In light of the looming tax deadline, I bring you this wellspring of incomprehensible mish-mosh, that reminded me of the instructions on the back of my 1099-B.
Forget world peace, I just wish government documents were written clearly and concisely. Until then, I shake my fist at you, vague technical lingo!
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
Self-assessment
"My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--It gives a lovely light!" --Edna St. Vincent Millay
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Great Communicator
I was hanging out with one of my guy pals last night discussing classes, majors, and how we are both praying to the Lord above that the semester will be over. It’s that time for all college folk: the post-spring break slump. It has us all banging ourselves over our heads with textbooks a la Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
I asked him what classes he was taking, and suddenly he got really excited. Overly excited. ‘Are-you feeling-well?!’ excited.
The class?
Creative writing.
Now mind you, this kid is pretty sure he’s the next James Dean. He’s a gearhead, a tough guy, someone who’s always made fun of me for being an English major and literature and language aficionado, and here he is, sheepishly admitting that he really likes to write poetry.
Karma, much?
Within moments we were swapping poems, chatting about alliteration and metaphor, and laughing about the poet’s mantra to ‘Show! Don’t tell!”
That adage on assumption haunts me.
The power of language is undiscerning in who it touches. It can awaken a passion that banishes even the most pervasive spring semester blues, and spur one on to create, to share a bit of oneself, to commune with something greater. It speaks to the soul in a way that nothing else does, whispering, teasing, inspiring.
Write on, closet poet, write on.
I asked him what classes he was taking, and suddenly he got really excited. Overly excited. ‘Are-you feeling-well?!’ excited.
The class?
Creative writing.
Now mind you, this kid is pretty sure he’s the next James Dean. He’s a gearhead, a tough guy, someone who’s always made fun of me for being an English major and literature and language aficionado, and here he is, sheepishly admitting that he really likes to write poetry.
Karma, much?
Within moments we were swapping poems, chatting about alliteration and metaphor, and laughing about the poet’s mantra to ‘Show! Don’t tell!”
That adage on assumption haunts me.
The power of language is undiscerning in who it touches. It can awaken a passion that banishes even the most pervasive spring semester blues, and spur one on to create, to share a bit of oneself, to commune with something greater. It speaks to the soul in a way that nothing else does, whispering, teasing, inspiring.
Write on, closet poet, write on.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Line of the Week
"What the storyteller is doing, of course, is looking through the windows of his imagination, trying to see things more clearly, hoping to help and enlighten and entertain others at the same time.
And sometimes, if the panes in the windows are clear, he does." --Arthur Gordon
And sometimes, if the panes in the windows are clear, he does." --Arthur Gordon
May we all find clean, clear windows.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Lines, please!
Behold. Here recorded are the events of last night’s rehearsal.
5:05 pm: The actors start trickling in. Late, as usual. I’ll refer to each of them by their character names: Suzie, Roger, Julia, Terrence, Khalid, Jeff, and Lydia (me). Our director Stuart is impatient to start.
5:13: Everyone has assembled, and the actors begin their vocal warm-up: a series of tongue twisters that are prime both the brain and the mouth for maximum vocal performance. Since the play rests so heavily on the action within conversation, this exercise is an important one, and who doesn’t have fun saying: “A box of biscuits. A box of mixed biscuits, and a biscuit mixer,” as fast as they can? ( You know you want to try it!)
5:20: Stuart instructs us to pace: which is just theatre lingo for going through the play and saying lines as fast as we can without acting them. It’s a good refresher for remembering one’s lines, but its also important for rhythm. Conversations have a natural beat to them, like music, and in order for a play to be believable onstage, actors must tap into that rhythm. Pacing drills the lines into the actor’s brain so that they become second nature, natural reactions for the character, therefore allowing the actor to worry less about what they are saying, but how they are saying a line.
6:24: After a couple of line snafus (read dropped, mixed-up, or wrong lines and people who aren’t off-book) we finish pacing. Stuart declares a five-minute break. After we come back we will work on several moments in the play where conversations aren’t working. There is a mass exodus to the vending machines.
6:42: Late, as always, we begin working on a scene that involves fast-paced dialogue and passing a dish of relish. It’s about a 50 second bit of conversation hell. In order for it to work, lines must be said with the correct intensity (building!) and exactly at the right moment (mimicking natural conversation) to give focus to the words over the business of the relish passing. Who knew it was so hard to talk and pass relish at the same time?
6:56: We go to a scene at the top of the play that moves from genial, fast-paced, witty conversation to a full-out screaming match. Again, here the issues are in the intensity and the timing. The words are the focus and we have to make them as active and interesting as possible in order to keep the audience attentive and not sleeping in their chairs.
6:03: Pronunciation meltdown. The actors playing Suzie and Khalid speak English as a second language. Suzie just said sal-mon instead of salmon.
6:05: In an OT conversation, ‘Roger’ asks ‘Suzie:’ “Do we (Americans) sound like we have accents to you?”
She just looks at him.
‘Jeff’: (to ‘Roger’) Ethnocentric motherf****er!
6:07: Back on track. Stuart constantly tweaks bits of timing and line delivery to give focus and make sentences more clear to an imagined audience.
6:46: That scene is nailed down. We move to a scene at the end of the show where ‘Khalid’ has a lot of lines. I’ve been drafted to go through the script and mark where he mispronounces a word or circle places where his accent makes it difficult to understand him.
7:26: ‘Khalid’s scene has made progress. We are rewarded with another short break.
7:44: We start at the top of the show for a run-through. Stuart will not stop us until the play ends or we run out of time, and then he will give notes (God save us!). He reminds us especially to focus on the language, watching rhythm and intensity. “Keep it moving!”
9:11: (A rather symbolic time for the content of the play!) We finish the show. A good run, but by no mans perfect. ‘Roger’ must watch his mush-mouth-ness and his volume (too loud!) . ‘Suzie’ gets a little whiny at times, which is hard for audiences to physically listen to, ‘Khalid’ needs to keep working on his pronunciation and line memorization, while ‘Terrance’ has to tap into the natural rhythms and cadences of speech–he’s sounding artificial. ‘Julia’ has to up her intensity, ‘Jeff’ suffers from the same problem, but he also is having problems with volume. I need to watch my volume at times, as well as my mid-western accent–Stuart doesn’t want it to be too strong for the show.
It’s nit-picky stuff. I’m suddenly realizing how many complex factors go into communicating and communicating well. We hardly have to think about it in regular conversation, but it is imperative in theatre’s artificial conversations. Ultimately, Omnium’s success lies in the power of language and the actor’s mastery of it.
5:05 pm: The actors start trickling in. Late, as usual. I’ll refer to each of them by their character names: Suzie, Roger, Julia, Terrence, Khalid, Jeff, and Lydia (me). Our director Stuart is impatient to start.
5:13: Everyone has assembled, and the actors begin their vocal warm-up: a series of tongue twisters that are prime both the brain and the mouth for maximum vocal performance. Since the play rests so heavily on the action within conversation, this exercise is an important one, and who doesn’t have fun saying: “A box of biscuits. A box of mixed biscuits, and a biscuit mixer,” as fast as they can? ( You know you want to try it!)
5:20: Stuart instructs us to pace: which is just theatre lingo for going through the play and saying lines as fast as we can without acting them. It’s a good refresher for remembering one’s lines, but its also important for rhythm. Conversations have a natural beat to them, like music, and in order for a play to be believable onstage, actors must tap into that rhythm. Pacing drills the lines into the actor’s brain so that they become second nature, natural reactions for the character, therefore allowing the actor to worry less about what they are saying, but how they are saying a line.
6:24: After a couple of line snafus (read dropped, mixed-up, or wrong lines and people who aren’t off-book) we finish pacing. Stuart declares a five-minute break. After we come back we will work on several moments in the play where conversations aren’t working. There is a mass exodus to the vending machines.
6:42: Late, as always, we begin working on a scene that involves fast-paced dialogue and passing a dish of relish. It’s about a 50 second bit of conversation hell. In order for it to work, lines must be said with the correct intensity (building!) and exactly at the right moment (mimicking natural conversation) to give focus to the words over the business of the relish passing. Who knew it was so hard to talk and pass relish at the same time?
6:56: We go to a scene at the top of the play that moves from genial, fast-paced, witty conversation to a full-out screaming match. Again, here the issues are in the intensity and the timing. The words are the focus and we have to make them as active and interesting as possible in order to keep the audience attentive and not sleeping in their chairs.
6:03: Pronunciation meltdown. The actors playing Suzie and Khalid speak English as a second language. Suzie just said sal-mon instead of salmon.
6:05: In an OT conversation, ‘Roger’ asks ‘Suzie:’ “Do we (Americans) sound like we have accents to you?”
She just looks at him.
‘Jeff’: (to ‘Roger’) Ethnocentric motherf****er!
6:07: Back on track. Stuart constantly tweaks bits of timing and line delivery to give focus and make sentences more clear to an imagined audience.
6:46: That scene is nailed down. We move to a scene at the end of the show where ‘Khalid’ has a lot of lines. I’ve been drafted to go through the script and mark where he mispronounces a word or circle places where his accent makes it difficult to understand him.
7:26: ‘Khalid’s scene has made progress. We are rewarded with another short break.
7:44: We start at the top of the show for a run-through. Stuart will not stop us until the play ends or we run out of time, and then he will give notes (God save us!). He reminds us especially to focus on the language, watching rhythm and intensity. “Keep it moving!”
9:11: (A rather symbolic time for the content of the play!) We finish the show. A good run, but by no mans perfect. ‘Roger’ must watch his mush-mouth-ness and his volume (too loud!) . ‘Suzie’ gets a little whiny at times, which is hard for audiences to physically listen to, ‘Khalid’ needs to keep working on his pronunciation and line memorization, while ‘Terrance’ has to tap into the natural rhythms and cadences of speech–he’s sounding artificial. ‘Julia’ has to up her intensity, ‘Jeff’ suffers from the same problem, but he also is having problems with volume. I need to watch my volume at times, as well as my mid-western accent–Stuart doesn’t want it to be too strong for the show.
It’s nit-picky stuff. I’m suddenly realizing how many complex factors go into communicating and communicating well. We hardly have to think about it in regular conversation, but it is imperative in theatre’s artificial conversations. Ultimately, Omnium’s success lies in the power of language and the actor’s mastery of it.
Monday, March 24, 2008
An Actor's Life for Me
Mini eureka in play rehearsal the other night: This is fabulous fodder for bloggage!
By ‘this’, I mean all of the ways the actors and director have to tackle issues of language: rhythm, tone, believability. After all, the script is merely words put into the actor’s mouth by someone else. Our job is to relate them in a way that is both natural and consistent to our ‘character’ and furthers the larger moral or themes of the play as interpreted by the director.
The play I’m in: Omnium Gatherum by Theresa Rebeck and Alexandra Gersten-Vassilaros, is lingually challenging (My director lovingly refers to it as ‘a talky piece of shit.’). The script itself is intelligent, witty, and sharp, and the main action of the play is not physical, but verbal. The attention here is solely on the language: what we, the actor, say, and how we say it.
I’ll be pseudo live-blogging a rehearsal (no laptop!), noting especially issues that involve language for a different approach to Line, Please!’s central theme.
More to come.
By ‘this’, I mean all of the ways the actors and director have to tackle issues of language: rhythm, tone, believability. After all, the script is merely words put into the actor’s mouth by someone else. Our job is to relate them in a way that is both natural and consistent to our ‘character’ and furthers the larger moral or themes of the play as interpreted by the director.
The play I’m in: Omnium Gatherum by Theresa Rebeck and Alexandra Gersten-Vassilaros, is lingually challenging (My director lovingly refers to it as ‘a talky piece of shit.’). The script itself is intelligent, witty, and sharp, and the main action of the play is not physical, but verbal. The attention here is solely on the language: what we, the actor, say, and how we say it.
I’ll be pseudo live-blogging a rehearsal (no laptop!), noting especially issues that involve language for a different approach to Line, Please!’s central theme.
More to come.
Line of the Week
"Puns are little "plays on words" that a certain breed of person loves to spring on you and then look at you in a certain self-satisfied way to indicate that he thinks that you must think that he is by far the cleverest person on Earth now that Benjamin Franklin is dead, when in fact what you are thinking is that if this person ever ends up in a lifeboat, the other passengers will hurl him overboard by the end of the first day even if they have plenty of food and water." --Dave Barry
Thursday, March 20, 2008
New Girl In Town
Ah, the Thursday night slump. The day-after-hump-day blues.
Kind of makes you want something fun, right? And savvy? And hip?
This is beginning to sound like one of those pervy dating sites, so I’ll get to the point.
Never fear, Grammar Girl is here!
Yes, I just referred to grammar as fun, savvy, and hip. No, I haven’t been hanging with Count Crackula.
I’m totally in love with this site. Click on or search for an episode that looks interesting and voile! Concise, easy to understand answers about grammar rules and issues in no-frills English. Plus you can opt to either read or listen to the episode (they’re podcasts)–a huge bonus for all rabid multitaskers. (Grammar while I eat! Yessss!)
And since you’re there: check out the ad on the home page for those cheeky grammar t-shirts. It doesn’t get any better than “Don’t verbify me, bro!”
Kind of makes you want something fun, right? And savvy? And hip?
This is beginning to sound like one of those pervy dating sites, so I’ll get to the point.
Never fear, Grammar Girl is here!
Yes, I just referred to grammar as fun, savvy, and hip. No, I haven’t been hanging with Count Crackula.
I’m totally in love with this site. Click on or search for an episode that looks interesting and voile! Concise, easy to understand answers about grammar rules and issues in no-frills English. Plus you can opt to either read or listen to the episode (they’re podcasts)–a huge bonus for all rabid multitaskers. (Grammar while I eat! Yessss!)
And since you’re there: check out the ad on the home page for those cheeky grammar t-shirts. It doesn’t get any better than “Don’t verbify me, bro!”
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Line of the Week
In the telling, we tell ourselves.
"You read books to borrow therefore the force to stimulate your activity...but I read books searching for the man who has written them." --Vincent Van Gogh
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Lost In Translation
I was chatting with a good friend of mine this afternoon in Starbucks. She’s an international student hailing from Germany, and the sweetest, most mild-mannered, blonde-haired, blue-eyed thing you’d ever want to see.
Which is why I nearly shot iced caramel macchiato out of my nose when she dropped the mother of all nasty, horrible, not-fit-to-print words quite casually during our conversation.
“Did you just say ‘$#?!*@’?” I managed to squeak.
She laughed aloud. “Oh yes! It’s my favorite American word!” After which she proceeded to rattle it off at least a jillion times in quick succession, adding a little sing-song cadence for dramatic effect. Needless to say, it was a move that caught the attention of the boys sitting kitty-corner to us, and sent them into gales of laughter.
She finished with a smile, while I, breathlessly singing praises to the Lord God Almighty that I had gotten a venti rather than a tall, hid behind my coffee cup and the paper bag that had once contained my blueberry pound cake.
“Your favorite WORD?!”
She nodded. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. We don’t have a word like that in Germany. I just think it sounds funny.”
I said it to myself once or twice in my head, and thought to myself that yes, it did sound a little funny.
Yet the fact that a word I found so utterly repulsive was quite meaningless to her knocked my brain into left field.
Words, by nature are just symbols. They are merely inconsequential bits of sound that we, as a culture, have arbitrarily attached imagined definitions to in order to communicate.
My German friend had no concept of the American culture's imagined definition of the word, allowing her to so freely spout such a rotten thing without a moment’s thought. It was a meaningless bit of gibberish. It was just a word, a naked sound, devoid of any and all cultural implication.
It’s startling to think that to someone who speaks another language, all of our finely wrought sentences are just scribbles in the sand, curious patterns of arabesques; and each perfectly delivered line like the chatter of birds or the gabble of a small child: strange and nuanced, but utterly meaningless.
Which is why I nearly shot iced caramel macchiato out of my nose when she dropped the mother of all nasty, horrible, not-fit-to-print words quite casually during our conversation.
“Did you just say ‘$#?!*@’?” I managed to squeak.
She laughed aloud. “Oh yes! It’s my favorite American word!” After which she proceeded to rattle it off at least a jillion times in quick succession, adding a little sing-song cadence for dramatic effect. Needless to say, it was a move that caught the attention of the boys sitting kitty-corner to us, and sent them into gales of laughter.
She finished with a smile, while I, breathlessly singing praises to the Lord God Almighty that I had gotten a venti rather than a tall, hid behind my coffee cup and the paper bag that had once contained my blueberry pound cake.
“Your favorite WORD?!”
She nodded. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. We don’t have a word like that in Germany. I just think it sounds funny.”
I said it to myself once or twice in my head, and thought to myself that yes, it did sound a little funny.
Yet the fact that a word I found so utterly repulsive was quite meaningless to her knocked my brain into left field.
Words, by nature are just symbols. They are merely inconsequential bits of sound that we, as a culture, have arbitrarily attached imagined definitions to in order to communicate.
My German friend had no concept of the American culture's imagined definition of the word, allowing her to so freely spout such a rotten thing without a moment’s thought. It was a meaningless bit of gibberish. It was just a word, a naked sound, devoid of any and all cultural implication.
It’s startling to think that to someone who speaks another language, all of our finely wrought sentences are just scribbles in the sand, curious patterns of arabesques; and each perfectly delivered line like the chatter of birds or the gabble of a small child: strange and nuanced, but utterly meaningless.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Brain-Food
Question: What do you get when you mix vocab and world hunger?
What is Free Rice, Alex?
This little game is crack for word junkies. Don’t fight the addiction. (Current top score: Level 42)
Plus, for each word you get right, Free Rice donates 20 grains of rice to The United Nations World Food Program to help feed the hungry: all the more incentive for you to keep playing.
I know what you’re thinking: “Hoo-boy Katie, this sounds too good to be true!”
Negatron.
The rice is paid for by the advertisements that you see at the bottom of the screen during game play.
C’mon, do the world (and your vocab) a favor.
What is Free Rice, Alex?
This little game is crack for word junkies. Don’t fight the addiction. (Current top score: Level 42)
Plus, for each word you get right, Free Rice donates 20 grains of rice to The United Nations World Food Program to help feed the hungry: all the more incentive for you to keep playing.
I know what you’re thinking: “Hoo-boy Katie, this sounds too good to be true!”
Negatron.
The rice is paid for by the advertisements that you see at the bottom of the screen during game play.
C’mon, do the world (and your vocab) a favor.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Line of the Week
Ah, the wonders of vocabulary.
I like the word "indolence." It makes my laziness seem classy. --Bern Williams
Thursday, February 21, 2008
On the Amazon
Yesterday’s rummaging through the old cassette tapes I had yoinked from my dad proved quite fruitful: a Don McLean tape!
Yes, the ‘American Pie’ guy.
I’m a big fan. Like his music his taken over my ipod big fan. Like I may know all the lyrics to ‘American Pie’ big fan.
I think I squealed a little when I popped it into my stereo and found that the tape contained songs that I had never heard before, including a hysterical little ditty called “On the Amazon.”
Unfortunately, because the song is a tad out-of-date and one of McLean’s lesser known works, I was unable to find it on YouTube for your viewing pleasure (unless you count the one amateur version sung in some Slavic dialect). I did however, find the lyrics.
Through some rather Seussian humor, “On the Amazon” is a deft poke at the total misconception people have over certain terms (read: hypodermic, kodachromes, pax vobiscum, et al). These scientific-sounding words that often trip one up in the meaning department are re-cast by McLean as the frightening denizens of the exotic Amazon. If you have no idea what a duodenum is, than it sounds perfectly reasonable for it to be lurking in the trees, no?
So beware those apostrophes and that darn laryngitis! For, though they’re not as exotic as they sound, the former can be quite the tricky little bugger, and always, always avoid the latter.
Yes, the ‘American Pie’ guy.
I’m a big fan. Like his music his taken over my ipod big fan. Like I may know all the lyrics to ‘American Pie’ big fan.
I think I squealed a little when I popped it into my stereo and found that the tape contained songs that I had never heard before, including a hysterical little ditty called “On the Amazon.”
Unfortunately, because the song is a tad out-of-date and one of McLean’s lesser known works, I was unable to find it on YouTube for your viewing pleasure (unless you count the one amateur version sung in some Slavic dialect). I did however, find the lyrics.
Through some rather Seussian humor, “On the Amazon” is a deft poke at the total misconception people have over certain terms (read: hypodermic, kodachromes, pax vobiscum, et al). These scientific-sounding words that often trip one up in the meaning department are re-cast by McLean as the frightening denizens of the exotic Amazon. If you have no idea what a duodenum is, than it sounds perfectly reasonable for it to be lurking in the trees, no?
So beware those apostrophes and that darn laryngitis! For, though they’re not as exotic as they sound, the former can be quite the tricky little bugger, and always, always avoid the latter.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Word Play
“Kate, do you know where Scrabble is?”
Not exactly what I was expecting when I flipped open my phone.
“Uh, no Ma. Is it in the closet under the stairs?”
“No! I looked there.”
“Under your bed?”
“No.”
This whole frantic interrogation was brought on by a similarly frantic phone call from my grandmother to my mother when she discovered that her Scrabble game was missing.
This is possibly the worst crisis that has ever occurred in either of our households.
My grandmother, my mother, and I are the most cut-throat, competitive, rabid Scrabble players in the history of Parker Brothers gamedom.
Every year, when my family visits my grandparents in Wisconsin, there is a violent, cross-generational clash of vocabularies and triple word scores around the worn kitchen table. Just the clicking of the little wooden tiles being jostled in their cloth bag is enough to send my brothers, father and grandfather into basement hibernation. They know what comes next: at least three hours worth of squabbling over points and spelling, disjointed bits of small talk, and the occasional stream of profanity.
Sometimes I win. Sometimes not. It really doesn’t matter though. It’s all in the struggle.
I’ve been beefing up my Scrabble word arsenal for the last couple of months (minding my ‘Q’s especially) in order to prepare myself for zero hour: spring break 2008, when my mother and I sojourn to the frozen wastes of Wisconsin to do battle again.
Which brings us back to our initial problem. Grandma’s ancient, stained-tile Scrabble is missing.
And apparently so is mine.
Now before you start hypothesizing about word-junkie aliens who’ve been quietly stealing Scrabble games across the country, remember the male contingent of my family and their utter loathing of the word game. Which leads me to believe that either one or both of the games is stuffed within the frightening clutter of the garage work bench, or in a duct in the attic, far from any place we would normally look.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
If they don’t turn up, it’s nothing that a short trip down to the Wal-Mart game-aisle won’t fix, and we’ll be back at it again: making words out of all vowels, siccing vocabularies on each other, and spelling out much, much more than high-scoring words.
We write memories all over that board.
Not exactly what I was expecting when I flipped open my phone.
“Uh, no Ma. Is it in the closet under the stairs?”
“No! I looked there.”
“Under your bed?”
“No.”
This whole frantic interrogation was brought on by a similarly frantic phone call from my grandmother to my mother when she discovered that her Scrabble game was missing.
This is possibly the worst crisis that has ever occurred in either of our households.
My grandmother, my mother, and I are the most cut-throat, competitive, rabid Scrabble players in the history of Parker Brothers gamedom.
Every year, when my family visits my grandparents in Wisconsin, there is a violent, cross-generational clash of vocabularies and triple word scores around the worn kitchen table. Just the clicking of the little wooden tiles being jostled in their cloth bag is enough to send my brothers, father and grandfather into basement hibernation. They know what comes next: at least three hours worth of squabbling over points and spelling, disjointed bits of small talk, and the occasional stream of profanity.
Sometimes I win. Sometimes not. It really doesn’t matter though. It’s all in the struggle.
I’ve been beefing up my Scrabble word arsenal for the last couple of months (minding my ‘Q’s especially) in order to prepare myself for zero hour: spring break 2008, when my mother and I sojourn to the frozen wastes of Wisconsin to do battle again.
Which brings us back to our initial problem. Grandma’s ancient, stained-tile Scrabble is missing.
And apparently so is mine.
Now before you start hypothesizing about word-junkie aliens who’ve been quietly stealing Scrabble games across the country, remember the male contingent of my family and their utter loathing of the word game. Which leads me to believe that either one or both of the games is stuffed within the frightening clutter of the garage work bench, or in a duct in the attic, far from any place we would normally look.
Lord, what fools these mortals be.
If they don’t turn up, it’s nothing that a short trip down to the Wal-Mart game-aisle won’t fix, and we’ll be back at it again: making words out of all vowels, siccing vocabularies on each other, and spelling out much, much more than high-scoring words.
We write memories all over that board.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Line of the Week
"I love England, especially the food. There's nothing I like more than a lovely bowl of pasta." --Naomi Campbell
Think the English pasta is good? Wait until you try the Italian fish and chips.
Think the English pasta is good? Wait until you try the Italian fish and chips.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Pictionary
So this is what the people at Princeton do in their spare time!
This baby is not your average dictionary or thesaurus, that’s for sure. It’s fascinating to see the associations between words and the resulting patterns: conifer and melancholy produce some spectacular visual displays. (The random button is also a good bet!) What are you waiting for? Go play!
This baby is not your average dictionary or thesaurus, that’s for sure. It’s fascinating to see the associations between words and the resulting patterns: conifer and melancholy produce some spectacular visual displays. (The random button is also a good bet!) What are you waiting for? Go play!
Monday, February 11, 2008
I Now Pronounce You...
In one of my classes today, the professor asked students to read aloud from the text we were examining.
Harmless, right?
Personally, I thought it was quite refreshing. Just the thought of it brought back the chalk-dust and lunch-box nostalgia of elementary school.
Come to find out, there’s a reason you don’t read aloud after elementary school. Exhibit A: mispronounced words.
I know how embarassing it is to find that you've been mispronouncing a word time and again: I'm the repeat offender. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than confidently proclaiming that the ‘sherbert’ was fantastic, when it really was the sherbet that was fantastic. Open mouth, insert foot.
So, what do you say when someone “aks” you to pass them that paper? Or when someone says ‘ek-set-er-a’ when they mean ‘et-set-er-a’? Do you just let them keep on talking and making the same mistake, or do you politely correct them and risk the possibility that they might think you’re a pompous little twit?
Personally, I’d rather have some pompous little twit tell me that my pronunciation is off so I don’t continue to embarrass myself whenever I refer to “Green-witch” village. It’s like mispronunciation immunization: it’s a sharp little hurt when you’re corrected, but now that you know where and what you’ve flubbed, chances are you’ll never make that linguistic gaffe again.
So be a friend and let that person know that it is aficionado, not afandacio, and swallow hard when someone quietly tells you that it is ‘pot-n-tate’ not ‘po-TEN-tate,’ it just saves everyone the embarrassment, no matter how you pronounce it.
P.S. Want a reality check? It’s quite the shocker.
Harmless, right?
Personally, I thought it was quite refreshing. Just the thought of it brought back the chalk-dust and lunch-box nostalgia of elementary school.
Come to find out, there’s a reason you don’t read aloud after elementary school. Exhibit A: mispronounced words.
I know how embarassing it is to find that you've been mispronouncing a word time and again: I'm the repeat offender. Believe me, there’s nothing worse than confidently proclaiming that the ‘sherbert’ was fantastic, when it really was the sherbet that was fantastic. Open mouth, insert foot.
So, what do you say when someone “aks” you to pass them that paper? Or when someone says ‘ek-set-er-a’ when they mean ‘et-set-er-a’? Do you just let them keep on talking and making the same mistake, or do you politely correct them and risk the possibility that they might think you’re a pompous little twit?
Personally, I’d rather have some pompous little twit tell me that my pronunciation is off so I don’t continue to embarrass myself whenever I refer to “Green-witch” village. It’s like mispronunciation immunization: it’s a sharp little hurt when you’re corrected, but now that you know where and what you’ve flubbed, chances are you’ll never make that linguistic gaffe again.
So be a friend and let that person know that it is aficionado, not afandacio, and swallow hard when someone quietly tells you that it is ‘pot-n-tate’ not ‘po-TEN-tate,’ it just saves everyone the embarrassment, no matter how you pronounce it.
P.S. Want a reality check? It’s quite the shocker.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Line of the Week
Just a little piece of brain candy this week:
“Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests” –Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Message In A Bottle
I’m a sucker for stories.
I think we all are to a degree. Mankind has a long history of oral tradition, spoken tales passed down through the ages from every tribe, every time, every nation. Through these stories, we learn something about the teller, and if the teller is a good one, something about the world, life, and even ourselves.
Since this is a blog concerned with language, it’s the perfect place to tell and share stories. So every once in a while, I will include an audio byte or a story that has been told to me that is especially piquant or profound, just so that it might leave even the tiniest impression before it vanishes completely.
Spoken words are fleeting, ephemeral; beautiful oddities that, to be truly considered, must be captured like lighting bugs in a jar, to be released only after we have marveled at them a little.
Here’s this evening’s catch.
I think we all are to a degree. Mankind has a long history of oral tradition, spoken tales passed down through the ages from every tribe, every time, every nation. Through these stories, we learn something about the teller, and if the teller is a good one, something about the world, life, and even ourselves.
Since this is a blog concerned with language, it’s the perfect place to tell and share stories. So every once in a while, I will include an audio byte or a story that has been told to me that is especially piquant or profound, just so that it might leave even the tiniest impression before it vanishes completely.
Spoken words are fleeting, ephemeral; beautiful oddities that, to be truly considered, must be captured like lighting bugs in a jar, to be released only after we have marveled at them a little.
Here’s this evening’s catch.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Say it again...and again.
Why is it that those little moments of revelation pop up when least expected?
They always happen when you’re typing up something completely unrelated, or you’re 5 minutes into "The Daily Show," and POW: "OhmygodItotallyforgotaboutMom’sbirthday!" hits you right in the face.
Today it was at work, which, in my mind, is totally out of bounds.
I was was perusing my evaluation sheets: feedback from people rating how well I am doing my job. This necessary ‘eval’ sounds worse than it is, it’s merely a tool to pinpoint if there are any flaws in your job performance, and serves a space for people to compliment your service. Today I noticed that for the umpteenth time someone had written something like : "Katie is ‘AWESOME!’" or some other variation (i.e. "Katie is ‘cool beans!’").
POW! Late hit.
Could it be that I am using these interjections too often in my interactions with people?
I mean, I’m articulate. I have a wide and varied range of vocabulary at my disposal. I’m an English major for pete’s sake, it’s my business to make things sound pretty (attractive, beautiful, charming). I didn’t think I sounded like a broken record, but in the case of what comes out of your mouth, the best judges are those whose mouths are shut.
My Dad has always said to my Mom and me, "When you open your mouth your ears close!"
Ha ha, Dad.
It’s true though. While blabbing away, your mind is full of myriad other things, like what you are going to say, and how you are going to say it, and "Jeez my mouth is dry," and is not listening to what actually comes out of your mouth. But your audience is concentrating only on what you say, flaws and all.
Those-with-their-ears-open are the ones who can easily identify any nasty little lingual habits (AWESOME! Cool beans!) of she-whose-ears-are-closed. Which in turn allows them to write clever little remarks on she-whose-ears-are-closed’s ‘eval sheet,’ which consequently throws her into paroxysms of self-reflection and doubt.
She-whose-ears-are-closed thinks that it is high time to revamp her vocab and manner of speaking and get rid of those tired old mainstays.
They always happen when you’re typing up something completely unrelated, or you’re 5 minutes into "The Daily Show," and POW: "OhmygodItotallyforgotaboutMom’sbirthday!" hits you right in the face.
Today it was at work, which, in my mind, is totally out of bounds.
I was was perusing my evaluation sheets: feedback from people rating how well I am doing my job. This necessary ‘eval’ sounds worse than it is, it’s merely a tool to pinpoint if there are any flaws in your job performance, and serves a space for people to compliment your service. Today I noticed that for the umpteenth time someone had written something like : "Katie is ‘AWESOME!’" or some other variation (i.e. "Katie is ‘cool beans!’").
POW! Late hit.
Could it be that I am using these interjections too often in my interactions with people?
I mean, I’m articulate. I have a wide and varied range of vocabulary at my disposal. I’m an English major for pete’s sake, it’s my business to make things sound pretty (attractive, beautiful, charming). I didn’t think I sounded like a broken record, but in the case of what comes out of your mouth, the best judges are those whose mouths are shut.
My Dad has always said to my Mom and me, "When you open your mouth your ears close!"
Ha ha, Dad.
It’s true though. While blabbing away, your mind is full of myriad other things, like what you are going to say, and how you are going to say it, and "Jeez my mouth is dry," and is not listening to what actually comes out of your mouth. But your audience is concentrating only on what you say, flaws and all.
Those-with-their-ears-open are the ones who can easily identify any nasty little lingual habits (AWESOME! Cool beans!) of she-whose-ears-are-closed. Which in turn allows them to write clever little remarks on she-whose-ears-are-closed’s ‘eval sheet,’ which consequently throws her into paroxysms of self-reflection and doubt.
She-whose-ears-are-closed thinks that it is high time to revamp her vocab and manner of speaking and get rid of those tired old mainstays.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Line of the Week
Thanks to my brother, his edition of ‘Road & Track,’ and the LA Times for this winner.
“Caution: Vehicle May be Transporting Political Promises”–seen on the back of a septic-tank pumper truck in San Dimas, California.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Still Slangin' On
Oh reputable Time Magazine, why do you pine for the slang of the 1960's?
Is it merely because you don’t understand the scads of modern slang that have sprouted up recently and you long for some of that wholesome goodness of the past?
Or are you just jealous that you didn’t come up with such "drearily literal" gems like ‘Christ on a whole wheat cracker!’ or ‘brown one's Cheese Doodles?’
Whatever the reason, methinks you doth reject too much. Modern slang is a fascinating lexicon of the astute, clever, and the downright strange. Perhaps it piques my interest only because I have been a captive to scholarly writing for the last couple of years, and now, having only recently been introduced to the blogosphere and accompanying hex, its novelty is refreshing. Time will tell.
Nevertheless, such slang is still language, no matter how wonky it may sound to the unaccustomed ear, and like the slang of the past (here is where your penchant for all things groovy comes in, Time), it may well influence the American vocabulary indefinitely.
Which is why I will continue to brush up on my lingo. God-knows, we all might be cosmic donut supporters in the future.
Yeah. Look it up, it might save your life someday, or maybe just your reputation.
Is it merely because you don’t understand the scads of modern slang that have sprouted up recently and you long for some of that wholesome goodness of the past?
Or are you just jealous that you didn’t come up with such "drearily literal" gems like ‘Christ on a whole wheat cracker!’ or ‘brown one's Cheese Doodles?’
Whatever the reason, methinks you doth reject too much. Modern slang is a fascinating lexicon of the astute, clever, and the downright strange. Perhaps it piques my interest only because I have been a captive to scholarly writing for the last couple of years, and now, having only recently been introduced to the blogosphere and accompanying hex, its novelty is refreshing. Time will tell.
Nevertheless, such slang is still language, no matter how wonky it may sound to the unaccustomed ear, and like the slang of the past (here is where your penchant for all things groovy comes in, Time), it may well influence the American vocabulary indefinitely.
Which is why I will continue to brush up on my lingo. God-knows, we all might be cosmic donut supporters in the future.
Yeah. Look it up, it might save your life someday, or maybe just your reputation.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
F-Bombs Away!
That four letter word is everywhere.
It peppers conversations overheard in campus halls, flavors the bland lyrics of pop music, and well seasons the dialogue of movies and TV shows.
It’s the mother-of-all-curse-words, and some people are taking it to work.
I was highly amused by this little episode in Terry Heaton’s PoMo blog concerning the use of profanity in the newsroom. Pay for what you say.
To be frank, I’d stay away from f-bomb and company. You’ll offend before you impress. Not to mention that it’s rather linguistically boring if every other word that comes out of your mouth rhymes with schmuck.
It’s not like I don’t use those bad boys myself. I have sailor moments. I go all Bruce Banner when my knee collides with some hard metal object, or that idiot cuts me off while he’s crossing three lanes of traffic, and then I become this expletive-spewing mutant.
Yet I think that Heaton’s funny little Fu*k Jar goes a little far. Cursing is unprofessional, and the fact that it got so out of hand in the newsroom that they started charging per expletive is a trifle ridiculous. It’s work, not the Osbournes. Save it for a more appropriate time, like when the washing machine overflows and makes the laundry room look like the splash zone at Sea World.
So if something slips out on accident at the workplace, apologize, and don’t make a habit of it. What you say defines you, and unless you’re looking for that trailer-trash potty-mouth reputation, stop yourself before you let the four letter words fly. The professional realm is just no place for fuck.
It peppers conversations overheard in campus halls, flavors the bland lyrics of pop music, and well seasons the dialogue of movies and TV shows.
It’s the mother-of-all-curse-words, and some people are taking it to work.
I was highly amused by this little episode in Terry Heaton’s PoMo blog concerning the use of profanity in the newsroom. Pay for what you say.
To be frank, I’d stay away from f-bomb and company. You’ll offend before you impress. Not to mention that it’s rather linguistically boring if every other word that comes out of your mouth rhymes with schmuck.
It’s not like I don’t use those bad boys myself. I have sailor moments. I go all Bruce Banner when my knee collides with some hard metal object, or that idiot cuts me off while he’s crossing three lanes of traffic, and then I become this expletive-spewing mutant.
Yet I think that Heaton’s funny little Fu*k Jar goes a little far. Cursing is unprofessional, and the fact that it got so out of hand in the newsroom that they started charging per expletive is a trifle ridiculous. It’s work, not the Osbournes. Save it for a more appropriate time, like when the washing machine overflows and makes the laundry room look like the splash zone at Sea World.
So if something slips out on accident at the workplace, apologize, and don’t make a habit of it. What you say defines you, and unless you’re looking for that trailer-trash potty-mouth reputation, stop yourself before you let the four letter words fly. The professional realm is just no place for fuck.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Line of the (Last)Week
I’m a little late in introducing a weekly feature of Line, please!: Line of the Week, a weekly post where I will showcase an interesting blurb, recent or otherwise.
And this week’s winner is....
And this week’s winner is....
"To me, bars are what hell is like." – Clay Aiken
Memo to Beelzebub: get a bouncer. Things are really going to start picking up now that they know you serve alcohol.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Out of the Mouths of Babes
I was leafing through the News Press this morning, seeing if there was bigger news than my oatmeal exploding all over the microwave. (Who knew that stuffy-looking Quaker had weapon of mass destruction potential?) It was impossible to ignore the headline on the front page: “DAY CARE HORROR,” the article screamed. Obviously the author was unused to a typical day at a daycare, where little horrors are run of the mill. Can we say projectile vomit?
In all seriousness, yesterday’s day care shooting was a chilling realization of any parent or teacher’s worst nightmare. As a former pre-school teacher, yesterday’s events caused me to question how I would have reacted to such a dangerous situation.
It’s a rather spicy bit of news for the sleepy Cape. Yet who, god bless them, do the journalists decide to interview? A three-year old.
I’m sorry, but how much information are you going to get out of a three-year old, even if she was a witness? All this “Last time we were in there, we saw a monster” crap, reeks of spoonfeeding to me. A child of that age is not often that articulate, and even when they are, their words and actions are colored by active imaginations and emotions. I used to talk with my pre-schoolers about what they ate for breakfast, and one little girl told me frequently: “Mommy made me snails!”
Not to discount the experience of this poor kid, I’m sure that she was as “scared” as she told the reporters. It’s a dreadful experience for anyone, nonetheless a child. But why are we interviewing her, for pete’s sake? She’s had a rough enough time already. Sooner talk to a teacher or another adult who was in the building, and leave the kids alone. I’d much prefer the inside detail from an adult commentary than an abject ploy at sentimentality from the exploitation of a small child.
In all seriousness, yesterday’s day care shooting was a chilling realization of any parent or teacher’s worst nightmare. As a former pre-school teacher, yesterday’s events caused me to question how I would have reacted to such a dangerous situation.
It’s a rather spicy bit of news for the sleepy Cape. Yet who, god bless them, do the journalists decide to interview? A three-year old.
I’m sorry, but how much information are you going to get out of a three-year old, even if she was a witness? All this “Last time we were in there, we saw a monster” crap, reeks of spoonfeeding to me. A child of that age is not often that articulate, and even when they are, their words and actions are colored by active imaginations and emotions. I used to talk with my pre-schoolers about what they ate for breakfast, and one little girl told me frequently: “Mommy made me snails!”
Not to discount the experience of this poor kid, I’m sure that she was as “scared” as she told the reporters. It’s a dreadful experience for anyone, nonetheless a child. But why are we interviewing her, for pete’s sake? She’s had a rough enough time already. Sooner talk to a teacher or another adult who was in the building, and leave the kids alone. I’d much prefer the inside detail from an adult commentary than an abject ploy at sentimentality from the exploitation of a small child.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Let there be.
Beginnings are hard. That first word on the page, that first awkward conversation with someone, the first day at the new job. You want to give the right impression, you want to say the right things, show that you’re something unique.
I had an art teacher who once told me to paint my canvases all one color before I started painting. I was apprehensive about making a mistake; canvases were expensive, and I had little money to spend on pricey art supplies. "Paint it all a light color," he said, "Baby blue or pink or green, just to cover up all that white, so it doesn’t seem like you’re starting new."
"It tricks your brain," he said. "Your mind is an idiot, it looks at all of that white and sees all of the mistakes it can make, not all of the possibilities it has. If you cover it with your own color and your own brush-strokes, it’s easier to start."
And it was.
This is a blog about language: the things that people say and the stories that they have to tell. Edward Sapir once remarked that "Language is the most significant and colossal work that the human spirit has evolved." Yes, but how are we using it?
This is a place where you will find both the profound and the profoundly stupid, because there is something to be learned from both. This is a place where you will find oral stories that merit from their recording. You will find quotes and dialogues, and humor intertwined with astuteness. Our language tells so much about who we are as people, and that, in and of itself, is a lodestone of diversity, curiosity, and interest.
This is my beginning.
My mind is an idiot, I first had to put down a layer of color before I could jump in.
Now I can paint.
I had an art teacher who once told me to paint my canvases all one color before I started painting. I was apprehensive about making a mistake; canvases were expensive, and I had little money to spend on pricey art supplies. "Paint it all a light color," he said, "Baby blue or pink or green, just to cover up all that white, so it doesn’t seem like you’re starting new."
"It tricks your brain," he said. "Your mind is an idiot, it looks at all of that white and sees all of the mistakes it can make, not all of the possibilities it has. If you cover it with your own color and your own brush-strokes, it’s easier to start."
And it was.
This is a blog about language: the things that people say and the stories that they have to tell. Edward Sapir once remarked that "Language is the most significant and colossal work that the human spirit has evolved." Yes, but how are we using it?
This is a place where you will find both the profound and the profoundly stupid, because there is something to be learned from both. This is a place where you will find oral stories that merit from their recording. You will find quotes and dialogues, and humor intertwined with astuteness. Our language tells so much about who we are as people, and that, in and of itself, is a lodestone of diversity, curiosity, and interest.
This is my beginning.
My mind is an idiot, I first had to put down a layer of color before I could jump in.
Now I can paint.
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