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September 29, 2007
John Wilcock - September 29, 2007

 

  The column of lasting insignificance
     


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2011
November 26 2011
November 19, 2011
November 12, 2011
November 5, 2011
October 29, 2011
October 22, 2011
October 15, 2011
October 8, 2011
October 1, 2011
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April 2, 2011
March 26, 2011
March 19, 2011
March 12, 2011
March 5, 2011
February 26, 2011
February 19, 2011
February 12, 2011
February 5, 2011
February 5, 2011
January 29, 2011
January 22, 2011
January 15, 2011
January 6, 2011

2010
December 25, 2010
December 18, 2010
December 11, 2010
December 4, 2010
November 27, 2010
November 20, 2010
November 13, 2010
November 6, 2010
October 30, 2010
October 23, 2010
October 16, 2010
October 9, 2010
October 2, 2010
September 25, 2010
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May 8, 2010
May 1, 2010
April 24, 2010
April 17, 2010
April 10, 2010
April 3, 2010
March 27, 2010
March 20, 2010
March 13, 2010
March 6, 2010
February 27, 2010
February 20, 2010
February 13, 2010
February 6, 2010
January 30, 2010
January 23, 2010
January 16, 2010
January 9, 2010
January 2, 2010

2009
December 26, 2009
December 19, 2009
December 12, 2009
December 5, 2009
November 28, 2009
November 21, 2009
November 14, 2009
November 7, 2009
October 31, 2009
October 24, 2009
October 17, 2009
October 10, 2009
October 3, 2009
September 26, 2009
September 19, 2009
September 12, 2009
September 5, 2009
August 29, 2009
August 22, 2009
August 15, 2009
August 8, 2009
August 1, 2009
July 25, 2009
July 18, 2009
July 11, 2009
July 4, 2009
June 27, 2009
June 20, 2009
June 13, 2009
June 6, 2009
May 30, 2009
May 23, 2009
May 16, 2009
May 9, 2009
May 2, 2009
April 25, 2009
April 18, 2009
April 11, 2009
April 4, 2009
March 28, 2009
March 21, 2009
March 14, 2009
March 7, 2009
February 28, 2009
February 21, 2009
February 14, 2009
February 7, 2009
January 31, 2009
January 24, 2009
January 17, 2009
January 3, 2009

2008
December 27, 2008
December 20, 2008
December 13, 2008
December 6, 2008
November 29, 2008
November 22, 2008
November 15, 2008
November 8, 2008
November 5, 2008
November 1, 2008
October 25, 2008
October 18, 2008
October 11, 2008
October 4, 2008
September 27, 2008
September 20, 2008
September 13, 2008
September 6, 2008
August 30, 2008
August 23, 2008
August 16, 2008
August 9, 2008
August 2, 2008
July 26, 2008
July 19, 2008
July 12, 2008
July 5, 2008
June 28, 2008
June 21, 2008
June 14, 2008
June 7, 2008
May 31, 2008
May 24, 2008
May 17, 2008
May 10, 2008
May 3, 2008
April 26, 2008
April 19, 2008
April 12, 2008
April 5, 2008
March 29, 2008
March 22, 2008
March 15, 2008
March 8, 2008
March 1, 2008
February 23, 2008
February 16, 2008
February 9, 2008
February 2, 2008
January 26, 2008
January 19, 2008
January 12, 2008
January 5, 2008

2007
December 29, 2007
December 22, 2007
December 15, 2007
December 8, 2007
December 1, 2007
November 24, 2007
November 17, 2007
November 10, 2007
November 3, 2007
October 27, 2007
October 20, 2007
October 13, 2007
October 6, 2007
September 29, 2007
September 22, 2007
September 15, 2007
September 8, 2007
September 1, 2007
August 25, 2007
August 18, 2007
August 11, 2007
August 4, 2007
July 28, 2007
July 21, 2007
July 14, 2007
July 7, 2007
June 30, 2007
June 23, 2007
June 16, 2007
June 9, 2007
June 2, 2007
May 19, 2007
May 12, 2007
May 5, 2007
April 28, 2007
April 21, 2007
April 14, 2007
April 7, 2007
March 31, 2007
March 24, 2007
March 17, 2007
March 10, 2007
March 3, 2007
February 24, 2007
February 17, 2007
February 10, 2007
February 3, 2007
January 20, 2007
January 13, 2007
January 6, 2007

2006
December 30, 2006
December 23, 2006
December 16, 2006
December 9, 2006
December 2, 2006
November 25, 2006
November 18, 2006
November 11, 2006
November 4, 2006
October 28, 2006
October 21, 2006
October 14, 2006
October 7, 2006
September 30, 2006
September 23, 2006
September 16, 2006
September 9, 2006
September 2, 2006
August 26, 2006
August 19, 2006
August 12, 2006
August 5, 2006
July 29, 2006
July 22, 2006
July 15, 2006

 

 


September 29, 2007

      SOME MORE VERY OLD STUFF
  (from John Wilcock’s The Village Square;  Lyle Stuart,1961)

A colleague of mine was typing some editorial copy about North Carolina gardens, recently, and he accidentally made “dogwood” into “dogwoof.”  Meaningful typos like this always remind me of the legendary ones of the newspaper business—you’ve probably heard most of them—about the newspaper that called somebody “a defective in the local police force” and later ran an apology saying they had meant “a detective in the local police farce.”

It was probably the same paper that referred to a retired Army officer who lived nearby as “a bottle-scarred veteran” and then ran a correction amending it to “battle-scared."

Probably the most famous typo of all time is the one attributed to the London Times.  In this possibly apocryphal fable, the Times had been reporting the occasion when Queen Victoria officiated at the opening ceremonies for London Bridge.  “And then,” it said, “with flags and bunting flying and to the cheers of the assembled multitude, Her Majesty cut the tape and pissed majestically over the bridge”.

+++++++++++++++

A guy I know with plenty of time on his hands has a system for what he calls “taking the guess work out of the blind-date bit.”  It’s a pretty simple operation, consisting simply of taking your pick of other people’s blind dates. The most popular spots where strangers agree to meet, it seems, are outside the main branch of the New York Public Library, beside the Washington Square Arch, under the clock at the Biltmore, and by the information booth in Grand Central Station.  At any of these places and many others, says my friend, pretty girls will always be waiting, with at least a few of them waiting for men they’ve never met.

     “I look them over carefully whenever I want a date,” my informant explains, “and I pick out the ones who are obviously waiting for blind dates.  Somehow you can always tell; they seem more apprehensive.  Anyway, I choose the nicest-looking girl and, approaching very nervously, I say:  ‘Excuse me but are you…?—always letting the sentence trail off.

     “She’ll invariably smile and finish it for me.  Then next comes the time when you must listen very carefully, because she’ll usually counter with: ‘Oh, you must be---?’  And you have to be very attentive, because that will tell you what your name is, or anyway what it’s supposed to be.

      “Naturally you’ll make a mistake occasionally, but so long as you remember to be charming and a little shy, and to apologize and leave when you’re obviously not going to get away with it, you’ll find there’s scarcely any risk at all.”

     (Incidentally, if you want to invest in a white carnation for your buttonhole, that’s fine, but you don’t really need it.  Research has proved that the most common identification symbol among blind dates is a New Yorker magazine tucked under the arm.)

     Once the contact has been made and the conversation is under way, my friend suggests all that’s needed are a few remarks like:  “Gee, you’re much prettier than I expected” or “Excuse me if I seem a little nervous but I’ve never done this before.”

      “By following developments pretty closely,” he adds, “you can usually bluff your way through.  But if she suddenly asks a question that throws you, or seeks information about some mutual friend that you have never met, I’ve always found a good way to play for time is to say:  ‘Well, let’s go have a coffee and we’ll talk about it.’  Once you get that far, you can even afford to be honest with her.  You’d be amazed how easy it is to salvage the date as long as you can convince her how much better you are than the man she was supposed to meet.”

  +++++++++++++++

George Q. Lewis is a softhearted, stage-struck scriptwriter whose hobby is running an amateur-talent studio on West 46th Street where aspiring comedians practice their craft.  Most of their jokes aren’t very funny, but they’re trying (no pun intended).

The trouble is, says George, he has plenty of comics (15—count ‘em—15), but audiences are understandably sparse.  He’s tried taking his funny men to army camps and hospitals, but such captive audiences have a tendency to be indiscriminately approving.  (“They act like it’s Marilyn Monroe they’re watching,” says Lewis, with some bewilderment.)

So now the comic’s friend has a new plan.  He wants to present live talent on the New York subway.  “Stand-up comics”—the ones that present continual strings of one-liners—are the type he thinks would be most suitable.  “On some express routes there’s as much as ten minutes between stops,” he says.  “That’s long enough for most comedy routines.”

Lewis wrote to Transit Commissioner Charles Patterson with the idea, but Patterson’s reply was noncommittal.  Said he’d think it over.  “If he wants to get passengers back onto the subways, here’s a good way to do it,” says Lewis.  “And if it was successful, maybe we could find enough comics to extend it to the commuter trains.”

It sounds like a good way to keep things moving—especially the passengers.

++++++++++++++++++

I don’t know why people always sound so disparaging when they refer to “a typical Village girl.”  The sort of chick I visualize as a typical Village girl is pretty cute, and when I can find one she’ll suit me fine.

She has long hair, just like people say, because girls should have long hair.  (As far back as I can remember, the girls I’ve liked have had long hair and they’ve almost always been washing it when I called to ask for a date).  She lives in a comfortably decorated walk-up that, like as not, she converted with her own hands; sure, there are sling chairs and a big divan with bright cushions and a poster advertising Manolete’s appearance in Sevilla and Malraux’ Voices of Silence, which she’s never read, on the bookshelves. But the place looks untidy and yet neat at the same time, if you know what I mean.  It takes a Village girl to work a trick like that.

This girl, I guess, works uptown though she paints or acts or writes on the side.  She likes cooking and conversation and she’s pretty alert in the sense that she doesn’t miss any of the minor developments in our daily round.  When she finds herself in a strange neighborhood she’s interested in what records are to be found in the jukebox—not necessarily anxious to play them, mark you; just interested—and she understands, though I don’t, why people like myself have a compulsion to stay awake so late.  (I once seriously considered compiling a list of girls I could call up around midnight and just talk to).

She’s intelligent and not highbrow, this Village girl, and she can’t pass a dog in the street without wanting to pat it, and she likes wandering around and chatting and drinking beer and, of course, loves me madly, and where the hell is she?

                John Wilcock is currently visiting Bermuda

09/22/07

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