By Scott Sullivan
Editor
Real
I like anything that starts with “real.” So real estate, Realtor, realize … the four-letter prefix gives me substance. At this stage, when so much amounts to vapor, firmament like the earth I’ll be buried in soon feels good.
Take ReaLemon. In large print my bottle says 100% Lemon Juice. So no pulp, rind, seeds, like a real lemon has. Then in smaller letters it reads “from concentrate and added ingredients.”
In finer print yet I learned ReaLemon’s main ingredient is water, then the concentrate, then sodium benzoate, sodium metabisulfite and sodium sulfite (all preservatives).
Some of my best friends are Botoxed, so I’m down with that. But what part of 100% Lemon Juice are water and salt preservatives? If it’s concentrate, why dilute it with additives?
Easy. It starts with “lies sell, the truth goes begging.” Take Artificial Intelligence. Everyone — whoever that is — says it’s The Next Big Thing.
Does Authentic Intelligence exist any longer? Did it ever? Isn’t AI by necessity human sourced? Like ReaLemon is based on real lemon juice but not living fruits with extraneous seeds, stems and so on. Fiction beguiles when facts can be cold, hard things.
Remember when Coke was “The Real Thing,” its commercials claimed? That was fake news too. They stopped using cocaine in it years ago.
My plastic bottle of Diet Coke contains carbonated water, caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, natural flavors (Like cola berries? It doesn’t specify), citric acid, caffeine and phenylalanine.
Then there’s Realpolitik, a system of principles based on practical rather than moral considerations. Who needs Jiminy Cricket in politics? We mourned Sunday school teacher Jimmy Carter for his principals, not his presidency.
The word comes from 19th-century Germany’s Otto von Bismarck but can be traced back to Machiavelli’s Renaissance writings and forward to Henry Kissinger, among others.
Then there’s “reel”— as noun, a cylinder on which film, wire, fishing line or other flexible materials can be wound; or a lively Scottish or Irish folk dance.
As a verb, “reel” can mean to wind a line onto a reel by turning it, or to lose one’s balance and lurch violently. Steely Dan’s 1973 song “Reelin’ in the Years” is one example. So was I last night at Vinny’s Bar.
Or riel, the basic money unit of Cambodia. Next time you’re in Phnom Penh tracking Pol Pot, don’t forget to leave servers tips. You think Vinny’s vengeful? Stiff Pol’s pals and they’ll store your skull with 2 million others on the portico.
Then there’s words that end with “real”: ethereal (relating to regions beyond the earth), surreal (to reasons beyond real), cereal (to Trix Rabbit), corporeal (to a person’s body), venereal (to sexual desire) … It gets to be too much sometimes. So I headed to Vinny’s.
“You again?” he snarled.
“I wanted to ask about this bruise, I said and showed him.
“You earned it.”
“I paid last night. I just didn’t tip.”
“You were tipsy, cheap and paid for it.” Vinny summoned bouncers Spike and Rocco to back him up. “The boys here can testify.”
A Greek-looking vixen sidled up. Who’s that? I asked.
“Penelope from the Peloponnese. You hit on her last night,” said Vinny.
“She’s mine!” Rocco shouted.
“Sez who?” Spike demanded. They began breaking pool cues over each others’ heads.
“They’re morons,” cooed Penelope. “Come upstairs and show me a real tip.”
In walked my wife. “I knew I’d find you here,” she said, brandishing a rolling pin. “Why’d you switch from the Pullman Tavern?”
Location, location, location, I explained. This is nearer the pawn and porn shops. Tattoo parlors too.
“Are you coming or not?” asked Penny, who hadn’t picked up the cue. Rocco and Spike had though.
CRACK!
Ow! I cried.
“Give me a whack,” my wife said and battered me with her rolling pin.
At least it had batter on it, I said. Yum.
See what it’s like to be object of women’s desire?
