For instance, I know two things about President Buchanan, which is two more than most people, and that makes me look like I know something about American history. The only exceptions I know are my junior year history teacher and the Captain, who each provided 50% of what I know about the late James Buchanan. Then the Sacagawea dollar came out, and I had absolutely no idea who she was or why she was on money, much to the consternation of my then girlfriend. Generally I've never needed more than two because I discovered that there are two laws of financial economics, two laws of welfare economics, and really there are only two things you need to know to get the underlying basis of the whole discipline (scarcity and diminishing returns), and you really only need to know two tricky things to puzzle out all the associated calculus problems: the chain rule and the first derivative of natural log. There are many works in the English canon that I never read en route to my English degree, because the two things I knew about them were sufficient to muddle through an exam, and the two works I'd actually read in a semester were sufficiently fertile ground for deeper analysis. Like the time I read two essays: one about translating Ovid, the other about colonialism and language and culture, and turned it into a paper about metaphor and metonymy, which seemed original and daring because I focused it entirely on talking about women's breasts. (In my defense, the actual theorists I was quoting from each devoted a couple two pages of each essay to that subject, and those were the only pages I examined carefully.)
But anyways, there I was at a yacht club, with boats and people wearing those white captain's hats. When writing about that experience, it's difficult to avoid the temptation to turn into Tyler Brûlé, or at least his well-fed, less affluent, and significantly less traveled distant cousin. Not to mention a little more perspective... I'm only punchy because I miss Tyler Brûlé, pretentious accent marks and all, because his column Life in the Fast Lane was a good read. He was always mentally creating a new world in his own image, from the lego bricks he observed throughout the world, like combining little pieces of the world's train services (uniforms from Japan, service from Switzerland, equipment from Germany, meandering pointless routes from Amtrak, perhaps). One of his articles on the good and bad of Italy was intriguing, encouraging a nation known for design to focus on adding value through a quality and style worth paying for, over things that are slapped together in China before being nibbled over by rats in a cargo container for three months. And when you look at some of the fine things that have come out of Italy, like saltimboca or Monica Bellucci, it's all about the simple perfection, where everything is just so, everything just naturally falling into the right place, and all it takes to make somebody look like royalty is the right shade of blue. And one good idea can ruin it all, like when some joker from Val d'Aosta throws cheese over it.
M. Brûlé aside, I had a fantastic Easter brunch at the yacht club, nice fluffy Belgian waffles with fresh fruit, lobster ravioli, and particularly the mozzarella, tomato and mushroom omelet made by an overstressed chef. Personally I thought he could have relaxed a little bit instead of snapping at everybody for not getting his self-service omelet ingredient selection procedure. I suspect he gave up being an overstressed asshole for Lent and had to make up for four weeks of ulcer-building frustration. I think he could have directed all that energy into improving the lobster ravioli, which I found a bit disappointing, but that could be because it was more or less my third meal without getting up and walking any farther than the buffet line.
In addition to the food I got to share my two yachting references that I use whenever I need to show a polite interest in boating. The first is the probably well known fact that the trick of boats is to never own one yourself, but just to cozy up to people who do. That way you get to enjoy the invigorating sea air, and somebody else will tell you which rope to haul on so you get to say “Aye, aye!” and feel all salty. It's the same deal as having a friend with access to a cattle ranch, five minutes of feeding and watering cows and I certainly feel all rough, even after getting outsmarted by a calf who pinned me against a fence while blissfully munching down a bucket of grain. (No cowboy boots, though, this ain't Calgary and I'm not an oilman with mommy issues.) The way I move past common knowledge and trick people into thinking I know more than I do is with something simultaneously practical and exotic (which I actually just overheard at a dinner party from somebody who actually owned a sailboat) and that's a few tidbits about how to get yourself a boat. I'll imply breadth of knowledge by suggesting a world of possible sailing experiences, then offer, “depending on what you're interested in...” hints on a few, like the best place to buy a boat (west side of the Panama Canal) and why (people hit the Pacific Ocean, get overwhelmed, ditch the boat with a broker and look for a new hobby), a way to sail a boat without paying for it (get a job sailing it from NYC to the Caribbean for some rich bastard), and a good way to sign on with a bigger boat crew (take a gig transporting it over the Panama Canal and see what the rest of the crew is like), implying that maybe, just maybe, I've done this in my wild youth. Then I change the subject, because I've exhausted my store of knowledge. So for anybody actually reading my blog, next time I tell you two boring bits of trivia about some random subject and you just want me to shut the hell up, ask me for a third fact and I'll have to beat a metaphorical retreat with my tail between my legs.
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