Category Archives: Now trending

Observing and all too often criticizing language trends

Going to Extremes

No, I’m not talking about politics, though I certainly could find some extremes in that arena if I searched for, say, .00001 seconds. Instead, I’m thinking about the human tendency to take everything to the edges — even when those edges lie in opposite directions. Have you noticed simultaneous cut-downs and expansions? As I walk around the city, I see an increasing number of micro cars that could transport two people and maybe one small bag of groceries. I also see fleets of giant SUVs. You could stack an entire second-grade class in one of those vehicles, assuming you’re not fussy about seatbelts. Here’s a photo encapsulating the trend:

crate

The width of this truck stretches across the entire façade of a good-sized Manhattan high rise. The lettering is large, too. The only problem is that the last letter doesn’t fit — assuming, of course, that this isn’t a mobile ballet studio, but rather a “Crate & Barrel” delivery van.

I also hear the same tendency when shoppers are summoned to the cash register. I wrote in an earlier post (“Following Guest” http://www.grammarianinthecity.com/?p=187 ) about turning customers into “guests,” and now this phrase has accelerated into the extended “Following Shoe Lover” and the contracted “Following” at adjacent stores. I asked the “Following Shoe Lover” employee how she had decided on that phrase, knowing, of course, that she hadn’t decided at all. “They tell us to say that,” she admitted sheepishly. I imagine that many of her customers, like me, don’t love shoes; they simply need them. But announcing “Following Shoe Needer,” however accurate, isn’t fashionable in the post-fact era.

It’s enough to make me nostalgic for the days when clerks bellowed “NEXT!”

Organic Panic

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You can’t walk more than ten feet in Manhattan without seeing a sign advertising an organic product. According to the original, chemistry-class definition, “organic” refers to any compound containing carbon. In recent years the “organic” shows up in connection with food produced “without chemical fertilizers, pesticides, or other artificial agents.” Okay, no one’s against natural food (except perhaps some fertilizer/pesticide/artificial-agent manufacturers). But really, don’t you think the organic movement has stretched a little too far? This sign proves my point:

Shoes.

Buy these shoes in case you’re ever lost in the wilderness and have run out of regular (organic, of course) trail mix. You can eat your footwear without worrying about contaminating yourself with dangerous chemicals. Not that artificial ingredients would be your biggest problem in such a situation.

Moving on, here’s another organic offering, this time on the window of a barbershop. (Oops, I mean “salon,” which is what barbershops on the Upper East Side call themselves.)

Organic ammonia?

Paging the punctuation squad: Clean-up in aisle three. I’ve given up on apostrophes, so I won’t go into “mens.” No one will misunderstand that word because it’s not properly punctuated. I’m also ignoring “natural cuts,” which are … what? Chops from falling trees? Thorn slices? But the absence of hyphens in this sign creates confusion. Is the shop offering “organic ammonia”? “Free hair”? “Free hair color”? And wouldn’t it be “hair coloring,” anyway? My guess is that the sign should read “organic, ammonia-free, hair coloring.” But even with the added hyphens and ing, the question remains: What does “organic” mean when the adjective is applied to “hair color”?

Another sign:

Drink up whatever this is.

Hyphens, we need you again. Without hyphens, the bottle may contain smashed up “organic fruit” swimming in a chemical soup. Or the “beverage” may be organic, with fruit from pesticide-laced plants. The label implies health without giving any specific information, other than the fact that the US Department of Agriculture signed off on the designation “organic” for something. Alternate, perhaps correct labels: “all organic ingredients” or “made with organic fruit and some artificial stuff.”

One last thought: The New York Times reported this week that growers of medical marijuana cannot receive “organic” certification for their crops because the plant is illegal under federal law. Tobacco, the reporter pointed out, could conceivably meet “organic” standards set by the government. Which brings up an interesting question: Do “organic cigarettes” exist, and do they attract the healthy-eating crowd? Inquiring minds want to know.

Curation Nation

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I spend a fair amount of time in NYC’s museums, so I’m accustomed to thinking of “curate” as something an art expert does. Indeed, the primary definition of this verb is “to select, organize, and look after items in a collection or exhibition.” So I was surprised to see this sign over a display of snacks:

Separating forged from authentic potato chips?

Keeping the customer safe from forged potato chips.

Okay, back to the dictionary, where I found that you can curate “content or merchandise using professional or expert knowledge.” The sign is correct if a professional snackpicker selected the food. Cynic that I am, though, I couldn’t help thinking that the advertising and marketing of this merchandise benefited more from “expert knowledge” than nutrition and taste did. I declined to test my theory because a glance at the price tags showed that curated snacks cost a lot more than just-throw-it-on-the-shelf stuff.

Once the word was stuck in my mind, I noticed it often in The New York Times. Sometimes the definitions quoted above applied: “The web has gotten so big that you need people to curate it.” No argument there, unless you’re a fan of the candidates-are-from-another-planet sort of story, in which case you’re against the act of curating, not the use of the word.

Other “curate” sentences stretched the definition: “Sometimes you see veggie burgers made with 100 ingredients, a kitchen-sink burger,” she said. “It’s better when you curate a burger.” Here “curate” seems to mean “select,” but I’d opt for curating the ingredients of the burger, not the burger itself.

An even greater stretch shows up in this sentence: “I started to curate this idea.” Now “curate” is closer to “create,” though you could make a case that the speaker sifted through many possibilities and organized the harvest into a coherent idea.

The one that really got me was a comment from a rock star: “I’ll curate my own brand.” Leaving aside the question of whether a person can or should be a brand, my best guess is that this sentence returns to the museum context for “curate.” The star sees herself as a work of art!

Busting what?

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Recently The New York Times quoted a politician’s reference to “ordinary people busting their necks.” Instead of thinking about the presidential campaign, socio-economic class, and other important issues, I got stuck on one question: Why “necks”?

When I was a kid, “busting” (or “breaking”) your neck was a description of physical danger, as in “slow down or you’ll bust your neck.” However, the politician was talking about people who work hard, day in and day out. What “ordinary people” were busting, linguistically, were body parts considerably closer to the floor than their necks.

Not to be coy: The phrase the politician should have used was “busting their butts.” But — “butt” isn’t always accepted in polite company. Hence the proliferation of euphemisms, such as “seat,” “rear,” and “bottom.” And “butt” isn’t the only body-part word to land in the improper column. In the 19th century, ladies ordered “seat fixing,” not “rump steak,” and ate “chests” or a “slice of bosom” instead of chicken breasts.

But we’re in the 21st century, not the 19th. I searched the Internet to see whether the expression had changed. I found some videos with disturbing titles like “busting pimples on your neck,” which I wisely decided not to watch. I also found references to “break ya neck” in song lyrics. Those were about sex — I think — not jobs.

So the politician’s comment was inaccurate. There’s a shock! At least this time the mistake was in word choice, not facts. I admit I may be missing something because I spend a lot of time “busting my neck” at the computer, composing this blog and writing books. And I also admit that in a campaign season filled with outrageous statements, retaining a bit of shame is somehow comforting.

Ritual Pick-Up

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I spotted this sign in a food court near Battery Park in Lower Manhattan. I lurked for a while, hoping to see what sort of customers or services were associated with it. But it was a holiday weekend, when most New Yorkers were anywhere-but-here, so I was left alone with my speculations.

All I wanted was coffee.

First, I concentrated on “ritual.” This is a city with its own unit of time — a “New York minute,” which lasts only a couple of nanoseconds and which a comedian once defined as “the interval between the traffic light turning green and the guy behind you honking his horn.” To save time, New Yorkers will do almost anything. So, I reasoned, if you’re too busy to plan, say, a wedding ceremony, a baptism, or a bar mitzvah, you can pick one up here. And if the timing is right, your next life event may even be on sale.

Then I shifted my attention to “pick-up.” Perhaps, I thought, this is where you meet when you’ve donned your sexiest outfit, artfully mussed your hair, and practiced lines like “Come here often?” or “What’s your sign?” or “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes/great abs?” Nice to know that the hackneyed has an official spot in NYC, I thought.

A quick Internet search revealed that an app called “Ritual” allows you to order and pay for food online, which you then pick up at this location. Efficient and useful, true, but much less fun than my interpretations.

Stop full stop.

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I’m not against periods, the punctuation mark the British call “full stops.” But everything has its place. Traditionally, periods appear at the end of sentences that make statements or give commands. They’re also used in abbreviations. Lately, though, periods have been popping up in odd positions, as in this sign in front of a coffee shop:

Why is there a period after “birch”?

The shop’s name is “Birch” — I think. It may be “Birch.” Or is it “Birch. coffee”? And why is the period there at all? Is it supposed to add authority or emphasis? Perhaps the store owner wanted to give a sense of completion, as in “sip your latte here and your life will be complete.” The only thing I know for sure is that the punctuation mark doesn’t indicate a command. (“Hey you! Birch now or face the consequences!) Nor does it end a statement, because there is no statement.

I expect strange things from retailers, but somehow I thought that religious institutions, with help from the Almighty, would do better. At least I thought so until I spied this sign:

This church needs heavenly punctuation guidance.

True, this sign contains more words than the café sign, but they don’t form a sentence. The church indeed appears to be “warm, welcoming and beautiful,” but not grammatical.

Nor can you count on the banking system to come to a full stop (in punctuation or in finance):

Two nonsensical, non-sentences appear in one sign.

I don’t expect “pleasure” from my bank. Do you? The “2% cash back” sounds great — but 2% of what? And back to whom? I can’t blame the Great Recession on faulty punctuation, but a lack of clarity in bank communications appears in both. Just saying.

My advice: For a period of time, let’s agree to put a stop to unnecessary full stops. Then we can decide whether to give this punctuation mark additional duties. That is, “Extra. Duties.”

Extra! Read all about it all!

Short takes

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No lengthy discussion today. These signs speak for themselves. True, they speak gibberish, but they do speak.

First up is a photo my friend Jacqueline sent me:

What brand is your kid?

Ignoring the pretty important fact that baby-selling is illegal, I’m surprised that babies are branded. If you purchase one, does the kid come with a little logo?

Here’s another puzzler:

Look younger with what?

So you wear the spa, accessorized with pearls? That would be quite a fashion ensemble! And do you have to have the spa custom-fitted?

One more for today:

Define “organized.”

If you’re completely disorganized (and just about every kids’ sport I’ve seen falls into that category, as do the Yankees at times), you’re fine. If you’re organized, go somewhere else.

Maybe somewhere with signs that make sense.

Deer Equals Phone?

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I thought I’d seen it all, grammatically speaking, until I read an interview with Phil Schiller, the marketing tsar for Apple’s empire. If you think you have several iPhones, according to Schiller, you’re wrong. You have several iPhone (or iPad or iPod). Schiller likened the products’ names to the words “deer” and “clothes,” which, he said, can each be both singular and plural.

Good to know. And good luck with changing people’s habit of referring to the “iPads” on display in an Apple Store. If I were Schiller, I’d worry more about misappropriation of the lowercase letter i, which you see in this clever (but probably trademark infringing) sign:

Does Apple know?

I ( i ?) should point out that no one ever talks about one eyelash, except when referring to an errant hair falling into an eye. In this sign, though, “iLash” is a modifier of the noun “salon,” so the singular makes sense. (Sort of. Does anyone actually need a salon for eyelashes, or iLashes, or iLash?) Plus, following Schiller’s edict, “iLash” can be plural. Would Schiller say that this sign may be singular, or does his rule apply only to the lowercase letter i ?

One eyebrows.

And here I thought that the singular form for this feature was “unibrow.”

If Schiller prevails, these two signs will be correct:

How many?

How many “cent”?

I guess I should celebrate the “s” on “wings,” which, I’m happy to say, aren’t “iWings.” Yet. And I should note that Apple’s marketing materials do add “s” to their product names. The interview didn’t take place on April 1st, but Schiller may have been fooling around anyway. Time, or times, will tell.

Live from NY, it’s Mother Nature!

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New Yorkers tend to see nature as something you beat into submission by (a) covering it with concrete or (b) manicuring it so that any semblance to actual greenery and wildlife is accidental. My favorite moment during a recent blizzard took place outside Eli’s, a fashionable (and expensive) food store on the Upper East Side. A store employee was loading plastic-wrapped logs into a taxi, presumably so their new owner — who was wearing high heels! in the snow! — could keep warm. Roughing it, New York style.

But I digress. This post is about signs in Central Park, Manhattan’s closest brush with nature. The first appeared near a large open space dotted with some tufts of . . . well, some tufts. (I’m a New Yorker. Don’t ask me to identify plants.)

Renovation: Not just for houses anymore.

I can envision “reseeding,” “rehabilitation,” or even “new sod.” But “renovation”? Nor was I aware that a lawn could be “closed.” The day I snapped this photo, the sparrow population of the area hadn’t gotten the message.

Logically, anything that’s closed can open. Hence this sign:

Unzip each blade of grass . . .

Even the animal kingdom is subject to New Yorkers’ orders:

Noisy turtles, beware.

Good to know that, as in Amtrak’s quiet cars, no one around this pond will be distracted by turtles talking on cell phones or playing loud music. Now if we could just get the snapping turtles to tone it down a little . . .

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