The Cockney accent – followed closely by the Geordie accent – have quickly become the bane of my existence.  I can’t just listen to a conversation.  I actually have to pay attention to what British people are saying to me.  It’s like listening to a foreign language.  I liken it to watching the movie “Snatch” – sans subtitles.  (And, yes, I get that Brad Pitt has an Irish accent … but this is far worse.  I mean, delightful.) 

I find it endearing that my family has virtually no “T” in their vocabulary.  If Cockney blokes drop their “H’s”, my relatives avoid the letter T like the plague.  (Note the two words above.  They would say “vir-ually” and “rela-ives” when reading that sentence … er, “sen-ence”.

On this trip I’ve paid particular (“par-icular”) attention to some of their slang phrases.  Here now an English to American translation:

“Shut yer gob, you wanker!” = “Please keep quiet, my friend.”

“Weh wuh weh?” =  “Where were we?”

“Mind, she is an ugly sod.” =  “Kim Kardashian IS attractive, yes?”

“Hoy-a hamma owaer” = “Throw your hammer over.”

“Shite!” = “Gosh darn!”

“Bloody hell, she’ll trip over her face.” = “Why the sad expression, dah-ling?”

For several years, I thought my relatives were always irritated.  Or annoyed.  Or miffed.  Or all three.  Turns out the word “pissed” means to be drunk.  Or wasted.  Or blotto.  Or all three.  Every time they said, “I was so pissed last night”, I’d immediately think they got in to a fight with someone.  Turns out they did, but pissed meant something altogether different.  Usually involving ale.  Or beer.  Or lager.  Or all three.

It takes me about two weeks to deprogram myself from speaking like a proper British bloke.  I wish Madonna had that problem.  Her fake British accent is God-awful.

I always thought I could wear most any color.  I was WOEFULLY wrong.

Even though this was a million years ago, I still remember it like it was yesterday.  The woman, my Colourist (“yes, with a ‘u’”), said I was a “harsh winter.”  Your colors are likened to the four seasons.  Some people look good in pastels or lighter colors … they are considered “spring”.  Other folks look good in darker, ruddy earth tones.  They are obviously “fall”.  Yours truly only looks good in bright primary colors.  Solid colors, mind you.  No patterns and no mixing and matching of shades.  God forbid.  “Here is the standard box of Crayola crayons,” said my Colourist.  “There are eight crayons in here.  Never deviate from the colors in this box.”  She said it with so much foreboding I thought she was going to add “… or you will DIE!” afterwards.

She then leaned in and said, “My dear – you’re not just a winter.  You’re a HARSH winter.  You have little to no skin tone.  Wear anything other than bright colors or you will look … dead.”  She then proceeded to yank the yellow crayon out of the box.  “On second thought, you should never wear yellow either.  You’ll look like you have jaundice.”

Before getting my colors done, I was always attracted to primary colors.  Mostly blue.  Now I wear “electric blue”, “shocking blue” or “neon blue”, less I upset the balance of the universe.

Last week, I unveiled new fall looks during my “What The Chic” segment.  (Watch the segment by clicking on the link:  http://www.kctv5.com/local-video/index.html?grabnetworks={videoid:4328150})  I loved what I was wearing in the piece, but kept thinking back to what my colorist once said.  “And, Michael, listen to me … never, ever, ever wear any sort of fall color.  With your ruddy complexion you’ll look like a burnt umber crayon … or a Cheese Doodle!”

Why everything revolved around Crayons, I’ll never know.  Sorry Seafoam Green and Soft Lilac … you’re far too advanced for me.  I gotta stick with Red Apple or Green Clover.  Or else.

Angela is head nurse in a neo-natal unit.  She and her team of doctors save the lives of countless premature babies every day.  But that’s not the Angela I’m familiar with.  I’ve never seen her in action.  I’m sure it’s like an episode of “ER” – you know from the first few seasons when it was still good.  The Angela I’ve come to know and love is a class act, yet loves to swear like a sailor.  She also dotes on me hand and foot.  (Maybe she thinks I’m a sick newborn?)

She’s busty, brassy and speaks perfect Queen’s English.  She’s the only person I know who can wear a turtleneck and still show off cleavage.  She’s quick to call me her “stupid American cousin” – it seems almost fitting.  She can’t fathom how I’m always hungry.  She laughs every time I accidentally get in on the driver’s side of her car.  And she rarely plans anything when I’m over here because she knows I like to be spontaneous. 

She’ll stay up late with me and watch stupid British TV programming like “Big Brother” and “X Factor” and all those other shows America has ripped off over the years.  And since we’re fairly close in age, we like the same trashy pop songs from the ‘80’s.  And her life has changed for the better since I had her try one of my margaritas.  A first.  Tequila was like a foreign country to her … like Zimbabwe. 

She cackles endlessly when I do my impression of British people – which is a hybrid of the Queen, Monty Python, Simon Cowell and those chicks from “AbFab”.  The funny thing?  She cannot do an American impersonation to save her life.  She desperately tries to pronounce everything with a “HARD R” like Americans do.  She ends up sounding like she just had a mild stroke with a mouthful of turnips.  And I would know.

In the span of 10 minutes today she told me, “I wish you’d never leave.  Just stay here in England!”  That was followed up with “Bugger off, you mug and shut your gob … who asked you?” when I commented on my disdain for one of her favorite British pop groups.  (Seriously, I swear Bananarama had more talent than the group we were listening to … and they lip-synced everything.)

I love my cousin Angela.  She’s like the older sister I never wanted.

After landing in London yesterday morning, I started using words like “Cheerio” and  “Bloody good” for no apparent reason.  I took the “lift” instead of using the elevator on my way to the loo – er, the shitter.  British people are ridiculously friendly.  Every stereotype about them rings true – including bad teeth.  (“Bugger off!” said my cousin Angela when she saw me type that.  See – it sounds so much more polite than ‘Eff you” or “Eff off”.)

Over the years, I’ve started to crave certain English things that we don’t have in America.  I have a list of “must-haves” while I’m across the pond.  Take piccalilli for instance.  It’s a weird English condiment … similar to mustard, but spicier.  It has bits of cauliflower, onion and other assorted vegetables mashed up in it.  And to top it off, it’s pickled.  So not only is it spicy, it’s got some zing to it.  I smear it on everything.  My relatives are appalled.

Come to think of it, a majority of my English obsessions are food-related.  I have to have biscuits with my tea.  (Uh, I don’t even drink tea in America.)  And I eat crisps by the bagful.  We know them as potato chips in the States.  My relatives call them “pickies” – munchy things that you pick at.  They usually stock up on pickies when I’m around.

There’s a local bakery on every street corner called Greggs.  They serve all sorts of delicious muffins, cookies and these delightful things called pasties.  It’s liked a baked croissant.  Pasties have any number of fillings from cream cheese to minced meat to sausage and potatoes.  I could eat a baker’s dozen every day.  (Tasty, yes.  Healthy, no.)  On my last trip here, we were traipsing from village to village sightseeing.  I had four pasties throughout the day.  Again my relatives were aghast. 

My relatives are very good to me.  Today, between having crumpets with jam and shepherd’s pie, they took me shopping to buy some bigger jeans.  Last time, I “outgrew” all my clothes while I was here. 

God, I love being on holiday … er, vacation.

From Hawaii to Alaska, he’s done over 100 “Story” vignettes over the years.  When I worked for CBS, Hartman’s work was must-see viewing for me.  Somehow Steve always managed to eke out these fascinating stories from Joe and JoAnn Public.  I vowed after watching him I was going to make a friend wherever I went.  If Steve could do it, so could I. 

For some inexplicable reason, people will divulge just about anything to me.  I’ve had this problem my entire life.  And every lurid tale always starts with the obligatory, “I can’t BELIEVE I’m telling you this …” or “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but …” 

I’d be an award-winning journalist (or tabloid hack) if I just had a cameraman in tow with me 24/7. 

Hartman’s feature stories are legendary … exquisitely written and often painfully profound.  He manages to let his stories breathe – a rare occurrence in the ADD world of cable news.  His stories are touching tributes to his subjects … some not even human.  Take for instance the piece that featured two best friends … a stray dog and an elderly elephant.  It’s a video that’s gone viral.  And it’s a video that doesn’t just yank at your heartstrings … it goes RIGHT for the jugular. 

When I grow up, I wanna be Steve Hartman.  Oops, seems I already am … oh, the stories I could tell if I wanted.  Must be my inquisitive nature … or that I seem to care – both of which have served me well.

Growing up, I had every opportunity to watch the movie.  It was on TV once or twice a year and was considered “event-viewing”.  I was probably too busy collecting Smurf glasses to care. 

Because I was a pop-culture savant, I knew all the catchy catch-phrases of the movie.  Lines such as … “I’ll get you, my pretty!  And your little dog too!” 

The weird thing?  I distinctly remember going to see “The Wiz” several times in the theaters when it came out in 1978.  In Des Moines.  Iowa.  I was the only kid in the joint … let alone the only 8-year old white kid.   I think my cousins probably wanted to see it and somehow cajoled my parents in to thinking it was a feel-good family film.   Looking back, it would have been a great film to watch stoned out of my mind.   Maybe I’ll try that.

A lot of people are in complete shock and disbelief when I tell them I’ve never seen the original 1939 film.  They look at me with disdain … like I refused to say The Pledge of Allegiance growing up.  Or that I somehow supported the Ayatollah during puberty.

Last year when I went to go see the musical “Wicked” with my friend Mithra … she explained the plotline to me like I was a complete moron.  I should have recorded what she said and turned it in to “Oz For Dummies”.  I would have made a fortune.  I said, “I know what the ‘The Wizard of Oz’ is about, Mithra!  Good witch, bad witch, Toto, blah, blah, munchkins,  blah.”  She rolled her eyes.  And then I looked at her and said (in my painfully bad Indian accent), “We’re not in Kansas anymore, bitches.”  (That’s mainly because we just crossed the border in to Missouri.)

Frankly, I could not possibly care less about seeing the film.  It’s now the principle of the thing.  My friend KD-Bon went out of her way to buy me the Collector’s Edition DVD.  It sits under my TV collecting dust – still in its protective shrink-wrapped wrapper.

At Halls, I’ve learned it’s not necessarily what ensemble you wear as much as all the other stuff you add to it.  Sure you can have the perfect outfit … but if you’re wearing the wrong shoes, belt, cufflinks or tie … you’re S-C-R-E-W-E-D.

Scarves are one of those things you can make work … or you can butcher.  Sad, but true.  It’s like jewelry.  You want something that stands out and makes a statement.  But not be distracting.

In my latest “What The Chic” on KCTV5, not only do I teach the subtle nuances of WEARING scarves, I also teach you how to tie a scarf.  Back in my day, you threw it around your neck to keep you warm.  Now, you’re forced to double wrap, loop and knot accordingly.  It’s like origami for your throat.  (Click on the world’s longest URL to watch the video.)

http://www.kctv5.com/local-video/index.html?grabnetworks=%7Bvideoid:4321976%7D

Fashion now requires an engineering degree apparently.  Fortunately, I’m a quick learner and great teacher.  You’ll thank me later.

Now, I like to think my vocabulary is broad and quite extensive.  I’m a wordsmith and have a love of the English language.  The guy in question speaks with such an air of authority – you’d think he was a member of Mensa.  Uh, he’s not, but you wouldn’t know otherwise.

For instance, he can’t say hairy … he has to use the word hirsute.  He peppers words like eponymous and scintillating and anaphylactic in to sentences where they clearly don’t belong.  And I’m left to wonder if he knows what he’s saying or just trying to drive his subordinates insane.

My interaction with him is limited.  Seems like a nice enough human being.  But, boy, can he make me feel daft … er, stupid.  It could be worse I suppose.  He could make up nonsensical words like George W. Bush.  But, to date, I’ve never heard him use the non-word “stratergery” in a sentence.

I even went so far as to subscribe to Merriam-Webster’s “Vocabulary Word Of The Day”.  I figured if I can’t beat ‘em, I might as well join ‘em.  Now I feel armed with a bevy of bon mots that I have at my disposal.  It’s like having a loaded weapon that you’re waiting to use … and knowing there’s more where that came from.  I have a complete arsenal of ammo at my disposal.  Too bad I know he’ll still trump my ace by using “egregious” in some way, shape or form.  (And, no, I don’t know what that word means.  AND I’m too lazy to grab a dictionary.)

I do a lot of nodding and smiling when I’m around him.  It seems to work well.  Recently, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror outside his office and I looked like a crazy person.

After he’s done talking, he’ll typically cross his arms and wait for a response.   Once – without explanation – I laughed like Beavis and said, “That was cool.”  I’m still not sure why I did that.   He then launched in to a five-minute diatribe about something else.  It’s as if Rainman had ADD, Tourette’s syndrome and a thesaurus.   I tuned out after the first 12-seconds.  He lost me after the words vichyssoise, quintessential and Machiavellian.

I’m a simple man who uses simple words … like “the” and “and”.  Let it never be said that I am guilty of solecism.  (Go look it up.)

My butt is big and bulbous and ample and out there.   I’m the first to admit that I’m trapped in the body of a black girl.  Is it genetic?  Doubtful.  None of my family suffers from “big ass-itis”.  But there it is for the world to see … and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.   Trust me, I’ve tried.  It’s a butt with a mind of its own.

I first noticed my prolific posterior when I was playing soccer.  I played ball for nine years, which helped develop my legs in to solid tree trunks.  (I’m still proud of my gams and tend to wear my shorts a little shorter than I should.  Hey – it’s called accentuating the positive.)  But somewhere in my soccer years, my butt became legendary.  It has its own zip code.  I put the maximus in gluteus.

I distinctly remember going shopping for a suit in my formative teen years.  The sales clerk said, “Wow, your ass has an ass.”  I still hear that reverberating off the walls at night.

After years of covering it with oversized sweaters or long-ish sport coats, I’ve learned to embrace my buttocks.  And by embrace, I mean ignore.  It’s the one part of my body I really can’t see unless I’m surrounded by funhouse mirrors or standing in a dressing room.  I now avoid both.

If that skank Kim Kardashian can parlay her titanic tushy in to a weekly reality show, why can’t I?  If Al Gore can win an Oscar with his behemoth backside, why can’t I?

I hired a personal trainer once to decrease the overall mass of my ass.  I did every possible exercise to slim down my bum – including a God-awful lot of cardio.  (To this day, I despise the Stairmaster with ever fiber of my being.)  I ended up losing a healthy amount of weight and was impressed with the results … save for my butt.  It had managed to remain bootylicious.  The trainer said, “Have you considered lipo?”  I spun around in a huff … fully aware that I knocked him into several stationary bikes.

For the most part I use my big butt for powers of good, but occasionally it becomes a weapon of ass, er, mass destruction.   Never say I didn’t warn you …

I once booked a cruise based solely on the fact that three ports of call featured Hard Rock Café’s of Caribbean or Mexican descent.  Like a petulant child with ADD, I’d stand at the door and wait for the rock shop to open their doors so I could buy my obligatory shirt and pin.  After that, I could start my day.

My poor Production crew has been drug from here to Timbuktu on my never-ending quest to reach all 44 of the U.S. locations.  The crewmembers usually don’t have a choice, as I’m the only one old enough to drive the rental van.  But they’ve learned (through trial and error) to keep their mouths shut.  We’re going whether they like it or not.

Do I ever EAT at a Hard Rock Café?  No.  Never.  The food is often horrid.  And the service is sketchy at best.  They hire cool-looking Goth guys and tattooed rock vixens to up the company’s street cred.  Most of my servers look like groupies who just rolled out of bed.   And while pleasant (in a heroin-chic sort of way), they can never seem to remember I prefer my bleu cheese dressing on the side.  Heck, 90% of the time, they can’t even remember what tables they have.

I made a deal with my crew.  You humor me by going to Hard Rock and I’ll buy each of you several rounds of drinks.  Free booze is always the ticket.  Plus, if there’s one thing Hard Rock knows how to do is pour liquor.  The servers can’t distinguish between ketchup and mustard, but the bartenders are spot-on.  They’ll Wallbang my Harvey’s without me even asking.  I ordered a Moscow Mule once … a rather obscure hot weather drink.  The bartender said, “F’ing A, man.  I’m making one for me too.”

Yesterday, while skipping around Philly I ran smack in to the local shop.   I did a little dance of glee.  Seems I had totally forgotten that Hard Rock had a store there.  I think 2011 may be the year I finally get to all the stateside Cafés.  (Maui be damned.)  Watch out, New Orleans and Niagra Falls and Seattle and Biloxi and Atlantic City.  You’re next and I’m not stopping until I’ve been snagged a pin and T-shirt.

I’m going to England next month … and I’m actually considering pond skipping over to Berlin just to visit my dear friend Brent.  Oh, who am I fooling … he lives less than two kilometers away from a Hard Rock Café’.  Can’t WAIT to check that one off my list.  I’ll probably have to bribe him with several rounds of Moscow Mules … or as they call them in Moscow …

“Mules”.