Underworld Slang: "Strictly Homelike"

On March 24, 1928, the New Yorker has begun publishing a series of articles written in "underworld slang," supposedly written by a convict named "J.P. Grover." To make things more entertaining, they publish the "slang" version alongside a straight-forward translation. Here's an excerpt:

I get a drive out of casing the mob posing around the lobby. There are a few marks and square-shooters there but not many. Most everyone is a hustler of some kind. On my left chalk are two twists cutting up their daddies. I tin-ear on them and get hip. They are boosters doing it solo. Their daddies are cannons and are working the shorts and this spot is the meet. They rap to a geezer and he flops near them. In his dukes he has some rats and mice and he is practicing a switch. He is a dice hustler waiting for a play. His fiddle and flute speaks for itself. It is that kind. His bottles of booze are keeno. The lean and fat is the real McCoy, and he has a Spanish guitar between the uppers and beneath. He looks Annie Oakley and soon cops a sneak out the grocery store.

Got that, Mr. Lem Kegg? Pop off about it over a little gay and frisky.

Clash of the Titans: Zsa Zsa vs. Penny

Zsa Zsa (my cat) is not a tough girl but she can certainly hold her own. This summer she's managed to scare away all of the fluffier felines in the neighbourhood, simply by groaning and standing very still.

But tonight, when we were sitting outside on the porch, she finally met Penny. The man who used to live in this apartment went out of his way to patronize Penny, a street-smart stray, to the point of actually knocking out his screens so she could have free reign. Penny isn't happy that I'm here but she's gradually accepted that I'll chase her away when she comes to peddle whatever she's peddling.

Tonight, Penny walked halfway to my door and just sat there, staring. Zsa Zsa -- clawless and on her leash -- went into lightning-rod cat-fighter mode, tail bushed up, moaning those low moans that mean "scram, tramp!" She went down the stairs so slowly that it looked like tai-chi, then sat at the bottom, moaning and staring.

Other cats flee when Zsa Zsa does this, but Penny just settled herself down on her side and watched. I couldn't believe her moxie. She was actually TAUNTING my cat, saying "I'm so fearless that I'm just going to chill out on your property, don't mind me." Zsa Zsa's moaning increased. Penny did nothing. It was a very tense moment for all of us.

Then, much to my embarassment, Zsa Zsa began to WAVER. She'd slowly look away, look back, and then finally looked completely away. I encouraged her -- "go get her, girl!" -- but it was obvious that my puss was losing before the fight even started.

This sort of thing can give a cat an inferiority complex.

So I got up and started walking -- slowly -- towards Penny. Zsa Zsa and I stood side-by-side. I hoped I was communicating that I was "in her corner," and perhaps making her feel the way *I* felt when my big sister stood up for me. The two of us walked towards Penny in the deepening twilight. Penny stood up, backed away, sat down again. We continued to walk. Penny began to moan, and the two of them sang a little song of hate.

At the border of Zsa Zsa's world -- where her leash traditionally runs out -- Penny drew the line: she lay down again and mockingly scratched her claws on the grass. She was saying "I have claws and you don't. I could rip you to shreds." Zsa Zsa would go no further.

So I yelled "yah!" and jumped, and Penny ran away. We won but I can't help thinking that we really lost. If Penny brings a thuggish human with her next time, I'm afraid that my cat and I might be reduced to standing at the door, staring, moaning.

"Hairspray" for a New Generation

I have small affection for the original "Hairspray." It took me a long time to see it as something other than a "kid's movie" or a "studio sell-out," and now I recognize it for what it really was: John Waters' affectionate homage to the teenage dance shows he used to love (and, as usual, a love-letter to Baltimore). Even though it had its twin weighty themes of size acceptance and segregation, it was never more than an exuberant cartoon. Those heavy themes were only there to string gags on...and thank goodness, because "Hairspray" -- like all of John Waters' films -- was never more than a cartoon.

I've just seen the new version of "Hairspray." It is most fun when it revels in what it really is: a MUSICAL cartoon. The songs are mostly good, and so is the acting. There is some wonderfully funny slapstick in it, and both Michelle Pfieffer and Amanda Bynes steal the show. They've gone astonishingly far to replicate the look of the original characters (L'il Inez is a REAL timewarp) and to maintain the cheerful exuberance that a musical (and a John Waters adaptation) requires.

It fails terribly, however, when it tries to tackle those two incidental themes of size acceptance and segregation, which come off as both shoe-horned and patronizing. In the original version, the "protest" was obviously out of a suburban teen's fantasy, and it never pretended to be anything more than that. Here, however, they try to actually address the serious issues (or at least make reference to them), which is a big mistake. This movie doesn't have the chops.

The other terrible failure is the notorious "John Travolta in a fat suit." Why? No really, people...WHY? He looks plastic and frightening (as opposed to Divine who was SWEATY and frightening), his accent is awful, and he talks like something crappy is stuck in his mouth.

My biggest fear was that they'd "kiddie" the movie up, removing its nasty edge, but no...instead they simultaneously made it MORE child-friendly AND nastier. One minute everything is sweetness-n-light, and the next minute Corny Collins is telling his teenage female fans that they look like they need a "stiff one." The scriptwriters also, surprisingly, upped the religious fundamentalism of Penny Pingleton's mom...this coupled with Amanda Byne's goofy persona makes for some of the funniest moments in the film.

So "Hairspray 2007" is lots of fun. Weird and disturbed and flippant and too serious and poorly-developed, yes, but fun. And as an added bonus you get John Waters as a flasher during the first musical number.

Happy Holiday!

I want to thank everybody for celebrating "Muffy's Surprise" day, when I traditionally go to work without realizing that I could actually be sleeping in. I hope that next year's celebration will make me feel even more exhausted.

The Ambitious Kitchener/Waterloo BusWalk Tour: Route Two

ROUTE #2 - Forest Hill



Click here to see all the pictures from the tour!

This tour will be different from the last. I'm being accompanied by Colin Hunter (a reporter from the Kitchener/Waterloo Record), and by a photographer who is wearing somewhat fragile footwear.

On the bus to Forest Hill we undertake the difficult task of simultaneously conducting an interview, feeling each other out, trying not to annoy the other people on the bus, and posing for mostly-authentic but still slightly artificial photographs. *I* am just writing a blog entry, so I can afford to take this tour without having anything interesting to report. But this is part of their job: "Look out the bus window, like you're looking at something," says the photographer, occasionally moving Colin's legs out of the shot.

I've done some "BusWalk Soul Searching," partly under the pressure of needing to EXPLAIN my goals, and deciding what exactly I hope to accomplish. I DO want to see different neighbourhoods and become better acquainted with Kitchener/Waterloo, with all its quirks and contrasting personalities (not to mention rich geography), but I recognize that endless rows of identical houses are not fun to walk through, landmarks are only interesting when they're unintentional, and I can only see small strips of each area I explore. I can't walk on every street and poke into every cranny, and I don't intend to visit the same area twice unless I see something REALLY different. That would, in some vague way, violate "the point."

And while the prospect of a dull walk through undistinguished suburbia doesn't daunt ME, I don't want to inflict such a thing on the photographer and the reporter, no matter how "game" they are. It's Friday evening, after all, when most people are gearing up for a good time. But we had to pick a weekday; it's not my fault this route doesn't have a Sunday schedule.

In any case, this time I've done some preparation. I've looked at a satellite map and tried to find areas that promise something unusual (huge parks riddled with trails in particular) and I've tried to chart a sensible route between those areas. I've decided, sort of arbitrarily, that I must see where Victoria Street ends. It's one of Kitchener's major roads and I can't imagine that it actually "ends" anywhere. Thanks, satellite map!

* * *

Maybe the Forest Hill Mall -- our drop-off point -- is unpopular, or maybe we scared everybody away. By the time we arrive the bus is otherwise empty. This mall was once a collection of huge stores but is now a single, mammoth store that appears to contain all the food in the world. We're only looking for water and camera batteries, however, before wandering behind the building to see what we're not supposed to see. We instantly strike it rich: a lush marsh full of dragonflies, bull-rushes, and crickets trying desperately to achieve orbit.

The reporter has insisted that they don't want me to tailor the experience for them, so with some encouragement -- and an offer to go first in case of swamp or quicksand -- I lead them through the marsh to a shy little bike path. Already we're in a curious place I've never seen before, this isolated gravel walkway between bright stream and hill that only locals probably bother with.

Soon we discover how "Forest Hill" probably got its name: a huge hill, right in the middle of the residential area, leads us up and up into forests and to a grand view of the city. The photographer declares that this is a money shot, and he promptly leaves and wishes us a happy journey. We've lost a fellow traveller. He has plans, or he thinks we're crazy.

* * *

If there is a hell for me, it's an endless walk through suburbia on a hot day. I know I want to go in a northwesterly direction, but whenever we find a street that goes that way it loops around and takes us back almost to where we started. We see lots of those portable basketball hoops that I started noticing about five years ago, which blossom in driveways and then quickly rust away where they stand. They seem even lonelier than the ubiquitous abandoned shopping carts. They're insufficient, they didn't deliver their promise of safe, eternal entertainment for the children, and children always grow up and get tired of driveway basketball anyway.

Just a few youngsters are wandering around, looking restless to get away. "Claire, move your f*cking car!" yells one. A hunched-up lady in an orange top pushes a shopping cart downhill. Several of the houses in this area are of a strange "sperm whale" design, with windowless, wood-shingled second storeys jutting forward in a blind, sinister, and frankly ugly way. They're probably cool to live in, and very dark. Neither of us have seen such houses before.

* * *

We cross Highland Road and start the second part of our journey. The "Stop the City" barn used to be out here, a landmark for dismayed anti-expansionists. Now the barn is gone and the city -- of course -- is here. If I needed a lesson about the speed of population growth, I receive it: the satellite photo I studied showed fields and construction sites in this area; now we see houses in every direction. I must learn more about architecture so I can use some distinguishing words instead of just saying "houses" all the time.

But not all residential areas are impersonal and sad; this is a beautiful place, really, built on the rolling hills that I consider distinct to "Southern Ontario." We live in these hills and valleys all the time, but we stop noticing them until we leave home and then come back, or until we need to drive up one of them when it's covered with ice. From the top of the one hill we watch the new roads and houses descend into a valley, then rise up again to our level on the other side.

They haven't killed the forest yet so we decide to enjoy it. We turn left and find ourselves deep inside a woodsy dog-walker's dream. Makeshift trails join and spread out as far as we can see, which isn't very far even though the trees are short on branches and are losing their leaves. The land rises and falls so constantly.

Then, on a random path, we find the hidden gem, the truly magical place that makes every kilometer worthwhile. Between the forest and a row of backyards is an unnatural, stagnant pond, long and narrow, asserting itself against much the stronger forces of construction and earth removal. A frog seeks out dragonflies and other tasty insects. There is an ecosystem here and it appears to be thriving instead of fading away; there's even a miniature wooden pallet here, should you want to sail the small but complex perimeter and have a "Huckleberry Finn adventure," like we are.

This place is touching. It is not for tourists. It is for kids who read Harry Potter and for reluctant cynics who go on BusWalk tours.

We find "the end of Victoria Street." My heart sinks a bit when I see that the street hasn't ended after all; it stretches off to the horizon, newly paved, carving a straight line into the largely unclaimed and unspoiled wedge of farmland that used to be out here. Soon there will be houses, sidewalks, more houses, and power lines here. We'll need to invent more distinguishing, hair-splitting adjectives just to tell them apart.

A row of orange pylons tells us that it's time to go home.

* * *

"Go home" is easier said than done. We are a shockingly long way from the city center, though up here -- in the heights of "Forest Hill" -- you can barely see the taller downtown landmarks.

So we start back. We happen upon a community trail that the reporter vaguely remembers, and we assume that it will eventually join the well-travelled "Iron Horse Trail," which will represent the end of our evening trailblazing.

But there is still a long way to go. Here is one of those streams that has been penned in with concrete; we leave the path and climb down into the channel, where generations of kids practiced bike tricks and sprayed graffiti on the walls. Some of it is surprisingly good. I have an okay appreciation for non-anatomical street art.

I begin to wonder about the health of the water, as my left eye -- closest to the stream -- starts to run uncontrollably. Maybe I touched a pollinating plant and unconsciously rubbed my face. Half blind we pass under roads, through tunnels, on our way home. We keep thinking that the next overpass is the one we'll recognize, the one with the oriental restaurant on it. It never seems to be.

We debate which side of the stream the path will be on when it joins the Iron Horse Trail; the reporter and I have different recollections. I bet my honour that it is on the right-hand side. The path teases us at each overpass, crossing to one side then the other, while we take the straightest route down the concrete channel, descending from far-off Forest Hill.

Eventually, the reporter wins my honour. Three hours after setting out, and now in twilight, we return to familiarity.

Because It's Friday: Mother Mother

Oh, I'm very sorry for not writing lately. Life has been incredibly busy. I am constantly on my toes. I can barely remember to clean the cat litter, but that's because I choose to forget.

Instead of writing something meaningful and beautiful, I leave that up to "Mother Mother," the most stunningly incredible band that I've heard in an awful long time. Clever songs, creative arrangements, and vocal harmonies quite unlike anything you've heard of before...Vancouver is a real hotbed of great Canadian music right now.

And hey, don't crowd me on October 27th...they're playing here in Kitchener AND it's right after my birthday. I'm THERE.

What's all the fuss about? Just watch them perform my personal favourite off their debut: "Love and Truth" (pretend that the first few lines aren't cut off).



Be there!

NEVER "Bid Two Spades!"

From the March 10, 1928 issue of "The New Yorker," we learn a new piece of slang-that-never-was:

Despite her beauty and her youth she "BID 2 SPADES" (The synonym for gaseous indigestion) -- far from a bridge game, there in the tea-room--and how uncomfortable she was!

Concerning a damsel in distress, it is difficult to write. She was young, she was witty, she was impeccably gowned, but in spite of her youth, in spite of her grace, in spite of her wit, she was very much embarrassed.

So mundane a thing as her food was causing her discomfort. The nut sundae at the tearoom had been a little bit too much--and her luncheon was heavy on her heart.

The ordinary measure of relief--some soda and some water, helped her discomfort for the moment, but increased her embarrassment. For hiccups and murmurs escaped her swanlike throat. She was, as the saying goes, "bidding two spades."

Like myself you may be wondering what exactly this poor woman was DOING. What were the "murmurs" that escaped her "swanlike throat" due to that accursed "nut sundae?" Was she just belching, or does "bidding two spades" actually mean letting rip a swanlike fart?

We can't look it up online because it appears that Bristol-Meyers Co. (makers of "Gastrogen tablets") simply made the phrase up. This had some precedent, as another company (whose name I forget) had been warning people against "The Ha-Ha's" -- AKA "dry skin" -- for most of 1927.

Why would this sort of "made up phrase" advert have appealed to the people of the 1920s? Well, it certainly was a time of bizarre "fad" phrases to begin with ("The bee's knees," "23-skidoo," "hotcha!") so I guess the advertisers decided to get in on the action. I'm not surprised that "bidding two spades" didn't make it into the dictionary. It's too refined and weird.

Book Meme Squared

"Meme Queen Hilda" (over at The Mind Wobbles) put this one up and I couldn't help responding.

What are you reading right now?
"Giles Goat Boy" by John Barth.

Do you have any idea what you'll read when you're done with that?
Definitely "Letters" by John Barth...I've decided to read (and re-read) all of his books in chronological order, partly because "Letters" (which I've never read) deals with characters from all his previous novels. I couldn't read it without going back for a refresher.

What's the worst thing you were ever forced to read?
"Nights in the Underground" by Marie-Claire Blais. I was stuck in a hotel room with this book and it was the most whiny, choppy, self-indulgent piece of crap I've ever laid eyes on. I couldn't finish it. I was feeling whiny and self-indulgent enough as it was.

What's the one book you always recommend to just about anyone?
I've stopped recommending books to people, but "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez would probably be the one if I started again.

Admit it, the librarians at your library know you on a first name basis, don't they?
No. I like to own books, not rent them. Libraries never have books by the authors I like, and I've never found libraries to be very comfortable places to read.

Is there a book you absolutely love, but for some reason, people never think it sounds interesting, or maybe they read it and don't like it at all?
"Gravity's Rainbow" by Thomas Pynchon, but I'm not surprised when people don't enjoy it.

Do you read books while you eat?
Yes, especially during breakfast. Certain books can be tucked under the plate and read "no-handed," as long as you move the toast around.

While you bathe?
Yes, but never anything very meaningful.

While you watch movies or TV?
No, too distracting, and that would take away from my "nail-filing and sandwich-making time."

While you listen to music?
No, though I can play Solitaire to music.

While you're on the computer?
No, I like to touch pages.

When you were little, did other children tease you about your reading habits?
A bit, but it was always playful teasing, especially because I read books that their parents wouldn't have approved of, so I was kind of cool. And all of my friends were avid readers too.

What's the last thing you stayed up half the night reading because it was so good you couldn't put it down?
Any book that I was very close to finishing. I get so excited at the end of a book -- either because I love the book, or because I hate it and can't wait to read a different one -- that I don't begrudge a few hours of lost sleep. But sometimes I misjudge how long it will take me to finish a book...

I'd Buy Anything By...The Beloved

Ahhh, Jon and Helena Marsh. Such smooth loveliness. Such a perfect pair. His voice will always make me feel calm and warm, and her lyrics are beauty incarnate. Next time you're feeling foolish or lost or just a little bit achy, have a listen to The Beloved and realize that there is honest goodness in the world around you. For at least five minutes.

It isn't hard to "buy everything" by The Beloved because they've released so little and it ain't easy to get here. The first song I heard is still my favourite: "Time After Time." It doesn't get much more sublime than this, to my eyes and ears, and never have bedbugs been so freakin' sexy. They used to cut the end of the video off, surprise.

Still living down (or living up) the "bunch of nude models" furor over their "Sweet Harmony" video, they went back to ultra-artsy in the mid-90s. A bit more formulaic, but it's still a nice song (and a killer vide0)..."Deliver Me."

Albums to buy? There aren't enough of them for subdivision. Just pick up whatever you find.

Get Yer 1928 Male Archetype Here!

Trying to get a feel for the "guy types" you'd meet in New York during the late '20s?

Look no further than this handy chart, which I just found accompanying an advertisement for Brunswick Records (March 3, 1928). This company had been running ads in The New Yorker since its first year, all with the same schtick: they give a cartoonist the name of the new record they're promoting, and the guy -- who probably has never HEARD the record -- draws a cartoon to go with it. This cartoon is for "The Man I Love" (Ben Bernie and His Hotel Roosevelt Orchestra), no doubt because "Show Boat" had just appeared on stage.

So click on the picture for a full-size image of all the "types." The only one missing is a collegiate guy in a raccoon coat. Here are some quick explanations and observations, in case you get lost.

A "Butter and Egg Man" was a rich patron at a bar. This phrase was famously coined by Texas Guinan, who -- legend has it -- asked a high-tipping customer what he did for a living. He said "butter and eggs." So it stuck.

A "Bootlegger" was the guy who sold you illegal booze during prohibition. A "Pugilist" was a boxer...he's no doubt on the list because Jack Dempsey and Gene Tunney were so often in the news (and the society papers) at the time. Likewise "Aviator"...after Charles Lindbergh's famous solo flight, you couldn't swing a pug without hitting an aviator looking for some publicity.

And yes, you COULD buy an electric icebox in 1928...but most people couldn't afford one. So the "Iceman" still brought you your ice, and I think he continued to do so for a long time after, at least into the 1940s.