Monthly Archives: October 2026

swank

The days of labour may sometimes be thankless, but they need not be swankless. When you think you can no further swink, quick as a wink you can refill your tank with a little swank. It need not be such swagger as to set tongues a-wag; it can be just enough to put a swing in your step and sway your mood. The little luxuries can lift your life.

But how much swank do you need to make it swanky? Will you be sated with a simple embroidered hanky? A perfect martini? Or does proper swank require a whole swamp of swancour? Does it entail details on details? White-glove service, gold-plated flatware, velvet, brocade, Krug, Petrus? Is there a price cutoff? Or is swank in the eye of the beholder, or variable according to relative expectation?

Let’s say I want a swanky meal for my birthday. We can all agree that if I were to walk a few blocks to my nearest Michelin-starred restaurant, even if the décor is a bit simple, the sheer quality and price of the food would make it swanky. But let’s say instead that I walk to my local market and buy a pound of striploin and some Gorgonzola and some cream and take them home and (with the addition of ingredients already on the premises) make steak in a Gorgonzola cream sauce. Is that sufficiently swanky by definition, or do I need to spend a certain amount on the steak or verify a certain fat content in the cream? Do I need to serve it on our prettiest dishes, or can food be swanky even when served on the scuffed black plates we use every day?

You are of course entitled to your opinions, as I am to mine. But if my choices do not sway you, can I still truly consider them swanky? What if there is no swagger? No ostentation?

And, on the other hand, can anything be swanky if you do the right things? We can imagine that a hamburger can be swanky; I suspect grits and biscuits can be swanky with the right care and attention and expense. But can a hot dog? Can SPAM (outside of Korea)? Similarly, we know that opera is swanky by default, though you can mount a very unswanky production of it; but can a comic operetta or silly musical be swanky, or are they too demotic? Can there be swank in Gilbert and Sullivan?

The answer to that last question is, in fact, etymologically yes. You see, the librettist of the team was William Schwenck Gilbert, known to his familiars as “Schwenck.” That name was the surname of his great-aunt and great-uncle, and it is from the German verb schwenken, ‘swing, sway, swagger’. Which, it is thought, is from the same Old Germanic root as English swank, which originally meant ‘swagger, strut, behave ostentatiously’.

Swank has, certainly, evolved in sense to mean ‘fashionable, elegant, posh’ – but that’s not a very large change. And yes, swank doesn’t come directly from Schwenck. But consider this: There was a family, originally named Schwenk, who, after some time in England, modified their name, and some of them moved to America, and one of them was born in Nebraska in 1974 with that modified surname, and she grew up to be a movie star. Yes, I mean Hilary Swank. Whose name, therefore, not only sounds and looks like swank, not only is etymologically related to swank, but shows that this common Schwenk can, with but a touch of refinement, become Swank.

And so I will accept any touch of refinement. If we stay in a hotel with the plushest bathrobes I’ve ever worn, then that’s swanky regardless of the price (though let’s be honest, the price is probably swancorous). If we have take-out pizza for supper and open the priciest bottle of wine we have on hand to go with it, that is certainly not swankless. And you may, I think, allow yourself some little capricious luxury in your workspace, just a wink of swank while you work. I certainly will allow myself such perquisites (swanquisites?), swank you very much.

paradiddle, taradiddle

Aina and I are taking tapdance lessons. We have been for a while, in fact, but I’m still pretty bad at it. (Aina, who has two degrees in dance, is of course doing somewhat better.) But I’ve learned some of the foundational movements and steps. And one in particular we were working on a lot this week was the…

…well, the instructor was calling it a perididdle, but he was a substitute (a good one, mind you); our regular instructor calls it a paradiddle. But our previous instructor, I thought, called it a taradiddle.

I’m probably wrong about that, though. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of tap and its history and personages. Most likely, I was just mishearing her. A tapdance studio is not the quietest of places.

If you want to look it up, you might not immediately get the results you want. To start with, if you try perididdle, any dictionary will just stare blankly back at you. Google will suggest that you must have meant paradiddle. So anyway, it’s not peri, as in periwinkle or peritoneal. It’s para.

But then if you look up paradiddle in a dictionary or encyclopedia, it will just tell you that it is a basic drum pattern, an even beat played left-right-left-left or right-left-right-right. It seems that diddle is a term for a double stroke, whereas a paradiddle is two alternating single strokes followed by a double stroke. So, you know, it’s a diddle with something about it – para being ‘about’; Wiktionary suggests it may be related to Greek παραδίδωμι paradídomi ‘give over, hand over, deliver’.

But don’t put too much into that Greek derivation. The fact is that a diddle sounds like “diddle” and a paradiddle sounds like “paradiddle.” So this classical appearance is more likely a bit of pareidolia.

Especially since diddle is not from dídomi. The word diddle as we have it, mind you, does not normally refer to the drum pattern, except in that specific context; it otherwise means ‘cheat, swindle’ or ‘dodder’ or, more recently, ‘molest’ and a few other things. This traces back to Germanic roots, though the connections are kind of fiddly – there are a few different roots that might be muddled and dithering.

One way or another, though, diddle appears to be the base of taradiddle (also spelled tarradiddle), which means ‘fib, falsehood, trivial bit of twaddle’. We’re not entirely sure where the tara comes from; it is perhaps a trifling lexical imposture.

Anyway, to get back to taps: Although a dictionary won’t tell you about the tap step, various web pages and videos will. A paradiddle is a four-beat sequence with one foot: dig-spank-step-drop. This means you dig your heel against the floor, pull it back and tap the toe as you pull the foot back, then step the toe down, and then step the heel down as well. And then you do the same on the other foot, usually, and back and forth. It doesn’t sound quite like “taradiddle”; to my ear it’s something more like “poodle paddle.”

Well, at least when you do it right. And when I’m doing it slowly, I get the steps right. But once we speed it up, my reflexes addle and my feet dissimulate, and I quickly pass from paradiddle to a terpsichorean taradiddle.