Talky Tuesday: Sibling, can you loan a word?

English has borrowed its share of words from other languages, but do you know which words these five languages have borrowed form English?

It’s no secret that English has borrowed a lot of words from other languages, as any list online will tell you. But, just as often, other languages take on words from English as well.

These are technically known as loanwords and are quite often altered in spelling to be pronounceable to speakers of the borrowing language.

It only makes sense that English would take on so many loanwords from other languages as well as leave so many loanwords behind in its wake as it spreads across the globe via popular culture. But what, exactly, are these loan words?

Well, here’s a brief survey of some of the most common ones, by language.

Spanish

Keep in mind that it’s far more common for these words to be borrowed into Spanish in Spain via Britain rather than into Latin American Spanish via America, but that’s most likely because there are so many different Spanish speaking countries in the Americas that they all kind of do their own thing, whereas Spain and its resorts are infected by British tourists on holiday every spring like crabs in a courtesan’s panties.

Here are just a few:

Bistec: This is just a phonetic rendering of the words “beef steak.”

Panfleto: Pamphlet, which cleans up the weird spelling that would not even be pronounceable in Spanish.

Mitin: Meeting, although in the sense of a public hearing or a political conference, and reunión is still far more common in the Americas.

Drenaje: This is a great example of a double borrow. Spanish adapted the word “drainage” from English, but English took it from French without changing a letter.

Esmoquin: If you had to guess what this word meant, you probably never would in a million years, but it’s kind of borrowed from English and means “tuxedo.” How this happened is that Spanish actually picked up the word for “smoking jacket,” which was a heavily quilted garment meant to be worn over the good clothes while the men stepped into the smoking room to fire up their pipes, cigars, and cigarettes. The heavy material was meant to protect the good clothes from ash, cinders, and pinhole burns. How Spanish made the leap of logic from one to the other is a little unclear, but smoking jackets would have definitely been de rigueur at any formal, black tie event that ended with brandy and cigars.

Esnob: This simply means “snob” in Spanish, and comes from the difficulty that Spanish speakers have in saying words that start with an “s” followed by a pronounced consonant. You can see it even in their native words, for example “español.” Note that another loan word, from the English for sandwich, does not do this, so it’s just “sándwich.” That’s because it starts with “s” followed by a vowel, and that’s totally normal in the Spanish words for saint or holy, San and Santa.

Fútbol: Which means football in most of the world, but is soccer in America. Again, only the spelling was changed.

Cóctel: Probably very popular at every tapas bar happy hour, this word is clearly “cocktail,” although it’s pronounced with a long O in the first syllable and a short e in the second. Close enough, I guess, if you’re on your third.

Japanese

Japanese is infamous for taking English words, spelling them phonetically in katakana, and then sending those new terms right back to English. One of the more famous ones is cosplay, which was created in Japanese from a shortening of the English words “costume” and “role play,” but then shot right back into our vernacular, except once more in English.

Japanese for “cosplay” is pronounced “kosupure.”

Afu-reko: Derived from the words “after” and “recording,” this refers to the process of dubbing new sound or dialogue tracks in post-production. Obviously, this would be very important when making English language dubs of Japanese anime.

Aidoru: Referring to teen idol or pop star, and it’s pronounced pretty close to the word it came from, idol.

Aisu kurīmu: Again, remembering that the “ai” is pronounced as a long I, it should be pretty clear that these words mean “ice cream.”

Amefuto: American football, pure and simple, and meant to distinguish it from real fútbol.

Amerikan doggu: Pretty clearly “American dog,” but not the animal. Nope. This is a corn dog.

Bebī kā: Literally from “baby car,” a stroller or pram.

Datchi-waifu: From “Dutch wife.” This is a blow-up doll. Why the Japanese blame this on the Dutch but borrow the term from English is a mystery.

Furaido poteto: Quite clearly “fried potato,” as in French fry.

Hotto kēki: Another probably obvious food item: hot cake.

Janpā: Jumper, as in sweater or jacket. Not to be confused with Juanpa.

Manshon: Mansion.

Nōto-pasokon: A super mash-up of note, personal, and computer that means laptop. Without nōto in front, it just means personal computer.

Sekkusu: Sex. Boning. Doing it. Bumping uglies. Fucking. You get the picture.

Tenkī: Ten-key, as in that numerical keypad that may or may not be at the far right on your computer or laptop keyboard.

Dutch

Since they’re both Germanic languages, you wouldn’t think that Dutch would borrow that many words from English, but it happens, largely due to people who speak “Dunglish.” This is what happens when native English speakers are learning Dutch, but apply English word order and grammar. The two are not the same, so it can get weird.

But there are English loanwords in Dutch that have nothing to do with Dunglish.

Whatsappen: The verb form of “to Whatsapp,” as in to send a message via that platform.

Downloaden: Again, pretty obvious. The infinitive verb form of “to download.”

Airconditioner: Three guesses.

Laptop: Just what it says on the tin.

Helpdesk: Although they probably actually won’t.

Junkfood: It’s food. It’s junk. It’s one word.

Okay, a longer list shortened, but it’s pretty obvious that the Dutch aren’t all that creative when they borrow words from English. If it’s two words, just stick them together, and don’t even change the spelling. And yet, they make fun of Dunglish.

French

Now you might think that it would be difficult for French to borrow anything from English, since we’ve already borrowed so damn much from them. Also, thanks to the French Revolution, they were the first country to come up with a Royal Language Academy whose sole purpose was to define each and every word specifically, and with only one definition.

Top that off with the disdain in France (multiplied by ten in Québec) for borrowing words from English, and it’s a miracle that any of these exist — but they do. All of the following nouns take the article “le” in the singular:

Pull: Pullover, sweater, or jersey.

Shampooing: Shampoo.

Scoop: Breaking a big news story; same meaning as in English.

Sandwich: So Spanish wasn’t the only language to borrow this one!

Hashtag: Sorry, France!

Lifting: A facelift or plastic surgery.

Parking: A car park in general, and not the verb referring to what you do to your car.

Zapping: Channel surfing on a TV, although who does that anymore?

Baskets: Plural, so “les baskets,” any kind of sporting shoes, probably derived from basketball.

Smoking: See the Spanish word “esmoquin,” above; also a tuxedo or formal dinner attire, for all the same reasons.

Relooking: A makeover.

Tagalog

This is one of the languages of the Philippines, and since America has stomped all over that place since winning the Spanish-American war, it should be no surprise that English linguistic footprints are all over it. Here are a few.

Aborsyon: Abortion, which replaced the original word “pagpapalaglag.”

Adik: As in drug addict, with the traditional word having been more or less a Spanish loan word, durugista.

Badyet: Budget, originally Laang-gugulin.

Basketbol and Besbol: Basketball and baseball, because American sports manage to infect everything they touch.

Bistek: Beefsteak, just like in Spanish although, ironically, I don’t think anybody in America refers to any cut of meat as a beefsteak anymore. I mean, it’s a steak. Of course it’s made of beef — unless one of those beyond or impossible companies tells you that it’s not.

Drayber: Driver, although the earlier word was “tsuper,” itself borrowed from the Spanish chofer, from the word chauffeur, although via English instead of the French from which English stole it. Damn. Complicated enough yet? Yeah, that’s what happens when you colonize people.

Iskul: School. Another example of a language adding a vowel sound before an “s” and hard consonant. The native word was “paaralan.”

Madyik: Magic. Originally Salamangka,

Sandwits: Sandwich, yet another variation on that most British of creations, thanks to an Earl with a gambling habit who liked to eat at the table.

Tin-edyer: Teenager, originally lalabintaunin.

Traysikel: Tricycle, because who doesn’t enjoy a three-wheeled vehicle?

So there you go. Wherever English has gone, it’s left its words behind, whether they’ve been sucked in unchanged Dutch-style, altered slightly for other markets, or rendered phonetically as closely as possible, as in Japan.

Here’s my question for my readers who come from all over the planet: What is your native language, and what words has your language borrowed from English? Hey, don’t be afraid. Click and comment below!

Talky Tuesday: American vs. British getting stressed

American and British English are two very different animals despite a common source. Today, I take a look at how and why certain words are pronounced differently.

I’ve written several times about differences in American and British spelling and vocabulary, and why I think that the American version of English — accent and all — is actually the more correct one.

Naturally, I’m biased because it’s what I grew up reading, speaking, and writing, but purely objectively, a lot of British ways of phrasings just make no sense.

Take for example how they use the word “different” as a comparative. In British English, they would say something like, “She’s different to her friends.”

Different to…? This just grates on my ear because it doesn’t compute. You’re making a negative comparison — she is not like the ones you’re comparing her with. But “to” is a preposition that implies movement toward, whether figuratively or literally: “We are coming close to a decision.” “We walked to the store.”

It makes perfect sense to say, “She’s similar to her friends,” because that’s a positive comparison moving her into the group. “Different from” would make more sense, although that’s not usually what we say in the U.S.

Here, we’d say, “She’s different than her friends.” Using from would not be wrong, although it only feels correct when making a comparison to a less well-defined group: “She’s different from the others.”

Also, to me, saying “She’s different to her friends” implies that her differentness is something that only her friends notice, not that she has traits that differ greatly from those of her friends.

Oddly enough, Spanish also has the same distinction between Latin America and Spain which exactly mirrors this. In Spain, they would say, “Ella es diferente a sus amigas.” The “a” is equivalent in this use to “to.” In a lot of parts of Latin America, it would be, “Ella es diferente de sus amigas,” with “de” being the equivalent here of “from.”

Using “to” with different like this to me is just as jarring as when someone uses the phrase “based off” — and anyone who ever says that out loud should be slapped upside the head and corrected immediately.

A base is what something is built on top of, so you literally cannot base something off of something else. The only proper preposition her is “on,” as in “Based on a true story.”

But there’s another area where Americans and Brits differ greatly, and that in how they emphasize words when speaking.

Putting the emPHASis on the wrong syllAble

The very short version is that American English tends to put the emphasis on the first syllable of longer words, while British English puts it on the second. A classic example is the word “laboratory.”

In America, it comes out as LAB-or-a-tory, while in Britain (and the Commonwealth) it’s pronounced la-BOR-a-t’ry. That’s actually bonus points for this word, because American English gives a slight additional emphasis to the “tor,” not as strong as on “lab,” while British English just erases it.

As usual, this happens because a lot of these words come from French, and in their ever-imperialistic way, British English pronounces them according to the rules of English.

Meanwhile, in their very differently imperialistic way, American English pronounces these words to sound more like the French. Hey — at least we kind of acknowledge the cultures we steal from.

Ironically, the differences in British and American English happened for the opposite reason — British spelling kept the French versions — colour, valour, honour, etc. — while American English simplied — color, valor, honor etc.

Of course, the British versions aren’t pronounced at all how they’re spelt, rhyming with neither velour or hour, but sounding exactly like the American versions.

There are a rather substantial number of content creators on YouTube who are from Commonwealth countries, and so speak this flavor of English. It also gets more complicated on sites based in the UK with multiple presenters from different locations, because their pronunciations even vary from person to person and accent to accent.

One word that really stands out for me, because a number of these sites cover arts and entertainment, is the word “biopic,” which is a portmanteau for “biographical picture,” meaning a movie about a person’s life.

In the U.S., it’s pronounced “BI-o-pic,” and I think that’s how they say it in Canada, too. But in the UK, it gets mangled into “bi-OP-ic,” which, again, makes no logical sense. Also again, the American version has that slight additional stress on the last syllable.

And since we’re talking about language, the “Americans first syllable, Brits second syllable” rules doesn’t always hold either because of course it doesn’t. Here are some words that work the opposite, with British first and American second:

Adult:  AD-ult, a-DULT

Buffet: BUF-fet, buf-FET (silent T)

Cliché: CLI-ché, cli-CHÉ (hey, Britain — the French left an accent in it!)

Debris: DE-bris, de-BRIS (silent S)

Premature: PREM-a-ture, pre-ma-TURE (America held out until the third syllable)

Oddly enough, the one case where Brits get it right is the brand name Adidas, which is not pronounced “a-DI-das” but rather “a-di-DAS,” because it was named for the founder, Adolf Dassler. His nickname was “Adi,” and the last name was shortened, and once you know that, you’ll probably always pronounce it “a-di-DAS” as well.

If you’d like to see a Brit and American compare how they pronounce 100 words, you can get a look on YouTube. Here’s Part 1 and here is Part 2.

Talky Tuesday: Y iz speling inglish so hard?

I’ve often joked that I’m glad I happened to be born in a country where English is my first language, because if it weren’t, the spelling alone would have forever kept me from even trying to learn it as a second.

I mean, it makes no sense. On the other hand, a lot of (but not all) other languages have spelling conventions that do make sense. Even Irish Gaelic, which I tried to learn but gave up on because I could just not pronounce it, allegedly has very strict spelling rules.

To be fair, though — English is all over the map. Exhibit 1:

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/DU9w9qLynwE

How did we wind up with this messy orthography? It mainly happened because two dudes, one in England and one the the U.S., decided to write the definitive English dictionary, but followed different rules. But it also has to do with the convoluted descent of the language itself.

Let’s take a quick trip through time — but it’s going to start about five hundred years before what you were probably (or possibly not) taught in high school.

This would be Caedmon’s Hymn, a fragment from sometime in the 7th century C.E., which would mean over 1400 years ago. Here’s the opening line: “Nu sculon herigean heofonrices Weard…”

Any idea what that means? Well, probably not. The translation is, “Now must we praise heaven-kingdom’s Guardian…”

Perhaps the only word that jumps out as even close to anything in modern English is “Weard,” but only if you realize that English at this time capitalized nouns, and “Weard” is very close to “Ward,” who is legally not the guardian but the guarded. Think Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne’s young “ward.”

“Nu” might kind of hint at “now,” but with a very warped vowel-sound.

Let’s check out the language about four hundred years later.

Here’s the first line of Beowulf, written in the early 11th century CE, in the original: “Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum, þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon…” This translates to “How we have heard of the might of the kings.” You probably recognize exactly one word in that sentence: The first person plural pronoun “We.”

Maybe, if you look closer, you might realize that “þeodcyninga” has the word “king” hiding in it, and is probably the possessive form of the noun built on the stem “cyning,” which would have been pronounced with a hard “C” at the beginning.

This is Old English, but it might as well be a foreign language, right? Let’s take another little jump forward:

“siþen þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at troye…” This is the opening line of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, written around 1100 CE in a dialect of Middle English, and it’s probably a little easier to understand. In modern English, it reads, “After the siege and the assault of Troy…”

The funny looking letters that appear to be lowercase p’s in which the round part slipped down is actually the equivalent of the letters “th,” so you could interpret it as “sithen the sege,” and that second word reveals the reason for the biggest misunderstanding modern English speakers have about Middle English.

If you’ve ever seen something like “Ye Olde Shoppe,” that’s where this comes from. Instead of replacing the “þ” with “th,” early typesetters (who didn’t have the character) used a “y” instead, because to them it looked similar, and hence a non-existent word was born.

But back to the point, if you read that line out loud slowly, you can pretty much hear the modern English meaning in it. But look at how much the language had changed in just a century. Why? Simple. Beowulf and The Green Knight lived on opposite sides of the Norman Conquest.

This had a huge impact on the English language, infusing it with French. It’s a big part of the reason why we raise cows, pigs, and chickens, but eat beef, pork, and poultry. The farmers and cooks were lower-classes, so spoke English. The people who ate it were upper-class and rich, so spoke the courtly language, which was French.

Let’s jump ahead to 1392 and The Canterbury Tales, written in a later version of Middle English. I’ll bet that you can understand this one perfectly well: “Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote…”

It’s basically giving us the setting — in April, when the rains of that month end the drought in March that affected plants right down to their roots.

Set the time machine for 1469, and Thomas Malory’s Le Mort d’Arthur, and look at this opening line: “HIt befel in the dayes of Vther pendragon when he was kynge of all Englond and so regned…”

I don’t even need to translate that, do I? Except maybe to point out that “Vther pendragon” is better know as “Uther Pendragon,” father of King Arthur.

One last jump of 140 years, and we get this line, for which I don’t even need to cite the author or source: “To be or not to be, that is the question.”

And so was modern English born.

Think about that one for a moment. If you were to jump into a time machine, you could only really safely go back a touch over 400 years, or maybe 550, and still be able to communicate with other English speakers — and that’s not even accounting for The Great Vowel Shift.

But spelling was not standardized in Shakespeare’s day. Here’s an example from Twelfth Night, aka Twelfe Night, or What You Will.

And if you want a really funny take on the language of the era by a very famous American author, check out Mark Twain’s hilarious short story 1601, which is naught more but an extended fart joke at Queen Elizabeth (I)’s expense.

Shakespeare would have loved it.

But after Shakespeare died in 1616, it was less than a century and a half before Samuel Johnson felt compelled to compile a dictionary of the English language. His initial attempt was to “fix” the language, but he soon admitted that this was folly.

Unfortunately, he didn’t really fix much, and it’s thanks to him that we have such weird (British) spellings as programme instead of program, tonne instead of ton, and all of those words with “ou” instead of just “o,” like “colour,” because he had this weird boner for maintaining the spellings of words from non-English sources, like French and Latin.

Meanwhile, Noah Webster was born three years after Johnson’s dictionary came out in 1755, and the United States as an independent nation were born by the time he was in his early 30s. He started working on his own dictionary with a goal toward simplifying spelling, and it came out in 1828 after a preliminary run at it in 1806.

Of course, Noah learned 26 languages in order to properly classify English words, and his dictionary was considered by many to outclass Johnson’s in every regard.

But this meant that there were still two English dictionaries with quite different spellings, and with authors who didn’t really simplify anything.

Sure, Webster gave us the short forms of program and ton, and the less nonsensical versions of “tyre” (tire), “kerb” (curb) and “gaol” (jail), but that was about it. He could have quashed such nonsense like the letter “C” (totally redundant as long as we have K and S around); really simplified vowel sounds by standardizing them as single letters and creating strong and defined diphthongs and, finally, getting rid of those stupid silent vowels, mostly “E”, that like to creep at the end of words after a consonant and change the pronunciation of the internal vowel.

So, again, come on. “Maik” is a much more sensible spelling than “make,” which would be two syllables in most other languages.

Speaking of “syllables,” what’s with those double letters? In Spanish, two L’s together makes sense because they are pronounced differently — “Lavas,” meaning you wash, is pronounced just like that: “lavas.” But “llaves,” meaning keys, is pronounced “ya-vays.”

Well, unless you’re from Argentina, in which case it becomes “sha-vays,” but the less said about that the better.

But it gets really weird because American English prefers things like “traveler,” while British English insists on “traveller.” Or what about “judgment” vs. “judgement?” (Hint: Sorry, Brits. You’re wrong. It does not need that second “e”. Webster was right.)

Ben Franklin had tried to simplify spelling before Webster, proposing a new alphabet, but that never caught on. Then again, some of the Founders actually proposed making the official language of the new nation Hebrew instead of English.

Or maybe they were actually going to go for German. Who knows?

In any case… English is the bastard child of Anglo-Saxon, Danish, French, Latin, German, Celtic, and (in latter days) borrowings from every country and culture we’ve managed to touch. As such, our spelling is a total hodgepodge and a hot mess, and it’s probably never going to get fixed.

On the other hand, a couple hundred years from now, everyone may speak Emoji, which would be a weird full circle back around from Egyptian hieroglyphics, where everyone knows what the little pictures mean even if they pronounce them in their own language.

Honestly, I’m not sure whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing.

Talky Tuesday: English, do you speak it, MoFo?

Actually, the real question should be, “English, do you only speak it,” because that seems to be a huge problem with people for whom English is their first language. Particularly in America, they never bother to learn a second, and dog forbid that the average American would attempt a third.

At least Canadians have a cultural and political reason to also learn French, or at least be able to ask directions and order from menus in that language — but listen to a Canadian try to pronounce words in Spanish sometime if you want a laugh.

Oh — not all parts of America are immune to second languages, and if you live in a big melting pot city with a predominant non-Anglo cultural group, you are much more likely to be at least somewhat fluent in that language.

In Southern California, that means Spanish, which also means that I’ve heard Canadians ask for, with a straight face, “Some naa-chose and the fadge-eetas.”

Australians barely speak English, at least according to the Brits — and never mistake the latter for the former unless you want to get the look of death and have a strongly worded letter sent to the Daily Mail deriding the total lack of education of Americans. (I did that once, and I think I actually did it to Emma Thompson, whom I adore, at a charity event. Oops. Lame excuse: I was dating an Aussie at the time, and they did sound alike.)

Brits may know some words in other languages, but they make no pretense of even trying to pronounce them right. Or maybe they do, but they’re just stuck in the past.

There’s still a lot of debate over whether the way they pronounce “Don Quixote” — as “Daan Keyshot” instead of “Doan Key-ho-tay” — actually matches the way that people of Cervantes’ time would have said it.

Then again, that’s Castillian, and as most Hispanics in the Americas (except Argentina) would tell you that Spaniards can’t speak proper Spanish. Just like any American will tell you that Brits can’t speak (or spell) proper English, while the Canadians remain politely quiet because they’re stuck in a limbo between the two.

That is, they spell like Brits but sound (mostly) like Americans from the U.S. (Remember: Canadians — and Mexicans — are Americans, too.)

But this brings me back to the original question: Why is it, particularly in modern times, that most native English speakers do not know at least one other language, if not multiple languages?

On the one hand, maybe there’s no need, because English is the most spoken language in the world. However, it barely edges out Mandarin, and when it comes to native speakers, it falls to fourth place, after Mandarin, Spanish, and Hindi.

It’s all those other people who speak English as a second language that keep us in first place, but when it comes to total speakers, we’re only ahead by about 15 million out of over 1.1 billion for each of English and Mandarin.

Coming in behind Hindi is French, but the interesting thing here is that it has far more non-native speakers (203 million) than native speakers (only 77 million). This is largely due to colonial expansion, which brought the language to the Americas, Asia, and Africa.

I think a lot of people don’t realize this, but France looked to the south to colonize, and so left its fingerprints all over the second-largest continent. To this day, French and various native dialects are still the official languages in many African countries.

The influences in Canada and Louisiana are obvious, and it was the Vietnamese finally kicking out the French in 1954 that led to the involvement of the U.S. in its second-longest war.

Of course, dating back to after their Revolution, French became the language of diplomacy for one simple reason: The revolutionaries, who were actually quite conservative reactionaries, pulled a George Orwell and rewrote the dictionary with the idea that any word in the language could have exactly one meaning only.

Great for lawyers and diplomats. Shit for poets and artists.

But… once upon a time, educated people learned their own language and French. But there was more. Part of the curriculum included Greek and Latin, and this was the case in British schools until fairly recently and American schools until… I’m not sure, really, but I’m guessing sometime around or just after WW II.

However, it is still taught in some schools, surprisingly, particularly private Catholic schools, not surprisingly. Hey — they could always overturn part of Vatican II someday and go back to Mass in 100% Latin.

But go read Edgar Allan Poe, for example. He was just your average artistic drunk from Baltimore who died at forty — quite possibly the victim of a voter fraud scheme — but he frequently led off his stories with quotes from the original Latin, Greek, or French.

James A. Garfield, whose major claim to fame is as the second U.S. President to be assassinated, could write in Greek and Latin at the same time with both hands. I bet that party trick got all the ladies. Or not.

But the emphasis on Greek and Latin was so that people could read the classics — Homer, the Greek and Roman Playwrights, and the Roman histories — in the original, not to mention a lot of the New Testament in the language it was written in.

LOL — how many many people think it was written in English by King James? Nope. Hebrew and a little Aramaic for the O.T., and Greek for the N.T., mostly, although the Gospels were possibly based on an Aramaic source.

It was nearly 1,400 years later that the whole thing (as opposed to just various books) wound up being translated into English for the first time — well before the King James Version.

Meanwhile, once upon a time in America (and Britain and anywhere else with mostly native English speakers) learning a second and even third language was the norm, not the exception.

And for the rest of the world that must do business with this English-speaking cultural empire, it’s a requirement, really. That’s why you’ll wind up talking to so many call center operators with allegedly American names but that tell-tale hint of a beautiful Indian accent that makes English just sound so much nicer.

Call center dudes (and you’re mostly all dudes): Kudos! You speak my native language better than I do. Plus, if I actually bother to ask because I’m truly interested, you engage in wonderful conversations.

But as far as native English speakers, what changed, and why have Americans in particular become so averse to even taking the time to learn another language?

One big reason, probably, is that foreign languages, like the arts, have gradually been bled out of American education. I was probably among the last cohorts who got the options, so that for my entire secondary education, I was tracked into one of the big three.

I was lucky enough to be put into Spanish from the start. I had other friends who got stuck into German and French and didn’t make it past a year, and having tried to learn German and French later, I can see why.

The former has impossibly difficult declensions and the latter is impossible to understand because vowels and terminal consonants just get eaten and obscured.

I think I remember my older half-brother telling me that when he came into school, a decade before me, the choices also included things like Russian, Japanese, Greek, and Hebrew. Or something. But much more than Europe’s Top Three.

And yes, I’ve tried all four of those, and Hindi, and just… no. Russian grammar makes German look simple, Japanese has way too many writing systems, Greek… okay, I actually kind of almost made sense out of Greek. However, Hebrew. like Arabic, which build words by taking a stem, sticking it in the middle of prefixes and suffixes, and then dumping the vowels just didn’t work for me. Sorry, y’all!

But I got Spanish, so I ran with it through all the possible five years, then took a year of German after Spanish ran out in my senior year, and a semester of German in college and… dumped German, stuck with Spanish.

However, look at the subtext in all the above. I’ve dipped my toes into a metric fuckton of non-English languages, including ones not mentioned above: Norwegian, Italian, Gaelic, Hindi, Old English, Hawai’ian, Korean, and Sanskrit.

A lot of them have been way too difficult and easily abandoned, but here’s the point: I tried. And The English-speaking world does not, and the only conclusion I can come to is that it’s because of some sort of fear.

I could easily try to blame it on imperialism, colonization, and the inherited arrogance of the British upper class before WW II (“We’re wealthy and white, so we’re just better than you are”), but I don’t think that’s the cause in the long run, and not in the U.S.

However, I think that a lot of native English speakers are just afraid of words and grammar — especially ones that don’t belong to their language. That fear is kind of ridiculous if you think about it, though. Just look at English spelling. It makes no sense at all.

Or let me rephrase that: “Inglish speling maiks no sins at al.”

You probably understood that perfectly, and it’s what a language like Spanish does. If you know how to say a word in Spanish, you should be able to spell it. I say “should” because they silent H and the similarity of how B and V are pronounced does screw with native speakers, so I have seen written errors like “asta la vista” (instead of “hasta”) and spelling the word for cow as “baca” instead of “vaca.”

I’ll get to how English spelling got so messy while still being less of a mess than it was in a future post. But getting back to the concept of fear keeping English speakers from learning another language, I’ve had firsthand experience of this in my role as a playwright.

For the stage, I tend to write about historical subjects or real-life characters. Ironically, the only full-length play of mine based on an entirely made-up story is also the only one to ever almost make it to production only to be canceled at the last minute — twice.

The second time was because we had been scheduled to open two weeks after the COVID lockdown began in 2020. I’m convinced that the play is cursed.

But… writing about real people often involves other languages. For example, my play Bill & Joan, about that time in Mexico City in 1951 that William S. Burroughs shot and killed his wife at a cocktail party, is built on a flashback structure with the modern-day story taking place as he’s interrogated by two cops.

That would be two Mexico City cops, so there’s a lot of Spanish dialogue. Of course, I only used it when I wanted it to appear that the Burroughs character didn’t understand what they were saying but also knowing that there was a good chance that a lot of my audience might know exactly what they were saying.

In every developmental reading I had of the play over a long, long time, whenever a non-bilingual native English speaker hit one of those lines, there was no predicting what would come out of their mouth, but it was frequently at about the level of those Canadians ordering Mexican food.

Another play, Strange Fruit, deals with a bunch of characters throughout the 20th Century, and because of those people and locations, there are lines in Yiddish, Hebrew, Russian, French, Chinese, and probably a few others.

In these cases, it’s not quite as extensive, but I’d see the same result in readings — except with the Yiddish, for some reason, except that in modern America, even among the goyim, Yiddish expressions have become such a lingua franca of comedy that they don’t appear to be foreign.

Of course, I’m writing them in the Latin alphabet, not the original, so that makes a difference.

One writer/actor I worked with a lot (who is, sadly, no longer with us) was a very interesting case because, despite being of Hispanic origin, he didn’t speak a word of Spanish because he was of that generation who was raised by a generation of immigrants from Mexico who wanted their kids to blend in and succeed.

The Sleepy Lagoon Murder, the Zoot Suit Riots, and a lot of anti-Mexican racism at the time probably had a lot to do with his parents wanting the kids to seem as non-Hispanic as possible. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they had tried to pass as Italian.

It was a long-running joke between us, in fact, that the tall, very white, Irish-Scandinavian dude spoke Spanish and he didn’t.

But it wasn’t even a matter of he never bothered to learn. He was never even allowed. And any time he was reading a script of mine that even had so much as a single non-English word in it, he wouldn’t even try to pronounce it or even approximate it.

Literal gibberish would come out of his mouth like his tongue had hit a speedbump that disengaged his brain.

And I think that’s how a lot of American English-only speakers react to a foreign language. It’s the old knee-jerk, “Oh, I can never learn that. It’s hard!”

But I can guarantee you this: With that mindset, you never would have learned English as a second language no matter what you started from. And how did you learn English in the first place?

Trial and error and being immersed in it, and it’s the same damn thing with any other language, no matter how young or old you are when you start.

For maybe your first five years of life, you only knew simple words and made a lot of mistakes and probably didn’t even know how to write or spell yet. But, over the thirteen years after that, you got pretty damn fluent. Hell, you were pretty damn fluent before you got out of grade school.

Judging by internet comments, however, a frightening majority of native English speakers never learned to spell. But, again, our language is not at all easy to spell.

That’s why I’m glad I learned it first. I would have given up if I’d tried to learn it second, no matter how young I was when I started.

What second language would you like to learn? Maybe it’s something from your background — what was spoken where one or more of your ancestors came from. Maybe it’s from a culture you admire — French cuisine, Japanese Manga, Korean cinema, Egyptian art, IKEA furniture…

But pick one and give it a try. There are plenty of online resources. And if the first one doesn’t stick, try another. And another. And another. And, who knows? Bottom line is that learning a new language is a lot easier than you think it is.

You just have to stop thinking that it’s not.

Talky Tuesday: Careful where you stick your ‘but’

Conjunction junction, what’s your function… this is a refrain many of us might know from Schoolhouse Rock, but the important conjunction here is “But.”

And is the conjunction that puts words together: “This and that.” Or is the one that allows both options: “This or that.”

Then there’s but, which pretty much excludes whatever comes after it.

You’re probably already jumping ahead to a common sort of phrase it appears in, but let’s hold back for a moment.

“I like pasta and sushi,” she said. So what’s the function of that sentence? Inclusion, pure and simple.

How about this one? “I’ll take pasta or sushi.” Both options are acceptable although, while it’s not clear whether the speaker is making the choice or only responding to the options given by someone else, there’s no judgement.

Finally, “I like pasta but not sushi.” This is basically a refusal, whoever was given the choices. The speaker reads a menu to make their own choice, picks pasta, done. Or… the speaker’s date asks what they want, and the reply is pasta, but not sushi — which could be a really big dismissal of what the date likes, intentional or not.

However, this conjunction gets a lot more troublesome in other contexts, as we’ll see in a moment. First, let’s look at the others.

“And” and “Or” are inclusive, always.

“Do you want to watch some BBC, and then Netflix?” Boom. Both. Done.

And “Or” isn’t as inclusive, but not dismissive. “Would you rather watch BBC or Netflix?”

“I don’t have a subscription to Netflix, so BBC?” (or vice versa) or even “I don’t like (BBC/Netflix), so the other?”

When we get to but, there’s a bit of a problem. Any invocation of “but” requires a condition to go with it. You cannot just say, “I like A, but not B.” Even though that B comes with a not, that “not” means nothing without a qualifier.

And when the construction that comes before “but” is in the form of “I’m not a (blank)…” then you really need to think long and hard about what the hell you’re saying.

As in things like, “I’m not racist, but…” Guarantee you that the next words out of your mouth are going to be 100% racist.

And stick any other –ist or –ic in there, and you’re done.

“I’m not homophobic, but I wish that gay men weren’t so swishy.”

“I’m not misogynistic, but why are women so pushy?”

“I’m not racist, but why don’t Mexicans speak English?”

And on and on and on.

Well, I hope you get the idea by now.

Any phrase that begins with “I’m not (X) but (Y) immediately tells the rest of us that you are absolutely X, and you absolutely believe that whatever bullshit you spew in Y is true.

Period, end of quote.

So, especially in these trying times, if you ever try to say, “I’m not X, but…” stop right there before you open your mouth, think about what you were going to say, then go ask a smarter friend to bail your ass out before you go full-on stupid.

And… happy almost end of (social) summer, and or happy surviving the really weird times we’re still going through right now.

Theatre Thursday: Life is a…

One of the earliest things I can remember, oddly enough, is the soundtrack to the musical “Cabaret,” specifically the title track as sung by Liza Minelli, but also the opening number, “Wilkommen,” which may have inspired my love for languages, and the song “Money,” which probably introduced me to the idea that you could have two different melodies going on at the same time. Ironically, I would not see the entire movie in a theater until I was in a film class in college despite home video and all that, but this was probably for the best. It’s really something that needs to be seen on the big screen first. (And yes, this was also the film that basically screamed at me “Being bisexual is a thing!”)

But… prior to all of that, this was probably the show that infested my baby brain with the idea of Musical Theater Is Amazing, and made me want to perform. And the title tune, of course, features the very famous line “Life is a cabaret.” Well… duh.

Life is a performance. Life is art. Life is dance. Life is creation. If you don’t think that it is, then you aren’t living life. You’re just going through the motions. But if you take charge of your own movements and emotions, and then take every step in your day as if you’re onstage and entertaining the masses, then you are going to have a really good time. And this is what taking those early lessons to heart and going on to make life a performance has taught me. You can either be the show or the audience. But being the audience is boring as hell.

Life sure as hell is a cabaret, ol’ chum. Life is performance. Life without performance is not life at all. So consider this when you go into the muggle world (if you must), but I know that you know it if you’re an actor, singer, artist, writer, performer, whatever. It’s what Saint Shakespeare told us. All the world’s a stage. And we are but mere players on it. But play we must, and play we should and shall, because in taking up our roles we can make this planet a better place.

The only people who don’t play are the ones who are afraid of life and living. And they avoid playing by lying and not being themselves and blaming everyone else. Improv is about “Yes, and?” Guess what? The people who aren’t improving themselves are all about, “No, not.”

Nothing will stop the fun faster than “No, not.” Nothing will make the fun more amazing than “Yes, and?” So choose wisely. But keep in mind: Life is a cabaret, old chum. Life is a cabaret.

Talky Tuesday: Words you might be using incorrectly

If you want to communicate effectively, and especially if you want to have credibility whether you’re speaking or writing, it’s important to use words correctly. Yet I hear certain words misused all the time, even by otherwise well-educated people.

Note that I’m not talking about often mangled phrases, like “for all intensive purposes” instead of the proper “for all intents and purposes,” or mixing up words like “affect” and “effect.” These are single words that are frequently used improperly.

Cliché

We probably all know that “cliché” means something that has been used in art or literature so often that it has become bland and predictable, and so should be avoided. Movies are full of them — the horror movie villain who isn’t really dead after they seem to have been killed, the henchmen who are terrible shots, the witty comment as the hero dispatches a goon.

We also get these in live theater, though. The so-called “11 o’clock number” comes from the world of Broadway musicals, when the shows used to start at 8:30. This was the “knock ‘em dead before the finale” show-stopper of a song that usually highlighted the vocal talents of the lead, manipulated emotions, and was catchy as hell. Think Memory from Cats, the titular Cabaret, or Rose’s Turn from Gypsy. Also note that nowadays, it’s more likely to be the 10 o’clock number.

Of course, in the latter case, the cliché isn’t so much a specific thing as it is a stylistic conceit.

In literature, clichés can refer to either hackneyed turns of phrase — “I need that like a hole in the head” — or plot elements that have been pounded to death. Young adult literature in particular, from Harry Potter to The Hunger Games via Twilight and Maze Runner abound with them, although, to be fair, they’re more forgivable in YA only because their audience may not have met them yet.

All that said, then, how does the word “cliché” itself get misused? Simple. It’s a noun, and never an adjective. So you’re safe if you say “that’s a cliché.” Not so much if you try to describe something as “that’s so cliché.” In that case, you want the word “clichéd.”

Comprise

This is a word that tends to get used backwards. Hint: If you follow it with a preposition and a list, then you’re using it wrong. Nothing is ever “comprised of” anything else. In that case, you’d be looking for “composed of.”

The “mp” combination in English is interesting because it is one of the ways in which the language has a lot in common with Spanish, and it comes from compound words that would otherwise create the consonant combination “np.” Hell, it even shows up in “compound!” A good Spanish example of this is the word “compartir,” which is very common in social media, because it means “to share.” The constituent words are “con” and “partir.” The former is a preposition that means “with.” The latter is a verb that means “to split.” So, when you share, you split something with someone else: con + partir, but that “np” isn’t liked, so we get “compartir.”

Now to get to the meaning of “comprise,” we have to go back to Middle English via Middle French, where the word “prise” meant to hold or grasp, so the combo basically means “to hold with.” Your preposition is in the phrase, so all you need to add are the nouns.

So… The U.S. comprises fifty states or the U.S. is composed of fifty states.

Further

This word is often confused and misused with “farther.” The two are very similar, but I’ll give you a simple way to remember the difference, making this a very short entry. “Further” is metaphorical, while “farther” is literal. The latter refers only to physical distance, while the former refers to abstract difference.

“Dallas is farther from Boston than Chicago.”

“He managed to walk farther than his brothers that day.”

“She ran farther in the competition than any other runner.”

Those are the literal versions. As for the abstract or figurative:

“He could extend the metaphor no further.”

“They wouldn’t accept any further questions.”

“Their research proved they had no further to go.”

The simple mnemonic to remember it by is this: To create physical distance, you have to go away, and farther has an “a” in it. Yeah, simple and cheesy, but it works.

Ironic

Sorry, but Alanis Morissette is just plain wrong no matter how popular her song was. Irony is not some weird coincidence that happens. For example, slamming the keyboard lid on your hand and breaking it right before your big piano recital is not ironic. Neither is someone saying something during that whole “speak now or forever hold your piece” moment at the wedding.

There are three forms of Irony. First is when what you say is the opposite of what you mean. For example, someone gives you rollerblades for your birthday but you have no legs. That part isn’t ironic, but if you open the gift and announce, “Oh boy, just what I wanted,” then you’re being ironic.

Situational irony is when the intended results of something turn out to be the opposite of what was expected. For example, a husband surprises his wife with an anniversary trip to Paris because she’s always talking about the city, but the real reason she’s seemed so obsessed is because she’s always hated the place, so he’s given her the worst gift ever.

The third form is dramatic irony, and if you’ve ever heard of O. Henry, particularly his short story The Gift of The Magi, then you know this one. A man sells his expensive watch to buy some combs for his wife’s hair. Meanwhile, she cuts off her hair and sells it to buy a fob for his watch. Bang! Double irony. This can also happen when the viewers or readers know something that the characters do not.

Less

If you’re a grammar nerd like me, then every time you see that “15 items or less” sign in the store, your butt probably clenches and you have to resist the urge to tell the blameless clerk why it’s wrong. The difference between “less” and “fewer” is really simple.

“Fewer” refers only to countable nouns, while “less” refers to uncountable nouns. And if that seems all super-grammar unintelligible, it’s not, because the words mean what they say. Countable nouns are objects that can actually be counted: one apple, two oranges, three ducks, etc. Uncountable nouns are those that can’t be counted: sugar, coffee, tea, etc.

Note, though, that uncountables can become countable when they are quantized: a cup of coffee, a tablespoon of sugar, a glass of tea, and so on.

But here’s the rule. If you can count them, then you want to say “fewer.” If you can’t, then it’s “less.” “I want fewer apples.” “I want less sugar.” But also note: “I need fewer pounds of sugar,” since pounds are countable.

I don’t have a great mnemonic for this one, although maybe remembering that the “F” in fewer is in “First,” a counting number, might do the trick. And the great compounder to this one is that the term “more” refers to both countable and uncountable nouns: More apples, more tea.

Yeah, I never said that English made any sense.

Whom

This one is not as hard as it might seem, and in order to get it right all you have to do is rephrase the sentence in your head. For example: “To ??? should I send the gift?” Make it not a question, and it becomes “I send the gift to him/her/them.” And the clue comes in the masculine and plural pronouns. They end in “m” and so does “whom,” so if the rephrase would use him or them, then the other way around would use “whom.”

Most of the time, you’ll use “whom” after a preposition, although not always. For example, a question involving verbs without prepositions gets tricky. If someone asked you which person you believed, would it be “who” or “whom?”

Turn it around and you get, “I believe them,” ergo, “Whom do you believe?” (The implied but omitted preposition is “in.”)

Of course, this also puts the lie to the lyrics of several songs. But no one ever said that lyricists have to be grammarians. Poets do get to slide a bit, after all, no matter the language they write in.

 

Talkie Tuesday: More fun with British vs. American English, Part 2

At the end of the first half, the score was America, 9 and Britain, 2. Let’s cheer the teams back onto the field as we continue the list and find out who wins. If you missed the first half, you can catch it here.

  1. Demister (car) vs. defroster

It’s in your car. It’s designed to clear up your back window on particularly damp, humid mornings when the glass is fogged by condensation. I suppose that it could theoretically be used to remove frost and ice, but most people facing icy circumstances will use a scraper first, instead.

Nope. What we’re generally dealing with here is a wet, foggy window that you can’t see through.

Correctness Verdict: The point goes to Britain, for actually using the right term. 9-3.

  1. Drinks driving vs. drunk driving

You shouldn’t do this no matter what you call it, but the first one sounds like an awkard sentence made up of two verbs: “He drinks driving.” The second is a nice, simple adjective and verb combo.

Correctness Verdict: America, for not have an utterly stupid sounding expression. 10-3.

  1. Earth vs. ground (electricity)

This is the third wire that provides a method for your electrical circuits to not kill you by directing overload and the like down into the ground where it will dissipate. Yes, technically the ground is the Earth, but the problem with using “earth a circuit” as a term is that it turns the planet into a verb, which is unnecessary since you can just ground a circuit instead.

Correctness Verdict: America, because planets should not be verbs. 11-3.

  1. Fairy-cake vs. cupcake

Although fairy cakes are a little bit smaller than their American counterparts and have less frosting, it’s another case of the fanciful versus the practical.

I mean, what could a fairy cake be? A sheet cake decorated with fairies? A bar of soap made by the same company that made Fairy washing-up liquid? (That’s dish soap in the U.S., which should be another point to the U.S. because dish soap is specific.)

Fairy cake conjures up those abominable flavors of American ice cream, like birthday cake or unicorn vomit or whatever they call that one — conflagrations of unnatural pinks and purples with far too many sprinkles, way too much sugar, and a base of vanilla fighting valiantly against it all.

Meanwhile, a cupcake is a cake small enough to have been baked in a cup. Simple. Straight-forward. Practical. You know what it is immediately even if you’ve never seen one.

Correctness Verdict: America, for not being twee about it. 12-3.

  1. Fancy dress vs. costume party

I’m sure that this one has caused much an embarrassment on either side of the pond. If you’re invited to a fancy dress party in the UK, don’t show up in black tie and tails. Well, I mean, you could and claim that you came as James Bond, but you’d still feel awkward.

Of course, there have probably been people who were invited to something fancy dress in the U.S. and appeared decked out as Peter Pan only to find a sea of black tie and tails. Now, we don’t tend to use the term fancy dress here all that often — generally, we’d say black tie if we meant it — but fancy dress would never mean the equivalent of Halloween party or furry convention.

Correctness Verdict: I’m calling this one a tie, because you can never be overdressed, even at a costume party, and American English doesn’t lead to the error. 12-3.

  1. Flyover vs. overpass

These are things you see on the freeway or highway (both U.S.) or the motorway (UK), and they are ramps designed to enter or exit by going up and over what I’ll collectively refer to now as the roadway. They have a lot to do with how that roadway was built, with overpasses or flyovers being much more common between cities and underpasses (or… flyunders?) more common within cities.

That’s because the intercity/interstate routes were quite frequently laid down through undeveloped land with long, straight stretches, so it was just easy to keep the whole thing at grade — meaning ground level — then build a bridge over it where necessary to join it to local roads or create interchanges with other major arteries.

Meanwhile, within cities, there were already existing streets, so the roadways had to be elevated to pass over them, with ramps going down to street level to provide entrances and exits.

Again, this is a case of British English being unnecessarily obtuse. They could have called it a drive-over, although it’s probably fortunate that they didn’t call them pass-overs instead. But no. They had to suddenly mock the fact that we still don’t have flying cars.

Correctness Verdict: Clearly America. It passes over the road. Simple. 13-3.

  1. Greaseproof paper vs. wax paper

Another kitchen staple and it’s actually for the purpose that the British word states on the tin. Yes, it does this by being coated with a thin layer of wax on both sides and it’s great for keeping things from sticking or keeping oil from leaking through onto the cookie sheet. But people who don’t cook or bake a lot might wonder why it should even be a staple in their kitchen drawer.

Still, the American term is misleading, since it’s paper coated with wax and not paper made out of wax. Some people do say “waxed paper,” but they’re actually wrong. And remember: wax paper is mostly used for putting greasy things on when they come out of the fryer or oven, or separating layers of sticky things like fudge.

You shouldn’t put it in the oven because it will smoke. For that, they make parchment paper, which is not for writing on.

Correctness Verdict: Point to Britain here, despite the term using more syllables. 13-4.

  1. Hen (stag) night vs. bachelorette (bachelor) party

No matter what you call it, it used to be an excuse for that final night of debauchery before locking oneself into presumed monogamy. Of course, the complexion of both has changed. A lot.

Once upon a time, the guys’ version usually involved lots of booze, strippers, perhaps a pub crawl, and either the future groom or best man or both having a go at one or more of the strippers, either separately or collectively.

What happened at the bachelor party was like what happens in Vegas. It stays in Vegas.

Meanwhile, back in those days, bachelorette parties were sort of like baby showers, but for the bride, with her, the bridesmaids, and friends gathering to give the bride gifts — some serious, and some of them raunchy gags — along with playing various slightly risqué party games. There might even occasionally be a male stripper, although it would be far more likely for an unmarried bridesmaid to have her shot at him instead of the bride-to-be.

Present day? At least in America, a bachelor party is just as likely to involve an evening of laser tag or an escape room, no strippers, and a lot more decorum. Bachelorette parties, though, frequently go off the hook, with the popular pre-COVID version being the whole party renting a limo, taking over a popular local gay club, and then getting bombed and groping all the cute men.

No, I’m not making that up.

Meanwhile, stag nights in the UK seem to remain the piss-ups that they’ve always been with epic pub crawls that often end in inappropriate behavior among the boys — who leave video evidence online — which is even more incriminating if they take the party to Magaluf for the weekend.

Hen parties are likewise, apparently. The women are just wise enough to not post it all on TikTok.

Correctness Verdict: Point to America for not using animal terms that imply strength vs. weakness. 14-4.

  1. Hoarding vs. billboard

Once upon a time, a “bill” was something put on a wall to advertise something — hence a common admonition seen in places like temporary walls around construction sites: “Post no bills.”

Eventually, advertising got bigger and paid for, and so those bills got put up on big boards. These were attached to walls, building marquees, or freestanding frames. In the modern day, we even have electronic billboards that can change their message every minute or two.

Technically, a British hoarding is the temporary fence put around a construction site, but that term is also unique to the UK. Also note, temporary vs. permanent. In the U.S., billboards, particularly the large ones on rooftops or their own poles, are permanent, with the ads rotating in and out on a regular basis.

Correctness Verdict: A tie, mainly because while there are connections between the two, they really aren’t the same things. 14-4.

  1. Hob vs. stovetop

To Americans, British kitchens are just weird. For one thing, what is your washing machine doing in there? Okay, once upon a time in New York, the bathtub was in the kitchen as well, but that was New York, and it was always weird.

To us, a stovetop is fully covered and has multiple burners, usually four, and sometimes a warmer or covered griddle in the middle. Each burner has a wrought iron metal trivet that holds pots and pans just above the heat source, and each burner is powered either by an electrical coil or a gas flame.

To us, if we even think about it, the gas flame comes from a hob, or nozzle, but it’s a mostly hidden part of the stovetop, and each stovetop has more than one.

A hob just takes a part of the whole but doesn’t really express the entire idea.

Correctness Verdict: America, hands down. You can only light a hob. You can cook on a stove. 15-4.

  1. Hundreds and thousands vs. jimmies or sprinkles

These are the colorful things that you sprinkle on ice cream or sundaes or the like, and note that even in America there are multiple terms, with jimmies being less common and regional. (I picked it up from my east coast relatives. Otherwise, it’s rare where I live in California.)

But if we go with sprinkles, that’s pretty damn accurate. Get your frozen treat, grab that shaker, and sprinkle away.

Meanwhile, what does “hundreds and thousands” even mean, especially given that you’re nowhere near likely to shake that many of them out without burying your ice cream in molded sugar bits?

Correctness Verdict: America, as Britain once again goes for the fancifully impractical term. 16-4.

  1. Ladybird vs. ladybug

 This one just demonstrates a real lack of biological knowledge on one side of the Pond. Yes, both birds and a lot of bugs have wings and legs, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end.

Birds have two legs, warm blood, and feathers. Bugs have six legs, a not at all warm oxygenated goop that doesn’t use veins or arteries to circulate, and no feathers. Not to mention that birds eat bugs.

Even the smallest of birds, the hummingbird, is like a Lear jet next to a typical ladybug.

Of course, there are religious reasons that the ladybug got this very inappropriate name. As with many things over there that have “Lady” in the name, it’s a reference to the Virgin Mary, because the red color of the ladybug’s shell resembled the red cloak with which Mary was often depicted in medieval art, and the European variety tended to have seven spots on its shell, seven being a mystic number.

It is possible that they didn’t use the term “ladybug” in the UK because it’s close to the term “bugger,” but they could have just as easily gone with the original name for it, which was Our Lady’s Beetle.

Meanwhile, in the U.S., if you say “Ladybird,” people are going to think of either a former First Lady, Hank Hill’s dog, or a recent award-winning movie.

Correctness Verdict: America, for keeping religion out of entomology.

Final score, 17-4, America, with two ties.

Talkie Tuesday: More fun with British vs. American English, Part 1

While I have many friends throughout the British Commonwealth (although, apparently, not a drop of British blood according to DNA tests but despite genealogy), it always amuses me how quaint and weird British English sometimes sounds.

I love collecting comparisons of British and American expressions in order to look at their differences, and which language focuses on what. For example, in general I find that British English tends to focus on the form of something, while American English focuses on the function. That’s not always the case, though.

For this round, I’ve got 23 word pairs, and I’m going to take a look at which one is really the more accurate and pertinent of the two. Here we go. In each pair, British appears first and American second.

  1. Sun cream vs. sunscreen

This is a perfect example of form vs. function. “Sun cream” zeroes right in on the original form of what used to be called sun-tan lotion in the U.S. When it first came out, it actually wasn’t even supposed to protect you from UV rays, but rather make sure that they baked you to an even tone of skin cancer.

The first sunscreens also came in the familiar “squeeze it out of a bottle and rub it all over yourself” form, hence the obvious form designation of cream, since the stuff was generally white and about the consistency of clotted cream or whole milk.

But then along came aerosol sunscreens, zinc oxide and titanium dioxide, and different classes of sunscreens — chemical absorbers and physical blockers. So the term “cream” really doesn’t apply to them anymore, especially not if you’re spritzing them all over yourself like hairspray.

Correctness Verdict: American English takes the point. 1-0.

  1. Salad cream vs. salad dressing

Again, another case of British English going right for the color and form of the originals, since many early salad dressings were based on mayonnaise and, in fact, in many places mayonnaise itself is referred to as just salad dressing and appears in the same aisle in stores.

But… what salad cream ignores as a term is, again, all of the many varieties of dressing that don’t revolve around cream or dairy at all. Without dairy, you couldn’t have ranch or bleu cheese or thousand island or any kind of creamy or yoghurt-based dressing.

On the other hand, there are so many other dressings that don’t contain dairy that the ones that fell out of cows only make up a tiny chunk. You’ve got Italian, Caesar, balsamic vinaigrette, Russian, French, honey mustard, roasted garlic, lemon herb, raspberry- and  honey-Dijon vinaigrette, red wine vinaigrette, sesame ginger, and  olive oil which is (surprise) the real vinaigrette. That “vin” doesn’t come from vinegar, but from vino or vine.

But… having run down the menu, it’s kind of obvious. Most salad dressings have nothing to do with cream, and since they cover up the leafy bits when used, well, I think you can guess who wins here.

Correctness Verdict: American English takes the point, bringing the score to 2-0.

  1. Allen key vs. Allen wrench

If you’ve ever put together anything from IKEA, or from any flatpack, really, then you’ve met this little L-shaped bugger. Usually no longer on one side than your pinky and no longer on the other than the last joint of your thumb, this versatile tool has one job: Screwing in bolts and the like that have hexagonal indentations in their heads.

The form factor of the thing makes it really easy to use. Stick short end into opening, turn long end until bolt is screwed totally in, done. Repeat four hundred times before you realize that you stuck the left side of the legs on the right side of the desk. Throw instructions at wall and scream.

Now, in this case, if we look at the words they break down like this. A key opens or closes something, while a wrench grabs and turns something. And while this little tool technically does grab and turn things, it doesn’t actually act all that wrench-like because you can’t clamp it only anything.

Correctness Verdict: British English for the win, and the score is now 2-1.

  1. Anticlockwise vs. counterclockwise

This one is simple to understand — either something goes around the way that the hands on a clock do, turning from left to right, or it goes the other way around. But what to call that other way?

“Anticlockwise” actually seems to have some kind of hidden political agenda to it — “Down with Big Time!” But “counterclockwise” seems a lot more neutral and just implies going in the opposite direction to the norm. Compare to a musical term like counterpoint. They didn’t call it antipoint for a reason.

And let’s not get started on “widdershins,” which neither language has decided to claim.

Correctness Verdict: American English scores, and that score is now 3-1.

  1. Baking tray vs. cookie sheet

 British English doesn’t even call cookies by the right name, instead referring to them as biscuits. Meanwhile, American biscuits are pretty much scones in the UK. And I have no idea what they actually call American cookies in Britain, but the word had better be “delicious.”

There are pretty much only three things Americans will ever cook on what the Brits call a baking sheet: Cookies, biscuits, or croissants. Okay, there’s the occasional pizza, but let’s not muddy the definition with that, especially since pizza pans are also a thing if we invest enough in our kitchen stuff.

Now since the aforementioned food items (sans pizza) all fall into the basic family of floury treats that either have a lot of butter in them or will get a lot of butter put on them, they’re really the same family of things: Buttery treats.

So we can give them the overall heading of “cookie like objects” and forget the idea that we ever really bake anything else on those sheets.

Correctness Verdict: American English scores again, making it 4-1.

  1. Block of flats vs. apartment building

 Another really baffling British term: flat to mean apartment. So, okay… and what’s “flat” about it? Not a lot. The term is probably derived from a Scottish word, “flet,” which refers to a floor or story of a house. Since most apartments tend to be on one floor, they’re also literally flat, or at least that’s how they try to justify it.

As for the block part… this also makes no sense because a lot of apartment buildings are not just giant square cubes, which is what “block” implies. In the U.S., a block refers more to a street measurement, and demarks the distance, curb-to curb, between points where a road or street interrupts a sidewalk.

In the U.S., a “city block” is generally a half a mile (805 meters), while a residential block is a quarter mile (402 meters). Buildings of all sorts sit within those blocks, but none of the buildings are called blocks, ever. Because they’re buildings. Well, duh.

Correctness Verdict: American English for the self-evident score again, now 5-1.

  1. Breakdown van vs. tow truck

Now this one is just silly. “Breakdown van” sounds like something they send around with a nice mental health counselor who will talk to you at the side of the road and make it all better. They don’t have any tools and can’t fix cars, but you can sit in the back of the van and listen to soothing music or watch calming dog videos.

Meanwhile, “tow truck” is just what it says on the tin. You break down, we send out this hefty vehicle that can winch your pathetic junker up or load it onto the flatbed and whisk it away to the car hospital.

In America, for a small annual fee, you can belong to the Automobile Club (AAA) which is a sort of regional, sort of not organization that provides a butt-ton of services to its members: Free roadside service, towing, trip planning, discounts on various travel and touristy things (and not), a monthly magazine, and cool “avoid the DMV” stuff like auto registration and, now, ability to get your “real ID” (which is total horseshit, but I do digress.)

So… Tow Truck — macho roadside savior. Breakdown Van — is that what it’s called when it’s not trying to find people who haven’t paid their annual BBC license fee? Wimpy.

Correctness Verdict: American, 6-1.

  1. Candy floss vs. cotton candy

Although there were so many better names this shit could have been called — like “Dentist’s Retirement Plan” or “Hyperactivity on a Stick” or “Fluffy Diabetes,” it’s basically hot sugar water shot out through an extruder and wrapped around a cardboard pole by some teen carny who isn’t even making minimum wage because his uncle is the star of the geek and blockhead show and the kid’s mom made him take the job in order to make sure that her brother Toby doesn’t actually injure himself too badly.

A big issue here is referring to it as “cotton,” because that crop has so many nasty connotations in American history. Hell, it was pretty much the foundational product that created decades and centuries of systemic racism.

Plus cotton candy came out of carnivals and stuff like that, and for a long time these were places where only people who couldn’t be hired by “respectable society” (read: Handicapped, disabled, deformed, mentally challenged, or not white) got jobs.

On the other hand, while “candy floss” might sound like something you’d find riding up a stripper’s ass, it has another nice, built-in reminder: Don’t stick this shit in your teeth, okay? And no, I’m not going to make a cheap British dentistry joke here because, you know what?

They’ve done got their shit together on that front. Seriously.

Correctness Verdict: Brits for the win, 6-2.

  1. Cling film vs. plastic wrap

More form vs. function, but the simple answer is “Damn, do the Brits make this product just sound needy.”

[Consumer pulls cling film from box. It wraps around his arm.]

Cling Film: Da! Don’t let go, da! I need you da! PLEASE!!!!!

Consumer: Get the fuck off of me you little freak!

[Rips plastic away and bins it.]

As opposed to:

[Consumer pulls plastic wrap off the roll and stretches it over bowl, pulling it down for a tight seal.]

Plastic Wrap: (in breathy voice) Ooh… thanks, daddy.

Consumer: You’re… welcome?

Yeah, good luck getting that out of your head next time you need to wrap a cut cucumber. But remember: whether you call it cling film or plastic wrap, the thing it sticks to best is… itself.

Correctness Verdict: America is far less needy for once? 7-2.

  1. Corn flour vs. cornstarch

They’re both made from corn, and while the U.S. does have both, they’re different, whereas American cornstarch and British corn flour are the same thing. Confusing? Of course it is.

Cornstarch, as the name implies, is ground only from the endosperm of the corn kernels, so it does not contain protein, fiber, or other nutrients, just starch. Corn flour is ground from the whole kernels, plus the germ and hulls from the corn.

Cornstarch is white and silky to the touch. Corn flour can be white, yellow, or blue, depending on the source, and is a little rougher and not as finely grained.

Both can be used as thickening agents in cooking, but you’ll need to use twice as much corn flour to get the same effect. Since flour actually involves more than just the starchy part of the source grain, I think that this one is easy to score.

Correctness Verdict: America gets the point for culinary accuracy. 8-2.

  1. Current account vs. checking account

This is another one that, to American ears, just sounds weird. We generally have two kinds of regular bank accounts: checking and savings. The latter is the one that you put money into where it theoretically earns interest, but the banks pay so little nowadays that you can have tens of thousands in there and still not make more than half a buck a month.

A checking account is the day-to-day one that you write checks (UK: cheques) from, although that’s become mostly archaic, so it’s now the one attached to your Debit card. They might as well call it a debit account.

Seriously — when was the last time you even wrote a check, or saw someone under 65 write one in a store? And even if you do occasionally get paid by paper check, when was the last time you physically took it to the bank instead of deposited it via your phone?

But… calling it a current account makes no sense at all. Current what? Currently all the money you have readily available to spend? And it’s also kind of an insult to people who aren’t the best at balancing their check books, since what they think they have and what the bank says they have aren’t going to match.

Correctness Verdict: America for having a term that makes logical sense. 9-2.

And now it’s half-time! Check out the second half for rounds 12 to 23 to find out which version of English will come out victorious.

Talky Tuesday: Sick words, bro

It’s hard not to focus on all things COVID-19 lately for obvious reasons. The last year and a half have been an absolutely surreal experience, and now we have the delta variant to deal with. But, in keeping with today’s theme, I wanted to take a quick look at some words related to things like this pandemic, and explain where they came from.

Some of them are straightforward, and some took more circuitous routes. Let’s consider them in logical order.

Corona

Corona comes from the Latin word coronam, which means crown. If you’ve ever looked at the printing on a bottle of Corona beer, there’s a crown right there as the logo, and in Spanish corona is the word for crown as well. You may have heard the term “coronary artery,” They get this name because they encircle the heart, much the way a crown encircles a monarch’s head.

The corona is also a part of the Sun (well, any star). It’s the outer atmosphere of the star. Our Sun’s is usually invisible because of the glare of the star itself, but it becomes visible during a solar eclipse.

Coronaviruses as a class were given the name because the spikes on their surfaces resemble the spikes on a crown.

Virus

Virus comes from another Latin word, virus. In case you’re wondering why so many medical terms come from Latin, it’s because this was the language that physicians used for centuries in order to create terms that would be universal despite a doctor’s native language. Greek is also common due to the roots of western medicine going back to the likes of Hippocrates.

In Latin, the word can variously refer to things like poison, venom, slime, a sharp taste, or something’s pungency. The use of the word in the modern sense began in the 14th century, which was long before the invention of the microscope near the end of the 16th century. Even then, germ theory didn’t develop until the middle of the 19th century, and viruses themselves were not discovered until the 1890s.

So while the idea that “virus” was something that caused a disease may have gone back to the late Middle Ages, it was probably consider to be more like a toxic liquid in food or water, or perhaps an imbalance of the humors. Or just divine punishment, like pestilence.

Pandemic

This one is all Greek to you. It comes from two words: pan and demos. The former is the Greek prefix meaning “all.” You might recognize it from a word like “Pantheon,” with the second half coming from the Greek word theos, meaning gods. It can be a building dedicated to the gods of a particular religion, or just refer to that collection of gods in general. It can also be a building dedicated to national heroes, or a mausoleum in which they are entombed.

Another pan word is panacea, with the appendage, -akes, meaning a cure, and a panacea is supposed to cure everything — even a pandemic.

The second half of the word comes from demos, as noted, which is the Greek word referring to a village or a population, or group of people. It’s the root of the word democracy, rule by the people. However, it is not related in any way to the word demonstrate.

So a pandemic is something that comprises all of the population.

As an aside, my personal favorite pan word is Pandemonium, which was actually created on this model by John Milton for Paradise Lost. It refers to the capital of Hell — the place of all demons. I’m kind of disappointed that Dante didn’t think of it first. He only gave us the City of Dis in the sixth circle. And when it comes to religious fanfic, Dante’s is far superior. Well, qualification: his Inferno is, especially in the original Italian. Purgatorio and Paradiso are kind of boring. But still better love stories than Paradise Lost.

Pox

Despite popular misconception, this is not what Mercutio wished on the houses of Montague and Capulet before he dies in Act III of Romeo & Juliet. That would have been a plague. A pox was something different, more like a symptom, and this brings us to the first English word on the list. Pox is the plural of the old English word pocke, which referred to any kind of pustule, blister, or ulcer. The Black Plague was full of those.

Now you’re probably wondering: How does an English plural end in “X?” Simple. At one time, the plural form of words that ended in –k or –ck didn’t take an s. They changed to x. The most famous example of this is the New York borough of The Bronx. It was named for a Swedish settler, Jonas Bronck. Originally, the term was possessory: Bronck’s Land and Bronck’s River. The “x” spelling crept in, and “the” was retained although land and river were dropped to indicate that they were specific entities instead of just an abstract place name.

Pox don’t have a lot to do with corona virus, but one particular type of pox has everything to do with how we came up with the next item on our list.

Vaccine

In the 18th century, a particularly nasty viral disease was circulating: smallpox. (No, there’s not a large pox.) At best, it left its victims horribly scarred. At worst, it killed them. But there was an urban legend going around: milkmaids, who often caught the non-lethal and minor disease called cowpox (for obvious reasons), never contracted smallpox.

A physician named Edward Jenner decided to test this theory in the most ethical way possible. No, I’m kidding. He found an eight-year-old boy, James Phipps, inoculated him with gunk from a milkmaid’s pustule and then, after a while, inoculated him with smallpox.

Luckily for Jenner, the kid didn’t get sick, and so the idea of a vaccination was born. The name itself comes from part of the Latin name for the smallpox virus, Variolae vaccinae. The second word, vaccinae, is an inflected form of the Latin word for cow.

And vaccination works, kids. It doesn’t cause autism, and it’s safe. Case in point: smallpox was finally eradicated in 1979. Although, keep in mind, it could always come back, and the culprit could be climate change.

Sorry about that downer. But this is why we have to be so vigilant and serious about communicable diseases. Stay home, stay safe, and don’t forget the tip jar!

Image (CC BY-SA 3.0) courtesy of Alpha Stock Images, used unchanged. Original author, Nick Youngson.