Yearly Archives: 2015

squicky

This is an adjective. Just looking at it by itself, do you have a sense of what it means?

Don’t bother looking in your dictionary. It’s not in Oxford, Merriam-Webster, American Heritage, Dictionary.com… Too recent. But people use it. More often than many words that are in those dictionaries.

What does it have a taste of? Sick, quick, squeaky, squawk, slick, ick

Let’s have some context: “I can’t look at dermatology journals. The pictures make me squicky.” “Ted Cruz’s smile is, um, squicky.”

How about a bit of etymology?

Yes, there is etymology for this. The bad news is that it’s just that squicky comes from the word squick, which can be a verb or a noun: “That picture gives me squick.” “That picture is a squick.” “That picture squicks me.” “I squick at that picture.” As you can see, both causative and resultative senses are in use.

The exact sources of squick are subject to some speculation. A sound effect? A portmanteau of squeamish and ick? Perhaps just a word that sounded right for the situation and was used in a context where it caught on among a small group and gradually spread farther?

Either or both of the first two may be true, but that last one is pretty reliable. The word squick first showed up in some Usenet news groups around 1994 – possibly alt.sex.bondage, or possibly fanfiction, depending on whom you ask.

The word seems like a fairly impressionistic sound slap to express, in some self-consciously inventive way, the concept of ‘disgusting’ or ‘sickening’. But this is one instance of an impressionistic word where an explanation of the definition helps, because there is an important distinction between “that disgusts me” – or “that makes me sick” – and “I have an automatic queasy or repelled physical response to that”: the latter implies no moral judgment on the object.

And that’s the thing. If something squicks you, if it’s a squick, if it’s squicky and makes you feel squicky, if – in brief – it participates in a squickening, that means simply that it engenders a reflex. Imagine watching someone perform dental surgery: cutting and peeling away the gums, drilling into the – Stop? Yes. If you’re like me, dental surgery is a horrible squick. Writing that made me shudder. But it’s not morally repellant. Likewise, there are many activities and foods and so forth that some people enjoy that others find utterly squicky. But that doesn’t mean those others condemn it, or that the foods or activities are in any particular way worthy of condemnation. (They may be, but that’s a separate issue.)

How, if this word is not in the standard dictionaries, can I have all this information about it? It’s not because I did a lot of in-depth primary-source research. It’s because there are a couple of dictionaries that have it: Wiktionary and Urban Dictionary. They are crowd-sourced and much more responsive. They are not utterly reliable, of course. But you can get useful information and confirmation.

In particular, the most upvoted definition at Urban Dictionary for squick is a well-written one posted in 2004 by Ian Osmond. He notes the following: “Stating that something is ‘disgusting’ implies a judgement that it is bad or wrong. Stating that something ‘squicks you’ is merely an observation of your reaction to it, but does not imply a judgement that such a thing is universally wrong.” And he adds, “In general, distinguishing between ‘squick’ and ‘disgust’ is an important part of living in a tolerant society.” Many people, he contends, mistake squick for disgust and thereby condemn things as wrong on the basis of distaste.

Either ironically or appositely, people who mistake distaste for infallible moral judgement squick me a bit. But mainly they just irritate me. The most recent true intense squick reflex I’ve felt was when I made the mistake of doing a Google image search on impetigo. (Don’t. Just don’t. You know they always show the worst cases.)

English language time machine

Hop into a time machine to travel back in the history of the English language! How do you think it will go? Step out and talk with people from olden times who use quaint words and a bit of thou and –eth? Heh heh. Find out what’s really waiting for you as you travel back through the history of England in my latest article for The Week:

What the English of Shakespeare, Beowulf, and King Arthur actually sounded like

Complete with video clips!

(And yes, before you say it, “the English of King Arthur” is, shall we say, a trick question.)

numpty, nudnik

For once and for all, let’s stop using the term grammar Nazi.

The Nazis were not just people who got all up in your face about small things. Do I even need to tell you about them? Are you really OK with using Nazi as a synonym for meanie or taskmaster or martinet or pedant?

Sure, we need a term for people who can’t seem to resist being dicks about other people’s grammar. But I don’t think we need to call them grammar genocidal megalomaniacs. There’s a better term, much better, that was drawn to my attention by one of the language gang on Twitter, @mededitor, who tweeted a flow chart made by David Bradley: “A simple flowchart to avoid becoming a grammar numpty.”

Ah, yes, grammar numpty. As @mededitor explained, “‘Numpty’ is a UK pejorative, meaning chowderhead.” It’s actually a fairly new word; it seems to have started showing up in the last 30 years. It’s likely derived from numps, a much older word (around since the time of Shakespeare) also referring to a stupid, silly, foolish, or ineffectual person, and possibly formed from the name Humphrey; numpty is quite possibly modelled on Humpty-Dumpty (which may also come from Humphrey – way to Bogart that name), gaining effect from echoes of numbskull and dumb and the effect of the dull “uh” vowel and the soft nasal consonant. And, for the grammar pickers, an echo of “harrumph.” It can be a noun or an adjective.

I should say that David Bradley (who, by the way, is British) is not the first person to use grammar numpty. I found a tweet from last November, for instance, directed at the Twitter account of a company that sells grammar-checking software (a company that also published an appallingly stupid article supposedly “correcting” “mistakes” in a popular novel series – mainly presenting style choices as rules, and making some truly cack-handed recommendations – so I won’t be naming them); they picked on a headline with what was probably an intentional error for the sake of humour, and @onekind (who is Australian) tweeted at them, “IT’S A JOKE YOU GRAMMAR NUMPTIES”.

Now, admittedly, people who I may want to call grammar numpties (because they’re needlessly prickish about other people’s usage) might well feel inclined to call their targets grammar numpties, because it is somewhat subjective just who is a numpty. Therefore, I do have an alternate available for those who would like one: grammar nudnik.

I like the word nudnik because it’s more specific. It’s not like numpty, which just means that you think the person is obtuse. Nudnik refers to a pest. A person who is boring, a person who buttonholes you and tells you inane details at length, a person who picks at you incessantly. A person who is like slimy celery leaves clinging to your finger. It’s less goofy-sounding than numpty; it has that sharp prick of ik at the end, suitable for dickish behaviour. The u is as in noodle, not as in dump, so it’s more focused and tense (like a lurking version of needy), but at the same time it has the lowest resonances of any vowel (if you want to know more about those resonances, read “The world speaks in harmony”).

Where does nudnik come from? Yiddish. (And I do think I’d rather have a word from Yiddish than one – Nazi – naming the people who murdered millions of Yiddish speakers.) It comes from the verb nudyen ‘bore’ and traces ultimately to Proto-Slavic. Although it has (for us) an echo of rude, it doesn’t automatically connote rudeness, though it allows it. Mainly it just means the sort of person who soon has you thinking, “Will. You. Shut. Up.”

So you have a choice of two. When some twit starts picking at others on small points of grammar that he or she may or may not even be right about, you can call the twit a grammar numpty or a grammar nudnik. And you don’t need to use that other word at all.

carnauba

I first became aware of this word in conjunction with car wax.

Advertisers and marketers know that if you can add in a little extra detail about something, it makes it sound special, even if that detail is trivially true. I sometimes eat breakfast in a restaurant that makes sure to say that certain egg dishes are served with “off-the-bone baked ham.” Well, I sure don’t expect to see a big ham bone in the middle of my plate with the eggs, but it somehow makes it more vividly appetizing to paint the picture. Likewise, when my dad used to take the car to get washed, we would be given the option of adding carnauba wax to the drying. Not just wax, eh, but carnauba wax. Because that sounds like something special.

It also planted in my youthful mind an association between carnauba and car. Well, why not? In fact, I wondered if carnauba might just be an elaborated form of car, like super-duper is of super. It has a hint of carnival and nubile and maybe jubilee, and it has that soft rhythm of a word like gazonga.

Anyway, one thing was sure: carnauba was the name of a wax you put on cars.

A few years later I was looking at a box of Smarties. (For the Americans here: everywhere but the US, Smarties are like chocolate M&Ms, but flatter like Reese’s Pieces. For non-Americans: in the US, the brand Smarties is used on little coloured sugar pills in a roll. I’m not talking about those. We call those Rockets in Canada.) I looked at the ingredients, because that’s what there is to read and I was curious (you get to be a little smartie by reading what’s in your Smarties). I noticed, at the end, “carnauba wax.”

What the heck! I was eating car wax? Was it balling up in my stomach?

Well, it hadn’t hurt me so far. Let’s polish off the rest of the box and see.

Nope, seems OK. Better have some more to make sure.

In fact, carnauba wax is used for quite a few things. It’s a hard, glossy polishing wax, sometimes mixed with softer waxes to make it more manageable; it adds a shine to quite a few things, and it’s burned in some candles too (use it in the hard wax around the outside that helps cup the softer wax in the middle so it burns up rather than running down). Many pills have it on them to give them a glossy shine. But it’s only a hundredth of a percent of the weight of the pill – or the Smartie. So in a 40-gram box, you have about 4 mg of wax. The sugar will get to you long before the wax does. They put carnauba wax on some fruits, too, to make them shine.

Where does this word carnauba come from, then? From the name of the tree that the wax comes from, the carnauba palm. It grows in northeastern Brazil, and the Portuguese word carnauba appears to come from the Tupi word karana’iwa. The leaves are the source of the wax. Apparently the fruit is edible. I doubt they bother putting wax on it, though.

Anyway, it has nothing etymologically to do with cars and, in spite of being from Brazil, nothing to do with carnival either. But carnauba wax still sounds like it’s worth more than just plain wax.

pirr

I’ve turned again to Robert Macfarlane’s article on landscape words. Here is one that is worth a peer, a word that truly purrs:

Shetlandic has a word, pirr, meaning “a light breath of wind, such as will make a cat’s paw on the water”.

A cat’s paw. A purring cat’s paw, to be sure. It’s not enough to rrip the surface; it’s just as much as may be exhaled after the /p/ in /pɪr/ or /pʌr/. How much is that? Take a saucer of water – or milk if you wish; you can give it to your cat after – and hold it up to your chin. Then say pirr. It will make a little wave just after the puff on the /p/ – not as much as if a cat’s paw had swatted it, unless it’s the paw of a cat you had as a child and that still follows you around in spirit, purring in your mind, though long out of its body. Just the ripples of tiny feet, which will quickly dis-a-pirr. I am put in mind of e.e. cummings’s “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond,” which concludes,

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

And as rain has small hands, so a pirr has small feet. Paws that refresh. And pirr the written word has the little paw waves of the rr, perhaps caused by the little paw of the p.

Is pirr in the dictionary? It is, if you have a really good one. It seems that our word pirr – which can also mean ‘a state of agitation or excitement’ – comes from pirrie, which can mean the same thing or can mean ‘a squall, a sudden blast of wind, a storm’. Either way, its origin seems to be imitative. There is also a verb pirr, which means ‘flow swiftly’ or ‘blow gently’. Again there is an opposition of sense. Perhaps to unwind these turns we need a pirr review.

There is another word pirr, by the way: it is an onomatopoeia for the cry of the tern, and is also used to name the tern itself. If the word has a tern in its sense, then it’s no wonder it has turns in sense.

skeevy, skeezy

Neither of these words is used very often. Nonetheless, even if you haven’t seen either at all, I suspect you’ll have a sense of the meaning. And yes, they both mean largely the same thing. If I give you a sentence context you’ll understand the general intent. Here are a couple of quotations, obligingly supplied by the Oxford English Dictionary:

Zevon has built a career on well-crafted pop songs that tend to be either smartass and sensitive or smartass and skeevy. (Newsday, 1991)

He has the requisite erotic credentials—drugstore musk cologne, underarm sweat rings, skeezy tattoo, outer-boroughs grammar. (Los Angeles Times 1995)

Words like this are conditioned by phonetic profiling: what else they sound like. And what do they sound like? They both start with the /sk/ that is found on extensive and/or displeasing two-dimensional things: sky, skin, sketch, scum, scab, skank; they also have elements of sleazy, peeve, skivvies, skive, wheeze, sketchy, cheesy, easy, skeeter, and – for comic strip fans – Skeezix, a character supposedly named with a word for a lost calf, but it seems that the word skeezicks (the closest real-world spelling) was actually generally used to mean ‘rascal, rogue’.

So these words fall in line with sketchy and sleazy and skanky, with that thin wheedling /i/ vowel (which works well with pulling your mouth wide and the corners a bit down in revulsion), the fuzzy buzzing /v/ or /z/, and that hard, flat /sk/ onset. Were they just made up out of thin air because they sounded right?

Not quite. It starts with Italian (Tuscan) schifare ‘loathe’ and schifo ‘disgust’. Note that sch in Italian is pronounced /sk/, and in some versions of the language an f between vowels is said /v/ (a common transformation that, a millennium ago, was also the rule in English). These, at least in South Philadelphia, were borrowed over to English – quite possibly abetted by the sound resemblance to words of similar sense – to become skeevy, which was attested in print by the mid-1970s. Once that word became widely known, it was expectable that it would be modified to match the sleazy echo, especially since /izi/ endings are more common than /ivi/ ones in English. And, after all, this is an expressive word, with a sound-sense relation that is not seen as altogether arbitrary, so it’s more natural to change the sound to match what you feel. So by the early 1990s, we had skeezy, which is also a bit easier to say: you just take the tongue back to the tip, no need to involve the lips.

Is there a real difference between skeevy and skeezy? Aside from the one sounding closer to, say, evil and the other sounding closer to, say, easy? Well, Oxford adds “disreputable or immoral, esp. sexually” to – can you guess which? – skeezy. But dictionary.com specifies “not respectable; immoral” on… skeevy. Both agree that skeezy is sleazy, but Oxford says skeevy is too. Frankly, the whole thing seems a bit too… nebulous… you know… um, shady.

gorm

I really wanted to start with this nice reel (Irish dance tune) I remembered. I thought it would be easy to find a version of it on YouTube. But no, it’s not. And the thing is, I have the music for it, and I have a tin whistle (several of them, even), but I’m not sure how well I’d play it with minimal practice, and I am sure that if I were to try recording it now at half past 11 I would be counselled very quickly on the risks of disturbing the crusty neighbour lady. So. I’m a bit out of feck. Here instead is a link to the sheet music and a playable MIDI file: abcnotation.com/tunePage?a=www.oldmusicproject.com/AA2ABC/1201-1800/Abc-1301-1400/1399-PrettyBlueSeagull/0000. The MIDI file is about as soulless as you can get but it will do, I suppose, for those who can’t quite picture the tune from the notes. Just try to imagine it done with a proper fiddle or whistle and, you know, some sense of merriment.

Oh, why am I linking to this reel called “The Pretty Blue Seagull”? Erm. Couldn’t even find something with the proper Irish Gaelic title. Really I’m just a bit of a schlimazel here. The Irish for that is “An feilionn deas gorm” (which I feel compelled to say is pronounced something like “a fail yin jass gorum”).

So yes. Gorm. This is our word of the day. I’m out looking for gorm and coming across gormless, gorm maith agat. (Sorry, in Irish that sounds in casual speech just like go raibh maith agat, “gurramahagut,” which means ‘thank you’. More literally gorm maith agat would mean ‘you have good blue’ or ‘good blue to you’ or, exactly, ‘good blue at you’.)

Well, this is my day to be lacking in good judgment or perhaps good sense. Which is what gormless means. I remember playing a gormless Yorkshire lad (and his identical triplet brothers) in the play One for the Pot some 25 years ago in Edmonton: my first experience of the word. This gorm of which one is -less is apparently from the obsolete word gome, which means (per Oxford) “heed, attention, notice, care.” It comes form an Old Norse root.

So it would be good, then, to want some gorm, right? To be – what is it? Gormy? Gormful? Gormed? As @ivacheung declared today, “I’ve always wanted to be well gormed.” I mean, that doesn’t sound quite as appealing as well formed or well groomed or… well, gorm sits towards the back of the mouth until it closes with that soft ending on the lips, and so it lacks a certain brightness. It’s glum, gloomy, maybe a bit gory. Like a name for some gormless character in a Terry Pratchett book (RIP). Someone who does bugger-all because he can’t do bugger-all.

If the contronymic character of that last sentence pleases you, you’re sure to like what Iva subsequently found in Oxford: there is a noun gorm, but it means “an undiscerning person, a fool.” In other words, someone who is gormless is a gorm.

Um.

What gormless twit came up with that.

Well, I did just go on about how gorm seemed like a name for someone lacking in feck. I guess I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The word gormless was around nearly two centuries before this gorm showed up, but it was inevitable, I suppose. Suitable sound combination is noticed standing around near sense… is pressed into use with sense. It’s like some gormless security guard being pressganged into helping the bank robbers. Of course you know he’ll be kicked to the curb in the end… Sitting there feeling blue…

(That was the bit where I circle back to the beginning, because gorm is Irish for ‘blue’. Not sure if I was obvious enough about that. Well, I guess by explaining it now I’ve kind of killed it. Never mind. Valar morgormless: All men must feck off. Um, was that too obscure too? It was a reference to a phrase from Game of Thrones and to feckless as similar to gormless and… ah, bollocks, never mind. I think I’m experiencing, as @rgodfrey put it, the perfect gorm.)

jill

The sea is as still as gel in a Petri dish. A small boat moves idly along, mills about, sending smooth, even ripples in the glassy surface: |||| . It is on a booze cruise, perhaps, hopping from half-pint in one port to half-pint in another, or perhaps it can’t even be bothered to do as much as that. It’s just some lad and lass on it, and one of them cleans a fish and both have a glass of white wine to sharpen the appetite. And still the little swells follow, breaking up a bit from |||| into jill.

Jill? Without a capital j: jill. A verb for a boat moving idly about. It may come from the verb gill, pronounced the same, which in its time referred to doing a pub-crawl with just a small drink at each, or perhaps to having a little bit of white wine before dinner – so Oxford tells me. That comes from the liquid measure gill (same pronunciation again) equalling a quarter pint (thus a half cup, which is four ounces, eight tablespoons, or two dozen teaspoons).

But then there is another verb jill, a variant of gill meaning ‘clean a fish’. And of course there is the noun jill meaning ‘girlfriend’ or ‘sweetheart’, taken from the name Jill, as in Jack and Jill. There are other more recent uses (noun and verb) of Jill too, as female parallels to uses of Jack; some of them are about as impolite as their Jack counterparts.

The name Jill is usually short for Gillian (or the same with a J) or – dictionary.com tells me – Juliana. But just by itself, in its ripple shape on the page and its jarred liquid sound in the mouth, it stands apart a bit. And it has some associations for me, of course, as it likely does for most people. It’s a name just common enough that a person may know one or two Jills, just enough to give a clear character. The first Jill I knew, as a pre-teen, was a girl a bit older than me, daughter of some family friends; she had blonde hair and seemed a paragon of sensible prettiness. The second Jill I knew, in high school, was also, come to think of it, a blonde paragon of sensible prettiness. There was a third I knew, briefly, in university, a tall ash blonde from England, elegant, sensible, pretty. You see a pattern. (I haven’t met any new Jills lately, though.)

What has this to do with moving idly about, drinking in half-cups, and gutting fish? Hmm… Jill-squat, probably, other than coincidence. But can’t you picture some lucky Jack spending a pleasant afternoon with a sensible pretty blonde jill (named Jill or not) lolling in a boat jilling about on a jelly sea? It almost makes me jillous.

Proof that English spelling is an evil trap

My latest article for The Week looks at 10 words that are further evidence of the malicious character of English spelling. They look like they should be easy to pronounce, and many of us pronounce them as they look… but they’re really supposed to be pronounced quite differently:

10 words we’ve forgotten how to pronounce

 

Melanchthon

Aina and I and two of my friends went skiing today. As my friend Trish drove us up through Dufferin County towards Collingwood, we passed through Melanchthon Township, home of not very many people but a decent number of wind turbines. Trish wondered out loud where the name came from.

I knew off the top of my head that Philipp Melanchthon was one of the protestant reformers, working closely with Martin Luther in Germany in the 1500s. I said that the name looked Greek – it looked like it should be Greek for ‘black earth’, from the melan ‘black’ and chthon ‘earth’ roots – but Philipp Melanchthon was German, so it had to be a coincidence. But then I said, Why don’t I look it up on the web? I pulled out my iPhone and checked.

The first thing I found out was that he wasn’t born Melanchthon. He was Philipp Schwartzerdt. OK, so he changed his name… but why? And (clickbait here) what I read next made me say (rather loudly) “Of course!” and start laughing.

How’s your German?

Schwarz is standard High German for ‘black’. Erde is standard High German for ‘earth’. Melanchthon’s family name, Schwartzerdt, was (in another dialect) ‘black earth’. He just changed it to the Greek: Μελάγχθων.*

OK, but why? Well, at school he studied Latin and Greek. Renaissance humanism – and admiration of the classics – was ascendant at the time. And his great-uncle, an influential figure in the set, suggested he change his name to the classical Greek version, as was a common practice among humanists at the time. Philipp was an eager and impressionable boy barely over 10 years of age. The Greeks were such a model to be enthused about and followed. Another language, another time, another place, an enlightenment, a bright harbinger of reason!

This, mind you, was the same Philipp who grew up to fight against the dogmas of the Roman Catholic Church, its foreign language and borrowed ideas, its fanciful and expedient adoptions, its irrational digressions from the plain, clear, and simple. The same man who had discarded his plain and comprehensible German name for a borrowed Greek one, an idealization from another time and place, and informed his mind with their opinions too.

Inconsistent? Perhaps not. The Greek ideas planted their seeds in the fertile black earth of Melanchthon’s mind and the grain that grew forth was one advocating rationality and a rigorous logical inspection of premises and entailments. As well, in both cases, Melanchthon was dissatisfied with what he saw around him. The German name was as base and debased for him as the common ideas of indulgences and the cult of the saints and various other appurtenances of the Church. He fought this melancholy miasma and ran in the marathon of reformation. He wanted to undo the dammed-up theology and draw power from the wind of the Spirit.

In spite of all that, his name is seldom remembered, whereas Luther’s is all over the place.

Well. Luther is an easier name to remember. It does have an overtone of Lucifer, true, but then Melanchthon has an overtone of Moloch. And of course it is melancholy and chthonic, and has that nchth cluster that is sure to put off many a reader. Not that Schwartzerdt would have been a whole lot more appealing.

Meanwhile, in Melanchthon Township, the rich dark earth does not protest when it is ploughed and seeded. It knows neither Greek nor Latin nor German, nor English, but only the recurring phrases of the seasons. And we drive through without stopping, paying mere passing attention to the signs.

*The sharp-eyed among you will notice that where he has nch the Greek has γχ. This is because in Greek you represent the [ŋ] sound before velars with γ, which is normally transliterated as g – but not in this case. When the root is not before a velar the [n] is written with the usual Greek letter for n, ν.