Bitching once more - author discusses various personal complaints

National Review, June 10, 1988 by D. Keith Mano

BITCHING ONCE MORE

THAT TIME of year again. The physics of chaos has taken over. It is time to complain.

Things that have irked me so far in 1988:

Language. "No problem" (this phrase has become the one rhetorical effect in the English of half our immigrant work-force. Implication is that they have been sorely inconvenienced, but are too cordial to tell you about it). "Mainstreaming" and "career track" and "fortey" for "forte." People who say "thou" instead of "thousand" (as though they were tutoyering their money). The dreadful sentence, "Let me see if I can transfer you" (followed by a dial tone). The even more dreadful sentence, "You may experience some discomfort" (meaning you'll need heroin to get through tomorrow). "Pre-owned Mercedes" (no Mercedes is ever second-hand). DRIVER ALLERGIC (you'd think there wasn't one healthy cab driver in New York). And the NYT Double Crostic, which has only a leftwing solution.

I remember those good old days. When shoe salesmen would lace me up (now they stare, as if I were wearing press-on toenails). When a gas-station attendant would do my windshield. Before radicchio and arugula salad. When stewardesses were young and attractive (they appear to have aged along with me--at that rate, I figure, they'll develop dowager's hump soon). When people worked for what they got (now even hawks soar on welfare--waiting for some motorist to hit a rabbit). When people had real Rolex watches. When you could buy a paperback book (not just hardbacks with softcovers).

A few things I'd rather do without. African art (all of which is about as exciting as black plastic mulch). That brow gook which inevitably settles on my eyeglass lens. The no-steal coat-hanger Painting on black velvet. The human ear. Eurobath (what amazing huckster sold that useless gism to every motel in America?). White on white subtitles. Fleas on a black cat. Any Australian accent. The paperclip that, when picked up, will bring with it a steel rosary of 15 other clips. Getting butane into my lighter (I shoot hoarfrost all over the table). My Walkman earphone wire (which catches half-hourly on a chair arm, handing me whiplash). Felt-tip-pen screech. And Polaroid photos that produce orange eyeball glow, so you look like someone from The Village of the Damned.

Answer these if you can. Is ransom for a kidnapped relative tax-deductible? When remembering past events, do you visualize the scene from inside your head--or do you, as I do, see yourself as some observer would? Why? Is it acceptable, in Jewish law, to wear a yarmulke under your toupee? If you found the decapitated head of someone dear, how would you pick it up?

Little tyrannies. The plastic-super-market-shopping-bag invasion. (You can't junk them--they might be useful some day--but they're too small for garbage and too declasse to carry your lunch in.) Mysterious old keys (I have five on my ring--and no idea which lock each might open--but they intimidate me and I'm incapable of throwing them away). Aaaargh, magazines. (Yes, you though that subscription was a good deal--now they come like your rent, too soon, too often. You can't put off reading them, the way you've put off reading Doctor Thorne since 1963--after all, there is nothing more absurd than year-old Time magazines. So your entire intellectual life has clotted like cheese in a left-over fondue.)

Bad manners. People who say, "Oh sure" and "Hey, you're right" before I've gotten halfway through my first sentence (they'll agree with anything, so long as they don't have to listen and find out what it is they've agreed with). Someone (maybe the same person) who won't take his Walkman headset off while talking. Facelifts (Frank Langella told me of this friend who underwent so many he had to shave his forehead). People who remove your Christmas wrap like it was overpainting on a Breughel, so they can re-use it next year for their present to you. Bartenders who toss me my bottle of Bud and say, "Need a glass?" (as though anyone who didn't suck the neck were effete). People (usually liberal) who ask for chopsticks. Those who invite you to the birth of their child (known as a placenta party). Guests who close your bathroom door after they use it. (Lord, you think, what'd they do in there?) People who go "tsk-tsk" beside me when the autoteller says, "Insufficient cash." Joe Christian, who has been holding that JOHN 3:16 sign up behind each golf course and goal post televised in America. Anybody with Call Waiting (which means: just hold a minute, there may be someone more important on my line. I just hang up while they're switching).

Misinformation. The myth (foisted on us by TV) that old people are jolly. The myth that a champagne cork should pop (popping will murder sparkle). AIDS posters on my subwaystation platform. These invariably depict men and women in bed--each with a thought balloon overhead saying, "Gee, I hope he/she doesn't have AIDS." Unless he works Tenth Avenue as a transvestite hooker, he doesn't. Gay people want recognition except in the one area where they've really earned it.