So when this friend asked me the proper way to spell the word that implies the action of looking something up on the popular search engine named Google (and then suggested that it could make a decent blog topic — smart friend), I just had to help.

Google, the ridiculously cute pup (photo: courtesy of Google's owner-mom)

So how do you spell it? Depending on your phrasing, there are a few ways to get your point across:

• He is going to Google “How to use a neti pot” whenever his sinuses start to flare up.
• I Googled the movie times for “Eat, Pray, Love” — so excited to see it.
• She found a groovy pair of blue beaded sandals by Googling them — and they were available in her size.

Notice that the final “e” remains in the first two examples but gets dropped when the suffix -ing gets added. (It’s Googling, not Googleing.) Note, too, that all instances use an uppercase “G” in the initial position. According the the newest AP Stylebook, it’s Google when you’re talking about the company and search engine, indeed, but it’s also Google when you’re employing a verb. Same goes for Googled and Googling. One day, all references (save the company name, search engine and awesome dog) may be lowercased, but that day has yet to come.

Don’t just take my word for it; why don’t you Google it for yourself?

Happy trails!

SAK

What is a whipsaw?

A whipsaw is a two-handled saw that dates back to the 1400s. It can be smallish or it can be big enough to cut down large tree. The idea is this: A cutting job that takes enough effort for two people could be made easier if two people actually do the cutting. Most whipsaws average 6 feet in length.

A whipsaw humorously reminds me of the pushmipullyu (a two-headed animal that is part gazelle, part unicorn) from the “Dr. Doolittle” story — when one head moves, the other head instinctively moves in the opposite direction. It’s all about teamwork, my friends.

A whipsaw (photo: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Two_man_saw.JPG)

Alternatively, Webster’s New World College Dictionary (which the AP Stylebook folks regard as the end-all-be-all of dictionaries) also shows two transitive verb meanings for whipsaw:

1. to cut with a whipsaw
2. to defeat or get the best of (a person) two ways at once, as, in faro, by winning two different bets in a single play

So, in other words, they gotcha coming and going.

And for the movie buffs, “Whipsaw” is a 1936 film with Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy, about an under-cover detective who is supposed to bring in a beguiling jewelry thief and her cohorts. Guess who fall in love?

Happy trails!

SAK

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:

• Awful (not good)
• Aweful (full of awe)
• Cord (rope)
• Chord (musical tones)
• Disc (as in CD-ROM disc, videodisc, disc brakes)
• Disk (as in floppy disk, slipped disk)
• Forgo (to do without)
• Forego (to precede)
• Verses (paragraphs)
• Versus (against)

You get the idea, right? Homophones: fun with the confounding English language!

The connection with Ben & Jerry’s is that the Dave Matthews Band partnered with them back in 2002 to create a caramel and coffee ice cream concoction with marshmallows and caramel swirls, complete with coffee-flavored fudge chips in the shape of guitars. The bad news is that, as far as I can tell, this particular ice cream has been discontinued. Sniff.

The good news is that Ben & Jerry’s and the Dave Matthews Band are both, as ever, concerned with improving the environment and people’s lives. If you’d like to contribute to a cause near and dear to the band’s heart, visit The Bama Works Fund of Dave Matthews Band. Or keep eating Ben & Jerry’s other crazy-fantastic flavors and visit the company website to learn more about how the company works toward environmental health and peace and justice for all.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s something that has nothing to do with the 100-post comment: non sequitur. It is what it is — something that follows something else when, really, it has no business following that thing. That, gentle readers, is the very definition of non sequitur: an inference that does not follow from the premises. There is no logical connection between two statements.

A visual non sequitur — the message and the red dress have no apparent connection (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rzrxtion/4759341276/)

Variations of a singular joke use the non sequitur:

• How many plumbers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Fish.
• Did you hear about the bald guy at the frame shop? Green soup.
• Why did the chicken cross the road? 11:30 p.m.

You get the idea — they make no sense. The Latin non sequitur concept even has an entire comic strip based on it. Good stuff.

Fun times.

Happy trails!

SAK

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: salad from Capri. OK, so what does that mean? It’s a super-simple salad that consists of slices of fresh tomato (I like Roma tomatoes but any tomato that can be cut into relatively thick slices can work), slices of buffalo mozzarella and leaves of fresh basil, all layered and topped with ground pepper, salt and a drizzle of olive oil.

The simplicity of such a salad is deceiving, for the flavors unassumingly complement each other exquisitely. Popular variations include swapping olive oil for an Italian dressing or — my favorite — a balsamic vinaigrette or reduction.

Yummy.

Insalata Caprese (http://www.flickr.com/photos/79928508@N00/4487629379/)

I’m not sure if it’s just coincidence or if it’s the Italian way of imbedding national pride in the local cuisine, but the layered salad shares the same colors as the Italian flag. Sort of reminds me of a very American dessert made to look like the American flag, with white whipped topping, blueberries and raspberries.

Anyhoo, the point of this entry is to clear up the pronunciation issue surrounding this phenomenally simple first course. How the heck do you say Caprese?

From what I’ve gathered through personal accounts, Internet research and an unofficial survey of friends with decent vocabularies (!), it should be pronounced like this:

Ka-PREY-zay.

Now, dear Bloody Well Write readers: If you think that I’m blowing smoke and have it on authority from your great-grandmama (who’s from Capri or Naples (not Florida, BTW) or such) that it should be pronounced XYZ, then by all means, send me a message and I’ll revise this post. But as far as I know — and how I’ll be embarrassing myself in the future to all friends, family and complete strangers who will listen to me babble about the fantastic foods that I love — I’m saying Ka-Prey-zay Salad.

Happy trails!

SAK

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

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

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

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

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