Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Sometime last week I received a brief but flattering e-mail from the owner of this establishment, gentle reader, and we all know the best response is free advertisement. I’ve already put in a high priority memo to the Advertising Department, so I should hear from them shortly. For those of you taking notes, I would call this “quid pro com,” a simple concept that basically says, “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You scratch my back again, I’ll rip your friggin’ head off.”
The writer bills himself as an Anglophile in the inaugural entry, and that’s just dandy. I am known in some circles as Ang-Lo–probably for my hip take on moors and crumpets–so I think we’re in agreement here. Whether you’re finishing a thesis on 18th century British history or an ardent Anglophile yourself, you may rest well knowing I’m in the hizouse with the DL on the Britshizzles.
Some of you may wonder from time to time why those nutty Englishpeople spell “favorite” as “favourite,” “shop” as “shoppe,” or “realize” as “realise.” It all began a few decades ago when Muse got bored with the States (I think those Rosie the Riveter posters pissed her off royally), so we hopped a yacht and booked it ‘cross the Atlantic, where I moonlighted as a treasure hunter along the Thames for a month or so.
We were diving for a rare type of ha’penny when we came upon a huge crate, an 8’ x 6’ affair wrapped tightly in chains. That’s 2.44 by 1.83 “metres,” in case you’re into that kind of thing. We got a few bystanders to help pull the crate onto dry ground while I supervised the enterprise. Strangely enough, the box was much lighter than it appeared. Muse was the first to approach the crate. She pressed her ear against the wood.
“Wait, I know what’s inside!” she said excitedly. “Quick, give me the Cane.”
Within moments she had worked off the chains. How she did it so quickly, I’ll probably never find out.
What ensued was sheer chaos, as thousands of vowels and the occasional “s” poured out of the package. The bystanders started running in terror from the scene, and one fellow–I’ll never forget this–looked like Willy Hague engaged simultaneously in a coronary and an argument. But Muse, in all her infinite charm and mysterious ways, whispered something and waved her hand in a curious fashion. All the letters settled down instantly.
It turns out that Jack the Ripper did a grisly job cutting the five vowels from their rightful words, citing an unquenchable lust for more efficient spelling. And the occasional “s”? Let’s not talk about that. Fortunately, though, good literature is damn nigh eternal, so most of these letters escaped unscathed. With a quiet word from Muse and an outpouring of public support, many of the letters agreed to find their way home. That’s how I remember it, at least.