Gray is a Color, but Grey is a Colour.

“Some people have a way with words, and other people...oh, not have way.”

 -Steve Martin

“Boy, those French! They have a different word for everything.”

 -Steve Martin

     As a writer, I depend on language to help me write good. Make that more better. Finding the right word is imperative when attempting to convey one’s particular perspective.  Yet as diverse as our language is, we rarely utilize its full potential. There is a strange, vacuous region into which certain words and phrases fall. They lay there, mingling with their colorless counterparts, floundering in a linguistically languid, torpid amalgamation of mediocrity, providing nothing more than a lackluster quiver from which to draw our verbal intimations. That’s stupid. Our words should caress the nuances we wish to purvey. They should dance gingerly and ecstatically with their subject, weaving a threaded tapestry of brilliant, verbal luminosity through the prose into which they have been invited. We have held on to these wearisome morphemes far too long, and like an old shoe, they have been ground to tatters, barely holding on to the glory of their former selves to the point where they hardly look like a shoe at all. “You’re still wearing those?” as in, “You’re still using that?” It is lamentable that we, as creatures who are able to read, speak and occasionally write, have not aspired to coin new, stimulating terms of articulation for everyday locution.

The tech world and cyber community on the other hand, have both done an exemplary job of cooking up new words and phrases to accommodate their needs for exacting descriptions. “Sexting”, “Hotspot” and “Retweet” to name a few. But more often than not, non-geek culture still embraces the tried and true patterns of literary replay, repetition, reiteration and recapitulation. As adults, we tend to hold on to the expressions to which we have grown accustomed. They are reverse comfort food. We are at ease when we hear them flow from our lips, and become unsettled when venturing outside of our adopted style of communication.

Kids (now I sound old), as well, are constantly reinventing language. We are perpetually barraged by modern day, pop culture colloquialisms, which somehow just beg to be used by us older folks. Unfortunately when we hear the vernacular of a twenty-something come out of the mouth of a forty-something, it leaves us with a slightly uncomfortable taste in our ears. It is a verbal comb over. We’re not fooling anyone. Those words are not for us, and we’d best leave well enough alone. However there is a way to afford ourselves a makeover in the language department without aggravating the obvious disparity in age and coolness. And that is…go British. Not all the way mind you, just slightly. I like my teeth. As adults, using phrases like “homey” and “dope” will undoubtedly get us kicked out of the party. No ecstasy for us. But toss in a “chap” and a “brilliant” every once in awhile, and we just seem well traveled.

In keeping with this inability to pawn off current hipster language as my own, I made a pact with myself several months ago, to adopt more British vernacular into my everyday speech. The looks I get from my peers do not convey the “Why are you using that word old man?” sentiment, but rather, “You hardly have any accent at all.” “I lost it in the war” I tell them.

The British have panache with language that can only be envied by us Yankees. In all manners of social interaction, the Limey lingo seems to surpass ours at every turn. I’m not sure how the word “loo” refers to relieving oneself, but it beats the crap out of “bathroom”, or “restroom”. I’m not planning to bathe or rest.  Maybe a quick nap on the toilet, I mean “kip” on the “khazi”, but that’s about it.  And why are we wasting so much time taking the “e-le-va-tor”, when using “the lift” is so much more efficient? And should it still be called a “lift” if it is bringing you down to a lower level? I would prefer taking the “lift” up to my “flat” and taking the “drop” down to the lobby.

A brief example of my newly adopted cant.

After I settled in Saratoga, I went to the store to buy sundries. They arrived by semi-truck, and I paid the cashier with money. But when living in Liverpool, I had to find a “shonky” that sold “bits and bobs”. The “lorry” was late so I had to look “left, right and center” for a “bog roll”. Eventually I found one in a “Paki-shop” and gave the chap a few “quid”.

The relationships that I have with my cohorts have undergone a major overhaul as well. My friend in Phoenix is a fool, but my “mate” from Manchester is merely a “mong”. Sorry for “slagging-off”, but honestly, I can’t stand either of those “lads”. And my neighbor? Complete idiot. That guy never shuts up. But over in South Hampton, he was merely a “sop”, “nakker” and a “twit”. Always gushing from his “gob”.

And finally, Rich in Roswell uses a rubber to diminish his chances of having a baby, while in Raleigh, Reginald will be using it to fix his spelling mistakes.

It’s not that our culture is unable to author more colorful language, it’s just that we tend to opt for more obvious and overt idioms to eliminate the possibility of having our words be misconstrued. Saying “smashing” instead of “awesome” immediately brings to mind images of glass and hammers. We are also lazy. We use the word “great” far too frequently. When compared to how an Englishman might express his affections towards a subject, “great” is a middle of the road, wishy-washy, humdrum modifier. “That milkshake was great, and so is that new record by blahbitty-blah.” There is no dynamic here. No differentiation between sugar and art. How can you throw a dairy product into the same bin as an artistic composition? Yes we use words like “Fantastic, incredible and unbelievable” for varying degrees of greatness, but these words are also tiresome. The milkshake may have been great, but I believe the word you were looking for when describing the album was “Brilliant”. Americans use “brilliant” when describing certain people, but we would be better served if we were to give it greater powers of denotation. Objects should have the opportunity to be brilliant as well. Like this essay.

Another baffling aspect of the American utilization of the English language is our affinity towards corporate product name recognition and usage. From here on out, my days of endorsing capitalistic interests are over. No one is paying me to use brand names when referring to everyday household items, and unless the wigs at Johnson & Johnson start forking over some “dosh”, never again will I put on a Band-Aid, or wrap my leftovers in Saran Wrap. Next time I cut “meself”, or find that I am left with an inordinate supply of “Scrummy nosh”, I’ll apply a “plaster” and wrap that grub in “cling film”. I don’t owe Saran anything. And even though “cotton buds” are a bit more syllabically demanding than “Q-tips”, there is nothing “Q-ey” about them. “Buds” for me thanks.

With this in mind, it’s obvious that not all British slang is exemplary -the term “French Kissing” for example. Although I can’t remember the last time I actually called it “Frenching”, I would much rather “French” someone than “snog” them. “Snogging” sounds like something you do in a parking lot, involving motor oil, a lot of contortion and possibly a seat belt or two. Admittedly the French were probably not the first to shove their tongues down their lover’s throats, but they have the patent on the term and my devotion to the word.

There is one word in particular that the Redcoats have embraced above all others. And that is the word “piss”. The Brits absolutely love the word “piss”. I love writing the word “piss”. Piss, piss, piss, piss, piss. But stateside, it merely refers to anger and urine. The British on the other hand can be “on the piss”, tell you to “piss off”, call you a “piss head”, and open a “brolly” when it’s “pissing down”. They can “take the piss”, call something a “piece of piss”, “piss all over”, be “piss poor”, “piss up” and just “piss about”. I’m sure there are more phrases that I could include in this piss, but I’m late for a piss rally.

The Isle folk also preponderate when it comes to insults. If a bloke wants to put you down, he will have much more verbal ammunition at his disposal than you. Be prepared. Their derisions are more finely tuned, encompassing greater variations in degrees of intensity. We might call someone an ass, idiot and a moron, but ultimately these words all seem to embody identical connotations; however, twat, prat, twit, git, pleg, spacker, spacky, spazmo, spanner, twonk, wally, wazzock, wanker, divvy, joey, mong, nonce, pilchard, pillock, prannet, pranny, prannock, plank, plonker pleb, (and arse), are all tailored to more accurately define someone who, while he or she may in fact be an ass, idiot or moron, possesses certain qualifying traits which put him or her into a more specific sub-category of idiocy.

The written word has the power to add luminosity. Tincture. Iridescence. Carefully chosen lexemes afford us hierarchical intensities, enabling an exalted embellishment of viewpoints and opinions. Whether native or foreign, we have at our disposal, a virtual arsenal of terminology and utterances, and as a man of words, I will utilize these weapons of confabulation to the best of my ability, both in written and spoken form, in order to propagate a more diverse if not totally confusing writing and speaking style.

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure.

 -Henry David Thoreau

*Note: No thesaurus was harmed in the formulation of this discourse.

One Two Twenty

So I’m at the Thai restaurant this afternoon ordering some “Curry with assorted animal”, and the waitress asks me “How spicy?”
I say “Spicy”.
The waitress says “10?”
I say “What?”
She says “10 hot?”
I say “On a scale of what?”
She says “20”.
I say, “Are you kidding me?”
She says “No I no kid.”
I say “Seriously? 1 to 20?”
She says “Yes 1 to 20”

     For the record, I’m German. The spiciest food in the Fatherland is mustard. And that only comes in two types. Spicy or mild. If you’re lucky you’ll get a third option- “sweet”. But that’s about it. End of discussion. Seriously, I can’t comprehend this. My mind starts contemplating the subtle differences between a 5 and a 7. Are there any? Is there a magic number after which all following levels of hotness are too hot? And after that, does it begin to venture into calculus where a “12” is somehow exponentially hotter than an “11’? Does “1” hot have any hotness at all, and is it pretty close to “2” hot? Or does “2” hot make a quantitative leap into the “kind of hot” arena, but noticeably less hot than say a “3” hot or a “4”?
At this point I start wishing for a menu guideline, which would probably read something like this:

1 hot – Not hot.
2 hot – Hotter than 1 hot but still not hot.
3 hot – A little hot but still not really hot.
4 hot – Somewhat hot, but not too much hot.
5 hot – Kind of sort of hot but not really that hot.
6 hot – Hotter than 5 hot.
7 hot – Hotter.
8 hot – Hotter still but still not really that hot hot.
9 hot – Almost really hot.
10 hot – Hot.
11 hot – Getting hotter.
12 hot – Caution. Hot.
13 hot – Be more cautious. Hotter still.
14 hot – Hot Hot.
15 hot – Hotter than 10-14 hot, but not as hot hot as 16-20 hot.
16 hot – Almost too hot.
17 hot – Almost almost too hot hot.
18 hot – Too hot
19 hot – Way too hot.
20 hot – Not available at this time.

I had a similar problem the first time I went to Italy. I almost lost my mind when I was asked to pay 300,000 Lira for a cup of coffee. “No coffee is that good” I said to myself. But after doing the math I had no problem with the two dollar price tag.
Unfortunately the largest denomination of currency was a 20 Lira note.
People were walking around Italy with wheelbarrows full of cash just to have lunch.
Before switching over to the Euro, the Italian department of financial absurdities decided to shave off a few dozen zeros, leaving the cost of a cappuccino at a palpable 3,000 Lira.

On another occasion, I found myself in the emergency room several years ago, after my leg impaled itself on a cactus in the foothills of New Mexico. After filling out the required medical questionnaire, (read- novella), the receptionist asks me “On a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), how bad would you say your pain is?” For the record, an hour earlier on the hiking trail, doubled over in the throes of agony, the pain was definitely off the charts. That was a 20 hot. But now that I’m in the waiting room, I can’t possibly go with a “5”. What if a guy waltzes in with a pair of scissors through his head? He gets to have the 5 right? I can’t possibly take the “5” while I’m still breathing on my own.

By this time my leg is the size of a blimp and resembles an inverted porcupine but with the quills still on the outside. But I compare my pain to that of scissor head guy, and I say “3”. I’m definitely not going to go lower as I don’t want to be here all day at the end of the line. I figure that coming in at slightly above the 50% mark is a safe bet.
“Have a seat”, the nurse says, “The doctor will be with you shortly”
I know what “shortly” means in medical jargon, but I’m feeling optimistic.
Ten minutes later a mother enters the room with a screaming child, and I give a quick looksey to evaluate the competition. No foreign objects protruding out of the girl’s body…good. Turns out the urchin had only scraped her elbow.
And this is where it goes south. When presented with the paperwork, mom pushes it aside and states the obvious.
“This is an emergency”. She says.
 Really? That’s probably why you, I, and half a dozen other injured, maimed and malfunctioning people are all gathered in something called “The Emergency Room.”
“On a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), how bad would you say the pain is?” the nurse asks her.
“5” the little girl replies.
The nurse then instructs the mother to go through the door, down the corridor and into the first room on the left. “The doctor will be right in.”

Fantastic.
Unless she scraped her elbow on a meat slicer, this is totally unacceptable.
Why didn’t I just say 5?  I should have just said “Screw scissor guy”. If he’s still alive after driving all the way over here, he’ll be fine. Plus anyone who can’t handle scissors should be ejected from the gene pool anyway. It’s already way too murky in here.
Ten minutes later the little girl comes out with a Band-Aid on her elbow.
Thirty minutes after that, I see the doctor.

So take my advice. In the emergency room, on a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), always say 10. (Unless the scale is 1-20 then say 40.)

As far as the Thai restaurant story goes, I told the waitress that I couldn’t decide between “12 hot” and “13 hot”.
“Can you do a twelve and a half hot?” I asked.
“No problem.”, She said. “Red, Green or yellow curry?”
“How hot is the green?” I ask.
“On a scale of 1-50”.

I Am He

Spotted Fawn, Canary Beak and Lamb’s Belly.
Sassafras Glen, Quaking Aspen Shoot, Boysenberry Blossom.
Soggy Rain, Frostbite and Dripping Fog.

These are my words.
I am that man.
I am the paint namer.
To you, mine is a great job.
To me, it is “Destiny’s Desire”, “Inner Passion”,  “Love’s Pursuit.”

Where you see red, I see Crimson Beet.
Your blue is my Oceanic Flotsam.
Green? I don’t think so.
Emerald Fairy Wing? Most definitely.

You have only a general idea of what that color is.
But then I tell you what it really is.

And you say:
“Holy crap. That is perfect.  It could not be anything else.”

But the truth is...
It could be a hundred other things.

But it’s not.

It is what I tell you it is.

It is Burnt Toast, Elephant Ear and Golden Shower.
Prickled Passion Fruit, Half Ripened Banana, Gristle.
It is Puppy Nose and Kittens Paws.
Murder Of Crows and Cole Slaw.

One day, you will choose to paint your daughter’s bedroom.

And as you peruse the swatches, you will ask her,
“What color do you like?”

She will will turn to you and say...
“Unicorn Tears”

Little girls love unicorns.
And I know that.

But “Unicorn Tears” is not a color.

Until now.

I will show you that it is the only color which will work with the room.
With the light. And the drapes. And the dog.

I could have called it “Wandering Gypsy”,
But your daughter is afraid of gypsies.

And I know that too.

“Wandering Gypsy” would sit on the store shelf.

"Dusty Tin", "Forgotten Love", "Misplaced Youth".

A sad, lonely, depressing color.

You do not want a sad, lonely and depressed 9 year old living in your house.

But “Unicorn Tears”….oh yes.
She will come to realize, “This is who I am.”
It will complete her.
If it could, the unicorn would say to her,
“We were meant to be together”.
But you and I both know that unicorns cannot speak.
“Mute-icorn.”

-A color reflecting the quiet stillness of your lost inner child.

Available for a limited time.
Only at Lowe’s.

Unicorn Tears is only one of many lies which I have perpetuated.
Do not fight it.

For once upon a time he was the pet of your dreams.
Now your daughter’s walls are the color of its tears.

The living room once was white.
Now it is "Unspoken sympathy", "Unbridled Ecstasy", "Uncorked Chardonnay".

That does not rhyme. But that is fine.
Because that does.

And just when you thought I had reached my
“Midnight Climax”,

I am poised to shock and amaze with my new line of “Man” paint.

Because I know it is damn near impossible to sell a man on
“Mystic Mauve”,
When the pillows are already nestled in frilly cases.
And you have been poisoning him with potpourri
since the day you started shacking up.

He will need a color which is his own.
Something that says:

This is my color. Mine alone.

Sweat sock. Beer Foam. Pimple.

Women already adore me.
And before the paint dries,
Men will bow down to me.

For I am the God of the revised color wheel.

Shirt Stain, Five O’clock Shadow, Gas.

Who am I?
I am “Shining Star”, “Wondrous Conundrum” and “Riddle Me This”.

Of course It makes no sense.

But neither does $59.99 a gallon.

Now available in exterior.