Fritinancy

Manifesto Destiny

Manifesto: from the Italian, “a public declaration.” Earliest English citation 1620.

Karl Marx published one about communism in 1848. Tristan Tzara issued one about Dada in 1918. Richard Stallman wrote one about GNU in 1985. British political parties have had them since 1900 (or 1834, if you count Sir Robert Peel’s Tamworth Manifesto).

The Unabomber had one. Chris Dorner had one. Anders Breivik had one.

During last year’s presidential campaign, business owner and “job creator” Steven Pearlstein wrote one that appeared in the Washington Post.

Sheryl Sandberg “sort of” has one.

Acumen (formerly the Acumen Fund) has one that’s incorporated into its new logo. It “serves as a moral compass to ground us in the kinds of leaders we hope to be and to reflect the values of leadership required in an interconnected world.”

Logos via Brand New blog.

 

People who want a break from e-gadgets have a manifesto.

The Sabbath Manifesto, “slowing down lives since 2010.”

 

Yoga-wear retailer Lululemon has a manifesto.

“Life is full of setbacks.”

 

 

Housewares/furniture designer Jonathan Adler has a manifesto. This is only part of it.

“WE BELIEVE tassels are the earrings of the home.”

 

 Actress Jessica Chastain is the face of Manifesto, the new fragrance from Yves Saint Laurent. The collaboration “seemed like an incredible fit,” Chastain told the New York Times in February.

Her hands are gloved in purple paint because purple was “the color of absolute seduction for Mr. Saint Laurent.” The fragrance’s tagline is “Daring Is an Art.”

 

The last word (for now) on manifestos goes to copywriter-turned-novelist John Kenney. This is from his new novel, Truth in Advertising (Touchstone, New York, 2013):

And what is a manifesto, you might ask?

You may have a vague notion from history class that a manifesto once referred to the soul of a revolution: blood, sweat, and tears on paper, codifying women’s rights, civil rights, human rights, economic justice, religious freedom. Today, it’s about diapers. Or cars. Or refrigerators. Or gas grills. Or dental floss. In advertising, a manifesto is something that sums up a brand, one page, maybe two hundred words. Name the product and my people will write the manifesto for it. Superlative claims, a badly skewed world view, sentences like, “Because let’s be honest—what’s more important at the end of your day than your family … and their enjoyment of grilled meats?”

UPDATE: The last last word comes by way of commenter Marcelo, who provided a link to “The Manifesto Manifesto,” created by writer/creative director Kim Mok and published in Fast Company in 2011.

On the Visual Thesaurus: Shall We Plus?

My latest column for the Visual Thesaurus, “Shall We Plus?”, looks at the evolution of “plus” from preposition, adjective, and noun into a verb. Full access to the column is restricted to subscribers; here’s a sample:

Enterprise Rent-A-Car is also positive about plussing — although “Plus Your Life,” the slogan for the “enhanced Enterprise Plus loyalty program,” is ambiguous.

The phrase makes marketing sense only if we understand “plus” to be a verb meaning “improve.” At first glance, though, it's easy to think it means “And your life.” That was Washington Post copy editor and usage-guide author Bill Walsh's mocking interpretation: he tweeted a photo of one of the “Plus Your Life” ads and commented, “If you're willing to die for Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”

Read the rest of the article, which includes more examples of verbified “plus” from marketing and – a surprise to me – government.

And also see my March 2013 post on the Sutter Health slogan “We Plus You.”

One Who Readers

Last week Google announced that it’s pulling the plug on Google Reader, which for years has allowed people like me to subscribe to, organize, and quickly scan dozens or even hundreds of blogs and websites with RSS feeds. “While the product has a loyal following, over the years usage has declined,” was the summary judgment. Cue gnashing of teeth and rending of garments.

I recall going through a similar period of mourning a few years ago when Bloglines shut down. After I made the switch to Google Reader I figured I was safe, which proves how little I know about capitalism and its discontents. Now, like the rest of the loyal followers, I’m searching for a Google Reader replacement. Suggestions welcome.*

In the meantime some eager minion at Prismatic noticed my public jeremiad and solicited my business via tweet. Here’s what I saw when I clicked the link:

 

Hey there, Prismatic: You’re missing a comma after “Hey there.”

 

Prismatic isn’t what I’m looking for – I want lists and folders, not a newspaper layout – but I do admire “Readerer.” I’ve written about super-superlative -erers – funnerer, gooderer, creamier-er, closerer, Maker’s-er, dumberer, et al. – but “Readerer” is the first agentive -erer that’s caught my attention.

__

* Non-iOS only, please.

On the Visual Thesaurus: How 'Livery' Changed Its Spots

My latest column for the Visual Thesaurus looks at how a very old English word, livery, has changed meanings over the last 700 years. Livery comes from Latin liberare, to liberate, via French livere, and it originally meant an allowance of clothing or food provided by a master to his servants or animals.

My interest is in a much more recent definition of livery: the distinctive look of a vehicle or product. You may have noticed this usage in stories earlier this year about American Airlines’ first new visual identity in 45 years.

 

Photo from Chicago Tribune: “American Airlines Reveals New Logo, Livery”

Full access to the Visual Thesaurus story is restricted to subscribers (who also get to read all the other great content on the site). Here’s an excerpt:

Meanwhile, in general usage livery’s meaning gradually shifted to “a servant’s uniform,” on the one hand, and “the renting out of horses for a fee,” on the other. (Livery can also be an adjective – “having the flavor or texture of liver” – but that’s beside the point here.) Livery also acquired a metaphorical sense of “outward appearance,” as in the line in a Shakespearean sonnet: “Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now.”

That figurative sense is the one preserved nonfiguratively in American Airlines’ “logo and livery.” But the path from Bard to brand was neither straight nor swift. Unlike many examples of contemporary commercial jargon, it first cropped up in the Old World and took more than a century to cross the Atlantic.

Read the rest of the column.

The Names of Fine-Art Book Presses

On Sunday I attended the CODEX International Book Fair, an annual exhibition and sale of artists’ books and fine-art editions. It’s a spectacular event—nearly 200 exhibitors from all over the United States and several other countries—in a magnificent setting: Richmond’s Craneway Pavilion, at the edge of the bay. Although Craneway is only about 15 miles north of my house, this was my first visit. It won’t be my last. The 525,000-square-foot sawtooth-roof structure, designed by the prolific German-American architect Albert Kahn, housed a Ford Motor Company assembly plant, the largest on the West Coast, from 1932 through 1955. It originally produced Model “A” cars; during World War II it was retooled to produce tanks and jeeps. Women—the inspiration for “Rosie the Riveter”—made up much of the plant’s wartime workforce. The Rosie the Riveter/World War II Home Front National Historical Park is adjacent to the pavilion, in the old Kaiser shipyard, which built Liberty ships.

The building was severely damaged in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. In 2004 it was bought by a development company; the renovation, by Marcy Wong Donn Logan Architects, resulted in a 2008 National Trust for Historic Preservation award. (Here’s a Flickr set of the building taken with a kite-lofted camera.)

The light-filled pavilion made an inspired and inspiring setting for the hundreds of art books on display. My artist friend Susan Bercu has written about the aesthetic highlights of the CODEX show; I’ll focus here on memorable names of presses and book designers. These are names that truly serve as the titles of stories—names that make you want to strike up a conversation.

Get It Off Your Chest

Moist jeans may be the Next New Thing; moist bras, not so much. Fortunately, there’s an app—a nappy?—for that: the Wick’em moisture-managing bra liner.

 

For consistency, shouldn’t it be “to keep ’em dry”?

 

 

As a brand name, “Wick’em” is assertively descriptive if a bit too reminiscent of Hang ’em High. (I’d like it better if the brand were spelled Wickham and the styles were called Lady Wickham, the Dowager Countess of Wickham, and Mistress Wickly.*) There’s no way to make “wick” sound elegant, and the apostrophe takes it even further downmarket.

The folksiness of that eye dialect is at odds with the boardroom-stiff brand voice of Wick’em’s parent company, Coconut Grove Intimates (whose other products include adhesive bras and which is headquartered, incongruously, in Ontario, Canada, far from any coconut groves I’m aware of). There’s that “moisture management” descriptor, for starters. And on Wick’em’s About Us page I learned that Coconut Grove Intimates is “an industry leader in the development of solution-oriented bras and bra accessories.” Maybe Hank Hill should be the corporate spokesman.

 

 

Hat tip to Corporette for the Wick’em link.

 

P.S. If you’re goin’ to go droppin’ letters, at least get it straight. It’s “Wear ’n’ Care”—one apostrophe for each of the missing letters in “and”—not “Wear N’ Care.”

__

* And I’d really like to rename the product Bosom Buddy, but it’s taken.

Moist Slacks

Do the two words in the title of this post make your skin crawl? Your gorge rise? Then, Gentle Reader, I suggest you watch some cat videos, because today we are in fact going to talk about moist slacks, two of the most loathed words in the English language, according to various unscientific polls.

Please understand that I’m simply reporting the news from U.S. jeansmaker Wrangler, which recently announced the launch of Denim Spa, a line of slacks – OK, denim slacks, aka jeans – infused with moisturizing ingredients “to protect your legs from the dehydrating effects of denim.” Denim dehydrates? News to me.

(Tangentially, I’m sad they didn’t call it “Denim Oasis.” I was all set with jokes about palms and dates and the toes of camels.)

Wrangler, which has been around since 1947, has traditionally catered to rodeo cowboys, but we’re not talking Brokeback Mountain and chapped chappies here. Denim Spa is a women-only brand, and it will be sold (at first, anyway) only in the U.K. The line’s official spokesmodel is Lizzie Jagger*, daughter of Mick. “They’re definitely cooler than regular jeans,” coos Ms. Jagger in a promotional video.

Wrangler Denim Spa “Molly” skinny jeans with olive extract. Available January 28 from online retailer Asos for $149.51.

 

The moisture lasts for 15 days, after which the wearer can replenish it with a “reload spray.” One of the formulas, Smooth Legs, is supposed to fight cellulite, which is a marketing word that means “bumpy fat.”

(Sodden afterthought: What if fashion brand Superdry started selling moisturizing jeans? Would they be labeled Supermoist?)

Setting aside the desirability of jeans that require regular lube jobs, let’s tackle the big question: What is it that people detest about moist and slacks and other “least favorite words” like vomit, panties, goiter, and ointment? In “Words We Love to Hate,” published on the Visual Thesaurus, Ben Zimmer speculated:

It’s difficult to find any unifying thread for these words that get people’s goat. But much like the enjoyable words on the “favorites” list like serendipity and mellifluous, there's a certain sound/sense combination that sparks these word aversions. Why does moist merit a Facebook group of haters, while hoist and joist go unnnoticed? It’s more than just the sound of the word: the disliked words tend to have some basic level of ickiness.

Maybe it’s the vowel sound, Zimmer suggests:

Ointment and goiter share the “oi” sound with moist: there must be something about that diphthong that gets under people's skin.

Oy!

Still, context counts. For some reason, we may give a pass to moist if it modifies cake, as in the Duncan Hines tagline:

“So moist. So delicious. And so much more.”

And skin-care companies haven’t perceived a need to replace “moisturizer” with a less icky word, as many pages of Google hits attest.

Likewise, the guys at the construction site near my house seemed unperturbed by the Moistop signs stapled all over the building frame.

 

I read first the name as “moist top,” then enjoyed thinking of it as “Moi? Stop?” I finally parsed it the way I suppose it’s intended: as a blend of moist and stop.

__

* Or Lizzy, as her signature spells it.

(Hat tip to Diane Fischler for the Denim Spa story.)

Squirrel!

It’s funny how you can go for months without seeing “squirrel” in print, and then, bam, two sightings within three days.

The first squirrel is a red herring. It appears in Joseph Epstein’s Wall Street Journal review of Yip Harburg: Legendary Lyricist and Human Rights Activist, a biography by Harriet Hyman Alonso of the man who wrote the lyrics to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” “April in Paris,” and “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” Harburg was born Isidore Hochberg in New York City in 1896; he changed his name to Edgar Y. Harburg in 1934 but was generally known as E.Y. Harburg or Yip Harburg.

Why “Yip”? In his review, Epstein says the nickname “came from the Yiddish word for squirrel, yipsl, which his parents called him when he was a child.” But the Yiddish word for squirrel is actually the Slavic-derived veverke; no Yiddish dictionary contains yipsl. According to Alonso, who devotes the first chapter of her book to the origin of “Yip,” Harburg related the yipsl-squirrel story to the oral historian Studs Terkel. Alonso passes it along without further comment, as does Epstein.

It’s entirely possible, though, that Harburg was pulling Terkel’s leg – or being squirrelly (“cunningly unforthcoming or reticent”). Because while yipsl has no meaning in Yiddish, the acronym YPSL is both meaningful and relevant: it stands for Young People’s Socialist League, which was founded in 1907 as the student arm of the American Socialist Party and whose members were known as – yep – “Yipsels.” In a 2004 column for The Jewish Daily Forward, the pseudonymous language columnist Philologos wrote that “Harburg was a political radical who was blacklisted in Hollywood in the 1940s, and it is possible that he was nicknamed ‘Yipsel,’ subsequently shortened to ‘Yip,’ because of his YPSL-like views even if he never was a YPSL member.” Other distinguished Yipsels or sympathizers included the political scientist Daniel Bell, the literary and social critic Irving Howe, the writer Saul Bellow, and the journalist (and eventual neoconservative) Irving Kristol.

*

The second squirrel is a semi-secret one.

Secret Squirrel Cold Brew Coffee is a bottled coffee concentrate; one 16-ounce bottle makes six to seven eight-ounce drinks. The company is based in Studio City (Los Angeles County), but according to the clumsily written FAQ the name has a different geographic origin:

Growing up in Washington DC area a secret squirrel was something like knowing a shortcut around traffic, or knowing the hideaway parking spot, or knowing the unknown electrical outlet in the coffee shop. It only seemed fitting for this centuries old method for brewing coffee that few people know about.

(That awkward dangler at the beginning of the paragraph is one good argument for editors. Another is knowing how to hyphenate compound adjectives. Elsewhere on the website, a proofreader would have caught “anyway” for “any way,” sentences that end without periods, and introductory clauses without commas. But I digress.)

I have no idea whether the D.C. story is true – anyone care to confirm? I do know, however, that “Secret Squirrel” was the title character of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon that aired for a few seasons in the mid-1960s and was briefly revived in the 1990s. The character was a spy; whether it got its name from the Washington shortcut or vice versa, I cannot say.

*

Finally, a few squirrel tidbits:

• The Latin word for squirrel, sciurus, translates to “shadow tail.”
• In many Germanic languages the word for “squirrel” translates to “oak kitten.” (It’s Eichhörnchen in German.)
• The Spanish word for “squirrel,” ardilla, translates to “like a flame.” (From arder, to burn.)
• See “squirrel” translated into almost 300 languages, including Klingon, here.

*

And here’s my favorite cinematic squirrel sighting, or near-sighting:

Dug the Dog, from Up (2009)

December Linkfest

A new language quarterly, aptly called Babel, brings linguistics to a general audience without dumbing down the subject. Published at the University of Huddersfield (UK), the magazine covers “issues relating to many different human languages” – and some non-human ones, including, in the first issue, Venusian. I’m already looking forward to the second issue, which will include an article about “the secret linguistic history of brand names.”

*

At Word Routes, Ben Zimmer recaps the year in words and picks his word of the year. (Surprise – it isn’t fiscal cliff.) I published my own list earlier this week.

*

Do not ask science-fiction author John Scalzi to write for free. No, really – don’t even think about it.

*

In the 1920s, when TV was still in its infancy, retailers used fake television broadcasts to trick customers into entering stores. Smithsonian magazine’s Paleofuture blog explains how it was done. 

Faked TV demonstration from 1926, via Smithsonian.

*

From caucus to urbane: the words that spiked each week this year in look-ups at Merriam-Webster online.

*

Catalog love: Your L.L. Bean Boyfriend. He’ll “build you a table and then have sex with you on it.” (Via Girls of a Certain Age.)

*

From Jen Doll at The Atlantic Wire, the best (worst) typos, mistakes, and correrctions [sic] of 2012.

*

Holly Buchanan of Marketing to Women Online picks the  commercials that did the best job of marketing women in 2012. She has strict criteria:

In order to pass The Buchanan Test a commercial must do three things. It must feature women who:

1. Are outside of the home
2. Are in a role other than that of "mother"
3. Are NOT doing yoga

(For comparison, see Bechdel Test.)

*

“So it looks like the New Orleans Hornets are going to change their name to become the Pelicans.” A defense of the new team name by Barry Petchesky at Deadspin. (Naughty language advisory.)

*

From my favorite info-viz site, Muckety (“Mapping the paths of power and influence”): The Trump Fund for the Gutting of Red Herrings and other think tanks we’d like to see in 2013.

*

I grew up in Los Angeles and always wondered why the Ralphs supermarket chain didn’t have an apostrophe in its name. Now, thanks to Los Angeles magazine, I know: the business was founded (in 1873, at Fifth and Hill streets) by George Ralphs.

*

“Twitter is a machine for continual self-reinvention”: Matt Haughey on why he loves Twitter and hates Facebook.

*

Something to play with while you’re waiting in line to see The Hobbit, which opens in theaters today: the hobbit name generator and the Elvish name generator. (Via @Wordnik.)

*

Like it or not, the “fiscal cliff” metaphor is here to stay. Linguist George Lakoff explains why.

*

“I sculpt baby names from love, from hatred, from the reality of this hellhole of a world that you’re forcing an innocent life to endure.” Bob Powers, artisanal baby namer, at McSweeney’s. Yes, he jests. Mostly. (Via Karen Wise.)

*

Over at The Atlantic, sociology professor Philip Cohen asks: Why don’t parents name their daughters Mary anymore? (Also via Karen Wise.)

*

From Copyranter: The best men’s underwear commercial ever.

*

According to Helen Sword, author of a column for the New York Times and creator of something called the Writer’sDiet test, a “zombie noun” is any noun (proliferation, formation, indication) that “cannibalizes” a verb. Now linguistics grad student Josef Fruehwald, blogging at Val Systems, delivers an incisive counterpoint. “Ain’t nothing like exploiting the collective dysmorphia of a nation to push your quarter-baked usage decrees,” says he.

*

Via the brilliant Maria Popova at Brain Pickings: Alice in Wonderland as a subway map.

*

And to all a good night.

Fashion Word Watch: Smoking Slipper

I follow shoe trends pretty closely, for personal and professional reasons, and I’ve read a fair amount about shoe history. I know that since the beginning of time there have been only a finite number of shoe styles; all the rest is variation. (Even the briefly ballyhooed flatforms of Spring/Summer 2011 were just catchily rebranded Renaissance chopines.)

Which is why, when I started seeing references to something called “smoking slippers” a little over a year ago, I was more skeptical than surprised. I recognized the shoe style; it was the name that was completely new to me.

 

Yes/No smoking slippers from Stubbs & Wootton.

The earliest reference I could find to “smoking slippers” was in a March 28, 2011, WWD Footwear News article that declared smoking slippers to be a “must buy”:

The message for fall is about leisure and luxury, as the classic smoking slipper returns in rich velvet and suede, with quirky embellishments such as embroidery and rhinestones.

In July 2011 the ShopBop blog echoed the imperative in that very special dialect of English known as Fashionspeak. The smoking slipper is a “best bet” for fall, said ShopBop:

It comes with fashion’s return to the leisure class, and thanks to the industry’s obsession with androgyny, ladies are wearing the footwear once reserved for cigar-puffing, scotch-swilling men in velvet jackets.

I believe we’re meant to picture Hugh Hefner.

Image from ShopBop blog.

Smoking slippers circa 2011 were made of soft fabrics or plush leathers such as suede and haircalf. They looked casual yet luxurious, and definitely more covered-up than fashion’s previous footwear “obsession,” the ultrafeminine, barely there ballet flat.

You’ll notice that these smoking slippers share a distinctive profile: a raised vamp with a slight notch where it meets the side of the shoe. In standard footwear parlance, that qualifies them as Venetian loafers.

Now, that was a term I was familiar with. Venetian loafers have been a standard men’s style for years (see Robert Zur, John Varvatos, and Prada). Lands’ End uses “Venetian” to describe its women’s versions, too. It’s unclear why Venice is implicated; I once read something about the raised/notched vamp resembling the prow of a Venetian barque, but I’ve since been unable to find that reference. (“Loafer” to describe a shoe style has nothing to do with laziness, by the way: the word comes from German läufer, meaning “runner.” And “slipper,” at least in the US, usually means “house slipper.”)

“Smoking slipper” wasn’t the only name invented for this new/old style. Throughout the autumn and winter of 2011 I saw almost equal numbers of references to “smoking flat” and “slipper flat.” They all referred to the essentially the same thing.

Just as the name was solidifying, in the summer and fall of 2012, the criteria for “smoking slipper” began to relax. The style suddenly seemed to be everywhere, including on discount sites, and it covered a lot of fashion ground.

 

“Smoking slippers” on sale earlier this week at Neiman Marcus Last Call. All except the shoe at far right share that raised/notched vamp. The snake-print shoe is more accurately called a piped plain-toe loafer.

Soft, slipperlike materials, yes – but also leathers suitable for venturing outdoors, not to mention biker-chick embellishments.

Earlier this month, the Wall Street Journal’s fashion reporter, Christina Binkley, called smoking slippers “power flats”:

A big look for upcoming seasons: smoking slippers, which begin where Cary Grant left off, puffing on a cigar before the fireplace. While the traditional velvet of smoking slippers might be too soft for power shoes, Stuart Weitzman and Elizabeth & James have them in sturdier materials such as patent, tweed and snakeskin. The look is wholly modern and fashion–forward.

There’s that cigar again! Clearly, there’s some connection between tobacco and these shoes. But what?

Well, there’s the smoking jacket, defined in the 1850s by The Gentleman’s Magazine of London as a “kind of short robe de chambre, of velvet, cashmere, plush, merino or printed flannel, lined with bright colours, ornamented with brandenbourgs, olives or large buttons.”

A. Sulka & Co. smoking jacket (1950) via Antique & Vintage Dress Gallery.

One can picture hard-soled, soft-uppered slippers, perhaps with a monogram or family crest, accompanying such a garment. Try as I might, though, I could not find any historical references to “smoking slippers.”

The association of “smoking slippers” with women’s fashion  may have more to do with the French couturier Yves Saint Laurent, who in 1966 introduced a women’s tuxedo he called “Le Smoking.” According to a Wikipedia entry, “In French and many other languages, the anglicism smoking is a generic colloquialism referring to any kind of tuxedo/black tie clothing.”

And today’s “smoking slippers” do resemble an item of men’s formalwear.

It’s called an opera pump. (Photo via SFGate; shoes available at Saks.)