Brisky Bryson

I’m a big fan of author Bill Bryson, who writes wonderfully readable books about the English language. This is a feat not to be under-appreciated, because language aficionados can churn out some pretty obtuse musings while employing the very tool about which they bandy. It’s like how Author-it, the software that I use to generate online help, has the lousiest online help I have ever seen. I guess it’s the phenomenon of the cobbler’s barefoot children.

Currently I’m reading Bryson’s The Mother Tongue, a book that buffers Anglo-Saxon linguistic history with fascinating factoids about English and other languages (in particular Latin, French, Welsh, and Gaelic, though random tongues like Cree, Albanian, and Korean do pop up.) Bryson ponders how English is, at core, a simpler language than others (we have one word for you; German has seven) but its flexibility causes illogical usage and pronunciation. For example, English has eight prefixes that express negation: a-, anti-, in-, il- im-, ir-, un-, non-. Yet we have flammable and inflammable, which have the same meaning. And invaluable, which means really valuable. It’s very wild, I know.

The linguistic lore flies fast and furious. Why does the word “colonel” have an R sound when pronounced? Why doesn’t low rhyme with how? If someone can be unkempt, why not kempt? While Bryson doesn’t attempt to address all of English’s idiosyncrasies, he does marry the English language with history to explain why we use many of the words that we do. For example, Viking raiders in the ninth century introduced England to words such as freckle, husband, scream, sky, dazzle, and skill. Words from other languages usually supplement rather than supplant our vocabulary (skill didn’t replace craft). This has been one of English’s strengths: The ability to absorb new words like a sponge (though our reluctance to take on German words is noted.)

Bryson shares the universal English-nerd reverence for Shakespeare, who coined around 2000 words (critic, dawn, bump, bedroom, jaded, torture, hurry, hint, obscene, gloomy) and countless phrases (flesh and blood, budge an inch, foul play, one fell swoop, to be in a pickle). What I found interesting were the Shakespearean words that failed to catch on, such as conflux, tortive, vastidity, barky and brisky — all of which appear to have found some recognition on the Internet.

All of this, and I’m only halfway through the book. I can’t wait until America is discovered.

Posted in Culture.

Tagged with Books, English Major.

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By Meredith – April 18, 2008

BostonNow Dead

The gauntlet of newspaper hawkers surrounding the subway turnstiles has thinned out. On Monday, the BostonNow, one of Boston’s two free daily newspapers, suddenly ceased operations due to adverse economic conditions in Iceland. Yes, the BostonNow is so BostonThen.

BostonNow first appeared about a year ago, after the Boston Metro proved to be a success with subway commuters. BostonNow copied the Metro’s distribution methods exactly by hiring minimum-wage hawkers to stand in subway stations during rush hours, obstruct commuters and yell “Metro! BostonNow! Metro! BostonNow!”

BostonNow’s gimmick was that the paper offered a blend of traditional and citizen journalism, meaning that it supplemented AP news stories with the content from local bloggers. I had picked up a BostonNow some months ago, and had been appalled by the dearth of real news, the bumper crop of entertainment news, the foamy-mouthed local reporting, the anecdotal editorials, the sloppy editing, and the finger-coating cheap ink. The most intellectually stimulating element of the BostonNow were the Sudoku puzzles.

The BostonNow claimed a daily circulation of 119,000 newspaper, which spurs my ongoing internal feud with my pretentious core: Is it better for people to read a free daily like the Metro or BostonNow, or read nothing at all? The obvious argument is that it’s better for people to read something than nothing. However, if people stopped reading the free dailies, then they would go away. Some people would read nothing, but others might return to spending 50 cents on a real newspaper with reporters and editors and information, not infotainment.

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with Boston, Media.

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By Meredith – April 17, 2008

Poped

I don’t much care for the Pope. It’s nothing personal, and in fact I admire part of what the Pope decrees, especially concerning humanity’s duty to alleviate poverty, suffering, and pollution. What bothers me is that there’s this central cloistered figure controlling a religion while isolated from the social realities of the people who he spiritually and morally guides. To disallow women and married priests, birth control, abortion, and hamburgers on Fridays just seems hopelessly out of touch. But whatever. It’s their party.

All this pomp over Pope Benedict’s visit has prompted reminiscing of the year 1995, when I was an unwitting pilgrim to Pope John Paul’s visit to New York City. The Friday night of that weekend, I took a Peter Pan bus from Amherst to visit my best friend AS at Columbia University. Somewhere in my insulated collegiate mind lurked the knowledge that the Pope would be in NYC that weekend, but the implications didn’t hit me until the bus was stopped on I-95 for literally hours. An equally clueless college student asked the driver what was going on, and he just grunted “Pope.”

The next day my friend AS, her sort-of boyfriend C and I decided to try to glimpse the Popemobile. We headed to the general vicinity where the Pope was known to be and wandered through the crowds of Catholics. Many of them were Hispanic and clutching trinkets of Catholicism and praying. No one seemed to know where the Pope was, or at what point he would become visible.

I should add that my companions and I were total little punks. AS had a shaved head with bright green bangs, C had an intricate motif of colored spikes, and my blond hair was partially in dreadlocks that never quite held. We wore patched army surplus and sported various facial piercings. Soon there was a crowd of people from Central and South America taking pictures of these strange young Americans. A woman from Germany approached us with a video camera and asked my friends if they would like to be in her documentary about bagels. (I should add that, due their wilder hairstyles, AS and C received most of the attention. I threatened to stick a safety pin through my lip to upstage them.)

Soon we tired of being the absent Pope’s freak sideshow and headed over to St. Mark’s Place. I don’t remember anything else about that weekend except getting the hiccups for about two hours. I returned to Amherst and regaled my friend AB with tales of my pilgrimage, and she said “Who gives a Pope about Pope?” and laughed her insane devil-may-care cackle, which inspired an odd inside joke for about a week in which we’d say things like “Who gives a Pope? I don’t give a Pope. Man, that guy just doesn’t give a Pope.”

Posted in Nostalgia.

Tagged with New York.

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By Meredith – April 16, 2008

Googles

It’s been a long time since I’ve compiled a list of my favorite search engine phrases from my website statistics. Honestly, going through my log files to cull the phrases has become tedious, unnerving, and sort of depressing. The #1 search engine phrase is my name or some variation thereof. I know that I’m hardly the only Meredith Green in the world, but I’m left wondering just how many of these searches are targeting me. The #2 phrase is “Green Days,” which was the original name for this website that I have since abandoned but will live forever in Google’s brain and misguide dozens of sloppy-typing Green Day fans to my website. #3, #4, #5, #6, #7, #8 and #9 are always related to porn or escorts. Judging by the number of queries involving “nuding” and “sexing,” this is what brings most of my international audience to this website.

The remaining search engines phrases are variations on a theme. For example, apparently Google has identified this website as a leading authority on Jagerettes, because I receive dozens of hits like “how do i become a jagerette,” “jagerette apply,” and “Jagerette salary height weight.” After filtering these out, only a handful of semi-interesting queries remain, including…

can you return store-bought seashells to the ocean
is my prada a fake if it has a square metal
what kind of ring should a female wear when only heaving a civil ceremony
does a discharge stop you from attaining a top secret security clearance
what tv commercial had the swedish guy peddling and gravity
do employees have to take breaks in texas
why do rich people feel shy while having pepsi
what brand of cigarettes does billie joe armstrong smoke
is paul banks of interpol married
real pictures of cavemen bones found in hundred foot bongs
trainer – gym – flirty
hidden candid camera of women’s clothes ripped off
mustache philia
odds of hunting accident
lady kills puppy with heels
radio commercial /phlegm nicknames
romantic ipod engravings
charlton heston put his vest on
speech on the topic: life is like an ice cream, enjoy it before it melts
the serif font in marie claire
etiquette classes for millionaires
methacton beef and beer
rats living in barbecue
scotch and a cigarette with co-workers at an upscale bar
cuckold groom is castrated as he walks down the aisle
“amanda onion”
“effeminate chat”
“leave-it-town” philadelphia
harper’s index americans spend on yoga
oscar wild life is too short to drink mediocre wine white
keith richards dante’s inferno
sarkozy shirtless on boat pics
cliff claven bulge
hearing an echo nasal irrigation
calzone caused nosebleeds
monkey ice cream

Posted in Miscellany.

Tagged with Googles.

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By Meredith – April 15, 2008

Bitterness

In what many observers are calling the first major rhetorical blunder by Barack Obama, last week the Senator made comments in San Francisco that small-town voters are “bitter” over the economy and, because of this, they “cling to guns and religion”. Both Hillary Clinton and John McCain have charged Obama with being an “elitist,” but have steered clear of the more-appropriate “Marxist” label, knowing that no one in Pennsylvania’s Rust Belt knows what that thing is.

Go ahead, call me an elitist, but I think Obama’s comments were right on. Only I would have added a host of other things that small-town folk cling to, including patriotism, xenophobia, and on hot days, the insides of their blue jeans and Nascar t-shirts.

A few weeks ago, an article in the New York Times explored the political leanings of voters in blue-collar Latrobe, Pennsylvania as the presidential primary ever-so-slowly approaches (here). Many of Latrobe’s citizens were only too eager to explain why they would not be voting for Barack Obama: “The Second Amendment is too important to me.” “How can I vote for a president who won’t wear a flag pin?” “I don’t say this because he’s black, but the guy just seems arrogant to me, the way he expects things to go his way.”

That last comment, made by a truck driver, stirred such amused rage within me that I showed the article to Mr. Pinault over dinner that night and ranted. And let me tell you, I called these people worse things than “bitter,” because these are the idiots who voted for George W. Bush because Al Gore is too boring and John Kerry looks like a Frenchman. These people understand abso-effing-lutely nothing about how the world outside their tiny little pinprick towns works, so they react to candidates using childlike logic and primitive instincts. “Where’s Obama’s flag pin? I look for the flag pin every time he’s on television. How can I vote for a man who won’t wear a flag pin?”

Hmm. Is she truly offended because Obama won’t wear a flag pin, or is she just a simpleton who can’t fathom the issues of real political significance that the candidates are discussing and can’t wrap her brain around any issue more salient that a flag pin? Flag pin! FLAG PIN.

And Mr. ‘I don’t say this because he’s black’ is a perfect example of the small-town bitterness of which Obama spoke. This man would obviously prefer a presidential candidate who doesn’t expect things to go his way, who exudes pessimism that matches the glumness that I can only imagine that a truck driver from Latrobe would feel. This man is as bitter as the citrusy adulterated aftertaste of a Rolling Rock Extra Pale.

Posted in Americana, In the News.

Tagged with Politics.

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By Meredith – April 14, 2008

Invitations

Since the beginning of the wedding planning process, I’ve maintained that we would do the invitations ourselves. It’s not because I’m too cheap to shell out many hundreds of dollars to the wedding invitation industry in order to achieve cookie-cut elegance. No, it’s distaste at the prospect of outsourcing every aspect of a marked event in my life. And since I can’t sew elaborate dresses, bake big cakes, play the harp, or take pictures of myself, I’ll take a crack at the invitations.

This determination causes surprised gasps of horror, so I hasten to assure that nice paper, eyelets, ribbons, and Adobe Illustrator are involved. Today Mr. Pinault and I spent hours planning the design and taking trips #3 and #4 to the local paper and craft store. There were a lot of issues with which to contend, as well as several heated discussions, periodic stony silences, and even a few tears. It’s going way better than I expected.

The current and nearly final design is, um, original. Not quite unconventional — we’ve adhered to the major wording conventions — but the layout may cause a few raised eyebrows. I’m not worried, because we plan to tell the American guests, “That’s how invitations are done in France.” And we plan to tell the French guests, “That’s how invitations are done in America.”

Posted in Existence.

Tagged with Weddings.

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By Meredith – April 13, 2008

Offensive Hallmark Cards

(Here for “Hallmark card yanked from shelves after woman claims it promotes teen sex.”)

Well, I don’t have anything much to do today. I think I’ll go shopping. I’ll go to the Fashion Bug to hunt for off-season sweaters on sale, then I’ll visit the birds and fish at PetSmart, and then I’ll poke around the Hallmark store. How I do love their wholesome greeting cards and keepsake ornaments.

Oh, look at this birthday card, with the little boy with chocolate smeared all over his face. Bless him. And if there’s anything cuter than a baby with a birthday cake, I’ve never seen it. So precious. And look, Snoopy! Now that is just pure innocence, like greeting cards should be. Here’s the Belated Birthday section. Goodness, look at that sad dog. If that ain’t just the saddest doggie ever. And the Friendship section. Ugh, it’s an unpleasant Maxine card. That callow hag. Who buys these things? Oh, look at those two little girls, holding hands on the swings. The Love section. Hmm, well this one is all words, so I guess it’s okay. Oh, pretty rose. I like that rose.

WOAH. What is this? Oh my goodness. Two… two wine glasses on the cover, and it says inside the card, “Care for some liquid clothes remover?” Well, I never. I cannot believe Hallmark is irresponsible enough to sell this smut.

Oh my goodness. This card must be removed from the store immediately. A teenager could see this card, and choose to drink wine and become sexually promiscuous. Teenagers are so impressionable, and Hallmark greeting cards are so influential. I must go ask the clerk to remove the card. And then I will call the local newspaper, and alert them to how Hallmark is trying to turn my 18-year old daughter into a wine-swilling whore.

Posted in Americana, In the News.

Tagged with Meat with Eyes.

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By Meredith – April 12, 2008

Tales from the T

The sweet deal with my commute is that I board the subway at Alewife, a terminus station, guaranteeing me a seat in the morning so I can pick through the New York Times during the bustling 20-minute journey to South Station. Yesterday I sat at the end of the car and read the front page while the car steadily filled up. The warning bell rang, the doors closed, and we were off.

Next to me sat a woman with enough girth spilling over into my seat to cramp me up against the window and encumber my page-turning. Ten years ago, I would have pegged her as mid-50s, but age has conferred a better sense of the timeline of its cruel effects. Her frizzy brown hair with stray thick strands of gray, the smooth ruddy jowls, and the excess weight hidden beneath ill-fitting cotton and polyester signaled a woman in her early 40s whose appearance is in strict survival mode.

I was cerebrum-deep in an article about our idiot President and barely took notice of her, until I discerned that her body shook rhythmically, her breathing was deep and stifled, and her hands were covering her face. I looked at her, thinking she was sick. But no, she was crying.

Ten years ago, I would have buried my face into my newspaper, but age has also conferred an understanding that a stranger’s kindness can be precious. “Do you need a tissue?” I whispered to her as the train stopped at Davis Square and quickly became packed.

Her hands didn’t move from her forehead, but she whispered back “Yes, please.” I retrieved my make-up bag from my backpack and rummaged for the package of clean tissues that lurked within a pile of used tissues. Dammit, where was it? Just as I feared that I would have to rescind my offer, my hand touched the plastic wrapping and I pulled out the tissues. I held out two of them. “Here.”

She took them with her right hand, and covered her face again. “Thank — you.” There was a gulping breath between her words that caught the attention of the commuters standing in front of us. The woman sat like this for the rest of the train ride, and was still there when I got off. Ten years ago, I would have promptly forgotten about her, but age has conferred empathy for the weary.

Posted in Massachusetts.

Tagged with Tales from the T.

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By Meredith – April 11, 2008

Nipping Hooters in the Bud

The Hooters “Breastaurant” chain continues burgeoning globally, getting bigger and bigger and bigger, refusing to rest until the entire world is culturally Floridian. It recently opened its first UK branch in Nottingham, and has plans to implant 36 more locations in the UK by 2012, according to this human interest article in the Guardian.

The emergence of Hooters on their jolly old island has outraged feminists, family advocates, and cultural snobs alike, all who seek to stop the development of Hooters. One crusader asks “Without the sexualised waiters and the soft porn and sport on display, what would men go for?” Another says “The very fact that they are called Hooters speaks for itself.” The company plans to use those denouncements to pad out its UK advertising campaign.

Other detractors point to the sexual harassment that Hooters girls face in the workplace, although a waitress in the article seems more offended by her customers’ triteness: “Most men comment on the ‘lovely jugs’ when I carry pitchers to their tables. I just wish they would come up with something original.” Exactly what stellar wit can a Hooters girl hope to hear? “Mmmm, buds and suds!” Or “Do you have milk shakes?” Or “Wow, thingamajigs.”

The anti-Hooters campaigners are extremely vocal and active about their concerns that the waitresses in low-cut shirts will promote “loutish, sexist and threatening behaviour” in society at large. A predictable and fair argument, but ineffective. To turn men off to Hooters, they should rally against the decline of British pub culture, and take a chance that pride in cultural preservation can trump man’s natural love for boobies.

Posted in In the News.

Tagged with England, Meat with Eyes.

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By Meredith – April 10, 2008

Ambulance Concerto

Last night I saw piano virtuoso Evgeny Kissin play Brahms Concerto No. 2 with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, James Levine conducting. Kissin is kinda a big deal in the world of classical piano. A Russian-born prodigy, Kissin was playing at age two, performing on stage at age 10, and recording at age 12 to amazed acclaim (here for video of 12-year old Evgeny). Like child stars of any discipline, Kissin could have very well grown up and gone bonkers – forging Valium prescriptions, assaulting prostitutes, getting plastic surgery until he resembled his sister – but he is now in his late 30s and still dazzling audiences around the world.

It was a sold-out night at Symphony Hall. An unusual amount of Russian was heard while navigating through the crowds. Kissin played the Brahms concerto following the intermission, and after suffering through a lulling Brahms symphony in the first half, the audience was ravenous for Evgeny’s appearance. Frenzied, even. On the brink of ripping the 32-foot long pipes off of the Aeolian-Skinner organ and smashing the decorative Roman statues to bits. Kissin! Kissin!

Our seats were six rows from the stage, but centered so that the Steinway obscured the piano’s keyboard. The well-dressed symphony dowager at my right overheard me lamenting that we would not see Kissin’s magical hands at work, and pointed out two empty seats to the left of us in a better position. She had a hint of mischief in her blue eyes that I savored, but we didn’t have time to switch seats because Kissin and Levine appeared on stage.

I don’t much care for Brahms, but it was a pleasure to see Kissin perform. His trademark poof of hair, thinning though it is, bounced in the air as his body labored over the keyboard. With each solo, his face underwent a cycle of steely concentration, fevered euphoria, and orgasmic release before returning to nonchalance when yielding to the orchestra. For a solid hour, I sat motionless, my body rigid against the waves of kinetic energy emanating from Kissin’s piano.

A strange thing happened after the second of the four movements: An ambulance could be clearly heard from the busy Boston streets outside of Symphony Hall, and Levine waited for it to pass before beginning the third movement. He waited, and waited. While no one laughed outright, a strange mirth siezed the audience. Just seconds ago we were listening to a world-class symphony orchestra and Evgeny Kissin, and now we sit, 2500 strong, in silence, listening to an ambulance.