The world is precarious nowadays: danger seems to, and in most instances actually does, surround us. As a break from the deadly and serious, here are a few threats that may bring a smile and no damage whatsoever to anything other than the English language.
For the bad-breakup crowd:
For want of an apostrophe, a boy friend was lost. Well, turned into cash, which I’m pretty sure is illegal, no matter how toxic the relationship was. Side point: How do you turncash into ca$h other than typographically? And why would you want to?
Although unemployment has risen sharply, I’m hoping no one is desperate enough to apply for this job:
Grilled man? I don’t even want to think about it.
And then there’s this placard*:
*Zero-star review from Marie-Antoinette and Thomas Cromwell.
As if we needed one more thing to worry about in 2020:
My recommendations: be kind to your ex-whatever, don’t barbecue yourself, watch the scissors, and stay off the sidewalk. Be safe!
Podding up with my son’s family in Seattle, I’ve been thinking a lot about the language that has emerged during this dire period. Some terms I love: Quarantini, anyone? I’m also very fond of pod, a repurposed word now applied to the group you’ve chosen or been stuck with as quarantine-mates. I especially like its verb forms, “podding” and “podded.” Ditto for “pandemic,” as you probably guessed from the title of this post.
But not all pandemic vocabulary is helpful. My word-alarm rings when I see something like this package label:
This bit of literary nonexcellence describes a cloth mask, and was written, I imagine, with a translation program that lost its way, if it ever had a way. I’m assuming that carry is “wear” and, because the mask was folded in half, that divide the opposite side means “unfold.” Did the manufacturer really have to explain that? Would anyone wear a folded mask with both loops hanging over the same ear? (Don’t answer that. These days, the absurd seems all too possible.) Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to deciphering anti-external will stick dust power. I am similarly stumped by wash the poison. Both must have something to do with the virus, because in 2020 everything circles back to Corona. Pun intended.
Here’s a pre-pandemic sign that caters to the anxiety and ignorance far too often attached to physical well-being:
First there’s the phrase itself. I’m not a medical professional, but isn’t all health based on what’s going on at the cellular level? Can you have a disease or condition that doesn’t involve cells? Then there’s the location of the sign, the window of a spa. No offense to the hard-working employees, but I really don’t want anyone but a doctor to mess with my cells.
One more, also pre-pandemic but more important now than ever:
This is what we all have to do to get through to the other side of our 2020 nightmare: PULL a little harder. Remember that! Also, wash away the poison once a day, and look for kindness, compassion, and duty within yourself, as far down as your cellular level.
With all that’s going on, it’s time for a little silliness. New York City sign-writers are happy to oblige, albeit unknowingly. Here’s one from a coffee shop:
The right side is blurred because of the coat-to-chalk effect, so I’ll retype the message here: “Not only was Aretha Franklin the first woman to be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, she was the first woman, period.” One question: Did Adam give her R-E-S-P-E-C-T?
Onward, to an art store:
I’m not “prude” either, but I am a grammarian, and my preference for “prudish” is not “just highly selective.”
Last, an all-too-accurate sign:
We are indeed in a “mean time.” Things will eventually improve, but in the meantime, laugh as much as you can. Then wash your hands.
This post is a challenge: Can you reword these well-meaning but misguided signs, all of which have “do” problems? One point for a grammatically correct answer, two for grammatically correct and punchy, and three for a revision that fits the first two categories and maintains some sort of verb. I’ll tell you what I came up with for each, but fair warning: my revisions are terrible. Ready? Then we’re off to the barber shop:
The original, “We do hot shave,” has to go. My attempts: “We hot shave.” I don’t think so. “We shave hot.” Nope. “We shave hotly.” Definitely no. How about “We stick hot towels on your face before we shave you”? Not unless the storefront widens considerably. (And when did shaving become a team effort?)
Onward, and not upward:
As it is now, this sign feels like a retort to someone who said, “I wish you tailored.” (“We do tailor!”) My revisions: “We tailor and do alterations” and “Tailoring and Alterations Done Here.” Way too formal, way too long. Your thoughts?
Last one:
There’s an easy fix: cut off the first line of the top sign. That earns two points, but can you go for a three-pointer?
I’ll tally everyone’s points. The reader with the highest score will win . . . well, nothing. But DO try anyway.
Every time I think a bit of rationality has invaded food ads (which occurs, I admit, never), I see a sign so loopy I have to laugh. And snap a photo:
How is a “whole whole chicken” different from a “whole chicken”? Is it “wholer”? Or is there something missing in the usual “whole chicken” that I should know about? Perhaps, in these hyperbolic days, we need to repeat something just to make it seem true. Sigh.
Here’s an even more disturbing sign:
Maybe this sign explains the previous one: Perhaps the “whole whole chicken” includes the brain, obliquely referred to here as the quality it confers, “smart.” The whole (whole whole) thing makes me shudder and sigh.
I think I’ll eat veggies tonight. How about you? Having trouble deciding? Try this:
No decisions, just a grab. Ideal, until you notice that it’s “our favorites,” not “your.” Sigh again.
Writing this post has made me hungry. I think I’ll grab my favorite snack, which is not chicken — not “whole,” not “whole whole,” and definitely not “smart.” Bon appetit!
“Emergency” seems like an important topic these days. Given all that’s going on in the world, it’s easy to panic. Here’s a sign from someone who obviously has:
I’m not here to judge whether step-sitting constitutes an emergency. For all I know, plopping on the staircase might slow a life-saving organ transfer. I do know that the sign-writer has a punctuation emergency, specifically the soon-to-be worldwide shortage of exclamation points. I mean, we can only produce so much punctuation, despite working 24/7 to churn it out! (or out!!!). Be reasonable, people.
And if you can’t be reasonable, at least be friendly:
My first thought, after I blessed the sign-writer for the single exclamation point, was “speak for yourself,” because for many of us, “emergencies” are definitely not “welcome.” Though I guess if you’re bored, the right emergency can add a little zing to your day.
So can a mistranslated phrase:
Yes, help for those pesky infernos is on the way, “to crash in event of fire.” With apologies to the Borg (Star Trek’s best villains, in my opinion), assistance is futile.
Pundits are splashing us with rivers of ink to emphasize how crucial 2020 will be in determining the future of, well, pretty much everything. I’m not a pundit, but I do have some thoughts on the new year.
This sign offers good advice, albeit ungrammatically:
With the intense emotion floating around, “defensive boxing” seems like a good skill to have. Will you “learn to boxing” in 2020? I probably won’t (too conflict-averse), but I will obey this sign’s orders:
This is no time, I think, for “sitting or standing on the barricades,” and not only because it’s easy to fall off. I’ve resolved to educate myself, decide which side of an issue I’m on, and cross barricades whenever I can. I may even storm a few, but peacefully.
Realistically, here’s the sign I know I’ll follow:
You, too, will “do what you’ve got to do, to get through it.” I mean, what choice do you have?
When Pandora opened her mythical box and the world’s evils flew out, what remained was hope. In these signs, grammar and spelling and punctuation have taken flight. This post concerns what I hope remains. First, skill with scissors:
I hope the proprietors are good barbers, because the salon is certainly not wasting any energy inserting an apostrophe in kids’ (or kid’s, if only one child is welcome as a “walk-in”). Fortunately, men’s is properly punctuated.
This sign directs my hope to falling (actually, NOT falling) masonry:
What do I hope? That the company maintaining the exterior walls looming over my head in NYC is better at pointing, painting, piping, and venting than it is at spelling. Verticle? Seriously? Moving on to moving:
Here I hope that every client’s move is a great experience. Were I to use this firm (not that I’m going anywhere except on vacation), I would hope for better grammar (our employees our?) and punctuation (safe positive?).
Last but definitely not least:
Where do I start? Spelling: seperate or softner? Subject-verb agreement: work include? Punctuation: double quotation marks for the first line and single for the second? And why any quotation marks at all? I think I’ll have this shop clean my clothes, which I hope will be handled with more care than this sign.
I couldn’t resist inserting a hyphen where it doesn’t belong, “hyphen” being, well, un-hyphenated in proper English. I hope the title balances the scales a bit, because so often hyphens are omitted where they’re sorely needed. In this sign, for instance:
Okay, I admit I’m taking this one personally. My name is Woods, and I do have a kitchen. I also have a “specialty” (grammar), but except when I’m trying to follow a poorly written recipe, my “specialty” and “cooking” don’t intersect. Hence the need for a hyphen. If I’m “Specialty-Cooking Woods,” I’m frying a predicate nominative or baking an adjective with, perhaps, an adverbial sauce. If the hyphen slides to the right, this company delivers “Specialty Cooking-Woods.” I prefer to think of those products as cedar, oak, or something similar, though if the owners pay me enough, I’ll make dinner. My specialty is “Clean-Out-the-Refrigerator Soup.”
Before I leave this sign, I should address “Gourmet Hardwood Charcoal.” A “gourmet,” the dictionary tells me, is “a connoisseur of delicacies.” Thus this sign evokes foodies chowing down on “hardwood charcoal.” This is not a hyphen problem. It’s a dental, or perhaps a “Don’t you have anything better to do?” problem. Next up, employment:
Leaving aside the “team” issue (though customers are often treated as the competition), I’m choosing to focus on “Part Sales Mate.” Huh? If the position is “part-sales,” what’s the other part? Or is the job selling a “part”? And what’s with the “mate”? Are the owners seeking a “part-mate”? Part-mate, part-something else? I’m leaving this one in the “life’s too short to worry about stuff like this” bin.
Last, for today at least, as hyphen-problems reappear as often as villains in superhero films:
Two townhouses? Two compounds, each with two buildings? And in a “double garden,” do the veggies and flowers appears in pairs?
That’s it for today. I off in search of a garden, single or double, with or without gourmet woods.
The city being Venice, where I spent ten wonderful days and where at every turn I was startled by beauty, and, occasionally, by some creative use of the English language. Please note that I’m not criticizing here. How could I when I once wrote the Spanish-equivalent of “pitifully, I cannot accept your invitation”? As you read, imagine that I’m smiling gently at these menus. This one, for example:
I’d like to see a “cattlefish,” as long as it’s not stampeding toward me, leaving a trail of inky hoof-prints. Perhaps they reel it in with a lasso instead of a fishing pole?
Here’s another:
I won’t comment on “dishrealated.” I prefer to think of it as a positive, whatever it may be. I’ll just commend this restaurant for its “accurate procedure that leave unchanged the organoleptic qualities,” which, I discovered when I searched the dictionary, relate to the senses. In fact, from now on I’m ordering organoleptically. I also appreciate that the establishment is willing to engage with any “intolerance issue.” We all need help with that these days.
With “respect,” too:
And I thank you, dear reader, “for your delicate attention.” More on Venice when jet-lag abates.
