Don’t Sit the Birds

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Grammar rules may seem irrelevant, but they do provide a frame of reference, standardizing meaning and enabling your audience to figure out what you’re trying to say. In this post, adapted from a page I created a while ago, I offer some signs that left me scratching my head. First up is this gem:

sit birds

 

 

 

 

 

 

This sign appeared above a two-inch-wide ledge outside a grocery store. I understand that you’re not supposed to feed the birds, but I guess you’re also not supposed to bend their little legs to make them sit on the ledge? (Yes, I know the sign-writer probably aimed this request at human beings. But trust me: No human rear could ever perch on this tiny spot.) The meaning, as written, is not clear, but at least the sign-writer was polite enough to say “please.”

Here’s another interesting sign:

What's an "overweight permit"?

What’s an “overweight permit”?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No doubt this sign is crystal clear to truck drivers. The rest of us are left in the dark, which is exactly where I do not want drivers to be as they navigate Park Avenue, one of the busier NYC roads. I want their attention on the road, thinking about pedestrians and other motorists. I don’t want them to wonder whether (a) it’s okay to drive with an overweight truck if you didn’t bother to get a permit or (b) a driver who is a little too fond of 2000-calorie lunches has to get an “overweight permit.”

How long are your feet? How wide are your shoulders? Measure them and then see whether you qualify for the “Package Special” advertised in this sign:

 

Ten inches?

Ten inches?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Items 3 and 4 use a single quotation mark, the traditional symbol for “inches.” The owner of this store may be using the navigational symbol for minutes, which pops up in measures of latitude and longitude. (Maybe the masseuse is a former sea captain?)

One more:

Neighborhood sensation

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are they offering “sensation”? Or welcoming it? And has the Vice Squad visited?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Got a D?

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On your report card, for English? If so, you have a lot of company. Increasingly I’m seeing signs with missing “d” sounds, which should be spelled with the consonant (d) or with the past-tense suffix (ed). I imagine that the spelling error comes from the sound of the words, the same kind of mistake that leads people to say “should of,” wrongly expanding the contraction for “should have,” which is “should’ve.” Here are a few signs that rate a D in English:

diner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It would be nice to think that this diner seats you so that you are never “close” to your neighbor, but as it’s open 24/7, they really should have (should of?) written “never closed.” Keeping on with the food theme, here’s another:

grill cheese

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The disturbing thing about this sign is that it’s in wide circulation. I’ve seen it on windows all over New York City. Forgetting for a moment about cholesterol and food quality, is it too much to ask that someone printing a few thousand signs check the spelling of “grilled”? One more food fight:
old fashion2

 

 

 

 

 

 

I guess you should order “grill cheese” on an “old fashion” bagel? Perhaps you should ask for a discount. Take a look at this sign:

require

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The reflection makes this sign hard to read. It says, “ATTENTION: STUDENT WE GIVE 10% DISCOUNT, BUT ID IS REQUIRE.” Where do I start? “Require” needs a “d,” to become “required.” “Student” ought to be “students,” with the colon moved to the end of that word as they are being addressed. But who am I to quarrel with this generous offer? At least the discount goes to the students. Here, elderly lady that I am, I’m on sale for 10% off:

senior

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, I know I’m being picky. But that’s grammar.

 

 

 

 

 

Firefighters v. DOT

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There seems to be a fight going on within the New York City government, a statement equivalent to “water flows downhill.” In this instance, the fight is about parking (ditto on the water-flow comment). The fight plays out on signs posted around the city. According to the Fire Department, you cannot park at anytime” – one word:

Here you can park "anytime" - one word.

Here you can park “anytime” – one word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the other hand, DOT, the Department of Transportation, goes for “any time” (two words): 

Now you can't stop for "any time" - two words.

Now you can’t stop for “any time” – two words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Which is correct? The Fire Department. As one word, anytime means “at any point in time – now, an hour from now, half past never, etc.” As two words, any time means “an amount of time,” as in “Do you have any time to waste looking for a parking space?”

The same formula is true for sometime and some time. You can come up and see me sometime (whenever you choose) to spend some time (an amount of time) with me. Well, actually you can’t. I’m shy.

 

Let Us Punctuate

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This sign is behind glass, so I’ll clarify what it says: “LET US SHIP YOUR LUGGAGE.”

Let us ship your luggage.

Let us ship your luggage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I saw this sign, my first thought was  “great idea, but I’ll probably have to mortgage the co-op to take advantage of this service.” My second thought was “why is let us different from let’s?” A sign reading “Let’s ship your luggage” is an invitation to a playdate. We’ll get together, have some wine, and then take turns sticking labels on suitcases. Yet contractions – shortened versions of words or phrases in which an apostrophe takes the place of missing letters – are supposed to mean the same as the full-length expressions they replace. So why is it that when people say, “Let’s do the wash,” they aren’t offering to take a chore off my hands, but a sign saying, “Let us do the wash” excludes me from responsibility? Perhaps the contraction includes the speaker and the person/people addressed, and the full-length version doesn’t.

This was my favorite theory on the difference between “let’s” and “let us,” until I thought of church. When a preacher says, “Let us pray,” everyone is supposed to participate – both preacher and congregation. (I can’t picture a member of the clergy saying, “Let’s pray,” now that the Sixties are over and guitars and interpretive dances have fallen out of favor in religious rites.)

My third thought, in case you’re counting, is that the contraction creates an air of friendship and the unshortened expression adds a sense of formality. The shopkeeper offering to ship luggage or do the laundry is engaged in a commercial transaction. The preacher is acting in an official capacity, calling the congregation to prayer.

Is this the final word on “let’s” and “let us”? Let’s wait and see.

The News Are Not Good

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I can live with data as a singular noun, though strictly speaking the singular form is datum, and data is plural. I do live in the real world and understand that the data are clear sounds wrong to most people. So I shrugged and turned the page when I realized that my favorite newspaper, The New York Times, has begun to treat data as singular. A recent headline stated something like The Data Is Grounds for Optimism. Maybe in economics, I thought, but not in grammar and style.

I draw the line, though, at politics (on so many levels, but in this blog I’ll stick to grammar). On September 19, 2014, the Times quoted Charles de Gaulle: “Politics are too serious a matter to be left to politicians.” Charles de Gaulle was a French politician, so in an effort to be fair, I wrote to my friend Jacqueline, who has been recognized by the French government for her dedication and service to the teaching of the French language. I asked her whether politics is a plural noun in French. Her answer came immediately:

Bonjour Gerri,

La politique  – singular feminine

Have a great day,

Jacqueline

I’m left with a few possible conclusions: (1) Charles de Gaulle got it wrong and made la politique plural or (2) the translator blew it or (3) the Times reporter thinks the English word politics is plural. I’m hoping for the first, because de Gaulle is dead and can’t mangle any language in his current condition. The second possibility is bad, but not terrible. New translators can be hired. But the third option is a grammatical disaster. Please, NYT, inform your reporters that the news is important (not are), and politics is too. Not to mention English usage.

A Name Too Far

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Some years ago I called for a moratorium on ‘n, the pseudo-contraction that’s supposed to take the place of and in expressions such as burgers’ n beer, wings ‘n fries, and other cholesterol-laden linguistic and culinary crimes. Nobody heard me and nothing changed in the public arena, perhaps because the only people present when I called for this were a bunch of English teachers who wouldn’t dream of substituting a grunt for a conjunction.

Allowing hope to triumph over experience, I’m now asking for another moratorium, this time on the invention of cutesy names for beer. Now, I don’t drink beer. I do, however, hang out at times in bars where good draught beer is served. I like watching people enjoy a glass of amber liquid that reflects the sunlight and casts a warm glow. At first, it was fun to read the bar menu and savor names that hadn’t been derived from corporations. Out with Miller, Pabst, Budweiser, and the like, I thought. In with Victory Hop Devil, London Pride, and other creative terms.

Melange a Trois with 3 Philosophers?

Melange a Trois with 3 Philosophers?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But things have gone too far. The unusual has become commonplace and thereby lost its luster. Moreover, the contrived names increasingly leave consumers scratching their heads. When the name column on the beer menu expands to accommodate three inches of letters, it’s time to pull back. Let Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hops Club Brand alone, please. Instead, describe what’s actually in the beer – wheat, blueberries (and by the way, who on earth would ever want blueberries with beer?), bitters, whatever.

I assume that this post will lead to a new trend in beer names, or, at the very least, a batch of Extra Grouchy Grammarian Stout.

A Phabulous Invention

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As a grumpy grammarian, I’m supposed to tsk-tsk changes to the language by anyone other than Shakespeare, but my reaction is more complex. I’ve been on the Internet since techies were trying to decide between “dot com” and “period com” to talk about websites. I sat on the sidelines when other grammarians waffled between “mouses” and “mice” for the plural of a computer mouse. Fortunately, the touchscreen showed up and rendered the issue moot.

I do object to the name of the latest must-have device, the “phablet,” a cross between a cellphone and a tablet, with, as far as I can tell, the worst features of each. Who named this device, which sounds like a tweeted tale by Aesop? A couple of people have claimed the credit or blame, depending on your point of view.

Yet I can’t help feeling that some computer terms have enriched the language. “The default is that we get up at 6:30 a.m.,” my early-bird husband says. “Time to reboot,” I’ll say when we’ve been stuck in a way of thinking that isn’t going anywhere.  I love words that slip from the machine to real life. Soft boot, hard boot, and even  humanware specialist are interesting concepts. I definitely need a hard boot on Monday mornings but a soft boot after work.  As I try to unravel the directions for a new piece of software, explanations from a humanware specialist help. (Not a techie? A hard boot occurs when you turn the computer on and the whole thing starts up, having been off duty for some length of time. A soft boot resets part of the system of a machine that’s already running. A humanware specialist trains people to use technology.)

Then they are the prefixes. The lowercase i  hasn’t been this popular since the first teen poetry magazine was published. Thanks, Apple, for giving us iPads and iPhones; I assume that iAddiction is next. Thanks, programmers, for popularizing kilo-, mega-, giga-, tera-, and peta- as prefixes for bytes.  After mining the ancient Greek language, techies have turned to fabricated word parts. (One prefix, yotta-, pays homage to the Star Wars’ character Yoda.) The amounts these prefixes represent seem unimaginable, except that techies have not only imagined them but also attempted to make the terms comprehensible. Did you know that the sum of five exabytes equals the number of all the words ever said during the entire span of human existence? (Source: highscalability.com)

And in this age of ecology, who could object to recycling old words to describe new situations? Such repurposing builds bridges between virtual and ordinary reality. You don’t function well when you have a virus, for example, and neither does your computer. Sadly, most human infections can’t be countered by an antivirus regimen. We just have to accept the downtime. Oh, for an escape button!

Everything new will be old someday, and everything old does not necessarily return. But as you’re tapping a stylus on your tablet, spare a thought for the ancient scribe scratching on a wax tablet with a different sort of stylus. You’re both likely to have sore forearms and fingers, just as you’re both likely to change the language. And in the end, that’s mostly a good thing.

See you in the cloud.

Following Guest?

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Some years ago, I stood on Fifth Avenue waiting for the next convoy of buses to arrive. (FYI, Car People: New York City buses travel in packs, apparently under orders to stay within sight of another bus driver at all times.) I remarked to a fellow potential passenger that I was going to be late. “I can’t be late,” he replied. “I’m a physician. I’m ‘delayed,’ not ‘late.’” So I get why doctors have patients, because patience is what you need when your healer is attending to someone else’s life-threatening condition or waiting for public transportation.

My lawyer and accountant have clients, but the stores in my neighborhood have customers — or at least they used to (more about that later). Why the difference? The official definition of a client is someone who receives services. A customer, according to several dictionaries I consulted, pays for goods or services. The term client seems to elevate the service provider to the status of a professional, someone who’s chosen a career path and studied mightily for the qualifications to practice it. (Why practice, by the way? Haven’t they perfected their skills by now?)

I realize, of course, that value judgments are all over these words. Plenty of people who have spent years learning a craft or trade and decades pursuing it have customers. When I drop off clothes at the dry cleaners, for example, the hardworking people who run the place manage to remove all sorts of stains and spruce up my garments, all the while smiling at their customers and staying on the right side of the many laws that regulate their business.

Now “trending,” as they say on social media, is guest. Hotels used to have customers or clients, but now they have guests. Okay, you stay overnight somewhere, they take care of you and at least in theory try to make you comfortable. Those activities do fall into the category of hospitality, so I can live with guest when it comes to lodging. But employees at my favorite frozen yogurt place now bid the “following guest” to step up to the little scale to weigh each portion of empty but oh-so-tasty calories and compute the price. How am I a guest when I have to pay for this product? Should I extrapolate and charge for the asparagus at my next dinner party? I imagine the corporate expert who wrote the script for this frozen-yogurt franchise. “Let’s create a cozy atmosphere! Everyone will feel like a guest in our home and eat more yogurt,” they say in my fantasy, although how anyone could live with three flat-screen televisions displaying tween sit-coms and a color scheme that could most mercifully be called garish is beyond my comprehension.

My recommendation: Make everyone (patient, client, guest) a customer. Because, as we all know, the customer is always right.

I’m not “his”

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Today’s paper has a full-page ad for a type of investment product I’ve been considering for some time. The ad, which had to cost a bundle, detailed why I should leave my current financial advisor and switch to the guy whose smiling photo appears in a sidebar. I was halfway to writing “follow up on this” on my to-do list when I crashed into a recommendation about what I should  “ask the salesman when evaluating his product.” Excuse me? No females sell investment products? I could accept this sentence if it referred to Smiling Guy’s company, because presumably he’d know the gender composition of his sales force. However, the recommendation was to ask my advisor. My advisor could be anywhere and therefore could be anyone, including a female.

I imagine that Smiling Guy (or his copy editor) was taught that a masculine pronoun includes both men and women. This principle, the “masculine universal,” was in effect when I was in elementary school. Judging from his photo, though, I’m quite a bit older than Smiling Guy. Plus, I’ve learned and taught that inclusiveness costs nothing and brings huge advantages. Leaving out half the human race (notice that I didn’t say “mankind”) isn’t good business. This fact I know for sure, as there’s no way I’m giving my money or time to Smiling Guy, because to him I don’t exist. I’d rather speak with a broker, investment counselor, or agent than with a company that attaches the word sales only to a man and his product.

Not that I’m blaming Smiling Guy. Well, actually I am, but only a little. The problem Smiling Guy faces is rooted in Standard English grammar and British history. One unbreakable rule, agreement, holds that singular forms must be paired with singular forms and plural with plural. A table has stains on its legs; tables have stains on their legs. The singular noun table pairs up with the singular pronoun its, and the plural noun tables pairs with the plural pronoun their. So far, so good, because its is neither masculine nor feminine, but “neuter,” in grammar terminology. The plural pronoun their wins the hospitality award, because this useful pronoun  pairs with plurals of nouns that are masculine, feminine, and neuter.

Their was once considered a good match for both singular and plural nouns. Here’s where British history enters: One highly influential British grammarian decided that such versatility was confusing and declared that their henceforth would be plural only. Because this grammarian saw no problem with the masculine universal, the proper match for a noun such as student was he (singular, masculine), and any females in the vicinity were expected to understand their supposed inclusion in that pronoun.

Enter feminism, sometime in the late 60s and early 70s, and a different viewpoint on language. It became obvious that Standard English, when dealing with a singular noun that could apply to either gender, had a pronoun problem. Some radicals urged the adoption of per to replace, for example, his or her. This effort was as effective as the invention of Esperanto, a so-called universal language created from shreds of many other languages and spoken by a crowd small enough to fit in my living room – and I live in NYC, so my living room isn’t all that big. Other grammarians opted for their, reasoning that this now firmly plural term should revert to its singular/plural, all-inclusive nature. Still others urged a 50-50 split, alternating the masculine universal with the feminine universal (she and  her, referring to both sexes), paragraph by paragraph. Personally, I find it jarring to read about giving a baby his bottle and changing her diaper shortly thereafter.

Most English teachers, including me, adopted this rule: Use his or her or he or she when you refer to a mixed group of males and females or when you don’t know which genders are represented in the group. I should point out that my rule comes with a warning. No one wants to read clunky sentences like “every agent should ask his or her client about his or her investment goals.” Solve this problem by rewording the sentence to avoid the need for pronouns (“Ask the client about investment goals”) or switch to plural (“Ask clients about their investment goals”).

Smiling Guy, take note, and perhaps your company will appear on my to-do list after all.

 

Overpriced at . . .

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First all the simple prices (Shoes – $30) sprouted nines (Shoes – $29.99) in order to convince math-challenged customers that the product was more affordable because of a single missing penny. I made peace with that development, because who am I to question a marketing strategy? I deal with words, not numbers.

Next up on the sales horizon was the addition of the word price, as if we consumers thought that $29.99 represented the amount the store would pay the customer to take a pair of shoes off the shelf. Price $29.99 was a little too much information, but no harm done. The last price-straw, as far as I’m concerned, is an extra D. More and more, shoes are priced at $30 or $29.99, figures not adjusted for inflation.

In grammar terms, the cost of an item is attached to a participle (priced), a descriptive verb form. Why? Usually participles give you extra information: Jenny, hiking in stiletto heels, broke her ankle. The participle in that sentence is hiking. It’s derived from a verb (to hike), but it’s functioning as a description of Jenny. (The real verb in the sentence, in case you’re interested, is broke.) The participle tells you that Jenny didn’t break her ankle doing something noble, like running after a mugger or saving a baby from a burning building. The participle tells you that Jenny is either clueless (I thought we were going to have dinner at a four-star restaurant!) or just dumb (Who knew shoes wobbled in the wilderness?). Hiking serves a purpose in the sentence.

The participle priced at implies human activity without identifying the actor. Who did the pricing? You have to guess. It may be the boss: Our store manager, desperate for a promotion, priced the shoes at $30 so he could brag about his empty stockroom. Perhaps this participle is an attempt to distance store employees from consumer outrage: Don’t blame us. We just sell the things, which are priced at $30 by nameless bureaucrats in the main office who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing these shoes.

One thing is clear about this participle: priced at usually precedes a number that is much too high, considering the item it’s attached to. Yet somehow I doubt you’ll see overpriced at $30 or $29.99 anytime soon.