Much as aficionados of futuristic novels abbreviate the genre appellation applied to their favorite reading material from Science Fiction to Sci-Fi, it was my practice many years ago to shorten the name of my favorite food from Pork Fried Rice to Po’ Fri-Ri; an affected vocal convention that not only satisfactorily limited the unwelcome pronunciation of harsh consonants, but also mimicked – amusingly I believed, back then, in my apparently Oswald Mosely admiring days - the manner in which the wait staff employed by the red and gilt citadels of Eastern cuisine I frequented in those days spoke the name of the side dish under negotiation by myself and they.
Obviously, later, when I had matured as a person and the true moronic weight of what I was saying had dawned upon me, it was too late to change my ways since, horribly, the pronunciation I have described had developed into an unconscious and unalterable habit. And so today I just ask for a “number 317 with duck sauce” instead, since I cannot trust myself to order properly.
What do we learn from this sorry tale:
1. I’m pretty sure it was just the black fencing tunic that I liked.
2. And even if I owned one it would be completely covered in duck sauce stains by now and therefore completely unwearable.
3. Clinton is not the first politician to have written an autobiography called “My Life”. Nor, sadly, probably the last either.
4. I am adopting more of a Marxist-Leninist-Maoist stance in restaurants, as I get older.
Your Po' Fri-Ri confession brings to mind my misspent youth. In elementary school we wore "dago-tees," played "smear the qu**r," and after said person was smeared everyone jumped on top to form a "ni**er pile". This was mid-eighties suburban Chicago, mind you. We had no idea what was being said. Imagine if you walked by a schoolyard today and you heard the little creatures screaming these things at the top of their lungs. It wasn't until college that I realized what "dago-tee" referred to. For shame.
Posted by: The Misspent Life | June 28, 2004 at 19:25