Bloody Well Write

It’s 11:10 p.m. A little while ago, I decided to write a quick blog post and so looked up a few things, trying to decide what to write about. Then I remembered something I had learned in school a long time ago: The difference between the term Asian and Oriental. Yep, that’d make a quick post.

But then I thought, hey, that class was awhile ago and I better double-check what I think I know in case I am remembering it wrong. And wammo! No more quick-and-easy post.

What I learned years ago was this:

• Oriental refers to things (e.g., rugs, food, furniture).
• Asian refers to people.

Sounds straightforward enough to me. I’ve explained it as such to lots of folks over the years, including parents and friends. But when I looked it up, I found a great blog with lots of comments. Reading those comments provided so many perspectives. Here are a few examples, paraphrased unless otherwise noted:

Oriental is a derogatory term, referring to things from the East. People, if it’s not already clear, are not things. Things can be bought; people, not so much (or at least they shouldn’t be, on several levels).

Oriental and Asian basically mean the same thing: They are broad, “lazy” terms for a wide variety of people. A better choice may be, if the need to classify exists, to refer to what country a person is from (e.g., Japanese, Korean, Filipino) because it is more specific.

Terms can be generation-specific. One person’s grandmother may call herself Oriental and think all the fuss is silly, while a younger person may take offense to being called Oriental.

Asians, Orientals, Asian-Americans — no matter the term used, those who are lumped into such a broad category don’t have a lot in common except that they are subjected to racism and ignorance and (I quote) “ching-chongery.”

Oriental rug (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/psyberartist/3949077735/)

The discourse went on, and I highly recommend reading those posts. My takeaway from reading them is that someone is going to get upset about something, no matter what you do or say (or don’t say), but that’s not at all limited to the Asian-Oriental discussion; that’s just how life is about every single subject out there.

It seems to me that the majority of those who posted on this topic seem to agree that they don’t want to be called Oriental (except for a few grandmothers who balk at all the nonsense) and a lot would prefer not to be called Asian.

My guess is that they would prefer to be called by their names. Just a wild guess on my part — mainly because that’s what I would want if I were them. I’m 1/4 Armenian, but I don’t want to be pigeon-holed as Armenian. Sometimes, I don’t even want to be pigeon-holed as me. But that’s for another day.

Generalizations have their place, I suppose, but not at the risk of hurting someone’s feelings. We all bleed red. Live and let live. To each his — or her — own.

Happy trails!

SAK

Leave it to one-time vice-presidential-hopeful Sarah Palin to continually provide grammar fodder for the media, as well as for bloggers (such as yours truly), Facebook addicts and Twitter hounds alike.

This past Sunday, Palin tweeted the following:

“Ground Zero Mosque supporters, doesn’t it stab you in the heart as it does ours throughout the heartland? Peaceful Muslims, please refudiate.”

The popular assumption running around the Internet is that someone pointed the fact that “refudiate” isn’t a dictionary-recognized word out to Palin, who then deleted the first tweet and entered a new, presumably more-correct version:

“Peaceful New Yorkers, pls refute the Ground Zero mosque plan if you believe catastrophic pain caused @ Twin Towers site is too raw, too real.”

But the second version isn’t much better than the first — and that’s without even getting into the politics of what she’s trying, very unsuccessfully, to get across.

Palin was probably trying to use “repudiate” but may have been thinking about the word “refute” and, not fully comprehending (ahem) the distinction between the two, instead blended them into “refudiate.” Whether by accident or on purpose, the tweeted goof made far-reaching news and comedy gold.

Anyone taking wagers that Shakespeare is turning over in his grave right about now? (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mrs_logic/3597539711/)

Let’s look at the three words:

Refudiate = Not a recognized word. (If you don’t believe me, check with Merriam-Webster or your favorite dictionary. It ain’t in there.)

Refute = According to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, the transitive verb means “to prove wrong by argument or evidence (show to be false or erroneous).” A secondary definition means “to deny the truth or accuracy of” something.

Repudiate = Also a transitive verb, “repudiate” has several meanings according to Merriam-Webster: “1) to divorce or separate formally from (a woman); 2) to refuse to have anything to do with; 3a) to refuse to accept; especially : to reject as unauthorized or as having no binding force; 3b) to reject as untrue or unjust; and 4) to refuse to acknowledge or pay.”

Take a look at the second tweet. Really, Palin should have chosen “repudiate” instead of “refute” because she’s urging New Yorkers to refuse to have anything to do with the possibility of a new cultural center (see the second “repudiate” reference).

OK, fine. So she screwed up and tried to fix it. That shows somewhat of a conscience, I suppose (but don’t quote me on that; it’s all I can do to refrain from saying what I really think of this tweeter). But then Palin tweeted yet a third time about the mistake:

“‘Refudiate,’ ‘misunderestimate,’ ‘wee-wee’d up.’ English is a living language. Shakespeare liked to coin new words too. Got to celebrate it!”

That hurt just copying and pasting.

I must say — and I quote the Bard himself — “the lady doth protest too much.” Good grief! Palin should not try to align herself with a master writer such as William Shakespeare. It’s just not believable, not on any account. She, like he? I think not. In the making-up-words category, Shakespeare can’t hold a candle to Palin.

If Palin wants to be a future presidential hopeful, she needs to ramp up her writing skills in a big, bad way because, as Bill wrote, “nothing can come of nothing.” And that’s saying something.

Happy trails!

SAK

It’s always a good feeling to receive a message from a friend that includes, among other things, an idea for a Bloody Well Write segment. This short-but-sweet post is a result of just such a message.

Orange peel as art (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/shazbot/3180939672/)

Peel = a verb meaning to cut or strip off the outer layer of something, such as the skin of an orange, a heavy sweater, the bark of a tree or the top layer of paint; it’s also a slang term meaning to undress: He peeled off his wet swim trunks and jumped in the shower to wash off the chlorine. It often refers to keeping a lookout for something: Keep your eyes peeled for a bright red VW Beetle. (Slug bug! Whack!)

Peel = a noun meaning the rind or skin of a fruit, such as a grapefruit, banana or apple.

Peal = a noun meaning the loud ringing of a bell or set of bells; it also means any loud, prolonged sound, such as gunfire, thunder or laughter.

Thanks, A.M., for the idea.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s a short, to-the-point entry for your post-July 4th enjoyment.

Alongside, adjacent and adjoining are all words that could be mistaken for synonyms, but they have distinct meanings:

• Alongside = in the parallel position or along the side (yeah, no kidding): Lance Armstrong rode alongside his teammate.
• Adjacent = next to but not necessarily connected with (those pesky prepositions are such detail-oriented suckers, aren’t they?): The bread store is adjacent to the bicycle shop, with an alley running between the two buildings.
• Adjoining = next to and connected to (they share a boundary): The dining room adjoins the kitchen via a swinging door and a pass-through.

Short and easy — can’t beat it.

Happy trails!

SAK

I never thought about it before I became a proofreader more than a decade ago. I’d venture to guess that most people don’t think about it, either, or ever will. And yet now that I know the difference, it bugs me enough to write an entry on it.

On what?

On the copyright symbol — © — and the redundant use of the word copyright alongside the symbol.

If you look at the copyright information on just about anything, you may very well see something like this:

Copyright © 1989, 1996 by  …. (This particular instance is from the parenting book “What to Expect the First Year.”)

The problem with the above information is that it is repeating the idea of copyright: the word, then the symbol. It’s akin to  “I’d like $40 dollars, please.” The dollar sign ($) and the word dollars mean exactly the same thing, so if you said it out loud, you’d say, “I’d like dollars 40 dollars, please.” You see the ick factor, grammatically speaking, yes?

So, regarding the copyright issue, two correct ways to write it would be, in the “What to Expect the First Year” example:

Copyright 1989, 1996 by …

or

© 1989, 1996 by …

This singular copyright construction also aligns with AP Stylebook conventions. And that, as you faithful Bloody Well Write readers know, makes the world right as far as I’m concerned.

My preference is the second option, mainly because symbols are, well, cute. Symbols make phrases look somehow more professional, more acceptable. They also take up less space than the word or words they symbolize, and that often comes in handy when you’re limited with space issues.

Happy trails!

SAK

I was reading an article in an aviation magazine today (true story) and ran across an article with a title that mentioned an ax to grind.

First problem: The title was split on two lines and the word ax was at the end of the first line, with to grind at the beginning of the second line. Ech. It’s no fun to read a typical phrase such as this one that’s been split in two as if it’s a banana flippin’ split.  Ruins the flow for the reader. Not to mention that the last word on the first line is a mere two letters long.

But I digress once again.

Second and, for the purpose of this entry, main problem: Ax was spelled ax. Two letters. It just looked wrong.

So what did I do?

(Wait for it.)

Someone ought to have an ax to grind with the room designer (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mccready/3069366812/)

OK, don’t wait for it. You know the drill; I looked it up on Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary and — what the?! — ax is the preferred spelling! The dictionary gods must be crazy, but apparently they have deemed axe (three letters and the spelling that I grew up with, unless my memory is playing tricks on me) as the secondary spelling. The variant. The sub-par. Egads.

There you have it. I might not like ax right now, but I will after a few days of stewing. I hope that you will, too.

Happy trails!

SAK

I love reading to my kids. No matter what else happened that day — good or bad — and no matter how many times I reprimanded them throughout the day, at the dinner table or while getting ready for bed, that time spent snuggling head to head, cheek to cheek, shoulder to shoulder while flipping through a book that we’ve read 67 times before is, as they say, priceless.

And that doesn’t even include all the weird mistakes we find in said books. They’re real gems, those mistakes.

Tonight’s story was P.D. Eastman’s “Go, Dog. Go!” It’s especially fun for a word nerd like me because I get to point out three types of punctuation in the title alone, and I get such a thrill when my 4-year-old exclaims, “Explanation point, Mom! I found one!”

She makes me so proud.

But something always bugged me about the wording inside. There are two dogs, one male and one female, who periodically meet throughout the book. Both dogs wear various hats. The girl dog asks the boy dog if he likes her hat, and he always says some version of “No, I don’t like that hat.” So they part, the girl dog looking miffed and the boy dog looking oblivious. The last meeting ends amicably because the girl dog has gone all out — and I mean all out — in designing her hat; the boy dog finally agrees that her hat is pretty cool.

Do you like my hat? (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/table4five/4067671771/)

What got me, though, was how Eastman spelled good-by (without an ending “e”). It just doesn’t look right to me. And when that happens, that not-quite-right feeling, it’s best if I just look it up. And of course I did, but it took more than a year to do it (sort of like how I go into the kitchen with the intention of getting a glass of water but find dirty dishes in the sink, so I wash them and then realize that I need some bleach to clean up and go downstairs to get it but see an unfolded blanket in the living room, so I go ahead and fold it first, but then … you get the picture).

So I looked it up via Merriam-Webster. And I found good-bye (with a final “e”) to be the first (and thus most prominent) spelling. While good-by made the dictionary’s second spelling, it is still considered a variant.

And then I checked it out in the brand-spanking-new 2010 AP Stylebook (feel free to envy me) and, within those magical pages, goodbye exists, sans hyphen! Now that, my friends, made my day.

So goodbye it is, arrivederci,  auf wiedersehen and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Happy trails!

SAK

Even though I’ve had my three packets of seeds for nearly two months, today was the day for me to finally decide to get them planted. So I did the momlike thing and showed my kids how to plant seeds in pots. I had chosen green onions, basil and cilantro.

While double-checking the back of the packets to ensure proper planting (and thus proper teaching), I read the description of cilantro and learned the difference between it and coriander. And I can admit that the packet’s definition didn’t line up with what I had thought the difference was.

I was under the apparently false assumption (and you know what that means) that cilantro is the name given to the herb when used in Mexican dishes and coriander is what it is called in Mediterranean dishes.

Nope.

Cilantro, according to the packet’s text, is the name given to the leaves of the plant.

Cilantro (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/dasqfamily/2648343226/)

Coriander is the name given to the seeds.

Coriander (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spilt-milk/554209128/)

How’s that for a straightforward answer? Love it.

Happy trails!

I was writing an article the other day and wanted to write about something being paid attention to in a timely and appropriate fashion and, for the life of me, I blanked on how to spell duly (as in duly noted). Is it dooly? Dooley? Duley? Duely?

Good grief. My mind must be slipping.

So I looked it up, as I always — and often — do when I’m not 100 percent sure of the spelling or definition. Good ol’ Merriam-Webster to the rescue! Dating back to the 14th century, this adverb means “in a due manner of time,” and properly, at that.

Dudley Do-Right always duly notes the evil doings of Snidely Whiplash

Another way to look at it is that the matter at hand will be receiving the attention and consideration it has due (although this sounds slightly you-OWE-me demanding to me, which doesn’t often sit well with some folks).

And its correct spelling? Duly.

Duly noted.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s something for you noncomputer geeks.

OK, maybe that’s an assumption. Maybe you’re knowledgeable in all things computer but don’t know this little gem. Or perhaps you barely know how to turn your PC on but know the exact meaning and spelling of this topic. Either way, you probably have run across this big boy at some point.

And I digress yet again. Here it is:

Captcha. Or more correctly, CAPTCHA.

What the … ?! Um-hmm. It’s a real word. Really, it’s a loose acronym for Competely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart (or so says Wikipedia).

It sounds like capture. It frustrates many an Internet scammer and frequent Web surfer alike. And it’s brilliant. So what is it?

Some CAPTCHAs are discernible, some not so much (photo: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/KCAPTCHA_with_crowded_symbols.gif)

It’s that box with the warped letters and numbers, the one that you’re supposed to look at and figure out what those twisted letters and numbers are and then type them into another box, with the hope that you’ve got them right. If so, you move on to the next screen, you pass go. If not, you try again or get blocked from further attempts.

Granted, there are a lot of technical details that go along with the CAPTCHA, but this isn’t the forum for those details. Just know that I learned something today and I hope that I have been able to share a little somethin’-somethin’ with a Bloody Well Write reader or two.

Now, go and try to decipher one of those suckers.

Happy trails!

SAK