Course Corrections

It is half-past midnight in cactus country where I am, so officially it is now the 4th day of this new blog. (I don't know why the date still shows March 11. Must still be before midnight in Googleland. Or else they haven't yet changed their servers to Daylight Savings Time. Whatever. Pretend it says March 12.)

While I am, in general, pleased at what has been happening so far, and so quickly, it is also pretty obvious that some changes need to be made with regard to the vision and direction of the blog. It is already getting out of my control, if ever it really was in my control. I am steering by the wake, as it were. I am not unhappy that you are taking control from me, but I do crave some sort of purpose and direction.

This blog was started rather on the spur of the moment when I was out entrecruising (as I call it) and noticed that I kept coming across very interesting and very literate blogs which all seemed to be located in the vast territories of the former British Empire. I kept reading interesting stuff, but soon realized I didn’t really understand as much of it as I would have liked. Indeed we are truly separated by this common language we share. I would stare at the words. The words were obviously English words. English is my native language (honestly). So why wasn’t I understanding the nuances of these posts?

I happened to be trying to read the football commentary on magpieszone.com when the spark of the idea for this blog entered my head.

I still believe in the validity of the basic premise, but at the same time it is becoming obvious that some changes--course corrections--need to be made. I hadn’t thought the blog concept through deeply enough. We are adrift. There have been bright spots, of course: For one thing, I hadn’t anticipated that proper British ladies would so love to bully unsuspecting American men. I love it. But that’s not what I am really talking about.

My general vague plan on day one of this blog was for me to continue roaming the internet and harvesting examples that I truly didn’t understand, and then bring those examples to your attention. Then you would translate for me, in a helpful and friendly manner, and, gosh, what a fine time we all would have. Ha.

The first thing that I quickly realized was that there was really no need for my inept “harvesting”, and I found out even faster that I wasn’t very good at it anyway. I mean, not knowing what the words meant, how was I to know if what I was choosing was interesting to you, the audience; whether it was mundane, or whether it was a real nugget to be examined and savered until all the marrow had been delightfully sucked out.

The second thing I quickly learned was that while American humor is direct and hits you right in the gut fast and hard, British humor is much more subtle. You lean toward nuances, comparisons, stories, and, of course, you are masters at metaphor and the fine art of the double entendre.

Perhaps the differences between American and British humor are best explained by this rather tidy summation which was given by the late great American commedian Alan King (whose picture appears at the head of this post.) I saw this on HBO many years ago. Mr. King had been invited to a student comedy competition at a famous school in Britain. Cambridge, I think. It was the kind of competition where the two sides each sit on one side of the small autditorium, and the audience would move to seats on the other side of the aisle whenever they were swayed by the comedic prowess of the speakers, who took turns. I remember that Mr. King spoke first to the very bright young British audience. His words summed up very succinctly the point I am grasping to make here.

“I love British humor.” he began. “It is very instructive. It makes you think. It is very, very witty. It is incredibly cerebral. It is ever so clever. It just isn’t fucking funny.”

I am going to, in the main, stop my feeble attempts to harvest what I think to be interesting tidbits of unusual examples of the British vernacular. Instead, I am going to let the experts do that. The experts know the territory. The experts don’t stumble around like I do.

You are the experts.

Have at it. I can’t hold a candle to you, anyway. I am a babe in the woods, compared to you. Just let me moderate. Let me make commentary. Let me ask questions. Teach me about the real English language; the one that is still so very much alive and vibrant in your country’s ethnic subdivisions and neighborhoods; the language of my ancestors. Listening in on your talk among (amongst) yourselves, it is obvious you have no clue as to the incredible treasure you have inherited. Having grown up with it, you take it for granted. Time and distance has slowly alienated Americans (and, sadly, to a great extent, Canadians) from this birthright, little by little, over the years.

But I want to do more than try and learn to understand English. I want also to feel free to ask you questions about other things (besides language differences) I (and other Americans) have long been curious about but were afraid to ask. Or had no one to ask. Since I am far away and you can’t just reach out and slap me for asking stupid questions, let me give you an example of an American stupid question:

Just what exactly does being British mean, anyway?

I mean, you have your English, your Scots, your welsh, your Irish. But what is being British, exactly? Any random combination of the above? Hardly, I suspect. Those might even be fighting words to you. Hell, I don’t know. You have England. You have Britain. You have Great Britain. You have the UK (which I know is supposed to be followed by the words, “of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” Please bear with me. It has been many years since this stuff was crammed into my head as a 10-year-old in rural Michigan. I know about England and I know about Scotland. I know about at least one Act of Union. I don’t think there was actually an Act of Union when you got Wales so long ago. I think you just went and took it one afternoon. I know that what is now independent Ireland is no longer under British rule, although I don’t have a clue about the circumstances of the separation.

You see? There is much more fodder for this blog than simply teaching me real English (although that is still the biggest reason for this blog’s existance.) It seems to me that the enlightment of Americans' rather poor understanding of (some of) their ancestor’s culture, without restriction to only the language part of it, is a worthy purpose as well, and it occurs to me that this blog can serve as a vehicle to that worthy purpose. Talk about a run-on sentence, eh? No, I haven’t been drinking. It just strikes me as a good idea. Potential for more intellectual abuse by the ladies, as it were. Because, like it or not, with regard to knowing about their roots, Americans, in general at least, are dumber than stumps. Whatever you tell us, we’ll believe. It could be great sport for you.

So let’s begin our 4th day together with that new premise. No more restrictions as to subject matter. You talk, I’ll ask questions and make dumbass uninformed comments. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.

Start with the one I have already posed. What the hell, truly, is “British” anyway? Or what do you think it is? And don’t toy with me. Or do toy with me. Whatever.