? Where’d it come from?  Why is it so synonymous with New Year’s?

And, as I’ve been meaning to start up a blog, and am constantly saying “sure, but why?” to everything, like a precocious and oh so utterly irritating child – I decided that it was time to investigate.  So upon consultation with the oracle, the most infallible of sources, the Internet, here’s what I found …

Auld Lang Syne actually comes from a poem taken down in the late 18^th Century by Scottish poet Robert Burns (you may remember his poem A Red Red Rose from studying examples of simile in high school English class) – Burns transcribed this song, an old song of old times which had never been in print, from an elderly man and sent a copy to the Scots Musical Museum.  It was in print in songbooks in the mid 19^th Century, became a custom in Scotland, spread over to the British Isles and eventually spread to the rest of the world.  Beyond that, who knows where it originally came from, but Auld Lang Syne roughly translates to “in days gone by” or “long, long ago” – a touching, contemplative sentiment for any new beginning.  Things must be inevitably be lost as time marches forward, but thanks to Burns and others Auld Lang Syne doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.

Burns’ original poem is below.  Granted – I must admit with some of those lyrics, especially as you approach the end, what can you do but murmur and mumble and hope for the best …

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,


And never brought to min’?


Should auld acquaintance be forgot,


And days o’lang syne?



We twa hae run about the braes,


And pu'd the gowans fine;


But we've wander’d monie a weary fit


Sin' auld lang syne.



We twa hae paidled i' the burn,


Frae mornin’ sun till dine;


But seas between us braid hae roar’d


Sin' auld lang syne.



And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,


And gie's a hand o' thine!


And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught



For auld lang syne.



And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,


And surely I'll be mine!


And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,


For auld lang syne.



For auld lang syne, my dear,


For auld lang syne,


We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,


For auld lang syne.



While the song has yet to be lost to posterity, I think the phrase “guid-willie waught” is definitely on its way out.  But who knows, maybe we can bring it back.  Next time you’re out with friends throw it out there “Hey bro, wanna grab a guid-willie waught.  My bar finder app says there’s a spot with $2 P.B.R.s and free WiFi next door”.  Oh yes, how it mellifluously rolls off the tongue, I can already feel it starting to regain its rightful place in the vernacular.

Happy 2011 everyone!