Monthly Archives: July 2013

pillion

Does this word seem like it should be about pills or pillars? Look at those pillars in the middle, illi – is that what they are, perhaps holding up a pavilion? Is this word really billion with a b that has fallen and lost its voice? Or is there a pillow involved?

Pillow? How about a cushion? How about if the illi is two people, one in front of the other? Maybe with bags or equipment… hmm… Is that a bit of a reach? If you have a saddle or motorbike seat with a cushion behind it on which a second person can ride?

Because that’s what a pillion is: it’s a cushion on which a person can ride behind the driver of a motorcycle or the person with the reins on a horse. You just pile on and try not to look like a pillock. And that makes the circles in the p and o the front and back tires of the motorbike, perhaps – as Jim Taylor noted when he suggested this word.

Pillion can also refer to the passenger, and the pillion on the pillion can be said to be riding pillion. So where does this pile of pillions come from? Probably Irish Gaelic pillín or Scots Gaelic pillean, which come from pellis, Latin for ‘skin’ or ‘hide’ or ‘leather’. Which, incidentally, is probably also what both driver and pillion are wearing.

Maybe don’t make these sounds too much

I have heard from various people that certain speech and quasi-speech sounds can be quite irritating. Now, some of them are normal enough when used just a little here and there – it’s just their overuse or overly obtrusive use that’s the issue. Some are simple matters of taste and don’t bother some people at all. Some are probably best left undone altogether. But, just to make the point in an in-your-face and just slightly tongue-in-cheek way, I’ve titled my latest article for TheWeek.com

10 annoying sounds you need to stop making

shindig

I do love a good shindig, don’t you? Maybe some dishes to dig into, glasses of shandy and Guinness, dancing to music you can dig with people you’ll take a shine to… Shell out a few shinplasters and frug the night away! Dig your shins into it! Whatever that means.

I guess dancing is like digging shins… somehow… Actually, shindig could as easily be a paleontological excavation (along with skulldig and ribdig and so on). But it’s not. And it could be a kick in the shins in repayment for some subtle dig. But it’s… well, actually, that’s the first recorded sense for shindig. But no one’s used it that way for 150 years, as far as I know, so we can ignore that in favour of the ‘party’ sense – and the other sense of a donnybrook, a knockabout, a brawl.

Duane Aubin suggested this word, and noted,

This is one of those words that just feels good in the mouth, to me anyway. It’s got an “upness” to it with its ascenders and dots lifting the i’s and lifting the eyes; “dig” offers that anchoring descender that provides a surprisingly and balancing crisp resolution to the exclusively voiced consonants…

Yup, I do like it too. It starts with the teeth close together and the tongue up front for the slushy splash of “sh,” then it presses onto the tongue tip softly and then hardening in “nd,” and finally slides to the back and digs in at “g.” The vowels are both mid-high front, requiring little movement of the tongue and none of the lips. The whole thing is like a rake’s progress at a pool party: splash and swim, relax into cushy chairs, fall asleep (or anyway become recumbent) at the back. It has arms up in the air h d, hands holding up lit lighters (or phones) as at a concert i i, and finally that g that is like the s getting loose and low.

So where does it come from? Not, it seems, simply from shin plus dig. Oh, those two words are undoubtedly the reason it took this final form from its previous, but this was likely a matter of plastic surgery, not creation ex nihilo. Before it was shindig, this word was (the evidence suggests) shindy. What was that? The noun that was, before that, shinty. Oh, so what was that? The noun that was, before that, shinny.

Which, according to the OED, is basically field hockey, although in Canada it’s informal generally rule-free hockey played on ponds or streets or occasionally on cheap rec ice. Oh, and where does the word shinny come from? It seems to be based on some shout by the players of the old field hockey game, “Shin ye!” – that’s really helpful, now, isn’t it.

The shin, in any event, appears to come from the lower leg bone. So it’s pulled away from its direct sense and come back around to it again. Can you dig that?

Fnu Lnu

Does this look like fnu? I mean fun? What do you reckon it is? If you read the New York Times, you may already know the answer, but if you don’t, I’ll tell you that it’s a name for a person.

Not really a name like any you usually see, is it? Certainly it’s not in keeping with English phonotactics. Anglophones, looking at it, will tend to say “Fuh-noo Luh-noo.” Since we can’t start a syllable with /fn/ or /ln/, we tend by instinct to turn it into something that fits the rules of English pronunciation by stuffing in a vowel. This is like how an Italian speaker might say like as “like-a” or a Spanish speaker might say spoon as “espoon”: they’re not used to pronouncing the consonants in those positions, so they add a vowel to make it an allowable syllable.

There’s nothing intrinsically unpronounceable about /fn/ or /ln/. You can say toughness and wellness; those have the /fn/ and /ln/ across syllable boundaries, but you’re saying the sounds next to each other – syllables are mental, not physical, constraints. Say “ffff” and then break into “no”: “fffffffno!” It’s just a matter of getting used to it to make the /f/ shorter to say /fno/. Now say “helllllllno!” Drop the “he” and say “lllllno!” Same deal – just shorten the /l/ and make /lno/. It’s nothing other than mental barriers keeping us from say Fnu Lnu just as written.

It’s true that you don’t see /fn/ or /ln/ combinations in all that many languages. We have a combination similar to /fn/ in English: /sn/. But /s/ is more strident than /f/; it stands out more. It’s also two sounds made in the same place, whereas /fn/ moves from the teeth and lips to the tongue. So /sn/ is a little more likely to be found than /fn/, since /fn/ may over time shift to become /sn/ for ease and better sound. On the other hand, /ln/ is said in the same place – the tip of the tongue doesn’t move – but that’s part of the reason for its rarity: the lateral /l/ sounds almost too similar to /n/ when it’s next to it. You’re quite likely to get assimilation, so it becomes /ll/ or /nn/, and then maybe just /l/ or /n/. So both words, Fnu and Lnu, are possible and are not hard to say, but they are less likely to be found in a given language.

So what language is this name Fnu Lnu from?

Judi Tull, of the Newport News Daily Press, must have been wondering that in 1994 when she reported on an indictment containing the name. Not too long after the article went to press, she found out. And so on a subsequent day the newspaper published the following:

An article in Saturday’s Local section incorrectly reported that a suspect identified as “Fnu Lnu” had been indicted by a federal grand jury. “Fnu Lnu” is not a name. FNU is a law enforcement abbreviation for “first name unknown,” LNU for “last name unknown.” Officials knew the suspect only by the nickname ‘Dezo.’

In other words, Fnu Lnu is something that was just put in to fill a gap, and was misread. So, since it’s English, say it as you will. But really, if you say “fuh-noo luh-noo,” you’ll be reading in something that’s not there, just to fill a gap.

And, hey, I didn’t say it really was a person’s name. I just said I’ll tell you that it’s a name for a person.

A play called Fnu Lnu was written and produced off-Broadway, inspired by the erratum. And the abbreviation is still in use. Read more in the January 4, 1998, Daily Press and in the July 15, 2013, New York Times.

Toto

On the way back from a weekend at a friend’s cottage, we had Toto’s CD IV playing in the car – the one with “Rosanna” and “Africa” on it. I first bought that as a record when it came out, when I was in high school. Thanks to it, I always think of two things when I hear the word Toto. The other thing, of course, is Dorothy’s little dog from The Wizard of Oz.

If this word were written all in lower-case, it could look mathematical: +0+0. In all upper case, it can still look geometric: TOTO. As a capitalized word, it mixes it up a bit more – the bar slides from the top to the middle – but it still has those two o’s.

And actually it can be an uncapitalized word. Not in English – in Latin. It’s an inflected form of the word for ‘all’. You’ll see it borrowed into English in the phrase in toto, ‘in all’ or ‘completely’.

As a proper noun, it’s more than just the dog and the band. There’s an Indo-Bhutanese people living in West Bengal, India, who are called the Toto. Toto can also be a nickname for someone named Antonio or Salvatore. It was a common enough nickname a century ago that Frank Baum may have picked it for Dorothy’s dog just because it was a known name and he liked the sound. Whatever reason Baum used it (he doesn’t seem ever to have said), the musical group Toto got the name from the dog – but that was originally a placeholder name for their first studio recording project. They ultimately decided to keep it, and were likely also positively influenced by the all-encompassing Latin sense.

It’s a nice, simple name, anyway. Two taps of the tongue behind the teeth; the lips holding rounded. Replace the /t/ sounds with something else and you can get oh-oh, no-no, gogo, dodo, so-so, cocoa, yo-yo…

There’s one other Toto that I really should keep in mind, since it’s the one I look at several times a day. This one is a brand name, actually short for Toyo Toki, a Japanese company. They are the world’s biggest manufacturer of… toilets. I’m sure it’s just coincidence that toilet also starts with to (on the page; when it’s spoken, you have to treat the /ɔɪ/ as an ensemble). Anyway, we have two of their very good low-flow toilets (perhaps one for Dorothy, and one for her little dog too). They use barely enough water to melt the Wicked Witch of the West, but they still do their job very well.

Linguistic invasion?

My latest piece for TheWeek.com looks at “foreign” words that have come to be important in our political and military English, and how they got there:

Linguistic invasion! The foreign influence of English’s political and military words

My next article will be about annoying noises people – adults, even – make and should stop making. Do you have any favourites? Let me know today or tomorrow if you can!

bunting

“Bye, baby bunting, Father’s gone a-hunting…”

You’ve probably heard or read that one sometime in your life, maybe around the same time as “See-saw, Margery Daw.” It may be the first thing that comes to your mind when you see bunting.

Bunting fits there; there aren’t a whole lot of rhymes for hunting, and this one has a /b/ to work with it, giving a nice bumping, bouncing sound, heavier than banter (or Banting) and less scrunchy than bunching, and sharper than bending. But, now, tell me: what exactly does bunting mean in that rhyme? There are several words bunting, with different meanings and apparently different origins (though they all have in common that the origin is uncertain…).

Perhaps it’s the bunting that refers to a kind of light, shiny fabric used for ribbons and flags and decorations at festivals and political events. These days it can be any of quite a few fabrics, often synthetic, but originally it was a kind of worsted wool. In a political race, the one who had not been bested got to bring out the worsted. But I don’t think that’s the bunting in the rhyme.

I’m pretty sure that the baby in question is not playing baseball, either, unless he’s a Babe Ruth. So we can rule out a relation to that verb bunt that refers to hitting a baseball without swinging the bat.

When a sail bunts, it’s not deflecting a ball; it’s swelling, bellying out in the middle. The word almost seems too hard for such a thing, but there it is: bunting can refer to the bellying or bulging of a sail, net, or similar thing. There is some suggestion that baby bunting may mean the kid is pudgy, perhaps fattening.

Or perhaps the baby is a bird of the family Emberizidae. These various types of buntings are small birds, rather like finches. We can imagine that Margery Daw might be a bird (specifically a daw, of course – wife of Jack Daw?), so perhaps baby bunting is, well, a baby bunting? But then there’s the issue of “Father’s gone a-hunting.” Buntings don’t really go hunting; they eat seeds, and such bugs as they might happen to get (depending on the species of bunting). But you may see a bunting on a hunting trip – as the hunted. In some places (notably around the Mediterranean), they shoot them. So that bye could be a rather permanent bye-bye.

scad

I’m sure you know this word in the plural: scads, as in scads of money or scads of any of various other things. Meaning ‘lots, plenty’ – but with that /æ/ vowel that can allow the same broad long sound as in “faaabulous” or just tap into the louche quality of skag and stab and scab and similar words, like a flat skid.

But when we say tons of money or loads of money or lots of money or gobs of money or or or, we know what tons, loads, lots, gobs, et cetera are when they’re at home. Any idea what a scad is when it’s not a whole bunch?

For me, as long as I’ve known any sense other than the ‘plenty’ one, it’s been ‘a sudden, brief rain shower’. Now, that makes decent sense. It even sort of sounds right for that meaning. But there’s just one problem: you’re not going to find that sense in your dictionary. Not Merriam-Webster, not American Heritage, not even Oxford. You will find it betokening a kind of wild black plum, a kind of fish of the Caranx genus, salmon fry, a slab of peat or tuft of grass, or – in Scotland – a word for a faint appearance of colour or light. And pretty much all these scads are of obscure or unknown origin. But a rain shower? No.

Egad. Did I make it up? No, I know where I learned that sense. I learned it from a play by Newfoundland playwright Michael Cook. That’s a sense of the word that is, or at least used to be, current in Newfoundland. You can check the Dictionary of Newfoundland English. So if you’re a Newfoundlander out fishing for cod or shad, a scad can make you skid on the deck as your boat scuds on the ocean. I don’t know if there’s any link between this scad and the ‘plenty’ one; the shower scad appears to be related to a noun scud. Perhaps they came from the same place.

But we don’t know for sure. Like a good scad, the word just shows up from who-knows-where and does its stuff. Lots of stuff. Scads.

freshet

This word has a splash of refreshment in its sound, like Suzanne Pleshette with a bottle of Freixenet. In fact, it almost sounds like a brand name for plug-in air fresheners or mouthwash strips. Or it could be some little thing you catch in a fish net, or a female freshman, or a refreshed fourchette (French fork), or some hip-hop artist, or…

Just listen to how it splashes, like a Ferrari into a flooded underpass! First with the [f], then the swelling up of the liquid [r], then opening to the mid-front [ɛ] before the big splash of [ʃ] and the quick deceleration and downsplash of [ɪt]. Is it perhaps a quick rainstorm?

Close! It’s a sudden flood of a stream or river due to rain, melting snow, both, or something else. This word looks like it comes from fresh, and in fact it does. Originally it was just a name for a freshwater stream that flows into the sea, but by the mid-1600s it had gained the additional specific meaning of a quick flood of a fresh stream.

In short, it’s what Cougar Creek in Canmore and Exshaw Creek in Exshaw and the Elbow River in Calgary became a couple of weeks ago, and what the Don River and a few other streams became this afternoon in Toronto. Quick as a whisternefet (a sharp slap), a simple flow of fresh water flashed into flood form. Just because before the stream could empty, more and more water came to refreshet. Freshet’s sake…

tardigrade

Don’t know what a tardigrade is? Well, going by the word, what would you expect? Something scholastic, perhaps? After all, tardy is a word for ‘late’ used only by teachers, and usually just the ones you don’t like much, and grade is a school word par excellence. Or maybe it’s an Eastern Europe city, like Belgrade? Or perhaps it’s something science-fictiony… there is that echo of TARDIS, after all.

Well, imagine a creature that can survive in outer space. Imagine one that already has. On a space shuttle. Outside a space shuttle. This is a beastie that can withstand pressures several times as strong as those at the bottom of the ocean. It can withstand temperatures well above boiling, and close to absolute zero. It can withstand radiation in doses hundreds of times what would kill you or me. It can go without food and water for years. It can survive indefinite dehydration to 3% of its usual body water or less and then, when rehydrated, go on as if nothing had happened.

I mean, holy cow. And it’s got claws like bears. Eight of them: four pairs of legs. And it has a hard shell, and lays eggs. And it looks like a bear with no eyes and a mouth like an auger or something: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap130306.html. And it’s everywhere. Go for a stroll in a forest and they’re probably all around you. Dude, I’m not making this up.

Naturally, the only sort of critter that could possibly do and be all this is a very small one. And thank your lucky stars for this. (Some people think tardigrades actually came from nearby stars. It’s not entirely implausible.) Tardigrades are generally less than a millimetre long. (For my American readers, a millimetre is about 1/24 of an inch. Oh, and by the way, only three countries in the world don’t use metric: the US, Liberia, and Myanmar. Just going to leave that with you.)

A couple more things: it’s also called a water bear, and it lumbers kind of like a bear too. It’s not an especially fast-moving thing. In fact, that’s where its name comes from: Latin tardus ‘slow’ and gradus ‘walking’, by way of French. This indestructible intergalactic juggernaut is at least not a fast-moving one.

And, just to complete the picture, I must tell you it’s a stripper too. You may know that the fancy term for a stripper (peeler, exotic dancer) is ecdysiast. Well, tardigrades belong to the superphylum ecdysozoa – stripper life-forms. They shed their outer layers every so often – moulting, or, as biologists call it, ecdysis.

Isn’t that just incredibly charming and pleasant? Click-drag this beastie to about ten thousand times its current dimensions and you have something pretty near perfect for a sci-fi horror flick. But maybe give it a different name, something with a little less tard and grade.