Fritinancy

Grammar Girl Trips on Its/It's

I've been enjoying Grammar Girl's Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing, the just-published first book by Mignon Fogarty. Like Fogarty's Grammar Girl podcasts, the book is breezy and reassuring, yet authoritative. Fogarty uses just enough popular-culture references to guarantee her readers' attention without sounding like she's trying too hard. And she charms us by sharing some of her own usage faux pas.

For example, on page 35 she confesses:

When I was in second grade, I lost a spelling bee because I misspelled the word its. I put an apostrophe in where I shouldn't have, and it was a very traumatic moment in my young life. I think this lesson is burned into my mind precisely because of my past misdeeds, and although I can't change my past, I believe the next best thing would be to save you all from similar apostrophe-induced horrors.

Well and good, except on page 177 she writes:

When you're tempted to use communicate, ask yourself if you really mean tell. Communicate has it's place...

An example follows, but I couldn't concentrate. I was too distracted by that apostrophe-induced horror.

It's bad enough when an error like this one slips into the daily newspaper or an annual report. But in a book purporting to tell us Right from Wrong, usage-wise ... oh, dear.

Linguists have a semi-jokey name for this particular nightmare: Hartman's Law of Prescriptivist Retaliation. It specifies that "any article or statement about correct grammar, punctuation, or spelling is bound to contain at least one error." (For example, in that particular phrase in the article I just linked to, by Jed Hartman himself, "error" is misspelled "eror.") This rule is also known as McKean's Law, in honor of "dictionary evangelist" Erin McKean.

Here's my advice to Mignon Fogarty, who is currently on book tour: own up to the error and treat it with your characteristic good humor. Use it as an opportunity to talk about Hartman's Law, McKean's Law, famous mistakes-in-print, and Our National Proofreading Crisis.

And make sure it's corrected in the second edition.

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It you were expecting this post to be about ice cream, I apologize. Read more about It's-It ice cream treats here.

The Algorithm

Amazon thinks that because I bought English As She Is Spoke: Being a Comprehensive Phrasebook of the English Language, Written by Men to Whom English Was Utterly Unknown, I will most likely also be interested in All Known Metal Bands, .

In this corner: English As She Is Spoke, an English phrasebook for Portuguese students written in 1855 by José da Fonseca, who didn't know English. He didn't even have an English-Portuguese dictionary. According to the editor of my 2004 revised edition (the one I bought from Amazon):

What he did have, though, was a Portuguese-to-French phrasebook and a French-to-English dictionary. The bizarre linguistic train wreck that ensued ... became celebrated as a bizarre masterpiece of unintentional humor, and it went on to be reprinted around the world for the rest of the 19th century[.]

(I forgive the editor for repeating "bizarre," because it's wholly justified. To take just one example: "The noise run that is by to have given a box on the ear to a of them." Amazingly, this sentence was rendered completely by hand, without the use of an automated translator!)

And in the other corner: All Known Metal Bands by Dan Nelson, just published by McSweeney's. It's an alphabetical listing of 50,000 names of metal bands. No subgenres, no places of origin, just ... names.

Amazon, you know me better than I know myself!

Word of the Week: BLAD

BLAD: Publishing-industry term for a short advance version of a book--usually the jacket art and several sample pages--that gives a publicist or distributor the gist of the contents and design. Said to be an acronym of Basic Layout And Design; however, it may be a backronym from blad, Scots dialect for "a section" or "a fragment."

Read more about publishing-industry jargon here.

News to Me

Jeep makes baby strollers? Well, Jeep licenses its name to baby strollers. And yes, there are Wrangler and Cherokee subbrands. I did a double-take when I saw my first li'l Jeepster this week, but my third take was: huh, makes sense. "Jeep" has always sounded like baby talk. Now, Jeep pet strollers are something else again.

Remember Alex, the African gray parrot who apparently was capable of learning referential speech? (He died last September at about age 30.) I did, but I hadn't known that Alex's name was an acronym for Avian Learning Experiment. I learned that and much more of interest in "Birdbrain," by Margaret Talbot, in the May 12 issue of The New Yorker. For example, Alex "sometimes played with the sounds he had learned, venturing new words. ... When Alex developed nonsense words--like 'cheenut'--[cognitive scientist Irene] Pepperberg and his other trainers did not respond, and he quickly stopped saying them." Elsewhere in the article, Talbot mentions Nim Chimpsky (1973-2000), a chimpanzee who was taught sign language. His name was a sly reference to the linguist Noam Chomsky, who has famously argued that only humans are capable of language.   

The trademarked treat known as the Popsicle was invented in 1905 by an 11-year-boy right here in the San Francisco Bay Area, an irony as close to "selling ice to the Eskimos" as you can get. (Mark Twain may or may not have said, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco," but the truth of the assertion cannot be denied.) Indeed, the "Epsicle," as young Frank Epperson dubbed his invention--a blend of Epperson and icicle--was created when Frank left a mixture of powdered soda and water on his porch (with a stirrer in it) on a night of record low temperatures in either San Francisco or Oakland (accounts vary). It took him 17 years to introduce it to the public--at the Neptune Beach amusement park in Alameda--and another two years to apply for a patent for his "frozen confectionery." By then he'd renamed it the Popsicle, allegedly because his children called it "Pop's 'icle." Today the Popsicle trademark and brand are owned by Ice Cream USA, a division of Unilever. I learned some of this from a soon-to-be-published book by Krystina Castella, Pops!: Icy Treats for Everyone, which contains recipes for confections Frank Epperson probably never dreamed of, such as Sweet Martini Pops.

I just found out that Dan Piraro, creator of one of my favorite comics, Bizarro, has a blog. Sometimes he explains his jokes, miraculously without making them any less funny. Many of the jokes involve wordplay and semantic twists. Here's a Bizarro from last month:

Piraro says he rarely publishes captionless cartoons:

Call me wordy, verbose, circumlocutory, long-winded, loquacious, garrulous, periphrastic, prolix, or just a guy who can't shut up, but any way you slice it, it's a happy day in Cartoonland when I publish a captionless cartoon.

What We Write About When We Write About Fashion

From the chapter titled "Fashionspeak" in The Meaning of Sunglasses: And a Guide to Almost All Things Fashionable, by Hadley Freeman:

"Homage" is probably the most well known bit of fashionspeak. A conveniently trussed-up word for "blatant copy," it can be used without the niggling fear of litigation, and it has a soothing sheen of intellectualism, suggesting that the designer spent long, noble hours in some dusty library, studying the technique of his forebears and then respectfully weaving it into his own work, as opposed to desperate plagiarism due to a dearth of new ideas. So, for example: "Marc Jacobs's homage to Courrèges was perhaps a little over-literal." Thus, it becomes a criticism in a compliment inside a totally daft remark, showing the kind of linguistic ingenuity that would make Derrida bow down in respectful awe.

It's overstating just a tad to say that Freeman rips the lid off the fashion industry, exposing the seamy side of the pretty-peddling biz, but she does have a merry time making shish kebab out of sacred cows. Cast an eye over some of the other chapter titles in this slim, witty book:

Accessories: going to hell in a handbag

Blouses: not so librarian now, are they?

Coats: stuck at the nexus between dull and stressful

Get: fashion that girls do and boys don't

Jacobs, Marc: genius or what?

Ruffles: from French ingénue to Bozo the Clown

Vanity, and the joys thereof

Freeman is deputy fashion editor London's Guardian newspaper, where she writes a fashion advice column whose tone of brisk authority--not to mention her command of the dependent clause--is seemingly belied by the author's photograph, in which she appears to be about thirteen and a half.

(Post title: homage or what?)

Babette et Moi

I promised horn tooting, and here it is: a book I ghostwrote has just been privately published, and it's gorgeous and I'm thrilled. Babette: Designing a Vision celebrates the 40th anniversary of an extraordinary fashion brand; it will be sold in Babette retail stores in San Francisco, Scottsdale, Portland, Chicago, and New York beginning next month.

I was delighted when Steven Pinsky, designer Babette Pinsky's husband and business partner, contacted me last September about writing a book. Not only do I love ghostwriting books, but I've also been a huge fan--and customer--of the Babette brand since the day, more than a decade ago, when I chanced on the company's little outlet store-slash-factory on San Francisco's South Park Street. (The factory has since moved to Oakland, the retail store is now on Sutter Street, and the outlet store is no more.) The clothes were a revelation: clever raincoats--one, called the Taxi Coat, came with an orange whistle for summoning cabs--and pleated microfiber separates that flowed over the body like cool water. They were effortless yet utterly distinctive . They could be packed. They could be washed. They looked good on women of all sizes. And at outlet prices, they were a steal. I bought a couple of pieces that first visit and returned many times. In the process, I struck up an acquaintance with Babette and Steven that led to a small writing project--and now the book.

While researching the book I spent many hours in the Oakland design studio and factory, learning how fabric is sourced, how a collection is designed, and--especially--how those pleats are made. In hand pleating, two workers scrunch pieces of fabric and then tie them tightly. Pattern pleating involves huge paper patterns and wooden weights that haven't changed much since ancient Egypt; there are hieroglyphics depicting a process identical to the one I witnessed. (The only modern innovation is a huge autoclave that steam-sets the pleats.) Perhaps most remarkable in this outsourced era, all Babette clothing (with the exception of sweaters) is made in the company's own Oakland factory by workers earning a living wage and seeming to have a pretty good time at their jobs. That, and the sheer amount of labor involved in each garment--a single pleated garment may be touched by as many as twelve workers during its creation--makes the retail prices (about $200 to $500 per piece) seem, if anything, too low.

Surviving for 40 years as an independent fashion designer is a rare feat. It's even more challenging when you're ignored by local and national media, as Babette has been. (The designs don't follow trends, and Babette customers are a "forgotten" market: women in their 30s, 40s, and beyond.) Yet Babette Pinsky never considered merging or selling her business, and she never wavered in her creative vision. Here's how I quoted her in the book:

I always believed that function follows form: the guiding principle of the Bauhaus design movement. And I was always inspired by beautiful fabric. Then as now, I would begin each season's collection by looking at fabric and deciding what stories I wanted to tell with it. Color and texture allowed me to shape a narrative.

I'm happy to report that the media tide may be turning. On Sunday, the San Francisco Chronicle published a long article about Babette by fashion editor Sylvia Rubin. (Be sure to click through to the video, a fascinating document of the pleating process.) Oakland magazine is interested in a feature story for its August issue.

It was a pleasure to work with the Pinskys and to be inspired in my writing by four decades of extraordinary fashion photography by Larry Keenan, Michelle McCarron, Paul Cruz, David Perez, and others. Much credit goes to genius graphic designer Ryan X (he has a stealth website; contact me if you want to hire him) and to Carolyn Ricketts, our able proofreader.

And do check out the Babette website, where you can see photos of the clothing, Babette Pinsky's line drawings, and a store locator.

Top: Designer Babette Pinsky. Above: Model wearing Babette separates at a retrospective fashion show held earlier this month in Minneapolis. Both photos by Allen Brisson-Smith for the San Francisco Chronicle.

The Aptronym and the Googlegängers

Jason Captain was until recently a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, which is amusingly aptronymic in itself. (Lieutenant Captain, meet Major Major Major Major.) But then he left the military to train to be a commercial airline pilot, according to this article in today's New York Times.

That's right. Captain Captain.

(Or maybe not: "[W]ith the airline industry ready to go into another swoon because of high fuel prices, Mr. Captain and other junior pilots could find themselves furloughed.")

Elsewhere in today's Times--on the front page, as a matter of fact--reporter Stephanie Rosenbloom investigates Googlegängers--namesakes found through Google searches. (From German Doppelgänger, literally "double goer": a ghostly double or counterpart of a living person.) From the article:

In “Finding Angela Shelton,” a book published this month, a writer named Angela Shelton describes her meetings with 40 other Angela Sheltons. Keri Smith, an illustrator, has posted drawings of six of her Googlegängers on her blog. There are name-tally Web sites like SameNameAsMe, and Facebook coalitions including nearly 200 people named Ritz (their insignia is a cracker box logo) and a group aiming to break a world record by gathering together more than 1,224 Mohammed Hassans.

But while many people are familiar with Googlegängers, a fundamental question has gone unanswered: Why do so many feel a connection — be it kinship or competition — with utter strangers just because they share a name?

I'm certainly familiar with the phenomenon. Well before Google's advent, I crossed virtual paths with Nancy Friedman of St. Louis, who calls herself the Telephone Doctor. (She advises companies on improving their customer service skills.) When the Rainbow Room closed in New York City, a news article mentioned its publicist: Nancy J. Friedman.

I also learned of the still barely Googleable Nancy M. Friedman, a therapist who lived only a mile away from me. (I used to get voicemail messages from her clients.) Nancy M. and I eventually met and, yes, bonded. It turned our we belonged to the same gym and bought subscriptions to the same performing arts events.

Out of idle curiosity, I began looking for and discovering more and more Nancy Friedmans.  At one point I considered writing an article or even a book about this odd little sisterhood--it turns out we all were born within a few years of each other--but I ended up consigning the information to the Not About Me section of my web site. (Scroll down.)

Angela Shelton, however, did publish a book, Finding Angela Shelton, about her encounters with 40 namesakes. And Grace Lee, a Korean-American filmmaker, made The Grace Lee Project, "a funny, highly unscientific investigation into all those Grace Lees who break the mold -- from a fiery social activist to a rebel who tried to burn down her high school."

I'm pretty sure there was another first-person documentary on the subject, by a male filmmaker. Does anyone remember its name?

Hyperforeignism

Joseph Stiglitz is one massively impressive fellow. He got his PhD in economics from MIT at the tender age of 24 and was a full professor at Yale by the time he was 27. He was chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers during the Clinton administration and later chief economist and senior vice-president of the World Bank. He won the 2001 Nobel Prize in Economics for his analyses of markets with asymmetric information. (And no, I have no idea what that means. I'm just the typist here.)

Now Stiglitz, with co-author Linda Bilmes (no laggard herself), has published The Three Trillion Dollar War, about the true costs of the Iraq conflict. It's a relatively short book--just 192 pages--and from what I've heard and read about it, an important one. I hope to read it soon.

Meanwhile, though, I've been listening to Stiglitz and Bilmes being interviewed on various NPR programs. And on one of those programs--I think it was Forum, on KQED-FM--I heard Stiglitz commit a common verbal gaffe that I hadn't expected from a PhD/Nobelist/CEA chairman. He was talking about armaments, as I recall, and what I distinctly heard him say was "cashays of weapons."

What he meant of course, was caches, which rhymes with "mashes." A cache--from the French cacher, to hide--is a hidden supply. Cacher has a second meaning, "to press," which gave rise to cachet, a seal or impression--and by extension any distinguishing characteristic. Cachet is pronounced the way Stiglitz said it, rhyming with sachet. However, weapons are not hidden in cachets, only in caches.¹

Now, I'm willing to bet Stiglitz uses cache and cachet correctly in writing. And, as I said, he's a total whiz at asymmetric information and numbers containing many, many zeroes. Still, like a lot of Americans, he fell prey at least on this occasion to the temptations of hyperforeignism in speech.

Hyper-what-what? Here's how Headsup: The Blog explains it:

Hyperforeignization is the tendency to make sure that a foreign-looking word sounds foreign, even if the result is farther from an "accurate" pronunciation than you'd get by just sounding the thing out in your own language. Usually, it borrows rules from an unrelated language that makes recognizably "foreign" noises[.]

And most commonly on these shores, that unrelated language is by default French, or something resembling French.

Headsup gives the example of Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, whose name is often pronounced "ohl-MEHR" on U.S. radio and television, as if the final T were silent. "That'd be fine if the parliament at issue had been the French one," notes Headsup, "but it isn't. It's the Israeli one, and Olmert is a native." And his name is pronounced ohl-MEHRT.

Other common mis-Frenchifications include:

Beizhing for Beijing. As Language Hat points out, "There is no /zh/ sound in Mandarin Chinese."

Tazh Mahal for Taj Mahal. No /zh/ sound there, either.

Onchilada and On-ree-kay for the Spanish word enchilada and proper name Enrique. In French, "en-" sorta-kinda sounds like "on," but not in Spanish, where there's no funny business allowed with vowels.

Coo day grah for coup de grâce. The correct version, meaning "finishing stroke," ends with a word whose finishing stroke more or less rhymes with moss. As Mr. Verb points out, the preferred American pronunciation would translate to "a blow of fat."

Pree fee for prix fixe (pronounced pree feeks). Mr. Verb again: "Famously, people think French drops final consonants."

Hyperforeignism also shows up in spelling errors, such as avante-garde instead of the correct avant-garde. Famously once again, people think French adds superfluous final vowels.

By the way, if you're hyperinterested in hyperforeignism, you'll definitely want to read "Systematic Hyperforeignisms as Maximally External Evidence for Linguistic Rules," which Mr. Verb calls "one of the coolest linguistic papers around," although he doesn't provide a link. Guess he wants it to maintain its cachet.

P.S. I devoted four posts last year to the more general topic of false friends--words frequently confused with each other--including this one on cache/cachet.

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¹A weapon can have cachet, though (note: no article before "cachet" in that construction). For instance: "Oooh, can I touch your Glock?"

The Mind Behind the Thesaurus

From a New York Times review of The Man Who Made Lists, a new biography of Peter Mark Roget (1779-1860), the creator of Roget's Thesaurus, by Joshua Kendall:

Never quite intended as a book of synonyms (Roget thought there “really was no such thing,” given the unique meaning of every word), the Thesaurus was constructed as a crystal palace of abstraction, each of whose 1,000 lists pushes a reader, often antonymically, to the next, “certainty” leading to “uncertainty” leading to “reasoning” leading to “sophistry.” The truth is that most users of the Thesaurus have never made head nor tail of the system and have just availed themselves of the index — added by Roget almost as an afterthought — to find what they are looking for.

If he were living today, Roget might be diagnosed as an obsessive-compulsive. Reviewer Thomas Mallon writes: "Madness did not just run in his family; it galloped, sped, sprinted, dashed and made haste."

Since its first publication in 1852, writes biographer Kendall, the Thesaurus has “lost 10 concepts — it’s down to 990 — but it has gained a couple hundred thousand new words.”

Word of the Week: Vigesimal

Vigesimal: Pertaining to a base-20 numeral system. Pronunciation: vī-ˈje-sə-məl. From Latin vicesimus or vigesimus: "twentieth."

In Biting the Wax Tadpole: Confessions of a Language Fanatic, a delightful (and delightfully illustrated) little tour of the world of languages, author Elizabeth Little observes:

Vigesimal systems (base-20) are not at all uncommon--a fact that isn't remotely surprising if you've ever bothered to add your fingers to your toes. The Maya, accomplished mathematicians and astronomers, are one of many people to rely on a vigesimal system: in Mayan, the number thirty-one is buluc tu-kal--literally, "eleven after the twentieth."

Little also writes about a traditional vigesimal counting jargon once used throughout West Britain, primarily for counting sheep:

The words themselves are utterly charming, sounding like nothing so much as the names a young Will Shakespeare might have conjured up for a litter of adorable kittens: yan, tan, tether, mether, pip, azer, sezar, akker, conter, dick, yanadick, tanadick, tetheradick, metheradick, bumfit, yanabum, tanabum, tetherabum, metherabum, jigger.

The title of Little's book comes from the story that the original Chinese transliteration of "Coca-Cola," back in 1928, was ke-kou ke-la--literally, "Bite the Wax Tadpole." According to Snopes.com, fearless debunkers of urban legends, that's not quite right. The final agreed-upon transliteration translates to something like "to allow the mouth to be able to rejoice."

Bite The Wax Tadpole is also the name of an Irish web development company; an amusing explanation of the name choice appears here.