Adventures in Pharmaceutical Sales

Dickman. Dr Dickman.

How are you supposed to call HIM and maintain your composure?

Same thing with Dr Pepper.

And how's this for an answering message?

"This is Doctor Finley. I'm not available right now - but if your situation is an emergency, please go to an Emergency Room."

Sorry? Did you just suggest that, if my medical situation is an emergency, I should take myself off to an Emergency Room? Good God, that's genius! I can see NOW that those seven years of medical school were well spent.

In fact, why do ALL out-of-ours messages begin: "If your condition is life threatening, please hang up and call 911."?

I mean, are people really SO dumb that they call their General Practitioner out-of-hours when they've just accidently lopped their arm off with a chainsaw? The mind reels - but presumably it happens often enough for doctors to cover their bases with the answering machine message.

And finally, geography.

Why is there an Ohio in Colorado? And a Colorado in Texas? Doesn't ANYBODY realise how confusing that is?

Golly. This business is an eye opener.

Editorial Bear is back...

After an extended absence. Please see his latest rant here.

Stick Shift and Stones

ATLANTA (Reuters) - Two U.S. car thieves failed to make their getaway in a car they had just stolen because they couldn't figure out how to use its manual transmission, a witness said on Wednesday.

The teenagers armed with a gun approached a man outside a pizza restaurant in Marietta, Georgia, late on Monday. They stole his wallet and the keys to his Honda Accord, got into the car but couldn't make it start because it had stick shift, according to John Williamson, 18, a restaurant employee.

"The kid was just sitting in the car trying to start it but he had no idea what to do. He looked dumbfounded. The only thing he had going was the radio," said Williamson who witnessed the scene.

While the thief was trying to start the car, restaurant employees called the police who arrived and caught the teenagers as they tried to escape into nearby woods.

Unlike many parts of the world, the majority of cars in the United States are automatic and many drivers are unused to driving "stick shift" vehicles, in which a clutch pedal must be depressed to change gear.

Reuters - Wednesday, June 20 05:40 pm

American Lightning...

Biggest difference I've noticed... The weather.

Thunderstorms happen often. And they're not the modest affairs you see in England.

The sky lights up. I mean, like it's suddenly day again. Bang. Flash. Your eyes sting.

Then there's a "Zaaaaap!" Like an over exaggerated Frankenstein sound effect - a big bolt of cinema lightning arcing from the sky to the ground. You can hear it as if on wide screen. "Zzzzzaaaaap!"

And then "Bang!"

A hand grenade explodes. Or maybe that's just the thunder.

It's incredible.

It was suburban rockstar Huey Lewis who crooned: "I'm taking what they're giving, 'cos I'm working for a living."

As contributions to modern philosophy go, it's not exactly profound. But he's absolutely right. Here in America, the key to survival is to get up off your arse and get a job.

So until one of my job applications pans out (I've applied for a fantastic radio job) I'm workin' for a living at a pharmaceutical marketing company.

This has presented me with a problem. My life has turned into that Fast Show sketch called "The Unpronouncables."

Here I am, vending my drugs for nervous bladders, and the conversations run like this:

"Hello! I'm Roland from [insert name of pharmaceutical company here.] I'm here to speak to Doctor Siz... Schziz... Erm. Sniz? Sizzle Cow Ski? Schnizikowski, that's it."

That's the first hurdle. Then it moves onto:

"I'd like to send you samples of our new drug, Boy... Buy.. Byosk.. Boyosckafellin? Buy oxes and fell them? You know, I've got a leaflet."

Then they ask how it works. And I know this. I know more about nervous bladders than anybody unconnected to the medical industry rightly should by now.

"Well, it's an anticoller... artichocker... anticholi... auntie coller in yer neck. Anticholinergic. That's it. It releases an antagonist that prevents the ace tailor cow lean... acetylcholine... from binding with the receivers... receptors, I mean. And that stops the trousers from relaxing."

Pause.

"Did I say The Trousers? I meant Detrusor."

And after this mangled presentation, the response is:

"Oh my God. Your ACCENT. Are you from England?"

The Yellow Brick Road...

When Tina and I first decided to move back to America, we had to choose between starting off in New Jersey or Miami. The decision to head back to the tri-state area had more behind it than Mets games and a love of street corner Hot Dogs. The focus of my American Dream has always been New York City.

New York is the most incredible and vibrant place. I feel more alive just by being there. For as long as I can remember, I've been focused intently on heading towards the Empire State and sacrificed a lot of things to get there.

So where we live now is only a stopping off point, then. So how appropriate is it that we should be stopping off in the same place as thousands of other travellers to The Big Apple?

You see, New Brunwick (our local major city, to which North Brunswick is paradoxically three miles south) was originally an overnight coach stop between Philidelphia and New York (each one a day's ride away.)

I think it's kind of appropriate that we settle here for a while before carrying on our own journey to NYC...

Wow...

Doesn't a week go fast?

Settlement progresses well in the United States, but not quite as swiftly or as smoothly as we'd like. But then again, I think it was Robert Burns who pointed out the falibilities of planning ahead!

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Robert Burns.

But things are going in the right direction.

We're working - just temporary assignments until one of the really juicy jobs I've been chasing works it's way through the pipeline (fingers crossed that one of them does!) But it's nice to have the focus (and modest income) from a job of work.

Since I'm spouting off random quoatations, what was it the guy with the cigar said?

Love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness. Sigmund Freud

I think that's true. Being without employment for three weeks is surprisingly disspiriting. Work focuses your ambitions in a way idleness doesn't. Now free time is more limited, I've learnt to use it much more effectively to acomplish the things I need to do.

It's ironic, really. I moved to America thinking I knew all the answers - but instead it becomes a fresh new learning experience. But that in itself gives our unsettled life fresh new flavour and makes this American adventure everything I'd hoped it would be.

All roads lead...

The differences between America and Europe are becoming more and more obvious the longer I live here. Nowhere more so than on the roads.

You see, America is a nation entirely dependant and obsessed by cars. In New Jersey especially, you need a car to accomplish anything. The public transport, if you're going anywhere other than New York City or Philadelphia, is non-existent. And despite endless roads lined by endless strip malls, whatever destination or convenience one requires here is automatically six or seven miles away from where you actually are.

So you need a car - and New Jersey is full of roads that are full of cars. And one thing is becoming increasingly clear to me. Whoever was in charge of arranging these roads was an idiot.

The road system in America is a mess. It's like a great big third world country.

After enjoying the civilised roads of England or the smooth, subsidised tarmac of the French Autoroutes, bumbling along potholed stretches of cracked tarmac at 35 miles an hour (although the speed limit sometimes drops as low as 15) seems incredibly backwards. But that's what American roads are like.

Plus they're arranged like spaghetti. Motorways appear from nowhere. Roads merge and split. Junctions and slip roads leap up on you to the left and right with no warning. Not to mention you can turn right on a red light here.

Given just how confusing the roads are, the moribund speed limits suddenly make sense. If anybody tried driving faster than 35mph on a County Road, they'd soon end up in the ditch. It's much better than everybody just pootles along, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as they try to work out who has right of way.

Even things like junctions are unnecessarily complicated here. Everything seems to have been designed by committee. It's quite possible to see a sign at a traffic light telling you that you can turn right when the light is red, provided the other light is green and there are no cars approaching from a perpendicular angle and it's a Tuesday. God forbid you take a moment to process this obscure equation because the definition of the New York Minute is the length of time it takes the light changing colour to the guy behind you beeping his horn because you haven't shifted your car.

The key to survival on the American highways is a sharp mind and nerves of steel. While French roads can feel like a race track and the etiquette British drivers demand is excruciating, just the sheer randomness of the American traffic system makes it one of the most terrifying in the world.

Notes from a Big Country

Reporting has been - and will continue to be - sporatic for the next few days. Tonight we make the big move and actually move into our new apartment - but that means living without luxuries like high speed internet, unlimited long distance and 200 television channels.

But after two long weeks, it's the first concrete step in the right direction.

Being here in America has been awesome, but things have not exactly gone smoothly. The apartment needed to be fixed up, the car needed to be inspected and the job interviews are being held by committee, so until today we'd failed in achieving any of the three most important American goals. A home. A car. A job.

To spend the first night under our own roof will hopefully be the turning point - and our other ambitions will swiftly fall into place.

I'm in love...

I saw it today, while we were car hunting...

Sitting, forlorn on an empty Used Car lot, she was everything I was looking for in a Firebird. Minus the big engine and manual gearbox. But for $1,300 who's complaining?

This is my dream car, but Tina and I both agreed (and we really did BOTH agree, rather than me agreeing with Tina) that we should buy a more sensible first car.

But I can dream, can't I?

Moody...

Sooner or later, everybody needs a moody picture of themselves clutching a New York City payphone...

Constant Companion

Roast Beef...

The great British tradition... Tina and I prepared it for the family the other night.

The best thing about American beef is the size and price - this 6lb roast cost only $12. And although it's a common misconception that American meet is riddled with hormones and steroids, FDA regulations actually control that pretty strictly. Chicken, for example, is completely free of that sort of thing.


Everything you need to make a great British roast is available, although we had to go to an organic market to buy the parsnips (which were big and delicious.) We did run into a major hurdle when I couldn't figure out the oven... I'm all up with the Imperial system when it comes to miles and inches and America's tiny little pint glasses... But Centigrade and Fahrenheit?

Our roast was slow cooked because I had it at 220 Fahrenheit rather than 220 Centigrade. Fortunately, as the photo proves, the roast came out delicious anyway.


And these big American ovens do make one thing easy - Yorkshire puddings! I finally, after years of practice, managed to make a half decent batch. The secret was in leaving the batter for a couple of hours, getting the pan and the oil smouldering, smoking hot and then shoving it into a really, really hot oven. They popped up beautifully and I'm confident they'll be even better the next time.

1 large egg
1/2 pint milk
1 cup flour
salt and pepper

Mix it all up really smooth and leave for a couple of hours.

Get a heavy muffin tin and add a tiny bit of oil (I used chicken fat) into each indentation. Place in a HOT oven (475 degrees) for about five minutes until the oil is smoking hot.

Add a generous gloop of mixture into each muffin hole (a little more than half full) and return to the oven as quickly as possible. Then LEAVE it for 20 minutes, not letting ANYBODY open the oven the have a peek (one thing the mother in law is very prone to.) If you loose the heat, the puddings won't pop up.

Take out when they're plump and crisp and golden - Robert is your Father's Brother!

Hopefully there will be a next time. Cooking was a lot of fun. So was the meal afterwards.

One of the nicest things about England was going to Sunday dinner with the Carruthers. Tina and I have ambitions to carry over the tradition of the good old Sunday roast to New Jersey. I wonder if it will catch on?

A place called Home...

Another common preconception about America concerns the quality of their houses... And that one's often true. To keep building costs down, most houses are timber with plaster and wood sidings. It's quite rare to see a real brick house in the States.

Which is where Tina and I have lucked out, because our new home is made entirely of red bricks. They used to be part of a bridge spanning the Hudson river, but at the turn of the 19th century a builder carted them from Manhattan all the way to North Brunswick and used them to build two cute little houses, side by side.

We can't move it yet - the house is undergoing a pretty extensive refit ready for us. However it's a nice little place and we can't wait to move in and start actually living.

Big Truck Little Truck

In America, they make things big...

On the right is a good old Toyota Hi-Lux - the builder's workhorse over in the UK. A big, powerful pick up, it does the job whether you're building a house or landscaping a garden.

But in America, that's just not big enough.

So on the left, you've got my brother in law's truck. A REAL American pick up - the Ford F250. It's basically a locomotive that doesn't run on rails.

Only in America...

My brother in law has this stern warning to terrorists pinned on his warehouse wall.

He and my other brother in law rented the guns out in the Nevada desert and by the looks of that grouping, they're pretty handy with them!

As a Brit, an interest in handguns is entirely alien to me... However it's interesting to note that the gun crime figures in New Jersey have risen sharply since the NJ State legislature brought in some of the toughest gun control laws in the country.

It's a similar story in England, where the outright ban on private handgun ownership preempted a threefold increase in gun related injuries.

When Tina and I finally get ourselves established, I don't think we'll get ourselves a gun. They frighten me too much. But I am willing to accept that banning handguns is not the answer to stopping America's terrifying gun crime statistics.

Serviced Customers

Bright shiny smiles and "have a nice day" are the order of the day here in America. It's where Customer Service is king and each day I am amazed at the all important, yet seemingly insignificant, things companies are willing to do for their customers.

It's called Customer Service and Jane, my old boss at Power FM, once told me that it's the most important part of running a business. Obviously people stateside agree with her.

I saw this sign at Wegmans, an upmarket supermarket that puts Tescos and Sainsburys to shame. With delicious fresh produce, an amazing food court and service like this, no wonder they're rated No.1 in New Jersey.

But enough of the advertisement for Wegmans. Take a look at this sign and imagine somebody in England offering just that little bit extra for you!

The Sun is Shining...

Today promises to reach the blazing nineties, so it looks like it will be time to hit Tina's brother's lovely unheated pool.

Hitting the Road...

If one preconception about America is true, it's that you need a car to survive here. Outside of New York City, or any of the other major metropolitan areas, the public transport is scarce and it's quicker, smarter and cheaper to get behind the wheel.

I thought this would pose problems for me when Tina and I arrived, but ironically the push to legitimise America's millions of illegal immigrants has actually worked in my favour here. More and more insurance companies are offering full insurance coverage on foreign driver's licences - and thanks to demand and increasing competition, it's cheaper than ever.

Which means I am now fully legitimate to drive on my British licence, without having to go through the rigmarole of applying for a State driver's licence. I will, of course. It will be a smarter and cheaper option in the end. But at least it means Tina and I aren't going to be entirely reliant on her father's taxi service any more (and he returns, exhausted, to Florida next week.)

The other obstacle preventing us from driving was, of course, getting a car. Fortunately Tina's brother has lent us his Pontiac Grand Prix, which is big and powerful and shiny and American, so it ticks all the boxes in my 'must have' vehicle requirements.

I'm a bit nervous about driving. When I visited in 2001/2003, I drove quite happily. It's been a while, though, and the combination of America's niggly road system and abundant police officers twiddling their thumbs means I will be a prudent and careful driver.

So at least there's one of us!

Grass is always greener...

A lot of people don't understand why New Jersey is known as The Garden State.

A lot of people think New York is a great, big, suburban mess.

What nobody seems to realise - until they're here - is that Jersey is actually a lovely place. Lush. Green. Spacious.

From the veranda of my sister-in-law's place, you can look out over a sea of trees that never ends. No roads. No buildings. Just mile after mile of forest.

Where in England can you still see that?

Things my wife has only started doing since she returned to America... Chapter One.

Taking the cat for 'walkies.'

Updated States of America

Tina and I are doing well over here.

The rainy weather vanished and was replaced by blazing sun and temperatures comfortably in the eighties. New Jersey had never looked prettier, with the crop fields shimmering in the heat and the trees beautifully green.

Yesterday gave the illusion of progress, but in fact Tina and I didn't get that much accomplished. We saw our new apartment, which is in the middle of being gutted and won't be ready for another week or so. It's a lovely little redbrick townhouse opposite a school. The bricks themselves were carted over from New York City at the turn of the 20th century to make this house and the one next to it. With it's slate roof and brick walls, it looks very different from the traditional wooden and Cape Cod houses New Jersey is more famous for.

The apartment is in a quiet residential cul de sac opposite a school. It's a few miles away from the city of New Brunswick, which is delightful.

New Brunswick is actually quite a big place. With lots of modern buildings amongst the old ones, neat little bars and a pretty theatre district, it reminded me a bit of downtown Montreal. I think it's a really nice place to live near and seemed safe and clean (although the News 12 Team reported a cop getting shot there last night.)

Aside from getting to know our surroundings, however, Tina and I were foiled in our attempts to get Driver's Licences and mobile phones... That's today's plan - and involves a trip to slightly less glamorous Staten Island, New York.

One good bit of news is that I have a job interview tomorrow and my brother in law has used his contacts to get my resume in front of some advertising agencies in Manhattan.

Watch this space!

Being back in America is great, if a little disorientating. I can't get over just how many cars there are here. There are cars everywhere. You drive past houses with four, five... six cars parked in the driveway. Considering the speed limit on New Jersey's twisty little roads is a conservative 35 mph, you don't drive so much as shuffle along like a trail of gigantic metal ants.

With brand new babies in their homes, both sets of in laws are very protective and insist on us using anti-bacterial hand lotion and showering before we're near the babies. It's a bit different to how things are in England, when you'll often see women carrying their week old bairns through the supermarkets. Tina and I are being very observant of the rules, though. Perhaps we Brits might think the antiseptic routine is a little excessive, but look what all our clever little European bacteria did to the Native Americans when Columbus washed up on their shores.

They're very small little details, but they serve as a constant reminder than I'm not in Kansas any more. But to be honest? Right now, I couldn't be happier.

More news as and when it happens.

Be Aware of Random Tennis Balls

It's the way you tell 'em. And in America, that's no more obvious than in the news reports.

Tina and I were watching the news last night when the anchors warned us to: "Be Aware of Random Tennis Balls... Find out why, later..."

In America, in a desperate attempt to keep people watching the news, the big stories are teased with horrifying snippets of misinformation. You're kept on the edge of your seat until twenty minutes later, when the truth finally emerges - and it's usually an anticlimax.

In this particular instance, the 'random tennis balls' we were warned about consisted of a single ball some kids had stuffed with match heads. A parent had found it and rung the local news station on what was apparently a slow news day. The anchors then spent twenty minutes carefully explaining and showing us how these kids had created this nasty little fireball.

So at the end of the news report, I felt no more protected against random tennis balls than I had before - but at least I (and presumably thousands of other Americans) now knew how to make one.

You know you're in America when...

The box of delicious frozen waffles on the kitchen table really contains...

Assorted handguns...

Seven Suitcases and a Whole New Life

Well, Tina and I are in America!

We arrived on an overcast afternoon that soon turned to drizzle. It was all very British, except for the muggy heat.

Tina's brother and dad met us in her brother's enormous Ford F-250 - which swallowed up our enormous suitcases without any problem. Then we roared up the Jersey Turnpike to Hillsborough and a bit of a family reunion.

Last night, we all sat around an enormous table and ate the most delicious food. An enormous plate of Waldorf salad. Pepperoni and Italian calzones. Smoked ribs with the delicious meat literally falling off the bone. And lots of laughter and stories. It was a lovely welcome.

Tina's family is full of babies. Her sister gave birth to sleepy little Jared just two weeks ago. Her brother has a very intelligent baby called Ryan who is only a couple of months old and already has a moustache. When you're Italian American and Chilean cocktail, I guess that's to be expected!

Right now, the weather's very British. Most of the tri-state area is under a grey ceiling of cloud and drizzle. Tina and I are already putting the wheels in motion to kick off this brand new chapter in our lives and we're incredibly excited.

Immigration Games

Passing through the U.S. Immigrations has officially lost it's novelty value for me by now. Yesterday, when Tina and I arrived at Newark International, I was swiftly marched off to their intimidating waiting area while Tina was left to struggle with six 75lb suitcases.

Fortunately, she found some helpful men to assist her. I wasn't so lucky.

After sitting around for half an hour, a gruff Immigrations Officer examined my passport. He looked me in the eye and said: "You're lucky to be here, what with working illegally and all."

I blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You were working illegally in America. By rights you should be banned from the country."

My face blanched. "No, I wasn't."

There was an interminable pause.

"No," the officer eventually admitted. "You weren't." He silently handed me back my passport.

Slightly numb, I walked off out of the immigrations office.

It was a game, of course. They accuse their victims of something and maybe one in a hundred - somebody actually guilty of some violation - will admit to it thinking the BCIS has discovered their secret.

I've been on the Immigration merry go round for about five years now and until this point, I'd never thought anything truly negative about the department. The officers were gruff and humourless - I could understand that. This was just a little sinister.

But thirty minutes after I'd arrived, Tina and I rendezvoused at the carousel and emerged into an overcast American afternoon - residents, no longer guests, in the United States of America.