The stage fright paradox

Long-time readers know that in addition to being a writer, I also have some background as an actor and, for the last couple of years have been doing improv. I originally got into acting bass-ackwards in college. My first semester, one of my professors found out I played keyboards, and asked if I’d be in the ensemble for a musical another professor was directing. I agreed, did the show, and had a great time, plus made a lot of friends in the theater department. The next semester, I was invited to the theater department intro meeting and those friends dared me to audition for the show right after the meeting. I did, figuring no way in hell would I get cast.

I got cast, then went on to become a theater minor, doing a few more shows and directing some and really enjoying it. Plus, it was a good experience to help my playwriting ambitions, and here’s advice I’d give to any aspiring playwright: Even if you think you’d suck at it, act in a stage play at least once. It’ll make you a better writer because you’ll understand what actors have to go through to bring your words to life.

As for the improv, it was one of those things I’d always loved to watch but the idea of doing it scared the crap out of me. Then the chance to actually learn it from brilliant teachers came up, and I figured, “Okay. I’ll either totally suck and it’ll justify my fear of doing it, or I’ll get over that fear and have some fun.”

Option two ensued, and now, instead of it scaring the crap out of me, I live to do some improv onstage — which led to another really interesting realization recently. But first… some background.

What do you think is the most common fear among people? Death? Spiders? Heights? Germs? Snakes? Nope. Time after time, surveys show that the most common fear humans have is… public speaking! (Insert dramatic chipmunk music.)

That’s right. Most people would rather die, kiss a tarantula, walk on the ledge of a skyscraper, lick a sidewalk, or make friends with a boa, than get up in front of their fellow humans and talk. And that’s just weird. Well, at least it is to me.

Full disclosure: My three big phobias are death, amusement park rides with long vertical drops, and being the cousin who draws the short straw in the “Go with Nana to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve” contest. (You fuckers… next year!)

So there’s the context. I have no fear of public speaking or going on stage and performing. But I recently realized something even weirder: The more people there are in the audience, the better. It’s almost like that many faces looking back at me from the dark just makes my brain lock into some weird super-focused zone. The more people there are watching, the more chances I’ll take — and that is exactly what we’re supposed to do in improv. Make bold choices, take big chances.

For some reason, it also makes me spin off into characters that aren’t me — something I have trouble doing with small houses — as well as get emotionally connected and crazy in a scene. Again, what I should be doing, but what it takes that extra set of eyes to get going.

And it’s something I never would have suspected I could have done before I took the chance and started studying improv (which scared the hell out of me, remember?) in the first place. And making up characters and lying is something I’ve done in this article, if you’d like to go three paragraphs up and drop one phobia from that list.

Yes, that’s right. What do improvisers do? Get up on stage and lie to people convincingly. And the bigger the crowd we can lie to, the better. It’s kind of like how believing in fairies resurrects Tinker Bell. The more the merrier and all that. Although it does make me wonder whether politicians become consummate liars precisely because they have large audiences.

I asked some fellow performers, and they all seemed to agree: When it comes to audience size, the more the merrier, especially if they don’t know the people in the audience. One friend told me, “I find it more enjoyable for me as a performer when there is a larger audience rather than… small,” adding that an audience of strangers can be easier, because “In front of strangers there are no expectations and they can be surprised; whereas in front of friends, they already expect you to be funny or do something weird.”

I can definitely relate to that one. If I don’t know the people watching I actually feel more comfortable because I’m coming at them as a blank slate. They don’t know who I really am or what I really sound like, so I can ratchet up the characters and voices and such. Another thing I’ve found is that the bigger the house the better, as in theater size. The largest house I’ve ever performed for was at the L.A. Theater Center downtown, to a capacity crowd of maybe three or four hundred, and, surprisingly, every ounce of anxiety or stage fright just disappeared. Another friend concurred on that, saying that it’s “easier to perform in a large house with strangers. The audience feels more removed. It makes it easier for me to escape into the world of the play. In a small house, I can see and hear everything from the audience. It’s very distracting to me.”

Not everybody agreed to the large house theory, though, and one of my fellow improvisers split the difference, preferring a medium house. “A house with a dozen or fewer seems to suck the energy right out of the room. A house with more than a hundred seems to disburse the energy in a million directions.” They also didn’t preclude friends, although with a qualification: “It’s harder for me to perform in front of other performers; I feel like I’m under scrutiny. It’s much easier to perform in front of non-performing friends. I feel like they’re there to support.”

My sentiments were perfectly echoed in one other comment, though: “I love performing for strangers. I can really let go of ‘me’ and be a larger character.” Yep. Give me that room full of strangers, and I will get so large it scares even me. In a good way.

One other improviser put is nicely: “I prefer performing for strangers. There’s less consequence and no grudge match I have to deal with afterwards if they tell me they loved or hated the show.” I’ve experienced the same thing as a playwright, and I remember one fascinating conversation after a short play of mine, when I got into a discussion with an audience member who didn’t know who I was and who started ripping specifically on my piece. I could see my friends out of the corner of my eye ready to dive in and pull me off lest I started beating his ass, but to me it was actually very helpful and not at all an insult to hear a stranger speak honestly about their reaction to my work because they didn’t know it was mine. It was clearly just a matter of my piece was not a fit for his taste, and there’s nothing I can do about that, after all. Right? It’s like my utter disdain for gory horror movies. A lot of people like them. I don’t. My dislike doesn’t mean they’re crap. It just means they’re not my cup of tea.

Exception: Theatre of Blood with Vincent Price and Diana Rigg, but that film is so classy that it transcends the genre. But I do digress…

One other notable comment from one of my respondents, regarding pre-show angst: “Much of that anxiety goes away once I’m on the stage,” and I have to agree. Actually, almost everything bad goes away once I go on stage. Am I feeling nervous? Under the weather? Stressed? Angry? Insert negative emotion here… Yep. Stepping out of reality and into that other world tends to take away everything but the immediate relationship between fellow performers and the audience and it is wonderful.

Performing is really the best therapy in the world for all ailments physical and mental — and I’m not kidding. I’ve gone on stage with the flu, sprained joints, right after a nasty break-up, in the midst of a panic attack, and during or after who knows how many other setbacks and infirmities. And, in every case, as soon as the lights went up and the show started, bam! The thousand slings and arrows of the real world melt, thaw, and resolve themselves into art.

Nothing changes until we change it

You’ve probably never heard of Milton Slocum Latham unless you’re a serious California history nerd. I’d never heard of him until today, but I discovered him because I looked up a list of California governors. I did this because the Chief Justice of the California Supreme Court, Tani Cantil-Sakauye, announced that she was giving up her current party affiliation in order to become independent. I was curious as to which governor had put her on the court and who made her Chief Justice.

Note that I don’t really want to discuss partisan politics here. You can look up the particulars yourself. Suffice it to say that Cantil-Sakauye was appointed by a governor of her own party, then made chief justice by a governor from the other party. But what really caught my eye was going down that list of California governors and realizing that there have been a lot of tumultuous changes.

For one thing, a lot of governors served very short terms, and either resigned or were not re-elected or even nominated. This seemed particularly common in the 19th century, which makes sense considering that California came into the union in 1850 as a free state (i.e., slavery was illegal), but seemed to have a lot of Democratic governors around the time of the Civil War. And, if you’re not ignorant of history, you know that, at that time, the Democratic Party was mostly on the pro-slavery side while the Republicans were anti-slavery. This was before the great reversal of sides begun under FDR and completed while LBJ was president.

The first Republican governor of California was Leland Stanford — you might recognize his name from that little university in the northern part of the state. Elected in 1861, he only served one term at a time when the governor’s term was only two years. The law changed to double that term as soon as he left office, of course, although he did go on to serve as a U.S. Senator for California for eight years, until his death in 1893.

Stanford isn’t the only governor to have namesake places in the state. The city of Downey was named for the seventh governor, John Gately Downey, who, until Arnold Schwarzenegger, was the only governor of the state not born in the U.S. (he was Irish.) On the other hand, while it’s been claimed that Haight Street in San Francisco was named for Henry Huntly Haight, the tenth governor, that’s probably not true. This claim was first made in 1989, but the oldest mention of the street’s namesake, from 1916, says that it was probably named for Fletcher Haight, a local lawyer and district judge who, coincidentally perhaps, died the year before the other Haight became governor. And it does make sense. Governors tend to get things bigger than streets named after them.

But let’s get back to Milton Slocum Latham, the sixth governor of California, and the person to hold the singular distinction of having served the shortest term to date in that position: five days, from January 9, 1860 to January 14, 1860. He immediately preceded the aforementioned Governor Downey, by the way.

Now, why was Latham’s term so short? Did a scandal throw him out of office? Was his election invalidated, or did he pull a William Henry Harrison and drop dead? Perhaps he changed his mind and quit? Nope. None of the above, but definite proof that some things in politics never change.

See, just after Latham’s election, one of Calfornia’s Senators, David Colbreth Broderick, went and got himself killed in a duel that was most definitely related to the contentious issue of slavery, although Broderick was also apparently quite corrupt, and had made a fortune running San Francisco the same way that Tammany Hall (a thing, not a person) had run New York. All this makes me rather ashamed to admit that ol’ Brod and I have the same birthday. Dammit.

On the other hand, he was part of an attempted offshoot of the Democratic Party at the time, the Free Soil Democrats. They were the ones opposed to slavery expanding into the west. (Note: They were not necessarily anti-slavery. They just didn’t want it moving to other states.) After a little insult battle between Broderick and David S. Terry, a former California Chief Justice no less, the two met to duel. Broderick’s pistol anti-Hamiltoned and threw away its shot by firing as he drew and putting the bullet into the ground. Terry then nailed him in the right lung.

The duel happened six days after the general election that Latham won with 60% of the voters. That election was on September 7, 1859, the duel was September 13, and Broderick died on the 16th. So at least we can say Latham did not run with the intent of taking that senate seat, right?

That didn’t stop him once he was in office and, since this was back in the days when Senators were still appointed by their states instead of elected, Latham did a little wheeling and dealing, and the rest was rather dubious history.

He was not re-elected to a second senate term and died in 1882, in New York, at the age of 54.

But now to the point of this history lesson. There’s really nothing new in politics. Only the names of the people and parties and the methods through which information is exchanged evolve. I’m sure that Broderick’s duel and Latham’s gambit were covered in the newspapers and periodicals at the time, discussed in the private clubs, and propagated by telegraph.

And regardless of the parties involved, I think we can all agree that somebody being elected to one office only to lobby for a sudden vacancy in a higher office after less than a week shows heinous disregard for the people who elected them — especially when that election came with a 60% majority.

Yet we see this sort of thing all the time, as an elected official will suddenly start campaigning for an office higher up, sometimes right after they’ve been sworn in. It seems particularly bad with governors who want to run for senator or president, and senators who want to run for president, but it happens at all levels. I’ve seen city council members start to stump to become the next mayor less than halfway through their first term, mayors campaigning for governor once they’ve moved into city hall, and so on.

Now I have no objection whatsoever to an elected official wanting to work their way up the food chain. That’s how it should be. I just think that we need to make them take some time to do it, which is why I think we need a little adjustment to the law. Well two adjustments.

First, does anyone else think that it’s insane, in this day and age, that people elected to the U.S. House of Representatives serve only two years? In effect, this really means that any Rep is basically spending all of their term campaigning for their next election. The California gubernatorial term doubled from two to four years well over a century ago. We need to update the House of Reps to at least four years as well.

And, for that matter, why does the Senate get six? I can understand the idea of staggering those elections into three classes, like they are now, but why not four year terms for everyone, staggered into two classes, half elected every two years? Although, given recent behavior, it really should be flipped: House term of six years, Senate term of two. Just a thought.

But the real proposal is this one:

  1. No person newly elected for the first time to any position in the government of the United States or any of its states, counties, cities, or other political jurisdictions, shall seek, campaign for, file for, raise funds for the purpose of, or otherwise pursue, election to a different position within the aforementioned governmental jurisdictions prior to the completion of one (1) complete term to which they have been elected.
  2. Any incumbent elected official in any of the jurisdictions mentioned in §1 shall not seek, campaign for, file for, raise funds for the purpose of, or otherwise pursue, election to any different position within the government unless the term for which they would be newly elected begins on or after the date that their current term would normally expire according to applicable law. This exception does not apply to a first-term official in any capacity.
  3. None of the above restrictions shall apply to an elected official seeking to be re-elected to the same position they already occupy; nor to previously elected officials who are not currently in office for reasons other than impeachment, censure, or conviction of felonies; nor to an elected official who is not eligible to run for the same office again due to term limits.

I think those rules are fair all the way around. If you want the job, at least do it for what you contracted for. If you want to apply for another job, make sure it starts after this one ends. If you want to keep your job by reapplying, or go back to work after leaving, or are going to get laid off — then do what you want.

If your only purpose in running for office is to leap-frog your way to the top of the pile as quickly as possible for the sake of power, then we don’t need you in office. Milton Slocum Latham learned that lesson first hand. There’s also a very local and specific example from Los Angeles, but I won’t mention any names here. The important part is that, as with Latham, the voters figured it out and soon said “No.” But we really need to enshrine that automatic no into the law.

And that’s not really a political position one way or the other, since this really is a case of “both sides do it.” It’s just common sense, and another way to try to restore some sanity to our political system.

Never stop learning

When were you last in a classroom? Some of you probably still are, while some of you may not have been in one for years, outside of the inevitable parents’ night for your own kids.

Next question: When did you last learn something new that was not related to your job? And by “learn something new” I don’t mean picked up a new fun fact on the internet or heard some juicy gossip. I mean actually studied a skill or subject in an effort to master it.

If the answer to the second question is a longer time than the answer to your first, then I have some advice for you. You don’t need to be in a classroom to learn, and you shouldn’t stop learning new things just because you’re no longer in school.

Now, I know the excuses a lot of people probably have. Number one: “Learning new things is hard…” Number two: “Learning new things is too expensive!”

As for number one, it’s really not that hard at all. The only block is the thing you stick in your own way that says, “No, I can’t!” It’s called a self-fulfilling prophecy. But, you know what? Self-fulfilling prophecies are utter crap. They only stop you because you put them there. If you want to learn a thing, the only obstacle in this age is not lack of resources, it’s the lack of you trying.

Imagine if you’d had that response to learning to walk or talk. You’d still be stuck in the corner babbling incoherently and relying on your parents to carry you everywhere. Short of actual physical impediments to learning — e.g., a blind person is probably not going to become a photographer — the only impediment is the defeatism between your own ears.

Regarding the expensive part, that used to be valid. But even then, not really. There were and still are things called libraries, where anyone can have access to books and other materials (including audio and video) on any subject for free. And for the last 25 or so years, we’ve had this thing called the internet, which is the world’s biggest, vastest library. If you have access to that — and if you have a smart phone or computer, or if you’re reading this, then  you do — then all of the knowledge in the world is at your fingertips, and resources for what you want to learn are just as far away as a simple search.

Sure, some things cost money, but a lot don’t. Funny thing about humans — some of us who acquire knowledge love sharing it for the sake of passing it on. And if you’re already paying money for a streaming or music service, then you probably have access to videos and podcasts on your subject via those, so it’s really a free bonus included in an amount you’re already willing to fork over.

As for learning things way after school, I have a few examples. The earliest one was not long after school, but of necessity, because I no longer had professional IT people to help with computer issues. So I basically learned how to be a PC mechanic, and so have installed, built, rebuilt, repaired, rehabbed, recovered, and re-everythinged a ton of computers in my day.

One of my proudest moments, in fact, was when I figured out — without any manuals or guidance — how to internally rewire a keyboard that was designed for one system to be compatible with another. Of course, I don’t have any official certifications for any of this and, unfortunately, it’s one of those fields, like being a doctor or lawyer, where you really can’t just walk in and say, “Hey, I can do that!” and get a job. Oh, if it were, though…

But life and learning goes on, and here are two recent examples, long past the day they handed me my degree.

I’ve discussed both of them here frequently. One is relearning Spanish after having learned it and forgotten it in high school, and my only expense has been voluntary costs for Spanish language magazines and books I bought to study with or read, many of them gotten cheaply at a local used book store.

I’m currently a third of the way through my first novel in Spanish and, although it’s a translation of the English book Ready Player One, I’m really following it easily, and that’s not a cheat, because I haven’t seen the movie yet. And yeah, it’s a YA novel, but that’s probably my Spanish level at the moment anyway. Cool how that works out, right?

The other example is improv, which I’ve also discussed here. While I’ve always loved to watch it, I didn’t start to study it until about two years ago. I had never studied it because the mere idea of trying to do it scared the living feces out of me. What — go on stage without a script and just make stuff up? Yes, I’m a writer and an actor but writers take time with their words and actors get scripts and rehearsal. Throw both out and go there and… whaaaat? No. I thought I could never, ever do that. But the chance came up, so I took it. (Note: This part was not free, but the minimal cost has been worth it. Don’t negate my thesis over that, please.)

Anyway… trying to improv scared me through all of those early classes and into actually doing it weekly onstage. But then a funny thing happened. I let go of the fear and started having fun and, suddenly, improv became enjoyable, and the more I learned how to do it, the more I learned how to be myself. Ironically, the big secret was learning how to shut up my writer brain and let my body take charge. And this tapped into another skill I had avoided learning for way too long only to find out that I enjoyed it: Dancing. But that’s a whole other story.

But the same thing happened with Spanish. The more I just forgot about the little grammar Nazi in my head and just strung words together with abandon, the easier it got to speak, and letting people know that they could correct me if I got it wrong and agreeing to not take it personally just helped with the learning. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And probably the key point in learning a new thing is to never take correction personally. Unfortunately, a lot of teachers are bad at giving correction without making it personal (like every math teacher I ever had — a-holes!). But the best teachers give correction by suggestion or question. “That was great, but have you considered…?” “Amazing, but now let’s try it this way…”

Now, I’m not saying that you have to learn a language or improv, but what I am saying is this: No matter how old you are or how incompetent you think you might me (you’re not) pick a thing you would like to learn, and go take a shot at it. If you can’t afford lessons from the pros, don’t worry. You’ve probably got a local library and can find tons of instructional books. You can probably also find groups of willing volunteers who do the same thing and want to help. That thing can be… whatever. Quilting. Scrapbooking. Trainspotting. D&D. Gaming. Activism. Some sport. Fanfic. Cosplay. Improv. Please let it be improv… or playwriting. Yeah, I’m that kind of nerd.

But I love all kinds of nerds. And, full circle. The common thread, I think, about us nerds, is this: We never stop learning about whatever interests us. And we need to spread the word to the muggles, and it’s this: Never stop learning ever. Period. Full stop. Learning to humans should be like swimming to sharks: To stop is to die. Unfortunately, way too many people chose to die when, instead, they could really enjoy living.

Yo Ho NoHo…

I spend a lot of time in a part of Los Angeles known as NoHo in general, although the specific area I’m at is called the NoHo Arts District. I spend a lot of time there because I do improv at and work box office for ComedySportz L.A. and, if you’re so inclined, you can come on down and see me perform with the Rec League on a lot of Mondays except the 1st and 5th ones of the month, or catch shows on Friday through Sunday nights. It’s improv (think “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” except we’ve been around longer) done as a competitive sport with two teams and a referee. Unlike “Whose Line,” our points matter.

But end plug. The real point is that designation of NoHo, which I feel some personal attachment to. See, a long time ago in the dark ages of the 90s, and before the Metro opened the Red Line subway station right in the middle of the arts district, leading to its gentrification, nobody called it that. It was also one of those neighborhoods that you really didn’t want to be in after dark. It was rundown, dangerous, and scary.

It was also a place with cheap rent, so where a lot of student and starving artist types had reasonable apartments in sketchy surroundings. So when I wrote a play called “Straight to Heart,” about a gay man in an ill-advised attempt to seduce a straight co-worker, I used the word NoHo. Yes, it was a play on SoHo in New York (which is short for South of Houston), which was probably in imitation of Soho in London’s West End, which is short for… nothing. That’s its name.

It also made sense for the character to use since he (like I at the time) lived in West Hollywood, and that’s been referred to as WeHo at least back to it becoming a city in the 80s if not before. So it was a quick jump from WeHo to NoHo.

Now, when I used the term, it was meant as a dismissal of the place. The lead character replied to the question of what he knows about the object of his affection with, “He lives in some dump in NoHo, with a roommate.” I thought it was funny, but nobody at the time got it.

“Who calls it NoHo?” a director of one reading asked.

But, again, once the Metro Station opened, everything changed, and the Arts District in particular turned into a mini Broadway. I’ve performed in at least four theaters in the area between the Metro Station and the clusterfuck of an intersection where Lankershim and Vineland meet and Riverside turns into Camarillo,  and still perform in one of them regularly. My doctor’s office is across the street from the El Portal, where I do improv, and when you’re not seeing theater in the area, you can see a movie at the Laemmle theatre, walk through the sculpture garden at the Television Academy (home of the Emmys), visit the art galleries hiding everywhere, or dine at one of the many amazing restaurants, including The Federal (yummy garlic fries and great burgers) or Vicious Dogs. By the way, I don’t even like hotdogs, but I love the ones at Vicious, and they are ridiculously cheap. And good. If you come to L.A., forget about the highly overrated Pinks. This is the place to go.

So… why the love letter to NoHo, you may ask. Well, tonight as I was on the way to my box office shift, I noticed a banner on the elementary school that’s a block west of the theater. I’ve seen it a bunch of times — my photo is up top — but tonight that date really hit me. “Lankershim School, est. 1889.” Now, the El Portal Theater was built in 1926. It started out as a vaudeville house, then changed to a movie theater and, finally, wound up as a live theater with three performance spaces. I had thought it was one of the oldest buildings in the area. Yet here we were, with a school established 37 years earlier, and I couldn’t even begin to think of what was there at the time, so I had to look it up.

The answer was fascinating. Basically, it was a farming town created when somebody decided to divvy up part of their family’s land, so the school was meant for the children of those farmers. Two other buildings built at the time, and which are still standing, are the post office and train station. The school is a block away from the former which is across the street from the latter, although the train station is no longer a train station. The original building was refurbished to house a coffee shop next to the end of the Metro Orange Line, which is a busway that connects to the Metro Red Line subway, which began the whole process of recreating NoHo in the first place.

And, speaking of the name North Hollywood, here’s a fun fact for people who don’t know the area. Although it’s called North Hollywood, it’s actually not directly north of Hollywood at all. It’s north of West Hollywood, which actually is directly west of Hollywood. NoHo also doesn’t abut Hollywood, either. The towns of Valley Village, Toluca Lake, Studio City, and Universal City, plus a bit designated as Los Angeles but not Hollywood, are all in between.

It’s just over five miles from the heart of the NoHo Arts District to the hub of Hollywood, at Hollywood and Highland, as the crow flies, although driving it is longer, at up to eight miles, thanks to having to go through a canyon on a bit of a winding route. By subway, it’s only ten minutes, though, since the train blasts its way straight down Lankershim, and then under the mountains that divide the L.A. basin from the Valley.

Now as a native of L.A., I can tell you that it’s very unusual for really old stuff to survive despite the city itself having been founded in the 18th century. That’s because, if an earthquake doesn’t knock it over at some point, then we tear it down with reckless abandon. Yes, we do have some old landmarks, like the aforementioned school, post office, and train station, and Olvera Street and the old church next to it enshrine the place where the city was born. Our City Hall dates back to 1928, and the two missions here — San Gabriel and San Fernando — date back to the 1770s and 1790s respectively. In fact, the trail that missionaries followed to establish California missions, El Camino Real, is marked with mission bells on shepherds’ staves, and quite a lot of it is now the route of the 101. Yes, we do refer to our freeways like that — although we do not talk like the people in the clip. Sorry, New Yorkers can’t talk California at all.

But here’s the funny trade-off. While this city seems determined to keep on tearing down its physical history, at the same time we have given the world our cultural history through film and television. Look at most old movies, particularly the silent movies, and they have L.A. all over them. Buster Keaton once staged a cattle stampede through DTLA (that’s Downtown L.A.), although, at the time, that wouldn’t have been all that unusual, since the cattle trains coming west stopped at the future location of Union Station in the old stockyards, which is right across the street from the birthplace of the city, and the station itself opened in 1939. Laurel and Hardy or the Our Gang Comedies reek of L.A. locations, from Pasadena to Silver Lake. Sunset Boulevard is iconically L.A. in both location and story.

And yet… while the world outside of here thinks of all of that stuff coming from Hollywood, they’d be very wrong, because “Hollywood” as the center of entertainment is an illusion. Number of movie studios actually in Hollywood? Zero. L.A.’s entertainment industry is actually located mostly in Burbank, which you could call Northeast Hollywood, with offshoots in Culver City, Century City, Playa del Rey, and Universal City. For TV, it’s definitely mostly done in Burbank and the Valley, with outposts in Santa Clarita, which is another valley north of the Valley, and occasionally Marina del Rey, which is way down south near LAX on the west side. Porn? Mostly the San Fernando Valley.

Hollywood was always a scam and an illusion, mainly meant to keep tourists away from where the magic really happens. On the other hand, NoHo has evolved into a hotbed of creativity and sort of a Broadway West. If you want to see some real art happen, come on over. All of the talent of DTLA, none of the traffic or parking woes. You’ll be glad you did.

This message was not paid for by the NoHo Tourism Council, just penned from personal experience with the place, which has really grown on me over the years.

The French shooter

Sometimes, the differences in word origins between two languages is very telling. For example, what we call “a sniper” in English is referred to in other languages, particularly Spanish, Danish, and Swiss, as a “French shooter.” In Spanish, this is quite literal: un francotirador, with the “franco” part quite obviously meaning French, attached to the word “tirador,” which means shooter, derived from the verb “tirar,” to throw, the implication being that a shooter “throws” bullets.

So how did we wind up with such different and unrelated words between the continent and the British Isles? Simple: War and hunting.

Basically, French soldiers were very good at shooting things from very far away, and wound up using these skills to help other countries. Perhaps the earliest example comes from the Northern Seven Years’ War between Denmark and Sweden from 1563 to 1570, although interestingly enough they each had two words for it: friskytte/friskytt or snaphane/snaphan. Although neither is in the modern form of the language, the connections to “French shooter” and “sniper” should be obvious.

Francotirador landed in Spanish via the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71, during which the Prussians referred to the French soldiers picking them off from a distance as franc-tireurs and, other than the spelling and punctuation, it should be pretty obvious that this is pretty much the same thing as “French shooter.” From there, and especially in modern times, this old term has come to be used in Spanish-language media to refer to any kind of sniper.

And, as for the word snipe, it comes from Old English of the 13th or 14th century, and originally referred to people who were good at shooting down snipes, which were very fast-moving birds. And the word snipe itself comes from Old Norse — thank you Vikings! — meaning that the connection to the Danish and Swedish words is pretty much explicit.

All of this just puts a highlight on one unfortunate aspect of human history and linguistics: so many of the old words we still use can ultimately be traced back to war or hunting. Although, for some reason, the English language has also borrowed “French” as a descriptor for a lot of things, most of them involving sex: you’ve probably heard “French kiss” and “French tickler,” but there’s also “French letter” which, once upon a time, was a euphemism for condom, and “French postcards,” which were the kind of porn your great grandfathers used to look at.

You want French fries with that?

Un momentito de estando un gran empollón bilingüe – sin me culpas

Por demanda popular, una publicación corta en español… y en días subsecuentes, quizás trataré hacer más ejemplos. Pero, por ahora, ¡disfruta, por favor! Y, por siempre, corrígeme, p.f.

Me pregunto dos cosas sobre C3P0 de La Guerra Galáctica. Primer: Él se habla en alta voz a su mismo frecuentemente, pero ¿por qué sería necesario para un robot? ¿No existen ningunos métodos internos para comunicar, especialmente con un cerebro computarizado? Y también me pregunto por qué habla a su mismo en inglés, pero Anakin construyó C3P0 y en el mundo de las películas, los habitantes de Tatooine hablan inglés (en el universo, Aurebesh, pero es igual de la lengua franca del cualquier país en lo que la peli estrena), pero les doy esto cosa por gratis.

Segundo… en la precuela trilogía, C3P0 usa la frase “Es una pesadilla. ¡Una pesadilla!” Pues me pregunto, ¿por qué entiende o sabe un androide la idea de una pesadilla? No es ningún parte necesario de la programación, ni de sus habilidades. ¿Sueñan los androides? Creo que no. O, si sueñan, sería sólo sobre ovejas eléctricas. Pero es para tocar en otra franquicia.

Ups… les muestra la verdad… soy un empollón grande, ¡pero lo me da orgullo!

La versión inglesa… the English version

Due to popular demand, here’s a post in Spanish, and in upcoming days, I might try to do this more often. But, for now, please enjoy! And, as always, correct me, please.

I have two questions about C3P0 in Star Wars. The first is that he talks out loud to himself often, but why would he need to, since he’s a robot? Are there no internal methods of commicating, especially because he has a computer brain? And I also wonder why he talks to himself in English, although in-universe he was created by Anakin on Tatooine, where they speak English, which is the stand-in for Aurebesh, also used as the common language in whatever place the films premiered.

Second, in the prequel trilogy, C3P0 used the phrase, “It’s a nightmare! A nightmare!” But I wonder, how would an android understand or know about the idea of a nightmare. It’s not a necessary part of their programming, nor part of their abilities. Do androids dream? I think not, or, if they do dream, it would only be about electric sheep. But that is to touch on another franchise.

Oops… did I show you the truth? I am a gigantic nerd, but proud of it.

Words both common and not

Knowing other languages can teach us a lot about our own. Not only can common sources for words between our native and target languages help us learn vocabulary, but sometimes an unknown word in our target language can teach us a word we didn’t know in our native language. Here are examples of both.

One of the first sounds that a baby makes, regardless of culture or language exposure, is some sort of “Mmm,” usually associated with an “ah.” If you think about the human mouth for a second, this makes total sense. Close your mouth and try to exhale, and what sound do you make? Now open your lips mid-exhale, and what are the combined sounds?

Ma.

Once a baby realizes they can control the sounds they’re making, it’s a simple step to “mama,” and this sound refers to all things mother in so many different cultures and languages that it’s ridiculous. In Chinese and Japanese both, the word is pronounced mama, and you find very similar things in Zulu (umama), Thai (maaa), Punjabi (mami), and Irish Gaelic (mam). Even in Basque, which is said to be not related to any other known language, the word is ama.

Although less universal, in a lot of Western languages, the M sounds still holds when you get formal: mother, madre, Mutter, mère, mama, matka. And extending the concept via Latin into Romance languages, you find the official word for breasts coming from the same place: mammaries — which makes total sense if you keep in mind that one of a mother’s major functions after giving birth is to feed her child. And that’s true of any animal that is classified as… a mammal.

In case you were wondering where that term came from, ta-da!

I was reminded of this linguistic evolution when I ran across a story in La Opinión with the headline “Policía amamanta a bebé cuya familia sufrió un accidente.” The word that stuck out because I didn’t know it was amamanta, but in the context of the rest, I took a guess and then looked it up to find out that I’d been right. The infinitive form of the verb is amamantar, but if you get rid of the prefix, “a,” and the verb ending, “tar,” you’re left with maman. The prefix “a” is the Spanish word for “to,” but it is also often used when the direct object of a verb is a person, in which case it’s referred to as the “personal ‘a.’” (It even appears in the headline, right before the word bebé.) I won’t get into that here, except to say that affixing an “a” to a verb often means that the verb indicates that the subject is doing something for someone else.

If you haven’t guessed the meaning already, the rest of the sentence is talking about a police officer, and a baby whose family was in an accident. Think of the verb as “mothering-to,” and you can see how it means to breastfeed. The mammaries are right there in the word, so to speak. It just takes a little breaking down to get to them.

And then there are those cases where not knowing a word in our target language at all leads us to look it up only to find out that we don’t know the word in our native language, either. In my case, it was the Spanish word álgido, which I ran across recently. I couldn’t figure it out in context no matter how hard I tried, so resorted to looking it up, only to learn that the English word was… algid.

Okay, that was a new one to me, too. The form of the word in both languages told me that it was probably an adjective — many Spanish adjectives end in –ido/-ida or –ado/-ada because the past participle of the verb is often used that way, just as it is in English: he’s baked, you’re stoked, all the leaves are raked, and so on. Also, a lot of English adjectives end in –id, e.g. rigid.

Otherwise, guessing the meaning really didn’t help. Sure, a lot of Spanish words borrowed from Arabic start with “al,” like alfombra (carpet), or algodon (cotton). Even English got the word algebra from Arabic, but all that the “al” prefix means in Arabic is “the.” Compare this with the Spanish masculine the, “el,” so el algodon is technically redundant. And if you take the al off of álgido, all you’re left with is gido, which means nothing because the only logical verbs it could be derived from would be ger or gir, which do not exist.

And so looking up the translation for álgido in English led me to algid and taught me nothing, so I finally had to resort to an English dictionary, where I looked up the word, doubting that I wound find anything — except that I did. The words in both languages mean frozen or cold, and they come from the Latin word algidus, which means exactly the same thing. It came into English in the very early 17th century as a medical term, and since Latin was still all up the butts of academics and religious at the time, this is probably how it came into Spanish, too. The only difference was in how both languages liked to make their adjectives, so Spain went the –o/–a ending route, while English cut it short.

And there’s another English word that looks a lot like this one and means the same thing: Frigid. Ironically, this word also came into English from Latin, but about a generation before algid. Why one persisted in every day speech and the other didn’t is a mystery I’m not going to try to solve.

And yes, the word for frigid exists in Spanish, too — but I’ll bet you a quarter you can figure out what it is without me even telling you.