Tag Archives: signs

Air, Scare, or Simply There

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My almost-seven-year-old granddaughter has recently discovered air quotes, the curly-fingered gesture that encloses spoken words in quotation marks. To make an air quote, you bend the pointer and middle fingers of each hand a couple of times, and whoever is listening or watching is supposed to know that you’ve distanced yourself from whatever you’ve just said.  Air quotes are the bodily equivalent of scare quotes, the punctuation marks in written material that separate the writer from the quotation, as in don’t blame me for this dumb opinion or yeah, like I believe that. Both scare and air quotes are gestures of irony or sarcasm. Usually, that is. During my first year of teaching about a million years ago, I used air quotes to tell the class that I was quoting from a text, not using my own words. I didn’t find out until June (June!) that the kids perceived a particularly nerdy wave, not a punctuation mark. Sigh.

My granddaughter tosses out air quotes with abandon. (“I’m ‘nice’ and so are you,” she’ll say with active fingers, meaning that she and I are actually “nice.”) She enjoys the gesture more than its significance. No problem. She’s little and deserves time to experiment. I’m not sure the creator of this sign should receive the same leeway:

Come again?

Come again?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I snapped this photo during New Year’s weekend, when this store and everything around it was closed for celebration or recovery from celebration. I’m still not sure what it means. Is the shop expecting a door bell delivery? Is someone hiding out inside, waiting for a package and not coming forth until the door bell rings? Does the shop owner know that the door bell is broken and “door bell” is a useless phrase?

I’m sure the letter carrier or package deliverer liked the John Hancock squiggle under the last line. I’m also sure that everyone reading this sign pressed the door bell, just to see what would happen. (I did. Nothing happened.) But that’s it. I’m sure of nothing else – certainly not the meaning.  The sign is a mystery. Or maybe I should say a “mystery.” Your theories are welcome – really welcome, not “welcome.”

Facing the new year

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Closing out 2015, I find three signs aptly express my feelings about this season. First:

Ten fingers? Check. Ten toes? Ditto.

Ten fingers? Check. Ten toes? Ditto. Sanity? Doubtful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I checked the definition of “checkout,” which involves a summing up of obligations and payment thereof.  This sign caught my eye, and not only because it signals a further decline in customer service. (I’ve just completed two transcontinental airline flights, so that topic is on much my mind.)  What drew me is the “self” portion of the sign. January approaches, and like the Roman god Janus (who was probably not the source of the name “January”), I look both forward and back. But mostly I look inward, to “checkout” the state of my “self.” I won’t place my findings here – too private – nor will I stop as January ends. The unexamined life is not my style. Obsessive worrying, alas, is. (And yes, compulsive snark, too.)

Here’s the second sign:

To where?

To where?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could insert a wish here – that the sign not be a prediction of my, your, or our collective future. But a daily dose of The New York Times shows, beyond a doubt, that a “rough road” is likely for all of us. Nor in good conscience can I insert a platitude – something about life’s bumps strengthening character. Sometimes life’s bumps lead only to bruises. Yet Yogi Berra – the late, great Yankee catcher and creative grammarian – gave good advice: When you come to a fork in the road, take it. Rough or not. After all, what’s the alternative?

Finally, no new year (and no New Year’s post) would be complete without a resolution. Mine begins with this sign:

Who wants to be "the top bell"?

Who wants to be “the top bell”?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I saw this sign behind a construction fence enclosing access to the Second Avenue Subway. It contains, in my opinion, the coolest job title ever. I resolve to become, by the end of this new year, “the top bell.” Whatever that is.

 

Grade D+

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I’ve written elsewhere (“Missing and Presumed” at http://www.grammarianinthecity.com/?p=311) about dropping the letter D from expressions such as “grill cheese,” “old fashion,” and “never close, open 24/7.” This sign has the opposite problem:

Grilled and Deli Man

Grilled and Deli Man

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reflected light mars the photo, so to clarify, the store is hiring a “Delivery, Cashier, Grilled & Deli Man.” If I take the noun “man” as the center of this statement from a non-equal-opportunity- employer, the other words serve as modifiers. So the store seeks a “delivery man,” a “cashier man” (turning the noun “cashier” into an adjective), and a “grilled and deli man.”

The last phrase leads me to a couple of questions. Does an applicant have to submit proof that detectives placed him in a windowless room under a bright lamp where they grilled him for hours about, presumably, his qualifications for working in a deli? I can hear the boss now: “Pre-grilled applicants save interview time.” Or is the shop hiring a man who has spent some time over charcoal? I shudder at that last possibility. I shudder at the spelling/grammar error too, but less. Much less.

Speechless in New York

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It takes a lot to shut New Yorkers up, especially this one. But every once in a while I see a photo that leaves me speechless. Here’s one, sent by my friend Jacqueline:

Pork for Hanukkah?

Pork for Hanukkah?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The only way to deepen the irony would be to add a shrimp cocktail appetizer. (For those unfamiliar with Jewish dietary laws, neither pork nor shrimp is kosher.)

One more, from a barber shop:

You have to ask for scissors?

You have to ask for scissors?

 

I won’t comment on “hair line clean up,” though that line makes me picture barbers with pointy sticks and trash bags, patrolling the border between forehead and hair, like work-release prisoners on a garbage-strewn beach. Instead, I’ll focus on the middle line. I know little about barbering tools, and my “stylist,” who refrains from sighing when he asks if I want “the usual” during my thrice yearly visits, snips away with scissors automatically.  So I’m perplexed. If you don’t request scissors at this salon, how does the barber cut your hair? With a lawn mower? A scythe?

Okay, I wasn’t speechless after all. If you aren’t either, please feel free to add your comments.

Woof

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Most of my posts are about two-footed New Yorkers, but this one concerns those traveling on four feet – actually, four paws. What do you make of this sign, painted on the window of a store specializing in wireless communication devices?

"Proud to be . . . dog friendly"

“Proud to be . . . dog friendly.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Does this mean that the phones are chew-resistant or taste like premium dog chow? That they transmit every nuance of “arf arf” with perfect clarity? That the keyboard letters are far enough apart for paw-typing? I pondered these questions as I stared at the window. My first theory was that the store allows dogs inside, perhaps handing out chew toys or meaty bones. I considered the fact that lots of stores brag about their welcoming attitude to customers’ dogs.  But those signs are usually smaller and located near the doorknob or handle. This one takes up a good portion of the shop window. Letting Fido into the establishment would seem to merit a less prominent sign. I still don’t know why it’s there, and I’m too shy to go in and ask.

This one is much smaller and located in the usual spot for such notices, right on the door. But it’s still strange:

Everyone else's pets - come on in!

Everyone else’s pets – come on in!

 

The sign suggests that employees’ pets are banned, but customers’ pets are “allowed in the store.” What do you think?

Hey, I’m Walking Here! Part 2

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As a pedestrian in New York City, I generally feel that I am the lowest of the low, the bottom of the barrel, the – well, insert your favorite metaphor for “unimportant” here. Why? Stoplights are timed to move motor vehicles along, not to give me a chance to put one foot in front of the other and reach the other side of the avenue before the next wave of cars approaches. Bikes get their own lane on many streets and all too often, uninhibited and unticketed, dominate the sidewalk as well. And then I saw this sign:

I'm "traffic" now.

I’m “traffic” now!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought about the phrase “pedestrian traffic” as I plodded through the detour this “notice” required. According to the dictionary, the noun “traffic” means “vehicles moving on a road,” “dealing or trading in something illegal,” or “communications between people.” I am not a Ferrari, a drug transaction, or a text message. I am a person who travels via feet. So what does this sign really mean? If the first definition applied, I’d expect an upgrade in “pedestrian traffic” flow – lights timed to the average traveled-foot-inch per minute, for example. Nope. If the last definition applied, I’d expect the Department of Transportation to respond to the many cries for bike-free sidewalks. Nope again. So I’m choosing door number two. And I thank the DOT for banning trades of, say, one babysitter pushing a double-wide stroller for two guys with briefcases plus an oblivious texter to be named later.

Emboldened by this upgrade to “traffic” status, I went out again – and found this:

Wait where?

Wait where?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the start of my first year as a teacher – and this is a true story – I questioned my principal about the schedule calling for me to teach two different classes at the same time on two different floors. Her answer? “Young people don’t want to face obstacles.” Oh. So too, at this corner, was I obliged to “wait” at two different places at the same time.

I won’t bother discussing the indignity of being a “ped.” It’s nice out. I’d rather take a walk.

Hey, I’m walking here! Part 1

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I’m not a great fan of the classic film Midnight Cowboy, but anyone who walks around New York can sympathize with Dustin Hoffman’s rant at a car that cuts him off in a crosswalk – the line I used as the title of this post. I found so many examples of signs telling walkers where to go (pun intended) that I’ll post them in two parts. Here’s the first one:

 

 

At least this one's polite!

At least this one’s polite!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Use opposite side of street.” Hm…m. Not the opposite sidewalk? Okay, I’ll put that one in the “you should know enough to walk on the sidewalk” category,  notwithstanding the number of people wandering in the roadway near this sign – and everywhere else in NYC. But there’s another problem. Given that Midtown street corners inevitably host a small crowd, regardless of the time of day, the singular “pedestrian” is puzzling. Maybe the signwriter thought the personal touch – I’m talking to you, only you! – would be more effective? New Yorkers, after all, have a reputation for self-absorption, and common wisdom holds that we frequently ignore rules.

That rebelliousness, though, may simply be confusion. What would you do at this corner?

How's that again?

How’s that again?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lest you think that two crosswalks, one open and one closed, are involved, let me reassure you that only one appears at this site. So you should use the crosswalk, which is closed. Got it?

One more for today:

Clear, but nonsensical.

At least this one is clear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In case the context isn’t visible in the photo, this spray-painted sign tells “pedestrian” (again with the singular!) that under no circumstances can he or she walk through the stone wall of the building behind the sign. (And yes, I know it’s a temporary barrier, but it’s been in place long enough to qualify as “nonsense walkers put up with” in NYC.)

Stay tuned for part 2, coming soon, but not to a theater near you.

 

Please tell me . . .

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Please tell me that two apostrophes are missing from this sign, and not the verb “are.” Even though it’s unlikely that Fido and Mittens can read, I’d also be happy with direct address, created by a colon after “cats”:

P1010982

 

Please tell me that the employees of this store are not making neat rectangles out of little humans:

Fold how?

Fold how?

 

I understand the “wash” part, as I subscribe to a theory I discovered in an Angela Thirkell novel: that kids are born with a bag of dirt inside that leaks out little by little, beginning anew every time they emerge from the bathtub. But the rest is a mystery. Fold? Doubled over at the waist, or vertically from left to right? Also, what’s with the “n”? Why use this contraction of “and,” which is more a grunt than a word? Maybe the workers are too busy bending kids’ hands and feet (and then keeping the limbs in place) to add the missing letters? And what’s the market for folded babies and toddlers? Okay, as an experienced mother and grandmother, I can actually answer that last question. After a long day chasing little kids around, having someone fold them neatly is, unfortunately, appealing. Wrong, but appealing.

More Is More

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I was shopping for socks when I noticed this sticker on a package: “$5.25 per each.” Per each?  I resisted the temptation to cross out “per” and wandered away wondering why that phrase sounded wrong. Had the sticker read “$5.25 each” or “$5.25 per package,” I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. “Per” is a preposition and requires an object. So why not ” each”? When I got home (minus the socks I was shopping for, having spent the whole trip thinking about the preposition), I looked up the definition of “per,” which is “for each.” So the sign actually read “for for each.”  I did consider the possibility that the total cost of each pair was $10.50, with $5.25 being the price of one sock. But surely the average consumer does not expect to pay for each foot separately? No, I concluded. This was an example of the “more is more” theory of writing.

Here’s another:

Oh good. I hate laundry dirtiers.

Oh good. I hate laundry dirtiers.

 

I should mention that the store did not offer “dry cleaning” services, just laundry. And what else would you do with laundry – dirty it? lose it? (Okay, sometimes a store does “dirty” or “lose” the laundry, but not on purpose.)

Here’s another sign:

Chemist = Pharmacy

Chemist = Pharmacy

 

As all fans of British television series know, “chemist” is  the British term for “pharmacy.” So this shop is a “pharmacies pharmacy.”

Personally, I still hold that “less is more” in writing, as long as the meaning comes across clearly. I’m not sure why so many people subscribe to the “more is more” style. Maybe the clutter of modern life gives rise to the fear of being overlooked, and that a second (or third) repetition lessens that possibility?

Your theories are welcome welcome welcome.

Have a Good Whatever

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The New York Times reports that Starbucks  has unveiled the 2015 holiday coffee cup, a Rothkoesque shading of reds adorned only with the corporate logo.

Controversial coffee

Noncontroversial coffee cup available here! Or at least that’s the goal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The official line is that the company wants to encourage creativity and doodling on cardboard vessels in those willing to pay far too much for a beverage. (Okay, “pay far too much”  isn’t part of the official line. It’s my observation.)  According to Starbucks, the goal of the 2015 cup is “to usher in the holidays with a purity of design that welcomes all of our stories.”  In other words, aim for everyone and offend no one.

Of course, critics immediately blasted the company for “erasing Christmas” and even “hating Jesus.” I must confess that I’ve never thought of turning to a coffee cup for spiritual inspiration. Plus, the official symbols of Christmas in New York City, as far as I can tell, are the giant tree in Rockefeller Center and brightly decorated, strident pleas to spend money on presents. So at first the Starbucks controversy puzzled me.

But then I realized that Starbucks’ new cup is part of a trend toward meaningless generalities. Employees in local stores used to wish that I  “have a nice day,” or, from the over- perky, that I “have a really great day.” Counting my change and trying to remember the next item on my to-do list, I paid little attention to these fervent hopes for my wellbeing. But somewhere in my consciousness was a bit of gratitude, and I did notice when the comments changed. Now shopkeepers generally tell me to “have a good one.” A good what? Not that I was crazy about “nice” or “really great” day, but seriously, were those expressions too controversial? And is the next step, “have a good whatever” or, with a nod to Seinfeld,  “a good yada yada”?

Sir Isaac Newton held that every action is balanced by an equal and opposite reaction.  The rise in blandness, it seems, makes extremism not only possible but inevitable. In other words, that  plain red coffee cup sets the tone of the US presidential campaign. Who knew?