Fritinancy

Vowel Obstruction

It’s been two years since I first reported on the all-consonant naming trend. Since then we’ve seen a persistent consonantal drift in the names of fashion brands, restaurants, and retailers, often shouted out in ALL CAPS. Here are four additions to the list.

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BNJMN is “a paintbrush-wielding bot created by two students at the Basel Academy of Art and Design,” according to a story in Co.Design. The name is pronounced “Benjamin,” and I was surprised to learn it had no relation to the paint company Benjamin Moore (which does sell a product called ben—all lower case). I emailed the creators of BNJMN and asked them about the name; here’s Travis Purrington’s reply in full (the ellipses are his):

BNJMN’s name evolved with his construction and development...

During the beginning of the naming process we originally were brainstorming far and wide for clever acronyms (like everyone) or heavy tech names (THX 1138, etc).

But in the end BNJMN was a warm/inviting sounding name that seemed a nice contrast to his sleek hard-edged body

(plus it looked good on paper and was easy to pronounce without vowels)

It seemed like a good match to the personality of his programming once we got him up and running...so it stuck.

Simple, non-threatening, easy going, expressive...that's BNJMN.

Purrington did not say how many Benjamins BNJMN will set you back.

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Perfume is a distillation of essences, so I suppose it’s logical for a perfume name to eliminate a few letters. And HYLNDS (“Aromatic Epics”) does have a vocalized Y, so it isn’t a complete consonant brick.

Refinery29, a design/lifestyle site, reports that HYLNDS was inspired by “the rolling hills and dramatic history of ancient medieval cultures.” And yet the aromas of peat, goat, and sweat are strangely absent from the three HYLNDS fragrances, which go for $180 per 50ml bottle: they’re called Bitter Rose, Broken Spear (which smells of “smelted iron, bitter rose,” and “melancholy thistle”); Isle Ryder (“resinous Norway spruce and fir cones with narcotic jasmine, island wildflowers, honeyed mead and bulrush straw”); and Pale Grey Mountain, Small Black Lake, (“a chilling air of wood, water, stone, and shrubs”). Each fragrance has HYLNDS, MDLNDS, and LWLNDS notes. Do I need to tell you that the company behind HYLNDS is “an indie Brooklyn perfumer” and that the product can be found at “stockists,” that Britishism beloved of pretentious Yank hipsters? No, probably not.

Melancholy thistle, indeed.

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How to pronounce frrry? “Fry” with a lavishly trilled r? “Furry”?

No and no, according to the New York-based accessories e-tailer Roztayger:

The Frrry collection (pronounced ferry) is all about construction. Designed and made in The Netherlands using vegetable tanned Italian leather, creator Ferry Cornelis Gerardus Meewisse founded the line in 2002 after passing exams for 3D design at the Arnhem Academy of Arts.

Yes, that dangling phrase made me wince a little—Mr. Meewisse isn’t made of vegetable-tanned leather, as far as we know—but my bigger point is: ferry? Why not just spell it that way? “Ferry” would be an excellent name for handbags that ferry your stuff around. (In gorgeous style, I must add: this style is fabulous, and not too exorbitant, either.)

It only stands to reason that you can find frrry products at UNDSCVRD.

Via Girls of a Certain Age.

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Finally: PYMNTS. It’s “what’s next in payments,” especially if you are Eliza Doolittle.

Underwear Week: Commando

How can a brand name convey a specific benefit—in this case, underwear so smooth and sleek it’s almost like wearing no underwear at all—without resorting to descriptive terms (Vanishing Edge, Invisibles)? For one U.S. company, the solution came from Vietnam-era slang.

Commando is a brand of elastic-free women’s underwear and hosiery designed with smooth edges that don’t show under clothing. Founded in 2003 by husband-and-wife team Kerry O’Brien and Ed Biggins, the company is based in South Burlington, Vermont, far from major garment-industry capitals; products are made in the U.S. and sold at department stores and online.

 

“Commando” is an excellent example of a suggestive name—and by suggestive I mean not only the dictionary sense of “implying something slightly improper” (completely appropriate in this context) but also the trademark sense: “indirectly alluding to a quality of a product.” That’s because of commando’s metaphorical secondary meaning.

Commando first entered English in the late 18th century, a borrowing from Portuguese that originally referred to “an armed and mounted party of men” or the expedition undertaken by such a party. It wasn’t until World War II that the word referred to a single person—specifically, according to the OED, “a member of a body of picked men trained originally (in 1940) as shock troops for the repelling of the threatened German invasion of England, later for the carrying out of raids on the Continent and elsewhere.” Until 1942, “commando” was capitalized.

The underwear brand Commando isn’t about shock troops: it’s about “going commando,” a slang phrase first documented (again according to the OED) in 1974, in Current U.N.C. [University of North Carolina] Slang: “to wear no underpants (beneath one’s clothing).” “The origin of this use is obscure,” the dictionary notes; “the allusion appears to be to commandos’ reputation for action, toughness, or resourcefulness rather than to any specific practice.”

In 2005, Slate’s Explainer column attempted to get to the bottom of “go commando”:

When did the term “going commando” enter the civilian lexicon? The phrase dates back to at least the middle of the 20^th century, when Americans used it to mean “toughening up.” (That meaning persists to this day in some contexts.) The phrase’s more common connotation dates back to at least 1974, when it appeared in a source on college slang. The phrase “crotch rot" emerged during the same period: It first appeared in 1967. It's possible that “going commando” first poked its way into the public consciousness during the Vietnam War, when American special forces were spending extended periods in hot, wet jungle environments. The phrase got its big break in 1996, when Joey and Rachel went commando on an episode of Friends.

The pertinent dialogue:

Ross: Okay, now hold on. Joey, why can’t you just wear the underwear you’re wearing now?
Joey: Because, um, I’m not wearing any underwear now.
Ross: Okay, then why do you have to wear underwear tonight?
Joey: It’s a rented tux, Okay. I’m not gonna go commando in another man's fatigues.

As Joey’s line and the military history suggest, “to go commando” is traditionally associated with men; appropriating it for a women’s brand makes it that much more dramatic and memorable.

Commando is a popular trademark for many products other than underwear: I found records in the USPTO database for Commando padlocks, lubricants, auto parts, tires, coffee, beer, and jerky. I also discovered that Commando the underwear company—which to date has been a women-only brand—has filed for protection of “Commando Naked,” a men’s line.

Co-founder O’Brien says on the Commando website that the company’s products are “sometimes saucy” and “put the fun in functional.” Most of the product names, however, are descriptive: thong, high-rise panty, cami, half-slip, control brief. Nope, nary a cheekini in the lineup—although I admit the “Commando” brand name had me seeing the descriptive term tank in a new light. It’s in the “accessories” category that Commando lets its guerrilla flag fly.

The very first Commando product, in fact, was named Takeouts (“The Better Boob Job”). The “full-cup-boosting” silicone inserts—known generically as cutlets—cost $48 and are “grope tested,” it says here.

Other accessories with creative names include Low Beams (single-use nipple covers), Top Hats (reusable nipple covers), Matchsticks (double-stick tape for bra straps), Match Tips (double-stick adhesive dots), and Cleavage Cupcakes (“a perky plump-up for what nature already gave you”). The cheeky names are supported by playful copy that spins each metaphor for everything it’s worth.

By the way, Commando’s URL is WearCommando.com. Commando.com is a communications agency in Chicago. As I’ve said before, you don’t need a “pure” URL when you’ve got a plausible alternative and a strong brand story.

Bonus link: The 10 Commandments of Going Commando (“1. Thou Shalt Not Take a Yoga Class”).

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Previously on Underwear Week:

Cheekini

True & Co. and the MILFs

Underwear startups

Ginch Gonch

Word of the Week: Cheekini

Cheekini: A style of women’s underwear with moderate coverage in front and on the sides and a raised cut in the rear that covers some but not all of the buttock cheeks.

Victoria’s Secret Bridal Cheekini Panty.

The style sometimes appears, with minor variations, under different names: boykini panties, boyleg briefs, hipster panties, booty shorts. All are marketed as comfortable, panty-line-less alternatives to thong underwear (disparaged by detractors as “butt floss”).

I first discovered cheekini on the Victoria’s Secret website, but the term is neither original nor exclusive to that retailer. JC Penney sells cheekini panties under its Flirtitude label; it also sells visually similar boykini panties and hipster panties. I also found cheekini panties by Steve Madden, Betsey Johnson, and Felina.

The earliest citation I found for cheekini is a July 2006 blog post, “Cheekini Is the New Thong!”,  that credited DKNY with coining the term. However, a search for DKNY cheekini underwear came up empty-handed, or -cheeked, and all the images on that 2006 post have vanished.

I found the most extensive definition for cheekini in an unexpected place: a blog called He Wears Panties (“a friendly place to discuss lingerie and women’s clothing with men who wear it”):

Cheekini panties are clearly a play on the ‘bikini’. The general idea of the cheekini is that the rear of the panty is cut quite high across the buttock, leaving a fair amount of cheek showing whilst also reducing panty lines in the process. These are a viable alternative to thong lovers who are growing tired of feeling as if they have a never ending wedgie.

Cheekini is yet another variation on the linguistically productive bikini, which was adopted in 1946 as the name of a new French swimsuit as “explosive” as the nuclear-bomb tests that had recently taken place on Bikini Atoll in the Pacific Ocean.

Read my previous posts about -kini and -ini:

• “Put on a Suit and You’ll Look Cute” (bikini history; plus skirtini, tankini, monokini, microkini, burqini).
• “New -kini on the Block” (trikini)
• “Logic-ini” (-ini in the comics)
• “-Kini Season” (nun-kini, Babi-kini, spring-kini)
• “Bikini and Beyond” (the whole -kini catalog, for the Visual Thesaurus)

Taking the Piss

Who’s minding the store at Target? A week ago Consumerist reported that the retailer was selling a plus-size dress in a color unflatteringly called Manatee Gray. (A manatee is also known as a sea cow.) This week there’s been a cross-lingual dustup over a sandal style called “Orina,” which means “urine” in Spanish.

 

Image from Yahoo Shine. Target quickly removed the product page and is said to be renaming the style.

 

“Does no one speak Spanish at Target HQ or have access to this thing we call Google?” asked Consumerist reporter Mary Beth Quirk. No and no, apparently. Target’s initial defense was that “orina” means “peaceful” in Russian. As though Russian rather than Spanish were the second-most-spoken language in the United States, after English.

I learned about Target’s number-one problem via a tweet from Mighty Red Pen, who also sent me a link to Yahoo Shine’s coverage of the story. Full marks to senior editor Lylah M. Alphonse, whose recounting of other notable naming gaffes sets the record straight on the Chevy Nova “no-go” myth.

Target isn’t the only business with Orina issues. A similar etymological fallacy led to the naming of Café Orina in the Bay Area city of Concord, California.

 

When Maura Storace sent me the photo, she commented, “I wonder if the coffee they serve is amber-colored?”

The café’s About Us page includes this earnest explanation:

Meaning of Orina
Its source is Eirene, a Greek name meaning “Peace.”

Narrative: This was the name of the Greek goddess of peace. Until the 20th century, it was commonly pronounced in three syllables (i-REE-nee).

Very nice, but there are almost 700,000 native Spanish speakers in the San Francisco Bay Area, and only a relative handful of Greek speakers.

Moral: Check several bilingual dictionaries before committing to a lovely-sounding exotic name. And know your market.

And as long as this post is already in the toilet, here’s Kmart’s new TV spot, which – incongruously for a retailer not known for creative marketing – takes positive glee in its potty humor. The much-repeated tagline is “Ship my pants.”

 

 

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For more on the British idiom “taking the piss” – not to be confused with “taking a piss” – read this.

Names in the Wild: Walgreen's en Español

I was in a Walgreen’s in South Berkeley, looking for something else entirely, when I was distracted by a shelf full of health and beauty products I’d never noticed, from brands catering to the Spanish-speaking market. I put away my shopping list and took out my camera and notebook.

For starters, I appreciate a bilingual name pun.

Campana is Spanish for “bell.”

It says here that Asepxia is “the leading brand in Latin America for acne treatment.”

I assumed that the name signifies “aseptic,” but I stumbled over the pronunciation. In Spanish, X usually sounds like H in the middle of a word (Mexico is “meh-hee-co”), but in some words of indigenous derivation it sounds like S or SH: the Mexico City district of Xochimilco is pronounced Socheemilco, for instance. I’m guessing Asepxia is pronounced “asepsia,” with the X inserted for trademarkability and a science-y look.

Goicoechea is a Basque (euskera) surname, possibly the name of someone involved with the company, which is based in Mexico and called Genomma Lab International. The company’s been around since 1926, but I couldn’t find out much more about it. Is “Genomma” supposed to suggest “genome”?

I was also struck by “reaffirming,” which sounds very motivational. A U.S. equivalent would say “firming.”

My photo wasn’t sharp enough, so I’ve substituted one from Walgreens.com.

The illustrations on this packet of McCoy cod-liver-oil tablets look as though they haven’t changed since 1932. The real McCoy!

The lady on the left is grimacing as she takes her dose by the spoonful (“desagradable” – disagreeable), while the lady on the left is enjoying her pastillas, which have “neither taste nor odor.”

Yes, the male-enhancement products were right next to the cod-liver-oil tablets. Hombrón means “big man.” You already know what Super Macho means. I liked el toro, whose image isn’t used frivolously: the product claims to contain “bull glands.”

This particular Walgreen’s is always deserted when I shop there, so I’ve never drawn any conclusions about its customers. Apparently enough of them speak Spanish to justify bilingual signs like this one on almost every aisle:

“Salta de Alegría” doesn’t have quite the promotional zip of “Get a Hop on Happy” – it’s closer to “Jump for Joy.”

After my Spanish-immersion excursion I was primed to notice the nametag on my sales clerk: MAREA, which translates to “tide” (as in low or high, ebb or flood). She’s lucky she wasn’t named Mareo, which means seasickness.

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Also see Names in the Wild: Japantown.

Here a Here, There a Here, Everywhere a Here Here

Have you heard? Nokia has rebranded all of its navigation products with a single name: HERE.

The official story, in flawless brandbabble:

“HERE is a name that I think signifies what I call an ethos in cartography. HERE is about a sense of location,” said Michael Halbherr, the Nokia executive who oversees the company’s location and commerce unit, in an interview at Mobile World Congress in Barcelona this week. (Via TechCrunch, March 2)

I can’t explain why the name is in spelled in ALL CAPS everywhere on the website except in the logo.

 

And here’s more news: PayPal has introduced a new credit-card reader for mobile devices. It, too, is called Here.

 

Eunice Park of the branding agency Catchword gives the PayPal Here name an A-:

“Here” focuses on the target audience and freshly, yet familiarly conveys its benefit: the ability to do business here and now, here and again, here there and everywhere.

However, if you happen to forget, as I did, which company makes the mapping Here and which one makes the payment Here, and you attempt to do a web search simply for “here” … well, you’ll learn some moderately interesting things about here documents and deixis and the Here Lounge in West Hollywood. 

But you won’t get Here, or HERE, from there.

Image via Medium Italic.

Only ONE Star?

Every time I see one of these Macy’s ads…

 

…I expect the rest of the sentence to read “…out of a possible five.”

Brand Name from the Past: Sorosis

I learned about the defunct American shoe brand Sorosis from Manolo the Shoeblogger, who posted this 1905 ad on his blog last year:

Original source: All-American Ads 1900-1919.

Manolo was interested in the style of the shoe; my own interest is in the Sorosis name. How did a word that sounds like a disease (cirrhosis? psoriasis?) become a brand of “the most distinctly fashionable shoes that are on the market”? Was there a relationship, I wondered, between Sorosis and “sorority”? Or with the Sorosis clubs for professional women, which had been founded in New York in 1868 and are still thriving in some U.S. cities?

Or maybe (I wondered whimsically) with Yiddish tsuris?

Here’s what I found out.

Not What They Seem

Names that look like one thing and mean another.

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PaeDae: Not a K-pop rising star!

 

“Free stuff is awesome, but free stuff you want is even awesomer.”

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Snoxin: Not a mucus-based poison!

“Currently not available in the USA.”

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Vag Fresh: Not a feminine-hygiene product!

Via Regretsy (be sure to read the comments!) by way of Jessica Stone Levy.

What Is Happy?

An adjective, you say? Not so fast.

Sometimes it’s a noun.

 

Bus-stop ad for Target’s “instant happy” gift card (or “GiftCard”).

 

Sometimes it’s part of a compound verb.

 

Cover of designer Jonathan Adler's new book, 100 Ways to Happy Chic Your Life. “Happy Chic” is a Jonathan Adler trademark for bedding, candles, tableware, furniture, and other products.

 

 

And sometimes it’s a name.

Happy, one of the seven dwarfs in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.