It's Better Across the Pond: Volume I

Welcome to a new series of posts on this blog, entitled "It's Better Across the Pond," in which I will delineate the many ways I admire/envy/worship/applaud/appreciate/analyze the way they do things in jolly ol' England.

Volume I: In Praise of British Etymology

Mark Twain famously said that England and America are two nations separated by a common language. It couldn't be more true. I grew up in India, which, as you know, is a former British colony, and the English I was accustomed to speaking/writing was vastly different from that used in the U.S. There are little differences - 'u' in 'color' and 'neighborhood' - which just seem nit-picky, but there are more significant differences which are emblematic of British sociopolitical philosophy.

For example, the word 'drunk' isn't used very often in England, nor is 'hammered'; even 'plastered' is somewhat rare. But the words they do use are very onomatopoeic: 'sozzled,' 'pissed,' (which means something very different here), and my favorite, 'happy.' You read that correctly - drunk people are referred to as 'happy.' This is symbolic of how drinking culture is perceived in England: when people get on the bus after a night in the pub (the tube stops operating just after midnight), and sing and shout, people just smile and say they're a little 'extra happy.' The Brits are relaxed about drunken behavior because a) drinking is natural, and frequent; b) the drinking age is 16, so the attractiveness of illegality is not as bright as it is here, and c) it's an activity associated with levity, spending time with mates, ending a long day at work. It's a tradition, everywhere from the High Streets in villages, to the depths of major cities like London and Manchester.

American English slants its words heavily - e.g., 'aunt' pronounced like 'ant' instead of 'ah-nt' - and it also moves at a much faster speed. 'Letter' in British English is 'let-turr' with each syllable pronounced evenly. But in America the t's run over themselves, and the word sounds like 'letr.' In England, language is more relaxed, and even vulgarity has more breathing room. One of my favorite British English words of all is 'bugger.' And 'bugger' has many forms - 'bugger' as a verb, 'buggery' is a sort noun-plus-adjective, bugger as 'noun.' And it's fantastic because you can replace pretty much any swear word with it. 'Bloody' works that way too but 'bugger' is much simpler - 'bloody' has a very distinct image, obviously, and is acknowledged as a curse word. But 'bugger' isn't like that. And if you use it you immediately liberate your sentiment from outright vulgarity - at least in America, where the word is rarely used. ('Sod' is like this too - but here it just means the brown stuff your dad putters about with on weekend mornings.)

American English is so much more brash - 'hell' is a horrible word and if you're from south of the Mason-Dixon Line people will berate you for blaspheming god. (They will also do that if you blaspheme god in general.) Replacement words in American English are tame, and inelegant, because, I theorize, they were invented by teenagers and children who wanted to avoid punishment for swearing, e.g., 'dang' for 'damn' and 'heck' for 'hell.'

Simpler examples (first word/phrase is ours, second theirs):

Pharmacist = chemist

Ad = advert

Dear Abby = agony aunt

Broad/dame = bint/bird

Secretary of Defense = MOD (Minister of Defense)

Secretary of State = Home Secretary

Government employee = civil servant

Projects = council estates (I love this one - the former automatically denotes a grim, giant, run-down building infested with bugs, drug-dealers - very much 'The Wire' - and the latter sounds so pleasant but is an even greater euphemism.)

I still use 'thrice,' 'moppet,' 'kerfuffle,' and 'nicked' - because they make sense and are extremely effective. 'Kerfuffle' even looks a bit like a skirmish - the f's fighting with the short u, and the K lording over them all. 'Nicked' makes the sound you'd associate with stealing - something quicksilver, almost unnoticeable. 'Nutter' and 'off-license' and 'NHS' are like that too - they correspond to what they're describing. 

Have some more:

Snob = toff

Slut = slag

Cheap wine = plonk

Ball-point pen = biro

Unsafe city block = fag end (this usage arises from the last bitter shard of a lit cigarette, which is a 'fag end')
Cookies = biscuits (I still say the latter when I'm talking about tea)

'Community': Dean Pelton (Jim Rash) is dealing with a race "kerfuffle" in his school's parking lot.

Jelly = jam (I still say jam. 'Jelly' is the stuff you slather on during an ultrasound.)

Mint jelly = mint sauce

I would buy jam with this label. Wouldn't you?

Apartment = flat

Balcony = veranda (the latter is actually an Anglicization of the Hindi word for balcony)

It's my theory that American English is flashier, less elegant, more accented, because it's a younger language. Changes to spellings and usage were initially a rebellion against the British empire, and vast amounts of immigration have mixed words in with each other. (There is also no American Shakespeare, which makes a huge difference.) Everything in America is designed to be more - more expensive, more grandiose, louder, bigger, faster. British English is the elegant, relaxed, sophisticated opposite, and this must be due in part to the bad weather, and having a monarch. "Well, it rains all the time and we have these inbred idiots who wear funny dresses and sit in the House of Commons and blow feathers into the air, so, well, let's write about it!" And they did.

I leave you with a wonderful and lyrical video from the brilliant Stephen Fry - no one writes (or speaks) more beautifully about the joy of words than he:

Hear Ye, Hear Ye: My Return to Blogging

I always thought my return to blogging would herald some sort of self-actualized breakthrough - holy cow, I'm cured! I don't feel sad anymore! My opinions are once more valid! - but this was an erroneous assumption in two ways. One, there's no such thing as a breakthrough in therapy. And two, it's way, way funnier to scrawl daily observations about life, in and/or outside of New York City, as witnessed by myself and others. (My therapist and psychiatrist would add that my opinions are valid if I think that they are, but that's a different post. Quite possibly a whole series of them.)

So, without further ado, I'm returning to blogging with a series of posts I'm titling "Stuck on Repeat: Greatest Hits from the Dating Profiles of Straight Men in New York City, Circa 2013". I don't want to spend too much time on how I have this information - it's a very new and fragile interpersonal cannonball dive for me, to put up an online dating profile, and to acknowledge that I too, am human and have needs - but I have definitely noticed a pattern/horrifying similarities among the tastes and activities of straight men within five square miles of Manhattan County.

Observations starting June 17, at which point I'd been on Dating-Site-Which-Shall-Remain-Unnamed for a week:
1. Selfies - of you unsmiling and/or shirtless - do not inspire confidence.

Selfies: a non-good reflection of yourself.

2. In the "About Me" section, please do not list any of the following: "I just had my heart broken" or "I'm just looking for fun." If you feel that either/both reflect your state in life, I recommend pets for the former, Craigslist for the latter.

3. The pendulum swing between normal profile photographs, and head shots which make you look like a prospective UFC contestant, is massive. I don't want to date a morbidly obese person with a heart condition, but come on!

By the numbers, at the end of Week 1:
1. Attractive men who've written me back: 0.
2. Messages I've received which I can neither see nor respond to, because I refuse to pay for communication: 2.
3. Messages I've received which I can neither see nor respond to, because I refuse to pay for communication, from attractive men: 0.
4. Average age of (allegedly) single men: 28.
5. Number of men who have children: 3.
6. Number of men whose children live with them: 1.
7. Number of men who have children and are attractive: 0.

That's all for today, folks, but I enjoyed doing this enough that I think I'll write tomorrow too. Till then, thanks for reading, and I hope these adventures in non-dating are as funny to you as they are to me.

This Year in Brit-Centric Film, Part I

I'm an Anglophile. What's that, imaginary reader - you are too? Great! Join me as I write about this year in British culture, films first. Spoilers aplenty!

Perhaps the best sequence of "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy" is at the very end of the film. The mole has been found, and the camera follows its principal characters in the aftermath of this discovery. Circus chief Percy Alleline (Toby Jones) walks away defeated, and George Smiley (a stunning Gary Oldman) moves into his new offices as his replacement; his aide-de-camp (Benedict Cumberbatch) gives him a knowing smile as Smiley takes his place at the head of the table. But it's the background score which makes the scene shine like a jewel: Julio Iglesias croons his way through the French hit "La Mer." The upbeat disco track, horn section and string arrangement ring through with such brightness that it's enough to contemplate on its own merit. That the song is a backdrop to Jim Prideaux's cold-blooded murder of the mole Bill Haydon is an ironic juxtaposition of the first order.

This is the victory of "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy." Despite being a relatively slow film, heavy on the (infinitesimal) gestures and light on explanation, the film achieves a kind of skillful intricacy that, at the end, is as beautiful as a spider's web in sunshine.

From L to R: Haydon, Esterhase, Alleline, Control

"TTSS" begins with a taut, suspenseful scene which follows MI6 agent Jim Prideaux, as he meets a potential defector, a Czech general. Things go awry, however, when Prideaux is shot, and MI6's boss, a man known only as Control (John Hurt), is disgraced and eventually dies from cancer. Shortly after the death, Control's right-hand man George Smiley (Oldman) emerges from retirement to seek out a mole in MI6. Meanwhile, Percy Alleline (Toby Jones), a power-hungry man who took Control's seat, and his cronies Roy Bland (Hinds), Toby Esterhase (David Dencik) and Bill Haydon (Colin Firth) are waist-deep in the intelligence currently being provided by Source Merlin, a USSR contact. Cumberbatch plays Peter Guillam, a head Scalphunter who took over Prideaux's job when the latter disappeared, and is Smiley's man on the inside.

Peter Guillam (Cumberbatch) and Smiley (Oldman)

The film's palette, comprised mostly of muted grays and browns, serves the density of the plot and terminology well. Director Tomas Alfredson (of "Let the Right One In" fame) takes a steady approach to camerawork: long, composed takes showcase Oldman's shockingly minute movements. Cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema does a fantastic job of creating the drab, weary lighting needed for MI6 headquarters, but proves equally adept at highlighting the lush greenery of the British outdoors. Production design also deserves special mention for hitting just the right tone of the Cold War: everything is as the book dictates, from the olive green of files to the reds and blues of ties and suits.

The film is generally quite true to its source material, though it is natural for a viewer who is unfamiliar with le Carre to be utterly confused. Both book and film do not delve into unnecessary subplots, and are generally quite on par in terms of characterization.

I've seen this film twice now, and the major complaint I hear from viewers is that they only understood the gist: that Smiley was trying to catch a mole. Well, there's a very simple reason for that, reader(s) (?): this isn't your average Hollywood bing-bang-smash blockbuster. Pay attention to the language, the key terms and the dialogue, and the film's trajectory will become perfectly clear. It's complex but not undecipherable.

And say you get lost for a bit: just watch Benedict Cumberbatch's face. Ah...all better.

Tomorrow: My Year with Marilyn (admittedly not a British film, but filmed with primarily British actors, set in England, and so on)

A Not-So-Triumphant Return

Oy.
It's been a long time since this blog was updated. I could make any load of excuses - the insane, unpredictable nature of college life, medical issues, and so on - but the truth is, for the longest time, I felt like I had nothing to say. Things reached a fever pitch last summer, but I was so busy dealing with it all that I never could write anything out. If you'd care to read on, I'd like to explain the last few months of my life.

After my last post, sometime toward the end of May 2011, I moved out of my apartment and into a dorm in downtown Manhattan. The move was traumatic - I'd never packed up my belongings alone, and to remember the pile of bags, suitcases and boxes piled in my old living room is like having a bad dream slide down my throat.

The summer was interesting. I worked at the university TV station and took classes; I loved Film Noir and the Robert Altman class. And I did well in both, which was a self-confidence booster. Didn't go home at all, which was helpful - it kept me focused on the work and school, both of which were imminent.

At the end of August, with the aid of good friends C. and I., I moved in to what I didn't realize was going to be - well, absence speaks volumes, and since there are already too many blogs ranting about roommate issues, I'll leave it at that.

So I returned to school. Academics were difficult. I'd changed majors - to cinema studies - and fit in well to my Early American Film and 1950's American TV classes (the latter topping out as a semester favorite). Children & Media was another matter. I took the class so I could minor in Child and Adolescent Mental Health, a subject that's become crucial to me since I was diagnosed 2 years ago. The class was extremely challenging - I learned loads but couldn't quite muster a good grade; I scraped a C and was disappointed. As it turns out, the way my schedule is structured for the next 1 1/2 years, I can't minor in CAMH. That was probably the biggest let-down of all. As you can see, last semester wasn't the most positive of experiences. I did make it out alive, though, which, as both my therapist and psycho-pharm pointed out, was something to be proud of.

Therapy continued; I'm still seeing Dr. H and Dr. L, both of whom are massive supports in my occasionally fragile day-to-day life. The bad days are still there; this past week I lay still in bed for what seemed like hours, unaware of life around me. The medicines definitely help with this. Maybe not all the time, so I learn to put up with the awful feelings. But I made it to class, and to work, and to my internship (I'm working at the BBC, you guys! It's so exciting!).

Often, at therapy, we talk about what can help me in the moment. That is, when I'm feeling unbalanced, upset or destructive, what could step into place and aid me? I always say "writing," because that's what I've learned is a good answer. The stupidity of that response is that I never do it. The whole thing becomes idiotic because I have this blog, as a ready resource. That's not to say I created this corner for ranting, but it can definitely serve as a starting point to analyze what's happening.

So, while I make no promises, I'm going to try and write more here. It'll help, I think. And now that I'm a blogging intern at the BBC, my writing skills definitely need some punching up as well. Till then, reader(s) (?), stay tuned.

Tangled Webs and Andrew Bird

I lie. Frequently.

Sometimes it's to get off work, or a therapy appointment. Sometimes it's to provide a catch-all excuse to have a day to myself. I lie to my parents because it keeps our relationship in balance. Have I lied to make a story more interesting? Yup. Have I lied, for no reason at all? Check. You name it, I've probably lied about it.

In his excellent novella 'Shopgirl,' Steve Martin relates main character Mirabelle's opinions on the nature of a lie thus: "First, it must be partially true. Second, it must make the hearer feel sorry for you, and third, it must be embarrassing to tell. It must be partially true to be believable. If you arouse sympathy you're much more likely to get what you want, and if it's embarrassing to tell, the less likely you are to be questioned." What do you think? Does this litmus test stand up to reality?

I raise this issue because I had to exorcise some of my lies - let's call them excuses, shall we? - to my psychiatrist, made to get out of appointments for several weeks, in therapy today. None of the lies - lies it is, then - I ever told my psych were ever partially true. They weren't embarrassing in nature, but I might've garnered his empathy had I told him what was really going on.

For several weeks now I've not been doing well. Morning brings with it a sense of heaviness, of fatigue. Everything - relationships with friends, family, doctors, phone book entries - seems ephemeral. It's like grabbing onto sand - why go to therapy when tomorrow my therapist could move to South Dakota? Why trust friends when they could turn on you? Why make the effort if the promise of its lack of reward feels so tangible?

I'll address each separately. I think often of the day when my therapist might move, or when my psych will retire. What on earth will I do then? The idea is frightening to the point of panic, which is why, my therapist pointed out, I skip appointments, because I am showing my fear as opposed to showing up and talking about it. Friendships often appear as though they will not stand the test of time. How can I trust an intimate bond with another person if they will leave? A friend once told me it was important to be good at making friends in New York, because people move away all the time. Not too great at that, I thought to myself at the time. It feels even more like a fact now.

Fine, let's say, to put it simply, I'm hung up on the eventualities of things. I want to be taken care of, is all - I know everyone wants that. And I simply want a rock-solid insurance policy that someone will be around to do that, departures of friends and therapists be damned.

For the last three days I've been listening to two songs continuously: "Scythian Empire" and "Spare-Ohs," by Andrew Bird. Neither has anything to do with depression or lying, ostensibly. But if you parse a bit - and I do; former English majors, unite! - "Scythian Empire' is a song which foretells of doom and destruction. The titular expanse of power is "thwarted by the Thracians," and a five-day forecast about the empire tells of "black tar rains and hellfire." "Spare-Ohs" is far easier to trace to lying: "It gets in their lungs as it floats through the air/It gets in the food that they buy and prepare/but nobody cares if it gets in their hair."

My lies are everywhere. They're in the lined, world-weary face of my psychiatrist, in the pages of my ratty journals. They are seared into the Internet, in the lines of short e-mails to bosses, and accessible in the texts of my cell phone's SIM card.  At the end of the day, however, does anyone care but me? And the answer is inescapable, like the weight of any lie: No.

So, conclusions? Read 'Shopgirl.' Don't listen to Andrew Bird when you feel like shit. And the next time you see me, please know I'm doing my best not to hide from you. I'd say it isn't personal, but that would be a lie.

Topping 'Top Chef': A Look at 'Top Chef: Masters'

While the new season of 'Top Chef: Masters' premieres tonight (after the regular version's chefs get together for a reunion - gasp! OMG! Anger, jealousy erupts! Elia getting personal! Steven wearing a suit! - I've been busy watching season 2 of this advanced version of 'Top Chef' on demand. And I've noticed some stark differences between the two shows; there's enough variability that I thought I'd write it all out.

First of all, these guys are the big guns. President Obama's favorite chef Tony Mantuano is present, as is Rick Moonen, foodie crush and Swedish-Ethiopian amalgam Marcus Samuelsson, the uber-creative Susan Feniger, and Susur Lee. Oh, and Jonathan Waxman. None of these people are here to prove themselves. They're established chefs, heads of their haute mini-empires - one has the approval of POTUS to boot. And everyone can cook, with more than just proficiency, outside of their training (Feniger cooked up dal on one occasion, and Lee was on fire with a Japanese entree course in the finale). At one memorable moment, Waxman actually says, "I don't actually give a [expletive]."

And that about sums up the cooking on the show, too (at least, until the finale). Mantuano and Waxman in particular cook with the practiced ease of years in a kitchen, and the two lumber away smilingly when it comes their turn to pack knives. Yes, people are still running to fridges, but no one's actually competing. In one of the later episodes, Mantuano jumps to the defense of Carmen Gonzalez, chef supreme whose food had suffered because she was busy organizing the chefs at a wedding, saying it was a group effort, and Carmen had helped in other ways. These chefs are older - they're not the electric brothers Voltaggio, and lack Richard Blais' edge or Mike Isabella's braggadocio. They're cooking as usual, they just happen to be in front of some cameras. No big, their attitudes seem to say.

Hosting and judging is also markedly different. Kelly Choi is a matchstick of a woman, always dolled up in shiny jewelry. She lacks Padma's earthy connection to food (as she never appears to be eating anything), but definitely has more personality, unafraid to interject her opinion during judging. And for some strange reason, the chefs are never in front of the judges during quickfires. It's as though the producers decided having judges and chefs in the same room would lead to open challenging from the latter to former. I definitely wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Waxman's flat, withering argument about skirt steak: "I couldn't disagree with you more." There is no 'Top Chef' meekness here.

Judges are also of a different pedigree here. There's Jay Rayner, and What's-his-face Oseland from the magazine that's not 'Gourmet,' and a perpetually hat-topped woman whom, despite watching some six episodes today, I could not identify. It was a bit disappointing, really - might've been more interesting to get these chefs' peers' opinions. Rick Bayless didn't show up until the finale, and I wouldn't have minded seeing Hubert Keller a bit earlier too. The permanent judge roster could have utilized the likes of Danny Meyer, Thomas Keller, or even recurring 'Top Chef' judge Anthony Bourdain. My roommate commented the other day that for all these fancy judges, there ought to be one "man off the street" judge, simply to state whether the food was good or not, and not to dither about the "safeness" or "textural variability of the dish." There's some truth to this, and I feel like Bourdain would've been this sort of judge, only an added bonus to his trained palate and years as a chef. He's still got a more diverse food background than anyone the producers could dig up at Saveur.

Well, until the next round of 'Top Chef: Young, Meddling Kids,' enjoy Masters. Chances are, you'll probably be getting more out of it than its contestants.

Cod-dled

Preparing and cooking fish, in my childhood memories, was simultaneously ceremonial and ordinary. The sunlight wouldn't have yet reached the kitchen window when my grandfather would place the day's catch - purchased on his dawn walk from the fishmonger's - on the counter. His expert fingers would begin notching the cold, dead grass carp with a knife at certain intervals. Before you could blink, the fillets would be ready, washed, wiped, dry and rubbed in turmeric. The wok oil would simmer gently, and soon the pungency of mustard oil would waft through each room, subtly flavoring each bite of breakfast and stinging the eyes as one emerged from the bath. At 2 PM exactly, all seven of us would gather at the dining table, my grandmother doling out steaming rice and fish cooked in a sauce of mustard seeds, onions, garlic, ginger, tomatoes and other ingredients my palate has never been able to identify. All I know is, it tasted damn good.

All of this to say, I've never mastered my grandparents' technique for cooking fish. The memories continue to taste delicious. The following recipe, then, is just something I whipped this afternoon:

Ingredients
One fillet of cod, cleaned and wiped dry
Panko bread crumbs, about 1/4 c.
Red chili powder, 1/2 tsp.
One clove of garlic, minced
Ginger, chopped, 1 tsp.
Salt + Pepper
One avocado, chopped
1/4 of an onion, sliced
Green onions, about 1/3 c., chopped
1 egg, beaten well
Soy sauce, 1 1/2 tbsp., separated
Cilantro, handful

1. In a shallow bowl, mix the bread crumbs, red chili powder, garlic, ginger and salt+pepper.
2. In another shallow bowl, beat the egg and soy sauce together.
3. Soak both sides of the cod, allowing the egg wash over each side for several seconds at a time.
4. Place the cod into the bread crumbs, pressing down gently on the cod. Make sure bread crumbs cover the cod completely.
5. In a frying pan, allow 2 tablespoons of olive oil to warm over medium-high heat. Once hot, place the cod gently into the oil, and cook on each for side for about 3 minutes.
6. Place the cod on a plate. In the remaining oil, cook any remaining bread crumbs with the sliced onions. Splash the remaining soy sauce into the pan, and stir.
7. Put the chopped avocado into a heap on the fish plate. Empty the contents of the pan onto the avocado. Top off the fish with the spring onions.
8. Eat up - repeat as necessary.