Jim, Will, Edgar, Bill, Lynne, Steve G, Steve & Jeanette, Bobb & Barbara, Bob, Mary, Ian & Regina
Last night at Conrads was all about cake - a 40th anniversary cake! I was celebrating the start of my journalistic career on June 24, 1968. At least, that was when I started to get paid for scribbling, as opposed to the pretend stuff at college.
Regina literally topped off the whole occasion with party hats for everyone (I hope we can download some of the pix!). I felt that Ian and Barbara's shorts - sartorial rather than the movie variety - also added to the gaiety of the evening, however unintentionally.
The only thing missing was, er, the cake. I thought I had sorted this out last week by having a quiet word with the manageress and agreeing a price - she even showed me an example of the triple choccy job that would have suited perfectly. But last night no show. The lady gave me some nonsense about her boss deciding not to buy any more cakes for the diner, strange timing in view of the fact that I had placed a firm order for a whole cake, so no risk of them being left with any unsold slices. It was the most bizarre commercial decision I have come across.
So it was off to Ralph's across the road, who had one almost as good at half the price and Conrads for once had the grace not to charge for letting us eat it on their premises. The saintly Regina again stepped forward, complete with glass of water to keep the knife clean, to cut the cake into more than enough pieces for everyone. It made a great evening, and one I shall remember for a long time.
Inevitably my anniversary prompted a discussion about the newspaper industry, especially the long, slow but accelerating decline of the LA Times and the not entirely coincidental lack of competition either from a citywide LA paper or from local papers such as the abysmal Pasadena Star-News.
My main employer, Rupert Murdoch, came in for his usual quota of abuse but, as I pointed out, look at what Sam Zell has done to the LA Times in the few months he has owned it. Of course, there is much hysteria about Murdoch's changes at the Wall Street Journal, but I think this is as much cultural as megalomanical.
As I have found in my efforts to get work here, there is a much bigger cultural gap than is generally recognised between American and Anglo-Commonwealth ideas of what constitutes a 'good' newspaper. Americans love to sneer at the animalistic instincts of British tabloids, which at least do a good job of denting the outdated image of Britain as toffee-nosed and mealy-mouthed, while Brits routinely yawn at what they see as boring, overwritten US broadsheet features masquerading as in-depth analysis.
The culure gap is exemplified by the differing attitudes to the Journal and Britain's Financial Times, which is generally regarded by British journalists as the apex of business coverage, if a little dull at times. But I have read an LA Times piece dismissing the FT and the current issue of Atlantic Monthly scoffs at it as being trivial or superficial! I nail my colors firmly to the FT mast, and look forward to Murdoch enlivening the Journal.
But, as Jim pointed out last night, the big factor impacting on all newspapers is the internet. It's only the latest incursion, after radio, movies and TV, but this time it looks serious. 'It good and bad,' said Jim, 'because it encourages more freedom of expression but also produces diarrhea.' How true.
The beginning of the LA Times's decline can fairly accurately be dated from the day it was sold to Tribune Group by the Chandler family, which produced a delightful story from Steve Lamb about Otis Chandler.
Steve, as we all know, is a massive auto fan and historian. At the age of 14 he attended an exhibit featuring a car owned by Chandler. Steve spotted an error in it just as the great man was arriving on the spot, earning Chandler's gratitude. Nearly 25 years later Steve is at another exhibit of classic cars when who should sidle up to him but Chandler - who clearly remembered Steve despite the passage of years, a little extra weight round Steve's girth and a major transference of hair from the top of his head to his chin! It said a great deal about Chandler's attention to detail.
Otis Chandler is long gone, but this was the week for remembering the death only a few days ago of the comedian George Carlin at 71. I never saw his shows, but the clips televised since he died have very much the feel of Scotland's Billy Connolly - irreverent, saying the unsayable, breaking taboos on swearing. I don't know whether Carlin was the first, or if Lenny Bruce or someone else beat him to it, but they have certainly spawned a comedy genre that did not exist in gentler times and is miles away from the smutty innuendo of Max Miller.
Like Connolly, Carlin was as much a social commentator as a comedian, for much of his act consisted of making serious points in a funny way about genuine social or political problems, be it gun law or Iraq. One of his favourite targets was the fraudulent preachers who make themselves rich from scaring gullible believers and offering them catchpenny solutions to their problems. But Carlin's starting point is that of an atheist: if it turns out that some sort of god does actually exist, those pulpit scam artists might have been handing out useful advice. Similarly on the political front, like nearly all modern comedians Carlin started from a heavily left-wing standpoint, for that where most of the good jokes come from.
Not that there is any lack of political targets or ammunition, in the dying days of what is coming to be agreed is one of the worst presidencies the US has had to endure. As Bush has boasted, he is living proof that you can be a C-grade student and still make it to the top. Mind you, it helps if your father was also President and can buy you into Harvard.
While I am sure Jeanette does not entertain such uncharitable thoughts, she was buzzing with political talking points after her 1,000-strong national convention of the League of Women Voters in Portland, Ore, last week.
Healthcare was a major topic, with a focus on Japan's and even Switzerland's systems alongside the British National Health Service so cleverly extolled by Michael Moore in his film Sicko! As defenders of the US status quo love to point out, all the foreign schemes have flaws, but none lets a patient go bankrupt. I recently read an investment analyst's report claiming that healthcare is on track to absorb 25% of US GDP by 2025, compared with the present and already bloated 16%. I sense that we are getting close to something radical being done about the problem.
Perhaps Jeanette, and Steve for that matter, will soon have their very own global soapbox right on their doorstep in Alatadena, for Ian was telling us about how the owner of the Coffee Gallery has equipped the upper rooms with a state-of-the-art multimedia studio capable of producing top-class professional TV shows and even films.
Ian sees the potential of this facility for him to maybe make a TV version of his Wednesday internet radio show for Luxuriamusic.com, but the possibilities are enormous. And if the Coffee Gallery can lay on such a studio, why not other property owners in the area? Maybe the area is about to be transformed into another Hollywood! Ian and Steve could have their faces on a Walk of Fame down North Lake...
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Are you shorter than the rest of us, Bill, or are you just slouching?
I just want to write a two-reeler, and then make it
Some people aren't tipping enough - and we know who they are
I wish they could bring the Red Line back again
Do you remember Richard Murdoch? no relation to Rupert
Maybe Phil Spector will come and see the Wrecking Crew documentary
Caltech and the houses to the east were built on a swamp
I just want to be remembered for who I am - but who am I?
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Banana Beat
Bob, Ian, Regina, Jim, Bobb, Bill, Lynne, Barbara, Glen, Ben, Steve G and Steve L.
After last night I have a strong suspicion that most of our Conrad's Monday night diners have a banana stuffed in their pocket (and there was me thinking they were pleased to see me).
It all started with innocent remarks about whether people preferred green or brown (ripe) bananas. Like Jack Spratt and his wife in the nursery rhyme, Barbara and Lynne like 'em ripe, while Bobb and Bill prefer them harder - happily our old pal Dr Freud couldn't be with us, or he would have had material for several learned tomes on phallic symbols, erections and other trivia.
That led naturally onto a debate on whether bananas should be cooked, and how. I am delighted to report that no one could cap Bill and Lynne's method, honed after extensive testing, of splitting them, barbequeing them until brown and adding brandy and whipped cream. Delicious!
Unusually, bananas were a subject that we could all agree on - Bobb even went so far as to declare "You don't need to eat anything else!". Strange then, that the long-suffering Javier rarely takes an order for banana - or do they taste better bought from a supermarket?
Bobb's remark was a strong contender for quote of the night, but that has to go to the other Bob, Birchard, with his world-weary but profound observation: "I don't buy the idea that reading one book is going to change anyone's psyche."
Bill got Bob onto the power of books by mentioning that another biography of Cecil B. DeMille has just appeared - to the rest of us at least, though it turned out that Bob has had a copy for some time and found it paid fulsome tribute to his own sterling effort.
That led on to a riveting account by Bob of the historic Directors' Guild board meeting of October 9, 1950, which he had been sent by an Australian PhD student.
It was about whether Hollywood directors should sign a loyalty oath to affirm that they were not communists, and featured an ego-soaked battle between DeMille and the guild's president, Joseph Mankiewicz. I dug up an excellent report of the saga on http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C0CE1DC1138F936A15752C0A96E958260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all. Maybe Bob should write a book on that extraordinary episode, with the advantage of 60 years' hindsight.
Ian entertained us with his new song, the Clap Clap Crew, a pointed attack on those film buffs who love to applaud their favorites' names when the credits roll, as if they were there like actors taking a bow on stage. Leading exponents: Will Ryan and Mary Mallory of our Conrad's group. The song caused much mirth, but it seemed that felt as strongly about this harmless if pretentious practice as Ian himself. But if it takes off it won't be the first song to change people's thinking.
The checks are coming earlier and earlier, landing on our laps at 7.32 pm - not sure if that was because Javier wanted to take his break, or just that Ian and Regina had to leave early. But, whatever the reason, there was a mass exodus at 7.45, leaving just Jim, Bill, Lynne, Bob and the two Steves.
But the talk wasn't finished. Steve G, who revealed his father had been a gardener for the legendary Harry Chandler in Arden Road, Pasadena, joined in a discussion over whether the department store is dead, or are we just witnessing the death throes of Macy's?
Everyone has childhood memories of being taken to department stores, but nowadays Macy's seems to defy financial gravity by requiring few customers and even fewer staff. They just aren't places to be seen in any more.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Barbara asked if the group has transmogrified - for the worse?
Regina not sure what to do in November, likes Mr Kipling lemon and almond slices, but meanwhile wants to be Rollo.
Steve L said that BMW was ruining Morgan and Bentley cars, and Volkswagen likewise with Rolls-Royces.
Ian told Jim he should collect old women - starting with Helen Shapiro!
The heavily tattooed Ben raised the question of why tattoos are becoming so popular? And why do porn stars like them so much?
After last night I have a strong suspicion that most of our Conrad's Monday night diners have a banana stuffed in their pocket (and there was me thinking they were pleased to see me).
It all started with innocent remarks about whether people preferred green or brown (ripe) bananas. Like Jack Spratt and his wife in the nursery rhyme, Barbara and Lynne like 'em ripe, while Bobb and Bill prefer them harder - happily our old pal Dr Freud couldn't be with us, or he would have had material for several learned tomes on phallic symbols, erections and other trivia.
That led naturally onto a debate on whether bananas should be cooked, and how. I am delighted to report that no one could cap Bill and Lynne's method, honed after extensive testing, of splitting them, barbequeing them until brown and adding brandy and whipped cream. Delicious!
Unusually, bananas were a subject that we could all agree on - Bobb even went so far as to declare "You don't need to eat anything else!". Strange then, that the long-suffering Javier rarely takes an order for banana - or do they taste better bought from a supermarket?
Bobb's remark was a strong contender for quote of the night, but that has to go to the other Bob, Birchard, with his world-weary but profound observation: "I don't buy the idea that reading one book is going to change anyone's psyche."
Bill got Bob onto the power of books by mentioning that another biography of Cecil B. DeMille has just appeared - to the rest of us at least, though it turned out that Bob has had a copy for some time and found it paid fulsome tribute to his own sterling effort.
That led on to a riveting account by Bob of the historic Directors' Guild board meeting of October 9, 1950, which he had been sent by an Australian PhD student.
It was about whether Hollywood directors should sign a loyalty oath to affirm that they were not communists, and featured an ego-soaked battle between DeMille and the guild's president, Joseph Mankiewicz. I dug up an excellent report of the saga on http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C0CE1DC1138F936A15752C0A96E958260&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=all. Maybe Bob should write a book on that extraordinary episode, with the advantage of 60 years' hindsight.
Ian entertained us with his new song, the Clap Clap Crew, a pointed attack on those film buffs who love to applaud their favorites' names when the credits roll, as if they were there like actors taking a bow on stage. Leading exponents: Will Ryan and Mary Mallory of our Conrad's group. The song caused much mirth, but it seemed that felt as strongly about this harmless if pretentious practice as Ian himself. But if it takes off it won't be the first song to change people's thinking.
The checks are coming earlier and earlier, landing on our laps at 7.32 pm - not sure if that was because Javier wanted to take his break, or just that Ian and Regina had to leave early. But, whatever the reason, there was a mass exodus at 7.45, leaving just Jim, Bill, Lynne, Bob and the two Steves.
But the talk wasn't finished. Steve G, who revealed his father had been a gardener for the legendary Harry Chandler in Arden Road, Pasadena, joined in a discussion over whether the department store is dead, or are we just witnessing the death throes of Macy's?
Everyone has childhood memories of being taken to department stores, but nowadays Macy's seems to defy financial gravity by requiring few customers and even fewer staff. They just aren't places to be seen in any more.
CAUGHT ON THE BREEZE
Barbara asked if the group has transmogrified - for the worse?
Regina not sure what to do in November, likes Mr Kipling lemon and almond slices, but meanwhile wants to be Rollo.
Steve L said that BMW was ruining Morgan and Bentley cars, and Volkswagen likewise with Rolls-Royces.
Ian told Jim he should collect old women - starting with Helen Shapiro!
The heavily tattooed Ben raised the question of why tattoos are becoming so popular? And why do porn stars like them so much?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Brief encounter
An extraordinary evening at Conrads last night, beginnning and ending earlier than ever - 5.30 to 8 pm, much to the understandable disgust of the last arrival, Andy, who barely had time to sit down before he found himself in sole charge of a table littered with the detritus of long-gone meals (he didn't stay, preferring other company than his own).
It all started, as so often, with Ian, who had to leave at 6.15 to play at the Steve Allen theater, so had to arrive at 5.30 and asked Will, Bill, Lynne and Edgar to keep him company. We were gradually joined by Jim, Bobb, Barbara, all-too-rare appearances from Mary Katherine, Joan and Steve G, and a debut from Jim's New Orleans-born highly successful writer friend, Jervy - now living in South Central. The result was a disjointed occasion, which can be no bad thing because it shakes the pot and encourages new conversations - as it did this time.
Ian was still recovering from a hernia operation the previous Wednesday, so he was making a noble effort to perform for a second night running after entertaining the diners at Cantalini's Italian restaurant in Playa del Rey. Mind you, Edgar later revealed that he had had two hernia operations on the same side, as the first hadn't worked properly.
But Ian was, despite his temporary disability, in fighting form. He reported his abrupt dismissal of a lunch invitation from the record producer Nigel Grainge, responsible for such notables as the Steve Miller Band and the Boomtown Rats, and a declared fan of Ian in his rock 'n' roll days.
Such flattery cut no ice with Ian, though, who has renounced his early chart success in favor of the gentler melodies of the 20s and 30s, and apparently told the hapless Grainge so in unmistakable terms. Some of us thought this a little rash in a town where networking is as vital as driving if you want to get around. As Bill mildly pointed out, Grainge might at least know someone more in tune with the latter-day Whitcomb.
Whether this had any effect or not, the following day Ian had what he described as an attack of conscience and emailed Grainge apologising for his outburst. I predict a rosy future for their relationship.
After Ian's departure for the bright lights and greasepaint, chat turned to the Presidential chances of John McCain and Barack Obama, now that the last of Hillary Clinton's gnarled fingers have been prised off the cliff's edge and the two men can turn their full attention to defeating one another.
That produced the surprise claim from Mary Katherine that only last Friday she had "met the president of the US". This was greeted with a wary silence as her audience tried to work out what this was leading up to, for it was generally agreed that she had not shake hands with George W. Bush. Our skepticism was justified, for she had bumped into the actor Martin Sheen. But, just as surprisingly, they are godparents of the same child and knew of one another without having met.
It was Mary Kathrine who began the early exodus, for the simple reason that she has to wake before five each morning to embark on her two-hour journey to Santa Monica. That sparked, first, an examination of Mary Kathrine's route options to see if we could reduce her commuting time (we couldn't, she had thought of all the variations we could come up with), and then a lamentation of the state of LA traffic as depicted that day in a feature in the Times.
Like, it seems, every major Times story this analysis was pegged to a case study: Aundraya Reliford, who travels two hours and 40 minutes each way every day, from Rialto in San Bernadino County to the Water Garden office complex in Santa Monica, via two car rides separated by a Gold Line Metro trip to Union Station.
Most telling were the statistics that the region's population grew by 22% between 1990 and 2006, and the number of miles driven is up 42% in that time, but highway capacity had increased by only 7.5%.
Over the years there have always been better things to do with taxpayers' money than to build new roads or rail lines, and the resulting squeeze is beginning to hurt. But at least the near-$5 a gallon gas price means that we will all economize on our car journeys from now on - won't we?
It all started, as so often, with Ian, who had to leave at 6.15 to play at the Steve Allen theater, so had to arrive at 5.30 and asked Will, Bill, Lynne and Edgar to keep him company. We were gradually joined by Jim, Bobb, Barbara, all-too-rare appearances from Mary Katherine, Joan and Steve G, and a debut from Jim's New Orleans-born highly successful writer friend, Jervy - now living in South Central. The result was a disjointed occasion, which can be no bad thing because it shakes the pot and encourages new conversations - as it did this time.
Ian was still recovering from a hernia operation the previous Wednesday, so he was making a noble effort to perform for a second night running after entertaining the diners at Cantalini's Italian restaurant in Playa del Rey. Mind you, Edgar later revealed that he had had two hernia operations on the same side, as the first hadn't worked properly.
But Ian was, despite his temporary disability, in fighting form. He reported his abrupt dismissal of a lunch invitation from the record producer Nigel Grainge, responsible for such notables as the Steve Miller Band and the Boomtown Rats, and a declared fan of Ian in his rock 'n' roll days.
Such flattery cut no ice with Ian, though, who has renounced his early chart success in favor of the gentler melodies of the 20s and 30s, and apparently told the hapless Grainge so in unmistakable terms. Some of us thought this a little rash in a town where networking is as vital as driving if you want to get around. As Bill mildly pointed out, Grainge might at least know someone more in tune with the latter-day Whitcomb.
Whether this had any effect or not, the following day Ian had what he described as an attack of conscience and emailed Grainge apologising for his outburst. I predict a rosy future for their relationship.
After Ian's departure for the bright lights and greasepaint, chat turned to the Presidential chances of John McCain and Barack Obama, now that the last of Hillary Clinton's gnarled fingers have been prised off the cliff's edge and the two men can turn their full attention to defeating one another.
That produced the surprise claim from Mary Katherine that only last Friday she had "met the president of the US". This was greeted with a wary silence as her audience tried to work out what this was leading up to, for it was generally agreed that she had not shake hands with George W. Bush. Our skepticism was justified, for she had bumped into the actor Martin Sheen. But, just as surprisingly, they are godparents of the same child and knew of one another without having met.
It was Mary Kathrine who began the early exodus, for the simple reason that she has to wake before five each morning to embark on her two-hour journey to Santa Monica. That sparked, first, an examination of Mary Kathrine's route options to see if we could reduce her commuting time (we couldn't, she had thought of all the variations we could come up with), and then a lamentation of the state of LA traffic as depicted that day in a feature in the Times.
Like, it seems, every major Times story this analysis was pegged to a case study: Aundraya Reliford, who travels two hours and 40 minutes each way every day, from Rialto in San Bernadino County to the Water Garden office complex in Santa Monica, via two car rides separated by a Gold Line Metro trip to Union Station.
Most telling were the statistics that the region's population grew by 22% between 1990 and 2006, and the number of miles driven is up 42% in that time, but highway capacity had increased by only 7.5%.
Over the years there have always been better things to do with taxpayers' money than to build new roads or rail lines, and the resulting squeeze is beginning to hurt. But at least the near-$5 a gallon gas price means that we will all economize on our car journeys from now on - won't we?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
An ishoo of life and death, or not
Ian, Jim, Steve L, Jeanette, Barbara, Bobb, Bill, Lynne, Edgar, Bob, Sue and the ever-late Andy.
"Pull out Betty, pull out! You've hit an artery!" exclaimed Barbara Watkins's t-shirt last night and, although it captioned two blood-sucking bugs sitting on someone's arm, it symbolised an evening of conversation that always threatened to hit a metaphorical artery but just pulled out in time.
Age is a constant preoccupation of such a gathering, if only because the winding-sheet hovers behind so many of their chairs, kept one step behind by work, exercise and mental agility. One trip or stumble, though, and the final whistle could blow.
So when anyone short of 100 dies they are now deemed youngsters snatched away far too soon. And if, like retired rocker Bo Diddley they are unseemly enough to fall on their sword as early as 79 the tut-tuts soon echo around Conrad's lounge bar.
Diddley's death called for a check of everyone's ages around the table, as if, just by examining the clocks, they could be stopped or even turned back. But no, yet again Jeanette Lamb came out youngest at just 50 - a baby, a baby, for heaven's sake! And when we discovered that Javier, our agile waiter, admitted to only 35 it hardly seemed fair.
It's a perennial issue, though, and mention of that fashionable word sent Ian off on a rant against the word "issue". "People don't say they've got backache any more," he lamented, "they say they've got an issue with their back. It's ridiculous!" As if to confirm his view I turned to the London Daily Mail website this morning and saw that I should call a certain phone number if I "had issues with accessing" any pages. It's a verbal plague, like viable, y'know and many other stock cliches before it. Tony Benn, the left-wing British politician who renounced an hereditary peerage, has been singlemindedly responsible for the issues rash, or Isshhooos as he calls it in his impeccable English public-school accent. "Politics is all about the isshhoos, not the personalities," he would say in as fine a piece of rubbish as I've ever heard. Of course the personalities are important, because they have to deal with the issues and voters need to know if they have the temperament to handle them.
Another issue worthy of a campaign is all the reels of film and video that went up in flames at Universal Studios on Sunday. The party line from the company is that nothing was really lost because it is all duplicated elsewhere.
However, it turns out that many of those prints may be too expensive to reprint because there will not have a commercial justification. This was disclosed by Bob Birchard, who is busily amassing his schedule for his Cinecon season at the end of August, and relies heavily on prints from the big studios.
"I was expecting nine from Universal," he said, "but I don't know how many I'll get now." So the party line was a convenient oversimplification and some valuable cinematic history may be effectively lost.
Another issue: egg cups and alarm clocks, which have also been effectively lost in southern California, unless you are willing to spend hours hunting through flea markets and other havens of times past. But they are much beloved of Brits and anglophiles as a throwback to an earlier, simpler era.
The deathless subject of Britain v America, which comes up at least once every Monday, sparked a vigorous debate on the merits of tooba v tyuba, address v ADDress, and the origins of "cock a snook" (no one knows, according to google). I certainly didn't realise that Americans address something but live at an ADDress. How odd. And they say tooba but are banned from going to Cyooba.
By Conrad's standards it wasn't a big leap to go from English pronounciation to English colonial rule so that Steve could blame the Brits for Mugabe's ruination of Zimbabwe. But in truth the ruinous slide only began after Britain surrendered the colony. Same in India - and, of course, in the rebellious, truculent United States to the point where is unruled by the universally disowned George Bush. Time for a return to benign British colonial rule the world over: think how many United Nations pen-pushers we could get rid of!
Saying of the evening, from Steve: She's a high llama chick. At least, I think that was it. Or is my hearing going? Anyway, never did get an explanation...
"Pull out Betty, pull out! You've hit an artery!" exclaimed Barbara Watkins's t-shirt last night and, although it captioned two blood-sucking bugs sitting on someone's arm, it symbolised an evening of conversation that always threatened to hit a metaphorical artery but just pulled out in time.
Age is a constant preoccupation of such a gathering, if only because the winding-sheet hovers behind so many of their chairs, kept one step behind by work, exercise and mental agility. One trip or stumble, though, and the final whistle could blow.
So when anyone short of 100 dies they are now deemed youngsters snatched away far too soon. And if, like retired rocker Bo Diddley they are unseemly enough to fall on their sword as early as 79 the tut-tuts soon echo around Conrad's lounge bar.
Diddley's death called for a check of everyone's ages around the table, as if, just by examining the clocks, they could be stopped or even turned back. But no, yet again Jeanette Lamb came out youngest at just 50 - a baby, a baby, for heaven's sake! And when we discovered that Javier, our agile waiter, admitted to only 35 it hardly seemed fair.
It's a perennial issue, though, and mention of that fashionable word sent Ian off on a rant against the word "issue". "People don't say they've got backache any more," he lamented, "they say they've got an issue with their back. It's ridiculous!" As if to confirm his view I turned to the London Daily Mail website this morning and saw that I should call a certain phone number if I "had issues with accessing" any pages. It's a verbal plague, like viable, y'know and many other stock cliches before it. Tony Benn, the left-wing British politician who renounced an hereditary peerage, has been singlemindedly responsible for the issues rash, or Isshhooos as he calls it in his impeccable English public-school accent. "Politics is all about the isshhoos, not the personalities," he would say in as fine a piece of rubbish as I've ever heard. Of course the personalities are important, because they have to deal with the issues and voters need to know if they have the temperament to handle them.
Another issue worthy of a campaign is all the reels of film and video that went up in flames at Universal Studios on Sunday. The party line from the company is that nothing was really lost because it is all duplicated elsewhere.
However, it turns out that many of those prints may be too expensive to reprint because there will not have a commercial justification. This was disclosed by Bob Birchard, who is busily amassing his schedule for his Cinecon season at the end of August, and relies heavily on prints from the big studios.
"I was expecting nine from Universal," he said, "but I don't know how many I'll get now." So the party line was a convenient oversimplification and some valuable cinematic history may be effectively lost.
Another issue: egg cups and alarm clocks, which have also been effectively lost in southern California, unless you are willing to spend hours hunting through flea markets and other havens of times past. But they are much beloved of Brits and anglophiles as a throwback to an earlier, simpler era.
The deathless subject of Britain v America, which comes up at least once every Monday, sparked a vigorous debate on the merits of tooba v tyuba, address v ADDress, and the origins of "cock a snook" (no one knows, according to google). I certainly didn't realise that Americans address something but live at an ADDress. How odd. And they say tooba but are banned from going to Cyooba.
By Conrad's standards it wasn't a big leap to go from English pronounciation to English colonial rule so that Steve could blame the Brits for Mugabe's ruination of Zimbabwe. But in truth the ruinous slide only began after Britain surrendered the colony. Same in India - and, of course, in the rebellious, truculent United States to the point where is unruled by the universally disowned George Bush. Time for a return to benign British colonial rule the world over: think how many United Nations pen-pushers we could get rid of!
Saying of the evening, from Steve: She's a high llama chick. At least, I think that was it. Or is my hearing going? Anyway, never did get an explanation...
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