Pakistan told India on Saturday [12/27/2008] it [Pakistan] did not want war and was committed to fighting terrorism — a move apparently aimed at reducing tensions after Pakistan moved troops toward their shared border.
I’m thankful for the specificity of the last two words there, because so many countries have unshared borders. Maybe the writer thought that the Pakistanis were playing “6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon Geography.” Pakistan has a border with Afghanistan, which has a border with HardyOliverandLaurelStan, who starred in Sons of the Desert, which is often misspelled as dessert, which is often served at Thanksgiving, a celebration at which families usually serve turkey, a country that has a city named Isparta, which is the place that first grew organic iPods, which were subsequently made in China, which has a border (likely shared) with India.
Another year down, and another year without getting a tattoo. I’m aiming for a perfect record in this regard—an unblemished record, if you will. No body art, no body instructions, no body sight gags. No body mottos. No body quips. No body short stories.
I’m not kidding about the last one. A few years back, writer Shelley Jackson set out to inscribe a 2,095-word short story not on the head of a pin but on a head. A few heads. Human heads. 2,095 heads, by tattooing one word of the story on each one. I’ve been staring at this paragraph for about 20 minutes now, trying to resist the “writer’s blockhead” pun, but now that I’ve succumbed to it, let’s move on.
I ran across this project when I recently spotted a web photo slideshow displaying celebrity tattoos, and feeling overwhelmed by popular culture deprivation, I paged through idly. And stopped when I spotted Megan Fox. Not for the reason you suspect (well, not only for the reason you suspect), but because of the Shakespeare misquote she showed off: “We will all laugh at gilded butterflies” (actual quote from King Lear: “we’ll live,/ And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh/ At gilded butterflies”).
This literary skin game, ol’ untattooed me came to learn on further investigation (of literary tattoos, not of Megan Fox), is relatively popular and considerably well-chronicled. Contrariwise: Literary Tattoos brings examples of textual and illustrative body decoration based on books, poetry, songs, and other arts (ranging from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to To Kill a Mockingbird). Yuppie Punk has similar range, with a concentration on book illustrations (ranging from, yup, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to Curious George to a portrait of William Faulkner). U.K.’s Guardian reports on the practice, using Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man as a theme—made even more appropriate when you spot one of the tattoos at Yuppie Punk: The original cover art of Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.
The idea of a Bradbury tat is the closest I’ll come to actually considering permanent body alteration, as Bradbury is one of two writers whose work deeply motivated my love of writing (the other is Thornton Wilder, but in this context, the motivation has no connection to tattoos on The Skin of Our Teeth). But I’ll remain tattoo-free, especially in the light of Shirley Dent’s thoughts in the Guardian:
What we seek to do when we cut literature into our flesh is to make something metaphysical physical. We take tattooed literature into ourselves in the most superficial of ways, inscribing rather than imbibing its significance. Put another way, lit tats really are only skin deep, vainglorious and shallow all at once.
To paraphrase, you can’t judge a book by its cover, and neither can you judge a book by who it covers.
The Ridger weighs in with a great comment on my post yesterday about the potential eponym value of Madoff-pronounced-MadeOff:
It’s considerably more Dickensian than Blagojevich, that’s for sure. Kathleen Parker said in the Washington Post last Wednesday:
Among his other activities, Blagojevich — whose Dickensian name rings nearly eponymous — allegedly has been busy trying to get certain members of the Tribune’s editorial board fired by threatening to withhold state assistance for the financing or sale of Wrigley Field (Tribune also owns the Chicago Cubs).
I’m REALLY not sure what she means by “rings nearly eponymous”.
Agreed, Ridger. One characteristic of eponyms we use today—boycott, bowdlerize, maverick, as examples—are (like, oh, at least a handful of words in the language) pronounceable. Machiavellian and Celsius give us a challenge, yes, but we can still get them out of our mouths without counting the syllables and mentally watching where our tongues go as we slog through the syllables in slow motion, as we would do with Dag-nab-o-glitch, or however it’s pronounced. I believe we should all pronounce the eventual near-eponym with a Jerry Lewis jabber, the way Jon Stewart does.
And what would a Dag-nab-o-glitch be, anyway? Someone who tries to sell political appointments? Someone who attempts outrageous indiscretions and denies them equally outrageously? A hairstyle that protects your face like an awning?
I would suggest that we brohaugh the notion (mock with silly suggestions), except for that little pronounceability factor . . . and the fact that the meaning wouldn’t be significantly different from “stewarting the notion.”
Let me use this as a jumping-off point for some verbal silliness on The Daily Show last week. Stewart shows a clip of an unnamed reporter referring to the DagwoodSand-o-Wich affair as:
This political drama played out on the national stage is much more than that. It’s human soap opera, as a matter of fact.
Stewart responds, “I see. So this would be like a soap opera except—and this would be the twist—with human roles.” As a matter of fact.
As a capper, the unnamed reporter is jabbering over a display of the words “GOVERNOR’S FAMILY FUED.”
Check out the episode of the Daily Show, enjoy this and some other wordplay there (the czar schtick is fun), and then join me in wondering: What the hell does “nearly eponymous” mean?
With Black Friday looming, I today offer unhumble suggestions for your holiday shopping list. (It’s a commercial, dammit! I admit it! And I’m not kidding about the headline.)
I’ve just received the good news that Writer’s Digest Books will publish my Unfortunate English in paperback in Fall of 2009. The hardcover remains available, and I humbly suggest it for the word lovers on your Christmas list. And other lists, as well. The subtitle of the book is “The Gloomy Truth Behind the Words You Use,” which is so appropriate for the upcoming festive season, don’t you agree? Classy cloth binding, nicely creepy illustrations, and the same snarky sense of humor you’ve come to expect in this blog (for better or worse).
Other vaguely humble suggestions for my books that are possibly enjoyable by people other than my mom (see the headline):
Write Tight: Say Exactly What You Mean With Precision and Power
> ”These days, most creative-writing courses teach self-indulgence. Write Tight counsels discipline. It is worth more than a university education. Its advice is gold.” — Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times bestselling author
> ”If you read Write Tight, and if you apply its lessons, you will be a better writer.” — Lawrence Block, Mystery Writers of America Grand Master > ”Write Tight is a supremely valuable ‘must-have’ for aspiring writers in all fields.” — Midwest Book Review
Everything You Know About English Is Wrong > ”If you love language and the unvarnished truth, you’ll love Everything You Know About English Is Wrong. You’ll have fun because his lively, comedic, skeptical voice will speak to you from the pages of his word-bethumped book.” — Richard Lederer, author of Anguished English and other popular word books > ”The book provides a good counterpoint to Lynne Truss’s anxiety-inducing Eats, Shoots & Leaves and will be enjoyed by everyone who can’t quite admit to being amused by William Safire because they can’t get past his politics. In other words, Brohaugh is funner.” — FeatureBook.com
The Grill of Victory: Hot Competition on the Barbecue Circuit > ”It’s not about words, but it uses them.” — Bill Brohaugh, author of The Grill of Victory” > ”Thank you, William Brohaugh. Thank you for writing this book. Barbecue is the better for it.” — Doug Mosley in The National Barbecue News > ”A must read for aspiring pit masters and great for armchair cooks, too.” — Steven Raichlen, author of The Barbecue Bible > ”The blend of travel, social and culinary history is exceptional and fun in this highly recommended pick.” — Midwest Book Review
I get bedazzled by online gadgets for their industry, their creativity, their fun, and their potential for wisecrackery. Mostly for the first three items but also for the fourth is my interest in ofaust.com (with a nod to one of the commenters at Language Log for the alert). Submit a bit of writing through the site’s interface, and O’Faust reports whose classic writing the text most closely resembles.
Fearing for the mockery such evaluations would send my way, I first tested O’Faust on the “Late for the Sky” blog perpetrated by my friend and fellow radio comedy writer JohnnyB (his song parodies are superb). JohnnyB’s “Come Fly With Me” installment was gauged to be most like Frank Baum, with 24% similarity. His “I Love LA” entry was gauged, with less confidence at 14%, to be most like Edgar Rice Burroughs. (Note to JohnnyB: my evaluation that you exist in your own fantasy world has been independently confirmed.) Oh, and a song parody. JohnnyB’s “Country (First) Rogue”—political parody of John Wasilla’s . . . um, John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads”—gets a nicely complimentary 65% similarity to Oscar Wilde.
Feeling then safe to apply the test to my own writing in this blog, I submitted “Chile is not chilly, chili is not chilly, and never the twain shall meet,” and was given a 23% nod to Edgar Allen Poe. Chills indeed. (As an aside, for the radio show JohnnyB and I wrote for, I composed an ode to an NFL game in which the Baltimore Ravens dominated the Cincinnati Bengals: “Quoth the Ravens, never score”). My “Slurry up and wait” nudged up to 25%, and pointed to Mark Twain. My “Rerenaming names” slipped again to 23% and named—oh, shit—Frank Baum.
Deciding to conduct the ultimate test, I then submitted:
And, finally, some circular testing—I submit the very blog entry you’re reading at this moment: and . . . sonuvabitch! 68% Poe. I was hoping for Dan Brown.
I have Regret the Error on my blogroll; it’s a fascinating log of journalist mistakes—the ones they admit to. Regret the Error placed on Time.com’s First Annual Blog Index. Nicely done.
SoupAddict’s Blog is over there in Blogroll Land, too (not to mention Eggroll Land). Karen, a long-time friend, is a great cook. Yesterday she beat me into a cooking contest pâté with her second place (and my somewhere-past-third place) in the Cook Like a Wokstar contest. My compliments. Details of her winning entry here.
Short blog today. I have to regret my cooking contest errors and start cooking up Karen’s recipe.
Some years ago, a local TV station fired a popular weathercaster because he was “just” an announcer. He held no meteorology degree . . . the faker!. This was at the forefront (and the coldfront) of general TV news departments deciding that weathercasters needed degrees so that they could entertain us with adiabatic lapse rates and slipstreams and other meteorological minutia, perhaps trying to imply to us that said weathercasters used El Niño prevailing breezes to scientifically and naturally blow-dry that hair. Put it in simple English! Leave the test tubes back at the lab and tell us if it’s gonna rain tomorrow.
At the time, I was writing for a Cincinnati radio personality, and I composed a comedy bit in which said TV station next demanded that its news anchor have a Ph.D in current events, the economics reporter be a former Secretary of the Treasury, and the sportscaster have a Masters in statistics and Euclidean geometry.
It seems that I have, after all these years, finally gotten my “put it in simple English” request. Driving home last night, listening to the weather report on the radio, I heard this (exact quote as best as I can remember):
Temperatures will hit the 40s tomorrow, but over the weekend, it’s back to the 30s. And that means colder temperatures.
Yesterday I wrote about an English teentwit who officially changed his name to “Captain Fantastic Faster Than Superman Spiderman Batman Wolverine Hulk And The Flash Combined.” This will, I predict, prove to present some difficulty when applying for credit cards, wooing young ladies, and making dinner reservations.
So perhaps there’s another tack that can be taken by Mr. CFFTSSBWHATFC (hmm, as I write out that initialism, the evocative nature of the last six letters amuses me). Perhaps he can go by his Secret Service code name.
People protected by the U.S. Secret Service are assigned one-word code names for several reasons:
Simplicity
The inability to properly pronounce “Obama”
Watching too many reruns of The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Obama’s new code name, by the way, is Renegade, which I believe to be a clever mockery of the previously opposing “maverick.” The new first lady (would “First Lady-Elect” be the proper phrasing?) is Renaissance, and the kids are Radiance and Rosebud. Alliteration is, of course, intentional. Mr. and Mrs. Bush (the latest ones) are Tumbler and Tempo, respectively; the elder Mr. and Mrs. Bush were Timberwolf and Tranquility. Mr. and Mrs. Clinton were Eagle and Evergreen (with Chelsea taking Energy—don’t mean to dash your 2012 code name hopes, Gov. Palin). The Bidens? Celtic and Capri; I heard a TV reporter pronounce Mr. B’s code as “Seltic” as in the basketball team instead of “Keltic” as in the European people. The reporter was either ignoring the alliterative nature of the code names, or believed that capri is pronounce “sapree.”
ChannelOne.com has a Secret Service code name generator, which actually isn’t a whole lot of fun because all you do is click a button and it displays a single word as your new code name. (I was Staircase, by the way; walk all over me.) Still, it might benefit Mr. CFFTSSBWHATFC in getting something bold but shorter.
A bit more fun is a Unitarian Jihad name generator, inspired by a wacky but delightful Jon Carroll column. My Unitarian Jihad Name is Brother Peaceful Plasma Rifle of Wisdom. Even that is better than what young Mr. CFFTSSBWHATFC came up with.
Now come post-election reports of a certain VP candidate not knowing that Africa comprises several countries, and is not a country unto itself. I mention this by way of background, because I want to talk about a word used in reporting this claim—which may be true or may be disgruntled exaggeration. The word appears here:
According to Fox News Chief Political Correspondent Carl Cameron, there was great concern within the McCain campaign that Palin lacked “a degree of knowledgeability necessary to be a running mate, a vice president, a heartbeat away from the presidency,” in part because she didn’t know which countries were in NAFTA, and she “didn’t understand that Africa was a continent, rather than a series, a country just in itself.”
I suspect whoever first spoke the word knowledgeability—either Cameron or the source Cameron was quoting—really meant knowledge, given the fact that the examples given were bits of knowledge. Perhaps knowledgeability—the ability to be knowledgeable—was indeed the intended word. I’m skeptical, though, because making such nuanced distinctions seems out of character with certain elements of “news” coverage.
So, I chalk knowledgeability up to verbosity (or verbosability), and then begin to wonder about “a degree of.” What does that mean? I contend that either a candidate has the knowledge or knowledgeability or knowledgeabilitosity to handle the job or not. Why not come out and say it bluntly? The claim is harsh enough to begin with—why try to dance around it with clumsy ballet-shoe phrasings? The candidate, the source or the reporter could have said, lacked “knowledge necessary to be a running mate.”
But, as I said, this claim could be true, or it could be exaggeration or hyperbole. Was the source knowledgeable? Or did the source know?
Raymond Chandler wrote The Long Goodbye, a noir detective novel turned into a film by Robert Altman. If The Long Goodbye is ever adapted into another film, Juaquin Phoenix won’t be in it. Juaquin Phoenix has abandoned films.
That’s all well and good. Phoenix can now be a director or a music video mogul or a knuckle tattoo artist or whatever he wants to be—as long as his new profession has nothing to do with the English language.
In quitting films (with bridge-burning histrionics I predict he’ll regret, I might add), he said . . .
“It’s like greener pastures, you know what I mean?” Phoenix said Saturday. “And so, I’m just going to try and like, I’ll just be doing the other thing…. Hopefully, I will emotionally impact you with that, as well.”
Script! Lines!
Worse than his disjointed announcement, Phoenix punctuated his exit with fists. The old one-two punch. Or, um, the not-so-old two-one punch:
Subtle. And classy. Mr. Phoenix, emotionally impact me with something that resembles coherence, please.
(And a couple of nods before I say Bye! Good in this post: Thanks to Fritinancy for alerting me to the Marquee Generator. What fun. And of course I will use this post as another opportunity to point out my respect for the class act known as Paul Newman, who fueled charities, understood and cherished his art, and never wrote on his knuckles.)
). But I’ll remain tattoo-free, especially in the light of Shirley Dent’s thoughts in the Guardian:
I’ve just received the good news that Writer’s Digest Books will publish my 
, a noir detective novel turned into 
. If The Long Goodbye is ever adapted into another film, Juaquin Phoenix won’t be in it. Juaquin Phoenix has abandoned films.
