There was a time, maybe, before blogs, even before the Internet, when the New York Times could be held up as a standard, if not the standard, for good grammar. After all, it was one of the most popular papers to write for, so good writers would contribute articles, and good editors would read those articles, so subscribers would have reading material that was not only accurate and true, but wouldn't have any comma splices or dangling participles.
I miss those days.
"Ottawa may have been unfairly branded as boring, but exploring Parliament Hill (Wellington Street; 613-239-5000; www.parl.gc.ca) is anything but." -- 36 Hours Ottawa, NYT, August 26, 2007 (Travel). (My italics.)
But what? Boring? Branded as boring? Unfairly branded as boring? Maybe it's branding all the other places in Ottawa as boring? Or doing so unfairly?
I hear that William Safire is semi-retired. Maybe he has time to scan the Travel articles before they find their way into print.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Monday, August 13, 2007
Definitely a short post.
I don't know why it bugs me so much, but why do so many people misspell "definitely"? (Or "definite", etc.?) Maybe it's because they mispronounce it, too, because they have lazy American speech patterns, like "nukular". Pronounce it "deaf in it lee".
At any rate, the word is definately not spelled "definately". It is definitely "definitely". This is one of those errors that, when you fix it, results in your readers' opinion of your IQ rise about 15 points.
Other than that, today's not been bad so far.
Update: Jamie Spencer, publisher of the fine Austin Criminal Defense Lawyer blog, has politely pointed out that one of my sentences above (now italicized) could be, um, improved. I would have been a lot less polite. I'm too proud to try scanning it and counting the errors; you may amuse yourself with that task if you like. Here's my stab at an edit, though.
This is an error that, when fixed, will result in your readers' estimates of your IQ rising about 15 points.
That's still awkward, but it keeps the meaning of the original sentence. Definately better.
At any rate, the word is definately not spelled "definately". It is definitely "definitely". This is one of those errors that, when you fix it, results in your readers' opinion of your IQ rise about 15 points.
Other than that, today's not been bad so far.
Update: Jamie Spencer, publisher of the fine Austin Criminal Defense Lawyer blog, has politely pointed out that one of my sentences above (now italicized) could be, um, improved. I would have been a lot less polite. I'm too proud to try scanning it and counting the errors; you may amuse yourself with that task if you like. Here's my stab at an edit, though.
This is an error that, when fixed, will result in your readers' estimates of your IQ rising about 15 points.
That's still awkward, but it keeps the meaning of the original sentence. Definately better.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Clarification about the meaning of snobbery
I guess I'm not really much of a snob when it comes to grammar. In my mind, a "snob" is a person with an unreasonable disdain for others who are unlike him in some sense. I don't think my disdain for people who don't know the difference between "it's" and "its" is unreasonable. Now, my disdain for NASCAR fans is, arguably, unreasonable. Well, no, not really. Bad example. How about people who don't like classical music? Maybe, except that I don't have any disdain for them, simply over that.
But it turns out I'm a snob about some things.
Here's what triggered this post. I'm at the office, and I make a phone call to some one in the course of business. The conversation goes something like this.
"Good afternoon, Akin Butz, may I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like to speak to Ima Shyster, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
[After years of therapy, I've broken my old habit of simply replying "Yes", and instead telling the person who answered the phone my name.]
"Yes, this is Michael Simpson."
"I'm sorry, Mike, it looks like she has stepped out of the office. Would you like her voice mail?"
Last things first. I wouldn't like her voice mail, but I'll settle for it. I'll accept a less favorable alternative, if it's the only one I've got. (Now, see, all you real grammar snobs are rolling your eyes at my use of the word "alternative" instead of "alternate". Just kidding, guys.)
But there was a time, even in the South, when you wouldn't think of referring to a person you just met by his first name. And this clown didn't even do that; he took it upon himself to shorten my name to Mike. Would it kill you to call me Mr. Simpson? No, because the receptionists at the thick-carpet firms on Congress Avenue do it all the time.
But I've never really raised hell about it, until today. I know that if I did, people would think I was a snob. Which I am, in this case, because it is unreasonable, but only a little because I really don't care that much. So grant me this one vice.
I finally get connected to the voice mail, and it opens thusly.
"You've reached Ima Shyster."
No I haven't! I've reached your voicemail, dammit! AAAAAAUGHHH!
But it turns out I'm a snob about some things.
Here's what triggered this post. I'm at the office, and I make a phone call to some one in the course of business. The conversation goes something like this.
"Good afternoon, Akin Butz, may I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like to speak to Ima Shyster, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
[After years of therapy, I've broken my old habit of simply replying "Yes", and instead telling the person who answered the phone my name.]
"Yes, this is Michael Simpson."
"I'm sorry, Mike, it looks like she has stepped out of the office. Would you like her voice mail?"
Last things first. I wouldn't like her voice mail, but I'll settle for it. I'll accept a less favorable alternative, if it's the only one I've got. (Now, see, all you real grammar snobs are rolling your eyes at my use of the word "alternative" instead of "alternate". Just kidding, guys.)
But there was a time, even in the South, when you wouldn't think of referring to a person you just met by his first name. And this clown didn't even do that; he took it upon himself to shorten my name to Mike. Would it kill you to call me Mr. Simpson? No, because the receptionists at the thick-carpet firms on Congress Avenue do it all the time.
But I've never really raised hell about it, until today. I know that if I did, people would think I was a snob. Which I am, in this case, because it is unreasonable, but only a little because I really don't care that much. So grant me this one vice.
I finally get connected to the voice mail, and it opens thusly.
"You've reached Ima Shyster."
No I haven't! I've reached your voicemail, dammit! AAAAAAUGHHH!
Sunday, July 22, 2007
The Top Ten Surprises in "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"
Like many people half my age -- okay, okay, 1/3 of my age -- I spent this weekend reading the seventh, and last, book in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. And while J.K. Rowling has made it clear that this book is much darker than the previous books in the series, many of the twists in the story line still took me by surprise. Please don't read this list if you haven't read the book yet; I don't want to spoil it for you.
THE TOP TEN SURPRISES IN HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS
10. With Dumbledore gone, okay to use "waterboarding" curse.
9. Donald Rumsfeld finally gets job as Defense of Dark Arts teacher.
8. Butterbeer now available with no trans-fats.
7. Bald character added so Patrick Stewart can finally be in one of the damned movies.
6. Ravenclaw Tower demolished to make room for new Wal-Mart.
5. Weasley twins caught by their mom comparing wands.
4. Klingons unexpectedly arrive to fight Death Eaters at the last minute.
3. Right before final fight scene, Harry says "screw this" and joins Hogsmeade National Guard.
2. Hogwarts students master powerful new spell, Expecto uranus!
1. The real identity of Voldemort? Dick Cheney!
THE TOP TEN SURPRISES IN HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS
10. With Dumbledore gone, okay to use "waterboarding" curse.
9. Donald Rumsfeld finally gets job as Defense of Dark Arts teacher.
8. Butterbeer now available with no trans-fats.
7. Bald character added so Patrick Stewart can finally be in one of the damned movies.
6. Ravenclaw Tower demolished to make room for new Wal-Mart.
5. Weasley twins caught by their mom comparing wands.
4. Klingons unexpectedly arrive to fight Death Eaters at the last minute.
3. Right before final fight scene, Harry says "screw this" and joins Hogsmeade National Guard.
2. Hogwarts students master powerful new spell, Expecto uranus!
1. The real identity of Voldemort? Dick Cheney!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
A comment on comments
Every now and then (but not frequently; my blog isn't well-read because there are no pictures of Paris Hilton or Posh Spice) someone e-mails me about something I wrote in my blog that she disagrees with. To date, however, there's only been 1 comment about any of my posts, and I wrote that one.
So, if you have something to say about anything I have to say, say it in a comment. That's what they're there for. Or would be, if they were there.
So, if you have something to say about anything I have to say, say it in a comment. That's what they're there for. Or would be, if they were there.
Monday, July 09, 2007
I'm on a roll
Okay, here's the second post for the day, after a two-month absence that ended only last week. This has nothing to do with grammar, again, but something to do with snobbery. Today, my target audience is waitpeople. The theme of my post is: I don't owe you 15% of my bill just because I sat at your table.
I'm a single male. Chances are I eat out about three times as much as you do if you are married, and about twice as much if you're a single female. It's not that I don't like to cook; I just don't cook as much as I used to, a combination of not having time and being lazy when I do. I like the food I make more than restaurant food, and it's way cheaper. But sometimes, I just feel like having my lunch handed to me. My point is, I go to restaurants a lot. So I think I know what's going on in them.
Consider the following two scenarios. I go to a restaurant about 30 minutes before the rush starts. I'm seated in a waiter's section, at the same time as a family of four.
In the first scenario, the waiter appears, looks at the family of four, looks at me, and then goes to wait on the family.
In the second scenario, the waiter appears, looks at the family of four, looks at me, smiles and says "I'll be right with you", and then goes to wait on the family.
Wonder which one will get the better tip?
I think most customers have reasonable expectations of waiters. We know that when someone gets double-sat (and let's not get into a discussion of whether "double-sat" is a word right now), they have to choose someone to wait on first. If I were a waiter, I'd want to get the big party first. But at least spend a second of your life to acknowledge the existence of the guy who's going to lose the race to the kitchen. Hey, if you want to wait on me first, all the better, but you should go say "hi" to the family, in that instance. It's just courtesy, and that always pay$.
How formal should waiters be? I think the rule should be: too formal is better than too informal. Don't call me "honey" or "buddy". Don't touch me while you're waiting on me. Don't sit at my table. Don't -- Do not -- DO NOT put someone else's dirty dishes on my table ! Are you KIDDING?
I'd rather not be called "sir", but when I am, I assume it's someone being formal to be courteous, and that's okay. It's won't cost you anything.
In fact, it's hard not to get a decent tip from me. The best way to try is not to wait on me for a long time after I'm seated. What's a long time? Someone should come by my table within a minute. Yes, a minute. If you don't think that's a long time, go sit by a table for a minute and then you tell me.
Other than that, the only thing that will really screw up your tip (besides just crappy service, obviously) is bringing me my change. Okay, say the dinner was $9.63. I give you a twenty. First, don't ask me if I need any change. Of course I do, I'm not giving you a 100% tip. Second, don't bring me a ten dollar bill and 37 cents -- that's just as bad. Keep in mind that you're probably getting paid out of the change.
Speaking of which, most waiters don't like to make change down to the last penny, and that's fine. But the last time I went to one restaurant in Austin, I had an $8.20 tab, paid with a $10, and got a dollar bill in change. Fine -- that eighty cents you just stole is your tip. Like I said, it was the last time I went there. (Hope my waiter doesn't miss his "buddy".)
And why should a tip be more than 15%, anyway? Now all the waiter rant sites say you should leave 17%. If the service is great, sure. If it's good, 15% is plenty. Don't whine to me about inflation. You're getting 15% of something that's a lot more expensive now than it was 30 years ago.
Thanks for listening, honey.
I'm a single male. Chances are I eat out about three times as much as you do if you are married, and about twice as much if you're a single female. It's not that I don't like to cook; I just don't cook as much as I used to, a combination of not having time and being lazy when I do. I like the food I make more than restaurant food, and it's way cheaper. But sometimes, I just feel like having my lunch handed to me. My point is, I go to restaurants a lot. So I think I know what's going on in them.
Consider the following two scenarios. I go to a restaurant about 30 minutes before the rush starts. I'm seated in a waiter's section, at the same time as a family of four.
In the first scenario, the waiter appears, looks at the family of four, looks at me, and then goes to wait on the family.
In the second scenario, the waiter appears, looks at the family of four, looks at me, smiles and says "I'll be right with you", and then goes to wait on the family.
Wonder which one will get the better tip?
I think most customers have reasonable expectations of waiters. We know that when someone gets double-sat (and let's not get into a discussion of whether "double-sat" is a word right now), they have to choose someone to wait on first. If I were a waiter, I'd want to get the big party first. But at least spend a second of your life to acknowledge the existence of the guy who's going to lose the race to the kitchen. Hey, if you want to wait on me first, all the better, but you should go say "hi" to the family, in that instance. It's just courtesy, and that always pay$.
How formal should waiters be? I think the rule should be: too formal is better than too informal. Don't call me "honey" or "buddy". Don't touch me while you're waiting on me. Don't sit at my table. Don't -- Do not -- DO NOT put someone else's dirty dishes on my table ! Are you KIDDING?
I'd rather not be called "sir", but when I am, I assume it's someone being formal to be courteous, and that's okay. It's won't cost you anything.
In fact, it's hard not to get a decent tip from me. The best way to try is not to wait on me for a long time after I'm seated. What's a long time? Someone should come by my table within a minute. Yes, a minute. If you don't think that's a long time, go sit by a table for a minute and then you tell me.
Other than that, the only thing that will really screw up your tip (besides just crappy service, obviously) is bringing me my change. Okay, say the dinner was $9.63. I give you a twenty. First, don't ask me if I need any change. Of course I do, I'm not giving you a 100% tip. Second, don't bring me a ten dollar bill and 37 cents -- that's just as bad. Keep in mind that you're probably getting paid out of the change.
Speaking of which, most waiters don't like to make change down to the last penny, and that's fine. But the last time I went to one restaurant in Austin, I had an $8.20 tab, paid with a $10, and got a dollar bill in change. Fine -- that eighty cents you just stole is your tip. Like I said, it was the last time I went there. (Hope my waiter doesn't miss his "buddy".)
And why should a tip be more than 15%, anyway? Now all the waiter rant sites say you should leave 17%. If the service is great, sure. If it's good, 15% is plenty. Don't whine to me about inflation. You're getting 15% of something that's a lot more expensive now than it was 30 years ago.
Thanks for listening, honey.
Dangling, the wordsmith left the participle
In my last, very recent post, I mentioned that I'd been working on a post about dangling modifiers. Turns out some other folks have already thought about that. So I was going to discard the whole subject; in fact, I just deleted the whole draft. But this morning, I read an article in The Daily Texan, the University of Texas's daily paper, about Troy Patton, a minor-league pitcher who's supposed to be the next great Houston Astro southpaw someday. Though he didn't get a lot of strikeouts in the particular game featured in the article, he gave up only one run in seven innings. It was the description of how the run scored that bothered me, too much maybe.
Patton's only run came in the fifth inning after what easily could have been ruled an error. After giving up a walk to leadoff hitter Bill McCarthy, Jorge Padilla came up to plate and lifted a ball into the outfield....
Padilla didn't give up a walk to Bill McCarthy, though; Patton did. A carelessly hung participle ruined the meaning of the sentence.
But this really isn't about dangling modifiers. It's about this. There's a good chance that the author of this story (I'm not naming names; you can track him down on the internet if you're that ambitious), and his editor, if any, both graduated in the top 10% of their high school class before coming to UT. Either they don't know what a dangling modifier is, or they don't care enough to eliminate one from a printed article; either way, I hang my head in shame for the state of public education in Texas, yet again.
By the way, I'm looking forward to Patton's debut with the Astros. Hope it happens soon.
Patton's only run came in the fifth inning after what easily could have been ruled an error. After giving up a walk to leadoff hitter Bill McCarthy, Jorge Padilla came up to plate and lifted a ball into the outfield....
Padilla didn't give up a walk to Bill McCarthy, though; Patton did. A carelessly hung participle ruined the meaning of the sentence.
But this really isn't about dangling modifiers. It's about this. There's a good chance that the author of this story (I'm not naming names; you can track him down on the internet if you're that ambitious), and his editor, if any, both graduated in the top 10% of their high school class before coming to UT. Either they don't know what a dangling modifier is, or they don't care enough to eliminate one from a printed article; either way, I hang my head in shame for the state of public education in Texas, yet again.
By the way, I'm looking forward to Patton's debut with the Astros. Hope it happens soon.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Comes now?
As always, because I have a real job I don't get to post to my blog as much as I like. I've been editing a post on dangling modifiers, since there are only 52,138 other internet pages explaining why dangling modifiers are bad, but I haven't finished mine, which will be the pinnacle of dangling modifier criticism, I suppose. (Again, for those of you who haven't the foggiest idea what a dangling modifier is, surely there's a NASCAR race stored in your Tivo ready to watch.) Instead, I've got a blog for my fellow attorneys, many of whom file pleadings in court containing the phrase "Comes now". As in:
"Comes now Plaintiff, John Doe, and complains of Defendant, David Evildoer, and pray the Court grant him judgment, and for cause of action would show the following."
A question. You're sitting on your favorite barstool at the local watering hole, taking the edge off a rough day in the salt mine with your favorite poison (for me, a tall draft of Harp or Warsteiner, or on a Friday, a shot of Maker's Mark with a sidecar of ice) and your best friend walks in to join you. Do you exclaim "Comes now Drew, and sits next to mine self to drink beer"? Okay, if you answered this question "yes", an exciting career in writing boring pleadings awaits you. If you answered "no", then I understand why you hate legalese.
I can tell you that the stilted "Comes now" style of prose is not taught in law school. At least, not at the University of Texas School of Law, the shoddy public state school where I learned the law. Instead, this horrible style of "writing" is passed on to law clerks -- the trade slang for interns, or law students with summer jobs -- by attorneys who may or may not know better, but either don't, or are too lazy to care.
Now, no pleading is ever going to make the New York Times's best-seller list or appear in Atlantic Monthly's poetry section, whether it be written by David Dullpen or Clarence Darrow. The pleadings are meant to be read only by judges and lawyers. Okay, they're not even meant to be read by those folks. Arguably, they don't matter at all. Except that I just lied: pleadings should also be read by a group of folks more important than judges and lawyers: clients. And this is the reason that they are written so badly: legalese has to be dense so lawyers don't let on to their clients that what they're doing is not rocket science. It's difficult, of course, but because clients may not understand the real reasons that practicing law is difficult, we have to give them a fake reason: the convoluted pleading language that no one can read, and very few people attempt.
Early in my career, while a measly clerk at the OAG in Texas, I came upon the worst pleading I'd ever read, in which the plaintiff's attorney redundantly paired every word he possibly could, resulting in such legalistic crap as "then and there", "failed and refused", "way, shape, or form", and so forth. A petition for relief that should have taken 6 pages took 17. (It was also printed in some horrible font, like OCR, which was almost impossible to read.)
Here's a sample of an opening statement from one of my pleadings:
"Paula Plaintiff complains of Dave Defendant, and for cause of action would show the following."
Keep in mind that this is the least important, and therefore worst, sentence in a petition; everything else is at least in English. Nevertheless, compared to some pleadings I've read, it's Shakespeare.
"Comes now Plaintiff, John Doe, and complains of Defendant, David Evildoer, and pray the Court grant him judgment, and for cause of action would show the following."
A question. You're sitting on your favorite barstool at the local watering hole, taking the edge off a rough day in the salt mine with your favorite poison (for me, a tall draft of Harp or Warsteiner, or on a Friday, a shot of Maker's Mark with a sidecar of ice) and your best friend walks in to join you. Do you exclaim "Comes now Drew, and sits next to mine self to drink beer"? Okay, if you answered this question "yes", an exciting career in writing boring pleadings awaits you. If you answered "no", then I understand why you hate legalese.
I can tell you that the stilted "Comes now" style of prose is not taught in law school. At least, not at the University of Texas School of Law, the shoddy public state school where I learned the law. Instead, this horrible style of "writing" is passed on to law clerks -- the trade slang for interns, or law students with summer jobs -- by attorneys who may or may not know better, but either don't, or are too lazy to care.
Now, no pleading is ever going to make the New York Times's best-seller list or appear in Atlantic Monthly's poetry section, whether it be written by David Dullpen or Clarence Darrow. The pleadings are meant to be read only by judges and lawyers. Okay, they're not even meant to be read by those folks. Arguably, they don't matter at all. Except that I just lied: pleadings should also be read by a group of folks more important than judges and lawyers: clients. And this is the reason that they are written so badly: legalese has to be dense so lawyers don't let on to their clients that what they're doing is not rocket science. It's difficult, of course, but because clients may not understand the real reasons that practicing law is difficult, we have to give them a fake reason: the convoluted pleading language that no one can read, and very few people attempt.
Early in my career, while a measly clerk at the OAG in Texas, I came upon the worst pleading I'd ever read, in which the plaintiff's attorney redundantly paired every word he possibly could, resulting in such legalistic crap as "then and there", "failed and refused", "way, shape, or form", and so forth. A petition for relief that should have taken 6 pages took 17. (It was also printed in some horrible font, like OCR, which was almost impossible to read.)
Here's a sample of an opening statement from one of my pleadings:
"Paula Plaintiff complains of Dave Defendant, and for cause of action would show the following."
Keep in mind that this is the least important, and therefore worst, sentence in a petition; everything else is at least in English. Nevertheless, compared to some pleadings I've read, it's Shakespeare.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Well, not really
Yesterday's post contained a list of words that do NOT follow this famous rule:
I before E except after C
Or when sounding like A as in "neighbor" and "weigh".
Looking back I see some words that should be on the list, but aren't, like beige and heifer; I also note the list lacks spontaneity. (Make your own punchline; I tried, but couldn't.) The list also doesn't include different forms of other words that are on the list (i.e. "deify" is there, but not "deified", etc.). I was stunned to find that "leity" wasn't on the list, until I realized it is spelled "laity".
On the whole, though, the rule is right about 70% of the time. Some other blogger did the math and came up with a higher number than that, but he also excluded words in which the "i" and "e" belonged to different syllables. And he still didn't get "beige". If I can find that page again, I'll link to it. Until then, "I before e", and so on.
I before E except after C
Or when sounding like A as in "neighbor" and "weigh".
Looking back I see some words that should be on the list, but aren't, like beige and heifer; I also note the list lacks spontaneity. (Make your own punchline; I tried, but couldn't.) The list also doesn't include different forms of other words that are on the list (i.e. "deify" is there, but not "deified", etc.). I was stunned to find that "leity" wasn't on the list, until I realized it is spelled "laity".
On the whole, though, the rule is right about 70% of the time. Some other blogger did the math and came up with a higher number than that, but he also excluded words in which the "i" and "e" belonged to different syllables. And he still didn't get "beige". If I can find that page again, I'll link to it. Until then, "I before e", and so on.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Are the exceptions swallowing the rule?
Can you figure out what the following words have in common? It shouldn't be too hard, but I'm not going to tell you today.
albeit
ageing
atheism
being
caffeine
counterfeit
deify
either
foreign
forfeit
height
kaleidoscope
leisure
neither
protein
reimburse
reinforce
reinstate
seeing
seize
sovereign
surfeit
weird
Stay tuned.
albeit
ageing
atheism
being
caffeine
counterfeit
deify
either
foreign
forfeit
height
kaleidoscope
leisure
neither
protein
reimburse
reinforce
reinstate
seeing
seize
sovereign
surfeit
weird
Stay tuned.
Friday, April 13, 2007
To hell with "to helm"
Few segments of the American population as are culpable in the ongoing assault on American English as the writers in the entertainment industry. They are trying to create as many synonyms as possible for a short list of nouns and verbs that, really, don't need more synonyms. Consider "to helm", which is now a synomym for "to direct". Horrible.
"Grindhouse will be presented as one full-length feature comprised of two individual films helmed separately by each director." -- "Mr. Disgusting", www.bloody-disgusting.com
"[Ken Olin] Executive produced and helmed the ABC family drama, 'Brothers & Sisters'." -- Unknown, tv.yahoo.com
"The tuner will be helmed by two-time Tony Award-winning director/choreographer Kathleen Marshall (The Pajama Game)." -- Staff, Broadway.com (Omigod, this quote uses both "helmed" and "tuner". Run for the hills!)
Another usage that makes me wretch is using "to bow" as a substitute for "to premiere" or "to release". It's one thing to use "bow" as an intransitive verb in this sense.
"'Ocean's 13' to bow at Cannes Film Festival"
At least that's almost as inoffensive as simply saying "to debut". But please, PLEASE, someone save me from the horrible use of "to bow" as a transitive verb.
"VeriSign to bow online movie service" -- headline, fierceiptv.com
Bow should NEVER be a transitive verb meaning "debut". NEVER EVER. You can bow your head but not your movie.
So just for the record to all you horrible entertainment writers out there: if you have ever committed any of these crimes against language, no one is ever going to read your screenplay.
"Grindhouse will be presented as one full-length feature comprised of two individual films helmed separately by each director." -- "Mr. Disgusting", www.bloody-disgusting.com
"[Ken Olin] Executive produced and helmed the ABC family drama, 'Brothers & Sisters'." -- Unknown, tv.yahoo.com
"The tuner will be helmed by two-time Tony Award-winning director/choreographer Kathleen Marshall (The Pajama Game)." -- Staff, Broadway.com (Omigod, this quote uses both "helmed" and "tuner". Run for the hills!)
Another usage that makes me wretch is using "to bow" as a substitute for "to premiere" or "to release". It's one thing to use "bow" as an intransitive verb in this sense.
"'Ocean's 13' to bow at Cannes Film Festival"
At least that's almost as inoffensive as simply saying "to debut". But please, PLEASE, someone save me from the horrible use of "to bow" as a transitive verb.
"VeriSign to bow online movie service" -- headline, fierceiptv.com
Bow should NEVER be a transitive verb meaning "debut". NEVER EVER. You can bow your head but not your movie.
So just for the record to all you horrible entertainment writers out there: if you have ever committed any of these crimes against language, no one is ever going to read your screenplay.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Split, split, split that infinitive!
Take a careful look at the following sentence and see what's wrong with it.
"To boldly go where no man has gone before."
It's not a sentence? Well, um, okay. What else?
Did you say "nothing"?
Congratulations. I agree with you.
A generation or so ago, back when they taught grammar in schools, one of the quickest ways to get a red mark on your English homework was to split an infinitive. An infinitive, in English, is the form of a verb when preceded by the preposition "to", i.e. "to go". It was commonly, though often incorrectly, thought to be wrong to split infinitives, ever. That absolute prohibition, never completely well grounded, has vanished nearly to the point of extinction nowadays. This probably has less to do with today's high school students casting a more tolerant eye towards infinitives than the fact that they probably have no idea what an infinitive is, of course, but if you are reading this blog instead of downloading Justin Timberlake videos, you probably do have an idea. But as they say, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. (Though not as dangerous as no knowledge, but I digress.)
Almost every English verb has an infinitive form beginning with "to", but some do not. My seventh grade English teacher, Ms. Sowder, was reminded of this the year before I began junior high when she offered an "A" for the six weeks to the students in one of her classes "to anyone who could think of a verb that did not have an infinitive form beginning in 'to'". One of my lifelong friends, and a bigger smart aleck than me, thought for a while, and responded "To could?" Several helping verbs later, he and some of his classmates no longer had to worry about homework for a while.
One theory about how the rule against split infinitives began is that Latin infinitives are only one word. Thus, the Latin word for "to love" is "amare". Since there's no splitting "amare", it follows that one cannot split "to love". Unfortunately, Romans were even worse about obscure grammar rules that English teachers; there are six, count them, six infinitives for each regular Latin verb. I suspect the real reason Rome burned was not that Nero was playing his violin but was practicing conjugation for his dissertation defense. In any event, it's not clear that Latin usage is a sufficiently strong reason not to split infinitives in a different language.
(I should note that the Latin origin theory of the rule against split infinitives is only one of several.)
If there is no good reason not to split infinitives, why does the prohibition persist today? the short answer is that there are good reasons. Even though it's not always bad to split infinitives, it frequently is. The reader's mind tends to think of an infinitive as one word, and if it's possible to keep the two parts together, it should be done. If not, you may sound as awkward as this famous wordsmith:
So, it appears, though there is no absolute prohibition against split infinitives (never mind what your college English teacher taught you), it's a good idea to avoid them when it obscures the idea you were trying to convey.
But what if the "correct" infinitive sounds wrong? For example: "Boldly to go where no man has gone before", or "To go boldly where no man has gone before". The infinitives are standing at attention, dutifully appearing in unitary unsplit form, but their sentences sound awkward to us, and it's not just because we've heard the "incorrect" version so many times. Adverbs normally do not belong at the beginning of a sentence (or, in this case, a phrase masquerading as a sentence). "To go boldly" is a little less jarring, and I suspect if Mr. Shatner had uttered the phrase in that incarnation, we'd all be the same. But there is something about the rhythm created by splitting the infinitive.
This just in: Kurt Vonnegut was a writer. He died. So it goes.
"To boldly go where no man has gone before."
It's not a sentence? Well, um, okay. What else?
Did you say "nothing"?
Congratulations. I agree with you.
A generation or so ago, back when they taught grammar in schools, one of the quickest ways to get a red mark on your English homework was to split an infinitive. An infinitive, in English, is the form of a verb when preceded by the preposition "to", i.e. "to go". It was commonly, though often incorrectly, thought to be wrong to split infinitives, ever. That absolute prohibition, never completely well grounded, has vanished nearly to the point of extinction nowadays. This probably has less to do with today's high school students casting a more tolerant eye towards infinitives than the fact that they probably have no idea what an infinitive is, of course, but if you are reading this blog instead of downloading Justin Timberlake videos, you probably do have an idea. But as they say, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. (Though not as dangerous as no knowledge, but I digress.)
Almost every English verb has an infinitive form beginning with "to", but some do not. My seventh grade English teacher, Ms. Sowder, was reminded of this the year before I began junior high when she offered an "A" for the six weeks to the students in one of her classes "to anyone who could think of a verb that did not have an infinitive form beginning in 'to'". One of my lifelong friends, and a bigger smart aleck than me, thought for a while, and responded "To could?" Several helping verbs later, he and some of his classmates no longer had to worry about homework for a while.
One theory about how the rule against split infinitives began is that Latin infinitives are only one word. Thus, the Latin word for "to love" is "amare". Since there's no splitting "amare", it follows that one cannot split "to love". Unfortunately, Romans were even worse about obscure grammar rules that English teachers; there are six, count them, six infinitives for each regular Latin verb. I suspect the real reason Rome burned was not that Nero was playing his violin but was practicing conjugation for his dissertation defense. In any event, it's not clear that Latin usage is a sufficiently strong reason not to split infinitives in a different language.
(I should note that the Latin origin theory of the rule against split infinitives is only one of several.)
If there is no good reason not to split infinitives, why does the prohibition persist today? the short answer is that there are good reasons. Even though it's not always bad to split infinitives, it frequently is. The reader's mind tends to think of an infinitive as one word, and if it's possible to keep the two parts together, it should be done. If not, you may sound as awkward as this famous wordsmith:
They want to not just get you off the air but also — to savor the full enjoyment — bring you to your knees financially.This is a compound infinitive, because the italicized "to" belongs to both "get" and "bring"; the latter appears a full fifteen words later in the sentence -- and after a second "to", to boot. The composer of this horrible prose is none other than Dick Cavett, who is featured in the New York Times Select online edition as ... an expert on grammar. There are various ways "to not just get" could be edited to read more smoothly; the solution to the second split is much easier.
Not only do they want to get you off the air, but also -- to savor the full enjoyment -- to bring you to your knees financially.(Don't get me started about "but also"; that has to be another post.)
So, it appears, though there is no absolute prohibition against split infinitives (never mind what your college English teacher taught you), it's a good idea to avoid them when it obscures the idea you were trying to convey.
But what if the "correct" infinitive sounds wrong? For example: "Boldly to go where no man has gone before", or "To go boldly where no man has gone before". The infinitives are standing at attention, dutifully appearing in unitary unsplit form, but their sentences sound awkward to us, and it's not just because we've heard the "incorrect" version so many times. Adverbs normally do not belong at the beginning of a sentence (or, in this case, a phrase masquerading as a sentence). "To go boldly" is a little less jarring, and I suspect if Mr. Shatner had uttered the phrase in that incarnation, we'd all be the same. But there is something about the rhythm created by splitting the infinitive.
To bold-ly go where no one has gone be-fore.The line is so close to iambic pentameter it's virtually Shakespearean. That, and the recurring emphasised "o"s, make a little thing like a split infinitive seem silly.
This just in: Kurt Vonnegut was a writer. He died. So it goes.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Restart THIS
My litigation schedule is heavier than I like right now, so I still haven't published my post on split infinitives, but rather than finishing that, I've decided to vent some steam about one of the stupider ideas from our favorite mediocre American icon, MicroSoft.
My opinion of MicroSoft is colored by my perception that it has prospered not by building a better mousetrap, but by building a barely-good-enough mousetrap and doing a better job of marketing it. Ask any lawyer whether he'd rather run an office based on MicroSoft Word (any version) or WordPerfect 4.2. MicroSoft seems to me to be an endless tinkerer, but comes to market before its tinkering is complete.
Luckily, most of its post-release tinkering is now available in free updates, although one is still expected to purchase new boxes on occasion to fix problems with the old software. Why this isn't akin to having to buy tires for your new car, because the manufacturer forgot to install them in the first place, beats me.
At least you don't have to spend money to get these new updates. The little shield-shaped icon alerts you that the updates are there, and then you can keep working while MicroSoft is updating your computer.
But once the updates are ready to be installed, you have to restart the computer. And the shield gives you two choices: restart the computer now, or later. Almost always, I choose "later". What the shield doesn't tell me is "Okay, but I'm going to interrupt you every five minutes until you restart the computer, because you're so stupid you'll probably forget that you need to install me." And, of course, if it did tell you that, then you could reply "No, I'm not, you inanimate presumptous piece of code, it's just that I have more important things to do right now than restart my computer, like get this $*@&%! brief out before 5:00, so shut up already."
So why is it that MicroSoft won't give us a third choice: "Restart when I damned well feel like it"? Beats the hell outta me.
My opinion of MicroSoft is colored by my perception that it has prospered not by building a better mousetrap, but by building a barely-good-enough mousetrap and doing a better job of marketing it. Ask any lawyer whether he'd rather run an office based on MicroSoft Word (any version) or WordPerfect 4.2. MicroSoft seems to me to be an endless tinkerer, but comes to market before its tinkering is complete.
Luckily, most of its post-release tinkering is now available in free updates, although one is still expected to purchase new boxes on occasion to fix problems with the old software. Why this isn't akin to having to buy tires for your new car, because the manufacturer forgot to install them in the first place, beats me.
At least you don't have to spend money to get these new updates. The little shield-shaped icon alerts you that the updates are there, and then you can keep working while MicroSoft is updating your computer.
But once the updates are ready to be installed, you have to restart the computer. And the shield gives you two choices: restart the computer now, or later. Almost always, I choose "later". What the shield doesn't tell me is "Okay, but I'm going to interrupt you every five minutes until you restart the computer, because you're so stupid you'll probably forget that you need to install me." And, of course, if it did tell you that, then you could reply "No, I'm not, you inanimate presumptous piece of code, it's just that I have more important things to do right now than restart my computer, like get this $*@&%! brief out before 5:00, so shut up already."
So why is it that MicroSoft won't give us a third choice: "Restart when I damned well feel like it"? Beats the hell outta me.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Which is it?
A short note about the word "which". Like the failure to "it's/its", the misuse of the word "which" is both widespread and easy to correct. It usually comes about in a sentence like this one.
The committee is considering a bill which may substantially raise sales taxes.
The use of the word "which" in this sentence is incorrect. The reason is "may substantially raise business taxes" is a restrictive clause. It modifies its subject "bill" by restricting it to mean one particular bill. If you delete the entire clause from the sentence, then you change the meaning of the word "bill". In contrast, suppose this is the next sentence in the paragraph.
The bill, which is widely unpopular in the business community, would eliminate the groceries tax exemption.
The clause "which is widely unpopular in the business community" is a descriptive clause. It describes its object, "bill", but doesn't restrict it. If the clause weren't in the sentence, the word "bill" would mean the same thing. Since it's a restrictive clause, it has to be set off from its object with a comma, or in this case, two.
There are various terms used to describe these two clauses (for example restrictive and non-restrictive) but the terminology is not as important as the usage and the "which-that" distinction. As I noted earlier, it is easy to eliminate this mistake and, in so doing, improve your written English. It's a process called "which hunting".
After you've drafted your text, search it for every occurrence of "which". Each time you find it, see if it's in a restrictive clause. Here's the test: if you take out the clause beginning with "which", would it change the meaning of the clause's subject? If not, then the clause is only descriptive, and you can -- and should -- use "which". Otherwise, you have to use "that". Also, if it's descriptive, use a comma. If it's restrictive, don't use a comma.
If you do this regularly, you should find that you're changing a lot of whiches to thats. And your readers will think your writing has improved, but they won't be able to figure out why.
The committee is considering a bill which may substantially raise sales taxes.
The use of the word "which" in this sentence is incorrect. The reason is "may substantially raise business taxes" is a restrictive clause. It modifies its subject "bill" by restricting it to mean one particular bill. If you delete the entire clause from the sentence, then you change the meaning of the word "bill". In contrast, suppose this is the next sentence in the paragraph.
The bill, which is widely unpopular in the business community, would eliminate the groceries tax exemption.
The clause "which is widely unpopular in the business community" is a descriptive clause. It describes its object, "bill", but doesn't restrict it. If the clause weren't in the sentence, the word "bill" would mean the same thing. Since it's a restrictive clause, it has to be set off from its object with a comma, or in this case, two.
There are various terms used to describe these two clauses (for example restrictive and non-restrictive) but the terminology is not as important as the usage and the "which-that" distinction. As I noted earlier, it is easy to eliminate this mistake and, in so doing, improve your written English. It's a process called "which hunting".
After you've drafted your text, search it for every occurrence of "which". Each time you find it, see if it's in a restrictive clause. Here's the test: if you take out the clause beginning with "which", would it change the meaning of the clause's subject? If not, then the clause is only descriptive, and you can -- and should -- use "which". Otherwise, you have to use "that". Also, if it's descriptive, use a comma. If it's restrictive, don't use a comma.
If you do this regularly, you should find that you're changing a lot of whiches to thats. And your readers will think your writing has improved, but they won't be able to figure out why.
Something else to be snobby about
I recently went to a fine restaurant for a Happy Hour with some other attorneys who specialize in CPS cases. Although I'd never eaten there, the place has a fine ambience and a good reputation. But I knew we were in trouble when I looked at the Happy Hour specials and noted that the Monday special was martinis for only $5.00. Ulp. And we were there on Thursday night, not Monday. Nevertheless, I decided to pass on the special that evening --1/2-price sparkling wine (which ended up meaning being charged only $6.50 for a glass of wine that normally cost $13.00, at least for two of my colleagues). So, when our cocktail waitress came to the table, I dutifully ordered a martini. Her next question, which is now commonplace, nevertheless was outrageous.
"Would you like gin or vodka?"
Excuse me?
I just ordered a MARTINI. A martini is a well-known cocktail that is made with vermouth and GIN. There is no such thing as a martini made with vodka. There is a drink that is made with vodka and vermouth. It is called a VODKA MARTINI. For all I know there are other drinks whose names indicate some alternative to gin, like a rum martini or a beer martini or a motor oil martini, but those are not MARTINIS. Why is it now necessary, when ordering a martini, to specify that one desires a drink made with the ingredients that come in, well, a martini? When I order an omelet, I don't specify that I want the chef to use hen eggs. If that seems like a bad example, how about fajitas? If your waitron requests a clarification as to whether you want beef or chicken, are you justified in reminding him that fajitas is a beef dish, as opposed to chicken fajitas, which is made with, um, chicken?
Okay, so you don't like martinis. What about a strawberry margarita? A banana daiquiri? Why don't you have to specify what kind of margarita you want when you order one of those cocktail pretenders? I believe, in Austin, the reason is that the bar usually has anywhere from 6 to 1,389 kinds of margaritas, and by the time your waiter finished reciting the varieties the bar would be closed. Nonetheless, there's no reason to make martini drinkers suffer just because there's a shorter list of drinks that sound like martini, but aren't martinis.
Why is this so important? Hell if I know.
Back to martinis. Jed Bartlett is right. "Shaken, not stirred" is a catchy phrase but a poor way to make martinis.
Oh, and when I did get my martini, it was outstanding. At $7.50, it should be.
"Would you like gin or vodka?"
Excuse me?
I just ordered a MARTINI. A martini is a well-known cocktail that is made with vermouth and GIN. There is no such thing as a martini made with vodka. There is a drink that is made with vodka and vermouth. It is called a VODKA MARTINI. For all I know there are other drinks whose names indicate some alternative to gin, like a rum martini or a beer martini or a motor oil martini, but those are not MARTINIS. Why is it now necessary, when ordering a martini, to specify that one desires a drink made with the ingredients that come in, well, a martini? When I order an omelet, I don't specify that I want the chef to use hen eggs. If that seems like a bad example, how about fajitas? If your waitron requests a clarification as to whether you want beef or chicken, are you justified in reminding him that fajitas is a beef dish, as opposed to chicken fajitas, which is made with, um, chicken?
Okay, so you don't like martinis. What about a strawberry margarita? A banana daiquiri? Why don't you have to specify what kind of margarita you want when you order one of those cocktail pretenders? I believe, in Austin, the reason is that the bar usually has anywhere from 6 to 1,389 kinds of margaritas, and by the time your waiter finished reciting the varieties the bar would be closed. Nonetheless, there's no reason to make martini drinkers suffer just because there's a shorter list of drinks that sound like martini, but aren't martinis.
Why is this so important? Hell if I know.
Back to martinis. Jed Bartlett is right. "Shaken, not stirred" is a catchy phrase but a poor way to make martinis.
Oh, and when I did get my martini, it was outstanding. At $7.50, it should be.
Friday, March 16, 2007
I'm not bitter.
A diversion from grammar.
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. I won't be around a computer, so I'm posting a day early. I will celebrate the day in my usual manner, by wearing red.
Don't you mean green, you say? No, red. Why on earth would someone wear red on St. Patrick's Day? You ask. Well, I'm not sure. But I will tell you what is not the reason.
It's not because the Arkansas Razorbacks, the team from my alma mater, wear red. And that on March 17, 1979, in the Midwest Regional Final in Cincinnati, Ohio, when they were playing Indiana State, Larry Bird tripped U.S. Reed on the inbounds pass on Arkansas' final possession, and that the referee called Reed for traveling rather than calling a foul on America's favorite college basketball player, and that ISU got the ball and won the game on that bad call, advancing to the Final Four, while Sidney Moncrief's collegiate career ended right there in Cincinnati.
The reason I know that's not the reason is that I've completely forgotten about that. Really. It doesn't bother me any more. I mean, that was 28 years ago. And I'm over it.
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. I won't be around a computer, so I'm posting a day early. I will celebrate the day in my usual manner, by wearing red.
Don't you mean green, you say? No, red. Why on earth would someone wear red on St. Patrick's Day? You ask. Well, I'm not sure. But I will tell you what is not the reason.
It's not because the Arkansas Razorbacks, the team from my alma mater, wear red. And that on March 17, 1979, in the Midwest Regional Final in Cincinnati, Ohio, when they were playing Indiana State, Larry Bird tripped U.S. Reed on the inbounds pass on Arkansas' final possession, and that the referee called Reed for traveling rather than calling a foul on America's favorite college basketball player, and that ISU got the ball and won the game on that bad call, advancing to the Final Four, while Sidney Moncrief's collegiate career ended right there in Cincinnati.
The reason I know that's not the reason is that I've completely forgotten about that. Really. It doesn't bother me any more. I mean, that was 28 years ago. And I'm over it.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Prescriptive or Descriptive
There are two types of grammarians, or so I'm told. Actually, there's only one, but I'll get to that.
Types of grammars can be labeled either descriptive or prescriptive. A descriptive grammarian is one who writes rules for the usage of a language based on how he hears it being used by the people around him. A prescriptive grammarian writes rules based on how the language should be used, whether the people around him use it that way or not. A descriptive grammarian tells us how the world is; a prescriptive grammarian tells us how it should be.
Now, you already know I'm a grammar snob, so which type of grammar do you think I prefer? Prescriptive of course. For one thing, I couldn't care less how the people around me speak English. What if they're in the third grade, or illiterate? My high school German teacher, the beloved late Marty Deweese, once told her class of her earliest introduction to German, when she babysat a toddler for some friends of hers who were living in Germany at the time. She took the toddler on a train and he pointed at various farm animals and told her the names of each of them, in German. She was very excited to know these new German words, and repeated them to her friends when they returned. But she was crestfallen to discover that the new words she learned, translated into English, became "moo-cow" and "cluck-cluck bird" and "run-dog" and so forth. Imagine a descriptive grammar based on this three-year-old's vocabulary.
The difference between the three-year-old and some Americans is one of degree, not kind. So much has been written about the death of the semi-colon that I don't know why we still put one on computer keyboards, although it's probably useful to software engineers. I've already spoken about the transformation (read "degradation") of the word "loan" from a noun to a verb. Maybe that's a subtle point, but what about more widespread and egregious language abuses? There are large numbers of native English speakers in this country who would not see or hear a problem with the sentence "I seen him yesterday". Or "we was down at the store". A descriptive grammarian, writing a new textbook on sentence structure based on these sentences, would have no need for a chapter on noun-verb agreement. Now, she might argue that each speaker's meaning is perfectly clear. And, in fact, the speakers would be communicating. For example, someone who says "I seen him yesterday" has told me that he saw him yesterday. He's also told me that he's a hick. Usage does more than forward data to the listener; it conveys the education and sophistication of the speaker.
Of course, maybe part of the problem is we live in a time and society where education is no longer valued. When movable print was invented, the educated class (i.e., the clergy) worried that anyone could publish a book. The English language managed to survive that crisis (or, I should say, German did, but you get the point.) The invention of the typewriter was accompanied by a similar alarm, but language weathered the storm. Similarly, the electric typewriter, the word processor, the personal computer, and the laser printer made it easier for people with less and less education to produce documents with higher and higher visual appeal, even though they might be riddled with errors. But now we have blogs, and webpages, and people who either don't care about their atrocious spelling, grammar, usage, punctuation, or style, or don't realize how badly they write. "Descriptive" grammarians are of no use when it comes to correcting this backslide. Instead, in two decades the ideas of proper case, helping verbs, subject-verb agreement, and others will only be of interest to historians.
But not if the real grammarians have anything to say about it.
Types of grammars can be labeled either descriptive or prescriptive. A descriptive grammarian is one who writes rules for the usage of a language based on how he hears it being used by the people around him. A prescriptive grammarian writes rules based on how the language should be used, whether the people around him use it that way or not. A descriptive grammarian tells us how the world is; a prescriptive grammarian tells us how it should be.
Now, you already know I'm a grammar snob, so which type of grammar do you think I prefer? Prescriptive of course. For one thing, I couldn't care less how the people around me speak English. What if they're in the third grade, or illiterate? My high school German teacher, the beloved late Marty Deweese, once told her class of her earliest introduction to German, when she babysat a toddler for some friends of hers who were living in Germany at the time. She took the toddler on a train and he pointed at various farm animals and told her the names of each of them, in German. She was very excited to know these new German words, and repeated them to her friends when they returned. But she was crestfallen to discover that the new words she learned, translated into English, became "moo-cow" and "cluck-cluck bird" and "run-dog" and so forth. Imagine a descriptive grammar based on this three-year-old's vocabulary.
The difference between the three-year-old and some Americans is one of degree, not kind. So much has been written about the death of the semi-colon that I don't know why we still put one on computer keyboards, although it's probably useful to software engineers. I've already spoken about the transformation (read "degradation") of the word "loan" from a noun to a verb. Maybe that's a subtle point, but what about more widespread and egregious language abuses? There are large numbers of native English speakers in this country who would not see or hear a problem with the sentence "I seen him yesterday". Or "we was down at the store". A descriptive grammarian, writing a new textbook on sentence structure based on these sentences, would have no need for a chapter on noun-verb agreement. Now, she might argue that each speaker's meaning is perfectly clear. And, in fact, the speakers would be communicating. For example, someone who says "I seen him yesterday" has told me that he saw him yesterday. He's also told me that he's a hick. Usage does more than forward data to the listener; it conveys the education and sophistication of the speaker.
Of course, maybe part of the problem is we live in a time and society where education is no longer valued. When movable print was invented, the educated class (i.e., the clergy) worried that anyone could publish a book. The English language managed to survive that crisis (or, I should say, German did, but you get the point.) The invention of the typewriter was accompanied by a similar alarm, but language weathered the storm. Similarly, the electric typewriter, the word processor, the personal computer, and the laser printer made it easier for people with less and less education to produce documents with higher and higher visual appeal, even though they might be riddled with errors. But now we have blogs, and webpages, and people who either don't care about their atrocious spelling, grammar, usage, punctuation, or style, or don't realize how badly they write. "Descriptive" grammarians are of no use when it comes to correcting this backslide. Instead, in two decades the ideas of proper case, helping verbs, subject-verb agreement, and others will only be of interest to historians.
But not if the real grammarians have anything to say about it.
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