Should You Put a 'Foot' in
Your Mouth?
Q. The plural of "foot" is "feet." So why do people always say things
like, "He is 6 foot tall" or "that yardstick is 3 foot long"? -- Mark
Friden, Cranberry Lake, N.Y.
A. I still recall an
episode of the old Gomer Pyle TV show in which Gomer's uncle keeps asking
him, "Are you 6 foot? You look 6 foot!"
Because that show was set
in the South, I've always associated the use of "foot" for "feet" with
southern regional dialect, though I've heard the plural "foot" in the
North as well. The guys at the lumber store in Malone, N.Y., for instance,
ask me whether I want a board that's "6 foot long," not
"6 feet long."
So should YOU use "foot"
as a plural?
What causes all the
confusion is that "foot" is the correct form to use between a number and a
NOUN -- "6-foot sheet of plywood," "8-foot ladder,"
"20-foot fence," but "feet" is
the correct form between a number and an ADJECTIVE, as in "6 feet tall"
and "8 feet deep."
So "6 feet tall" is
formal, while "6 foot tall" is informal. It's fine for a surfer to brag,
"These waves stand 20 foot tall, dude!" but a speaker at a Memorial Day
observance should intone, "These heroes stand 20 feet tall in our hearts."
In other words, saying "20
foot tall" is a practice more honored on the beach than in the observance.
Q. I passed a field in
which there was a flock of geese. Being an inveterate punster, I thought,
"Take a gander at those geese." This led me to wonder whether a male goose
is called a "gander" because he acts as a lookout while the others eat. --
Bill Gleason, Newington, Conn.
A. So your first instinct
when you see a flock of geese is to make a pun? My first instinct is to
fire a gun, mostly because I often walk through a park where the grass is
frequently goosed, if you know what I mean.
That's a good guess about
a male goose's being called a "gander"
because of his vigilance. But it's actually the other way around. The gape
is named for the goose.
As you suggest, the male
goose is always surveying his surroundings.
Some people saw a similarity
between a gander's scanning motion and human rubberneckers as they scoped
out a scene. So, during the late 1800s, people started referring to a look
or glance as a "gander."
Another bird-derived verb
is "crane," meaning "to stretch or strain." It
was inspired by the motion of cranes as they extend their long necks.
One crane to another: "Is your
neck six foot? It looks six foot!"
BACK
Are These Writers
Overpossessive?
A reader recently wrote to complain about the proliferation of double
possessives -- the use of BOTH "of" and "'s" to indicate possession, as in
"a friend of Tom's."
She included several
examples from recent newspaper stories: "a longtime friend of Dodd's," "a
playmate of Sandra's," "a guest of your family's."
She writes, "The possessive
(or genitive) case ordinarily requires an apostrophe. A substitute for
that apostrophe can be the word 'of.' But not both!"
Many usage authorities
agree. Writes Michael Walsh, for instance, in his grammar column for the
journal Practical Lawyer, "The double possessive is redundant, and it
should be avoided in careful writing."
Such simplistic edicts
ignore the fact that the double possessive has been blithely -- and
usefully -- romping around in English since the 1300s, and many
distinguished writers have succumbed to its charms: "This was a false step
of the general's" (Daniel Defoe); "that place of Dorothy Thompson's"
(Alexander Woolcott); "a
favorite phrase of your delighted mother's (Emily Dickinson).
I always picture users of
the double possessive as basketball players holding the ball firmly and
protectively with two hands after grabbing a rebound. "Just try to take
this thing away from me!" they growl.
Truth be told, there are
several instances in which the double possessive helps to sink a semantic
basket. "A photo of Emily's," for instance, means something quite
different from "a photo of Emily."
In fact, when using
personal pronouns, the double possessive is always required. Rather than
saying, "a friend of us," "a fault of you" and "a habit of them," we say
instead, "a friend of ours," "a fault of yours" and a "habit of theirs."
The double possessive can
also smooth out awkward phrasing. "That's your only poem I've ever read,"
for instance, is more naturally rendered, "That's the only poem of yours
I've read."
But be careful to avoid the
double possessive in two situations:
-- when describing all, as
opposed to some, of a person's possessions:
"the poems of Emily Dickinson" (not "Dickinson's")
-- when referring to an
inanimate object: "a feature of the poem" (not
"poem's")
Otherwise, feel free to
use the double possessive whenever it sounds smooth and natural,
especially in speech and casual writing. Who knows? It might even become a
favorite usage of your delighted mother's.
BACK
Putting the 'Meant' in Pavement
The poet Walt Whitman reveled in "the blab of the pave" --- the varied
slang and lingo he heard bubbling up from the streets and sidewalks of New
York City during the mid-1800s.
Today, let's revel in a
different kind of pave blab --- the origins of words for the hard surfaces
beneath our feet. It's time for a walk on the tiled side!
-- cobblestone -- You might
guess that these rounded paving stones are so called because they're
cobbled together. In fact, the verb "cobble," meaning "to assemble hastily
or roughly," played no part in the origin of "cobblestone."
Instead, "cobblestone"
comes from "cob," meaning a "small stone rounded by the action of water,
or any rounded mass, lump or heap," as a "corncob."
The verb "cobble" is,
indeed, the root of "cobbler" (shoemaker). It may also be the root of the
fruit dessert with a thick top crust, as a "peach cobbler," (because such
dishes are hastily put together). But no one is sure.
-- flagstone -- As a kid,
I once tried to fry an egg on a flagstone walkway. (No luck.) But those
pieces of flagstone were, indeed, flat as a flag.
But that's not the origin
of "flagstone," which derives from the Old Norse word "flaga," meaning
"slab."
-- corduroy road -- Legend
has it that "corduroy" is derived from the French phrase "corde du roi" or
"king's cord" because kings favored these "cords" (a ribbed fabric).
Oops. In fact, "corduroy"
first emerged in England during the late 1700s and may be derived from the
English surname "Corderoy."
But why "corduroy road"?
During the early 1800s, many roads were built through marshy areas by
laying large logs at right angles to the direction of the road. Because
these logs resembled the ridges of corduroy fabric, they were called
"corduroy roads."
-- Tarmac -- A major
improvement over these bumpy, washboard corduroy roads came in 1822 when
the Scottish civil engineer John McAdam devised the "macadam" type of road
pavement made with layers of gravel.
By the 1880s, engineers
were mixing tar with the gravel as a binder. This type of road surface was
called "Tarmac," a combination of "tar" and "macadam." "Tarmac" is a
registered trademark, but the generic term "tarmac" is used to describe
many sorts of road surfaces, especially airport runways and taxiways.
BACK
Are You Booked for the Summer?
Looking for that perfect gift for dad or grad -- or a great read to
make your own summer glad? The bee-loud glade is buzzing with nifty new
books about words this summer.
Speaking of bees, Susie
Dent's "What Made the Crocodile Cry -- 101 Questions about the English
Language" (Oxford, $18.95) includes a chapter titled "The Birds and the
Bees." There you'll learn that the term "shedding crocodile tears" for
faking sadness derives from the ancient belief that crocodiles weep in
order to lure their prey.
To enjoy a lively romp
through the wild meadow of English, pick up "A Little Book of Language" by
David Crystal (Yale, $25). Crystal, one of the world's pre-eminent
language authorities, covers every aspect of language, from baby talk to
bilingualism to Basque, an "isolated language" of northern Spain that
bears almost no resemblance to any other European tongue.
If you know that
"tantamount," "aghast" and "revel" are always followed by "to," "at" and
"in," respectively, English is probably your first language. But selecting
the correct preposition for such words is much harder for non-native
speakers. That's where Luis Waldman's "Prepositions in Business English --
A Guide for International Executives" (Top Tier, $18) comes on . . . er,
in handy.
How do you begin a
conversation gracefully? How do you avoid sounding tentative in a meeting?
What should you say at the end of an interview?
Sheryl Lindsell-Roberts, a
veteran business communications consultant, answers many such questions in
her highly useful "Speaking Your Way To Success" (Houghton-Mifflin,
$13.95).
Since 1900, the number of
words in the English language has quintupled.
In "There's a Word For It"
(Harmony, $19.99), Sol Steinmetz takes us on a joyride (1909) through the
verbal newbies (1970) of the past 110 years. From "ping-pong" (1900) to
"Pilates" (1934) to "people-watch" (1967) to "paintball" (1984) to "podcast"
(2004), it's been quite a "bungee jump" (1990).
Groups of Chinese
university students hold "English Corners" every Friday night to practice
their English. Robert McCrum, co-author of the book and TV series "The
Story of English," tells why in "Globish -- How the English Language
Became the World's Language" (W. W. Norton, $26.95). Propelled by
cyberspace, business and American popular culture, Globish, writes McCrum,
has become "the worldwide dialect of the third millennium."
BACK
When Couples – and Verbs –
Disagree
Q. Is the correct sentence "The couple ARE planning" or "the couple IS
planning a June wedding"? – Marlene Cox, Manor, Pa.
A. "The couple IS planning"
is correct because you’re thinking of the couple as a single unit.
Likewise, you’d say, "the couple is moving to Pennsylvania" or "the couple
is hosting a party."
But let’s say these two
lovebirds held very different views about the wedding – she wants a
cathedral, he wants a casino. Then you might say, tongue in cheek, "the
couple ARE planning their wedding."
"Couple" can also take a
plural verb in sentences such as "the couple are taking separate
vacations" or "the couple are disagreeing about the meanings of
‘floundering’ and ‘foundering.’"
Q. My wife and I are
debating whether "floundering" or "foundering" is correct when describing
someone who is having a lot of difficulty performing the tasks in a new
job. Bill, Glastonbury
A. What a coincidence!
Your hapless rookie is
floundering if he’s struggling, flopping around like a beached flounder.
Perhaps he’s failing to meet deadlines, flip-flopping in his decisions or
constantly misplacing the Flounder File. But enough about me.
But, if he’s performing so
badly that he’s going to be fired, he’s foundering, meaning "sinking," as
in "the Titanic foundered in the North Atlantic." "Founder" shares the
root "fundus" (bottom) with "foundation."
Q. I am bewildered by the
word "moot." Dictionary definitions indicate it means "debatable" or
"open to discussion," however it is commonly used to indicate the exact
opposite. Which meaning is correct? – Ann Messineo, Hamilton, N.J.
A. Can we please go back to
that easy question about "foundering"?
"Moot" is a "contronym" – a
word that has two opposite meanings. But how did this happen?
Originally "moot" meant
"subject to argument, not decided," so a "moot point" or a "moot issue"
was a question that COULD be debated.
But because these "moot
issues" were often debated in non-practical, academic settings, such as a
law school’s moot court, "moot" took on the contrary meaning of
"hypothetical, of no practical significance" and eventually of "decided,
not worth arguing about."
This is now the dominant
meaning of "moot." So if you use "moot point"
to mean "a debatable point," you risk
conveying the opposite meaning. You might even be accused of floundering
BACK
Maybe You Were Absent That Day
Are you in the know?
When it comes to grammar
and usage, even well-educated people have blind spots. Here are five of
the most common no-no's committed by know-knows.
-- Saying "I feel badly" --
We're all trained to use adverbs to modify action verbs. None of us would
say, for instance, "I ran bad" or "he drove bad." So we tend to avoid
using adjectives after verbs, even when the verb expresses a state of
being rather than an action, as with "feel," "seem," "taste," "smell,"
"appear" and "grow." So the correct choice after such verbs is an
adjective, rather than an adverb: "I feel bad"; "the fish tastes bad;"
"the situation appears bad."
-- Pronouncing "forte,"
meaning "a strength, talent," as "FOR-tay." -- "Forte," meaning "a strong
point," as in, "pronunciation is his forte," is correctly pronounced as
one syllable – "FORT." It derives from the French word "fort," meaning
"strong." When adopted by English, "fort" was given a final "e" and its
current figurative meaning. It should not be confused with the Italian
musical direction "forte," meaning "play loudly," which is pronounced
"FOR-tay."
-- Using "comprise" for
"compose" -- It's a simple rule that bears
repeating: The whole comprises the parts; the parts compose (make up,
constitute) the whole." New York City comprises five boroughs; five
boroughs compose (make up, constitute) New York City. By the same token
(in this case, a subway token), you should say, "New York City is composed
of five boroughs," not "comprised of five boroughs."
-- Using "hone in on" for
"home in on" -- "Home in on" means "to head for or direct attention to an
objective," the way a homing pigeon heads for home or a missile homes in
on its target. "Hone" means "to sharpen, to make more acute or intense,"
as in "honing a blade" or "honing your skills." Because
the words sound alike and there's a slight overlap in meaning, many people
mistakenly use "hone in on" for "home in on."
-- Using "fortuitous" to
mean "fortunate" -- "Fortuitous" means "occurring by chance," with no
denotation of good or bad fortune. Thus, "my encountering Joe in the
hallway was fortuitous" simply means that the encounter occurred by
chance. But many people use "fortuitous" to mean "lucky," as in, "My
encountering Joe in the hallway was fortuitous because he told me the
water cooler had been poisoned."
BACK
Put Up Your Dukes and Take
This Quiz
Can you select the correct source of each word or phrase?
1. dukes, meaning "hands,"
as in "put up your dukes" -- A. two dukes in England who were continually
fighting each other B. "dookin," an old word for palm reading C. "duiker,"
a small, combative African antelope D. the Italian "duce" (leader) because
boxer lead with their strongest hand
2. cubby hole -- A. a den
occupied by bear cubs B. a shortening of "cubicle" C. the Old English
"cub," meaning a small animal pen or chicken coop D. George Cubbe, a
hermit who once lived in a cellar near Newfane, Vt.
3. pits, meaning "the
worst," as in "It's the pits." -- A. the armpits B. piles of worthless
fruit pits C. holes in the earth where prisoners were kept D. a shortening
of "Pittsburgh"
4. album -- A. albumen
printing paper, which was once used to process photographs B. a corruption
of "all bunched" C. Al Bumworth, a London printer who sold such books D.
the Latin "albus" (white) because the blank tablets on which Romans posted
public notices were white
5. bachelor -- A. because a
single man often dated a batch of women B. the Vulgur Latin "baccalaris"
(cowhand) C. Bangalore, the Indian city often visited by single British
men D. a thin, dashing young man was thought to resemble a spatula, which
was misheard as "batchula."
6. jeep -- A. alteration of
"cheap," because soldiers thought they were poorly made B. "Eugene the
Jeep," a character in the Popeye comic strip C.
"G.P." as in General Purpose
vehicle D. "jeepers," often uttered by passengers startled by the
vehicle's bumpy ride
Answers:
1. B. Because palm reading
was known as "dookin," hands themselves came to be called "dukes." 2. C.
"Cub" is akin to the Old English "cofa" (den), which is also the root of
"cove." 3. A. This term reflects the olfactory and visual unattractiveness
of armpits. 4. D. The meaning of a blank tablet was extended to a book
with blank pages 5. B. "Baccalaris," which derives from the Latin "vacca"
(cow), entered English as "bachelor," which came to denote an apprentice
knight and eventually any single man. 6. B. and C. When the U.S. Army
introduced this four-wheel-drive vehicle during the late 1930s, it was
given the designation "General Purpose" or "G.P." for short. Soldiers
familiar with the cartoon character from the Popeye strip soon dubbed the
"G.P." a "jeep."
BACK
Gospel Origin of
'Lukewarm' Doesn't Hold Water
Q. I belong to a bible study class, and we were wondering if there is
any connection between Luke's Gospel and the word "lukewarm." -- Suzanne
Travers, West Hartford, Conn.
A. Well, the Gospel of Luke
does quote John the Baptist as saying, "I indeed baptize you with water
but . . . He [Christ] shall baptize you with fire." Does this mean the
coming fire of Jesus would heat up the temperature of John's water to at
least lukewarm?
Afraid not. The true origin
of "lukewarm," meaning "tepid, slightly warm," has more to do with
temperature than testament.
"Luke" was a Middle English
word, now obsolete, meaning "warm." So, technically, "lukewarm" means
"warm warm," though its meaning today is more like "cool warm."
(Such redundant doublets,
by the way, do occasionally occur in English.
Because "cellar" derives from
the word "saler," meaning "salt," for instance, the term "salt cellar"
actually means "salt salt.")
Though not related to the
gospel writer, "luke" is a distant cousin of the heat-related words
"caldron," "scald" and "calorie." It's even connected to the nautical term
"lee," the side of the ship protected from the wind, because that's the
warmest side of the ship.
That's because the Middle
English "luke" is derived, after many twists and turns, from the
Indo-European root for warm -- "kele," which is the root of the Latin "caldidus"
(warm).
Q. When did the spelling of
"complaisant" change to "complacent"? I was reading a magazine from 1983
the other day and it has the old spelling ("complaisant"). But now I see
only the new spelling ("complacent"). – Liz Bollich, Jennings, La.
A. In fact, these two
adjectives are actually different words with different meanings.
"Complaisant," which is
used much less often than "complacent," means "obliging, tending to follow
others." e.g. "The complaisant student went along with the prank."
The more common word
"complacent" means "contented to a fault, self-satisfied, unconcerned,"
e.g. "The student had grown complacent about his low grades."
"Complaisant" and
"complacent," which are both derived from the Latin verb "complacere" (to
please), sound alike and overlap in meaning; a complacent person is likely
to be complaisant. In fact, a secondary meaning of "complacent" is
"complaisant."
Even so, it's wise to be
complaisant and observe the significant distinction between these two
words.
BACK
Is 'Alright' Ever All Right?
Q. Many years ago in elementary and high school, we were taught that
"already" was one word and "all right" was two. Recently I have noticed
"all right" written as "alright" in several different newspaper articles.
Were my teachers wrong? -- Bob Calnen, Manchester, Conn.
A. In one respect, your
teachers were wrong. While "already" is indeed written as one word when
referring to time ("They've already left"), it's rendered as two words
when referring to preparation ("They're all ready to go").
As for "alright," your
teachers were all right. All reputable dictionaries and usage handbooks
regard "alright" as non-standard. Quoth the editors of the Associated
Press Stylebook, for instance, "Never 'alright.'"
But, alas, the raven
"alright" often perches on the bust of Pallas . . . er, palaver, no matter
how much we try to shoo it away. After all, "alright" is a handy shortcut,
and both written and spoken English have always welcomed some contraction,
elision and blending.
Even notable authors such
as Flannery O'Connor, Gertrude Stein and James Joyce used "alright,"
though I'm not sure Molly Bloom's soliloquy in Joyce's "Ulysses" ("alright
well seen then let him go to her") is exactly a model of standard English.
As you observe, "alright"
pops up occasionally in newspapers and magazines too. A few years back,
for instance, Time magazine ran the headline "The Kids Are Alright." This
was clearly a calculated attempt to seem casual and hip.
But when it comes to
standard English, "alright" is never all right.
Q. I wish you'd write about the use of "bring" and "take." Honestly, I
can't remember the rule that I was taught in school. -- Margaret Huni,
Black River, N.Y.
A. Those teachers again!
As I'm sure they told you, it's all a matter of perspective.
Use "bring" when the
motion is TOWARD the speaker ("Please bring me an apple"). Use "take" when
the motion is AWAY from the speaker ("Please take this apple to the
teacher").
This is going to sound
silly, but when I'm uncertain about which verb to use, I think of the
sound of a doorbell ("BRRRRRRING!) When you hear the doorbell, someone is
often bringing you something.
(And when you hear the
burglar alarm, someone is probably taking something away!)
BACK
Is the Pen Mightier than the
Chaw?
How did "bullpen" come to denote the place where back-up pitchers and
catchers warm up and wait?
In the newly-released third
edition of Paul Dickson's wonderful "The Dickson Baseball Dictionary"
(W.W. Norton, $49.95), we discover that writers have penned several
theories to explain this term -- and that some of them are probably bull.
Many attribute "bullpen" to
the Bull Durham tobacco signs that were ubiquitous in baseball parks
during the early 1900s. These large billboards, some in the shape of a
bull, were usually located along the outfield fence, providing welcome
shade to the back-up hurlers stationed there.
As Johnny Murphy, a
Yankees relief pitcher, once recalled, "It ["bullpen"] came from Bull
Durham tobacco, I was always told. All the ballparks had advertising signs
on the outfield fences, and Bull Durham was always near the spot where the
relief pitchers warmed up."
Others have linked the
term to the area where reserve bulls are held during bullfights. Alas,
skilled linguistic matadors have poked many holes in this bullfight
theory.
In a 1967 interview, New
York Mets (and former Yankees) manager Casey Stengel offered two other
possible origins. "The extra pitchers," said the Ol' Professor, "would
just sit around shooting the bull, and no manager wanted all that gabbing
on the bench. So he put them in this kind of pen in the outfield to warm
up; it looked like a place to keep cows or bulls."
Major League catcher and
sportscaster Joe Garagiola reinforced the "shooting the bull" theory when
he told The Sporting News in 1956 that the bullpen was "a place for eating
peanuts, trading insults with the fans, second-guessing the manager and
picking all kinds of silly all-star teams, like the all-screwball team or
the all-ugly team or the all-stack-blowing team."
But it's in Stengel's
reference to livestock that we may have found our "closer."
"Bull pen," of course, has
been used for centuries in English to denote a corral for cattle. By the
time of the Civil War it referred to a place where prisoners of war were
being held. So it's logical that baseball, a sport that developed in the
mid-19th century, would adopt the same term for the area where its small "arm"y
of arm-men was confined.
In etymology, as in
baseball, the simplest explanation is usually the truest.
BACK
'Of' Thee I Sing
A South Dakota reader recently sent me a full-page Allstate Insurance
ad with this large headline, "How long of a retirement should you plan
for?"
No, he wasn't trying to solicit
my advice on retirement planning, though, after a recent bout of sciatica,
I'm tempted to observe that 60 is the new 80.
Instead, this reader wants
to scrub up, don his green gown and nip and tuck this headline to give it
a tighter, more youthful look. With scalpel poised, he asks, "Is 'of'
necessary?"
Uh, no. All authorities
would agree that the headline should read, "How long a retirement . . ."
Even the hyper-permissive Merriam-Webster's Dictionary of English Usage
trashes the "of a" construction: "You will not want to use it much in
writing."
But if grammarians condemn
it, why do we encounter phrases such as "not that big of a deal" and "how
big of a mess" so often, especially in speech?
In a word, emphasis.
In the Allstate headline,
the two key words are "long" and "retirement." To stress each one
properly, you want to put some distance between them.
Saying "how long a retirement"
inserts only one syllable between them, thus cramming them together.
Saying "how long of a retirement" provides two syllables and gives each
word some breathing room.
So, by strict grammatical
standards, the phrase "how long of a retirement" is incorrect. But a case
could be made that inserting the "of" gives the sentence more punch.
Our aggressive surgeon also
has his eye on that little preposition at the end of the sentence --
"for." He'd like to snip and flip the sentence to something like "For how
long a retirement should you plan?"
Here he's being knife
happy. True, because a preposition usually precedes an object, it's not
always a great word to end a sentence with. The last part of the previous
sentence, for example, would be better rendered, "it's not a great word to
use at the end of a sentence."
But the phrase "plan for"
is used so commonly that it should be considered as a unit. "How long a
retirement should you plan for?" sounds natural and smooth.
With "of" snipped off, but
with major removals or rearrangements averted, our sentence is now resting
comfortably in the recovery room, in, as the folks at Allstate might put
it, "good hands."
BACK
Dispute Concerning 'Bagel'
Is Involving
Dispatches from the Word Front . . .
---
Matter of Concern -- I've noticed an emerging trend that's both concerning
and involving. It's the widespread use of the participles "concerning" and
"involving" to mean "creating concern" and "generating involvement,"
respectively.
A TV commentator, for
instance, recently said, "These allegations are concerning," while a film
critic, reviewing the movie "The Lovely Bones,"
wrote, "One element of the film that is consistently involving is the
dreamscape look of the in-between world where Susie spends her time."
Grammatically, there's
nothing wrong with such constructions. But they sound funny because
"concerning," in addition to meaning "troubling," can also mean
"regarding." And "involving," in addition to meaning "engaging," can also
mean "using, including."
So when someone says,
"These allegations are concerning," we think he might be about to say,
"These allegations are concerning suspicious activity in late 2009."
And when someone says, "The film is consistently involving," we think he
might be about to say, "The film is consistently involving minor
characters in the plot."
So "concerning" and
"involving" sometimes put us in that ambiguous, in-between world where
Susie spends her time.
o Ivy League Bagel Fight
-- Several readers wrote to ask about the headline over a recent Hartford
Courant editorial: "Bageled by the Feds." The editorial questioned why
Connecticut received nothing -- zero, zilch, nada -- in a recent allotment
of federal transportation grants.
"What does this have to do
with bagels?" readers asked. "If we got bageled, how come we got no
dough?"
The secret's in the shape.
A bagel looks like a zero. This use of "bagel" to mean a goose egg emerged
in tennis during the 1970s. To win a set 6-0 was to "bagel" your opponent,
and two 6-0 sets was a "double bagel."
The term soon cycled into
sports jargon as a synonym for "shutout," and soon it had been promoted to
the highest military rank: General Parlance.
Or perhaps Private
Parlance. The Associated Press reports that on Dec. 2, 2009, Dartmouth
College fans watching a Dartmouth-Harvard squash match taunted and heckled
Harvard players, including Franklin Cohen.
"Cohen's mother," the AP
reported, "said her son was asked if he liked bagels, which she viewed as
a reference to their Jewish surname. But the Dartmouth fans said the
comment referred to the zero on the scoreboard."
This is yet another
example of both the power and ambiguity of language.
BACK
How Did We Name the People
We Blame?
"Don't blame me!"
That's the mantra of every
scapegoat, whipping boy and fall guy since the dawn of history. But whom
should we blame for the origins of these terms?
- - scapegoat – Blame the
Ancients! On Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, the ancient Hebrews
would symbolically seek a fresh start by transferring all their sins to
two goats.
One goat was sacrificed,
but the other one, bearing the sins of the people, was led to the desert
and allowed to escape. William Tyndale's English translation of the Old
Testament in 1530 referred to this animal as a "scapegoote," short for
"escape goat." Since then, anyone who's blamed for the sins of others has
been called a "scapegoat."
-- whipping boy – Blame
the Royals! This term evolved from that wonderful institution known as
the British monarchy. During the early 1600s, the belief arose that the
body of a prince, like that of the king, was sacred and could not be
harmed. So, instead of whipping the prince for royal misdeeds, his
governess or tutor would flog another boy.
The first prince to
benefit from this practice was the son of James I, who would grow up to
become Charles I. And its first victim was a young lad named William
Murray who was appointed to be young Charlie's playmate and fellow
student.
So whenever Charlie
misbehaved, poor William, as the designated "whipping boy," would bear the
blows Charlie deserved. Soon "whipping boy" had become a general term for
someone who is punished for another's misdeeds or serves as a frequent
target of attack.
In 1649, just as Charles
was about to be behead, he looked around desperately for a "decapitating
boy" to take his place. Alas, no one stuck his neck out, so to speak.
-- fall guy – Blame Hulk
Hogan! Second only in dignity to the British monarchy is the "sport" of
professional wrestling. During the late 1800s, wrestling surged in
popularity, and beefy young men traveled from town to town to compete.
As hard as it is to
believe today, some of these matches were – My Stars! – fixed. The
competitor who was designated to lose the match was called the "fall guy"
because he "took the fall" - often several falls - for the sake of the
act.
By the early 1900s, "fall
guy" had entered popular American speech as a generic term for anyone who,
willingly or unwillingly, takes the blame for others' crimes – or any man
who simply loves autumn.
BACK
Punctuation. It's Not for
Everyone.
Q. I've noticed watching commercials on TV that
people who produce them don't recognize the distinction between a colon
and a period. For example:
"Parents. The anti-drug."
"Ensure. Nutrition in charge." "Fast. It's not for everyone." (Comcast)
"Ritz. Open for fun." "Different. Bank on it." (CBT Bank). "Your Lexis
dealer. Improving perfection." "Volvo. For life."
"Insurance. In-sync." (The
Travelers) "Comfort. It's what we do." (La Z Boy) Do you think I'm right?
-- Phil, via email
A. Yes. It's what they do.
I'm tempted to say you've performed a colonoscopy on these sentences and
found nothing. And don't even get me started on all the sentence fragments
in those slogans.
These "period pieces" are
designed by the mad men and women of Madison Avenue to simulate the
aggressive, staccato-like nature of American speech today -- Rushed.
Terse. Tense.
But they end up sounding
like the last words of a bullet-riddled gangster dying in the arms of his
capo: "Money. In the safe. Bank on it."
I'm tempted to blame this
horrible trend on the schlocky 1970s song "Feelings," which also begins
with a one-word sentence ("Feelings. Nothing more than feelings . . ."),
but too much of the downfall of Western Civilization has already been
blamed on that song.
Would it make you feel any better to know that Robert Frost once used the
same sentence pattern in a poem?: "Apples? New Hampshire has them." I
didn't think so.
But, let's face it; we've
always cut Madison Avenue some slack when it comes to grammar, usage and
punctuation. After all, the purpose of an advertisement is to pound a
single, simple idea into your head like a nail.
Remember the controversy
over "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should"? English professors and
other members of the elbow-patch crowd argued that the slogan should be
"Winston tastes good AS a cigarette should."
My father actually worked
for the ad agency that devised this line, and I can assure you that the
erudite, scholarly executives at his firm spent about half a second
worrying about this complaint before donning their fedoras, pinching their
secretaries and heading out to a three-martini lunch.
I say let the advertisers
have their period pieces. "Advertising. Selling in charge." "Commercials.
The anti-Grammar." "English teachers. Tortured for life."
BACK
These Terms Are Cliche-like
I don't like "like." And, no, this time I'm not, like, railing against
the, like, overuse of "like" by teenagers.
Today my targets are the
weather forecasters and journalists who habitually append "-like" to the
ends of words, as in "fall-like temperatures" and "flu-like symptoms."
Yes, I realize that autumn
temperatures may occur in summer and that diseases that aren't the flu may
share its symptoms. But why not simply say "fall temperatures" and "flu
symptoms"?
And now a few more
rant-like observations . . .
-- decisions, decisions –
Speaking of teenagers, any adolescent guilty of any misdeed – from
mischief to murder – is invariably described as having "made a poor
decision." I keep picturing tortured, high-school Hamlets walking around
muttering, "To beer, or not to beer."
-- advanced placement –
These poor decisions are invariably made by kids who are "in the wrong
place at the wrong time." (Apparently it's OK to be in the wrong place at
the right time or in the right place at the wrong
time.)
-- architectural digest –
Have you noticed that every Tom, Dick and Lloyd is replacing the nouns
"design" and "structure" with "architecture"? People discuss the
"architecture" of everything from microchips to mergers to martinis.
Frankly, Lloyd, this isn't right.
-- iconic classic – Any
product, person, image or fruit fly that has been in existence for more
than five seconds is now described as "iconic." Rock stars, TV
commercials, comfort foods, Twitter messages and fashion styles are all
"iconic" – unless they're described as "classic."
-- rampant exits –
Political pundits discussing U.S. strategy in Afghanistan invariably
describe the various points at which we might begin to withdraw troops
from that nation as "exit ramps." I haven't seen this many "exit ramps"
since I last drove on the Interstate!
-- different direction –
The trendy euphemism for "you're fired" or "you're not being hired or
promoted" is "we've decided to go in a different direction." I keep
imagining a new title for Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not
Taken": "Going in a Different Direction."
-- pass word – Speaking of
going in different directions, no one says "no" to a proposal, idea or
manuscript anymore. It's always, "We (never I) have decided to pass on
that." Not pass IT on – to another boss, colleague or editor – but pass ON
it – reject it. I'll take a pass on "pass."
BACK
Merry 'Pharmers' and Jolly
Ranchers
Whenever I hear the pharmaceutical industry described as "Big Pharm,"
I can't help picturing tractors cultivating acres of Celebrex as silos
filled with Viagra loom in the background. (Alternative name for Big Pharm:
"Tyrannosaurus Rx.")
So, you might ask, is there
a linguistic connection between "farm" and "pharmacy"?
Sorry. There's no farmer in
the dell . . . er, pill.
"Pharmacy" is derived from
the Old French "farmacie," from the Greek word "pharmacon," meaning a "a
magic charm, poison or drug." "Farm," a completely unrelated word, derives
from the Latin "firmus" (firm).
But how did "firm" become
"farm"? Scholars say it's because agricultural plots were made firm,
either physically by walls around them or metaphorically by signatures on
a lease.
If you're feeling a little
queasy about the origins of other "pharm" terms, here's your prescription:
Take one etymology every 20 seconds for the next two minutes.
"Apothecary," an
old-fashioned word for a pharmacist or pharmacy, is derived from the Latin
"apotheca" (storehouse). So when "apothecary" first appeared in English,
it referred to shops that sold a wide range of dry goods in addition to
medicine, just as today's drug stores sell squirt guns, cosmetics and
Jolly Ranchers candy (a.k.a. "Jolly Pharmers").
By the 1500s "apothecary"
had narrowed in meaning to denote a store or person specializing in
medicines. This leaves wondering how Romeo and Juliet might have fared if
the apothecary had replaced his potion with Jolly Ranchers.
If you're all curious about
cure-alls, "panacea" (a remedy for everything)
derives from the Greek words "pan" (all) and "akos" (remedy), while
"remedy" itself comes from the Latin "re-" (again) and "mederi" (to heal).
And "patent medicines" were so-called because their makers (supposedly)
held patents for their recipes.
"Nostrum" ("NAH-strum")
refers to a quack medicine prepared by someone who makes great claims for
its effectiveness. It's derived from the Latin "noster" (ours) because
charlatans would tout such panaceas and patent medicines as being uniquely
"ours."
By extension, "nostrum"
came to mean any questionable remedy or scheme. In 1921, for instance, the
alliteratively minded President Warren G.
Harding declared that America needed "not nostrums, but normalcy." As a
native Ohioan eager for a return to small-town values, this jolly ranter
clearly preferred Big Farm to Big Pharm.
BACK
Is a Blocked
Highway 'Impassible' or 'Impassable'?
Q. When I look up "impassible" in the online
dictionaries, the definitions are typically "not subject to suffering or
pain; unfeeling." But when I check for usage examples, most deal with
roads made impassible, as by bad weather. Are the roads just insensitive
to the wheels of traffic, or is there a change of meaning taking place
here? -- Tom Rountree, Cheraw, S.C.
A. Well, let's hope those
roads ARE insensitive, considering that they're routinely pounded by
20-ton trucks, studded tires and cars with snow chains. Ouch!
The correct word to
describe blocked highways is "impassable," meaning "incapable of being
traveled; blocked." Though nearly identical in spelling, "impassable" and
"impassible" derive from two Latin roots with identical spellings but
different meanings.
"Impassible" comes from "passus,"
the past participle of "pati," the Latin word for "to suffer," which is
also the root of "patient," "passive" and "passion."
"Impassable" derives from
the Latin noun "passus," meaning "a step or stride." This "passus" is the
root of "pass," "passage" and "pace."
Understandably, people confuse
"impassible," meaning "unfeeling," with "impassable," meaning "blocked."
The most common mistake is using "impassible"
for "impassable," as in "the
highway was impassible."
My method for remembering
the difference is to think of the "a" in "road," but you may choose to
think of the "a" in "highway." In other words, it's my way or the highway.
Q. Is there anything ever
"ulterior," other than a motive? Or is anything "gaping," other than a
hole (or, I suppose, a maw)? How did these words come to be such one-trick
ponies? Were they ever used more broadly? -- Jim Maloy, Greensburg, Pa.
A. I've always been
fascinated by these one-trick ponies. (You might think "one-trick pony" is
an old-fashioned phrase, but it was actually coined during the 1970s to
denote someone skilled in only one area or who has success only once.)
One of my favorite
one-tricks is "whopping," which is invariably used with "increase." As
language maven Edwin Newman once asked, "When does an increase begin to
whop?"
To answer your question,
"ulterior" was once used to modify many adjectives. The Oxford English
Dictionary lists citations for "ulterior accomplishments," "ulterior
designs" and "ulterior intentions."
Readers, can you pony up
any other words used exclusively in one phrase? Please send me your
one-tricks!
BACK
Deceivers ‘Euph’anize the
Language
Lord Spratley: Say, did you know that euphemisms help people say what
they don’t want to say?
Lord Stratley: You don’t
say!
Euphemisms are linguistic
brooms that try to sweep everything – from taxes to sex to baldness –
under the rug (in the case of baldness, literally under the rug). Death
insurance becomes "life insurance," indecent exposure becomes a "wardrobe
malfunction" and an "invasion" becomes an "incursion."
Discount stores, for
instance, now call customers "guests" and employees "associates," while
businesses refer to salespeople as "marketing representatives."
The airline industry, given
its association with danger, discomfort and delays, is rife with
sugar-coated words: life preservers are "flotation devices," first-class
seating is now "business class," and the table where you place your coats,
gloves and hats for security screening is called a "divestment table," as
if you were shedding some low-performing stocks.
Even "euphemism" has been
used euphemistically. When the character Honey in Edward Albee’s play
"Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf" says she’d like to "powder her nose,"
George asks his wife to "show her where we keep the euphemism."
Let's put the "you" in
euphemisms. See whether you can match each euphemism with its meaning.
Euphemisms:
1. slumber box 2.
industrial action 3. spend a penny 4. irregularity 5. rightsizing 6.
impaired 7. revenue enhancement 8. armed reconnaissance 9. birthday
suit 10. negative contribution 11. handyman’s special 12. lower ground
floor 13. correction 14. leverage 15. holiday ownership 16.
correctional facility 17. self-deliverance 18. entourage 19. negative
patient care outcome 20. public assistance 21. interfere with 22. hang
paper 23. police action 24. motion discomfort 25. cash flow problem
Meanings:
A. sycophants B. tax
increase C. suicide D. coffin E. death F. dilapidated house G.
urinate H. welfare I. laying off workers J. borrow K.
nakedness L. drop in stock prices M. constipation N. prison O.
financial loss P. assault sexually Q. war R. be broke S. labor
strike T. drunk V. bombing U. pass bad checks W. time share X. car,
sea or air sickness Y. cellar
Answers:
1. D 2. S 3. G 4. M
5. I 6. T 7. B 8. V 9. K 10. O
11. F 12. Y 13. L 14. J
15. W 16. N 17. C 18. A 19. E 20. H
21. P 22. U 23. Q 24.
X 25. R
BACK
'Iregardless'
Can Be 'Ir'- itating
Q. The Oxford English Dictionary listing for the word "irregardless"
cites the meaning as "regardless." I recollected that the prefix "ir-"
negated/reversed the meaning of the word. I'm confused about this.
Please advise.
-- M. Cameron, Wethersfield, Conn.
A. Your question raises two issues. First, is
"irregardless" even a word? Second, can the prefix "ir-" sometimes
intensify rather than negate a word's meaning?
The answers are "maybe" and "yes,"
respectively.
"Irregardless," a blend of the synonyms
"irrespective" and "regardless," first appeared as a dialectical term in
western Indiana during the early 1900s.
Since then, usage authorities have
ferociously condemned "irregardless" as a "barbarism," a "nonword," a
"blunder" and a "Hoosier hooliganism" – OK, I made that last one up.
Despite these outcries, "irregardless" is common in spoken English, and it
even appears occasionally in print.
Should you ever use "irregardless"?
Merriam-Webster's 11th Collegiate Dictionary offers the best advice: "Its
reputation has not improved over the ears, and it is still a long way from
general acceptance. Use 'regardless' instead."
As for the prefix "ir-," it's one of several
prefixes, such as "in-," "im-," "un-" and "dis-," that sometimes
intensifies or specifies rather than negates a word's meaning.
"Ir-" can be a variant of the prefix "in-,"
meaning "in," "into" or "within." "Irrigate," for instance, derives from
the Latin "in rigate" (to flood into), while "irrupt," meaning "to break
or burst in," comes from the Latin "in rumpere" (to break in).
So "irregardless" joins the ranks of other "unantonyms,"
such as "inflammable," "inhabitable," "unravel" and "unloosen," which mean
the same thing as "flammable," "habitable," "ravel" and "loosen,"
respectively.
Q. Heard from a technician explaining how
long a procedure will take: "It won't be a minute." But I would ask, "If
it won't be a minute, how long WILL it be?" -- Bruce Powell, Canton, Conn.
A. Good point. What the speaker means, of
course, is that it won't take as long as a minute. But, regarded
literally, the phrase could mean any length of time other than a minute –
a second, an hour, a day.
I once told my then 4-year-old daughter,
"Your friend will be here any minute," and she replied, "You mean ANY
minute? Today? Tomorrow?"
Sometimes it takes a child – or a perceptive
adult from Canton, Conn. – to point out the delightfully illogical idioms
of English.
BACK
Colleges 'Auto' Know Better
Call it "Driving while Misspelled." On the road, I often encounter
these signs of our linguistic times . . .
-- License To Kill -- Stopped in traffic, I
sometimes find myself behind a license plate frame announcing that the
car's owner is a University of (Your Alma Mater Here) "Alumni." (I won't
name a specific institution here, fearing it will retaliate by putting me
on its fundraising list.)
Now I realize, of course, that it's possible
two or more owners or drivers of the car, perhaps even an entire family,
are graduates of the university in question, which would make "Alumni"
correct. But I suspect that, in most cases, only one person associated
with the vehicle is an alumnus or alumna of said institution.
(True, there's some debate over whether the
Latin masculine plural "alumni" should even be used as a general term for
both male and female graduates. Some dust-covered classics majors still
insist on referring collectively to graduates of a co-ed institution as
"alumni and alumnae.")
That issue aside, would it be too much to ask
college paraphernalia emporiums (formerly known as bookstores) to produce
two versions of these varsity/vanity plates, one reading "Alumnus" and one
reading "Alumna"?
Heck, by giving graduates this choice,
colleges could raise the price of these "personalized" plates and sell off
the old "Alumni" plates to college sweethearts who are still married to
each other (God bless 'em) or graduates still struggling with gender
identity issues. Everybody wins!
-- Oversized, Overstuffed and Over Here -- I
often get stuck behind huge trucks carrying mobile homes, nuclear missiles
or pieces of the Alaska pipeline. Invariably, these rigs bear bright
yellow signs reading, "OVERSIZE LOAD."
"Shouldn't that be 'OVERSIZED LOAD'?" you ask.
My point exactly. Like the Captain of the H.M.S. Pinafore, these truckers
never use the big, big "D." Well, hardly ever.
(By the way, don't you think it would be cool
to drive one of those little jeeps with their yellow lights flashing away
that zip around like clown cars in front of these trucks? Me too.)
OK. I can accept other "clipped participles"
(which is what such "D"-less wonders are called): "ice cream" for "iced
cream," "ice tea" for "iced tea" and "toss salad" for "tossed salad."
But to encounter "OVERSIZE LOAD" emblazoned in
big, black capital letters on yellow plastic is grammatically
"D"-stabilizing.
BACK
The Beauty of Our Native Tongue
"Rappahannock." "Allagash." "Monongahela." Were there ever three
more beautiful words for rivers?
All three names (for rivers in Virginia,
Maine and Pennsylvania,
respectively) derive from Native American words.
"I know not a language spoken in Europe," wrote William Penn of Native
American speech, "that hath words of more sweetness or greatness, in
accent or emphasis, than theirs."
English speakers encountering Native American
words sometimes adopted them virtually verbatim. More often, they
shortened, reshaped and Anglicized Native these terms to conform with
familiar English sounds and spellings.
The Micmacs' "maccaribpoo" ("one who paws the
snow"), for instance, became "caribou," while the Algonquian "arakunem"
("creature that scratches with its hands") became "raccoon."
Such altered Native American words provide us
with a rich source of many common English words. Can you match each
English word with its Native American source?
English words:
1. opossum 2. Sequoia 3. caucus 4.
succotash 5. squash 6. hickory 7. quahog 8. skunk 9. hominy 10.
menhaden (type of fish) 11. muskrat 12. terrapin 13. toboggan 14.
chipmunk 15. woodchuck
Native American words:
A. segankw B. poquauhock C.
cawcawwassoughes D. munnawhattecug
E. atchitamon F. ockqutchaun G. pawcohiccora H. askutasquash I.
rokahamen
J. aposoum K. torope L. tobakun M. Sikwayi N. msickquatash O. musquash
Answers:
1. J. aposoum (Powhatan for "white animal")
2. M. Sikwayi (name of a Cherokee chief)
3. C. cawcawwassoughes (Algonquian for "one who advises")
4. N. msickquatash (Narragansett for "boiled corn kernels")
5. H.askutasquash (Narragansett for "squash")
6. G. pawcohiccora (Algonquian for "food prepared from pounded nuts")
7. B. poquauhock (Narragansett for "clam")
8. A. segankw (Algonquian for "he who urinates")
9. I. rokahamen (Algonquian for "pounded meal grain")
10. D. munnawhattecug (Narragansett for "that
which enriches the soil")
11. O. musquash (Massachusett for "muskrat")
12. K. torope (Algonquian for "turtle")
13. L. tobakun (Micmac for "sled made of skins")
14. E. atchitamon (Chippewa for "head first" because these critters like
to descend trees head first)
15. F. ockqutchaun (Narragansett for "woodchuck")
BACK
There’s Something Eerie About ‘Aerie’
No subject sparks more debate than pronunciation. (Well, OK, there is that
health-care thing.) Some words cause arguments because they have two or
more acceptable pronunciations.
See whether you can select the correct pronunciation of four of these
tricksters and identify the four words that have two acceptable
pronunciations.
1. incongruous – (adj) incompatible, clashing: A. in-KAHNG-groo-wus, or B.
in-kahn-GROO-wus?
2. credo – (n) belief, creed: A. KRAY-doh, or B. KREE-doh?
3. fracas – (n) noisy quarrel; brawl: A. FRACK-is, or B. FRAY-kis?
4. banal – (adj) trite; commonplace: A. BAY-nul, or B. buh-NAL?
5. waft – (v) to float gently, as if on a buoyant medium: A. WAFT (rhymes
with "raft"), or B. WAHFT?
6. extant – (adj) existing currently or actually A. EK-stint, or B.
ex-TANT?
7. aerie – (n) elevated nest, position or structure: A. AIR-ee, or B.
EER-ee?
8. ration – (n) an allowance or portion of food: A. RASH-in, or RAY-shin?
Answers:
1. A in-KAHNG-groo-wus. People sometimes mispronounce incongruous because
they associate it with "incongruity," which is accented on the third
syllable – "gru."
2. A. KRAY-doh or B. KREE-doh. "KRAY-doh" is the classic Latin
pronunciation; "KREE-doh" is the Anglicized pronunciation.
3. B. FRAY-kis. Remember that entering the "fray" can lead to a "fracas."
4. A. BAY-nul or B. buh-NAL. "BAY-nul" is more common in America and "buh-NAL"
more common in Britain. When Americans say "buh-NAL," it bears a whiff of
pretension.
5. A. WAFT or B. WAHFT. Dictionaries formerly preferred "WAFT," but in
recent decades most dictionaries prefer "WAHFT."
6. A. EK-stint. Almost all current dictionaries prefer "EK-stint,"
though "ex-TANT" is still common.
7. AIR-ee or B. EER-ee. Though most authorities originally preferred "EER-ee,"
that pronunciation can easily be confused with "eerie." "AIR-ee"
is consistent with "aerate," "aerial" and "aerobic." For these reasons,
"AIR-ee" seems to be the better choice.
8. A. RASH-in or B. RAY-shin. Until the 1930s, both British and American
dictionaries preferred "RAY-shin," but most now prefer "RASH-in."
BACK
Looking Ahead, Our Vision Is
'20-20'
Should we pronounce the current year as "two thousand ten" or "twenty
ten"?
For the past ten years, most language authorities have quietly tolerated
"two thousand one," "two thousand two," etc.
Not any more. Citing brevity ("two thousand ten" has four syllables;
"twenty ten" has three) and precedent (our great-grandparents said
"nineteen ten"), they insist that we take the training wheels off the 21st
century and say "twenty ten."
But Gene Martin of Hannawa Falls, N.Y., writes me to dissent. He makes a
persuasive case for "two thousand ten," noting that, when we count 2,009
and 2,010 as numbers, we say, "two thousand nine, two thousand ten," not
"twenty oh nine, twenty ten." So why, he asks, should we say "twenty ten"
for the year 2010?
Alas, Mr. Martin, stout-hearted though he be, is
swimming upstream against a raging torrent of usage authorities who
command, "Give me some men who say 'twenty ten'!"
Let's consider two other questions of contemporary usage:
-- Textbook Case -- What's the past tense of the verb "text"? Is it "text"
or "texted"? And, if it's "texted," is "texted" pronounced "tex'd" (one
syllable) or "tex-tid" (two syllables)?
Some verbs do retain their basic form in the past tense -- "thrust,"
"quit," "hit" and "bid" come to mind -- but "text" isn't one of them. Like
most verbs, it simply adds "-ed" to form the past tense.
You might assume that "text" is a new verb coined
during the current text-messaging phase. In fact, the verb "text" dates to
the 1500s, when it had the now-obsolete meanings "to write in a text-hand"
and "to cite texts."
For the past 500 years, writers and speakers have treated "text" as a
regular verb with the past tense "texted," pronunced "text-tid." We should
do the same.
-- "Stem" Cell Breakthrough -- I witnessed the birth of a new transitive
verb the other day when a faculty colleague said, "I hope today's workshop
will stem the conversation about teaching methods."
She clearly meant, not that it would stem (halt) the conversation, but
that it would foster it. While "stem" is widely used as an intransitive
verb to mean "grow from" ("The conversation stemmed from the workshop"),
its use as a transitive verb has, until now, been limited to the "halt"
meaning, as in "stem the tide."
So should we stem (spread) this new usage -- or should we stem (stop) it?
Hmmmm . . .
BACK
Brother, Can You Spare an Idiom?
Q. My wife's brother-in-law (my "brother-in-law-in-law"), who came here
from Taiwan a few years ago, ran across the sentence "I can't help but to
go" and asked if it should not be "I can't help but go." I think his point
is correct, but am sure I have heard the expression both ways. What's your
call? -- Jamie Hook, Princeton, N.J.
A. Well, my first call would be to your brother-in-law to apologize for
calling him your "brother-in-law-in-law." One definition of
"brother-in-law" is "the husband of your spouse's sister." Of course,
perhaps your brother-in-law is an attorney, in which case he would indeed
be a "brother-in-law in law."
I guess I'm a little sensitive on this issue because, during the course of
two marriages, I've been fortunate enough to call three fine fellows
married to my wives' sisters "brothers-in-law." One of them taught me to
how to carve a turkey, another how to grill salmon and a third . . . well,
let's just say I know how to hot wire a car.
Your brother-in-law's concerns over "I can't help but to go" are
understandable. Idioms like this are the pirates of English; they're
quirky, illogical and a little dangerous. (Why am I thinking of that third
brother-in-law?)
First, I'd drop the "to"; it's not ungrammatical, but it makes an already
wordy phrase wordier. But is "can't help but go" an acceptable idiom?
Most authorities say yes. While some, like me, would prefer that you drop
"but" and change "go" to a participle ("I can't help going"), most endorse
"can't help but," "cannot help but" and "couldn't help but" as legitimate
idioms.
After all, they appear regularly in mainstream publications: "I can't help
but wonder . . ." (Houston Post); "One cannot help but rejoice" (New York
Times); "I couldn't help but feel . . ." (New Yorker).
As long as we're on the subject, I can't help listing other similarly
acceptable idioms involving "can" and/or "but." Some may sound stuffy, but
they're still in use:
o "can but" -- I can but weep over the tragedy. No scholar can be but
overwhelmed by the evidence.
o "cannot but" -- I cannot but be moved by you plea. I cannot but think of
my own son.
o "cannot choose but" -- Grammarians cannot choose but be amused by the
vigor and vitality of illogical idioms. Husbands cannot choose but sigh
over the eccentricity of their brothers-in-law.
BACK
BACK
Phrase
Origins Served Piping Hot
Mel Kopel of Windsor, Conn., writes to ask why food is served "piping hot"
and a car fresh from the showroom floor is "spanking new" (as opposed to
the "clanking old" clunker you traded in for it).
You could conjure up several tactile or visual explanations for "piping
hot." After all, various types of pipes contain hot water, hot steam or
hot tobacco. Or you might even surmise that the spirals of steam arising
from a hot apple pie reminded someone of vertical pipes.
Alas, these are all pipe dreams. The key sensation behind this phrase is
neither touch nor sight; it is sound.
Food that's hot sometimes makes a hissing or whistling sound as it emits
steam or juices. This sizzling apparently caused someone to think of
musical pipes -- flutes, piccolos, recorders, clarinets, bagpipes. So, a
busy kitchen churning out steaming soups, stews, roasts and vegetables
seemed like a wheezy woodwind ensemble.
As for "spanking new," many amateur word sleuths have succumbed to the "verben
legend" -- that this term derives from the practice of spanking babies
just after birth to start their breathing. And what could be newer than a
seconds- old baby?
It's a charming explanation, but there's no evidence to support it.
Etymologists propose three different origins of "spanking new," and none
involves spanking anyone.
Some contend that the phrase derives from the Scandinavian word "spanke"
(to strut). The idea being that something that struts is good or
exceptionally fine and, by extension, striking or remarkable.
Hence, during the 1700s, people began speaking of a "spanking horse" and
later of a "spanking pace." Soon they were using "spanking" as an adverb,
meaning "extremely," as in "spanking new."
By contrast, the Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins traces the
term to a sailor's word for a fresh, lively breeze, the exemplification of
newness.
Still others believe "spanking new" is a variation of "span new." As
Charles Earle Funk notes in "Horsefeathers and Other Curious Words," an
old meaning of "span" was "a chip freshly cut by a woodsman's ax," so
"span new" meant "very new."
This meaning of "span" also pops up in another phrase for new or clean --
"spick-and-span." "Spick" is an old word for a spike just off the
blacksmith's forge (presumably, piping hot).
I'm going with the Funky explanation. If you don't agree, spank me!
BACK
In Baseball, the Name Is the
Game
Why do baseball players call a fastball a "Linda Ronstadt"? Because she
recorded the song "Blue Bayou," and, if you're a hapless batter, a
sizzling fastball probably just "blew by you."
Why is a fastball that travels more slowly than expected called a "Peggy
Lee"? Because she recorded the wistful ballad "Is That All There Is?"
Why is a batted ball that bounces off the outfield wall called a "Michael
Jackson"? Because he recorded the 1979 album "Off the Wall."
These eponymous phrases are among the more than 10,000 baseball terms
complied by veteran lexicographer Paul Dickson in the newly released third
edition of "The Dickson Baseball Dictionary" (W. W. Norton, $49.95).
Always attuned to lore and language, Dickson ventures far beyond dugout
expressions that have already dug out a place in common American speech --
"pinch hitter," "batting a thousand," "out in left field," "step up to the
plate," "touch all the bases."
His new edition adds fantasy baseball lingo ("Rotisserie League," from the
now defunct New York City restaurant La Rotisserie Francaise, where it was
conceived), terms from our current Moneyball era ("sabermetrics," the
study and mathematical analysis of baseball statistics and records) and
words recently introduced by Latin-American players ("lanzador," Spanish
for "pitcher").
What's remarkable is how many legendary figures of past times are alive
and well in the lingo of our "national pastime" (a term first used in
1856).
A "Michelangelo," for instance, is a superlative pitcher who can paint a
masterpiece from the mound; a "Daniel Webster" is a player who, like the
19th-century orator, is skilled at arguing with opponents; a "Florence
Nightingale" is a sacrifice hitter; a "Jesse James" is an umpire who robs
players; and an "Al Capone" is a twin-killing -- a double-play.
An "Annie Oakley" is a free pass to a baseball game because such tickets
often had holes punched in them, like the playing cards perforated by the
legendary sharpshooter.
Speaking of accuracy, a "William Tell" is an easily fielded bounding ball
that bounces high enough to knock an apple off a fielder's head. A "Lady
Godiva" is a pitch that has, well . . . nothing on it.
As a former first-baseman, I especially savor the eponymous phrase
"ancient mariner," an inept infielder who, like the inquiring Ancient
Mariner in Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem, "stoppeth one of three."
BACK
Mrs. Malaprop Is 'Allied' and
Well
You
may remember Mrs. Malaprop. She's the meddlesome, nettlesome, kettledrum
aunt in Richard Sheridan's 1775 play "The Rivals" who continually
substitutes similar-sounding words for the intended ones.
Mrs. Malaprop tells us, for instance, that she has "little affluence
(influence) over her niece," that a certain gentleman is "the very
pineapple (pinnacle) of politeness," and that another character is as
"headstrong as an allegory (alligator) on the banks of the Nile."
Judging by a list of quotations recently mailed to me by an anonymous
reader, Mrs. Malaprop is "allied" and well. The reader has collected these
gems over many years; some were uttered by children, some by adults and
some -- yikes! -- actually appeared in print. Can you tell what word or
phrase the speaker or writer meant to use?:
1. Your Honor, my auto insurance collapsed. 2. He lives high like a hog.
3. He's just a prawn. 4. That's a sock and bull story. 5. She has a
pleasant deposition.
6. He's diluting himself. 7. His buddies made out like banshees. 8. They
don't get along; they had a squirmish. 9. I know him like the back of my
own ham. 10. I put her on a pedestool.
11. He's an old stogey. 12. She often goes off on tantrums. 13. I'm tired
of being the meteor between family arguments. 14. She can see into the
future; she's sidekick. 15. We saw the hunchback whales.
16. It's lost to prosperity. 17. I'd call her obeast. 18. She doesn't cow
tail to anyone. 19. He's going to meter out punishment. 20. I had to
rationalize my vaccine.
21. He plans to flea bargain. 22. Don't take your grandmother for granite.
23. Our town is ahead of the curve ball on this. 24. Don't quiver over the
details. 25. She's no rock scientist.
26. They brought the whole kit and kabuki. 27. Let's nip it in the butt.
28. Are you going to put an RV in my arm? 29. We tried, but to no prevail.
30. Q. What was his rationale? A. I think he was a carpenter. Intended
words:
1. lapsed 2. on the hog 3. pawn 4. cock and bull 5. disposition 6.
deluding 7. bandits 8. skirmish 9. hand 10. pedestal 11. fogy 12. tangents
13. mediator 14. psychic 15. humpback 16. posterity 17. obese 18. kowtow
19. mete 20. ration 21. plea 22. granted 23. curve (no ball) 24. quibble
25. rocket 26. caboodle 27. bud 28. IV 29. avail 30. vocation?
BACK
Use 'Fewer' Where It Counts
Q.
More and more I hear the improper use of the word "less." I was taught
that "fewer" is the word to use when referring to things that can be
counted, however I rarely hear it anymore. Has this word fallen out of
vogue and been replaced with "less" as a one-word-fits-all situation? --
Beulah Dillon, Black River, N.Y.
A. I hereby nominate you for membership in SpuDBuFL -- the Society for the
Preservation of the Distinction Between Fewer and Less. SPuDBuFL was
founded by my seventh-grade English teacher, Emily Morris, who now lives
in Saginaw, Mich., and reads this column regularly. (Hi, Mrs. Morris! I'm
almost done with that extra-credit book report I promised you back in
1961.)
The rule for "fewer" and "less" remains firm: "Fewer" should be used with
countable items, e.g. "fewer people," "fewer ideas," "10 items or fewer."
"Less" should be used with nouns that typically refer to a mass instead of
an individual item, e.g. "less luggage," "less honesty," "less money."
As with most rules, there are exceptions. "Less than," not "fewer than,"
is used before a plural noun denoting a measure of time, amount or
distance ("less than five minutes," "less than $800," "less than 20
miles"). And "less" can be used with count nouns in the expressions "no
less than, "or less" and "one less" ("no less than 100 people," "25 words
or less," "one less problem to worry about").
The most common mistake is using "fewer" for "less" ("less people," "less
ideas," "10 items or less"). When tempted to do this, pull the SpuDBuFL
membership card from your wallet, and read the slogan Mrs. Morris taught
me: "Use 'fewer' where it counts."
Q. My daughter received this question from her teacher: "How does reading
an eyewitness account of an historical event enrich your understanding?"
Should it be "a historical event"? -- Jan, Windsor, Conn.
A. Traditionally, grammarians have decreed that "a" should be used before
words starting with "h" if the "h" is pronounced. So it would be "a house"
and "a historical event," but "an hour" and "an honor."
But when the accent falls on the second syllable, the "h" is barely
pronounced. So reputable authorities -- even the redoubtable Mrs. Morris
-- now accept the use of "an" before such words, as in "an historical
event" "an habitual offender," "an homogenized mixture." It simply sounds
more natural.
BACK
Is 'These Ones' for
the Birds?
Q. I am hoping that you can settle a long disagreement about
something. Example: Girl goes to the pet store to buy a bird. Salesperson
says, "We have this one here and (points to another cage) these ones."
Isn't "these" plural -- more than one? I hear this everywhere, and it
drives me crazy. -- Jan T., Windsor, Conn.
A. I fully understand why you think "these ones" is for the birds. The
juxtaposition of the plural "these" with a word that epitomizes
singularity -- "one" (even with an "s" attached) -- is indeed jarring.
The word "ones" is what linguists call a "notional singular"; that is,
"one" is so intrinsically associated with the notion of singularity that
its plural form sounds weird.
Grammatically, though, there's absolutely nothing wrong with "these ones."
After all, we say "these books," "these chairs" and "these notional
singulars" all the time . . . well, maybe not "notional singulars."
And, oddly enough, when "one" refers to the number one or to dollar bills,
it's perfectly natural to say, "Group these ones in the left column," or
"Can you give me a $5 bill for these ones?"
But because "these ones" sounds so strange in most contexts, I'd avoid the
phrase altogether. A savvy salesperson will point to another cage and say,
"We also have these birds," or "We also have these," or "Please, please
buy a bird; the only bills I have in my cash drawer are these ones."
----
Q. I saw a billboard for a couples-matching service today, and it made me
start wondering why "match" is used for both the concept of putting
compatible people, colors, etc., together and for the physical item that
is used to start a fire. Can you light a candle (with a match, maybe) and
enlighten me? -- Carl Guenther, Memphis, Tenn.
A. Wouldn't it be sweet to think that a dating service could spark a fiery
romance between a lad and a lass by "matching" them?
Alas, the "match" that means "a person or thing suitable for another"
derives from the Middle English "macche," a mate or an equal. "Macche," in
turn, derives from the Old English word "macian" (to make), the idea being
that matched items are "made for each other."
The "match" meaning a stick with combustible material on the end comes
from the Middle English "matche," a candlewick. As you requested, I have
"lit a candle" to enlighten you, though somewhat "wick"edly.
BACK
Word Twins Are Casualties of
Time
Today, we examine two pairs of words that were separated at birth. These
words originally meant the same thing but have since gone their separate
ways and now won't even speak to each other at family reunions.
-- Casual/casualty. There's nothing "casual" (informal) about a "casualty"
(victim of an accident or war). But despite this stark difference in the
current meanings of "casual" and "casualty," both words ultimately derive
from the Latin noun "casus," meaning "a fall, chance or occurrence."
The adjective "casual," which entered English during the 1300s, originally
meant "occurring by chance, accidental." So when a noun form of "casual"
-- "casualty" -- evolved during the 1400s, it meant "a chance occurrence,
accident."
That's the meaning Samuel Johnson had in mind when he wrote in 1777 of a
"happy casualty," that is, a lucky accident.
But, like a wayward brother, "casualty" soon went over to the dark side
and became a very UNhappy "casualty." Because many events that happen by
chance are unfortunate, "casualty" came to become associated exclusively
with unlucky accidents and eventually with the victims of such
misfortunes, as in "battlefield casualties."
Meanwhile, the "good" brother, "casual," continued on his happy way,
playing golf and acquiring sunny new meanings such as "informal" ("casual
clothing"), "nonchalant" ("casual observer") or "temporary" ("casual
water" on a golf course).
That's why, to this day, you almost never see the brothers together.
There's no such thing as a "casual casualty."
-- Veteran/veterinarian. Despite their very different meanings today,
these two words are "old" friends. Literally. Both are derived from Latin
word "vetus," meaning, "old."
One noun form of "vetus" was "veteranus," meaning "an old man," and this
old man, he played one, he played knick-knack in Latin until he became
"veteran" in English, meaning "an experienced person," especially "an
experienced soldier."
Another form of "vetus" in Latin was "veterinae, "meaning old cattle and
horses." Just as members of the aging Woodstock generation are starting to
feel their aches and pains, the elderly members of the Livestock
generation often needed medical attention.
So the people who treated these "veterinae" ("Does it hurt more BEFORE you
pull the plow or AFTER you pull it?") came to be known themselves as "veterinae,"
which became "veterinarian" in English.
BACK
How Do You 'Plead'?
Q.
When I was in law school, we were taught to say that your client had
"pled" guilty or not guilty. I'm just wondering what has happened to
"pled." It seems everyone uses "pleaded" now. -- Chuck Fowler, Lorton, Va.
A. Traditionally, "pleaded" has been the preferred past-tense form of
"plead." "Pled," which emerged as a dialectical term in Scotland, during
the 1500s, was carried to America by Scots-Irish immigrants during the
1700s. So while "pled," sometimes spelled "plead," is virtually unknown in
Britain, it flourishes in the United States.
Nevertheless, fussy American usage authorities, many of them Anglophiles,
still condemn "pled." The Associated Press Stylebook, for instance,
decrees, "Do not use the colloquial past tense form, 'pled.'"
I've noticed that Americans tend to use "pled" in legal contexts ("he pled
guilty") but "pleaded" in other situations ("I pleaded with him not to
go"). As a red-blooded American patriot, I love to defy the haughty Brits
every chance I get. So I'm strongly tempted to endorse "pled."
But in good conscience, I can't. Be prudent and use "pleaded" in formal
writing, legal or otherwise. The Redcoats are lurking! The Redcoats are
lurking!
Q. I am an old lady who is probably the only one in the world who doesn't
know this, but why are psychiatrists called "shrinks"? -- A faithful fan
A. Hmmm . . . And when did you start having these paranoid delusions of
inferiority? In fact, many people have pled . . . er, pleaded guilty to
not knowing the origin of this term.
"Shrink" is a shortening of "headshrinker." Cynics apparently saw a
connection between psychiatrists, who in some cases shrink people's egos,
and tribesmen who shrink dead people's heads.
I'm thinking of Queequeg, the cannibal in Moby Dick who totes a shrunken
head and, when you think about it, does serve as a kind of psychotherapist
for Ishmael.
The use of "headshrinker" to refer to a psychiatrist first appeared around
1950. It showed up in the 1955 film "Rebel Without a Cause" and the 1957
musical "West Side Story."
The shortened form "shrink" first surfaced during the mid-1960s and was
heard in the 1967 movie "Alice's Restaurant" and the 1968 Frank Zappa song
"Flower Punk."
Not surprisingly, psychiatrists hate . . . er, have developed a hostile
reaction formation . . . to both terms.
BACK
A Word -- or Two -- About Usage
"We do
our best everyday." "It's all together too difficult." "We see that kind
of behavior alot."
Each of these sentences contains an error involving a choice between one
word or two words. Though we do our best to avoid these mistakes EVERY
DAY, making the correct choice is ALTOGETHER too difficult, so we see
incorrect choices A LOT.
"Everyday," for instance, is an adjective meaning "occurring every day,"
while "every day" is an adverb meaning "daily." "Altogether" means
"completely," while "all together" means "at one place or at the same
time." There is no such word as "alot"; it's "a lot" in all instances.
In some cases, you can use handy devices to test for the right choice. In
choosing between "everyone" and "every one," for instance, substitute
"everybody"; if the sentence makes sense with "everybody," choose
"everyone."
Remember that "already" has to do with time and "all ready" with
preparation. Similarly, "anymore" has to do with time ("Don't get around
much anymore") and "any more" with quantities ("I can't stand any more
arguments"). "Sometime" refers to an unspecified time, usually in the
future, and "some time" means "quite a while."
See whether you can make the correct selection in these sentences. Are you
already, er . . . all ready?
1. Shoplifting is an (everyday, every day) occurrence. 2. It happens
almost (everyday, every day).
3. We sang the passage (altogether, all together). 4. It was (altogether,
all together) too loud.
5. (Everyone, Every one) of us was prepared for the test. 6. (Everyone,
Every one) did well on the test.
7. We were (already, all ready) to go. 8. Dad had (already, all ready)
started the car.
9. He doesn't want (anymore, any more) spaghetti. 10. He doesn't like
spaghetti (anymore, any more).
11. Let's have lunch (sometime, some time). 12. I haven't seen him in
(sometime, some time).
13. The girls played well (alright, all right). 14. Things came out
(alright, all right) in the end.
Answers:
1. everyday 2. every day 3. all together 4. altogether 5. Every one 6.
Everyone 7. all ready 8. already 9. any more 10. anymore 11. sometime 12.
some time 13. all right (Like "alot," "alright" is still regarded as a
non-word by most traditional grammarians.) 14. all right
BACK
The Word Guy: Take A Whirl On The Luggage Carousel
Ladies
and gentlemen, I'm sorry to inconvenience you, but I'm going to have to go
through your luggage…
-- luggage -- Could this word for fancy-schmancy designer "travel ware"
actually be derived from the word "lug," meaning to drag or pull? Yup --
and it dates all the way back to 1595, when the fancy French ending "-age"
was attached to "lug," like putting a pink ribbon on a bull dog.
The origin of "baggage," by the way, is slightly more elegant. It derives,
not from "bag," but from the French "bagues," belongings.
-- valise -- Speaking of French, "valise" doesn't derive from it. This
term for a small piece of hand luggage originated with the Italian "valigia."
(OK, smarty pants, so the French turned "valigia" into "valise" and then
shipped it to English.)
-- duffel -- If, while waiting in an overcrowded airport, you've ever had
to park your duff on your soft duffel bag, you might wonder whether this
portable marshmallow is dubbed for the derriere.
In fact, it's named for the town of Duffel in northern Belgium, which
became famous for producing a coarse heavy woolen material with a thick
nap. This fabric was used to make coats ("duffel coat") and large carryall
bags.
Eventually, "duffel" came to refer to any large bag, whether made of
duffel fabric or not. And speaking of a thick nap, you can also take one
while lying on a duffel.
-- knapsack -- And, no, the word "knapsack" has nothing to do with
catching a few winks. It derives from the German words "knappen" (to bite)
and "sack" (bag). Originally, a "knapsack" was a small bag that held a
soldier's rations, i.e. a bite to eat. Another name for a knapsack is
"rucksack," from the German dialect word "Ruck" (back).
-- portmanteau -- The name for this large leather suitcase that opens into
two hinged compartments derives from the French "porter" (to carry) and "manteau"
(cloak). Its dual compartments also inspired the linguistic term
"portmanteau word," a word formed by merging the meaning and sound of two
existing words, as in "smog" (from "smoke" and "fog").
-- Pullman -- When George Pullman invented the spacious Pullman, a
sleeping car for railroad trains, during the 1860s, the large suitcases
Pullman car passengers brought aboard for overnight trips also became
known as "Pullmans." And, now that such large suitcases have wheels,
they're "Pull-mans" in more ways than one.
BACK
Basically, Mistakes Were Made
Bernard Madoff said he "made a mistake." Well, at least he didn't resort
to an even wormier cliche -- "made a poor decision."
Here's a quick look at the current crop of overused terms. Call them "Ponzi
screams."
-- Energizing the "Basis." Newscasters have recently been touching all the
"bases." They're continually updating us on a "daily basis," "a regular
basis," "an overnight basis" and even a "need-to-know basis." Basically,
I'd say we need to "No!" "basis"!
-- And Speaking of "Basically" . . . Has there ever been a more overused
word? It's a common sentence starter that should be a "nonstarter"
(another cliche by the way). My first car, a '57 Chevy, was often a
nonstarter.
-- In Praise of Athlete's Feat. Alan Clem of Vermillion, S.D., notes that
TV sportscasters invariably refer to the "athleticism" of top performers.
Aren't they all athletic? You may be a jock, but don't be an "athleticism"
supporter.
-- Pulp "Fic"tion. TV newscasts no longer report horrible accidents; they
report "horrific" accidents. Does that mean that "terrible accidents" will
soon become "terrific accidents"?
-- Kit and Cabootool. OK, so computer programs have toolboxes and tool
bars; ("I'll have a Spellcheck on the rocks"). But the trendiest new tool
phrase is "toolkit." A reporter for NPR recently noted that "personal
information, including biodata, is a toolkit for identity thieves." Come
to think of it, make that drink a "screwdriver."
-- Flush the "System." Alice Lamont of Middletown, Conn., notes that
everything these days is a "system." Tooth whiteners, for example, are
"tooth-whitening systems," and a vacuum cleaner is "a sophisticated
multi-surface cleaning system." What's next? A "toolkit system"?
-- May Tricks. This spring, more and more reporters seemed to be using
"matrix" instead of "factors," "elements" or "issues," as in "This is the
matrix President Obama will have to consider in choosing a Supreme Court
nominee." I know it's a great movie franchise, but give it a rest.
-- Met Tricks. Emailer Robb Stovel (I like the double "b"!) fires a bb at
the trendy term for "measure" or "calculation" -- "metrics," as in "The
metrics aren't there for him to carry Ohio." Robb also targets the
ubiquitous "election cycle," which sounds like an option on a washing
machine.
Make that a "wishing machine." Don't you wish all these tired terms could
be washed away?
BACK
Summer Visitors -- and Some
Aren't
Henry
James once remarked that the two most beautiful words in the English
language are "summer afternoon." If he had experienced the weather in the
Northeast this summer, he might have found another phrase even lovelier:
"It's stopped raining!"
The English word "summer" derives from the Sanskrit term "sama," which
meant "year" or "season." Occasionally, we still encounter the use of
"summer" to mean "year," as in, "She was a lass of 17 summers" (to
paraphrase the Beatles).
The verb "summer," meaning "to spend the summer," always struck me as a
snooty term that must have evolved during the Gilded Age when the robber
barons started "summering" at Newport. So I was surprised and heartened to
learn that the verb "summer" first appeared during the 1400s to describe
the movement of livestock to a summer pasture for grazing.
Come to think of it, there is a herd-like quality to the wealthy as they
migrate from one trendy summer spot to the next, seeking to be, in F.
Scott Fitzgerald's wonderful phrase, "wherever people are rich together."
(Pet peeve: big shots' saying they "divide their time" between their
winter and summer homes.)
A little-used but noteworthy summer verb is "estivate," which sounds
deliciously naughty -- or at least lucrative.
Sorry to disappoint you. "Estivate," from the Latin word "aestas"
(summer), means the same thing as "to summer," and, like "summer," bears a
zoological meaning. When applied to animals, "estivate," the counterpart
of "hibernate," means to "spend the summer in a dormant or torpid state."
"Hibernate" has taken on the general meaning of "to be in an inactive
state," regardless of the season, producing incongruous sentences such as,
"He's hibernating in the Adirondacks this summer."
Year-round residents of summer resorts have devised many words for
estivators: "summer people," "low-landers," "off-islanders" and a whole
bunch of other names I can't repeat here. (If you know of local terms for
seasonal visitors that I CAN repeat, please send them my way.)
According to a regional note in the American Heritage Dictionary of the
English Language, Maine natives have formulated a characteristically wry
lexicon for such estival invaders. Along the coast they're known as "summercaters,"
inland as "sports" and statewide as "folks from away."
So, from Campobello to Kittery, the most beautiful words in the English
language are "Summah-catahs ah-gawhn!"
BACK
Do the Right -- and Left --
Thing
Q.
What blunder really ticks you off?
A. People who don't use their turn signals! -- Oh, you mean VERBAL
blunder? As I said, people who don't use their turn signals!
Huh?
Transitions --- words and phrases such as "however," "similarly" and
"therefore" -- are the turn signals of language. By indicating the
relationship between the previous sentence or paragraph and upcoming
ideas, they tell the reader where the writer is going. A writer who fails
to use transitions is as incompetent as a driver who fails to use turn
signals.
Transitional words and phrases can indicate several kinds of patterns,
directions or shifts:
-- Sequence: "first," "second," "finally," "lastly"
-- Chronology: "then," "eventually," "later," "still"
-- Addition: "another," "also," "furthermore," "too"
-- Similarity: "likewise," "in the same way," "equally"
-- Exemplification: "for example," "in particular," "such as"
-- Emphasis: "above all," "moreover," "what is most"
-- Result: "consequently," "accordingly," "so," "thus"
-- Concession: "even so," "despite that," "anyway"
-- Contrast: "on the other hand," "by contrast," "however"
-- Digression: "by the way," "incidentally," "in passing"
-- Summary: "in conclusion," "above all," "to sum up"
How skillful are you at using transitions? See whether you can select an
appropriate transition to express the relationship between the first and
second sentences in each pair:
1. Most people believe that we must use less oil. Finding practical
alternatives to petroleum has been difficult.
2. Using less oil will decrease our dependence on foreign countries. It
will help preserve the natural environment.
3. The search for new sources of energy is a top national priority. The
government is spending billions of dollars to fund research in this area.
4. Many forms of alternative energy are being explored or re-examined.
Research is being conducted on bio-fuels, wind power and solar energy.
5. Skeptics of new technologies point out that these sources aren't yet
cost-effective. Continuing research serves our long-term national
interest.
6. European nations are searching for ways to lower their greenhouse gas
emissions. The United States is seeking to tighten emissions standards.
Transitions: 1. contrast 2. addition 3. result 4. exemplification 5.
concession 6. similarity
BACK
Caution: Verbal Congestion
Ahead
And
now a morning drive with Traff Trendspeak, the poster boy of cliche-spouting
TV and radio traffic reporters:
Word Guy: Will we encounter any delays on the interstate this morning?
Traff: Looks like YOUR morning commute will be smooth sailing in YOUR car
on YOUR route to YOUR job.
WG: But what about everyone else's morning commute? Do you think they'll
encounter any delays this morning?
Traff: Just a tap of the brakes near Exit 43, but otherwise clear sailing
through the tunnel? Tap of the brakes.
WG: But if I tap my brakes, it doesn't really slow down the car at all �
Traff: Speaking of dealing with your morning commute, looks like you might
be dealing with a few delays up ahead similar to the delays you were
dealing with yesterday.
WG: I guess we'll just have to deal with it.
Traff: Watch out! There's an accident working in the right lane!
WG: Gee, thanks! By the way, how hard does an accident work? How much does
it get paid? � Uh, OK, now it looks as if the cars in the accident are
being towed away and everyone is leaving.
Traff: Oh, yeah, that accident is in the process of clearing.
WG: Does the accident take away the dishes only, or does it remove the
silverware and wine glasses as well? � Say, what are those police cars
doing on the side of the road?
Traff: Oh, that's police activity. You see that a lot these day, police
activity.
WG: But what kind of activity? Manhunt? Hostage standoff? Or just that
thing where two police cars face each other going in opposite directions
on the median so their drivers can talk?
Traff: Those police, they like their activities, ya' know what I�m sayin'?
WG: Hmmm -- I seem to smell smoke.
Traff: Oh, it looks like we might have a smoke situation in the tunnel up
ahead.
WG: Is that different from a rubbernecking situation, a construction
situation or a merging situation?
Traff: Not really. They're all basically situation situations.
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Parker, Colo. -- Land of
Happy Mediums!
From
near and far come bloopers bizarre. Can you spot the errors?
1. "Parker, Colo., has one of the highest medium household incomes in the
United States." Its fortunetellers are very wealthy. (Spotted by Christina
Gore, Wichita, Kan.)
2. " ... big ticket items including an $80,000 road grater." Works well on
roads that look like Swiss cheese. (Janice Mastriano, Hightstown, N.J.)
3. "He's going to sale around the world." In the merchant marine? (Henry
Smith, East Hartford, Conn.)
4. "[A basketball team]... has become relevant in its own rite." It's
almost a cult. (Wynn Sullivan, Pittsburgh)
5. "... a state entity that overseas seniority issues for public
employees." Does it send their jobs abroad? (Moreland Houck, Trenton,
N.J.)
6. "At the height of his rein, [Blackbeard] commanded a fleet of four
ships." In the horse latitudes? (Charlie Duncan, Potsdam, N.Y.)
7. "For all intensive purposes, our new President, Barack Obama �" Well,
he did overreact to Skip Gates' arrest. (Alan Clem, Vermillion, S.D.)
8. "Mr. Watters asked Gov. Jim Douglas of Vermont about that state's
criminal statues." Some of them ARE carrying weapons. (Doris Griffith,
Manchester, Conn.)
9. "Lavishly... quaffed, with hair that changed color with each episode
..." I guess she drank the expensive stuff. (Lawrence Manion, Glenfield,
N.Y.)
10. "Appetizers include muscles in marinara." Cannibal's delight! (John
Daigle, Vernon, Conn.)
11. "He's got to prove his meddle." Or at least that he can interfere just
a little. (Lynn Bethke, Sioux Falls, S.D.)
12. This will keep our dyer needs on the front burner. A colorful
expression! (Mark Lander, Old Lyme, Conn.)
13. "The newspapers were stalked up on the porch." Along with a lot of
Jack's L. L. "Bean" catalogs. (Judy Beck, Sterling Heights, Mich.)
14. "[A driver] was charged with... aggravated alluding." Officer, please
don't treat me like Jean Valjean or Raskolnikov! (Terry Vaughn, Gerretson,
S.D.) 15. "People have demonized eggs and egg yokes." Well, they do make
oxen's necks turn yellow. (Carol Fine, Bloomfield, Conn.)
----
Corrections:
1. highest median household incomes
2. road grader
3. sail around the world
4. own right
5. oversees seniority issues
6. height of his reign
7. all intents and purposes
8. criminal statutes
9. coifed or coiffed
10. mussels in marinara
11. prove his mettle
12. dire needs
13. stacked up
14. aggravated eluding
15. egg yolks
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Does a
Scoreless Game Have a Score?
Q. I was watching a
Yankees versus Blue Jays game last week, and after the second inning,
Michael Kay announced that there was no score. Ken Singleton countered
that there was a score: nothing to nothing after two innings. Who's right?
-- Walter Nohstadt Jr., Columbus, N.J.
A. One reason I love baseball is that those pauses between innings allow
time for reflection on linguistic subtleties and, oh yeah, commercials.
Both commentators have scored here. That's because "score" has two
applicable meanings: the tally of points or runs scored in a game, thus
"the score is 0-0"; and the scoring of a point or a run, hence "there is
(or has been) no score since the game began."
Everyone knew what Kay meant, of course; people say "there's no score" all
the time to describe 0-0 games. But, as a nitpicking word nut, my instinct
is to side with Singleton -- there was indeed a score: 0-0. Technically,
Kay should have said, "There has been no scoring."
----
Q. "Onomatopoeia" is a well-known term for words that sound like their
meaning, such as "buzz," "splash," "zap," etc. But is there a term for
words that sound UN-like what you would expect, given their definition,
such as "pulchritude"? -- Matt McClimons, East Hampton, Conn.
A. I know the kind of word you mean. "Pulchritude," which means "beauty,"
is a great example because it sounds like something, if not exactly ugly,
then puffy, ponderous and unattractive. When I was in college, if one of
my friends had tried to set me up on a blind date by saying, "You'll be
overwhelmed by her pulchritude," I probably would have said, "No thanks."
Similarly, "defenestration" sounds like some kind of dainty decoration or
analytical, cerebral process when in fact it refers to being pushed out of
a window. KERSPLAT! And I've always thought the name "dogwood" was barking
up the wrong (lovely) tree.
Alas, after searching high and low, I can't find any literary or
linguistic term for a word sounding like the opposite of what it means.
So, rather than resort to defenestration, I'll turn to you, my
pulchritudinous readers, for help:
1. Do you know of an existing term for such words?
2. Can you invent a term for such words?
3. Can you provide examples of such words?
In a few weeks, I'll provide a full report on your responses.
BACK
I Do! I Do!
On
my desk, behind a pile of old maps and erudite notes to myself ("Pick up
milk!"), I recently found a year-old letter from Richard Carey of Somers,
Conn., which raised three very good questions:
1. Why do people sometimes write a double "do," as in "they do do that?"
2. Which is correct: "I have drank too many" or "I have drunk too many"?
3. Why don't I have a more organized filing system for readers' letters?
Since I'm already in deep trouble for misplacing Mr. Carey's missive,
let's start with the "do do."
The verb "do," in addition to meaning everything from "accomplish" to
"kill," is also used to show emphasis. So, just as we might say of
disorganized writers, "they do have filing systems" or "they do maintain
folders for unread letters," we say, "they do do some things to control
clutter." All true, by the way.
Now this double "do" construction sounds fine when someone SPEAKS the
sentence, putting the proper emphasis on the first "do": "They DO do some
things to control clutter." But when the sentence is written -- "They do
do some things" -- the double "do" looks, well, "do"bious.
What to do? In formal writing, try to avoid stepping into the double "do."
Instead, use adverbs such as "definitely," "really" or "absolutely" to
convey emphasis, e.g. "They definitely do some things to control clutter."
Just an aside, but don't you love how we now use "do" as a noun to
describe a party ("big do") or a hairstyle ("new do")? Our language is so
refreshingly flexible!
Uh, where was before I became drunk on the elixir of English? Oh, yes,
"drunk" and "drank."
The correct inflection of the verb "to drink" is "drink" (present),
"drank" (past) and "drunk" (past participle). So it's "I drink water
today," "I drank water yesterday" and "I have drunk water many times."
In the authoritative guide "Modern American Usage," Bryan Garner suggests
that people often say or write "I have drank" because they associate
"drunk" with being inebriated. My own experience is that this is
especially likely to happen when these speakers and writers are themselves
inebriated. When you are drunk, who wants to say, "I have drunk"?
And, of course, never drink and "drive." This can lead to sentences such
as, "I drived over yesterday" and "I have droven." Pick up milk!
BACK
When
Modifiers Wander, Readers Wonder
What
happens when a writer puts a word or phrase in the wrong place?
It's not pretty. Consider these examples spotted by readers in newspapers
and magazines . . . or, that readers have spotted in newspapers and
magazines:
-- "Bring a blanket for sitting on the floor and your friends." Plenty of
baby sitters available. (Spotted by Dick Wenner, West Hartford, Conn.)
-- "Former Sun forward Taj McWilliams became just the 10th player in
league history to score 4,000 points last week." Now THAT's a high-scoring
week! (Spotted by Bill Davies, North Haven, Conn.)
-- "In 1955 we were able to buy a home with a Veterans Administration loan
and indoor plumbing." I guess they were more flush than they thought. (Art
Frackenpohl, Watertown, N.Y.)
-- "Relax after a hard day of shopping in our creek-side pool." Bring your
liquid assets. (B.J. Murray, via e-mail)
-- "Last night in Oviedo a man was shot through his front door." At least
it wasn't his barn door! (Michael via e-mail)
-- "In 1945, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini and his mistress, Clara
Petacci, were executed by Italian partisans trying to flee the country." I
hate to execute and run, but � (John Daigle, Vernon, Conn.)
-- "Cronkite recorded the introduction to the newscast he anchored for
nearly two decades in 2006." Perhaps 2006 just SEEMED like 20 years. (J.
Dexiar via e-mail)
-- "I am unable to identify a particular bug that was problematic in my
vegetable garden, even searching the Internet." That's one tech-savvy
insect! (Norm Stevens, Storrs, Conn.)
-- "Known as the Frick Collection, Helen wanted to keep the house as it
had been lived in �"
That's a cute nickname. (Carol Brinjak, Pittsburgh.)
-- "Declared a World Heritage Site in 2004, UNESCO cited the 14th-century
abbey as an irreplaceable treasure." I guess a lot of international
tourists visit U.N. headquarters. (Alan Clem, Vermillion, S.D.)
-- "Dear Amy: What is the appropriate way to handle canceling gift
exchanges with our family members who live in various states we seldom
see?" On a clear day, you can see Russia. (Jim Rhoades, Uncasville, Conn.)
-- "[A man] was charged with consuming alcohol under 21 years of age." He
served a wine before its time. (Betty Lundy, West Point, Miss.)
BACK
Correcting the
Errors of Your 'Ways'
Q. I
am writing regarding a recent newspaper headline: "It Is Way Better To
Feel Good Than To Look Good." When I was growing up, I would have been
told to use the adverb "much" instead of "way" in that sentence. Could you
please comment on this usage? -- Rob Pease, Hartford, Conn.
A: The use of "way" as an intensifying adverb, meaning "to a great degree,
much," as in "way off base" and "way more than I expected," has popped up
occasionally in English ever since the 1300s. But it didn't become well-
established in standard English until the early 1900s.
During the early 20th century, commentators frowned on this new use of
"way," and it was generally restricted to set phrases involving distance
or time, such as "way beyond," "way up," "way earlier," "way later."
By the 1950s, respectable writers were using the adverbial "way," even
though it still bore a whiff of informality: William H. Whyte -- "� and
that's way, way down"; William Bundy -- "� falls way short of what might
have been done"; William F. Buckley -- " � the market �
was way down." (Given the first name of these writers, you might say,
"Where there's a 'Will,' there's a 'way.'")
In recent years, however, young people have been using "way" as a general
intensifier and applying it to any adjective they can find -- "way cool,"
"way bad," "way random." These extensions of the adverbial "way" beyond
the distance and time phrases may eventually become standard English; for
now, they're not.
This use of "way" as a generational marker has probably made every use of
the adverbial "way" sound nonstandard to mature ears. Even legitimate uses
of "way" may seem suspect.
While I won't try to concoct a hard-and-fast rule about when to use the
adverbial "way," you're safer doing so when "way" can be replaced with
"much" than when it can be replaced with "very." Hence, "way beyond," "way
nicer," "way richer" are OK, while "way annoying," "way nice" and "way
rich" are, well, way annoying.
The "way better" used in the headline, for instance, falls into a gray
area. "Much better" would certainly be more traditional. But "way better,"
while informal, can't really be considered nonstandard. Perhaps the
headline writer was trying to appeal to the younger set.
"Younger set"? Did I just write that? Now there's a generational marker!
BACK
Here's Whom to Tell It
to
Q: Years ago, during an argument or dispute, a popular
expression was, "Tell it to Sweeney!" Who was "Sweeney"? Real or
fictitious? A friendly bartender, or the "Dear Abby" of that time? -- Ed
Lukaszewski, New Britain, Conn.
A: "Tell it to Sweeney," originally meaning "tell it to someone naive or
ignorant enough to believe it," is a variation of another popular phrase,
"Tell it to the marines!"
Most sources believe the latter expression arose in the British navy.
During the early 1800s, British sailors, salty sea dogs that they were,
apparently regarded the marines as gullible greenhorns. So when someone
spun a yarn so outrageous that only a naive person would believe it, the
sailors would say, "Tell it to the marines!"
The phrase was in common use by 1820, even appearing in Lord Byron's poem
"The Island" (1823) and Sir Walter Scott's novel "Redgauntlet" (1824).
"Tell that to the marines -- the sailors won't believe it."
Sometime during the late 1800s, the Brits concocted a new variation: "Tell
it to Sweeney!" Why Sweeney? As the New Dictionary of American Slang
explains it, "Sweeney is one of a group of surely mythical Irishmen, like
Riley, Kelsey and Kilroy, whose names are used apparently for some
humorous effect."
When both phrases jumped the pond to the U.S. during the early 20th
century, all heck broke loose. "Tell it to Sweeney," still bearing its
original meaning, became a popular slang term among young people during
the 1920s.
And by midcentury, cigar-chomping newspaper editors at big-city tabloids
had given the phrase a new meaning: "Write stories in simple language that
the average working stiff will understand." In fact, John Chapman's
informal history of the New York Daily News, published in 1961, was titled
"Tell It to Sweeney."
Meanwhile, "tell it to the marines" was experiencing an Americanization of
its own. In the U.S., where Marines were regarded as tough, no-nonsense
"leathernecks," "tell it to the marines" came to mean "just TRY to tell
that to that realistic, hard-bitten bunch; they'll never believe it."
That's the meaning President Franklin D. Roosevelt had in mind when he
responded laconically to Japan's unverified claims of victory during the
early months of World War II, "Tell it to the Marines." Of course, he also
meant that the U.S. Marines would play a key role in Japan's defeat.
BACK
How to Avoid a Splitting
Headache
Q: Is it technically
correct to say, "This will allow us to better serve you," rather than
"This will allow us to serve you better"? -- Joyce Nunge, Charlottesville,
Va.
A: Ah, the split infinitive question. Perhaps no other grammatical issue
incites more righteous indignation, most of it unjustified.
Just what is a split infinitive? An infinitive is the tenseless form of a
verb preceded by "to," as in "to go" or "to eat." Splitting an infinitive
is placing an adverb or adverb phrase between the "to" and the "verb," as
in "to quietly go" or "to joyfully eat."
The split infinitive was cruising along very happily in English, thank
you, until the late 1800s. That's when classically-minded grammarians
decreed that, because infinitive forms of Latin verbs couldn't be split,
English infinitives shouldn't be split either.
Soon teachers and editors were indoctrinating students and writers with
this pedantic prohibition. As a young English teacher during the 1970s,
for instance, I regularly scolded my students for using split infinitives.
The prohibition on split infinitives does have three seductive charms: 1.
It's a simple rule that everyone can understand. 2. It's sometimes valid.
3. It has a catchy name.
To amplify on No. 2, splitting an infinitive is sometimes unwise because
doing so buries the all-important adverb. "Try to correctly write this"
(split) is weaker than "Try to write this correctly" (unsplit).
But in many cases, a split infinitive sounds smoother and more rhythmic
than an unsplit one. The classic example of a justified split is found in
the phrase from the "Star Trek" TV series: "To boldly go where no man has
gone before." "To go boldly" would sound stilted.
Similarly, "This will allow us to better serve you" sounds more natural
than "to serve you better," especially because the unsplit version places
"better" in the spot where a direct object might be found, as in "This
will allow us to serve you butter."
And sometimes an unsplit infinitive can lead to ambiguity. In the
sentence, "This will allow us better to serve you," for instance, "better"
could modify the verb "allow," which changes the meaning of the sentence.
So, feel free to split an infinitive when doing so prevents awkwardness or
ambiguity. This will allow you to better serve your reader.
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