Languages in LA

I notice that people here in L.A. say “nice” when they mean… well… I’m not exactly sure what they mean. It’s a stand-alone response. I say something that is perhaps not quite what was expected, and the reaction is a blink, a pause, and “Nice.” I can’t tell yet if it means “I don’t believe you just said that,” or “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” or what.

For example: I am buying a red velvet footstool from a fine (sounding) young man who advertised it on craigslist for a very reasonable price. It’s beautiful, a glowing ruby red, not worn at all, just perfect for my cats.

Try to understand: everything I do, I do for them. I’m a cat lady. When I look at apartments to rent, I’m looking for wide windowsills for my cats to lie on, a backyard for my cats to sun in, closets for my cats to hide in, long wooden-floored hallways for my cats to run and slide on.

And when I hunt for furniture, I’m looking for something cheap enough that, when my cats shred it with their little ivory claws (and they will) I won’t have a coronary. I also look for little beds for them to rest on, baskets for them to curl up in, end tables for them to sit and squint upon.

So when I saw this footstool, I was enthusiastic. I called the young man and we set up a meeting. He assured me that this was a fine footstool, bought at a fashionable boutique, barely used. I said, “Wonderful! I’m buying it for my cats to lie on.”

Pause. “Nice,” he said dryly.

Now I’m paranoid. I think that “nice,” a perfectly good word that fell into disfavor back in the 1980s, has now fallen even further. Now it’s what you say when you find out that your taste in designer footstools is cat fodder.

I notice that Arnold Schwarzenegger’s nickname has changed. When he first was elected, he was The Governator, a cute little nickname meant to reference his Terminator role in the movies. It was usually said with an accent, something to pick a little at his Austrian heritage. “Oh, ya, da Gahvahnatah!”

Sometime in the last two years, however, that faded off, and now he’s “Arnie.” And I’m not hearing as many jokes about the accent now. Now it’s more biting, sneering remarks about his supposed links with Nazis. I am not deeply invested in his career, so I don’t lead or steer such conversations. I merely note that the joking has faded and people are taking him more seriously, for better or for worse.

It makes me wonder what sort of nickname our next president will have. Bush has been called Dubya for so long I’ve almost forgotten what his name really is. I remember Clinton being referred to (not with affection) as Billory, a reference to his “two for the price of one” wife, and spelled, not by accident, to resemble pillory.

If Hillary is elected, whatever nicknames she has now will change. I’m sure of that. She has a few already, Shrillery, Hitlery, that sort of thing. But as her persona comes into focus as president, new nicknames will arise. And they can’t be prescribed. Molly Ivins tried dubbing Bush “Shrub” in her ill-predicted book about his “short political life.” He outlived her, as it turned out, and is Dubya. So if Hillary wins, her nickname will have to be organic, as such things are.

If Rudy Guliani is elected, that’ll be interesting, because Rudy already sounds like a nickname. No one will be content to let that stand, however. Some of the other contenders have much more promise as far as naming goes. I mean, come on… Mitt? Barack? Huckabee? This should be interesting.

I both love and hate the latest stylistic developments for conveying tone. Let me explain. On the political website I haunt, it was common years ago to interpret all caps as screaming. If someone wrote, “THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT!” people would actually say, “Stop screaming, you sound hysterical.”

But we’ve come a long way, baby. Posters have now developed conventions for sotto voice, Captain Kirk imitations, and measured tones. For example, recently we were musing on the worst popular songs of all time, and of course, the song Sometimes When We Touch came up.

Sometimes when we touch

The honesty’s too much

And I have to close my eyes and hide.

Yes, the Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Theme Song. Anyway, one wag wickedly confessed that he whenever he hears that song, he mentally substitutes a certain vulgar term for the word “touch.”

I said, “But then it won’t rhyme, and the honesty’s too muck doesn’t make sense.”

He said, “It does to me. And that’s what matters.” Instant sotto voice. Cute, eh?

Captain Kirk imitations abound, meant to suggest someone struggling against a superior (though invisible) force.

“Must… not… make… joke…. must… resist…”

Then of course, there is the measured tone, reeking of deliberation.

“Do. Not. Put. Words. In. My. Mouth. I said nothing of the sort…”

But while I appreciate these developments, I regret the loss of elegance that used to attend writing. Behold, an excerpt from the diary-turned-travel guide, With Malice Toward Some by Margaret Halsey (1938). She describes a group of fellow-Americans on her cruise ship as:

A large group of beautiful, shiny-looking young people who generally travel in a flying wedge and whose voices are distressingly reminiscent of seagulls discovering a floating orange peel. We have not talked very much with these citizens, as most of the secular ones seem to be in the midst of an impromptu mating season.

Man, that’s good. That’s. So. Good.

I notice there’s a specific language for referring to the California wildfires that ignite and spread every year, regularly, like a late-blooming, fast-growing, flowering ivy. People have a tendency to speak of fires the same way they speak of cancer, unconsciously ascribing a certain agency.

Fires don’t just burn, in the news. They rage. They jump highways and encircle private properties. They race up hills and devour acres of dried forest, and celebrity homes in Malibu. They are aggressive, they are uncontrollable, they are spontaneous… they sound almost playful, although it’s a kind of big-mean-cat playfulness, and we are the mouse being tortured to death for its amusement.

And every year, the story is reported in the same breathless manner. Regardez!! The plumes of smoke fill the sky! Just like last year! And the year before! I suppose this is simply the manner of journalists, although there’s an excitement in their tone that you don’t get with space shuttles launching, or the body count in Iraq, or the 30^th abandoned baby found in a dumpster this year.

There’s something about fire. The images fill the news with a September 11^th like urgency. The devastation, even in the areas where humans are likely to be little affected, fills people with the sort of awe I imagine accompanied the sinking of the Titanic. It’s just so … BIG. And fast! And hypnotic.

I just got a new apartment, and it has a fireplace. I know I’ll spend my winter evenings curled on the couch, staring into it. I’ll ascribe it agency, too, in my head. It’s cheerful. It’s dancing. It’s the sweet little niece of the monstrous dragon consuming Malibu. I’ll feed it like a pet… like my cat, which is one thing to a person, and another to a mouse. Fire’s great when you’re not the mouse.

While cruising the L.A. Craigslist hunting for this week’s four writing gigs that will be fought over by 20,000 frustrated screenwriters, I encountered a highlife-observing newsletter/website called Pocket Change. This glittering piece of frivolity is spreading, herpes-like, into Los Angeles via New York (oh, where else??) and features the biting commentary of a smirking fop known as Richard Nouveau.

Richard isn’t a real person, he’s a caricature who comments on “the finer things” in L.A., such as where to get good chutney, or a facial, or a spa where they put the chutney right on your face.

I should like this character, this Richard. Whoever is doing the writing manages to make every sentence count. Commenting on L.A.’s most expensive personal trainer, he writes:

You know, it’s a terrible shame that high-end breeding and bear-like musculature and athleticism seldom go hand-in-hand. Those of us born with a fashion acumen draped over a consumptive frame are fortunate enough, however, to be able to hire someone to do the pushups for you.

Clearly, this is Saki’s Reginald reincarnated. In an earlier paragraph he even simperingly mentions haemophilia and asthma… what clearer references to English noble blood can there be?

Yes, I should like him. But I already don’t, and I know why.

I can be a wee bit snippy but this fellow fairly oozes snark. I imagine him gliding along Melrose Avenue, perilously close to the Pacific Design Center, smirking at Urth Café and the incense-wafting bookstore nearby. He seems downright cruel, and I don’t like the current notion that wit equals sadism. There’s a difference. Witty people have cats. Sadistic people do too, but they refuse to have them spayed because distressed cats in heat amuse them. That’s how this Pocket Change Richard comes across to me. Oh, he’s funny. But I don’t like him.

There are many guns in Hollywood, and I’ve stared down the barrel of about 20 of them since I moved here. Fortunately, they’re all two-dimensional. I’m talking about billboards. Hollywood for some three decades now has had a tendency to produce action movie billboards with a hero pointing his gun directly in the viewer’s face. He’s usually making eye contact, too, leaving no doubt in mind that it’s you he’d like to blow away.

How this is meant to lure me closer, I’m not sure, but the film industry seems certain it will.

Those billboards that don’t feature guns directly pointed at the viewer sometimes include a gun simply pointed away, Jodie Foster’s current The Brave One being an example.

Occasionally, in the billboards, the viewer has the gun, which you can tell because some starlet is in your crosshairs. No wonder movie stars are scared of their fans. Half of them have faced us over a gun one way or another.

The other oddity that seems particular to Los Angeles advertising is the plethora of bare buttocks one encounters on Sunset Blvd. And these are big billboards. Big buttocks! Joe’s Jeans has run a particularly infamous ad campaign advertising a product I haven’t seen yet because most of the billboards simply feature naked buttocks. One featured seven naked butts of varying hues all in a row. It was startling enough to make you run off the road. Fortunately it was at an intersection, so you could rest at the red light and take in the huge butt rainbow at your leisure.

I wonder why they don’t combine these two most-favored images. I haven’t seen a butt and a gun together since James Bond was a brunette. I suppose, however, that it’s only a matter of time.

Many people complain that political correctness curtails speech, but I’ve come to the conclusion that they are wrong: there is nothing you can’t say in America today. You just have to say it the right way.

I learned this in college and it’s come in very handy in the Los Angeles Public School system. You see, even if you are working with the least promising, most difficult children this side of open savagery, it is strictly verboten to confess that they seem hopeless and you have just about had it. You cannot say that.

But you can indicate that the students you are working with present a unique challenge.

You don’t say Gabriel is so hyper and uncontrollable that you would need a staple gun to keep him in his chair. You say he is a kinetic learner who is working to improve his impulse control, but is unfortunately suffering from ADHD. (Never mind that Gabriel isn’t the one suffering, you are.) Speak of his energy in an admiring voice, and all the other teachers in earshot know exactly what you really mean. “Oh yes,” they agree knowingly, “Gabriel has difficulty focusing during direct instruction.”

You cannot say that Jessica is the dimmest child you’ve ever seen. But you can indicate concern that she has difficulty processing auditory input, is dyslexic, and struggles with spatial relationships. In other words, she doesn’t understand anything she hears, reads, or sees. Add that she would benefit from learning compensating skills for her weak motor coordination and you can hint that she walks into walls as well.

Finally, do not say that you are barely holding on till the weekend. Smile and say that you look forward to coming back rested and restored on Monday, eager to seek new solutions and fresh strategies.

Then go home and quietly collapse.

I love how readily English makes nouns into verbs. Living in Hollywood is fun because of all the actors, and here, “I Googled him” is replaced by “I IMDB’ed him.” On imdb.com you can find everyone in the film industry, including the assistant to the camera man on a movie that went straight to DVD.

I have a plethora of actor sightings from my three years here. Once I was in line at the grocery store and David Carradine was in front of me. He has a faded eagle tattoo on his wrist. I met Lindsay Lohen at Chateau Marmont. She was sober, very sweet and polite, and I’m always a little sad now when I see … you know. Christian Bale and Keanu Reeves are both taller than I expected. Kirsten Dunst is shorter.

Actually, you have to watch what you say. I was at a restaurant and Orlando Bloom’s name came up. I was in the middle of a snarky comment about his masulinity when my companion’s frantic gestures made me aware that he was sitting right behind me. Hope he didn’t hear me.

But more interesting is meeting handsome actors I’ve never heard of before. I met one fellow at a restaurant, went home and IMDB’ed him, found that he was an East Coast Sagittarius, and that he played a waiter in a great movie from ten years ago. In the movie, someone bumps into him, and he says, “Excuse me”. So it was a speaking role!

I’m also friends with the guy who played the father of the lead who played the love interest of an actress who later starred with Diane Keaton. So there are now four degrees of separation between me and Diane Keaton. Unfortunately, I can’t stand her. But I won’t say it aloud in a restaurant around here.

At the risk of sounding curmudgeonly, one development I cannot help but mourn is the devolution of the art of fiction. Currently, my favorite book is The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. This tragic 1905 story chronicles the gradual descent of a likeable society beauty, Lily Bart, and is packed with gems. By ‘gems’ I mean beautifully honed passages that reveal startling human insights, or remarkably unique and succinct descriptions.

This passage describes Seldon, an intelligent, introspective man, contemplating the seemingly frivolous Lily as he struggles to understand why he is increasingly drawn to her:

“…the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external, as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material was fine but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?”

Or this bit describing Bertha, the high-maintenance little diva whose calculated betrayal will trigger Lily’s ultimate downfall.

“Her small, pale face seemed the mere setting of a pair of dark exaggerated eyes, of which the visionary gaze contrasted curiously with her self-assertive tone and gestures, so that, as one of her friends observed, she was like a disembodied spirit who took up a great deal of room.”

Fast forward 100 years to the popular and admittedly enjoyable but terribly inferior Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason.

“Am going to be top-flight journalist and gradually build up more and more work and extra money so can give up job and merely sit on sofa with laptop on knee. Hurrah!”

How to even respond to such a comparison? I’ll return to Wharton:

“Grotesque? Yes—and tragic—like most absurdities. There’s nothing grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask.”

I can’t remember life before the internet, and of all the sites, craigslist.org is my favorite. There are craigslists for most of the major cities in the US, but I was unaware of it till I moved to L.A. You can find yard sales, used goods, apartments for rent, sales jobs, writing gigs, and kinky sex - all on craigslist.

Particularly, I love apartment hunting, even though I have no intention of moving for another couple years. There’s just something enthralling about running these searches for apartments. Sometimes I even go look at the locations physically, to get a feel for what property managers mean in their descriptions, and I’ve noticed a few euphemisms that crop up regularly.

The first phrase to beware of is “conveniently located”. This is a positive spin on the fact that the unit is a block away from the Viper Room, where drunks will pee under your window as they stagger back to their cars and undertake an evening of vehicular homicide. If you are “conveniently located” near Mann’s Chinese Theater, you are living on the ramp to the 101. Your life will devolve into a blur of tourists, homeless opportunists, and semi trucks that seem to be rumbling through your living room.

Another buzzphrase is “pets welcome!”. This means the place is a wreck and no one is even fighting it anymore. That’s bad. I want a place where I have to wrangle and bribe to get my cats in. I don’t want another yard that is mostly bald patches and dog poop, with suspicious smells in the hallways.

Finally, and I don’t know why this is, but “clean” seems to mean “small, cheap, and ugly.” It just does. Every time.

My next goal is to find out what “quiet” means. I mean… what it really means.