For those about to warsh, we do not salute you and you do not pass go; go wash your mouth out (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/13871926@N05/3971312826)
It aggravates so, so many people to hear that mangled, warped warsh. Ech. Even typing it hurts.
You wash the dog. Wash the car. Wash the armpits. Wash the dishes.
Never, ever do you … do that other thing that I refuse to type again.
Ah, grammar! Were it not for grammar — and good grammar, at that — the world would surely be a heaping, chaotic mess. For without grammar, how would we humans ever be able to order a cup o’ joe properly (especially the double-double light dolce iced latte variety) or be able to sue each other with such flourish? How would we know if we were being asked about which meal we would like to order, and if we would like fries with it? And how, for Pete’s sake, would we be able to communicate our every want, need and desire to those who may be able to provide it, were it not for good grammar etiquette?
Good grammar is the very foundation of our society, is it not? It helped our forefathers put down in black and white just how they wanted the United States of America to operate. And lawmakers and politicians ever since — with a few potatoe-flinging exceptions — have been trying to uphold the same kind of respect for the language.
Go ahead — you know you want to (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/adactio/3368018014)
Granted, the very nature of language is a morphing art form. The intelligentsia of yesteryear have given way to the whiz kids of the now. What was once imperturbable and phlegmatic is now cool; what used to be favored (or favoured) and marvelous is now hot, rad or boss.
And that change is, indeed, rad — even though the process of change sometimes raises several eyebrows.
So go ahead and celebrate grammar:
Bake an ampersand cake or (for the baking-challenged) ellipsis cookies.
Introduce the kiddos to “Schoolhouse Rock” and don’t feel self-conscious as you belt out the songs.
Send grammar tidbits around the office via interoffice e-mail.
Take a pad of sticky notes to dinner tonight, as it’s highly probable that your menu will have at least one grammar issue, and leave behind a sticky note that calls out the offending mistake — much more respectable than writing all over the menu with a red Sharpie®.
Profess your undying love of the AP Stylebook guidelines.
Visit any of the myriad of sites online that celebrate language today and every day. Here are the sites of three grammar gurus (my faves) to whet your whistle:
Quick and Dirty Tips™ — Mignon Fogarty (Grammar Girl™ and the host of this year’s NGD)
New Orleans has had its share of excitement lately. What with Hurricane Katrina making a complete mess of things, Brad Pitt (with Angelina Jolie et al. in tow) bringing the Make It Right project to the Lower 9th Ward, the Saints winning the Super Bowl XLIV and the annual Mardi Gras celebration topping off the football frenzy, the Big Easy is proving to be the home of a bunch of hearty souls.
New Orleans is famous for so many reasons: fantastic Cajun and Creole dishes, festive jazz, smooth hurricanes (the drinkable kind) and flowing, fanciful — and now green — architecture. The Crescent City has a language all its own. There are no medians in the streets; that strip of land that separates the paved street is called neutral ground. They have not a single canoe; a pirogue (sounds like PEE-row) is the flat-bottomed version that navigates the bayou. And don’t even think about walking on a sidewalk; it’s called a banquette.
Pat O'Brien's famous Hurricane (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bigberto/2826375336)
So how should the name of NOLA be pronounced? It makes the most sense (to me, anyway) to say it as the residents do. And the residents call it N’Awlins. They can spot a tourist out of sight but within earshot when they hear their fair city’s name pronounced New Or-le-uns or New Or-LEENS. That last one sort of sounds like a line from a bad ’80s movie, doesn’t it?
So it’s N’Awlins — pronounced with two syllables but as close as you can get to one.
Now go put a pot o’ water on the stove; them’s a mound o’ crawfish ta boil and we’re all fixin’ ta suck da heads and squeeze da tips.
Published by bloodywellwrite on February 11th, 2010 in grammar | 1 Comment
A friend asked me to write about the difference between farther and further, and I had a hard time believing that I hadn’t already covered the subject. I combed the Bloody Well Write site and, lo and behold, nary a mention of the two existed. Voilà! A new entry is born.
It’s really quite simple.
I'd be willing to bet that this guy could run farther than I could (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bossco/411695592)
Farther is literal. It refers to a physical distance: She ran farther than I did. New York City is farther from my home than is Chicago.
Further is figurative. It refers to an extension of time or degree: It will take further research. He looked further into the situation. Without further ado, yada yada yada.
Farther deals with what’s real, what’s quantifiable. Further deals with what’s real, as well, but with what’s more abstract.
Farther is measured in inches or miles or whatever measuring system you prefer, whereas further is measured in concepts.
Let’s try using both in a single sentence: After further consideration, he decided that running two miles farther than his usual route was out of the question.
No one knows how to pronounce every word that’s out there. I sure don’t. And even though I have a pretty good grasp on how to pronounce the average word — a big part of my job includes having an understanding of a decent-sized lexicon — I also know that there’s a whole lot (and I mean a serious ton) that I don’t know.
That’s where research comes in — say, a dictionary, especially the new-fangled ones on the Internet that will actually tell you in some bookish man’s voice just what a particular word is supposed to sound like.
Merriam-Webster’s Web site is a fantastic example. Just look up a word and click on the little, red pronunciation icon. Presto! You’ll know how to pronounce the word.
Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes, two icons are shown. What does this mean? It means that there are two possible pronunciations. The primary (i.e., most acceptable) pronunciation can be heard from the first — or left — icon.
Take, for example, the word Italian. Merriam-Webster shows two icons. Click on the first icon, and you’ll hear it pronounced Italian (sounds like i-TAL-yan, with the initial I sounding like the I in it).
I like that. That makes sense to me. When you’re in Florence or Rome, you’re in the country of Italy, not Eyetaly. So why would you put I-talian (instead of Italian) dressing on a salad?
Now, click on the second icon, and you’ll hear it pronounced like EYE-TAL-yan.
Oh, mamma mia!
A couple of things (and no more, because I hear the proverbial nails scratching their way down the chalkboard) about this EYE-TAL-yan pronunciation:
It’s not the first (i.e., primary, left) listing under Merriam-Webster. And if it’s not the first, then it’s not the favored — in the United States, anyway. Very often, the second sound bite is for European spellings or pronunciations, particularly British. But there are plenty of Brits who would scoff at the mention of anything EYE-TAL-yan. And another thing: That second mention can also represent the pronunciation that’s “out there,” roaming unsuperivsed in public. That absolutely does not make it right. Lots of things are out there and you wouldn’t choose to try them all, correct? Just because your friend wants to jump off a cliff doesn’t mean that … well, you get the drift.
It butts two strong syllable sounds (EYE and TAL) next to each other. This doesn’t help the flow of the word. And Italian (excuse me, i-TAL-yan) is all about the beauty of the language, the lyrical flow. Emphasizing that initial I (EYE) is just too much to bear.
So you’re going to Italy, going to eat some Italian food and see some Italian cinema. Cool.
One of the most popular demographic maps on the Net these days is one that shows how people across the United States refer to the carbonated drinks that help round out the ubiquitous value meals.
Good grief. Those add up to a lot of descriptors. So what’s the lowdown?
Lucky for me, someone else did the research, polled the peeps and plotted the map; I get to just relay the info. So here are the results of who says what where (click on the map for a detailed view):
Pop vs. Soda Map (image: http://tastyresearch.files.wordpress.com/2006/10/popvssodamap.png)
Soda — derived from soda water (sodium bicarbonate with acid, which is where all the fizz comes from) — is the word of choice for those in the Northeast, Southwest and, oddly enough, the St. Louis area.
Pop — introduced in 1812 by English poet Robert Southey describing “a new manufactory of a nectar, between soda-water and ginger-beer, and called pop, because ‘pop goes the cork’ when it is drawn, and pop you would go off too, if you drank too much of it” — is predominant throughout the Midwest and Northwest, as well as Canada and Britain.
Coke — probably a popular moniker because of the Georgia-based Coca-Cola plant — rules the South.
Other terms are much less popular in the U.S., although some seem to have staying power, such as soft drink, which tends to be used on menus. Australians and New Zealanders prefer soft drink, as well, although lolly water sometimes wins over in Australia. Brits tend to order a pop or fizzy drink, while thirsty Scots order a ginger. Tonic gets the nod in the Northeast, especially in Massachusetts. Sludge wins out for those who think that all of the sodas and colas are a waste of money and terribly unhealthy, no matter where they live.
A cola, by the way, refers to the caramel color of the drink, so clear or other-colored drinks (e.g., Sprite, 7Up, Crush, Mt. Dew) aren’t technically colas.
The AP Stylebook (at least my 2007 copy, anyway) doesn’t mention the soda-vs.-pop controversy specifically, but it does describe several trademarked drinks as soft drinks, so that would be my suggestion if you’re writing or speaking publicly about such carbonated delights.
Me? I was born and raised in the Midwest, lived on the West Coast and in Colorado and adore New York and New England — and I tend to call the carbonated stuff coke.
For word wizards and the general public alike, the issue of pronunciation has reached feverish levels ever since the new year crept up on us all. How in the heck are we supposed to pronounce “2010″? Is it “two thousand, ten”? Or “two thousand and ten”? Or “twenty-ten”?
If you’re regular readers of Bloody Well Write, you already know my propensity toward anything AP Stylebook-recommended. This is no exception.
Happy twenty-ten to you and yours (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/neldiogo/2775775175)
Via Twitter, the AP Stylebook has recommended it thus:
Attn. @…, @… and the others who’ve asked:
AP is pronouncing 2010 as “twenty-ten.”
Twenty-ten. There you have it. Happy new year, indeed.
I recently stopped by my parents’ house to, among other things, pick up some of my old toys and books so that they could reclaim part of their basement and so that my kids could benefit from new stimulation. An added bonus is that I can get a kick out of seeing them play with my childhood stuff and read the stories that I used to enjoy to my own kiddos.
Concerning the books, I flipped through each one, thrilled that I remembered it. Then I packed up all my old goodies and went home, distributing books according to which ones I thought each child would enjoy. Never mind that the task wasn’t all that hard since I only have two girls; it’s the concept that counts, right?
But then something disturbing occurred. I started reading these stories to my girls. And, while I absolutely remember the artwork — the lazy balloons floating around while the two kids planned a party for their mom in “The Birthday Party” or the puddle-jumper, snoozing bear and struggling seed in “Splish Splash” or the great-great-grandfather wearing the alligator’s skin in “Old Hasdrubal” — I didn’t remember the stories much at all.
So the holiday went by and I woke up one morning, disturbed from a dream about these books. It seemed clear as a bell: Why should I bother writing anything at all? Because when it comes down to it, I don’t remember the words; the pictures are the triggers, the stuff that memories are made of.
Well, that’s a fairly disconcerting feeling for a writer to have, let me tell you. Especially for a writer who can’t draw a picture of anything, save a happy face — and even those don’t always turn out so hot.
So how do I reconcile my realization with my reality?
Well, folks, if you haven’t figured it out by now (and I’d bet that you have), we humans are excellent justifiers. One of our most effective coping mechanisms is justification. So by my reasoning, I should keep on writing for a few reasons:
I can. This seems pretty important, as it translates across many areas of life. I do this because I am able to, while others don’t necessarily have the opportunity (e.g., physical, emotional, monetary and/or logical disabilities).
I probably can’t do the other thing, or at least do it well. I can’t become a painter or sculptor (one who could make a decent living at it).
Someone has to do it. So I can’t paint a face or do an über-modern dance very well; I can write. I’ve been told as much, and I have the training for it and apparently an audience that thinks my writing is somewhat interesting. And it’s not costing me anything except time, so what’s the holdup?
There are stories to be told, ideas to pass around. I haven’t ventured into fiction writing much, but I’m OK at passing on valid information (thank the gods for the AP Stylebook). Lifelong learning is a good thing for sure, and as I write entries for this blog to help others understand often-dry subject matter, I learn a lot, either about myself or most certainly the topic at hand.
I have to bring in some cashola. Money talks — yes it does. It ain’t everything, but it’s something.
I should contribute. Something, somehow. You, me, us — we can’t (or shouldn’t) go through life just gliding along. Trying to further ourselves, our fellow human beings, animal friends and earth should somehow come into play. Not that you should read my blog to your cat or stop your recycler to chat about verb agreement, but you get my drift. Think globally, act locally. You do your part, and I’ll do mine. Whatever it is that you can do, do it well. I can’t tell a joke to save a drowning pup, but I can write, so I write.
So. I still wish that I could be successful with a paintbrush, but I’m OK with my version of art. Writing well can be very technical, but it can also be an art — as is whatever you do well. Keep that in mind.
I recently went up to Kansas City to see some friends, have some amazing food, catch a few comfy Z’s and see a football game. I did all that, but I also came home with a nice little surprise: a new topic for a Bloody Well Write entry.
First, a quick mention about the food. If you’re ever in Kansas City and are looking for a fantastic Italian meal in a quaint, romantic little ristorante, look no further than Carmen’s in Brookside. Ask to sit downstairs — I prefer the intimate atmosphere — and request some Italian Butter to start; it’s their version of olive oil and herbs, but I tell you that it is absolutely like none you have ever had.
I order off the menu, à la “When Harry Met Sally,” combining the cheese ravioli from one dish with the vodka tomato cream sauce from another, with a little fra diavolo thrown in to spice things up a bit. And ba-da-BING! It’s the tastiest, smoothest Italian around. No lie.
OK, so back to the grammar bit of this entry. So I’m in the hotel room — the one with the lush, fresh-white bedding and soaps the shape of leaves, with the cool city view — and I am piddling around, waiting until it’s time to go meet our friends. And I pick up this water bottle hang tag, with one word on it, for emphasis: revitalize.
That’s pretty cool. Decent marketing, colors fading from blue to snow white (very spalike), with some smallish print across the bottom: Westin® Hotels and Resorts. Nice little water logo. Then more words:
Nestle Pure Life Eco Shaped Bottles
Less Plastic. Better Enviornment.
So — reread that. See how many mistakes you can find in those two little lines.
By my count, I’d say that there are, at the minimum, five mistakes. There are more if you want to keep the lowercase consistency set by the headline (revitalize). And the periods? Don’t get me started. (OK, get me started. the headline doesn’t use a period, and neither does the first line, but the second line has two. Go figure.)
So what are the five mistakes?
There is no ® after Nestle.
There is no hyphen between Eco and Shaped.
The S in Shaped, since it should follow a hyphen, should be lowercase.
If there are two periods in the second line, there is no excuse why there shouldn’t be one at the end of the first line. (None of those groups of words are complete sentences.)
Enviornment. Seriously? This is for a national chain, for Pete’s sake. I know that it’s a four-syllable word, but my silly spell-checker caught it, so come ON.
I just checked out Nestle’s site to make sure that it uses a registered trademark (®) and, unbelievably, the site does not have one on the main page, even though products (such as Nestle® Cheerios®) have one next to the name. That sort of thing happens all the time. It blows my mind, especially on these enormous accounts.
I’ll end this little study in proofreading by saying that, despite this crazy hang tag, I had a really, really good time in Kansas City. And I’d even recommend the Westin Crown Center hotel to any friend or acquaintance. Just don’t plan on any solid ultra-light reading in the room.
So I’m a word gal; this much is true. I find it quite difficult to read books (adult books, anyway) for relaxation or enjoyment because the majority of my day is spent either writing my own words or editing someone else’s words, so I don’t think reading a few chapters at night sound like a whole lot of fun. I guess I’m not the typical word hound, then, since most do tend to like, um, books and, er, reading.
Fine. I’m OK with that.
I do, however, enjoy reading to my two kids at night. Their books are fun, rhyming, colorful short (short!) stories with cool illustrations. And since it’s the holidays, we’re reading a few books that I grew up with — “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer” and Christmas in Many Lands” — as well as a few new ones, such as “Elf on the Shelf” (we named ours Leo and today he’s perched on top of our refrigerator) and “Olive, the Other Reindeer.”
Ah, Olive. If only your creators knew the difference between every day and everyday, reading would be ever-so-slightly more enjoyable for me, the word dork.
You see, “Olive, the Other Reindeer” starts out by botching the very first word, which means that I have to put on my tattered editor hat throughout the rest of the reading. It’s just innate for me. I can’t get through the book now without cringing on the very first page.
(Technically, it starts off even earlier than the first page: The title has punctuation in it. Ugh. A period is tacked on. Not sure why, it just is. Weird.)
Anyway, the story begins, “Everyday, Olive took her daily dog walk ….” In this instance, everyday should take the adverb form (two words) because it is expressing a manner of time. Were it meant to be an adjective, it would be modifying a noun of some sort. Alas, that is not the case at the beginning of this story.
To keep the adverb-adjective relationship straight, I like to (still) think of the Schoolhouse Rock snippets:
• Adverb — “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, get your adverbs here. … How, where or when, condition or reason — these questions are answered when you use an adverb.” If it ends in ly and the ly isn’t a regular part of the word (as in family), then it’s probably an adverb. The phrase every day answers the question of when, so it’s an adverb.
• Adjective — These handy, little words “describe the people, places and every last thing” and “are often used to help us compare things. … We hiked along without care. Then we ran into a bear. He was a hairy bear. He was a scary bear. We beat a hasty retreat from his lair.”
Cool, huh?
Back to “Olive, the Other Reindeer” for just a second. The book, written by Vivian Walsh and J. Otto Seibold, is a fun children’s book. The story is cute; it’s about an industrious little dog who thinks that she’s a reindeer, so she goes to the North Pole to help Santa out. The pages are filled with quirky, fun illustrations by Seibold; I especially love the two pages that show the reindeer navigating around the Eiffel Tower. Despite the everyday blunder, this book’s worth the read.
