Bloody Well Write

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.

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

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.)

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.

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

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

I’ve been doing a fair amount of freelance copywriting lately and, while doing some much-needed research, ran across this little gem of grammatical confusion: What’s the difference between rigorous and vigorous?

Rigorous — According to Merriam-Webster, rigorous has to do with something very strict (e.g., The auto industry needs more-rigorous testing). Rigorous often refers to strictly following rules and procedures. It can also mean that something’s “scrupulously accurate” or “marked by extremes of temperature or climate.”

Vigorous — Merriam-Webster’s definition of vigor implies physical or mental strength or active force (e.g., the benefit of vigorous activity over moderate activity) or the act of carrying something out with force or energy.

Just goes to show: You learn something new every day. I do, anyway.

Happy trails!

SAK

This one has been bugging me for years — decades perhaps. Lo and behold, my mom asked me the other day how data is supposed to be pronounced, and I thought that it’s time I do an entry on it. So here goes.

My gut instinct was that data (sounds like DAY-tah) is the more common usage and, since the AP Stylebook tends to change such things as spellings and pronunciations based on frequency of use, it would probably choose to say DAY-tah.

My other gut instinct was that data (sounds like DA-tah, which slightly rhymes with batter, hatter, tatter) is the more technical usage, one that only scientists and English professors preferred.

So to research this little gem, I went to Merriam-Webster for clarification. The site has a pronunciation function that allows your computer to talk to you so that you can hear exactly what the word should sound like. And what do you think I found? Two little icons to click on. That means that the first icon (the one on the left) is the prominent, preferred American pronunciation. The one on the right is also acceptable, but it is more like the understudy to the left pronunciation, as well as being the British preference.

So. Data. What’s your guess? I hope that your guess was my guess, because then you’d be correct. Merriam-Webster lists DAY-tah as the primary pronunciation.

Problem solved.

Then there’s the issue of whether data deserves a singular or plural verb attached to it. But you know what? It’s Friday at beer:thirty and that’s a topic for another day — happy weekend to all you data hounds.

Happy trails!

SAK

Thank the gods for a husband who gives you topic after topic for your silly grammar blog.

Not sure what prompted him to think of it (and frankly, I don’t care — I just took it and ran), but my other half thought that I should write about a bald-faced lie versus a bold-faced lie. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s a third suspect in this mess, barefaced lie, and you know what that means: complication!

No, not really. It all makes good sense. Here’s the deal.

Barefaced lie

This is the mother of them all. Dating back to the late 1500s, barefaced started out as a very literal beast. If you had an uncovered face — no mask, no veil, no whiskers — you were barefaced. This very literal meaning easily transformed into the more figurative, eyebrow-raising barefaced lie: Someone who told a barefaced lie was doing so in a very open, unconcealed manner, as if hiding the truth were the last thing on the liar’s mind (quite the cocky son of a gun). Barefaced lie is still the preferred term in Britain.

Bald-faced lie

One theory about the origins of bald-faced lie is that bald and bald-faced were already quite popular in the lexicon of the English speaker. Consider bald eagle, bald mountain and bald-faced (as in an animal with a white face or white mark on its head). Perhaps, the thinking goes, it was just inevitable that the language would evolve toward bald-faced as opposed to barefaced.

Of course, it’s no stretch of the imagination to think that a bald face is quite the same as a bare face, so what’s the big stink? An interesting side note is that Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary only dates bald-faced back to 1943.

Bold-faced lie

Merriam-Webster dates bold-faced back to 1591 (just one year later than its date for barefaced). Its main definition refers to a shamelessness or impudent manner, one in which putting forth a bold face — along with a devil-may-care attitude — makes absolute sense.

Another way to look at a bold-faced lie is to think of words in print. If something has been bold-faced, it has been done so for emphasis. This is not the primary (nor most accepted) meaning, though, so I wouldn’t go around telling your friends that you know something they don’t, na-nee-na-nee-boo-boo.

To complicate things even more, my cherished AP Stylebook makes no mention of any of the variations.

So what’s my recommendation? I’d say that barefaced is a solid choice, as it’s the first and most popular option, especially for the Brits. If it sounds too odd for your delicate ear, go for bold-faced; if William Shakespeare could use it, so can you. And if that’s not the answer you were looking for, try bald-faced; the English language is always evolving, so why not go with the flow?

Just trying to be accommodating — and that’s no lie.

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s the deal.

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.

Arrivederci!

(That’s happy trails!)

SAK

What color is it?

Well, what are we talking about?

An elephant. An oyster. A moody sky. A town in Maine. A city in Georgia. A brewing company. “What’s-her-name’s Anatomy.” One of the lonelier colors in the big box with the cool sharpener.

That’s right — it’s gray. Or is it grey?

The answer depends on your location. If you’re stateside, the color is gray unless it is a person’s or company’s preferred spelling or if you’ve checked Merriam-Webster’s dictionary for first-mentioned spellings.

There are, as always, a few wild hairs:

• Greyhound (a dog, a cocktail)
• Earl Grey (a tea)
• Grey friar (a Franciscan friar)

If you’ve hopped the pond, however, the colour is grey. While you’re in UK English-speaking countries, feel free to use grey as often as you wish, as it is the preferred British spelling.

If you’re writing with the AP Stylebook in mind, however, it doesn’t matter where you are; gray is the way to go. And you know how I feel about the AP Stylebook, don’t you?

Happy trails!

SAK

Here’s a dodgy problem.

Which one is correct: Toward or towards? Backward or backwards? Forward or forwards?

OK, so it’s not that dodgy. It’s pretty simple, really. Let’s focus on toward vs. towards and realize that the answer will be valid for all -ward words.

According to the Merriam-Webster Online dictionary, as well as a host of other dictionaries and Web sites, both versions are technically correct. But one is — how shall I say it? — more technically correct than the other.

Toward, backward, forward, leftward and any other directionally influenced -ward words are used primarily in the United States. Words that add an “s” at the end are primarily British. One guy even did a Google test to see if this is true and found out that, lo and behold, it stands up to a Google search.

For me, the real test is looking it up in the AP Stylebook — the bible of journalists, ad agencies and many writers — and the answer is clear: Toward is the correct term and towards is unacceptable. End of story.

There you have it — unless you want to sound British for some bloody reason, you cheeky bugger.

Happy trails!

SAK