All You Create

Singing.

It’s one of the great joys of being a human. Doesn’t matter if you sing on or off key. Doesn’t matter if you sing only in cars with rolled-up windows, stopping to wait for the next green light, or in shower stalls with warm water cleansing your body as your favorite lyrics soothe your soul.

Assuming you actually know the lyrics.

For some of us (ahem), that’s a big assumption. Take me, for instance. I’ve been a singer my entire life. I remember singing at the top of my lungs in my room when I was around 8 years old. Imagine my horror when I twirled around in ecstasy of performance, only to find my parents standing in the doorway, watching. The horror! How long had they been standing there? If I had known there’s an audience, well, that would have been something different.

But I digress.

I sang in junior high, then in the high school madrigal group and in every musical that would have me. I sang my way through college (although I started to realize the small-fish-in-big-pond concept around that time). I continued singing on my own as a full-fledged adult and into my married life. Hey, I married a guy who loves to sing, as well, and we can holler out tunes in our automobile, the likes which you have never heard. Seriously!

So one fine day, we’re tooling down the road and the 1981 version of “Bette Davis Eyes” made popular by Kim Carnes (but written in 1974 by Donna Weiss and Jackie DeShannon) came on the radio. We’re singing along, sometimes he louder, sometimes I. Then came the line, “All the boys think she’s a spaz, she’s got Bette Davis eyes.” I belted it out — with feeling. And then I commented about how amazing it is that someone actually got the word “spaz” into a song.

My husband looked at me sideways. He asked me to repeat the line. I obliged. Then the heckling began.

I suppose at some point in my 40+ years I could’ve looked up the words to the song, but why? I knew them. I did, truly. But apparently, not really.

(It all made sense to me — sort of still does, really, because I never thought Bette Davis was much of a looker and thought, well, yes, the boys think she’s a spaz. Her eyes weren’t the eyes of a “regular” gal, so “spaz” sounded right on, if not very nice.)

My loving husband informed me that “spaz” was not cutting it. The line is: “All the boys think she’s a spy.” OK, fine. “Spy” does rhyme with “eyes” slightly better than “spaz” does. And now all my friends and readers now know my dirty little lyrics secret. Ugh.

Let it be known, though, that I am not alone in my affinity for the mondegreen (which, btw, refers to screwing up the lyrics; it got its name from Sylvia Wright mishearing a Scottish ballad of “laid him on the green” as “Lady Mondegreen” in the 1950s).

Someone (name unmentioned here, but if you can guess, go for it) was tooling along in the car with me one fine day several years ago and was belting out Elton John’s “Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road.” I was singing along, too, as usual. Then came the phrase “Back to the howling old owl in the woods, hunting the horny back toad.” 

Here’s one for my main man.

As with everything in life, I’m no expert at language. I may have been trained in English this and grammar that more than the average bear, and I may write a silly but fun little language blog here and again, but I absolutely claim no expert affiliation where language is concerned.

Why? Because I have a hard time with the word expert. In a black-and-white, absolute world (the kind of world that surely would clear up a few things), an expert is supposed to know everything there is to know about a certain subject, right? Well, I may know a decent amount of tidbits, but I positively don’t know everything. Not even close. And I am wary of those professing to be experts in their chosen field unless they have a ton of experience and positive results, plus a lot of positive feedback from those who have dealt with them. And even then, I have one eyebrow raised. Fair? Perhaps not. But that’s my thinking. Beside the fact that I’m no fan of braggarts, if someone claims to be an expert, well, I have some reservations.

Anyhoo — I got that view on experts from an English professor I had once, one whom I was not even that crazy about. She once told me that I reminded her of her when she was younger (and thus less wise than she had learned to become, bleh). So why do I even bother to keep that slant on expert alive? Good question.

Regardless, the term expert is not the point of this post; indict, indicted — they are the point. I cannot get it straight in my head how to read those words aloud, even though I know how to spell them and I know how to pronounce them. Anytime I see them in print, I want to say in-DIGHT or in-DIGHT-ed. Ugh! Talk about feeling like a dope. I was reading an article to my other half awhile back and just read those words without skipping a beat. My husband stopped me and said, “What did you just say?”

Caught in the act of mispronunciation! So I looked up the word indict and found out where this crazy spelling came from, the spelling that has a silent ‘c’ in it. Double-ugh! In my defense, this is what I found out:

• Webster’s New World College Dictionary says that indict is a bastardization, if you will, of the Middle English term enditen, which meant “to accuse” or “to write a document.”
• Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary adds that enditen is from the Anglo-French enditer, which meant “to write or compose.” It stemmed from the “Vulgar Latin indictare, frequentative of Latin indicere,” which meant “to make known formally, proclaim.”
• The word indict held onto its French pronunciation after the spelling was re-Latinized in the 1600s.

So I’m not completely crazy, after all. That third bullet made my day. It’s not my fault that I can’t pronounce it correctly; it’s the bloody Latinization of yet another word that is causing all the hullabaloo.

Happy trails!

SAK

It’s a crapshoot, I tell you.

I had just started in a new position at a new agency and was excited to start things off right with an updated AP Stylebook. Makes sense, I thought, since my own copy of the veritable writer’s bible was the 2007 version. Staying current with the 2010 version (even though it’s already 2011, thank you very much) seemed like a grand idea, especially since the 2011 version wasn’t going to be published for a few months yet.

The 2010 version, for those with inquiring minds, is the first book put out by the AP folks with website spelled as one word and all lowercase. That, my dear readers, was a monumental advancement. Ask any writer or editor you know (hell, you can even ask an opinionated designer or two — they’ll freely offer their belief system on the now-antiquated two-word Web site); he or she will probably be able to explain in four-part harmony the beneficial or detrimental nuances of using one word or two, depending on his or her preference.

So — back to the crapshoot.

As a writer and editor in my new digs at Armstrong|Shank Advertising, I thought it appropriate to get my hands on the latest AP Stylebook. The office manager said, “Hey! No problem. We’ll order one of those suckers right away.”

Cool!

It arrived lickety-split and I set to work, prepared for whatever odd grammar question could arise.

Then, just a few short days ago, the AP Stylebook folks threw a grammar wrench in my well-laid plans. They decided to cave under the pressure of the masses and allow email to take the place of e-mail.

And that, my friends, is huge. Even bigger news than Web site to website. It’s so huge because, in the history of the English language, no compound noun that starts with a single letter has lost its hyphen. For example:

• A-frame
• G-string
• S-curve
• T-ball
• T-shirt
• U-turn
• X-ray

It seems odd to me that the hyphen isn’t there, too, because for the two people who don’t yet know what electronic mail is, reading the word sans hyphen could theoretically make it sound like ehMAIL. And that, as the rest of us electronic whiz kids know, isn’t how it’s supposed to sound.

Why should e-mail lose its hyphen? My best guess is because the masses, in all their texting and tweeting and e-mailing (er, emailing) glory, decided that it’s just too darn difficult to add the hyphen to a word that gets typed or written on such a frequent basis, and those masses revolted to the point of forcing the hand of the AP Stylebook editors.

So — lazy wins.

And you know what? I’m sort of OK with that. I don’t really think it’s the wisest decision based on correctness, but I’ll be a much happier — and faster — tweeter with this new rule in place.

For the record: Email is correct to start a sentence; email is correct in all other sentence locations. Fun times.

Happy trails!

SAK

Ever since I was a kid, my ears have liked to play tricks on me:

• Excuse me while I kiss this guy!
• Dirty deeds and the thunder chief!
• There is a place in time sweet as honey!
• All I can do is just pull some teeth or two!

So my life goes. Songs haven’t been the only things that I’ve mistakenly spoken or written about. A biggie that stands out in my mind is the beige folder that’s in every office in America. Also the beige envelope with the little button that you wind a string around to keep the envelope’s contents from spilling out onto the floor. You know what I’m talking about.

The vanilla folder.

Well, it is sort of vanilla-like in color. And a gazillion other people also call it the vanilla folder, even though that’s not the thing’s name.

That beige folder (and its kissing cousin, the large beige envelope) is called a manila folder.

The manila folder got its name from the original fiber content of the paper — manila hemp — which was derived from the leaves of the abacá (a species of banana that grows in the Philippines). Manila is also the capital of the Philippines, which is a primary abacá producer.

Coincidence? I think not.

So while a folder may remind you of vanilla and be as exciting as imitation vanilla, by any other name — and any other color — that file folder your carrying around is still a manila folder.

Happy trails!

SAK

As a somewhat-nostalgic mom who reads books to her kids at night, I tend to shy away from the newfangled books that are churned out by the boatload these days. Granted, We have some of the “Fancy Nancy” and “Pinkalicious” stories, but we also have a lot of the books I grew up with.

I can hardly wait until the kiddos are ready for the “Pippi Longtocking” series. In fact, I already tried reading the original to my oldest, but the story’s details (and lack of pictures) are still a bit above her head. Nonetheless, I bought three of the books and am ready and waiting to explore the pigtails, monkeys, crazy socks and lively adventures with my two little monkeys.

They are, though, ready for “Old Hasdrubal and the Pirates,” one of my old books that explores Louisiana’s bayou Barataria and the (albeit glorified) history of Jean Lafitte. My youngest — a girl — loves the story almost as much as I do, and we read it several times a week.

Note the motor on this modern-day pirogue (photo: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dakar_-_Pirogue.JPG)

Fluently written by Berthe Amoss, the narrative talks of “galleons full of silver and gold, precious gems and diadems, diamond tiaras and lace madeiras, festooned dragoons and doubloons from tycoons!” Who writes like that these days for kids? That’s some crazy-good, super-fun writing, if you ask me. And the next line: “Then, in their pirogues, Lafitte and his men slipped back to hideouts in the labyrinth swamp where no man could seek them out.”

Ah lak dat. Except — what the heck is a pirogue? As the lucky momma holding the book and looking at the pictures, it’s easy to see that a pirogue is a long, skinny, flat-bottomed boat, much like a canoe, that the pirates navigated through the swamplands. But how am I, a flat-plains Midwesterner, supposed to pronounce that word without giving my daughter the impression that I don’t know how to read? Aack!

Peh-ROGUE?

Peh-ROG-ee?

PEE-rogue?

PIE-rog?

Pie-ROG-ee?

Coooh. So, to the Internet I went. I looked it up on Merriam-Webster’s trusty website that includes audible pronunciation guides and figured it all out. It should sound thus: PEE-rogue.

Voilà tout! That being said, if you’re from the bayou and know of an alternate or more authentic local pronunciation, by all means — let me know!

Happy trails!

SAK

This is a short addition to the previous post on the correct pronunciation of pajamas (or, as the case may be, pajama).

One of my favorite albums is “Negotiations and Love Songs,” and one of my favorite songs on the album is “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” (which, by the way, debuted on his second album, “Paul Simon”). The very first line of the song goes like this:

The mama pajama rolled out of bed and she ran to the police station.

In this song, my friends, Paul sings it with that second a in pajama rhyming with mama. Not Pam or clam or jam or even jammies. But like llama. Like Obama. Like it should be pronounced, according to Merriam-Webster’s preference.

I suppose that’s enough on this subject. Just thought it would be another good way to get some decent tunes flowing.

Happy trails!

SAK

You say to-MAY-to, I say to-MAH-to.

OK, I say to-MAY-to, too. But that’s the apparent difference between pronouncing the long form of P.J.’s (or jammies, if you ask my husband). The subject came up about the correct pronunciation of pajamas, so I followed my M.O.: I looked it up online. Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary has two (count ‘em, two) sound buttons that play the preferred and secondary pronunciations of the word. But when I looked it up, the sound wouldn’t work.

That was last night.

So I checked out a few other sites that also have sound buttons. Webster’s New World College Dictionary, which the AP Stylebook prefers, has one button. And to my horror and my husband’s delight, it pronounced it pa-JAA-mas (the middle syllable sounds like the a in jam).

Ugh. My loving but woohoo-I’m-right husband thought the case was closed.

Today during a break at work, I polled co-workers about their pronunciation preference. Most agreed with my husband; one agreed with me. So I vowed to check out Merriam-Webster’s one more time, and it worked — on several levels.

P.J.'s, jammies, pajamas — Oh, my! (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/erix/4161088394/)

The first, most prominent sound button confirmed my suspicion: pa-JAH-ma (singular construction, mind you — the middle syllable sounds like the a in saw). The second, less-preferred sound button put forth pa-JAA-ma (again, sounds like jam).

One other tidbit I learned while researching the pajama dilemma: It can be a regional thing. My way (and the correct way, according to Merriam-Webster’s) is the Southeastern United States way to pronounce it. On the flip side, my husband’s pajama preference is popular in the Northeast U.S. and Great Lakes area, as well as the West Coast.

And that’s news to me, for sure. I wouldn’t have guessed that my preference is a Southern thing. Heck, lots of folks have mistaken me for an East Coaster, and I lived in sunny Cali for a spell. But after thinking about it, pa-JAA-mas does have a Southern ring to it. Interesting stuff.

Happy trails!

SAK

I am sure that I’m not alone when I say that, as a child, I called the super-sticky, wide, silvery tape that Dad would use from time to time duck tape. Hey, that’s what it sounded like to the 7-year-old me when he mumbled its name as he searched in the garage for it to fix xyz.

Alas, my ears did deceive me.

The official name of the gray stuff that apparently holds the world together is duct tape. And why, you ask? Because its original intended use was to keep moisture out of WWII ammunition cases, repair cracked windows and seal canisters, among other wartime efforts; since the tape was waterproof and included cotton duck in the middle layer, folks started calling it duck tape. After the war, the tape was used to seal duct work in houses. Today, it is manufactured by several companies, but the Duck® brand is, perhaps not coincidentally, the most prevalent.

Duck brand duct tape now comes in a rainbow of colors (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/wwworks/4472384764/)

Duct tape is made of polyethelyne, a fabric mesh and a rubber-based adhesive. Its uses have extended far beyond ammunition cases and duct work to just about anything under the sun. It has been claimed as a cure for foot fungus (in essence smothering the fungus), an effective gag in countless movies, a temporary bandage and formal wear for proms.

Many quotations and slogans have been created to capture the multitude uses of duct tape, but my favorite is, I think, this:

“One only needs two tools in life: WD-40 to make things go, and duct tape to make them stop.”

Well said, G. Weilacher.

Happy trails!

SAK

I went to a Dave Matthews Band concert (my fourth) last night and, yes, they were as fantastic live as ever. So what does it have to do with language? Ooh, so glad you want to know.

Going to the show, I was thinking about different songs that I hoped the band would play. (”Long Black Veil” was on my list but didn’t make the lineup.) “One Sweet World” popped into my head. (But, alas, it didn’t get any stage time, either.)

Say “One Sweet World” without thinking about a yummy scoop — or bowl — of Ben & Jerry’s “One Sweet Whirled” ice cream; it can’t be done, at least not by me.

And then I thought, “Hey, that would make a great topic for a Bloody Well Write entry.” And so it begins.

So what’s this thing called wherein two words, such as world and whirled, sound alike but have different meanings, origins and (usually) spellings? They’re called homophones, my friends.

In a perfect world (and I use the term perfect extraordinarily rarely, as it’s the unicorn of language — it pretty much doesn’t exist), world and whirled would be pronounced slightly differently, with world having a deeper, rounder sound and whirled sounding a bit more forward in the mouth, sort of tinny. As I mentioned, though, this world is far from perfect and the vast majority of folks would agree that world and whirled sound alike.

Homophones are, in the English language, words that confuse English as a second language (ESL) folks and everyone else trying to expand vocabulary. You may have a particular homophone or two that still haunt you to this day. Have no fear that you’re alone in this matter, because you’re absolutely not. Here are just a few that I usually have to look up to be doubly sure that I’m using the correct word:

Read the entire article.

For those who don’t know me well, I will share this morsel with you:

I’m all about food.

Granted, I’m a pescetarian — someone who doesn’t eat land animals (e.g., chicken, cow, pig, sheep, etc.) — but I do eat seafood and fish, in addition to fruits, dairy products, grains and the occasional vegetable. And tomatoes? They’re OK, I suppose. I’ve eaten them my entire life but haven’t really been in awe of them.

Not, that is, until the past decade, when a friend introduced me to Insalata Caprese. Now, I’m hooked.

Insalata Caprese translates from Italian into English thus:

Read the entire article.