08.31.08
That pretty much sums it up
Today, a bit of blatant self-promotion for the paperback edition of my book Write Tight
Add this to the testimonial business card for Everything You Know About English Is Wrong
08.30.08
Compound disinterest
I’ve never broken a bone (he says, taunting Demon Jinx). Neither a fracture, nor a compound fracture—in increasing order of pain, I’m sure. In the context of this language discussion, however, splitting a bone likely is, for some, perhaps less painful than splitting an infinitive.
I feel no pain in splitting infinitives. In fact, I’m among the many to vigorously ignore this “rule,” which was thrust upon the language by admirers of Latin. Their thinking went something along these lines: Latin infinitives are single words, and you can’t split a single word, can you? (Umm, you abso-frikken-lutely can split single words.)
My continuing rant about split-infinitive persnickitors was rekindled when, while skimming The Online Dictionary of Language Terminology, I came upon an entry for a term I hadn’t heard before:
compound split infinitive
Definition: A split infinitive that has been split by a multi-word phrase.
Example: Try to never ever split your infinitives.
Three reactions:
- I cheer the matched form and content. In the example, the infinitive is to split and the phrase that splits it is never ever.
- I suggest that “splitting an infinitive with another split infinitive” would be a cuter but increasingly stupid definition of “compound infinitive.” (Example: “Mr. Brohaugh, I dare you to, with your unwillingness to glibly follow every grammatical edict, give a damn.”)
- I sigh over the fact that the entry exists in the first place. Splitting infinitives is apparently so bad that if you do it with two words, the egregious indiscretion deserves a name unto itself. (And possible jail time!)
I just hope that, now that I’ve introduced some folks to the acceptability of even compound split infinitives, some persnickitor out there hasn’t begun thinking about introducing me to a compound fracture.
08.29.08
Muck-raking writer, murk-aching writer
Two recent word coinages chronicled over at Word Spy speak to principles of neology at its best, and at its worst—each locution representing both qualities:
Interestingly, both are business-related, which, I might venture, may be mostly a function of changing business conditions fueling the need for coinage (pun absolutely intended).
As coinages, these two words represent opposites of sorts:
Social notworking is the blatant pun, used to describe “Surfing a social networking site instead of working.” Call it social porn.
Murketing is a subtler construction, possibly considered a pun and possibly considered a portmanteau—meshing two words (murky and marketing). Murketing describes “A form of marketing where the product or service is not mentioned or shown” (think of those TV ads that leave you with that deep “Huh?”-response.) Whereas notworking is an opposite of the original word, murketing is a shade of the original—a quieter shade.
These represent neology at its worst because on their surfaces, neither word accomplishes what their definitions claim they do. To my ear, social notworking speaks a cynical implication that social networking itself is not working, rather than workers are not working because of social networking. And to that same ear (or maybe the other one), murketing sounds equally cynical, a drudging insult with surreptitious resonances of murk—not only the dark, clouded denotations of the word itself, but also the swallowed, secretive pronunciation of the word when spoken aloud. Marketing is a happier, broader, more open word. Murketing is a huddling, skulking word.
So why are these examples of neology at its best? I’m a cynic; I’d like to think that my suggested misinterpretations are true.
By the by, Mr. Everything You Know About English Is Wrong now looks forward to quitting his day job and notworking when he receives expected checks from all major companies—as in this blog he has not mentioned or shown any of your products or services. He’s a murketing genius!
08.28.08
Un-conventional
With the ‘08 Presidential campaign flaring up . . . um, heating up, Everything You Know About English Is Wrong nominates a candidate with increasing, undeniable presence:
Check out the “news story” here.
08.27.08
Stamina R Us
When arguing with a language persnickitor who insists that the word data is always plural, mental stamina are required.
Hold on, Mr. Brohaugh, I hear some data-R-us prescriptivist saying. You should say, “stamina is required.” The word is singular.
That’s what I thought until I stumbled across a fascinating post in the Languagehat blog archives (which the “Stupid Grammar Rules II: Data Are” post at the Motivated Grammar blog pointed to). Languagehat explains that stamina is technically plural, and then concludes:
Heretofore, when encountering people who insist that data should take a plural verb, I have said “I presume, then, you feel the same about agenda“; I will now add stamina to my arsenal.
My own heretofore has rarely taken such a logical route. I like to confuse such insistent people, with a response more like “So, then, why don’t you insist on a plural verb for minutia, which is the plural of minutium?” I love the moment of quiet, the eyes darting back and forth. It’s a test of mettle—or mental stamins, maybe. The response is going to be a) silence; b) “I do use plural verbs with minutia“; c) “You’re full of shit.”
Answer a) speaks to the confusion caused by such Latin words as datum/data, stadium/stadia, graffito/graffiti, and balonum/baloney (well, maybe not the last pair). Answer b) speaks to the “depth” of their knowledge of Latin words, because . . . Answer c) is correct. Minutia is indeed singular, and minutium exists only in my mind as a contender for being the singular of baloney.
08.26.08
Or perhaps Greek for “water ox”?
I admit to feeling cookie deprived. The grand celebration that resulted when the Kellogg company brought back Hydrox cookies on August 21 took me by surprise—mainly because I’d never heard of Hydrox cookies. My obliviousness came not because the treats were before my time; they were very much in my time, but I guess I was too caught up in almond windmill cookies, edible wax lips, Milk Duds, Mallo Cups, and those little wax bottles filled with some kinda sugar liquid inside to pay attention to this pre-Oreo crème-sandwiched-by-chocolate cookie.
Hydrox cookies were introduced in 1908 by Sunshine Biscuits. Competitor Oreo came double-rolling along in 1912. (Neither of which are my time, in case you were wondering.) Eighty-eight years later, Keebler swallowed up the Biscuits, and Kellogg subsequently gobbled up the elves in an apparent quest to monopolize companies beginning with K. Comes 2003, and Kellogg dropped the cookie brand, since renamed (more on that in a moment).
Fading sales apparently doomed Hydrox. I’ve not seen a lot of detail on what might have forced a sales decline, but I’ll offer a possible contributor. The name.
Certainly, a number of factors worked against Hydrox, though the product itself is not likely at fault given how ravenous the fandom is (apparently phone calls and letter-writing inspired the revival). But for the moment consider a name that I don’t think aged very well, one that now sounds like a plant food, a faucet-spigot cleaner, a character in a Douglas Adams novel, or Godzilla’s next wrestling partner. Hydrox wandered into later decades that were characterized by product-naming mania, particularly in the tech, pharmaceuticals and household cleaning product sectors. And in fact, a Hydrox Laboratories (slogan, “Solutions for Your Solutions”—honest) issues a line of beauty and health care products, ranging from facial astringent to perineum wash to kiwi melon shampoo (which probably doesn’t taste too good between chocolate wafers).
The Hydrox name is a portmanteau of the atomic components of water: hydrogen and oxygen (water . . . cookie . . . get the connection? because I don’t). Keebler in infinite elfin wisdom changed the name to Droxies. Catchy, eh? Or maybe I should say, Catchies? I’m not sure what Droxies sounds like, but of all the possibilities, none of them seems edible. Kellogg made dropsy with the Droxies, but now on the cookie’s hundredth anniversary the company is bringing the brand back for a while.
That makes me happy for the cookie’s many fans. To them, I say enjoy. Myself, I’m going to slink into a corner and pout until they bring back Screaming Yellow Zonkers.
08.25.08
How to vary unique
The word unique is sacred. Inviolate. Untouchable by human beings. Let us worship it in its perfect splendor! Perfection cannot be modified!
Well, so goes the chant of the persnickitors. If you want to see a spray of blood popping from foreheads not unlike the famed Bellagio fountain display, just announce aloud that something is “very unique” in just about any public place. “Every English or journalism major knows the word ‘unique’ does not take a modifier!” Which is something I didn’t make up, but quoted directly from a blog, inserting the exclamation point because I knew the blogger really wanted to use one, so I’ll take the blame.
Of course, this proscription is bull (read the title of this blog again). What if I say something is “almost” unique? It’s pretty distinctive, but it does share characteristics with another instance of same. Has not unique been modified? You can say “I almost won the game” even when I actually lost, so why can’t something fail to be one-of-a-kind? Or how about “remarkably unique,” “fascinatingly unique,” “preposterously unique,” “strangely unique,” “etceterally unique.” Modifications all. In fact, the little forehead-popping that I quoted above (assisting gallantly by my offered exclamation point) was inspired by a headline reading, “A truly unique collection.” This construction violates neither logic nor grammar, and not even what “every English or journalism major knows.” Consider this concocted extension of that quote: “This truly unique collection, as opposed to collections that previously laid false claim to being unique . .”
At worst, truly in my modification is redundant, in that the “as opposed to” phrase demonstrates contrast, so “A unique collection as opposed to . . .” Even so, truly serves as clarifier and intensifier.
What our persnickitor is objecting to is not modification but a specific type of modification—establishing degree of uniqueness. The cliche analogy, of course, is “Unique is or it isn’t, just like you can’t be a little pregnant.” On the other hand, how often do you hear the acceptable hyperbole that someone is very pregnant—that is, she is far along in her pregnancy, possibly about to go into labor at any moment, and . . . look at that . . . time for the cigars. Sure, “very pregnant” isn’t precise; what hyperbole is?
And with that, I’ll sign off (very off), because I don’t want to beat the subject until it’s morally, ethically, spiritually, physically, positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably, not merely, really most sincerely dead.
08.24.08
Pig in a poke in the eye
“Do you want a headline for that savings-bank story?” a colleague emailed me the other day. We were working on a magazine article that employed a herd of piggy-banks as a photo illustration, and he continued, “Maybe something pig-related, like ‘A Pig on a Post’?”
“It’s ‘pig in a poke’—a poke being a type of bag,” I replied in mild correction of his idiotism—and I mean that in the nicest possible way.
Honest. I indeed used idiotism here in the nicest possible way, as a synonym of idiom. The first recorded use of idiotism was in 1588, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, preceding the word’s use as a synonym of idiocy by a hair of something’s chinny-chin-chin (first recording, 1592). And 1913’s Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, lists the “idiomatic” meaning as its primary meaning. Idiom, idiot and idiosyncracy have roots that stretch back to Greek words indicating singularity or peculiarity.
Idiotism-synonymous-with-idiom is now obsolete, but perhaps it should be revived when idiomatic cliches get mangled as they so often do these days, whether intentionally (as I suspect my colleague was doing) or unintentionally. When “toe the line” becomes “tow the line,” we are crossing the line from idiom to idiotism. So, too, when “wreaking havoc” becomes “reeking havoc” or “wrecking havoc,” or when “for all intents and purposes” becomes “for all intensive purposes.”
But perhaps the greatest idiotism is when “Pig in a poke” becomes a pig in a post—a blog post.
08.23.08
No members of e-MENSA, these
File under “Jeff and Benjie Go to White Watchtower”
My Everything You Know About English Is Wrong spends a bit of time railing against the persnickitors, the ones whose forehead veins begin to vibrantly throb when they spot a split infinitive (there’s one now! killit! killit!), the ones the ones who attack informal language with an “I don’t like it and therefore you must be punished” attitude, those who believe that a correctly placed apostrophe trumps the importance of historical heritage.
Specific to the latter group, we introduce Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson, of the Typo Eradication Advancement League, or TEAL. This Pair O’Persnickitation recently toured the country correcting signage and other public displays of misinformed grammar and punctuation, with an unfortunate stop at Grand Canyon National Park. There they visited the historic Desert View Watchtower, designed by Mary Elizabeth Jane Colter and built in 1932. Notes ScienceViews.com, “A perfectionist, Colter scrutinized every detail, down to the placement of nearly every stone. Each stone was handpicked for size and appearance. Weathered faces were left untouched to give the tower an ancient look. With a lavish, highly publicized dedication ceremony, the Watchtower opened in May 1933.”
Colter wasn’t perfectionist enough for our Redactyl Pair. Inside, according to court affidavits (yes! legal proceedings!), Redactyls Deck and Herson found a sign hand-painted by Colter herself. Writes the AP: “Authorities said a diary written by Deck reported that while visiting the watchtower, he and Herson ‘discovered a hand-rendered sign inside that, I regret to report, contained a few errors.’” Oh dear! Such regret! What’s the solution? Perhaps an accompanying handmade sign gently placed next to the original suggesting how it might appear with proper punctuation? No no! We’re talking “eradication” here. Hmm. Yellow lettering on a black background. A marker can eradicate that misplaced apostrophe! A little typewriter correction fluid can insert the apostrophe in its proper place! A comma here . . . ! Such masterful brushstrokes! Redactorial Matisses are we!
Well, they probably didn’t say precisely that, but I suspect their thinking came close. Colter’s sign also misspelled immense as emense, which the AP reports was not fixed because, wrote Mr. Deck:
I was reluctant to disfigure the sign any further. . . . Still, I think I shall be haunted by that perversity, emense, in my train-whistle-blighted dreams tonight.
It’s tough times for the language when people must lose sleep over not defacing national heritage enough.
Back to the affidavits and those authorities getting all persnickitorial about those things known as “laws,” Deck and Herson’s editorial adventure led to their pleading guilty to conspiracy to vandalize government property. They get to pay $3,035 dollars to have Colter’s sign restored (oh, how many train-whistle-blighted nightmares are to ensue? oh, the emensity!). Tag on a year of probation, in which the pair cannot enter national parks, nor can they modify any public signs. A year from now—hey, have at!
Adherence to conventions of grammar and punctuation is a noble pursuit, but in this case, and in many cases where we must allow a changing language, informal layers of communication, and plain ol’ human foibles, sometimes ya just gotta let it slide.
Meantime, the AP reports:
The TEAL Web site now has only this message — “Statement on the signage of our National Parks and public lands to come” — without a period.
We await your statement, Mssrs. Deck and Herson. We trust you will be eloquent in your apology.
Next up—Jeff and Benjie go to the National Archives!
“This is unconscionable! I can’t believe they misspelled British as Brittish! And any whistle-blighted mooncalf knows that you must capitalize United in United States. And hey, Founding Fatheads, we don’t spell it Congrefs anymore—get a dictionary! Nice pen-work, Benjie. And . . . huh? What’s Nicolas Cage doing here?”
08.20.08
If Pluto had been bigger than Plato, one of them would still be a planet
The following represents why I love words, and why I love true word people:
Nancy over at the Fritinancy blog snarked yesterday about a recent press release using the phrase “plutonic relationships” when more than a few of us know that the subject was actually “platonic relationships.”
Nancy’s sharp introduction to the malapropism was . . .
If Men Are from Mars … and women are from Venus, are some relationships from Pluto?
Ensuing comment from “WIIIAI” from the Whatever It Is, I’m Against It blog:
Evidently many people wish to hook up with someone who looks like a cartoon dog, or possibly someone who is small and icy, with an eccentric orbit, who thinks they’re a planetary celestial body, but really aren’t.
Ensuing comment from “Q. Pheevr” from the A Roguish Chrestomathy blog:
The thesis expressed in [Nancy’s] quotation from Blubet, with its reference to “a hidden sexual desire or chemistry that secretly sparks between them,” actually resonates rather nicely with the OED’s definition of the geological sense of the word ‘plutonic’: “Pertaining to or involving the action of intense heat at great depths upon the rocks forming the earth’s crust; igneous.”
Ensuing comment from yours truly who non-humbly had to jump into the fray, herein semi-humbly presented:
Further to Q. Pheevr’s point, I suspect that “plutonic” relationships may actually source back to “plutonium” and not “pluto” (neither former planet nor dog). My evidence is that like plutonium, platonic relationships have half lives.
All this can be summed up as a matter of preference in these matters of love, of course: You say pla-tato, I say plu-tuto; let’s call the whole thing off.
and 
