bcc
Mon 27 Jun 2011 Filed in: My Life
In spite of the fact that the world has changed, the term has stuck. And for better or worse, I’m old enough to actually understand the logic behind the words blind carbon copy. The original of a letter went to the addressee. The cc (carbon copy) went to whomever else you wanted to receive the contents of the letter. And a bcc was sent if you didn’t want to reveal to the addressee who else was getting a copy.
Carbon paper was like magic. Slipped between two pieces of paper, it would duplicate on the bottom sheet whatever was written on the top. I haven’t seen a piece of carbon paper for a long time. Copying machines, computers, and faxes have made it all but obsolete. The abbreviation, however, lives on, and now you can send email to a host of people at once, none of them knowing who else might be getting the message, and you can do it without carbon paper - provided that you can get the thing past assorted spam filters. (There was time when Spam was reputed to be canned meat that was more or less edible, but that’s another story.)
The world changes, and the language lags behind. Last week bcc took on a new meaning for me: Basal cell carcinoma - bcc in the doctor’s notes; he was writing about my forehead. I’ve known for a while that being a fair-complexioned Englishman who grew up in sun-worshipping California put me at high risk for skin cancer, but this was my first. (“He’s a virgin!” was how the smiling nurse put it, a comment that started the kind of conversation that only medical people can fully appreciate.)
I’m happy to report that the bcc is gone, removed last week by a plastic surgeon who is pleased with his handiwork; no doubt when the healing is complete, I will be at least equally pleased. I will, however, be getting my barnacles checked every few months to make sure that the bcc hasn’t sent a bcc. I knew there was something about Seattle’s cloudy and rainy days that I liked!
Carbon paper was like magic. Slipped between two pieces of paper, it would duplicate on the bottom sheet whatever was written on the top. I haven’t seen a piece of carbon paper for a long time. Copying machines, computers, and faxes have made it all but obsolete. The abbreviation, however, lives on, and now you can send email to a host of people at once, none of them knowing who else might be getting the message, and you can do it without carbon paper - provided that you can get the thing past assorted spam filters. (There was time when Spam was reputed to be canned meat that was more or less edible, but that’s another story.)
The world changes, and the language lags behind. Last week bcc took on a new meaning for me: Basal cell carcinoma - bcc in the doctor’s notes; he was writing about my forehead. I’ve known for a while that being a fair-complexioned Englishman who grew up in sun-worshipping California put me at high risk for skin cancer, but this was my first. (“He’s a virgin!” was how the smiling nurse put it, a comment that started the kind of conversation that only medical people can fully appreciate.)
I’m happy to report that the bcc is gone, removed last week by a plastic surgeon who is pleased with his handiwork; no doubt when the healing is complete, I will be at least equally pleased. I will, however, be getting my barnacles checked every few months to make sure that the bcc hasn’t sent a bcc. I knew there was something about Seattle’s cloudy and rainy days that I liked!
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