Sesquipedalian or Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobe, Which Are You?

Co-Worker was in my way the other day, which frequently happens when you're a frantic little drone always scurrying to the next task like I am. Fine, I'm not so little and as far as I know, only mice and nuns scurry. I'm stocky and I kind of tugboat my way to the next task. The point is, Co-Worker was standing with her back to me right in my path. As usual, in such a situation, I applied the WWSFoAD test: What Would Saint Francis of Assisi Do? Unfortunately, as usual, the answer was "go feed some birds," which would have been pleasant but not while on the clock, so I went to Plan B and its ice-breaker question: If I start a fight with this person, can I emerge unscathed? Well, that was a fifty-fifty proposition, but with the box cutters she was holding, I made the split second decision to cease and desist all potential bellicosity. So, like much of life itself, I just waited, if perhaps a little too close to her and breathing a little too loudly. Soon she turned and saw that she was blocking my path and quickly moved and apologized. I told her no problem and that I hadn't wanted to disturb her contemplative mood. That's when things got combative.

"Ooohhh, contemplative," she sing-songed, as if we were eight and on a playground, not adults in the hallowed workplace. "You just love using big words, don't you?" This is why I mainly drink decaf. If I had the slightest little juiced-up buzz going in situations like this, in which I tend to find myself quite often, blood would spill. Scrutinize her words and tell me there aren't at least half a dozen jumping off points for verbal, if not physical, fisticuffs. Any inquisitive (accusatory) sentence with the "You just love ... don't you?" construction screams donnybrook, no? And, big how? A word merely containing a lot of letters or a word that, God forbid, might make people actually use the greatest secular bible (outside of the rules of golf) known to humankind, the dictionary? Classifying the word "contemplative" as a big word fails on both accounts, I believe, and only serves as further proof of our (humankind's) rapid descent to inarticulacy, illiteracy, and idiocy. Thirteen letters is a nice round, medium-sized word. Contemplative, "given to or characterized by contemplation; a person devoted to contemplation," is hardly an obscure, difficult word, if one takes some time to think about it. And that insidious "just." No, Co-Worker, I don't "just" love using big words, I revel in, delight in, and celebrate--gleefully and willingly, proudly and gluttonously--employing erudite, eclectic, and even esoteric words. I feast on language's panoply and invite all (co-workers, too, troglodyte or not) to indulge likewise. What's the fun of going to an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord (buffet) (and how come you never see any s'mores at a smorgasbord?) and electing to eat only a salad with like two garnishes and no dressing? I am not an animal; I am a sentient, intelligent human being--I utilize an elephantine cornucopia of words.

(As an aside, it was in this specific moment that I experienced satori re my relationship with Co-Worker. In the split second of comprehending her loaded question, I saw completely the inseparable gulf that divides us. She adores Reel Big Fish, I worship Bob Dylan; she is a baker, I consume baked goods; she loves manning (sic) the portable phone at work, I despise it. Now I'm sure, like that thing that takes two separate pictures of people and merges them into one hideous Frankenstein, there is an app out there that could find common ground for the two of us between RBF and Dylan, baker and eater, phonephile and phonephobe, but at that moment I refused to believe there could be any common ground between a "big word" lover and a hater; go ahead, Mr. Venn, have at it. This all made me sad, because despite our obvious differences, Co-Worker and I--up unto this point--had achieved a tacit, delicate detente that had enabled us to co-work quite well, even convivially, I might suggest. But this, this contretemps, nay this wrangle, would brook no brooking. We had reached the Rubicon of our cooperative co-working.)

But, dammit, I had been drinking decaf so I couldn't pick a fight with her then and there, and I couldn't say all of this because the perfect riposte, a sentence consisting of but three words, one a contraction (I'm), one a one-letter, never-to-be-mistaken-for-a-"big"-word (a), and one the killer, the put-you-in-your-place biggest word of all big words (um, um, um) had gotten side-tracked on its journey from my brain to my tongue: I couldn't remember how to pronounce that one great, I'll-show-you word. And so, my only response to her finger-pointing, mocking accusation that I just loved to use big words was a paltry, "I've got work to do." I then scurried--it's true, for the first time in my life--I--channeling an inner nun I knew not I possessed--scurried off to find a dictionary where I could find that nuclear bomb of a word and its correct pronunciation: 

sesquipedalian [ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn, -deyl-yuhn]. I am not an animal! I am a ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn! Sesquipedalian: a person who uses long words; a long word. Admittedly, not in the moment, my rushing back to inform her that I am a sesquipedalian did not carry the same heft that an immediate response would have had, but, like any Cleveland sports fan, I'll take any victory, as small and merely moral as it might be. It was then, as Mick Jagger says, surprise surprise: I discovered that Co-Worker is quite possibly, against her most fervent wishes perhaps, a closet sesquipedalian. Because, with the aid of a computer, she taught me a new word, a truly big word, a word I had never even heard of, a word (naturally) I couldn't have even dreamt of in my most noxious nightmares: Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, the fear of long words. Wikipedia lists it as a "fictional or jocular" phobia. Fictional I would like to believe, but I guess if there are sesquipedalians, the laws of physics or something or other demand that there be hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes as well. Jocular, definitely--such -phobes are to be laughed at.

And so, in the best Hegelian, resolution-out-of-conflict way, Co-Worker and I have reached a deeper, more complete detente. We talk openly and deliciously of a Reel Big Fish-Dylan collaboration; we fantasize about bacon chocolate cinnamon scones; we playfully toss that cordless phone back and forth. She is coming to terms with being a sesquipedalian, and I have a new "big" word to love--hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (with, in the true yin yan fashion of this whole experience, a meaning I despise). All of this, obviously, makes me think of that oft-seen image of frail, sinful human beings marching in line up the sky into a cloud on the Day of Judgment. I'm pretty sure, now, after this experience, that up in the cloud there's a sign that reads "Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes to the Left, Sesquipedalians to the Right." I know which side I'm on, you? 

Ragged But Right Rigamarole, Or, More Garbled Nonsense

As happens, somebody used a colorful word the other day in my presence, and I've been obsessed with it ever since. Rigamarole, or maybe more properly, rigmarole, though I love that extra syllable. How can you not just quake in wonder at that word, a poem in and of itself? Rigamarole--any long, complicated procedure; a set of incoherent or pointless statements; garbled nonsense. Yes, "garbled nonsense" was a close also ran when it came time for me to bestow a name on this humble blog. Unfortunately, rigamarole seems to be a 100% pejorative term these days. "I don't want any of your rigamarole, Lou." "What's all this rigamarole then?" You don't ever really hear something like, "Oh, thrill me with your rigamarole, kind sir," do you? Too bad, because garbled nonsense has quite a literary tradition; I mean, where would the Western Canon be without Tristram Shandy, Finnegans Wake, and all of Jane Austen? And if half the tunes of Bob Dylan and The Band's Basement Tapes aren't the rockingest garbled nonsense of all time, then curse me with having to listen to Journey the rest of my days: nonsense without the essential garble is just nonsense.

But whence the word? Appropriately, its source is found in literature, 1700s literature. It comes from ragman roll: a list, probably a roll used in a medieval game, wherein various characters were described in verse, beginning with Ragemon le bon, Ragman the Good (and no relation to Simon, as far as I can tell). Ragman Roll to rigmarole to rigamarole--makes perfect nonsense sense to me. And, lo and behold!, eighteen months or so before those sainted Basement Tapes, Bob Dylan was beginning his own nonsensical description of characters, "Stuck Inside of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again," with these lines: "Awww the Ragman draws circles, up and down the block/I'd ask him what the matter was, but I know that he don't talk." Coincidence? Or did Bob know all about the intricacies of rigamarole? I know my verdict.

Rigamarole. Sounds like what a proud trucker may declare as he sets off for the road in his newly loaded new truck: "Rig-a-ma-roll!" I'm sure some hip bakery somewhere has ripped off the deliciousness of the Everything Bagel and concocted something called a Rigama-Roll, right? And, of course, back to Bob Dylan. In 1972 Rudy Wurlitzer (is there a cooler, non-made-up name?) sent Bob his screenplay for Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, hoping Bob would write some music for the movie. Bob not only complied ("Knockin' On Heaven's Door" and the ineffable "Final Theme" among others), but he also was interested in being in the movie. Rudy and director Sam Peckinpah obliged and the character Alias ("Alias anything you please") was born. They rigged him a role.

Well, enough sense. Time to try my hand at a Ragman Roll.

Ragman the Good
Did what he should
Eschewed wood
Built a cabin of food

Bagman the Nasty
His lot cast he
With the mob, see
Now swims with the fishies

Lagman the Slow
Didn't wanna go
Exchanged his turbo
For a stick of pogo

Cragman the Klutz
Navigates the ruts
Up the rock he struts
Splatter go his guts

Hagman the Rich
Hankers for a witch
Nothing but which
Can ever scratch his itch

Dragman the Queen
Does nothing but preen
Never is he seen
In a dress sans sheen

Wagman the Dog
Got lost in the fog
Now that old bog
Has got quite a clog

Sagman the Fool
His pants did kinda drool
Skipped out of school
Tripped and fell uncool

Nagman the Twit
Didn't know how to quit
Started many a snit
Ended in a shallow pit

And finally, there's Riley Puckett, pictured above. With a face like that, but with a voice like his, he certainly knew what was ragged but right. Holy rigamarole, this song:

Flatteredific

One woman's accusation is another man's flattery. Yes, I stood accused yesterday. And make no mistake about it, the disdainful tone of voice, the arms akimbo, the fists clenched squarely on the hips, even the eyebrow action all spelled nothing but a-c-c-u-s-a-t-i-o-n when she said, "You've read the dictionary, haven't you?" "Well," I mumbled in true humility (the humility of one not caught in nefariousness--that would be humiliation--but one who feels flattered but knows he's not perfect, that he could feel flattereder), "I skipped around a bit."

This all stemmed from being disappointed that a so-called baseball dictionary didn't include the wonderful word "donnybrook" (a free-for-all or brawl). There was doubt written all over her from the get go about the currency/legitimacy/existence of the word, so when I resorted to hauling out a "standard" dictionary to prove my point, I was greeted with "hunh"--not the genuinely intrigued, well-now-I-just-learned-something-I-hadn't-hitherto-known-before hunhs, but a more exasperated, fine-I'll-let-you-have-this-one-but-that-doesn't-mean-you're-still-not-quite-the-pill-in-my-book hunh. Which all led to me erupting a few minutes later with, "You want a really good word? A word most people have never heard of, let alone use?" (Of course these questions were rhetorical, as if anyone would answer them in the negative, so I didn't wait for her to reply). "'Hoyden'--a high-spirited, boisterous, or saucy woman." "What the--" was her rather, well, hoydenish (and only then did I realize the appropriateness of gifting this, yes, rather boisterous woman with such a splendid word) retort. The look she gave me screamed you're a huckster (which, incidentally is right across the page from hoyden in my dictionary), but her look changed soon enough when I whipped out the dictionary again and showed her "hoyden" in all its obscure but legitimate glory. That's when the downright accusation/flattery took place. Guilty/accepted.

Case in point (or maybe just a self-serving diversion to make this long post even longer): The other day I felt the urge to look up the word "torpor." Yes I already knew the word means "a state of inactivity or insensibility; lethargy, apathy," but the stickler in me (a close acquaintance who goes by the name of Leonard) wanted to be sure (okay, I'm borderline nuts, as if anyone could pronounce it any other way) of the word's correct pronunciation (let me make this clear right now, although those r's made me a tad skittish and I wanted to be sure, I am NOT one of those pronunciation commandos who go around pedantically correcting people's mispronunciations of words ["the word is pronounced zo-ology, not zoo-ology, unless, of course, you live in a zoo!" he said rather nabobily], although I still get a kick, years later, out of the for-all-intents-and-purposes-quite-learned person who in public once pronounced the exquisite word "gibberish" as gib-ber-ish rather than jib-ber-ish [though maybe that was the person's point--gibberish to the nth degree is not just jib-ber-ish but downright gib-ber-ish]; and oh, why not, we're already quagmired in parentheses, how about the fuss over the pronunciation of the word "forte" [something in which one excels]: for years everybody went with for-tay, but lately more people are going--a bit peevishly, in my view--with the one syllable fort; technically the word comes from the French and should be pronounced fort, but the Italian musical term forte [for-tay] meaning "in a loud, forceful manner" [Pierre corrected forte my mispronunciation of the word forte], has kind of been mixed up in it all and most people seem to say for-tay, as in "correct pronunciation of obscure words is one of my many fortes"; most arbiters of these kinds of things [we all have crosses to bear] accept this Italian usurpation of the French [commendable choosing of sides there!] and acknowledge the legitimacy of for-tay along with fort [which all makes sense to these ears; somehow one's strong points sound much cooler when they're for-tays rather than mere forts, which if we had a day or two might be kind of ironic; although wouldn't for-tay sound cooler, if maybe not as manly, for the word that--unimaginative military types--means "a fortified place"? "Whatcha building with all those couch cushions there, Billy?" "It's my super neato for-tay, sir!"; although in strict military terms, I guess the word might be a bit effete [rhymes with defeat, so there]: "No one will be able to penetrate our well-fortified for-tay, will they Maurice [pick either Morris or Mor-eece, whichever makes the joke funny/ier]?"). (And of course, I think it's clear that my mere picking up the dictionary and making the effort to look up "torpor" simply to confirm its correct pronunciation [let alone all the divergent thoughts such action provoked and the subsequent ramifications of the act, of which this post is the {hopefully} ultimate], prove that at the time I most definitely was not in any way in a state of torpor.)

But back to my original point about the joys of dictionary reading. In the few seconds it took me to find torpor in the dictionary, I chuckled thinking about what a great word torporific would be: "Geez that meeting was torporific." "Imagine that! I looked up the word operatic in my thesaurus and the only word there was torporific." "'Ostentatiously torporific' said the critic about my dance interpretation of Mein Kampf." But the joke was on me, because right there in the holy dictionary, after the pronunciation and definition was this: torporific adj. Great minds think alike notwithstanding, this discovery made me curious about ific. At first glance, and one usually doesn't get beyond that, I assumed it was a very positive suffix thing. As in terrific or splendific. I can't be the only one who kind of in some way equates ific with chocolate, right? But then I thought about horrific. If there's such a word as horrific, why not torporific? And then, deeper--wouldn't terrific, ironically, come from terror? Kind of like awful coming from full of awe? Such lexical miscegenation of good and bad--are the Tea Partiers aware of such evil?! I had to get to the bottom of this ific thing (of course if my years of Latin class had been more studious I would have, um, already been at the bottom). No Luddite I, for convenience's sake I took to the World Wide Web (and what happens if, as any devoted Coast To Coast A.M. With George Noory follower knows is imminent, full disclosure of extra terrestrial life becomes reality and we learn that aliens from other worlds/galaxies/universes/dimensions are tapped into life on this Earth and even tapped into our Internet? Might there indeed be a Steve Jobsless future of a Universe Wide Web? Would we have to change all our url's from the ubiquitous, don't-even-mention-it-anymore WWW to UWW?). At (http://www.)dictionary.com/ I learned that that nifty ific tag comes from the Latin fic, "a combining form meaning 'making,' 'producing,' 'causing.'" Fics sense to me. Something that's torporific causes torpor, horrific causes horror. Duh. But the best part, no really, was that in the list of examples, included with honorific, pacific (never thought of that one, did you?) and prolific, was this word--frigorific. Oh, the mind reels and careens. Frigorific (definitely frig-or-if-ic, not fridge-or-if-ic). "That friggin' frigorific meeting was so torporific I feel like hurling myself in the friggin' Pacific." Alas, such action just might be a tad frigorific, because that word (heretofore unknown to and unheard of by me, but ecstatically welcomed like a little lost lamb) means "causing or producing cold." Come wallop me, winter. I'm fortified (or fortayified) like never before: "It's not the snow, it's that frigorific wind." Fortified for the coming political storm, too: "Look, I met the guy. I could never vote for someone with such a frigorific handshake." Fortified for anything, now that I've got this word in my arsenal. "It'll be a frigorific day in Hell when I disown my dictionary." Unfortunately, the word is supposedly now "obsolete." Well, I say, come on 99%, unoccupy frigorific Wall Street and let us all occupy the word frigorific and make it unobsolete.

I love the ific idea. Causing, producing, making. Seems to me there's a motivational fortune to be made with the "From Iffy to Ific: Transform Your Life Now!" slogan.

But anyway, enough's enough. Or is it? Yes I have read and continue to read the dictionary. Got a problem with that? In fact, I'll go so far as to say I vociferously advocate the dictionary as your next Book Club book. The choice is yours. You can either spend ten hours of your life wading through the latest "middle-aged hoyden has donnybrook with frigorific husband, quits her day job to follow her bliss and exploit her forte of crafting natural, environmental-friendly donuts, flirts too terrifically with the decidedly unfrigorific truck driver (OMG!) who delivers her dough, sinks into the abyss of torpor, and is eventually re-awakened to the joys of her unmanque life via Pilates and Rhoda reruns" tome and then spend another two hours discussing all the empathetic epiphanies the book inspired with a dozen of your closest buddies, or you can spend a mere three hours rummaging through and across and up and down and back and forth some ratty under-utilized dictionary, experience epiphanies out the wazoo, truly turn your life from iffy to ific, and have a riotous two hours sharing your discoveries with those same friends. I dare you.

And btw: another great word, drivel (kind of rhymes with civil).  

There's A More Successful Word For Fail(ure)

I fail to understand the hip popularity of the word "fail" that's been going around for some time now. As in, "I was just trying to be funny with that multi-layered reference to Angry Birds and Harry Potter. Fail." I don't know, maybe my example is an "epic fail" because I have absolutely no hands-on knowledge of either Angry Birds or Harry Potter. I guess my cultural life is one big fail, hunh?

It's not that I hate (or certainly am unfamiliar with) the word fail. But the word has no panache, no poetry in it. And sure, I can understand why that's part of the appeal to adding it at the end of any statement, negating the statement with abruptness. But still. It fails to amuse me. Rather it irks me, either as it tries to add to one's prouncements some cutesy self-deprecation or some ultimate castigating judgment on someone or something. Fail fails, what can I say?

But manque, ah, there's a word to fail by. As in, "She's an obsessive user of hip slang manque." For those of you who fail to comprehend the word (as I, being a vocabu-phile manque, was while reading Dave Van Ronk's wonderful The Mayor of MacDougal Street, in which he uses the word enough for me to run to my dictionary [okay, fine, run to dictionary.com] and learn the word) the definition is having failed, missed, or fallen short, especially because of circumstances or a defect of character; unsuccessful; unfulfilled or frustrated (usually used postpositively): a poet manqué who never produced a single book of verse. Now that definition, in and of itself, is the antithesis of fail. I love the "because of circumstances or a defect of character" because it sums up so well the implications of "fail." I love the parenthetical "usually used postpositively" because it shows manque is/(has been, a lot longer than fail has) used at the end of the statement one is negating. And of course, the definition's example about the poet is apt on so many levels, which if you fail to understand means you're a spitoutyourgum fan manque, among other manque things. And finally, the cut and pasted definition allows me to show you the accent mark on manque that my computer whiz manque status prevents me from doing on my own. The word is pronounced mahng-KEY or mahN-KEY, sort of like a surf dude with his stresses all mixed up pronouncing the word monkey. Obviously the word is French, which just adds that much more elan (i.e., hipster quotient) to using it instead of the truly failed fail.

So there, another great word for you to impress and raise your hipness with--manque. Fail to use it at your own risk of sounding obsolete and like a totally mensch manque.

Technical Difficulty

The other day I was in my nearby gas station getting my daily cup of coffee; fuel, you know. No java snob me: I kind of prefer this gas station coffee, cheap, to that of the many coffee places, less cheap and usually served with an attitude. Anyway, as I'm milling about getting my shot of caf and the rest decaf, my lid and paper cozy, I'm in the middle of two Asian guys rapidly speaking their language. Chinese, I think, but what do I know? As usual in such a situation, my narcissistic paranoia kicks in: what are they saying about me? Are they commenting on my choice of shorts? Then, in the middle of their conversation, one of them says, in English, "technical difficulty." They both laugh. As I am not presently spilling coffee over myself or struggling with getting either the lid or cozy on, I am relieved that they apparently are not talking about me. A few seconds later, the same one repeats "technical difficutly" and they both laugh again. That's when I started to think.

Why, in their lively conversation, must they use English--their only use of the language that I ever hear--when speaking the phrase "technical difficulty"? The phrase is not some idiomatic expression unique to English and untranslatable in their own tongue, is it? Surely there must be a pretty literal translation conveying the same thing, right? I mean, if the guy said "snafu" or "on the Fritz," I could understand the deviation into English, but "technical difficulty"? Certainly the phrase "technical difficulty" can be used figuratively, in a humourous sense (like a Viagra-needing guy, much to his chagrin, explaining the situation to his lover, for instance), but still, to two guys speaking their own language exclusively up to this point, why the need for the English "technical difficulty"? Obviously I love the quirks of the English language, but I don't understand this one. Of course I could have asked the guys, what's the deal with the English use of "technical difficulty," but at heart I'm a shy guy, and I've learned that doing your business in and around the coffee bar in the local gas station in the morning is akin to doing your business at a urinal--get the job done with no frivolous chatting with your neighbors.

On most days I would now divert myself into a lengthy discussion of the phrase "on the Fritz," but since no one seems to know how or why the phrase came about (earliest printed use seems to be around 1903) and I just can't bring myself to waxing balderdash about guys named Fritz at the moment, I'll leave it all be. But let me just confess my most embarrassing "technical difficulty" experience.

Back in the spring of 1985 I was student teaching at a large high school outside of Chicago. On my first day I was understandably nervous as hell. The real teacher, a nice guy who looked and acted remarkably like the actor who played Doogie Howser's father, introduced me to the class of about thirty high school juniors. The TV show "Fantasy Island" was still very much in people's consciousness at the time, with Ricardo Montalban's epic portrayal of the white-suited Mr. Roark. I spell my name Rourke, but the pronunciation is the same. As you might recall (I sympathize), Mr. Roark had a midget sidekick named Tatu, who began every show by exclaiming, "Da plane, da plane!" as the small airplane arrived at Fantasy Island bringing that week's guests. You no doubt see where this is headed. Anyway, after introducing the new student teacher, Mr. Rourke, the teacher told me that the class was finishing its viewing of a video of Shakespeare's Macbeth. He asked me to rewind the VCR to the beginning of Act IV. Now VCRs were still kind of in their infancy at the time, but I knew how to rewind and fast forward and press play. No problem there. And although I had studied Macbeth, I didn't know it that well to be able to tell quickly and decisively just where Act IV began on a video of an unfamiliar production. And so the budding teacher, not thirty seconds into his career, stood with his back to the teeming multitudes, absently pressing rewind, play, fast forward, play, rewind, etc., praying for a flash on the screen, "Act IV begins here!," praying for Doogie's father to come over and help me, praying for a fire drill, praying for anything, as the "da plane, da plane!" catcalls started to increase in volume. The TV was set up right near the door: Walk, I told myself. Just walk away. You'll be a legend in their reunion stories for years to come, and I'm sure there are other careers out there for you.

I honestly don't know what happened, other than I didn't walk, class somehow went on, and within a day or two I was teaching the class and suffered no real discipline problems, and never heard about da plane again. Prayers answered. I guess, technically speaking, there was no real technical difficulty that day--the VCR definitely was rewinding, fast forwarding, and playing. The difficulty was all mine, with Shakespeare and confidence. But whenever I hear the phrase "technical difficulty," even when spoken by two Chinese guys amidst the traffic round the coffee machines at the gas station, I always flash back to that moment of crisis: stay and face the difficulty or walk away. Over the years, mired in stacks of papers, I often wished I had walked away. Ah so. But not really.

Don't Even Say It

It might be foolish to heap a little scorn on Microsoft, but foolishness calls for foolishness, so what the hell? On the MSN homepage today was a link to their "Lifestyle" page which contained a list of things women should "never, ever say to a guy." In all fairness to Bill Gates, the "article" came with a Glamour magazine logo and the subheading, "we asked men to spill the details on the phrases guys dread." My suspicions are that the whole thing was concocted by some 20-year-old Glamour intern, reflecting her idea of what verbiage would send a guy into a tizzy; if not, if real (sic) men were indeed consulted, it must have been done at a take-out quiche joint--real men don't tizzy.

Read the entire list here, but among the supposed verbal atom bombs the piece warns women against deploying on men are such inanities as "Can you TiVo the game? I need to watch the finale of The Bachelor live." If a guy "dreads" this phrase, he's either as soulless as she or doesn't know an open invitation to spend the evening at a sports bar when it hits him over the head. How about, "Maybe you should pick up some Rogaine"? Guys know the condition of their pates, trust me. If he's been thinking about Rogaine, he'll thank you for the confirmation. If he's not, he'll just laugh, thinking it funny that someone else gives more of a damn about his hair than he does. But be warned: men know the names of some image-enhancing products too, and if he's in a feisty mood, he might consider the door open to make comments along the lines of, "Okay, let's go to Walgreens and while we're at it we can pick up some _______ or ________ for you." Let's see who's full of dread now. One of the "dreaded" phrases that really cracks me up is accompanied by this photo:

"I really wish you'd shave your back." Seems to me the MSN art department could find a picture of a man who just might have a whisker or two of visible body hair to illustrate this damning quip. But really, even if a man has abundant back hair, there are about five million phrases he dreads more than this one. "Fine, I can't see it or reach it, so if it really bothers you, lather me up and go to it. It's no skin off my back, I hope."

Look, let's get real here. Men are narcissistic ego-maniacs, but we're not wimps. It takes a little more than the type of petty digs the article lists to raise our hackles. You want to get a man ticked? Tell him his lawn needs mowing. Guys have a sensitive internal clock that tells them the exact time to cut the grass. Don't mess with it. "Are you going to shower today?" Well, "today" might be a little too constricting, but, yes, I do intend to shower again in the future. "What are you thinking?" Well, whatever it was, it's now been replaced by thinking how in the hell I'm going to answer that question. "Do you have to spit?" Duh (though beware, if you phrase the question, "Do you have to spit like that?" the man may not pick up on the tone of admonition and instead hear it as a more inquisitive statement: "Well, no, I can also spit like this, and like this, and ..."). But the king of them all, no doubt, is this one: "Would it bug you if I said ..." Men are either bugged or not; they don't think about it, which really bugs them. Which is why MSN/Glamour has really bugged me today.  

1,000 Words In Need Of A Picture

behemoth beckon rube slush gait truth plaza wastrel rumble rutabaga frenetic velvet yearn trait hoary universal showboat gruff bucolic fructify palaver querulous xylophone jaded nectar mucilage transom tarmac cluster nullify kneel gnarly languid vernal zealot rustic trash brash jocular seismic detente lagniappe lambaste flambe cranial porous heretic vestigial redundant pushover cease warfare quiet heighten brusque antimacassar slouch niggardly molten blight tubular charitable polish forte foregone glandular modular lunar prayer prior abbot umpire humdinger doggerel splenetic spleen muscular triune debate oracular elephantine crepuscular blackguard cube idiotic imbecile cancerous grate cheese innoculate pry sty vertical original rabid zeugma chiasmus caesura haiku despicable flange bratwurst open bind masticate virginal ululate queer particular circumspect lucky thankful idiom opulent lanky lithe justice regard sincerely avuncular cousin innate fungus yo-yo gratify turkey ossify fossil burn trunk mook nook crayon data gunk goo politician suspiration lambent turnkey hoosegow poke prod nick jejune picayune vague hasty cupcake dry gentle placid rotund filibuster economical consume digest exhaust plod league satanic uniform peer cucumber gam vetiver ambergris junket ore toe finger digit junebug mallard hyacinth ghostly phantom yam stash den hide melt liquid fruit multiply text diode catamite crazy link erudite tumescent flag moist damp bait trout wonk inch scratch church confess atone tune zest voracious effervescent crash crush press dress haberdasher soirée impede imprecate pregnant pageant reify thrust brute xenophobe quiescent hops barley malt imbibe tankard cross crux injurious peculiar subscription lot prong tine fork spoon moon goon elide deify delectable sugar butter lard acid photograph nuisance asinine freakish determine orange tithe furnace desk pen penal impale implant vegetation comatose lionize saturnine phlegm modicum hirsute wicked electrify fry yeast batter diamond kick bawl enunciate vocabulary diction essay effect affect wherewithal werewolf igloo denigrate milquetoast frizzy shapely soothe sale lullaby trek atavistic avatar radar range police ratiocination interrupt corrupt major moral morale jingoistic patriotic pale plunk catapult carom dodge whisk buzz buxom unify griffin erupt ostracize syzygy zenith acme plunge plumber depths abyss stare noise careen career oust cease cede shine glory truncate trenchant transgress define delineate eat glutton narcissus platonic ionize modulate wiener roue cad hoyden veritable ersatz venerable vulnerable cacophony cauterize blitz rocket rainbow gravity grave cellar portal lee buoy stub ducat sayso sauce chippy iron wood putter eagle hoist foist fling hurl despot pig quit rut gut hut fit residue trump bridge ford creek rill branch nil null void treacle fire brimstone spark ether poesy prosaic master tipple trickster magus shaman urbanite urbane muck mire routine redux duck scatter cart stevedore bellows embers boast bray squint lint cache abscond pardon parse arse pin cushion pillow heat perspire moan shimmy shrimp slight skinny paper moose goose pinch thievery vagabond bum steer polymath didactic dactyl foot member donkey was wish opine mash gnash masticate molar uvula voicebox lesion practice doctor summit executive brainy aspersion aspect sumac churlish admonition dork squirrel joke débutante vomit rusticate adumbrate umbrella penumbra spectacular motivate vote elect statuary statute constitution suds bud butt yep yule logger peppermint balsamic pasta chop lop mop nope rope twine string dust gimpy cripple ferry titan giant midget dwarf blaze orb torte totter twit titter placate robust ghoul foolish drug bin nib nub hymnal noon gloaming spheroid loquacious binge burp regurgitate fart intestine institutional malaise pot belly spare bowl hydroplane jet ski tobaggon makeover retinue reticule ocean tomfoolery heaven hitch bitch stitch pitch ebony soprano bass toady intuit counter grime formica slate troglodyte rush rug fake tomcat compact jalopy chutney jitney sideboard muffler cap screw sedate see saw bite rite unctuous afar effort adjudicate verge canyon tarn aerie low lay payee chuck junket lame claim vague vacuous dais breeze slide simpering hinge fractal fulcrum negate pessimistic hedonist gloom misanthropic testy phallus benign malevolent toast singe catastrophic beggar tangible imp hippie wag bag nag hag laden impecunious miserly omnipresent sole bespoke smitten behest heir sanctuary keyhole hubris spell spelunker punk pod codpiece instrument polar trenchant analyze anise licorice tush abreast white elm musky undulate resurrect tress dressage gambol adenoid obnoxious notorious famous fly bastardize cowl juniper anthrax angelic crucify posterior posterity potentate oligarchy pledge paddle earmark legume shell skull row rouse grouse dredge dowse dowdy frumpy grumpy vaccine celestial undone zombie bellhop totem workshop level cracker redneck ignorant tree anteater memory oxymoron beast blessed ratio ponder kite jut hew bent tenacious paten secular hector uppity jaundice indemnify fyce onion union ink thud potable jeopardy verify cameo spendthrift queasy rote earful ham emote thespian lesbian exacerbate bloat thrive pogo escape hatch ovary facial benediction tan beige renewal oil yo beau cob fob nod fore tar spiffy ply car ewe ram orca juice spoil carton swamp quagmire desuetude hooligan thug pugnacious pugilistic umpteenth zig-zag rollover retire disrespect taxonomy taxidermist hack shack thatched polity porcelain marble shenanigan gaseous halitosis blunderbuss cant viceroy plunder ravage rave princely hansom livery trot fickle fission convex concave flotsam jetsam hickory curvaceous frolicsome fairy canine feline cusp ketchup peony flora fauna fawn dawn spawn drawn callow fallow elliptical wordy viscous ploy numb cardinal nervous wall trench moat druid rune monolith megalomaniac insouciant reckless wreckage collision paperhanger twin pallet sand doghouse seizure dew ugly druggist inchoate beguile bedizen fustigate garrulous defenestration intrepid chatty waist banana pygmy turban exotica ruminate marginal whey wherefore strategy winning fail proximity rebuff gangly touchstone box caboose linear algebraic cone buck quicksand wagon pantaloons doubloon gourmand wrath insipid trachea wired ostracize impel repellent goose poker retroactive crewcut bevel bovine ursine doff don pillage gallon dollop firearm decanter gin rickety hangover buzzard pit voluble exertion friction fiction novel inspect ubiquity lid sill pane boisterous knowhow none brother gormless wit snit donnybrook gully noggin bean kipper boot lift deign humanoid esteem estivate hibernate triangulate witness intestine moxie pluck unseemly thorax abdomen glutes pectoral hipster tuition hokey puckish dig fig gig victuals gray lox sprint maximize itemize resonant dwell denizen blowhard pounce noun nomination rote hog briar bramble lantern torch fiery codicil bodkin jerkin loathe jelly hug vagrant coffee clash pistol puppet sodden tolerate maze coast guff inept mute avowal terminal ingot mug nugget lectern disable tired salutations goodbye

An American Nightmare

I had a dream.

It was a dream firmly rooted in the twin American nightmares of being called to testify before a Congressional Hearing and being subjected to the power of suggestion by the media elites (I've been spooked for days by this Onion blurb about Microsoft putting a blue squiggly line underneath every word that might be too difficult for the average reader to comprehend understand get). In the McCarthyesque dream the ten most literate bloggers were subpoenaed to appear before a Senate Select Commerce Committee Hearing looking into the perceived pedantism problem on the Internet. I was the sixth blogger to testify. Here is my recollection of a good portion of my testimony (subject to correction once the Congressional Dream Record is published):


Senator A: Why do you blog. sir?

Me: You look at things that are, and say, "Why?" I look at things that are completely random and say, "Why not?"

Senator A: Why did you name your blog spitoutyourgum?

Me: Because, much to my chagrin, expectorateyourgum had already been trademarked by Major League Baseball.

Senator B: What do you make from your writings?

Me: Make, sir?

Senator B: Get, what do you get from your writing efforts?

Me: Same as any writer, I guess. Headaches, paranoia, guilt, a profound yen to chuck it all and move to Zaire. And viruses, a lot of them.

Senator A: Do you know the definition of the word "arcane"?

Me (chuckling): Yeah, the family has a lot of "buffers."

Senator A: I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.

Me: My point, exactly.

Senator B: Moving along, sir. Is it not true that at your place of employment, your so-called "day job," you have unlimited access to dictionaries of obscure and obsolete words?

Me: Not anymore, sir. See my previous post.

Senator A (gavel gavel): We'll have none of your shameless plugs here, sir. Have you no sense of decency?

Me: I'm a blogger, Senator. Nothing shameless about me. I have oodles of shame.

Senator B: What is the aim of your blog?

Me: Somewhere between the middle brow and the slapped knee, sir. On a good day, I'm 50-50.

Senator A (looking through a stack of papers): Am I correct that you once took an entire blog post--and the resultant precious cyber-bodily bandwidth it takes to archive it--to expound on the word desuetude?

Me: That's pronounced des-wi-tood, Senator. Sue's not involved in that word at all, and she resents the insinuation. Anyway, yes, but I don't use that word anymore; in my lexicon it's fallen into desue-- ah, I no longer employ that word. Budget cutbacks and all.

Senator B: What in the hell are you talking about?

Me: Oh, I'm sorry, Senator. Aren't you familiar with that term, "budget cutbacks"? Would you like me to define it for you?

Senator B: Who do you think you are?

Me: Pertaining to that specific question, the counsel in my head advises me that I should respectfully invoke my Constitutional right to take the fifth.

Here the dream suddenly shifted to a liquor store setting where I was buying a bottle of Absolut from a bikini-clad Sigourney Weaver and discussing the word putsch with the ghost of Charlie Weaver. I'll keep the rest of the details to myself. I guess I should stop eating a box of Girl Scout cookies before my mid-morning naps.

Homonymsicals

Just some fun with familiar phrases and terms, homonyms and homophones. I'm not claiming total originality; some of these are just too obvious to me.

• hew and cry: what happens when you accidentally ax yourself instead of the tree
• deep friar: the most profound monk in the monastery
• queue shot: a photograph of the long lines outside of somewhere
• hart and sole: surf and turf for the venison-loving crowd
• bitchin' mown: an ultra-cool grass cutting job; "You see his frontyard? It's a bitchin' mown."
• pore boy: a guy who sweats profusively
• gallop Pole: a horseman from Cracow
• pane in the ass: what results when your mule doesn't see the sliding glass doors
• soar loser: any also-ran in either a hot air balloon race or pole vault meet
• Czech book: e.g., The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
• no harm no fowl: if you can't kill the chicken, you can't eat the chicken
• peek performance: a voyeur at work
• begs for Moor: curtain calls for the actor portraying Othello
• scoreless Thai: a native of Bangkok who's a luckless virgin
• Styx and Stones: an unlikely concert billing
• stolen bass: another thing that pissed Charles Mingus off
• lift waits: what a British elevator does when you press the hold button
• beached wail: "You idiot, you forgot the sunscreen!"
• bake sail: a regatta for stoners
• residoodoo: months-old remnants of dog crap found on your lawn after the spring thaw
• route beer: the road with all the late-nite convenience stores
• lug nut: a bellhop who's crazy about his job
• embraceable yew: a tree-hugger's delight
• humble pi: 3.14159265 rounded off to 3
• counter fit: finding a seat at the bar in a crowded restaurant
• log in: feeding the fire
• the kneady: one who receives a massage
• ferry tail: the stern
• alter boy: to circumcise
• Diet Coax: Weight Watchers
• pal ail: an empathetic friend
• wreckless driver: an insurance company's dream
• gale pale: a white tornado
• Gaul stones: rocks found in France
• high lie: "My eyes are red from rubbing them, that's all."
• beer any burden: to seek refuge in the hops and barley whenever the going gets rough
• youth hostile: any adolescent
• sects education: instruction on the differences between the Shia and the Sunni
• loo lieu: in a pinch, any clump of trees will do
• Hyde and Sikh: strange bedfellows indeed
• sigh'o'nora: the usual response from James Joyce's wife to one of his multi-language puns

What The World Needs Now Is Some Mollification

The tendency would be to say that with Mother Nature wreaking all kinds of global havoc these days and the Middle East once again teeming with unrest, everybody just needs to chill out. But we here at spitoutyourgum like to buck the tendency, plus "chill out," for all sorts of reasons, just isn't appropriate. Besides, I have a much better word, one of the all-time best: mollify.

Yes, all kinds of situations all over the world need to be mollified, at once. Mollify: to soften in feeling or temper; pacify; to mitigate or reduce; from the Latin word meaning to make soft. What a fantastic word. Pronounced mol uh fahy, by the way, not mole uh fahy, and that makes all the difference. Forget the Latin (I have, most of my 4+ years of it); to me the word comes from the name Molly--if you have a situation that's gone out of hand, that cries out for softening and pacifying, put a Molly on the case to mollify it, and all your worries go poof!

Nomenclature is destiny. I've known a few people named Molly in my time, some in passing, some much more dearly, and there cannot be a name that signals calm, consideration, level-headedness, and kindness more than the name Molly. You can't help but smile and get a little soothing sugar rush just from saying the name. Molly. To prove my point, try this little experiment. Try to sing the Lizzie Borden song ("Lizzie Borden took an ax, gave her mother forty whacks...") but substituting Molly for Lizzie. See what I mean? Try as you might, you just can't sing anything but "Molly Borden took an ax and cleared a forest and built seven schools without additional tax..." can you?

"Bill, we got a problem. The rank and file are getting most obstreperous." "No problem, Boss. Just bring in Molly to talk to them a little." "Damn, Bill, you're a genius."

The U.N. should appoint a Global Molly to drop in on any and all hotspots around the world. Peace in our time, guaranteed. Hell, gather up the first twelve Mollies you meet, fly them to Cairo and put them on the streets, and within hours, at most, Mubarak resigns and everybody high fives him on his way out of office. Go ahead, try it.

Mollify. The pacifying, the soothing, the tempering doesn't work with any other name. It has to be Molly. Chantelle? Agnes? Ralph? Lou? Not quite. If you got your wires crossed and instead of Mollifying a situation you Danified it, believe me, you'd get people talking in parenthetical asides and re-irritating people, rather than de-irritating them.

Not to mention the word mollycoddle, which means to pamper. It might have negative connotations, but really, could a word meaning pamper and using a name be anything but mollycoddle? Hankcoddle? Rushcoddle? Barbracoddle? Gertrudecoddle? No. I love that when I looked up the word mollycoddle, for its origin (around 1825 or so) all it said was--Molly + coddle. My point exactly.

Mollify, perhaps the most perfect word in any dictionary.

Oh, and to you contrarians out there: The Molly Maguires were a secret society, I'm sure using the name Molly ironically, so as not to draw attention. And Molly Hatchet? Please. If there's a more inconsequential rock band ever, it goes by the name of .38 Special (mollify yourselves, Southern rockers, I'm just trying to make a point here).

Handsome Molly--Doc Watson by spitoutyourgumblog

Don't F with the F-Word

"I don't fuck with decaf."

Johnny said that to me today when, after telling me he doesn't drink coffee at night because it keeps him up, I asked if he ever drinks decaf. Now I like Johnny; he's down to earth, nice, and pretty funny. But he's seriously off base about this whole thing. Decaf is harmless, the weak link in the liquid refreshment chain. I should know. Owing to a freaky night years ago I don't want to re-visit for you all just now, I was made to swear off caffeine. Horrors, some of you might think. Actually, it's not too bad. You get used to the taste--it does have some--and really, after a short while, there is definitely a placebo effect. If might be just decaf, but believe me, you NEED it in the morning, and a few sips into it you're feeling refreshed and ready for the day, just like caf. It's fine, really, and that's what takes me to my real point about Johnny's remarks: there is absolutely no reason for him to use the F word in his sentence.

Now, don't accuse me of being a vocabulary milquetoast. F is a valid word and has its place (many places, actually, it being one of the language's most flexible words), and I certainly have utilized it here and there. There are certainly many people, places, and things one should not F with--drunken Philadephia fans, the town of Hell, Michigan, and the IRS, for starters. But decaf is not one of them. Drink a gallon at midnight, pour it on your begonias, use every imaginable permutation of the F-word to insult its (perceived) lack of taste and pick-me-up--decaf will abide and not bite back in any real or metaphorical manner. Go ahead Johnny and everybody else, F with decaf to your heart's content. You'll be fine.

Caf, on the other hand, is to be F-ed with (if you so choose) very carefully. I have arrived at that conclusion empirically and somewhat accidentally. You see, in my years of strict decaffing, once in a while I have been "slipped a mickey" by absent-minded (I prefer to give one the benefit of the doubt) hosts and hostesses, baristas (our pierced brethren and sisteren who work at coffee shop[pe]s), and wait staff. Believe me, after being off the stuff for some time, if you pound a cup or mug of the stuff unknowingly, prepare for take-off. The ensuing warp-speed ride your mind will involuntarily embark on will without a doubt F with you, whether or not you want to F with it or not.

But, like Ishmael, I survived such accidental infusions. And so, not without first silently humming a few bars of "I Will Survive" to myself, I will now infrequently indulge myself in a small amount of caf, not for any jolt beyond the one decaf provides me (maybe in my delusionment), but mainly because the Burger King I drive thru every morning sold me one too many cups of last night's decaf (my apologies, Johnny; you do not want to F with overnight, cold decaf).

I guess my point in all of this is, choose wisely not only what you agree to F with in life, but also choose wisely what you label as F-ing with: mess with, try, sample, tango with, dabble in, play with, dip my toes in--all of these are more precise terms for many experiments in engagement.

And while I'm at it, I can't stand people who F with (in any way shape or form) the words frickin' or friggin'. As the estimable Joe Martin used to say all the time, shit or get off the pot. Either use the F-word or don't. Frickin' and friggin' are the unquestionable decaf (in Johnny's estimation of decaf) of the F-word. I believe the word "stupid" will substitute accurately and quite appropriately for anyone wanting to use the words frickin' or friggin'. To put it another way, think of the Blues as the F-word. Sometimes you're in the mood to hear, sing, or play the blues. Fine. Do so. Just don't think listening to, singing along with, or playing frickin' George Thorogood is the real friggin' thing. Got it?

As my college roommate (named John,coincidentally) used to say, "F, what a great word." Like gourd, fester, scruple, and moist, it can be, when used appropriately.

And since we've dipped our toes into festering waters a bit here, enjoy some gloriously off-color George Carlin, or to balance it out, some sweetly twee Bee Gees. (Sorry. I was asked to take them down.)

The Bee Gees-Words

A Singular Collection Of Plurals

Have you ever noticed that outside of square dancing and county fair eating (see a great video here), animals seem to have a lot more fun than humans? They get to fly, stink up the joint in an instant, spout, and lick themselves, when we, the alleged superior species, are left to spiral in doubt, become addicted to American Idol, and wait in line at the BMV. Sure we get to kill and eat them, but isn't that mere justice for the fear they strike in us? See what one bee does to an itch of picnic goers or what an itty bitty chipmunk does to a prim of classy ladies and I think you'll feel justified in roasting your next pig.

What really irks me, admittedly one of the weird dicts of wordlovers, about the whole animal/human inequality thing is that just about every single minuscule segment of the animal kingdom gets its own word for its plural (check out a great list here, my favorite being "an ostentation of peacocks" [see video below]), when we, diverse, every-fingerprint-is-unique, I'm-this-and-certainly-not-one-of-them, humans get nothing more than a few generic terms like "crowd" or "gang" or "bunch" (bunch being a word I once used in high school to describe a group of people [for lack of a more specific word, my point precisely] and my priest/teacher wrote in the margins, after circling the offensive "bunch": "save this word for bananas").

So, years ago, probably in search of a good diversion from grading papers or shaving, I started to compile, or really invent, a list of proper plurals for distinct groups of people. Well, to make a long, embarrassing and not too interesting story short, I nearly broke my two pinky fingers yesterday re-discovering this list while looking for something else (thankfully I use the phrase "nearly broke" but part of me is kind of nostalgic for the conversations I might have had trying to explain the sight of me with two pinky splints [if it's possible to feel nostalgic for something in the future which will not occur; now that feeling needs a word, kind of a negative image of saudade, maybe saudidnt]).

I confess that some of the entries on the list that follows mystify me, though I'm sure they made sense to me and made me chuckle when I wrote them years ago, and maybe you'll get them and chuckle now. I do have to give propers to one Ned Gulley through whose blog I discovered the animal plural list linked above. Now Ned (maybe being a math/science guy apparently) doesn't share my enthusiasm for the menagerie of animal plurals, but in criticizing the dicts who came up with all those great plurals, can't help but fall into the trap, calling them a "smarm of smarty-pants" (that's the spirit, Ned!).

Anyway, enjoy the list and feel free to use the terms as the need arises, no fees required.

• a brace of whiplash patients
• a whine of toddlers
• a giggle of girls
• a fidget of boys
• a slouch of teenagers
• a screech of cabbies
• an ooze of politicians
• a reek of hobos
• a whistle of debutantes
• a wad of billionaires
• an excuse of golfers
• a shush of librarians
• a spoil of professional athletes
• a stew of chefs
• a crack of plumbers
• a rump of proctologists
• a lash of masochists
• a glaze of cops
• an avalanche of skiers
• a rinse of dentists
• a slug of journalists
• a sob of undertakers
• a fall of acrobats
• a craving of vegans
• a ruse of plastic surgeons
• a dent of used car dealers
• a hyperbole of TV weathermen
• a ruin of creditors
• a gathering of loners
• a shovel of elephant-keepers
• a lot of nuns
• a nausea of IRS agents
• a vomit of rock stars
• a drunk of poets
• a Shatner of actors
• a rash of strippers
• a couch of husbands
• a slice of supermodels
• a squint of umpires
• a complaint of retail customers
• a goose of pranksters
• a knock of Jehovah's Witnesses
• a metonymy of plural namers
• a bliss of bacon, covered in chocolate! lovers

A Sad Word For A Gray Day

Ah, but what a powerful and beautiful word saudade is.

Being a pack rat has its little rewards. As I was slogging my way through my much ballyhooed cleaning spree last weekend, I came across a xeroxed sheet of paper somebody (I've forgotten who) gave me years ago. It's the title page of a novel by Katherine Vaz, titled Saudade. On the opposite page is this inscription: "Saudade (sow-dahd'): a Portuguese word considered untranslatable. One definition: Yearning so intense for those who are missing, or for vanished times or places, that their absence is the most profound presence in one's life. A state of being, rather than merely a sentiment." Amazing.

Who doesn't have some saudade in his or her life, either from anger, indifference, ignorance, death, time, or space? Maybe, cross your fingers, not to the extreme of it being a state of being, but intense nonetheless. It's comforting, isn't it, to find words that articulate so keenly? Here's to all the saudade-inducing people, places, times in your life.

Read more about saudade here.

Roger McGuinn-Without Your Love

Translator-Everywhere That I'm Not

This Estivation Must Stop

Sounds like one of my made-up words, estivation. If it were, it would probably mean a rough guess as to how high a mountain or a college roommate is. As it is, estivate is an actual word, meaning "to pass the summer in a state of torpor," basically the opposite of hibernate (in my version of Scrabble, estivate would warrant about a million points because not only is it a beautiful word, but its definition contains an equally amazing word, torpor). Now if someone gave me the definition and told me to make up a word, I'd probably go with slummer, or dozummer. Better yet, I'd probably just say, high school English teacher, because having the experience, and not knowing much zoology, I'd put my money on the high school English teacher being the only creature who estivates.

I realize summer ended and autumn began a few days ago, chronologically, at least, but the weather's been nice, and although fall is my favorite time of year, I wasn't ready to bid adieu to summer yet. But this morning it definitely felt like fall: gray, rainy skies, trees blowing aggressively, leaves starting to change color (at least to my color-blind eyes), and a temperature that had no hint of summer in it. So I muttered to myself, that's it, quit the estivating, get to work. I've been cleaning ever since. To be honest, it's probably my spring cleaning, but as I recall, the first day that felt like spring several months ago, I said, that's it, summer's coming, commence estivation.

All I can say is that I've been places in my domicile today that Columbus, Balboa, and even Carl Kolchak couldn't have found. Apparently, dust doesn't estivate, hibernate, or vacate. Procreate, though, for sure.

Unfortunately, my bed right now is too piled up with stuff I've moved to get to such dusty, unmapped places, that starting to autumnate with a nice rain-soothing afternoon nap is out of the question. But I guess it's football season: three piles and a cloud of dust. Back to excavation.

Freakwater-When The Leaves Begin To Fall

Robyn Hitchcock-Autumn Is Your Last Chance

LexiDan

No, it's not some new anti-depressant to take after you encounter me. It's merely a list of words I've coined but as of yet have not earned me any coin. I guess The Washington Post has some new word contest every year, which people have sent me, but I've never figured out to enter the thing. I'd like to think that my real inspiration comes from the comedian Rich Hall and his "sniglets"--words that aren't in any dictionary but should be.

You'd think that with the thousands and thousands of words in the English language, we writers and speakers would be satisfied, but there are just some situations, some people, some things, that scream out for their own word. Here are a few. Feel free to make rampant use of them in your various verbal activities. DISCLAIMER: I thought up all of these on my own, though some seem so obvious to me, it wouldn't surprise me if someone else has come up with them too. So I claim originality, if not the out and out invention.

Urinag—the guy next to you in a public restroom who tries to strike up a conversation

Juru—a Hasidic sage

Emailciate—to delete all the unwanted e-mail in your in-box

Harmalade—preserves left in the refrigerator long past the expiration date

Curmidgeon—a cantankerous gnatlike fly

Reggaelic—a genre of music enjoyed by Jamaican-Irish

Sexpulsion—the effect of one partner’s headache upon the other

Handicarp—to complain about inadequate wheelchair-accessibility

Margrinal—a hint of a smile

Bigrate—to drift away from one’s assumed sexual preference

Slavatory—a public restroom in Belgrade

Punsy—a wimp who likes word jokes

Parashut—certain death

Philostophy—all that cool stuff you learned in an intro to philosophy course, which you now can’t remember

Laborastory—a tedious, tall tale about white rats and Bunsen burners

Bigloo—an Eskimo king’s bathroom

Transvestithe—to make regular payments to the local cross-dresser

Portfoldio—your stocks, after the market crashes/d

Merlout—a sophisticated wino

Sloquacious—what you call a stutterer who won’t shut up

Smutiny—a rebellion on the porno set

Marianne Faithfull-Broken English

R.I.P. Jim Carroll

Jim Carroll-Tiny Tortures

What's Wrong With This Picture? What's Wrong With This Word?

Well, there's really nothing wrong with this picture. It's the fact that this picture is used to advertise Cialis, a drug used to correct ED (poor Mr. Ed, no wonder he talked so much). I mean, what screams ED more loudly (and the ineffectiveness of anything trying to rectify ED) than a couple separated by porcelain, each alone in his and her one-seater bathtub? But you know all this.

Rather, I use this picture to call a bit of attention to my new purpose in life--saving the use of the word desuetude: [des-wi-tood, -tyood]--the state of being no longer used or practiced (source: dictionary.com).

I first encountered this wonderful word in a vocabulary textbook I was using when teaching high school English years ago. It was a splendid book, which I discovered years later (still years ago, but not that many years ago) had sadly fallen out of print--that's correct, it had reached the state of being no longer used. Desuetude.

I next encountered the word, well, nowhere, unless it was in one of those passages of Joyce's Ulysses I kind of skimmed through. How ironic: nobody seems to use the word desuetude anymore. (Don't even try to suggest nobody ever used the word; Jane Austen was a fiend about the word. "Manners, desuetude! Marriageable men with money, desuetude!" Desuetude, desuetude, desuetude, all day long with her.)

And so, tragically, it appears desuetude becomes desuetude. How sad. I mean if a guy buys and ingests Cialis and spends the rest of his life mired in a uni-tub, more fool him. But to allow the word desuetude to lapse into desuetude is shameful. This must not stand! Meaning need not be destiny.

Do you know how dire the situation is? For research purposes I looked up the word desuetude at some highbrow sites and this is what I found: "desuetude was not found in the Cambridge Advanced Learner's Dictionary." The Oxford English Dictionary (yeah, that one, on-line version, albeit) replied: "There are no results for your search. Please try again or contact us." Oxford and Cambridge! Now maybe those Brits are still fighting a few hundred years of wars, seeing that desuetude has some French origins, but criminy, desuetude's in trouble folks.

So dear readers (plural--I know the word "desuetude" does not apply to the writing or reading of this blog) it is up to us to save the word desuetude. Pull it out of the dusty storage bin of your lexicon and strew the word desuetude throughout your daily chattering. Mom, next time you see me, say, "Rescue your razor from desuetude, my son." Ladies, next time a man fails to open a door for you, say, "Desuetude got the best of your chivalry, dude?" Men, upon entering your physician's office, proudly declare, "Desuetude no more, gimme a scrip for Cialis, doc."

Thinking globally and acting locally has not fallen into desuetude. Inundate your congressman/woman with telegrams (might as well rescue that communication mode while we're at it) stating: "Action yes, desuetude no! Health care reform now!"

Please, it's such a pretty word. Never mind how it looks, listen to how it speaks, nay sings--des-wi-tood. Three gorgeous and totally different syllables merging into one unified overwhelmingly beautiful whole like cheese, bread, tomatoes=pizza. Or Scranton, Wilkes, and Barre. Desuetude sounds like a lone branch blowing in a midnight breeze. A come-hither from an oasis. A "next" in the line at the BMV.

Enough, if I had all the bandwidth in the world, I could fill it up with paeans to this phenomenal word. But words aren't enough, we must act. Become a certified desue-dude now: go forth and speak it.

Bill Withers-Use Me