New post? Totally.

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The recent battle between Apple and the US Department of Justice over an encrypted iPhone was rendered moot when the DOJ figured out how to get into the device without the company’s help. Apple’s argument in favor of privacy would appeal to me more if  I could find a shred of evidence that privacy has not already become a faint, nostalgic glimmer of the past, in the sort of story that old people begin with the phrase “in my day.”

I say this as a frequent customer of the New York City Transit Authority. Consider this incident. Setting: a crowded M15 bus. Characters: Young Mother (YM) with a toddler and an infant, seated in the back. Young Guy (YG) with friends, standing near the front. The dialogue goes like this:

YG: Hey! I haven’t seen you in ages!

YM: I got fired!

YG: You got fired?

YM: Totally.

Keep in mind that this conversation spanned the length of a double bus — the kind of vehicle that bends in the middle to make turns easier. So in effect, the participants were half a block apart. It’s not that getting fired is necessarily — or ever — something to hide. In my day, though, we gave out this information privately, not as a public service announcement. (See what I mean about “in my day”?)

But this isn’t a post about privacy, primarily. Instead it’s about the word “totally.” If YM was “totally fired,” does that mean someone can be “partially fired,” as in “you have to work on Mondays and Wednesdays. You are fired on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays”? Somehow that scenario doesn’t seem to fit the definition of “fired.”  Instead, “totally” in this context seems to mean “really,” a way to indicate that you meant what you just said. That such an affirmation is necessary is a sad commentary on the status of truth nowadays. (“Nowadays,” but the way, is another favorite word in senior circles.)

My advice: Hit the mute button in your own mouth a little more often, especially in mass transit situations. Then the privacy issue won’t be moot. Not totally, anyway.

Political Speech

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I am not, in this season of completely unexpected but totally inevitable political events, going to talk about the language some presidential candidates have used for the size, shape, and function of body parts belonging to themselves and their loved ones. In that, by the way, I am part of a group small enough to meet in the elevator of my building. An elevator which, like most in New York, is not all that big. (There. I’ve justified including this topic in my blog by creating a microscopic link to New York City. Now, back to politics.)

In this post I turn my attention to how campaigns end –  not that many do. Instead, candidates now “suspend” their bids for the nomination. “To suspend” is to call a temporary halt to an action, to pause before resuming whatever was suspended. It’s less permanent than “dropping out,” “ceasing,” or, heaven help us, “giving in.” Since the days of Richard Nixon, who famously said that he was “not a quitter” (and, at another time, that he was also “not a crook”), presidential hopefuls have suspended and not ended their efforts. Mostly. Mike Huckabee, who I expect would disagree with me on many issues, is my favorite campaign-ender. He said that he stopped running for president because of illness: “Voters are sick of me.” Now that’s honesty.

All this suspending makes me wonder whether the candidates are secretly hoping that at the last minute they will be called out of seclusion (“suspended animation”?) to become their party’s standard-bearer. And this year those hopes may not be entirely unrealistic. But what about other definitions of “suspend”? “The word also means “to hang something.” Because it’s “something” and not “someone,” I doubt this definition applies to any candidates’ secret hopes.  Finally, “suspend” may be “to hold off punishment until a specified period of time passes without further offenses.” Politicians may hope that this definition applies and that they will escape punishment for their campaign excesses, but the rest of us . . . well, most of us view “without further offenses” as a poor bet. Like, awesomely poor. Epically poor. The greatest poor ever.

See? The language of this campaign is contagious. I’d better suspend this post now.

Oxymorons

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I’ve always been fascinated by oxymorons –  phrases that appear to contradict themselves, such as “jumbo Shrimp” and “ground pilot.” My favorite is the single-word oxymoron “sanction,” which means both “impose a penalty” and “give official approval.”  I propose extending the definition to include signs that fall into the category I call “visual oxymorons.” I see plenty in New York City. Have a look at this photo, which my husband snapped at a chain store:

To leave or not to leave, that is the question.

To leave or not to leave, that is the question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m wondering whether Jean-Paul Sartre, author of “No Exit,” is responsible for this sign. Or perhaps Joseph Heller, who wrote “Catch 22”? The door on the right, which doesn’t appear in the photo, sports an “enter” sign. So at least you know which door you can use to not exit.

Here’s another beautiful example of illogic:

To whom?

To whom?

 

“Wholesale” generally refers to buyers who order a large quantity of merchandise and then sell the stuff to the public after a considerable markup. Nothing wrong with that; everyone has to make a living. In NYC’s Garment District, where many storefronts display samples of their wares to buyers from around the country, signs near the door often specifically bar the general public and advise that they are “wholesale only” sites. Not this store. You can shop there if  . . . well, under what circumstances can you shop there?  Note that the sign doesn’t say, “Wholesale prices for the general public,” which would make sense. The alternative wording has middle-marketers engaging in the business tactic known as “loss-leading.” They forgo profits on some items (those sold at wholesale prices) in order to attract customers, who would perhaps select other, more expensive stuff in addition to the bargain merchandise. Questionable business practice this may be, but at least the meaning is clear.

I could post more examples of visual oxymorons (and have – check out “And in Confusion” (http://www.grammarianinthecity.com/?p=769). Instead, I invite you to snd me photos of oxymorons you’ve spotted (grammarianinthecity@outlook.com) . Use “photo” in the subject line.

Driving yourself crazy

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Pity poor New York City drivers, who have to decide where to “pull” their vehicles – over, up, down, and, well, insert the adverb of your choice. Before I go any further, can someone explain why “pull” is the verb here instead of  “steer” or “drive”? Perhaps we are still holding onto the reins of the horsepower in the engine. If so, it is time to let go.

Back to adverbs, the part of speech that tells where the action is. Check out this sign from a parking garage:

Down you go.

Down you go.

 

In this sign, “down” is an adverb. It must be. If it were an adjective, the driver would have to grab the “down ramp” (not the “up ramp”) and pull it. I rather like this sign.  “Down”  makes sense because the garage is below ground. Also, the sign is polite enough to include “please.”

Here’s another:

Ahead and up.

Ahead and up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now the driver is on street level, so “down” is out and “ahead” and “up” are in. Grammatically, there’s no confusion. But one teensy problem remains. The signs in the left lane, where the driver is supposed to “pull ahead” and “up,” hang over cars facing outward. Maybe “ahead” is short for “head-on collision”? You may also be puzzled by the “return” sign, wondering what else you would be doing when you pull into this garage. The only alternative is driving in circles inside the small empty space under the signage. But because the garage is associated with a rental agency, “return” makes sense . . . unless you look at the other two signs, which direct you to the left lane. To sum up: the signs tell you to pull into the right lane to return the car while simultaneously pulling ahead and up in the left lane.

My choice:  Walk. Otherwise, you may drive yourself crazy.

The most unkindest cut

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Shakespeare’s Marc Antony was onto something when he referred to Brutus’s stab at Julius Caesar as the “most unkindest cut of all” – something that  this New York City barber seems determined to avoid:

Nice to know they're kind to senior citizens and kids.

Nice to know the barber is kind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wasn’t able to determine what the gray tape covered. Perhaps it was “except when we’re annoyed” or another disclaimer? And is that where the little red dots come from – scissor stabs?  Regardless, I do prefer “kind cuts” from my salon, and I’m sure you do also. I am a bit upset by the lack of apostrophes, which create a warning that “senior citizens cut” and doesn’t explain whether old people with scissors make “kind” or cruel stabs and slashes. No guarantees after 65, I guess. At least when “kids haircut,” the only possible victim is a tress.

I can’t leave this sign without asking whether anyone knows what a “tape-up” is. Maybe something to do with the duct tape near the top of the sign? Nor have I a clue about the definition of “skin fade.” I’ve seen odd (to me) stubble-on-a-scalp looks, but wouldn’t those be “hair fades”?  And does “shape up” command you to finally get serious about dieting and exercise? Theories welcome.

A lie by any other name . . .

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A recent reference to “false facts” in an article in my hometown paper, The New York Times, set me to thinking about the ways journalists talk about lies. Given the current presidential campaign, this is a hot topic. My first reaction to “false facts” was that the phrase is an oxymoron . . . a contradiction of itself. If something is false, it’s not a fact. If it’s a fact, it’s not false. Other popular ways to refer to lies are “misstatements,” “misunderstandings,” “exaggerations,” “stretches,” and “wrong impressions” (this last from the liar who says something like “I’m sorry if I gave the wrong impression” when caught).

Despite my reference to lies, I do know that a “false fact” may simply be a mistake, not an attempt to mislead. I am holding onto that belief with both hands lately, with flashbacks to the days when I hoped for, but did not expect, the Tooth Fairy to be real.

Yet how should the media characterize what Politifact (note the name) calls “pants on fire” assertions? One tactic is not to label something as true or false but instead to present information alongside contradictory claims. The problem, of course, is that this approach sometimes leads to the mere appearance of fairness and gives credence to the ridiculous, as in “a member of the Flat Earth Society countered NASA’s claims of that Earth is a spherical planet.”

Nor is the opposite approach perfect. If we rely on pundits to decide what’s factual or fanciful, we’d better make sure that we have great pundits. Extraordinarily wise pundits. Impeccable pundits! All of which are as abundant as unicorns. Complicating the problem, of course, is the fact (and I do assert it as a fact) that many people seek out an expert who will confirm what they already believe.

But this is a post about language, not politics. Back to “false facts”: I’d replace that term with “false information” or “false statements,” with accompanying proof.  And if it’s intentional, I vote for “lie.” This political season, that may be the only choice I have.

W/ ?

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Although I often mock the signs I see around NYC, this one has me well and truly stumped. I chanced upon it in a hardware store near Lincoln Center, posted atop a gleaming, stainless steel box that would never fit into any Manhattan kitchen I’ve ever seen. It seems to promise something, but what? Take a look. Maybe you can figure it out.

W/ what?

W/ what?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I get that the abbreviation “w/” stands for “with.” After that, I’m clueless. I should have taken advantage of the offer to “ask associate for details,” but I was late for lunch and the display model, contrary to its advertised “w/ Food,” contained nothing edible. So I left, perplexed and full of questions. Does “w/ Food” mean it’s filled up once, on delivery, or always – a kind of cornucopia that magically refills itself? That last option might be worth the hefty price. But who chooses the food? And are we talking macadamia nuts and lobster or lentils and frozen peas?

This sign, I ultimately decided, is part of a trend. Throw meaningless words at shoppers and hope that they’ll be impressed and confused enough to buy what you’re marketing, even though they haven’t the vaguest idea what that is. Kind of like the current US presidential race.

So over to you, readers. Think of this blog post as a contest, like the weekly cartoon-caption challenge in The New Yorker. The prize for the best interpretation of “w/ Food” is, well, nothing.

Yes, I’m cheap. But I’m also honest and clear. Unlike this sign.

Covering Up

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The site: an elegant building in midtown with a glassblock wall rising maybe thirty feet, topped by the usual brick construction for many, many feet beyond that. A small patch of greenery, waist-high. In the middle, this paper sign (slightly the worse for wear after a rainy afternoon):

Lean, yes. Sit, no

Lean, yes. Sit, no

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The applicable dictionary definition of “façade” is “the face of a building.” Unless you have Spider-Man’s powers, it’s hard to imagine that you can sit on a façade. You can, of course, lean against it, if (in this location) you don’t mind trampling some perfectly innocent ivy.

The second definition of “façade” is “an outward appearance that is maintained to conceal a less pleasant reality.” In a normal election year, I’d mention that politicians lean (as in “rely”) on facades all the time to conceal their “less than pleasant” plans or personality. This particular presidential campaign, though, gives me pause, and not just because I disagree with most policies of many candidates and some policies of all candidates. If this crew is leaning on a façade, it can only be to conceal a more pleasant reality.

With the possible exception of nudist camps, did you ever think you’d miss cover-ups?  Campaign 2016 is indeed different.

Neither hair nor there

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Primates spend a lot of time tinkering with hair, and we homo sapiens are no exception. But I’m beginning to think that, when it comes to hair, “sapiens” (Latin for “sensible” or “wise”) should be changed to “stupidus.”  The number of shops offering to change, remove, or add hair to some spot on the human body is impressive. The signs advertising such services – not so much.

What do you make of this sign?

European Human?

Europeans aren’t human?

 

I get the distinction between “human” and “synthetic,” but somehow I always assumed that the category “human” included “European.”  Silly me. And why mention “European” at all? Grown-in-America hair (or grown-anywhere-hair) isn’t good enough for this store’s customers? Then there’s “lace front.” Does the wig have a flapper-style band of lace at the front? Maybe the wig-wearer laces the wig to his or her front? If so, which part of the “front”? And how? Seriously, I’d like to know.

The previous sign isn’t clear, but the next probably means exactly what it says, a fact I do not find comforting.

P1010608 (4)

All together now: head, hands, feet.

This store offers its customers a chance to have their hair blow-dried (and autographed, if you spend forty bucks on the “signature” service) while simultaneously receiving a manicure and a pedicure. Anyone who chooses all three services presumably sits like a starfish with team members stationed at all extremities (fingers, toes, scalp). New Yorkers are famously impatient, but if we’ve reached this point, “sapiens” does not apply.

What counts

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Riding on a New York City bus recently, I glimpsed a going-out-of-business sign advertising discounts of “90% to 90%.” I couldn’t snap a photo of that gem from a moving vehicle, and when I returned the following day, the store was boarded up, denying me both the photo and the bargains within. But I did take a picture of another crime against arithmetic. (Yes, I know that I’m supposed to concentrate on grammar in this blog, but I can’t pass up illogical statements, even if they’re made with numbers.) This placard appeared on an uptown express bus, showing where the stops are:

Follow the numbers.

Follow the numbers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For non-New Yorkers, let me explain that most Manhattan streets are numbered. The city’s grid was established in the early 19th century by order of the City Council, which charged a committee with “laying out Streets… in such a manner as to unite regularity and order with the public convenience and benefit . . . .” What would that committee make of this sign, which sends a bus up north on First Avenue to 14th, 23rd, 34th, 29th, and 42nd Streets – in that order? And no, the bus doesn’t double back on 34th to hit 29th before making a U-turn and driving to 42nd Street.

This sign illustrates two truths, both “universally acknowledged”: (1) Proofreading is a lost art, for both letters and numbers and (2) To travel on public transport in NYC, you need sharp eyes and good luck.