Life In the Big City ...

Caption, from Getty Images: “Lobster being walked on a leash. “

The other day I was at the smoked-fish counter at Balducci’s, a ridiculously high-end grocery store in Bethesda, Md., which I patronize only infrequently because they have sable fish, which I cannot resist due to my Bronx Jewish heritage, but which costs $50 a pound, so I try never to go to Balducci’s unless it is unavoidable.

On this day I was buying sable, and there was a woman there, ahead of me, taking a great deal of time on her purchase. She was buying an oyster. Not oysters, just a single oyster, but she was very picky about its freshness. Eventually she determined one of them was sufficiently tightly sealed and very alive, and declared herself satisfied. I believe it cost $1.75.

When she was done, I was next up, but lost my place in line because I was immobilized, staring at her, and, as they say about establishments of retail commerce, “If you snooze, you lose.” (A related expression, which I heard in the Bronx growing up, “If you move your meat, you lose your seat,” which didn’t quite apply because I wasn’t moving, I was studying the lady who had bought only one oyster.)  If she resented my impertinence, she didn’t show it, and, addressing my unasked question matter-of-factly informing me that “It is to feed my pet lobster.” She said it like this was a completely normal thing to say, and did I not have a pet lobster as well? And then she flounced away.

The whole incident had unsettled me a little — bedeviled me, actually, and on the. following Sunday I phoned Balducci’s, and spoke to the smoked-fish proprietor, and he confirmed the truth of her story. Oh, yes, he said, the lady with the pet lobster comes in on Tuesdays. He declined to offer any identifying information, like a lawyer exercising attorney-client privilege, or a doctor protecting his patient’s personal information. I subsequently determined, via research from the works of lobster nutritionists, that lobsters can subsist on lobster kibble alone, but that an occasional live oyster treat — say, once a week, on Tuesdays — delights them; they explode it with their claws and then devour it and have a lobster orgasm.

It would be very difficult for me to have a pet lobster, because, frankly, I would be tempted to euthanize it every evening. I never feel that way about Lexi, my three-year-old hound dog, who might indeed be tasty when roasted and dipped in drawn butter, but I simply never go there.

Many years ago, I had actually heard the story of a pet lobster, allegedly belonging to a weirdo 19th-century French playwright named Alfred Jarry, who was most famous for having written a play titled Ubu Roi, which began — it was the opening line — with a big fat slob African monarch sitting on a divan, screaming the word “Shit!” This vulgarity so scandalized polite French society that the audience nearly burned down the theater.

But it turns out this lobster thing was wrong, and a terrible calumny to Jarry, who did not have a pet lobster but was still weird, and whose last words on his deathbed was in response to a friend who had asked him if there was anything he could do for Alfred at this terrible moment, and Alfred responded, “Can you get me a toothpick?” and the guy rushed out and bought a box of toothpicks, and Jarry smiled hugely, removed a bothersome wad of meat from between two molars, rolled over contentedly, and expired.

However, it turns out there was a pet lobster. It belonged to another 19th-century French writer, the poet and critic Gerard de Nerval, who was also a man of some eccentricity. Monsieur de Nerval did own a pet lobster, a rather huge arthropod named Thibault, whom he walked in Parisian parks at the end of a blue silk ribbon leash.

That was not his most famous eccentricity. For one thing, he tended to sleep in the nude outdoors. But the biggest thing was that Gerard committed suicide in 1855 by hanging himself in a squalid cellar in Paris, which was not that unusual, for those were emotionally fraught times. What was unusual, as the gendarmes  made clear, was that they had never before encountered a suicide by hanging in which the corpse, “inappropriately,” they emphasized, was still wearing his homburg hat.

Why am I telling you all this? Because you need to understand the incredible information routinely imparted by The Gene Pool, free of charge, unless you decide, out of the goodness of your heart, to pay for it. It is available at surprisingly affordable prices.

Now we go to the Gene Pool Gene poll.

Imagine that two months before the 2024 election, you become convinced — from what you hear, read, intuit, and research, that whatever you think of the candidates, there is one crystal clear fact: Whatever else happens in government, in four years a Trump presidency will triple your stock market portfolio by 300 percent, and that, conversely, a presidency by any Democrat will reduce it to one-third of its current value. You are virtually certain of this; for the hypothetical purposes of this question, but must accept this as an understood truth. Might you alter your election strategy, either by not voting at all or by voting for Trump?

Second Gene Pool Gene Poll: Are you aware that using the expression “kitty-cornered” is a sign of your ignorance and stupidity and that the real term is “cater-cornered,” from the French, which is how most intelligent, well-informed people use it, since it has nothing to do with immature cats or poker hands?

And finally, here is the latest episode of Journocop, where I relentlessly hold the media to account for being jackasses. But first, the thing you have all been waiting for, the boring two paragraphs of stupid italicized boilerplate.

After the intro (which you are reading now), there will be some early questions and answers  added on –  and then I'll keep adding them as the hour progresses and your fever for my opinions grows and multiplies and metastasizes.  To see those later Q&As,  just refresh your screen every once in a while. 

As always, you can also leave comments. They’ll congregate at the bottom of the post, and allow you to annoy and hector each other and talk mostly amongst yourselves. Though we will stop in from time to time.

Here is JournoCop!

JournoCop asked his good friend Pat Myers, the greatest copy editor in the world, in fact the greatest and most obnoxious policer of language the world has ever known, if she could think of examples of how journalists use words or expressions that no normal person would ever say or write.  She reacted as if I had asked if she could think of examples of people who use the bathroom.  There are many, many, many of them, she said.

The one she came up with immediately, because she finds it so annoying, is the deliberate, stilted syntax inversion to give a sentence phony urgency.   As in "President Biden today issued a proclamation that declared March 7 'awareness' awareness day ...."    

No one speaks like that in real life.  You'd say "issued a proclamation today..."

True, true.  There is a natural difference between written English and spoken English, of course, but some things transcend that, burst through so it is the provenance only in the media; sometimes it's as conspicuous as a black widow spider on a white linen tablecloth. 

Consider "blaze," as in a "four-alarm blaze."  The word technically can mean a fire, but no actual person uses it that way, except journalists.  In the last year alone, they have done it 125,000 times.  Why?  JournoCop has spent hours contemplating this with friends and colleagues in tax-deductible dinners in fashionable restaurants, and still has no idea.  

Corollary to that: "Probe."  Only in news reports does it mean "an investigation." Elsewhere, it has mostly unnerving medical implications. 

Then there is “breathed a sigh of relief,” and its more vomitaceous first cousin, “heaved a sigh of relief.”  This technically belongs to a column about cliches, but cliches are phrases that arise from the public through overuse, over time. Not here.  This one is purely a journalism convention, and the only time you will hear a normal citizen say it is if he or she is reading aloud from a newspaper. 

Also, “quipped” and “mused” – two verbs that exist only in publications starving for synonyms for “said,” which is a perfectly good word.  Also, “wag” as in office “wag.” Office wags often quip or muse.  

Also, “residence,” instead of house. 

Also, “altercation” -- again, only journalists employ this word … and police, though not publicly.  Other, normal people say “fight,” “argument,” “disagreement,” etc.   JournoCop traces this to police reporters, who got it from police reports.  (Same with “vehicle.”  Cop-to-hack special.  One more observation:  To Jewish people of a certain age, "altercation" sounds like “alte kaker,” a Yiddish term meaning “old defecator,” used to describe a grumpy, intemperate old man.  

Speaking of which, I’m tired of all you people, and I need a nap, and I’m outta here. Also, as I have established, I am Jewish.

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Before we get to your questions and my answers, it is time for my weekly “Fud” column, specifically, Fud #2, a new feature where I confront and destroy the modern convention of recipe-related online bloviation. “Fuds” deliver entire recipes in four sentences or fewer, including parentheticals and semicolons. This one is for corned beef and cabbage, presented just a few days after St. Patrick’s Day, when there are still leftover corned beefs to be purchased cheaply. Ready? Bam. Recipe:

Take a corned beef, chosen because it seems to have a lot of fat (“triangular” cuts are better than “flat”). Bring it to a boil, adding the contents of the corned beef seasoning, always sold with the corned beef the way ribs always come with “moist towelettes,” then simmer on low for two hours. Add big cubes of carrots and potatoes, and cook for a half hour more. Then add wedges of cabbage for 17 minutes — it must be cooked with the meat, even if you remove the carrots and spuds to make room — and then you are done, once you serve it with high-quality mustard, or “moutard” for the hoity-toity. Then make frantic love with your sweetie — (I take the liberty of adding a fifth line when romantically appropriate).

Questions and answers:

Q: I was wondering what you thought of this profile of Brandon Sanderson from Wired magazine. I know nothing of Mr. Sanderson or his works, but I can't help but feel bad for him and the way he's treated here.

A: I always wonder whether anonymous questions like this are written by the writers themselves, to get some sort of cheesy publicity.  If so, this guy made a big mistake. 

This is a good, fascinating subject — a potentially brilliant psychological study — horribly blown by a writer who is frantically blowing himself. He cannot get past the fact that he is a WWWWriter, with four capital W’s.  The story is about the writer, not his subject. He is preening.  He doesn’t bother talking to anyone else. He is so pleased with his Authoritatingly authoritative authordom!  He declares that this guy is boring without showing how he is boring, so pleased is HHHHimself with his Literary ANALysis. (Four capital H’s and a sphincter. Yes, this is cheap but he deserves it.)  This is a Perfect example of a writer destroying himself by self-love, and not being helped by an editor, which is the greater sin.  By the way, once he grows up, this WWWWriter will be good.  He has talent but no maturity or judgment.  And for all I know he is 65 years old.  But we all can learn. I teach him, here.

TIMELY TIP: If you're reading this right now on an email:   Click here to get to my webpage, then click on the top headline (In this case, “Life in the Big City” for my full column, and comments, and real-time questions and answers, and be able to refresh and see new questions and answers that appear as I regularly update the post.

Good. Let’s go.

Oh, wait. Give us money, first.

Q: I've been saying "catty corner" for many decades now. Since i cannot acknowledge my sin via the poll, I do so here.

A: You are a horrble, ignorant person, but also probably a devout Roman Catholic who enjoys confession, so I absolve you. Why can’t you vote in the poll?

Q: During your time in France, did you get to know any French humor columnists? Also, are there any French humorists whose work you recommend reading?

A: No, but in preparation for it I did read an essay, from the early twentieth century, by French philosopher Henri Bergson, expostulating on why humor is funny.   It was the least funny thing I have ever read.  Here it is.  You won’t get past paragraph two.   

In Paris, however, I met many funny people.  Their wit is dry.  A beautiful young lady whom I interviewed on the banks of the Seine was trying to be diplomatic and generous until I asked her about why the Eiffel Tower was so small, compared to American monuments. 

"Actually, in the States, we have office buildings bigger than that," I say. She blinks.

"Also, why is it just brown? Don't you think you guys should paint it?"

"Yes, it is true, everything is bigger in the United States," Martins says.  "When you go to the supermarket, all the food is sold in very large quantities." American women, she says, are always buying large volumes of food.

French women do not?

"French women,” she said, pleasantly, “like to be slim."

Also when I talked to a great French chef, he was very, very polite until I asked him why his portions were so small.  American chefs, I said, gave bigger portions. 

I was working with a translator, so I had to wait for the translation to get to him, and for his answer to be translated.  Here is how I wrote it: 

Jerome and I are at Le Bec Rouge, an excellent Alsatian restaurant in south-central Paris. It is still morning, and the place is not yet open for business. The dapper owner and head chef, Jean-Luc Maurice, graciously comes out from the kitchen to meet us. Maurice is dressed in crisp chef's whites, and carries himself with an air of self-confidence authorized by years of training under the tutelage of the great chef Paul Bocuse.

Yes, yes, Maurice likes Americans. They are like all people, he says -- there are good, there are bad . . .

Right, right, right.

"I was just wondering," I ask slowly, "why portions in French restaurants are so small."

Maurice gives a wary answer, something about quality being paramount.

"Well, we like big portions back in the States," I say, patting my tummy. "I was wondering if you agree that American chefs are better than French chefs because they give you more food."

Maurice listens to the translation. There is a moment of silence. And then he begins to speak very rapidly.

"He says French chefs make love to their food . . ." Jerome translates.

And American chefs? I ask.

Now Maurice is really elocutionizing. His hands are flying. He appears to be pointing to . . . his derriere. I don't really have to wait for the translation, but when it arrives, it does not disappoint.

American chefs, he says, make love to the food, too. But in a most unnatural and deviant way.

Voila.

Q: How was that slimy disgusting okra you roasted?

A: IT WAS EXCELLENT.  Not slimy.  You have to cut it in half and roast it kinda dry, with a dash of olive oil.  Okra is unjustly maligned, as is Indian food.  

Q: 

I had waited on my waiter

To come and wait on me

Is the waited-on the waiter

Or the waited-on waitee?

A: This is rather lovely.   Is it yours? 

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Q: I was going to let my subscription to the Post lapse after almost forty years. I do subscribe to the NYT, so it’s not like I was abandoning paid journalism. But, on Saturday I remembered the Free For All. Is there a better repository of what has people’s knickers in a bunch from week to week?

A: The genius editor behind Free For All is Jamie Riley.  She has been doing this for many years and is, I suspect, horribly underpaid.  She should get whatever George Will gets.   

Q: "I am here to make some money, which I need." Can you give some context? I am partially being nosy about your financial situation and partially fearing for my own future if there's no security for Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalists of retirement age.

A: Okay, for what it is worth: Journos don’t make a lot of money, judging from their talents vis a vis what similar abilities would command at places like Google or Microsoft.  I am not starving.  I am also not currently “employed,” as the term is generally employed.  (See, I am a writer!  We can do shit like that!)   There is a general presumption that people whose names are well known are rich.  It is a bad presumption. Fame is transitory.  Remember Alan Sherman?  My son, the folksinger?  Hello Muddah, Hello Falla?  Okay, you don’t because you are not a wizened ancient, like I am.  But he died in poverty.  As it turns out, I am living off the charity of my girl, Pat Myers. 

Q: Dogs are dirty.

A: Dogs are clean.  Imagine yourself in lip-lock with a loved one.  The person you are most in love with, spiritually and physically and even metaphysically.  The person you will spend eternity with in an afterlife of bliss. .   He or she is currently jeopardizing your life.  Human mouths are disgusting, septic sewers of potential death.  Dog mouths are almost antiseptic.  Clean as a hound’s tooth.  So be happy in your illusion. I will pray for you. You will die of sepsis. And discover this is no Heaven. 

Q: Why the heck was Bloom County (which includes Outland and Opus) not in the list of all-time great comic strips?

A: It should have been.  Berkeley Breathed is a friend.  I still remember the first Bloom County I ever read.  Milo was on a park bench with a pregnant woman.   He asks her if she loves the baby in her belly.  She says, “Yes, of course I do!”  Milo says, “Why then why did you eat it?”   She reacts in horror, and says, “Where did you get a horrible idea like that?” and the camera pans out and you see Grandpa sitting next to Milo, tipping his hat. 

Q: Rupert Murdoch (age 92, net worth $17 billion) is marrying Ann Lesley Smith (age 66, net worth less than $17 billion). In a NY Times thinkpiece (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/24/style/rupert-murdoch-engaged-ann-lesley-smith.html), Rhonda Garelick (who happens to be aged 61), observes accurately that a man of Mr. Murdoch's age would be unlikely to attract Ms. Smith if his net worth were equal to, say, mine. I also agree with her observation that women of Ms. Smith's age are expected to work to appear younger, especially if they want to land a billionaire. However, she goes so far as to say that "Physical signs of aging, even of extreme age, do not carry much stigma for men." Certainly the social expectations are more punishing for women, but I think they exist for men as well. Or maybe I'm just projecting my insecurities as a man in the midst of middle age.

A: Yes, but you are also hideously ugly. I mean, get a grip. You are appalling to prospective lovers. 

Q: I don’t know why I am asking you of all people, but if they arrest Trump, could a condition of his bail be that he does nothing to incite protest or violence about his arrest, and if he does, back to the hoosegow?

A: I don’t know.  Is there anyone more knowledgeable than this idiot who can respond intelligently?  (I don’t mean to be uncharitable, but I happen to know who sent this in, and he is an idiot.) 

Q: Hi, Gene, when is it ok to judge a recent or long dead public figure by later or even modern standards, and when should we merely say, “They were products of their time?” I’m thinking of folks like Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Woodrow Wilson, and even Bill Clinton. (I’ve got my own ideas but I’m curious about yours).

A: It is not always okay, it is always necessary.  I mean, gimme a break.  Lincoln once joked about how ridiculous it would be for a White man to marry a Black woman.  

Q: If your brother Don thought you were the Unabomber, would he have ratted you out to the FBI?

A: Absolutely not!  We love each other.  But I would have ratted HIM out in an instant, if he was the Unabomber.   I mean, look at him.  Consider his talents and proclivities.  He would be a threat to the continued existence of the human race. 

Q: Would shocking you even make a difference. I feel bad for you; man. No point in living with someone else’s pain. Only a dog.. 

A: I am not sure what this is in reference to, but I agree with you totally. 

Q: Hey Gene, here's a question. See this recent story in the WaPo: https://www.washingtonpost.com/dc-md-va/2023/03/24/stolen-dog-reunion-district-heights/. The article says that the dog was "let out in the gated backyard to use the bathroom." Now clearly there is no doggie bathroom in the backyard. Do we really need this euphemism when we all know what the dog was doing?

A: This is a subject for future JournoCop columns.  It is a terrible thing, and I will, in the near future, destroy the Post over it.  

Q: see that your brother is participating in these chats a lot. Is that a new feature, or did he participate anonymously in the old one as well?

A: I believe he is new to this, and is taking grotesque joy in FINALLY establishing that he is smarter and more charming than I am.

Q: Where did you learn to cook? No one boils corned beef. One simmers corned beef. I will reveal that I have found a foolproof slow cooker method for corned beef that beats my older simmer pot method.

A: You boil it for only seconds! What the hell is wrong with you? Where did you grow up? Was it in a barn in Latvia?

Q: If they arrest Trump, could a condition of his bail be that he does nothing to incite protest or violence about his arrest, and if he does, back to the hoosegow? Better than that. I was reading this morning that a judge could impose a gag order on him, so that he would be enjoined against, in effect, rabble-rousing, on the grounds that he could not discuss his case or anything related to it.

Q: Why does the hypothetical situation ignore third party candidates? Would we have been worse off if the Gary Johnson/William Weld ticket had won in 2016?

A: Anything would have been worse than 2016.

Q: Well now. This is Don. Gene, you are correct that I would not have ratted you out if you were the Unabomber. I never ratted you out all those other times, did I?

A: No, and i do remember one incident involving Horse Tranquilizers and a woman.

Q: Why did your poll omit the obvious answer: I say “catty-corner” but I know the truth? Kathleen Delano, Arlington

A: Well, i know you and like you, Kath, but I think you know this ends our relationship.

Okay, I am declaring us down, question-wise, and will be still lurking in the comments, and will still be urging you to send in questions, particularly over the Invitational Dall-E contest, which might or might not include a penis or two.

Send in questions here.