Category: Life Advice

I had been to Paris and I had visited the Conciergerie where they forced the much maligned Queen Marie Antoinette to eat her last cake. So when my doctor anounced that he would go “concierge” I was puzzled at first, not knowing what to make of this word in this context. I figured it out, of course, as I think you must have too because doctors do this sort of thing now everywhere . My friends in Paris who live in old fasshioned Parisian apartment buildings would probably be shocked to hear that I am about to entrust my healthcare to the concierge, the elderly lady in warm slippers who sits downstairs in the “loge”, eager to clue the tenants in to the mysteries of the other tenants’ lives. This misunderstanding arises from the fact that the French consider “concierge” to be a noun, and it is usually a woman.
One of my dictionaries also mentions an English noun by that name, designating a person in charge, a warden or caretaker. But then my doctor was already my caretaker. It would not be terribly logical for a caretaker to go caretaker, would it?
The word is not related to “concert” or “conservative”, in case you wonder. According to the etymological dictionary the word “concierge” is derived from the Latin “conservus” and means “fellow slave”. My Doctor and I, are we fellow slaves then? Slaves to money maybe? I know we both need money all the time. But I don’t think that is the true meaning of “going concierge” although it is probably approaching the mark.
I believe the real meaning of “going concierge” emerges when we realize that this word is also an adjective, like “good” or “tall”. My doctor happens to be tall, and he is good. From now on he will also be concierge. He will be a tall, good, and concierge doctor. I am joking, of course. But not really: a “concierge physician”, I read somewhere, is one who “administers medical care for an annual fee”. There you have it! It is a question of money after all. Thank God the doctor I have will also remain a tall and good caretaker.
None of this helps much, however. I still have to pay as before, only more.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picture credit: en.wikipedia.com

Clothes define the man, goes a German saying. When the Germans say it in their language, the word “man” is neutral, not masculine. It includes both genders, or all three, as the case may be. Usually, though, we think of fashion in terms of women’s clothes. Fashion is a fashionable word. It evokes the general idea of elegance and style, something diametrically opposed to what we tend to wear every day. It is all right to dream, though. That is why so many shopping centers and malls include the word in their names. I don’t know how many Fashion Plazas, there are, or Fashion squares, Fashion Islands, Fashion Marts, Fashion Emporia, Fashion Rows, or Worlds of Fashion, not to mention Fashion-Are-Us. What they sell, though, is stuff people wear. Which has nothing to do with fashion, paradoxically enough. If you want to experience fashion you must study the magazines from Bazaar to Women’s Wear Daily. That is where you will see flowing robes in exciting colors, cut to fit gorgeous models, with or without décolleté, slit from foot to hip on one side or both. Widely flared pants decorated with ribbons and bows and worn with more or less outrageous tops of semi diaphanous material. The bold patterns, the generous cuts, the exaggerated decorations and accessories — it is all so beautiful and exciting to see. But, well, you are not likely to find an invitation to a cocktail party in the mail box today. As a matter of fact, admit it: you are on your way to Costco.

Men have choices, too. Most are not nearly as gorgeous looking as the young muscular sun tanned Esquire models, shined shoes, striped shirts with golden cufflinks, tie, jacket and all. But it would be nice to look good. At least some men think so. But come morning, the majority put on their jeans, athletic shoes, and windbreakers. The concept of fashion or elegance has no real meaning for them.

There used to be occasions, however, when men and women did dress up, as it was called. One would not dream to attend, say, a concert or a theatre performance in one’s street clothes, let alone one’s dirty shorts and tennis shoes. The better restaurants had dress codes. Jackets were de rigueur. On cruises formal wear was expected. Those were the days when fashion actually mattered.

But the times have changed. There has been a definite rise in lifestyles. Going to concerts, theatres, restaurants, and taking cruises became popular and affordable. Fashion, however, remained were it was: in the magazines. Street clothes became the new formal wear. A dressed-up person now sticks out, a snob in a concert hall full of ordinary decent folks. A man wearing a suit and tie just does not “belong” any more, the only exception being a real estate agent about to close a deal, or maybe a stock broker meeting a client.

For a long time I did not want to believe that things were going that way. On the few occasions I had to attend a dinner in proper surroundings, the Ritz for example, I thoroughly enjoyed being in the company of elegant people, eating and drinking from Spode porcelain, being served by polite attendants wearing white gloves. No, I thought, this will never change. We are civilized. Even at home my Dad always put on a proper shirt at dinner. It is just unthinkable, I told myself, that somebody would show up at 4 o’clock tea, for example, wearing flip-flops, athletic shorts, and a baseball cap turned front to back. You think so too? Think again: I have seen it done.

My wife and I now drink our tea at home, in pajamas or gym clothes, out of mugs. Using tea bags, too. The world must be going to pieces.

©2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman

Picture credit: EVOKE.ie

Diligent Bible readers know that “Who ever has will be given more.” The neighbor with the Tesla XP100D parked in the driveway comes to mind. And the biblical text (Luke 18:8) continues: “But who ever does not have, even what he thinks he has will be taken away from him”. No wonder some have and others have not. I come from a German Have Not family. One way you can tell is that nobody we knew had a car. I remember how astonished I was when I heard that in America a certain make-work building project for the unemployed had difficulties because there were no parking places for the cars of the unemployed. We who were fully employed, on the other hand, had lots of places to park but no cars to do it with. Life seemed absurd to me even then.
I now live among the Haves, however. I know that because many of my neighbors have been given more than fits in the house. That is why they have to store things in the garage and why one sees so many cars, very expensive cars often, parked in the driveway. I often wonder why people would take such risks. We do have burglaries. Several cars have been broken in and two were stolen in the neighborhood only recently.
But then I learned that car thiefs don’t steal cars to drive around in them. They steal them in order to dismantle them and sell the parts to fences who then peddle them cheaply to do-it-yourself mechanics. Owners of high end cars seldom do their own repairs. There would not be much of a market for used luxury car spare parts. Handling the cheaper cars’ parts, on the other hand, promises rewards. Take the Toyota “Camry”, for example. Half a million units of that model alone were sold last year in the United States. If parked in the driveway, your Camry is not safe. Can’t you just hear the car thief snicker as he tries to imagine the face you will make when you step out of the house in the morning, keys in hand, looking for the Camry you parked there, you thought?
The experience, sad as it is, might give you a few ideas however. I do not know what the situation is in your family but when my brothers and I were young we were impossible, I understand. Our father more than once suggested that the only way to get peace in the house was to put all three of us out in the street at night. Someone would come by and take us. Trouble is, he would add, they would bring you back first thing in the morning.
It does not work this way with old Camries, however, even if the transmission was shot and the brakes already worn down to the metal. So, say good bye to the old girl for good and get yourself a BMW i8. I bet I know where you will find space to park this one..
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman

Picture credit: Morguefile

Come March it will be 125 years since he died. If there ever was a poet, American or otherwise, who painted his words with a broad brush, to mix a few metaphors, it was Walt Whitman. Just listen to that enthusiasm: “Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!” “I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone upon!” “And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self.” “Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
He heard America singing. He heard the mechanic, the carpenter, the mason, the boatman, the shoemaker, the wood cutter, and the young mother. He would probably have heard the banker too, the realtor, the stock broker, and the IT specialist. “For you (O Democracy, he would have said) I am trilling these songs”.
He left us with an indisputable dictum: to have great poets, there must be great audiences. We introduce our children, or should, to great poetry in the expectation that the outlook thus gained by the next generation will help us to remain a civilized nation.
Unfortunately, inspiring as he might be, Whitman was not into humor. Great poets, I think, are seldom funny, a serious shortcoming. Good thing he had friends like Dorothy Parker. “This isn’t my head I’ve got on now,” she writes in one of her books. “I think this is something that used to belong to Walt Whitman.”
Cheer up, Walt. We are still a great audience!
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman

Picture credits: Biography.com

I was not born to luxury. But I love it. I also was not born in France, yet I love it. Put the two things together and it is no wonder that I eventually found myself in a small Parisian restaurant eating exotic things. But I am racing ahead in my story. First I had to study la carte and in Paris this can be, shall we say, somewhat of a challenge unless you are very fluent in French. But then, before I even tell you this part of the story you must know that many years later I again found myself in a French restaurant, in California this time. My lucky star had just guided me to a lady with whom, it turned out, I was to spend the rest of my days. This was our first lunch out.

But let us get back to Paris and la carte, the menu as we tend to call it here. Being young, unsure, and a little vain I pretended to take my time. The truth was that I could identify very little in that document which seemed edible. I saw the word “ris”, pronounced “ree”, which is how the word for “rice” is pronounced and which is why I assumed that it meant rice.  The word “veau” I knew meant veal. And I also recognized the word “terrine”. In my native German it means a bowl of soup. On that basis I placed my order: “La terrine, et puis, le ris de Veau, s’il vous plait”. Voila, polished off, my first “commande” done in perfect style. I also ordered a bottle of water. “Gazeux ou non-gazeux?” the waiter asked.  “Gazeux”, I said, although I was not quite sure if we were talking about consistency or effects.

Then I waited for my soup. To my surprise what I did get was a cold paste, half finely ground meat, half salty bread pudding. I ate it, of course, not wanting to be impolite. Another mild surprise was the veal schnitzel on rice. First of all, there was no rice. I had ordered ris, not riz. How was I to know that spelling was so important in France when you eat out. The meat also looked strange, not at all like what I expected. But when I took a bite I found that it was delicious. I did not ask any questions but enjoyed my lunch. I wrote down the name of the dish so I could learn what it was and order it again one day.

That day came when I had lunch with said lady in California. I do not remember what she ordered but when my plate was set before me she, of course, wanted to know what I got. Now it is not easy to explain to an American girl what weird French food a German might eat for lunch, preferably in one word. So I told her the truth, that it was ris, something very good, the thymus gland of a calf. I should have left it at that but she insisted:  “The what?”  “It is something found in the entrails, the intestines, the guts so to say. It is very special”.  You should have seen her face. She had to swallow before she could say something. Jonathan Swift’s roasted babies could not have shocked her more, and I did not even have my tongue in my cheeks.

We are still together, though. In case you wonder.

(c)2016 by Herbert H. Hoffman

This is one of my stories that appeared in the latest issue of the online magazine DEFENESTRATION: A LITERARY MAGAZINE DEDICATED TO HUMOR. Look it up. Maybe you will laugh a little.

As a bonus I offer this limerick: A man there was who had many ills / For each of them he took several pills / He talked to a simple fellow he knew / His opinion was short and probably true: / “Don’t take any more of them pills. They kills!”

Thanks for tuning in. Herb