Starting with the most important news that I saw this morning. “Arthur” is this year the 5th most popular name for a boy baby in the U.K. In this United States, lagging far behind, it is number 87.
British Arthurs will, I assume, largely be Arthurs. I don’t think that many of them will become Arts, although I have no way of really knowing. I believe that some of them will be Arties to their upper tier families. And many of them, I bet, will decide……..to go by their middle names.
Remember Sir Arthur Treacher? At some time, of course, he became a fast food fish house, but well before that he was an English actor who was the archetypical English butler. I guess, as he aged, jobs became scarce and he financed his retirement by allowing an American fast food company to use his name. I was never very sure of that.
But at one point, when I was younger but not underage, I saw Sir Arthur on a TV variety show where the host pronounced him to be “one of the seven lively arts”, and listed the other six. This was well before Treacher was a chain of fish houses, and when he still had about him at least an air of respectability, and he stood up very tall (he was about 6’4″ when he was just slouching normally), and said: “I am not an art. I am an Arthur. Nobody calls me Art”. (Of course, I don’t remember it word for word…..)
I resembled that remark.
Digression. Who first said: “I resemble that remark”? It was probably someone like Shakespeare or John Milton, but I identify it with Steve Allen and my Aunt Lee. End of digression.
I resembled that remark. I was always Arthur, never Art. I guess I always had a bit of the Treacher in me. I thought that calling an Arthur Art was a form of degradation. No one was going to do that to me.
And no one did…..until someone did. That someone was Kenneth Koger, my sixth grade teacher at my new school (now the Reed School, then the Ladue Elementary School), who on the first day of class stood up in front by his desk and said “There are only two people new to the school today. Art and me.” I almost crawled under my desk. I didn’t know anyone in the room, I had to spend at least the next year with all of them, and they thought my name was Art. What was I to do? I thought about correcting Mr. Koger before he could do more harm, but that would set me off as either an arrogant or impolite oddball. I was in a jam. I did nothing. I became Art.
I know I have said some of this before, but I also know that you don’t remember any of it, so that is okay. My family kept calling me Arthur, my friends and acquaintances all called me Art. I don’t remember how I introduced myself in those days. Some times I resented Koger, sometimes I was glad he did what he did, uncomfortable as it was. Maybe it made me “more of the gang”.
After that, other than family, everyone pretty much called me Art. The exception sometimes was girls who I either took out on a date or was otherwise friendly with. Some of them called me Arthur, or switched back and forth. If I were then the person I am today, I would have asked them why they did that, and when they did that. I would have been disappointed at their answers, I am sure. My guess is it was all unconscious and they didn’t even realize they were doing it.
And then there was Edie. When I called her up for the first time at the suggestion of a mutual friend and asked her out, I wasn’t certain that she got my name, so I asked her if she did. She was (maybe embarrassingly) uncertain and said, with a question in her voice, “Artie”? That almost ended it. I felt like my old friend Treacher.
Now, I don’t really pay attention to whether anyone calls me Arthur or Art. I do know when people call me Artie. That would be Edie’s old friend Linda Ward Smyth, or my college classmate David Reisen. That’s pretty much it.
Until David Reisen in the early 1960s called me Artie (we were not even close friends; he had been a high school classmate of one of my roommates), it never occurred to me that anyone would, and it was too rare of an instance for it to both me. Today, I sort of like it.
My mother had a first cousin named Artie Weiss. Of course, he was really Arthur (never called Arthur to my knowledge), but was always Artie. Way back when, I did notice that this did not bother him, and I wondered why. But of course, I never asked. Too late now, by far.
And then there was the old (?) Italian tailor in St. Louis who used to shorten my pants (I went there with my father many times), Angelo Tucci. He called me (because he thought it was cute? because he didn’t know any better? because his Italian childhood language did not allow him to pronounce a “th”?) Artur. With an emphasis on the second syllable. ArTUR. Like that. How did that make me feel? Important. It sounded important.
And then there was/is my old friend/client/fellow attorney in California, Rick Tell (haven’t talked to him in about 20 years), who always (not frequently, but always) called me Arturo. I liked that, too.
As I have often said, Arthur is too formal, Art is too informal, and Artur and Arturo are both a little too cutesy. What will the new thousands of British Arthurs wind up being called? I think they will by and large remain Arthurs. I think that the fewer Arthurs born in the United States will be Arts. As we know, two countries, two languages.
Okay (on another topic), nothing is new. Trump loses a golf tournament and says he wins, falls down in the polls and says he is on top, says negotiations with Iran started today while Iran says they haven’t, lets Todd Blanche says “no money for Jan 6 demonstrators” while he says “yes, there will be”. Nothing is new.
And Luis Garcia, Jr. is a Yankee.





































































































