A few years ago, I bought a razor scooter for my granson and namesake. And because he would be leaving for Albuquerque that same day, I agreed to help him assemble it.
Now this razor scooter, which I bought at Bealls, had become quite popular, needing only foot and leg power to propel it. It’s extremely light and maneuverable, unlike their ‘50s counterparts which weighed more than the rider.
The razor scooter was a hit a few years before someone invented a motor-powered scooter, which you see kids riding around their neighborhoods.
Shouldn’t kids be providing their own power? Do we want today’s generations to become arthritic and housebound by age 20, for lack of exercise? But I digress.
Instructions and I have never gotten along. Items I’ve bought that “require some assembly,” or that “require only a screwdriver and pliers” usually result in pieces left over. So this time I assured Arthur Roland that grandpa would be right beside him, helping him to put the scooter together.
Truth be told, I was hoping his intuition and dexterity would assist me, while I would manage to take the credit.
Let’s jump ahead to demonstrate that the reading of the instructions for the scooter catapulted me to fame, fame as in national TV.
Let me explain:
For as long as Jay Leno has featured “Headlines” in his Monday night show, I’ve become addicted. Working for a newspaper, I’ve come across some hilarious headlines, typos, misleading statements and unfortunate juxtapositions. But I had never submitted an item. Until I tried to help Arthur assemble his scooter.
I then mailed the entire three pages of instructions to The Tonight Show and waited. The following Monday, my submission was among those chosen. I taped the segment, but when I played it for Diego, Arthur’s father, and our youngest son Benji, they agreed that Jay Leno should have mentioned my name, address, hometown, hobbies and relatives and sent a $100,000 check. None of those things happened. In fact, Jay seldom even identifies the source.
This is what got Jay’s attention (notice that my rise to fame entitles me to use Mr. Leno’s first name): The instructions explained that if we opened the latch locks, the “skate-scooter can be puckered expediently.” With that kind of start, I knew we were in trouble. Isn’t puckering something one does with
one’s lips, as a prelude or postlude to a kiss? And my dictionary defines “expedient” as characterized by self-interest. Oh, I get it now. We’re supposed to kiss the scooter selfishly.
Then the instructions called our attention to an item: “Abecedarian at the complanate arid flat ground coast please handlers at gliding, it would be best draw on helmet and kneecap, shin guard and protect artifice, for fear accident injurie from falls.”
Right. My Webster’s has neither “abecedarian” nor “complanate.” But we assume the “arid flat ground warns us to avoid riding on gravel. And by all means, we need to protect our respective artifices. But “artifice” means deception or trickery. Okay. Got it. The deception would be in pretending we
could ride the scooter.
But wait, there’s more. The instructions caution us to “avoid by all means sanded or lapidarian place and busy section of a highway coast, for fear happen accident.” Check. We’ll observe all those safety tips.
Finally, we are implored to “be indispensable to check up screw whether become flexible, altitude changeless move about buckle and foldaway speedy lock whether locknut.” And its caveat, which excludes both Arthur and me is that “the manufacture not be propitious to under 6 year of children and elder use.”
We struggled through “lapidarian.” Apparently a gemsmith would not appreciate a 6- or 62-year-old (at that time) skating over his rocks and jewels. With “propitious” we struggled some more. It generally refers to “presenting favorable circumstances.” We were at once too young and too old to ride the blasted scooter, so we agreed, the circumstances were indeed not propitious.
Leno surmised that obviously the scooter was manufactured in some remote Asian country, where the writer of the instructions used an English dictionary for a word-for-word translation. Imagine the laughs if we tried to translate our English into some Eastern language. And that’s why to this day we avoid sanded and lapidarian places and search instead for arid flat ground.
When it comes to translating, especially into a language with an entirely different alphabet, we’re seldom sure what the outcome will be. Bill Bryson, author of “The Mother Tongue: English & How It Got That Way,” points out that Italians have 500 names for different types of macaroni, which “begin to sound distinctly unappetizing.”
For example, Bryson says, “strozzapreti” means “strangled priests.” “Vermicelli” means “little worms” and “spaghetti” means “little strings.”
Even the popular style of Italian wine, “muscatel,” means “wine with flies in it.”
Well, I craved even some fly-infested wine after the ordeal of assembling the scooter and having hardly any leftover parts. My wife assured me that my expertise in assembling the scooter equalled that of my recently having assembled a bookshelf. No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to construe Bonnie’s reassurance reassuringly.
But after The Tonight Show aired my contribution, I felt good over my 15 seconds of fame. And what else could I do? What would anyone do?
Obviously, I approached my wife and puckered expediently.
I remember seeing this on Leno years ago. I will never forget it. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard as I did when I read this post! Do you know of anywhere to see the video clip from Leno of where someone could find a copy of these instructions?