I Wish...
..A tornado would come and scoop us all up, twisting and turn until we're dropped up-side-down and all dead.
There would be an amazing gas leak, and we'd al die at work durng the dinner rush.
That I would finally snap and just begin to kill until I'm shot down dead.
"Do you need anything, Justin?" Yeah, a bullet to the brain.
"Last call! Who wants a shot?" Me, to the brain!
majuscule \MAJ-uh-skyool\ noun
: a large letter (as a capital)
Example sentence:
I can always recognize my brother's handwriting at a quick glance based on how elaborately the majuscules are formed and how they dwarf the other letters.
Did you know?
"Majuscule" looks like the complement to "minuscule," and the resemblance is no coincidence. "Minuscule" appeared in the early 18th century as a word for a lowercase letter, then later as the word for certain ancient and medieval writing styles which had "small forms." "Minuscule" then acquired a more general adjectival use for anything very small. "Majuscule" is the counterpart to "minuscule" when it comes to letters, but it never developed a broader sense (despite the fact that its Latin ancestor "majusculus" has the broad meaning "rather large"). The adjective "majuscule" also exists (as does "majuscular"). Not surprisingly, the adjective shares the noun's specificity, referring only to large letters or to a style using such letters.
nocuous \NAH-kyuh-wus\ adjective
: harmful
Example sentence:
"Poorly tuned engines can put out up to 800 times the nocuous emissions of properly maintained ones." (PR Newswire, January 7, 1992)
Did you know?
You are probably more familiar with the adjective "innocuous," meaning "harmless," than with its antonymous relative "nocuous." Both "nocuous" and "innocuous" have immediate Latin predecessors: "nocuus" and "innocuus." (The latter combines "nocuus" with the negative prefix "in-.") Both words can also be traced back to the Latin verb "nocēre," meaning "to harm." Other "nocēre" descendants in English include "innocent" and "nocent," which means "harmful." "Nuisance" (which originally meant, and still can mean, "a harm or injury") is a more distant relative. "Nocuous" is one of the less common "nocēre" descendants, but it does turn up occasionally.
I'm donating my body to medical science. Good luck to whoever receives what is left of this brain.
If you look on my Pennsylvania driver's license, right next to the photo that makes me look like a happy terrorist, you'll see the words that seal my fate. In bright green letters it states, “Organ Donor”. If they find my body in time, someone will have the grave task (no pun intended) of carving me like so much Thanksgiving turkey and doling my parts out to the needy.
Trust me when I tell you that after spending quite a number of years with my parts, I would qualify anyone with good use for my organs to be very, very needy.
Best of luck with that liver.
I did not, for even a brief moment, put any monetary value on my body when volunteering for the organ donor program. Not being particularly attached to the physical world, I've always believed that the body is just a tool. That hasn't kept me from prancing and preening in front of every mirror I pass, making sure my tool is shiny and well oiled. I like my body, but I never really considered it as one would a good, used car.
As it turns out that may have been a financial mistake.
My body (and yours) is worth cash money to the medical community and there are some who are taking advantage of the market. In a legal case played out recently in the state of New York, it was revealed there is a huge market for previously owned organs. Some funeral home directors have been plundering corpses for quick cash.
The family of Alistair Cooke, the public television personality who hosted “Masterpiece Theater”, first brought the case to the public's attention. By discovering, in the most gruesome of circumstances, that Dad's body wasn't all there, Cooke's sons and daughter threw a spotlight onto a rather bizarre situation.
His bones had been harvested.
“Harvested”, by the way, is one of my favorite words. If you want to truly frighten the family, talk about how you'd like your organs to be “harvested” after you kick. Personally, I think my crop is getting a bit beyond ripe, but, judging from the Cooke case, there's not exactly a freshness date. He was, after all, ninety-five years old and some entrepreneur felt as though his bones were still of value.
And so, they stole them.
In an attempt to hide the thefts from unsuspecting funeral attendees, some Home Depot shopping morticians replaced leg bones with lengths of PVC pipe. This is not a weekend project I've ever seen diagramed in Popular Mechanics, but it will provide archeologists in the year 2600 with some fun.
In the New York case, seven separate funeral directors pleaded guilty to undisclosed, lesser charges in exchange for their testimony about what is described as a growing black market for stolen tissue. The body parts are harvested (there's that word again) and sold to biomedical companies who then resell them, legally, to hospitals for procedures as varied as dental implants and hip replacements.
The Alistair Cooke case came to light not because his heirs discovered grandpa's PVC, but from complaints from organ recipients. After bone transplant patients throughout England had post-operative complications, medical investigators were forced to trace the path of their donated parts. It was found that some came from not-so-reputable sources.
“Where did you get this brain?”
“From someone named Abbie.”
“Abbie?”
“Yes. Abbie Normal.”
Prosecutors allege that a guy named Michael Mastromarino, a former oral surgeon, and three other men secretly removed skin, bone and other body parts from more than one thousand bodies. They harvested the organs (harvested!) from funeral home cadavers, without permission of the deceased's families.
Why?
Millions, baby.
New York's prosecutors estimate that Mastromarino and others have pulled in literally millions from supplying good used parts to bad old biomedical companies. Among the crimes the wonderfully ghoulish group committed was falsification of documents, mainly death certificates. In the case of Alistair Cooke, his age at death was changed from ninety-five to eighty-five and the cause of death was changed from bone cancer to heart attack. I guess you can make more selling bones from a dead eighty-five year old heart attack victim than from a ninety-five year old claimed by bone cancer.
It's the same no matter what business you're in.
You have to know your market.
Now that I know my old wasted pancreas is worth some pennies or dimes to someone, I may be rethinking this whole “donating” of my organs. You have to look out for your family, right? I have full intentions of spending every red cent I make during my lifetime, leaving exactly nothing to my so-called heirs, save for a couple of stacks of very used long-playing records and my ever-growing magazine collection.
It would be nice to leave them something.
The good news is that, thanks to songwriter John Prine, I don't have to leave instructions. I'll just leave a copy of his “Please Don't Bury Me” on top of that stack of albums with instructions to listen and obey.
“Please don't bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I'd druther have ‘em cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get ‘em out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose”
And remember, whatever you decide to do with me… make sure you get a receipt.
For tax purposes.
farceur \far-SUR\ noun
1 : joker, wag
*2 : a writer or actor of farce
Example sentence:
The movie features a famous farceur trying his hand at a serious role for the first time.
Did you know?
You've probably already spotted the "farce" in "farceur." But although "farceur" can now refer to someone who performs or composes farce, it began life in the late 18th century as a word for someone who is simply known for cracking jokes. Appropriately, "farceur" derives via Modern French from the Middle French "farcer," meaning "to joke." If you think of "farce" as a composition of ridiculous humor with a "stuffed" or contrived plot, then it should not surprise you that "farce" originally meant "forcemeat" - seasoned meat used for a stuffing - and that both "farce" and "farceur" can be ultimately traced back to the Latin verb "farcire," meaning "to stuff."
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
techno-thriller \TEK-noh-thrill-er\ noun
: a work of fiction having a high degree of intrigue, adventure, or suspense and a plot that relies on modern technology
Example sentence:
The techno-thriller's protagonist, equipped with an arsenal of futuristic weapons, must prevent a terrorist group's strike on the nation's capital.
Did you know?
"Techno-thriller" owes a lot to technology. Not only do fictional techno-thrillers include a lot of technology in their plots, the word itself includes the combining form "techno-," which derives from the word "technology." The artistic and literary genre is relatively new and so is the word that describes it; the first documented use of "techno-thriller" dates from 1986.
Let's go to the automobile farms! The hot rods are ripe and ready to pick.
Everyone should have a hobby. Whether yours is collecting and mounting bi-winged insects or collecting and mounting bi-breasted bar sluts, a hobby is a great way to keep one's mind occupied and force all naughty thoughts back to the dungeon.
And, as many a priest has confessed from many a far-off Pacific island punishment parish, keeping the naughty thoughts in the dungeon is the real struggle of mankind.
I am a hot rod voyeur.
It's one of my hobbies.
I go to car shows, buy hot rod magazines and rarely miss a week of the Auto Trader. I watch all the rebuild-your-heap shows on TV. The reason I call myself a hot rod voyeur is that while I am always shopping for an old car, I haven't bought one in years.
Honestly, I just like to look.
There are those who do more than just look. They buy. They buy, they build and they sell on a seasonal calendar. I call them hot rod farmers. Some day, when my ability to keep the naughty thoughts in the dungeon begins to evaporate, I will be a hot rod farmer. But for now, I'm still strong and still just looking.
The hot rod farmer spends winters in a garage, building cars he sees in his head. The difference between the car in his head and the car in his garage will determine the amount of time he will spend in that garage. For a simple project, the hot rod farmer will spend a few nights a week and most of his weekends away from the family, holed up in his home away from home, four walls and an air compressor. For more radical and serious dreams, the hot rod farmer will be absent without leave, a sailor out to sea on a ship built of old welding tanks.
In the spring the doors of the garage are opened. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, or a sleeping bear waking and stumbling from a cave in need of a good, long whiz, the car that was in the hot rod farmer's head is rolled from its winter home and into the sunlight. It is a marvelous and breathtaking event. His friends and other voyeurs, like myself, gather around to congratulate the hot rod farmer and praise his abilities to revive dead steel.
During the summer, the hot rod farmer will tow his treasure to car shows, and sit in a lawn chair while others parade by and gasp in wonderment at his ability to stuff a motor that big into a chassis that small. While the adulation of gape-mouthed strollers may provide some pleasure, there are times when the hot rod farmer will want to be alone. On those days, he will sit in a lawn chair in his own driveway and stare at his creation while the family is off doing “family” things, like conversing and interacting with other living, breathing carbon-based life forms.
Sometimes, on those rare, rare occasions, when there are completely clear, sunny days with temperatures between fifty-five and seventy-two, the hot rod farmer will actually drive his car.
And then, sometime after Labor Day and before the first snows, the hot rod farmer will begin to get itchy. He will begin to become bored with his most recent project. He has, by that date, done everything humanly possible to the car, added every option, changed every bolt, polished every surface, squirted grease into every anxious nipple.
It is now harvest time.
After nearly twelve months of loving care, restoration and threats of divorce, it is time for the hot rod farmer and his project car to part ways. Like a prized 4-H pig, the pride of his work must now be taken to market and sold to the highest bidder. He may get an even return on his investment. Chances are, though, he will probably lose money. That doesn't matter so much to the hot rod farmer. He'll sacrifice a small loss. He needs to move the old car. It is fall. He must empty his garage, so that he can buy another broken down wreck and start the process all over again.
That's right.
The car he has spent a year of sweat, money and threats of divorce to finish is leaving. The vehicle he invested a year of his life into getting just right is going away. It will be replaced by another car, one that needs all the same work he just performed.
Car nuts call this a hobby.
Others call it an illness.
Some call it means of keeping the naughty thoughts in the dungeon.
Me? I just like to watch.
ingurgitate \in-GUR-juh-tayt\ verb
: to swallow greedily or in large quantities : guzzle
Example sentence:
The kids were so hungry after the ball game that they ingurgitated their fries before I even finished squeezing the ketchup on mine.
Did you know?
Most people are familiar with "regurgitate" as a fancy synonym for "throw up," but far fewer know of its rarer antonym "ingurgitate." It's a word as likely to turn up in a spelling bee as in a conversation, but it does see occasional use, both literal (as in "ingurgitating red wine") and figurative (as in "ingurgitating artwork"). "Regurgitate" and "ingurgitate" (as well as "gurgitate," an even rarer synonym of "ingurgitate," and "gorge," meaning "to eat greedily") can be ultimately traced back to the Latin word for "whirlpool," which is "gurges."
furtive \FER-tiv\ adjective
*1 a : done by stealth : surreptitious b : expressive of stealth : sly
2 : obtained underhandedly : stolen
Example sentence:
When Teresa asked who had left the surprise on her desk, Patrick and I exchanged furtive glances across the room.
Did you know?
"Furtive" has a shadowy history. It may have slipped into English directly from Latin or it may have covered its tracks by arriving via French. (The French "furtif" derived from the Latin "furtivus.") But however "furtive" got into English, the Latin word "fur," meaning "thief," is at the root. "Fur" is related to, and may come from, the Greek "phōr," which also means "thief." When first used in English in the early 17th century, "furtive" carried a meaning of "done in a way so as not to be seen," though later it also came to mean, less commonly, "stolen." Whichever meaning you choose, the elusive ancestry of "furtive" is particularly fitting, since a thief must be furtive to avoid getting caught in the act!
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
A spitball? Please. I would never stoop so low. Hand me that pine tar rag, would you?
Many were too depressed by another boneheaded, spoon-handed Steelers loss last Sunday afternoon to watch game two of the World Series that night. It's too bad, too, that you missed two. What you missed was one of the main reasons baseball fans love the game.
Cheating.
Baseball is the cheatenest sport in town. The fact that rules are routinely broken is one of the strongest arguments for being a fan of the game. Creative cheating is not only accepted in professional baseball - it's expected.
Equipment and human hormones are doctored. Bats are drilled hollow and filled with cork to make them lighter. Players are injected full of steroids to make them stronger; they ingest speed to make them more alert. Secret agents hide in outfield scoreboards, staring through binoculars, stealing the opposing catcher's hand signals. It all evens out in the end, because the pitchers are cheating too.
Why?
May as well ask why we didn't just study for that big test rather than write the answers on the bottoms of our shoes an hour before class.
For many baseball players, pitchers in particular, cheating prolongs a short career. While two more years of working in your office might not mean much to your bank account, two more years in the major leagues, where the annual average salary is more than a million dollars (that's the average salary!) can make or break a pitcher.
He may come to the majors at the age of twenty-four with a curveball that drops like it's falling from a cliff. However, if he's still in baseball by the time he's forty, his arm ligaments will no longer produce the sharp twist needed to make a baseball do such things. He'll have discovered the art of cheating.
It's a choice.
Cheat or get out.
Kenny Rogers has chosen to cheat. The forty-one year old starter for the Tigers cheated Sunday night in game two of the World Series. Tony LaRussa, manager of the Cardinals, called the home plate umpire over to the dugout sometime during the first inning and pointed to the mound. “What was that in Roger's hand?” Tony asked, as if he did not already know.
They stopped the game and asked the ancient one what he had.
“Mud. Just some dirt,” came the answer.
Mud?
There's nothing illegal about dirt.
I think Rogers cheated. LaRussa beleived Rogers was cheating. The umpire certainly had to have suspicions that Rogers was cheating. And yet, because he promised to come back the next inning with washed hands, we all secretly applauded him for making it through two outs before discovery. We knew that he had to face the rest of game with just the regular forty-one year old stuff.
He pitched eight innings and won.
We may never know what Kenny Rogers was using to doctor the ball. It may have, indeed, been mud. More likely it was pine tar, the sticky gum used by batters to keep their gloves stuck to the handles of bats. Pine tar is an accepted cheat. Todd Jones, famous relief pitcher and former teammate of Rogers, told the Sporting News, “Pine tar is no big deal to players. Everybody uses pine tar. It's almost a basic part of the game. Sandpaper and Vaseline however, are looked at as cheating.” When asked what he thought Rogers was using, Jones replied, “It could have been chocolate cake.”
Mmmm.
Cheating.
It tastes like cake.
Those who are not baseball fans may not realize what the fuss is about. Unlike you or I, a professional hitter can not only see a baseball being thrown at him from sixty feet away, but can also pick up rotation of the ball, the grip used by the pitcher's hand and the movement of the ball as it approaches at well over eighty miles per hour. One of the ways a pitcher can fool such an eagle-eyed hitter is change the way a ball “slips” out of his grip as he throws it. The pitcher does this naturally by holding the ball a bit differently for each pitch, or does it by rubbing some goop into his hand. It makes the ball “slip” as it flies from his hand. To the batter, the pitcher's arm movement looks like he's thrown a fastball. Unless, of course, he's cheated. A Vaseline-smeared ball will leave the hand a millisecond second later. A pine tar-streaked ball will dip a bit sooner. A ball that had been scuffed with a sharp object (like a sharpened belt buckle, an Emory board, nail file or just good old hidden hunk of sandpaper) will drop like it's falling from a cliff.
Just like it did when the pitcher was twenty-four.
Before his ligaments and cartilage got old.
Before he had to cheat to make his millions.
For me, a man who was once a boy who had trouble keeping his eyes on his own test, there's nothing more delightful than major league baseball, the cheatenest sport in town.
All hail pine tar!
Pass the Vaseline!
God bless the Emory board!
In the name of Gaylord Perry, I say, well done, Kenny Rogers! Well done!
antipode \AN-tuh-pohd\ noun
1: the parts of the earth diametrically opposite - usually used in plural
*2 : the exact opposite or contrary
Example sentence:
"The 12 USFL teams will play every week from March 6 to July 3, the antipode of the NFL season...." (Geoffrey Colvin, Fortune, March 21, 1983)
Did you know?
We borrowed the word "antipode" over 600 years ago. It first appeared in a translation of a Latin text as a word designating "men that have their feet against our feet," that is, inhabitants of the opposite side of the globe. The word, which originated in Greek, combines "anti-," meaning "opposite," with the root "pod-," meaning "foot." "Antipode" is no longer used in English as a designation for people, but the notion of the other side of the globe lives on in its current geographical sense. We have come to use the plural term "antipodes" (pronounced \an-TIH-puh-deez\) to refer to Australia and New Zealand because they are on the other side of the earth from Britain.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
recusant \REK-yuh-zunt\ adjective
: refusing to submit to authority
Example sentence:
Several recusant senators refused to vote along party lines.
Did you know?
In 1534, Henry VIII of England declared himself the head of the Church of England, separating it from the Roman Catholic Church, and the resultant furor led to increased attention focused on people's religious observances. A "recusant" was someone who (from about 1570-1791) refused to attend services of the Church of England, and therefore violated the laws of mandatory church attendance. The word derives from the Latin verb "recusare," meaning "reject" or "oppose." The adjective "recusant" has been in use since the early 17th century. Originally, it meant "refusing to attend the services of the Church of England," but by the century's end, both the adjective and the noun were also being used generally to suggest resistance to authority of any form.
And what are supposed to be, little girl? Or boy.
We all knew our friend Warren was a bit odd, but being eight and nine years old, none of us yet had the vocabulary to label him. We lived in a rural area, one that required a parent to drive the group of trick-or-treaters from house to house in a wood-paneled station wagon. With each stop came the requisite, “And what are you supposed to be, little boy?”
I would answer “A ghost!”
Carol would answer, “A ballerina!”
Josh would bark out, “I'm Frankenstein!”
And Warren, in a wig and a skirt (not too far removed from Carol's ballerina wear) would answer, proudly, “I'm my sister.”
He had no sister.
We never thought much about it. Warren's Mom made such a fuss about helping him dress up. It wasn't until later years, those strange in-between times of ten, eleven and twelve, that we found him a bit cumbersome. Our group was forever waiting for Warren to catch up as we ran from house to house, soaping windows.
It's hard to run in high heels.
Had this Halloween dress up of his merely continued for a year or two, no one would have thought much about it. For Warren, however, there was no other annual costume mode. He varied, of course. One year he was a flapper. The next, he dressed as a nun. Eleven-year old Warren as famous Olympic figure skater Peggy Fleming was a bit much, with all the sparkle and fake gold medals dangling from his neck.
It's hard to run in women's skates.
As each of us learned in our own, sometimes painful methods, what a homosexual was and why our Uncle Johnny never married, but preferred to live with a succession of “roommates”, the Warren situation became even more confusing. Warren, you see, was not only fond of dressing in women's clothing, but was the best athlete we knew.
How could he be a “queer” when he could throw such a tight spiral?
Warren couldn't be a “fairy”, could he?
Further complicating matters was Sandy Webber. Sandy Webber was that legendary type of girl found in everyone's neighborhood who matured well beyond her eighth-grade years (and quickly). She taught many the ways of adulthood, or so we all believed. One day, we collectively dreamed, Sandy would teach us as well.
As soon as she was done with Warren.
Warren, junior high quarterback, A-student, female impersonator, became Sandy's “steady boyfriend”. When ninth grade rolled around, they were a bonified item. He spent so much time with her that by the time Halloween arrived, we were left to throw tomatoes at cars alone. The good news was we would not have to wait as Warren adjusted his bra straps. The bad news was our friend who fantasized about being a woman was the only one of us who was actually spending any time with the real thing.
It was all so confusing.
While we had all known Warren since childhood and therefore could justify his somewhat strange behavior through history, others we encountered at the consolidated high school were not so forgiving. “Why do you hang out with that queer bait?” was asked more than once. No matter how we wanted to explain our friend's obsession, group pressure got to all of us. In the Halloweens that followed we found it easier and easier to make plans that did not involve Warren.
Things have a tendency to work for all involved, or, as Cheap Trick once sang, “Everything works if you let it”. We never had to come to any decision about whether to stop hanging out with Warren on Halloween. Warren made that decision for us by driving to the big city, Pittsburgh, on successive Halloweens during our high school years. At first Sandy accompanied him. Later, he would go it alone, or with his “new” friends, who all dressed as KISS.
Warren was Paul Stanley.
Well , thought we avowed heterosexuals, at least he's no longer a woman .
Sort of .
I'd nearly forgotten about Warren until some years ago when I ran into Sandy. She had married (twice) and was studying to become a nurse's aide somewhere in Ohio. After some chit chat, I decided to ask the question that had been rolling around in the back of my head for some time, but before I could voice it, she asked if I'd heard about Warren.
Heard about him?
“He's been nominated for an Oscar.”
She may as well have told me he'd been nominated for President.
“You know that movie? The musical with what's her name? He designed the costumes. Isn't that great?”
I learned from Sandy that Warren (not his real name) has also been married twice, to two different women, one of whom is an actress that I'm willing to wager many of our former group of trick-or-treaters has fantasized about a time or two.
Way to go, Warren.
Happy Halloween.
Now, adjust your bra strap and let's get moving. We've got lots more windows to soap.
protocol \PROH-tuh-kawl\ noun
1 : an original record of a document or transaction : memorandum
*2 : a code of strict adherence to correct etiquette and precedence
3 : a convention for formatting electronic data
Example sentence:
Ed's actions constituted a severe breach of military protocol.
Did you know?
In Late Greek, the word "prōtokollon" referred to the first sheet of a papyrus roll bearing the date of its manufacture. In some instances, it consisted of a flyleaf that was glued to the outside of a manuscript's case and provided a description of its contents. Coming from the Greek prefix "prōto-" ("first") and the noun "kolla" ("glue"), "protokollon" gave us our word "protocol," which in its original English sense (dating from the 16th century) referred to a record of a document or transaction. In the late 19th century, it began to be used in reference to the etiquette observed by the Head of State of France in ceremonies and relations with other dignitaries. This sense has since extended in meaning to cover any code of proper conduct.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
gnomic \NOH-mik\ adjective
*1 : characterized by aphorism
2 : given to the composition of aphoristic writing
Example sentence:
The poet Emily Dickinson, who wrote "Tell all the Truth but tell it slant," is known for her highly individualistic, gnomic style.
Did you know?
A gnome is an aphorism - that is, an observation or sentiment reduced to the form of a saying. Gnomes are sometimes couched in metaphorical or figurative language, they are often quite clever, and they are always concise. We borrowed the word "gnome" in the 16th century from the Greeks, who based their "gnome" on the verb "gignōskein," meaning "to know." (That other "gnome" - the dwarf of folklore - comes from New Latin and is unrelated to today's word.) We began using "gnomic," the adjective form of "gnome," in the early 19th century. It describes a style of writing (or sometimes speech) characterized by pithy phrases, which are often terse to the point of mysteriousness.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
huckster \HUCK-ster\ noun
*1 : hawker, peddler
2 : one who produces promotional material for commercial clients especially for radio or television
Example sentence:
It was said that Martin was such a clever huckster that he could even sell snow shovels to sunbathers in the summertime.
Did you know?
Hawkers, peddlers, and hucksters have been selling things out of the back of wagons, in narrow alleys, and on the fringes of towns for years (though nowadays, they're more likely to plug their wares on television or the Internet). Of those three words - "hawker," "peddler," or "huckster" - the one that has been around the longest in English is "huckster." It has been with us for over 800 years, and it derives from the Middle Dutch word "hokester," which in turn comes from the verb "hoeken," meaning "to peddle." "Peddler" (or "pedlar") was first attested in the 14th century, and this sense of "hawker" has only been appearing in English texts since the early 1500s.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
Do you love your country - love it enough to sleep for three weeks?
How many times have you gotten up in the morning and said, “Geez. If I could go back to sleep right now, I bet I could sleep for a week”? If you add two more weeks to your request, you could be just the type of person NASA is searching for right now. “Yes! It's true,” as they say in the radio ads, “You can make money in your spare time doing nothing.”
This is not, like those spots promote, a clinical test involving some drug that's yet to be approved by the government. It's simply laying your body down and not getting up for three weeks. Doesn't that sound absolutely dreamy? The strange thing about the offer is that, so far, NASA has been unable to come up with enough willing participants.
Have they canvassed under the Clemente Bridge?
NASA's Johnson Space Center is conducting experiments as we speak on counteracting the effects of weightlessness. In order to fake what it's like to live in space for long periods of time, scientists are asking folks to lie down for three weeks on beds. Their feet are propped just a bit higher than their heads.
While it sounds like a great weekend at home, it's a bit more trying than just hanging out on your couch. When I say that they want you to lie down for three weeks, that's exactly what I mean.
You don't get up.
At all.
You eat while propped up on an elbow. You use a bedpan for a bathroom. You are showered while lying down on your waterproof gurney.
Hmmm.
Not so appetizing, eh?
Scientists already know that living in a weightless environment weakens muscle and bone. What they'd like to determine is whether the effects of long journeys through space can be countered. To do so, they want to strap some folks into their space cots and spin them around a bit (one hour a day, thirty revolutions a minute). The other twenty three hours, you're on your own to do whatever you'd like. You can lie down on your back. Or you can turn on your side. Every once in a while, you can prop yourself up on an elbow and eat space food.
Mmm.
Tang.
When it's time to evacuate (and I mean that in the most refreshing way) you just use the bedpan. Pretend you're in the hospital after you've crashed your motorcycle while on your way to football practice. Unfortunately, there will be no drugs involved, so you'll have to keep your own mind occupied as your body withers away.
Come on.
Who's with me?
Let's go!
America is awaiting your call. NASA wants you. Perhaps you don't want to volunteer personally, but would like to rid your life of a particularly annoying individual. Listen to the following instructions and pretend (as you relay them to that individual later) that we never spoke. Instead, tell the unsuspecting future lab rat that his or her country needs them desperately.
It's not that big a lie.
All told, the participants in the study will work (tough work - lying down) for forty-one days, twenty one of which will actually be spent prone, eleven days will be taken up with medical tests with nine set aside for recovery. For their time, effort and deteriorating body mass, they will be paid six thousand dollars.
Dr. Liz Warren, the deputy project scientist, is in charge of recruiting. You can contact her at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. She's waiting for your call. As a matter of fact, she's surprised she hasn't been swamped with contacts and that is why she has gone public with her search for guinea pigs - er - volunteers. The good doctor says, “I don't know why it's so hard to find volunteers. You look at how many people in this country do nothing but be couch potatoes anyway. Why can't they come to work for us?”
Good question.
Could be that whole “spinning couch” situation.
Could be that whole “hosing down for a shower” situation.
Or it could very well be that six thousand dollars for forty one days of doing nothing is actually less than most make at PennDOT for the same amount of work performed in the same amount of time.
Good luck, Doc.
And if you, or someone you know, would like to help your country in its quest to send average Joes into space, please contact NASA in Houston.
They're waiting for you.
On a revolving cot.
syncretic \sin-KRET-ik\ adjective
: characterized or brought about by the combination of different forms of belief or practice
Example sentence:
Dr. Portman practices a syncretic form of medicine, borrowing from both Eastern and Western medical traditions.
Did you know?
"Syncretic" has its roots in an ancient alliance. It's a descendant of the Greek word "synkrētismos," meaning "federation of Cretan cities" - "syn-" means "together, with," and "Krēt-" means "Cretan." The adjective first appeared in English in the mid-19th century, and the related noun "syncretism" debuted over 200 years earlier. "Syncretic" retains the idea of coalition and appears in such contexts as "syncretic religions," "syncretic societies," and even "syncretic music," all describing things influenced by two or more styles or traditions. The word also has a specific application in linguistics, where it refers to a fusion of grammatical forms.
bowdlerize \BOUD-ler-ize\ verb
1 : to expurgate by omitting or modifying parts considered vulgar
*2 : to modify by abridging, simplifying, or distorting in style or content
Example sentence:
The new regime bowdlerized history books, deleting all mention of the leaders of the resistance.
Did you know?
Few editors have achieved the notoriety of Thomas Bowdler. Bowdler was trained as a physician, but when illness prevented him from practicing medicine, he turned to warning Europeans about unsanitary conditions at French watering places. He then carried his quest for purification to literature, and in 1818 he published his Family Shakspeare [sic], a work in which he promised that "those words and expressions are omitted which cannot with propriety be read aloud in a family." The sanitized volume was popular with the public of the day, but literary critics denounced his modifications of the words of the Bard. Bowdler applied his literary eraser broadly, and within 11 years of his death in 1825, the word "bowdlerize" was being used to refer to expurgating books or other texts.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
antonomasia \an-tuh-noh-MAY-zhuh\ noun
: the use of a proper name to designate a member of a class (as a Solomon for a wise ruler); also : the use of an epithet or title in place of a proper name (as the Bard for Shakespeare)
Example sentence:
"It's antonomasia when you refer to the mayor as His Honor or to Babe Ruth as the Sultan of Swat." (Michael Gartner, Newsday [New York], July 3, 1988)
Did you know?
What's in a name? When it comes to "antonomasia," quite a bit. English speakers picked up that appellative term from Latin, but it traces back to Greek, descending from the verb "antonomazein," meaning "to call by a new name," which itself developed from the Greek noun "onoma," meaning "name." You may already be familiar with some other English "onoma" descendants, such as "onomatopoeia" (the naming of something in imitation of the sound associated with it), "polyonymous" (having multiple names), and "toponymy" (the place-names of a region). "Antonomasia" has been naming names in English since the mid-16th century.
verdant \VER-dunt\ adjective
1 a : green in tint or color *b : green with growing plants
2 : unripe in experience or judgment : green
Example sentence:
"The green, leafy concert site is nestled between the winery's handsome French chateau and its verdant, sculptured gardens...." (Patrick Macdonald, The Seattle Times, September 1, 2006)
Did you know?
English speakers have been using "verdant" as a ripe synonym of "green" since the late 16th century, and as a descriptive term for inexperienced or naive people since the 1820s. (By contrast, the more experienced "green" has colored our language since well before the 12th century, and was first applied to inexperienced people in the 1540s.) "Verdant" is derived from the Old French word for "green," "vert," which in turn is from Latin "virēre," meaning "to be green." Today, "vert" is used in English as a word for green forest vegetation and the heraldic color green. Another descendant of "virēre" is the adjective "virescent," meaning "beginning to be green."
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
There would be an amazing gas leak, and we'd al die at work durng the dinner rush.
That I would finally snap and just begin to kill until I'm shot down dead.
"Do you need anything, Justin?" Yeah, a bullet to the brain.
"Last call! Who wants a shot?" Me, to the brain!
majuscule \MAJ-uh-skyool\ noun
: a large letter (as a capital)
Example sentence:
I can always recognize my brother's handwriting at a quick glance based on how elaborately the majuscules are formed and how they dwarf the other letters.
Did you know?
"Majuscule" looks like the complement to "minuscule," and the resemblance is no coincidence. "Minuscule" appeared in the early 18th century as a word for a lowercase letter, then later as the word for certain ancient and medieval writing styles which had "small forms." "Minuscule" then acquired a more general adjectival use for anything very small. "Majuscule" is the counterpart to "minuscule" when it comes to letters, but it never developed a broader sense (despite the fact that its Latin ancestor "majusculus" has the broad meaning "rather large"). The adjective "majuscule" also exists (as does "majuscular"). Not surprisingly, the adjective shares the noun's specificity, referring only to large letters or to a style using such letters.
nocuous \NAH-kyuh-wus\ adjective
: harmful
Example sentence:
"Poorly tuned engines can put out up to 800 times the nocuous emissions of properly maintained ones." (PR Newswire, January 7, 1992)
Did you know?
You are probably more familiar with the adjective "innocuous," meaning "harmless," than with its antonymous relative "nocuous." Both "nocuous" and "innocuous" have immediate Latin predecessors: "nocuus" and "innocuus." (The latter combines "nocuus" with the negative prefix "in-.") Both words can also be traced back to the Latin verb "nocēre," meaning "to harm." Other "nocēre" descendants in English include "innocent" and "nocent," which means "harmful." "Nuisance" (which originally meant, and still can mean, "a harm or injury") is a more distant relative. "Nocuous" is one of the less common "nocēre" descendants, but it does turn up occasionally.
I'm donating my body to medical science. Good luck to whoever receives what is left of this brain.
If you look on my Pennsylvania driver's license, right next to the photo that makes me look like a happy terrorist, you'll see the words that seal my fate. In bright green letters it states, “Organ Donor”. If they find my body in time, someone will have the grave task (no pun intended) of carving me like so much Thanksgiving turkey and doling my parts out to the needy.
Trust me when I tell you that after spending quite a number of years with my parts, I would qualify anyone with good use for my organs to be very, very needy.
Best of luck with that liver.
I did not, for even a brief moment, put any monetary value on my body when volunteering for the organ donor program. Not being particularly attached to the physical world, I've always believed that the body is just a tool. That hasn't kept me from prancing and preening in front of every mirror I pass, making sure my tool is shiny and well oiled. I like my body, but I never really considered it as one would a good, used car.
As it turns out that may have been a financial mistake.
My body (and yours) is worth cash money to the medical community and there are some who are taking advantage of the market. In a legal case played out recently in the state of New York, it was revealed there is a huge market for previously owned organs. Some funeral home directors have been plundering corpses for quick cash.
The family of Alistair Cooke, the public television personality who hosted “Masterpiece Theater”, first brought the case to the public's attention. By discovering, in the most gruesome of circumstances, that Dad's body wasn't all there, Cooke's sons and daughter threw a spotlight onto a rather bizarre situation.
His bones had been harvested.
“Harvested”, by the way, is one of my favorite words. If you want to truly frighten the family, talk about how you'd like your organs to be “harvested” after you kick. Personally, I think my crop is getting a bit beyond ripe, but, judging from the Cooke case, there's not exactly a freshness date. He was, after all, ninety-five years old and some entrepreneur felt as though his bones were still of value.
And so, they stole them.
In an attempt to hide the thefts from unsuspecting funeral attendees, some Home Depot shopping morticians replaced leg bones with lengths of PVC pipe. This is not a weekend project I've ever seen diagramed in Popular Mechanics, but it will provide archeologists in the year 2600 with some fun.
In the New York case, seven separate funeral directors pleaded guilty to undisclosed, lesser charges in exchange for their testimony about what is described as a growing black market for stolen tissue. The body parts are harvested (there's that word again) and sold to biomedical companies who then resell them, legally, to hospitals for procedures as varied as dental implants and hip replacements.
The Alistair Cooke case came to light not because his heirs discovered grandpa's PVC, but from complaints from organ recipients. After bone transplant patients throughout England had post-operative complications, medical investigators were forced to trace the path of their donated parts. It was found that some came from not-so-reputable sources.
“Where did you get this brain?”
“From someone named Abbie.”
“Abbie?”
“Yes. Abbie Normal.”
Prosecutors allege that a guy named Michael Mastromarino, a former oral surgeon, and three other men secretly removed skin, bone and other body parts from more than one thousand bodies. They harvested the organs (harvested!) from funeral home cadavers, without permission of the deceased's families.
Why?
Millions, baby.
New York's prosecutors estimate that Mastromarino and others have pulled in literally millions from supplying good used parts to bad old biomedical companies. Among the crimes the wonderfully ghoulish group committed was falsification of documents, mainly death certificates. In the case of Alistair Cooke, his age at death was changed from ninety-five to eighty-five and the cause of death was changed from bone cancer to heart attack. I guess you can make more selling bones from a dead eighty-five year old heart attack victim than from a ninety-five year old claimed by bone cancer.
It's the same no matter what business you're in.
You have to know your market.
Now that I know my old wasted pancreas is worth some pennies or dimes to someone, I may be rethinking this whole “donating” of my organs. You have to look out for your family, right? I have full intentions of spending every red cent I make during my lifetime, leaving exactly nothing to my so-called heirs, save for a couple of stacks of very used long-playing records and my ever-growing magazine collection.
It would be nice to leave them something.
The good news is that, thanks to songwriter John Prine, I don't have to leave instructions. I'll just leave a copy of his “Please Don't Bury Me” on top of that stack of albums with instructions to listen and obey.
“Please don't bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I'd druther have ‘em cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get ‘em out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose”
And remember, whatever you decide to do with me… make sure you get a receipt.
For tax purposes.
farceur \far-SUR\ noun
1 : joker, wag
*2 : a writer or actor of farce
Example sentence:
The movie features a famous farceur trying his hand at a serious role for the first time.
Did you know?
You've probably already spotted the "farce" in "farceur." But although "farceur" can now refer to someone who performs or composes farce, it began life in the late 18th century as a word for someone who is simply known for cracking jokes. Appropriately, "farceur" derives via Modern French from the Middle French "farcer," meaning "to joke." If you think of "farce" as a composition of ridiculous humor with a "stuffed" or contrived plot, then it should not surprise you that "farce" originally meant "forcemeat" - seasoned meat used for a stuffing - and that both "farce" and "farceur" can be ultimately traced back to the Latin verb "farcire," meaning "to stuff."
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
techno-thriller \TEK-noh-thrill-er\ noun
: a work of fiction having a high degree of intrigue, adventure, or suspense and a plot that relies on modern technology
Example sentence:
The techno-thriller's protagonist, equipped with an arsenal of futuristic weapons, must prevent a terrorist group's strike on the nation's capital.
Did you know?
"Techno-thriller" owes a lot to technology. Not only do fictional techno-thrillers include a lot of technology in their plots, the word itself includes the combining form "techno-," which derives from the word "technology." The artistic and literary genre is relatively new and so is the word that describes it; the first documented use of "techno-thriller" dates from 1986.
Let's go to the automobile farms! The hot rods are ripe and ready to pick.
Everyone should have a hobby. Whether yours is collecting and mounting bi-winged insects or collecting and mounting bi-breasted bar sluts, a hobby is a great way to keep one's mind occupied and force all naughty thoughts back to the dungeon.
And, as many a priest has confessed from many a far-off Pacific island punishment parish, keeping the naughty thoughts in the dungeon is the real struggle of mankind.
I am a hot rod voyeur.
It's one of my hobbies.
I go to car shows, buy hot rod magazines and rarely miss a week of the Auto Trader. I watch all the rebuild-your-heap shows on TV. The reason I call myself a hot rod voyeur is that while I am always shopping for an old car, I haven't bought one in years.
Honestly, I just like to look.
There are those who do more than just look. They buy. They buy, they build and they sell on a seasonal calendar. I call them hot rod farmers. Some day, when my ability to keep the naughty thoughts in the dungeon begins to evaporate, I will be a hot rod farmer. But for now, I'm still strong and still just looking.
The hot rod farmer spends winters in a garage, building cars he sees in his head. The difference between the car in his head and the car in his garage will determine the amount of time he will spend in that garage. For a simple project, the hot rod farmer will spend a few nights a week and most of his weekends away from the family, holed up in his home away from home, four walls and an air compressor. For more radical and serious dreams, the hot rod farmer will be absent without leave, a sailor out to sea on a ship built of old welding tanks.
In the spring the doors of the garage are opened. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, or a sleeping bear waking and stumbling from a cave in need of a good, long whiz, the car that was in the hot rod farmer's head is rolled from its winter home and into the sunlight. It is a marvelous and breathtaking event. His friends and other voyeurs, like myself, gather around to congratulate the hot rod farmer and praise his abilities to revive dead steel.
During the summer, the hot rod farmer will tow his treasure to car shows, and sit in a lawn chair while others parade by and gasp in wonderment at his ability to stuff a motor that big into a chassis that small. While the adulation of gape-mouthed strollers may provide some pleasure, there are times when the hot rod farmer will want to be alone. On those days, he will sit in a lawn chair in his own driveway and stare at his creation while the family is off doing “family” things, like conversing and interacting with other living, breathing carbon-based life forms.
Sometimes, on those rare, rare occasions, when there are completely clear, sunny days with temperatures between fifty-five and seventy-two, the hot rod farmer will actually drive his car.
And then, sometime after Labor Day and before the first snows, the hot rod farmer will begin to get itchy. He will begin to become bored with his most recent project. He has, by that date, done everything humanly possible to the car, added every option, changed every bolt, polished every surface, squirted grease into every anxious nipple.
It is now harvest time.
After nearly twelve months of loving care, restoration and threats of divorce, it is time for the hot rod farmer and his project car to part ways. Like a prized 4-H pig, the pride of his work must now be taken to market and sold to the highest bidder. He may get an even return on his investment. Chances are, though, he will probably lose money. That doesn't matter so much to the hot rod farmer. He'll sacrifice a small loss. He needs to move the old car. It is fall. He must empty his garage, so that he can buy another broken down wreck and start the process all over again.
That's right.
The car he has spent a year of sweat, money and threats of divorce to finish is leaving. The vehicle he invested a year of his life into getting just right is going away. It will be replaced by another car, one that needs all the same work he just performed.
Car nuts call this a hobby.
Others call it an illness.
Some call it means of keeping the naughty thoughts in the dungeon.
Me? I just like to watch.
ingurgitate \in-GUR-juh-tayt\ verb
: to swallow greedily or in large quantities : guzzle
Example sentence:
The kids were so hungry after the ball game that they ingurgitated their fries before I even finished squeezing the ketchup on mine.
Did you know?
Most people are familiar with "regurgitate" as a fancy synonym for "throw up," but far fewer know of its rarer antonym "ingurgitate." It's a word as likely to turn up in a spelling bee as in a conversation, but it does see occasional use, both literal (as in "ingurgitating red wine") and figurative (as in "ingurgitating artwork"). "Regurgitate" and "ingurgitate" (as well as "gurgitate," an even rarer synonym of "ingurgitate," and "gorge," meaning "to eat greedily") can be ultimately traced back to the Latin word for "whirlpool," which is "gurges."
furtive \FER-tiv\ adjective
*1 a : done by stealth : surreptitious b : expressive of stealth : sly
2 : obtained underhandedly : stolen
Example sentence:
When Teresa asked who had left the surprise on her desk, Patrick and I exchanged furtive glances across the room.
Did you know?
"Furtive" has a shadowy history. It may have slipped into English directly from Latin or it may have covered its tracks by arriving via French. (The French "furtif" derived from the Latin "furtivus.") But however "furtive" got into English, the Latin word "fur," meaning "thief," is at the root. "Fur" is related to, and may come from, the Greek "phōr," which also means "thief." When first used in English in the early 17th century, "furtive" carried a meaning of "done in a way so as not to be seen," though later it also came to mean, less commonly, "stolen." Whichever meaning you choose, the elusive ancestry of "furtive" is particularly fitting, since a thief must be furtive to avoid getting caught in the act!
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
A spitball? Please. I would never stoop so low. Hand me that pine tar rag, would you?
Many were too depressed by another boneheaded, spoon-handed Steelers loss last Sunday afternoon to watch game two of the World Series that night. It's too bad, too, that you missed two. What you missed was one of the main reasons baseball fans love the game.
Cheating.
Baseball is the cheatenest sport in town. The fact that rules are routinely broken is one of the strongest arguments for being a fan of the game. Creative cheating is not only accepted in professional baseball - it's expected.
Equipment and human hormones are doctored. Bats are drilled hollow and filled with cork to make them lighter. Players are injected full of steroids to make them stronger; they ingest speed to make them more alert. Secret agents hide in outfield scoreboards, staring through binoculars, stealing the opposing catcher's hand signals. It all evens out in the end, because the pitchers are cheating too.
Why?
May as well ask why we didn't just study for that big test rather than write the answers on the bottoms of our shoes an hour before class.
For many baseball players, pitchers in particular, cheating prolongs a short career. While two more years of working in your office might not mean much to your bank account, two more years in the major leagues, where the annual average salary is more than a million dollars (that's the average salary!) can make or break a pitcher.
He may come to the majors at the age of twenty-four with a curveball that drops like it's falling from a cliff. However, if he's still in baseball by the time he's forty, his arm ligaments will no longer produce the sharp twist needed to make a baseball do such things. He'll have discovered the art of cheating.
It's a choice.
Cheat or get out.
Kenny Rogers has chosen to cheat. The forty-one year old starter for the Tigers cheated Sunday night in game two of the World Series. Tony LaRussa, manager of the Cardinals, called the home plate umpire over to the dugout sometime during the first inning and pointed to the mound. “What was that in Roger's hand?” Tony asked, as if he did not already know.
They stopped the game and asked the ancient one what he had.
“Mud. Just some dirt,” came the answer.
Mud?
There's nothing illegal about dirt.
I think Rogers cheated. LaRussa beleived Rogers was cheating. The umpire certainly had to have suspicions that Rogers was cheating. And yet, because he promised to come back the next inning with washed hands, we all secretly applauded him for making it through two outs before discovery. We knew that he had to face the rest of game with just the regular forty-one year old stuff.
He pitched eight innings and won.
We may never know what Kenny Rogers was using to doctor the ball. It may have, indeed, been mud. More likely it was pine tar, the sticky gum used by batters to keep their gloves stuck to the handles of bats. Pine tar is an accepted cheat. Todd Jones, famous relief pitcher and former teammate of Rogers, told the Sporting News, “Pine tar is no big deal to players. Everybody uses pine tar. It's almost a basic part of the game. Sandpaper and Vaseline however, are looked at as cheating.” When asked what he thought Rogers was using, Jones replied, “It could have been chocolate cake.”
Mmmm.
Cheating.
It tastes like cake.
Those who are not baseball fans may not realize what the fuss is about. Unlike you or I, a professional hitter can not only see a baseball being thrown at him from sixty feet away, but can also pick up rotation of the ball, the grip used by the pitcher's hand and the movement of the ball as it approaches at well over eighty miles per hour. One of the ways a pitcher can fool such an eagle-eyed hitter is change the way a ball “slips” out of his grip as he throws it. The pitcher does this naturally by holding the ball a bit differently for each pitch, or does it by rubbing some goop into his hand. It makes the ball “slip” as it flies from his hand. To the batter, the pitcher's arm movement looks like he's thrown a fastball. Unless, of course, he's cheated. A Vaseline-smeared ball will leave the hand a millisecond second later. A pine tar-streaked ball will dip a bit sooner. A ball that had been scuffed with a sharp object (like a sharpened belt buckle, an Emory board, nail file or just good old hidden hunk of sandpaper) will drop like it's falling from a cliff.
Just like it did when the pitcher was twenty-four.
Before his ligaments and cartilage got old.
Before he had to cheat to make his millions.
For me, a man who was once a boy who had trouble keeping his eyes on his own test, there's nothing more delightful than major league baseball, the cheatenest sport in town.
All hail pine tar!
Pass the Vaseline!
God bless the Emory board!
In the name of Gaylord Perry, I say, well done, Kenny Rogers! Well done!
antipode \AN-tuh-pohd\ noun
1: the parts of the earth diametrically opposite - usually used in plural
*2 : the exact opposite or contrary
Example sentence:
"The 12 USFL teams will play every week from March 6 to July 3, the antipode of the NFL season...." (Geoffrey Colvin, Fortune, March 21, 1983)
Did you know?
We borrowed the word "antipode" over 600 years ago. It first appeared in a translation of a Latin text as a word designating "men that have their feet against our feet," that is, inhabitants of the opposite side of the globe. The word, which originated in Greek, combines "anti-," meaning "opposite," with the root "pod-," meaning "foot." "Antipode" is no longer used in English as a designation for people, but the notion of the other side of the globe lives on in its current geographical sense. We have come to use the plural term "antipodes" (pronounced \an-TIH-puh-deez\) to refer to Australia and New Zealand because they are on the other side of the earth from Britain.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
recusant \REK-yuh-zunt\ adjective
: refusing to submit to authority
Example sentence:
Several recusant senators refused to vote along party lines.
Did you know?
In 1534, Henry VIII of England declared himself the head of the Church of England, separating it from the Roman Catholic Church, and the resultant furor led to increased attention focused on people's religious observances. A "recusant" was someone who (from about 1570-1791) refused to attend services of the Church of England, and therefore violated the laws of mandatory church attendance. The word derives from the Latin verb "recusare," meaning "reject" or "oppose." The adjective "recusant" has been in use since the early 17th century. Originally, it meant "refusing to attend the services of the Church of England," but by the century's end, both the adjective and the noun were also being used generally to suggest resistance to authority of any form.
And what are supposed to be, little girl? Or boy.
We all knew our friend Warren was a bit odd, but being eight and nine years old, none of us yet had the vocabulary to label him. We lived in a rural area, one that required a parent to drive the group of trick-or-treaters from house to house in a wood-paneled station wagon. With each stop came the requisite, “And what are you supposed to be, little boy?”
I would answer “A ghost!”
Carol would answer, “A ballerina!”
Josh would bark out, “I'm Frankenstein!”
And Warren, in a wig and a skirt (not too far removed from Carol's ballerina wear) would answer, proudly, “I'm my sister.”
He had no sister.
We never thought much about it. Warren's Mom made such a fuss about helping him dress up. It wasn't until later years, those strange in-between times of ten, eleven and twelve, that we found him a bit cumbersome. Our group was forever waiting for Warren to catch up as we ran from house to house, soaping windows.
It's hard to run in high heels.
Had this Halloween dress up of his merely continued for a year or two, no one would have thought much about it. For Warren, however, there was no other annual costume mode. He varied, of course. One year he was a flapper. The next, he dressed as a nun. Eleven-year old Warren as famous Olympic figure skater Peggy Fleming was a bit much, with all the sparkle and fake gold medals dangling from his neck.
It's hard to run in women's skates.
As each of us learned in our own, sometimes painful methods, what a homosexual was and why our Uncle Johnny never married, but preferred to live with a succession of “roommates”, the Warren situation became even more confusing. Warren, you see, was not only fond of dressing in women's clothing, but was the best athlete we knew.
How could he be a “queer” when he could throw such a tight spiral?
Warren couldn't be a “fairy”, could he?
Further complicating matters was Sandy Webber. Sandy Webber was that legendary type of girl found in everyone's neighborhood who matured well beyond her eighth-grade years (and quickly). She taught many the ways of adulthood, or so we all believed. One day, we collectively dreamed, Sandy would teach us as well.
As soon as she was done with Warren.
Warren, junior high quarterback, A-student, female impersonator, became Sandy's “steady boyfriend”. When ninth grade rolled around, they were a bonified item. He spent so much time with her that by the time Halloween arrived, we were left to throw tomatoes at cars alone. The good news was we would not have to wait as Warren adjusted his bra straps. The bad news was our friend who fantasized about being a woman was the only one of us who was actually spending any time with the real thing.
It was all so confusing.
While we had all known Warren since childhood and therefore could justify his somewhat strange behavior through history, others we encountered at the consolidated high school were not so forgiving. “Why do you hang out with that queer bait?” was asked more than once. No matter how we wanted to explain our friend's obsession, group pressure got to all of us. In the Halloweens that followed we found it easier and easier to make plans that did not involve Warren.
Things have a tendency to work for all involved, or, as Cheap Trick once sang, “Everything works if you let it”. We never had to come to any decision about whether to stop hanging out with Warren on Halloween. Warren made that decision for us by driving to the big city, Pittsburgh, on successive Halloweens during our high school years. At first Sandy accompanied him. Later, he would go it alone, or with his “new” friends, who all dressed as KISS.
Warren was Paul Stanley.
Well , thought we avowed heterosexuals, at least he's no longer a woman .
Sort of .
I'd nearly forgotten about Warren until some years ago when I ran into Sandy. She had married (twice) and was studying to become a nurse's aide somewhere in Ohio. After some chit chat, I decided to ask the question that had been rolling around in the back of my head for some time, but before I could voice it, she asked if I'd heard about Warren.
Heard about him?
“He's been nominated for an Oscar.”
She may as well have told me he'd been nominated for President.
“You know that movie? The musical with what's her name? He designed the costumes. Isn't that great?”
I learned from Sandy that Warren (not his real name) has also been married twice, to two different women, one of whom is an actress that I'm willing to wager many of our former group of trick-or-treaters has fantasized about a time or two.
Way to go, Warren.
Happy Halloween.
Now, adjust your bra strap and let's get moving. We've got lots more windows to soap.
protocol \PROH-tuh-kawl\ noun
1 : an original record of a document or transaction : memorandum
*2 : a code of strict adherence to correct etiquette and precedence
3 : a convention for formatting electronic data
Example sentence:
Ed's actions constituted a severe breach of military protocol.
Did you know?
In Late Greek, the word "prōtokollon" referred to the first sheet of a papyrus roll bearing the date of its manufacture. In some instances, it consisted of a flyleaf that was glued to the outside of a manuscript's case and provided a description of its contents. Coming from the Greek prefix "prōto-" ("first") and the noun "kolla" ("glue"), "protokollon" gave us our word "protocol," which in its original English sense (dating from the 16th century) referred to a record of a document or transaction. In the late 19th century, it began to be used in reference to the etiquette observed by the Head of State of France in ceremonies and relations with other dignitaries. This sense has since extended in meaning to cover any code of proper conduct.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
gnomic \NOH-mik\ adjective
*1 : characterized by aphorism
2 : given to the composition of aphoristic writing
Example sentence:
The poet Emily Dickinson, who wrote "Tell all the Truth but tell it slant," is known for her highly individualistic, gnomic style.
Did you know?
A gnome is an aphorism - that is, an observation or sentiment reduced to the form of a saying. Gnomes are sometimes couched in metaphorical or figurative language, they are often quite clever, and they are always concise. We borrowed the word "gnome" in the 16th century from the Greeks, who based their "gnome" on the verb "gignōskein," meaning "to know." (That other "gnome" - the dwarf of folklore - comes from New Latin and is unrelated to today's word.) We began using "gnomic," the adjective form of "gnome," in the early 19th century. It describes a style of writing (or sometimes speech) characterized by pithy phrases, which are often terse to the point of mysteriousness.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
huckster \HUCK-ster\ noun
*1 : hawker, peddler
2 : one who produces promotional material for commercial clients especially for radio or television
Example sentence:
It was said that Martin was such a clever huckster that he could even sell snow shovels to sunbathers in the summertime.
Did you know?
Hawkers, peddlers, and hucksters have been selling things out of the back of wagons, in narrow alleys, and on the fringes of towns for years (though nowadays, they're more likely to plug their wares on television or the Internet). Of those three words - "hawker," "peddler," or "huckster" - the one that has been around the longest in English is "huckster." It has been with us for over 800 years, and it derives from the Middle Dutch word "hokester," which in turn comes from the verb "hoeken," meaning "to peddle." "Peddler" (or "pedlar") was first attested in the 14th century, and this sense of "hawker" has only been appearing in English texts since the early 1500s.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
Do you love your country - love it enough to sleep for three weeks?
How many times have you gotten up in the morning and said, “Geez. If I could go back to sleep right now, I bet I could sleep for a week”? If you add two more weeks to your request, you could be just the type of person NASA is searching for right now. “Yes! It's true,” as they say in the radio ads, “You can make money in your spare time doing nothing.”
This is not, like those spots promote, a clinical test involving some drug that's yet to be approved by the government. It's simply laying your body down and not getting up for three weeks. Doesn't that sound absolutely dreamy? The strange thing about the offer is that, so far, NASA has been unable to come up with enough willing participants.
Have they canvassed under the Clemente Bridge?
NASA's Johnson Space Center is conducting experiments as we speak on counteracting the effects of weightlessness. In order to fake what it's like to live in space for long periods of time, scientists are asking folks to lie down for three weeks on beds. Their feet are propped just a bit higher than their heads.
While it sounds like a great weekend at home, it's a bit more trying than just hanging out on your couch. When I say that they want you to lie down for three weeks, that's exactly what I mean.
You don't get up.
At all.
You eat while propped up on an elbow. You use a bedpan for a bathroom. You are showered while lying down on your waterproof gurney.
Hmmm.
Not so appetizing, eh?
Scientists already know that living in a weightless environment weakens muscle and bone. What they'd like to determine is whether the effects of long journeys through space can be countered. To do so, they want to strap some folks into their space cots and spin them around a bit (one hour a day, thirty revolutions a minute). The other twenty three hours, you're on your own to do whatever you'd like. You can lie down on your back. Or you can turn on your side. Every once in a while, you can prop yourself up on an elbow and eat space food.
Mmm.
Tang.
When it's time to evacuate (and I mean that in the most refreshing way) you just use the bedpan. Pretend you're in the hospital after you've crashed your motorcycle while on your way to football practice. Unfortunately, there will be no drugs involved, so you'll have to keep your own mind occupied as your body withers away.
Come on.
Who's with me?
Let's go!
America is awaiting your call. NASA wants you. Perhaps you don't want to volunteer personally, but would like to rid your life of a particularly annoying individual. Listen to the following instructions and pretend (as you relay them to that individual later) that we never spoke. Instead, tell the unsuspecting future lab rat that his or her country needs them desperately.
It's not that big a lie.
All told, the participants in the study will work (tough work - lying down) for forty-one days, twenty one of which will actually be spent prone, eleven days will be taken up with medical tests with nine set aside for recovery. For their time, effort and deteriorating body mass, they will be paid six thousand dollars.
Dr. Liz Warren, the deputy project scientist, is in charge of recruiting. You can contact her at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. She's waiting for your call. As a matter of fact, she's surprised she hasn't been swamped with contacts and that is why she has gone public with her search for guinea pigs - er - volunteers. The good doctor says, “I don't know why it's so hard to find volunteers. You look at how many people in this country do nothing but be couch potatoes anyway. Why can't they come to work for us?”
Good question.
Could be that whole “spinning couch” situation.
Could be that whole “hosing down for a shower” situation.
Or it could very well be that six thousand dollars for forty one days of doing nothing is actually less than most make at PennDOT for the same amount of work performed in the same amount of time.
Good luck, Doc.
And if you, or someone you know, would like to help your country in its quest to send average Joes into space, please contact NASA in Houston.
They're waiting for you.
On a revolving cot.
syncretic \sin-KRET-ik\ adjective
: characterized or brought about by the combination of different forms of belief or practice
Example sentence:
Dr. Portman practices a syncretic form of medicine, borrowing from both Eastern and Western medical traditions.
Did you know?
"Syncretic" has its roots in an ancient alliance. It's a descendant of the Greek word "synkrētismos," meaning "federation of Cretan cities" - "syn-" means "together, with," and "Krēt-" means "Cretan." The adjective first appeared in English in the mid-19th century, and the related noun "syncretism" debuted over 200 years earlier. "Syncretic" retains the idea of coalition and appears in such contexts as "syncretic religions," "syncretic societies," and even "syncretic music," all describing things influenced by two or more styles or traditions. The word also has a specific application in linguistics, where it refers to a fusion of grammatical forms.
bowdlerize \BOUD-ler-ize\ verb
1 : to expurgate by omitting or modifying parts considered vulgar
*2 : to modify by abridging, simplifying, or distorting in style or content
Example sentence:
The new regime bowdlerized history books, deleting all mention of the leaders of the resistance.
Did you know?
Few editors have achieved the notoriety of Thomas Bowdler. Bowdler was trained as a physician, but when illness prevented him from practicing medicine, he turned to warning Europeans about unsanitary conditions at French watering places. He then carried his quest for purification to literature, and in 1818 he published his Family Shakspeare [sic], a work in which he promised that "those words and expressions are omitted which cannot with propriety be read aloud in a family." The sanitized volume was popular with the public of the day, but literary critics denounced his modifications of the words of the Bard. Bowdler applied his literary eraser broadly, and within 11 years of his death in 1825, the word "bowdlerize" was being used to refer to expurgating books or other texts.
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.
antonomasia \an-tuh-noh-MAY-zhuh\ noun
: the use of a proper name to designate a member of a class (as a Solomon for a wise ruler); also : the use of an epithet or title in place of a proper name (as the Bard for Shakespeare)
Example sentence:
"It's antonomasia when you refer to the mayor as His Honor or to Babe Ruth as the Sultan of Swat." (Michael Gartner, Newsday [New York], July 3, 1988)
Did you know?
What's in a name? When it comes to "antonomasia," quite a bit. English speakers picked up that appellative term from Latin, but it traces back to Greek, descending from the verb "antonomazein," meaning "to call by a new name," which itself developed from the Greek noun "onoma," meaning "name." You may already be familiar with some other English "onoma" descendants, such as "onomatopoeia" (the naming of something in imitation of the sound associated with it), "polyonymous" (having multiple names), and "toponymy" (the place-names of a region). "Antonomasia" has been naming names in English since the mid-16th century.
verdant \VER-dunt\ adjective
1 a : green in tint or color *b : green with growing plants
2 : unripe in experience or judgment : green
Example sentence:
"The green, leafy concert site is nestled between the winery's handsome French chateau and its verdant, sculptured gardens...." (Patrick Macdonald, The Seattle Times, September 1, 2006)
Did you know?
English speakers have been using "verdant" as a ripe synonym of "green" since the late 16th century, and as a descriptive term for inexperienced or naive people since the 1820s. (By contrast, the more experienced "green" has colored our language since well before the 12th century, and was first applied to inexperienced people in the 1540s.) "Verdant" is derived from the Old French word for "green," "vert," which in turn is from Latin "virēre," meaning "to be green." Today, "vert" is used in English as a word for green forest vegetation and the heraldic color green. Another descendant of "virēre" is the adjective "virescent," meaning "beginning to be green."
*Indicates the sense illustrated in the example sentence.