Talking Local

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I was on an uptown bus shortly after the advent of automated announcements. Here’s a printed list of some stops along the route:

Everything sounded fine in the 80s and 90s. I heard “next stop West 86th Street and Broadway,” and so on up the line. Then came “next stop One Hundred and Oneth Street.” I didn’t bother writing to the MTA, the governing body of public transit in New York City. I knew that thousands of New Yorkers would have already informed the agency of this mistake. (Complaining about public transit — complaining about everything! — is one of New Yorkers’ favorite pastimes.)

Last week I was on the same bus. Sure enough, the announcement had been changed. Notice I say “changed,” not “corrected,” because the revised version was “One Oh First Street.” “One OH” mimics New Yorkers’ usage for building numbers. No local would say, “I work at two hundred and five Madison Avenue. It’s “2 OH 5 Madison Avenue.” But that form isn’t for street names, and “One OH” doesn’t pair with “First.” The stop should be “One Hundred and First Street.” Why? Because that’s how we locals say it.

The crosstown bus in my neighborhood initially presented a problem also. Note the third stop on this list, which is located across from the stables housing NYPD horses:

For the first year or so, the automated announcement placed the accent on the second syllable (transVERSE). Eventually the accent was moved to the first syllable, where it should be (TRANSverse).

Last one. If you’re a visitor to NYC and ask for directions to a spot on “the Avenue of the Americas,” chances are you’ll be met with a puzzled frown. If you’re lucky, the person will respond, “Ya mean Sixth Avenue?” The name was changed in 1945 when Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia hoped to entice Central and South American countries to build consulates there. The city hung country medallions and these signs:

More realistic, in its route listings the MTA opted for the term bus and subway riders actually use:

Ditto in its maps. Check the vertical lines, which represent avenues. Right in the center you’ll see “Sixth Avenue”:

If there’s a moral to this story, it’s that we’re all local where we live, but we’re all nonlocal where we don’t. Be patient with someone who asks where “East Two OH Fifth Steet” is. Actually, be patient with everyone, as often as you can. These tense times demand our best efforts!

Can You Describe It?

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How good are you at describing things? The people who wrote these labels, signs, and captions were — well, let’s just say they need more practice. First up is a celebrity marriage:

Harrison partially abandoned his wife? Poor Calista! Also, to prevent harm to whom? And how long does it take to vacuum an 800-acre home?

My friend Catherine sent me this one:

She doesn’t have an INDOOR CHICKEN. Her cats, on the other hand, might enjoy this product, whether it’s made from INDOOR or outdoor CHICKEN. And FORMULA? What does that mean in this context, other than expensive?

This sign makes me shiver:

Do you have a CITIZEN who needs DISPOSAL? I sincerely hope not, but if you do, this FACILITY is for you! (FYI: It’s posted at the entrance to the country dump.)

Many New York apartment buildings have doormen, who, presumably, are the intended customers for this business:

I’d always assumed they showered or bathed. I never imagined they put themselves through DRY CLEANING!

That’s all for today. Stay safe!

March Madness

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This is not a post about a basketball tournament. It’s about what my Italian friend calls “Marzo Pazzo” — Crazy March. Judging from the weather last week, the month is accurately labeled. I was in Washington DC on Wednesday: it was 85 degrees and humid. On Thursday it snowed. This month in NYC I’ve toggled between “spring at last!” and “where did I put my heavy coat?”

As crazy as the weather are these signs, all of which I spotted this month. First up is a notice on a new building in my neighborhood:

You know the LEASING prices are high because it’s a COLLECTION of RESIDENCES. In my experience, those terms mean “we’re overcharging.” What’s crazy is ELEVATED. The building is about 20 stories tall. Shouldn’t the owner assume that prospective renters assume that they won’t have to climb the stairs to their RESIDENCES?

Speaking of elevators, I saw this sign in one:

Whenever I’m at Fairway Market, I know that I’m at Fairway Market. Does management think that people wander in, find the elevator, and then ask “Where am I?”

Here’s a sign I saw in the window of a shop selling gummies and other hemp-derived products:

I understand the HEALTHCARE part, but not ADJACENT EXPERIENCE. Readers, please send me your theories.

Last one:

This is the horrifyingly expensive price list for a parking garage on my block. (In case you’re wondering, I don’t pay these prices. I don’t own a car.) My reason for placing this sign in the crazy column is the third line, Exotic Add’l. I can decode Add’l — “additional.” But Exotic? No clue. Your thoughts?

I could end this post with a wish that you enjoy the rest of this crazy month. But given the times we live in, I’m ending this post with a wish for sanity — or at least something that’s sanity adjacent. We could all benefit from that!

On the Bus

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Readers of this blog know that my topic is usually language. But today I’m putting words to one side and focusing instead on actions. Specifically, what I witnessed on a Manhattan bus yesterday.

I was staring out a window, oblivious to my surroundings, when I slowly became aware of a little stir. The man on my left was rooting around in his grocery bag. He pulled out a roll of paper towels, peeled back the cellophane, tore off one sheet, and then another. He passed both towels to the woman next to him, who in turn passed them to someone sitting beside her, who leaned across the aisle and gave them to a mom who had used up a hefty supply of tissues on her child’s very drippy nose. The mom smiled her thanks and said, “This is the America I want to live in.” We bus riders chorused our agreement. Someone added, “That’s why I live in New York.”

I don’t think New Yorkers have a monopoly on kindness, but I do believe we seldom get enough credit for the amount of kindness this city calls forth from its residents every single day. Yes, we’re impatient. Yes, we can seem – and be! – rude. But for people from such varied backgrounds, whose experiences and beliefs may fall as far apart as Earth and Jupiter, we manage pretty well. And often, like today, New Yorkers step up in surprising ways. My busmates understood how annoying a trail of mucus can be, both to the dripper and the dripped on. Perhaps they also grasped that the dripper/drippee toggle can flip in the blink of an eye (or the ah-choo of a nose).

The world feels like a cruel, hard place right now. I’m hoping paper-towel man thrives and inspires others with his kindness. He certainly inspired me! I’m not planning to carry around a roll of towels, but I have resolved to pay more attention and to help whenever I can. If enough of us resolve to do so, perhaps we can collectively toggle from despair to hope.

Mysteries

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No matter what else I’m reading, I always have at least one mystery novel on my nightstand. At the end of a long day of bad news — far too frequent, these days — I need to dip into an orderly world where justice prevails. Yes, I know some mysteries deviate from that pattern. I don’t read those. How do I know whether a mystery fits my criteria? I read the last page first. Real life is surprising enough! Plus, I nearly always forget the identity of the murderer by the time I get to the end of the second chapter.

When I’m out and about, I enjoy mysteries also. Sometimes they show up in an overheard comment: “He’ll do for a starter husband” (one twenty-something woman to another) and “Have you brought your business to a successful conclusion?” (dog walker to poodle). Before you ask, yes, these are real things New Yorkers said.

My favorite mysteries appear on signs. Here’s one:

No one can read this without wondering which ingredients the store won’t sell. Unethically sourced shea butter? Uranium? Magic beans? It’s a mystery.

Here’s another mysterious sign:

Let’s get practical: How does the site owner know what parents have said to their kids? Does telling children of the dangers of trespassing fulfill the parents’ obligation? (“I told you, now go and trespass if you want.”) Also, isn’t trespassing anywhere a dangerous activity? Or only on this site?

Another mystery:

I’m ignoring the subject-verb agreement error (Shower Caps should Keep, not Keeps). What I really want to know is whether there are Shower Caps that make hair wet. Also, is there a shower cap that keeps something other than HAIR DRY? Maybe there are Shower Caps for toes? Or belly buttons? Elbows, perhaps?

The mysteries presented here don’t conclude with justice triumphant, but neither do they honor the guilty. They’re just mysteries that add a little fun to my life and, I hope, to yours also.

Private Lives

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In this age of social media, you might think that nothing is private. Think again:

I do my own laundry, but if I sent it to a LAUNDRY, I’d select this store. My clothing is on the shy side and prefers not to whirl around with others’ duds.

Here’s an odd take on privacy:

I’d love to see a definition of personal hygiene practices. If they’re prohibited, must you forgo handwashing after using these Restrooms? Also, why practices? Is personal hygiene one of those skills you have to spend 10,000 hours on to perfect? I snapped this photo in 2017, so perhaps the word practices is out of date. We all learned how to wash our hands during the pandemic, didn’t we?

This Private Property requires good posture:

Somehow I thought the decision to lean or not to lean was a private matter.

On a more personal (but not private) note, I wish you and your family a happy, healthy 2026.

This Holiday Season

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Who doesn’t love the holidays? Lots of people, actually. If you’re stressed out, I have some suggestions. First of all, ignore signs like this:

If it’s NEW it can’t be a TRADITION, not if you accept the dictionary definition (“a long established custom passed from generation to generation”). Besides, you’re probably too busy to add anything NEW to your to-do list.

If you’re absolutely determined to try something NEW, here’s a possibility:

DROP-OFF your CHILD and let peace and quiet descend. Brilliant! And if the kid comes back in less-than-perfect condition, you can always go here:

After you pick up your clean, neatly folded offspring, stash them in a drawer and head to the mall. But avoid this store:

Why would you buy something at a store promising to lower the price after you’ve plunked over some cash? Be wary of this shop, too:

The 99 CENT part sounds good, but what about the PLUS? Thousand-dollar T-SHIRTS, million-dollar UNDERWEAR . . . the sky’s the limit.

That’s all the advice I have today, except for this: Find a way to enjoy whatever holidays you celebrate, and find a way to help someone who needs it. I wish you all the joy of this holiday season!

The Language of Medicine

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Right around this time last week, a surgeon inserted a tiny camera and an equally tiny tool into the most poorly designed human joint. I refer, of course, to the knee. Seriously, Evolution, were you napping by the time you got to the middle of the leg? I was fortunate to have excellent medical care, and even more fortunate to have medical insurance. I am aware that many others are not so lucky. And before I move on to the language of medicine, I will climb — carefully, because, you know, the knee — onto my soapbox. Health care is a right, not a privilege, and our society should treat it as such.

During the past week I’ve thought a lot about the language of medicine. Not the scientific, but the ordinary terms. For example, what did I have? A procedure? To me that sounds euphemistic, like real estate agents’ calling an apartment “charming” (last renovated when Eisenhower was president) or “cozy” (comfortably accommodates two people, standing up). To me surgery is more serious, something that happens to a vital organ. Perhaps the middle ground is operation, a term useful for military invasions and public relations blitzes.

My procedure/surgery/operation took place in a facility, not in a hospital (a serious, stay-over place) or an office (less serious, with magazines in the waiting room) or a clinic (middling serious). The root of facility is facilus, Latin for “the means or unimpeded opportunity for doing something.” I’m not sure about the unimpeded part (see note above on insurance), but the facility I went to certainly did something. A good something! My knee feels better.

The last term is patient, from the Latin patior, “to suffer or endure.” I got off lightly, in this instance, with not much beyond soreness. I didn’t even have to be patient, because everyone involved in my procedure/surgery/operation kept to the schedule. I’m sure my future holds more medical (INSERT PREFERRED TERM HERE), because I’m senior/older/in my golden years/not dead yet. I can only hope everything proceeds smoothly, and that the insurance company approves.

Moody Blues

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The national mood, and, I must admit, my own mood, is so down that an elevator to the sub-basement wouldn’t reach it. What to do in response? Well, you can have a serving of this:

(Photo courtesy of my friend Catherine, who prefers grape jelly and proper spelling)

Judging from the muttering and sometimes shouting of Gripe(s) I hear, this is a popular option. However justified your Gripe, though, venting your feelings is a short-term fix at best.

An alternative:

(Photo courtesy of my friend Deborah)

In my experience, inflicting the SILENT TREATMENT on others seldom yields positive results. The target may experience the silence as agreement or worse, welcome it as a peaceful interlude.

What else can you try? Here’s a tempting option:

The problem with BREAKING, REMOTE or otherwise, is that at some point you have to put the pieces back together.

One more:

I posted this photo of a New York Times headline eight years ago, commenting on the repetitive nature of the expression Failing to Succeed. (What’s the alternative — Failing to Fail? Succeeding to Success?) But now I’m focusing on Giving Compromise a Try. Not on matters of principle, of course. But maybe finding common ground around the edges of less important disagreements can lead us, and our national mood, out of the sub-basement. Perhaps as high as the basement? Surely that’s not too much to ask?

Em and Ens

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$1.5 billion. Sounds like a lot of money, doesn’t it? That’s the settlement of a class-action suit filed against Anthropic, a company that downloaded pirated copies of books, including fifteen of mine, to train its artificial intelligence software. When I heard $1.5 billion I hyperventilated for a few minutes. Then I read the fine print. Attorneys get paid first, and publishers will have a share. My portion, converted into coins, is likely to fit inside a medium-sized piggy bank. Still, I’m pleased that a blow has been struck against dishonesty.

Many more suits have been filed against AI companies, but I doubt any will include their effect on the em dash, the longest of the three punctuation marks formed with a horizontal line. Written material containing an em dash is now assumed to be AI-generated. In a weird way, that assumption makes sense. AI was “trained” by professional writers’ work. We use em dashes. Hence, so does AI. But as a professional, em-dash-using writer, I’m caught in a loop: my work looks like my work and therefore resembles AI-generated work designed to mimic my work. Kafka, meet Chat GPT.

Now for the en dash, a slightly shorter line that signifies a strong connection. Sometimes the connection is geographical, describing, say, a train route between Boston and New York. Sometimes it’s personal, referring perhaps to the coordination between pitcher and catcher. Most often, the en dash functions chronologically:

That’s what it’s doing on the stone-paneled wall of a churchyard in my neighborhood. Each slab is incised with a name and a set of dates. A life span! The en dash expresses the strong — in fact, absolute — connection between birth and death. A couple of panels, belonging to the ultra-prepared, show only one date and the en dash, waiting to be completed by an unknown, though certain expiration date. If the em dash has come to signify inhumanity (for what else is artificial intelligence?), the en dash expresses the ultimate truth about humanity. Everyone born will die.

Before the en dash comes for you, I recommend you make the most of every moment — for yourself, and for a world that needs all the help it can get.

Speaking of the world, I have an update to share. Take a look at this photo, which I snapped outside the United Nations in 2015:

For a decade, drivers had to decide which sign to obey — STOP or NO STOPPING. But now all the signage has replaced. NO STOPPING is what drivers are supposed to do. Which means that if the traffic light next to the NO STOPPING sign is red, you should blow right through the intersection. Well, nobody’s perfect.