30-Second Word Whoop: “Following”

Following the leader: A game for Gummys.

An editor’s pet peeve — is it just me? or do I have followers? — is the use of the word “following” when “after” would suffice. It’s like using “occurred” in place of “happened” and don’t even get me started on its evil cousin “prior to.” Pretentious, right?

Some say you use “following” to express immediately after, as opposed to “after,” which could mean anytime after. It follows, then, on an invitation to say: “Join us for a reception following the show.”

But that’s precisely my point. Why not say “after the show?” Seems more friendly, like.

The “immediately after” argument is not so precise, anyway. “Following” is no more or less precise a time stamp than “after.” It only takes MORE time to type, read or say — which might make you late for a very important date.

“Following” and “after” are in no way synonyms. See the following list of exceptions. He phoned her the following day. They both mean what comes immediately after, yet you cannot substitute “after” in these examples.

Because I’m a leading authority

Following my logic, if you can substitute “after” where you see “following,” you may be guilty of verbosity. Following her realization that she was insane, she extracted all four impacted wisdom teeth at age 40, which impacted her poorly. Possibly the worst sentence ever written. Don’t you wish you could have those four seconds back?

My trick: Think of the verb “to follow” and “pursue” at once — and apply the word “following” when something truly “ensues.” Just a guide, and a silly mnemonic, but we editors depend on those to stay on track.

I hereby issue the following decree: In these days of blogging and tweeting and following those who do — and who doesn’t prefer communication’s short form?  — best take time for afterthought before committing to “following.”

30-Second Word Whoop: “Swipe”

Cashier carefully watches to make sure I swipe correctly, as opposed to swiping something from the store.

In the Eighties in my Detroit ‘hood, “swipe” meant only to steal. That was before possessions, like cars, were “jacked” — and we’re not talking the kind of jacking done to change a tire.

The most common “swipe” these days is what you do at the cashier on cue: Swipe your card NOW! Still often involves highway robbery, but we give authorization.

Interesting how the first dictionary definition of “swipe” involves physical violence:

1. a strong, sweeping blow, as with a cricket bat or golf club.

2. Informal: a swing of the arm in order to strike somebody; punch.

It also informally refers to “a critical or cutting remark.” Or, arcanely, to “a leverlike device for raising or lowering a weight, especially a bucket in a well; sweep.”

No doubt habitual swiping will lead to some sort of repetitive motion injury among consumers, as swiping machines are continually redesigned.

What pains me is the variety of machines out there, and the impatient checkout clerks who bark instructions at you a beat too soon when you are merely straining to read the screen.

Sometimes makes me want to take a swipe at someone.

30-Second Word Whoop: “Clamor”

Consumer demand for the 32GB iPhone 4S is high, but that doesn’t mean crowds are clamoring.

People aren’t necessarily “clamoring” for the iPhone 4S – unless gadget-hungry hordes test sexy Siri all at once.

“Clamor” usually involves noise or implied noise, as in a “public outcry,” “hubbub.” Yet writers erroneously use “clamor” to refer to jostling or flocking.

Don’t make me scream.

You might be confused with the word “clamber,” denoting a tough, clumsy climb. Even looks like “climb,” so it’s easy to remember: Gear-laden grunts clambered up the hill.

If people were clambering for the iPhone, I’d be concerned for those at the bottom of the pile.

Consumers may indeed be clamoring for the release of the iPhone 5, disappointed over its delay. But before stampeding to use “clamor,” gauge the VU meter of public opinion and emotion. If the authorities would clamp down on them, folks are likely clamoring.

30-Second Word Whoop: “Pedestrian”

On the surface, “pedestrian” means one who walks. As species skills go, walking upright is an impressive advancement.

How, then, has the word devolved into meaning plebian, plain, dull or unsophisticated?

Seems a long distance for a word to travel.

First encountered in 1793, the English word derives from the Latin pedester (“going on foot”). Pedester arose in contrast to equester (“on horseback”), cementing a class distinction right off. Think royal equestrian vs. barefoot peasant.

Once cars and jet planes surpassed horses for getting around, mass transit arrived as the great equalizer, right? Wrong. More “commoners” than “the well-heeled” seem to use public transportation — poor cleaning ladies, lugging home sacks of groceries in the rain.

Still, pedestrians possess power. They can stop traffic! Marching, they topple autocrats or push social change. Strength in numbers and, with all that walking, they’re perhaps stronger in constitution than fat cats out violating the HOV lane in their gas-guzzling SUVs.

Maybe someday, after our fossil fuel fixation cripples us, pedestrians will be in the power seat. It’ll be most civilized to walk in eco-smart walkable enclaves, and the “masses” will be distinguished only by body mass. Prosaic on Prozac.

And instead of pedestrian crossing signs, herald and hail … the zebra car!

9 Signs (and Co-Signs) of Our Times

30-Second Word Whoop: “Loath” to “Breathe”

SVG Version of Image:Pac_Man.png

Something’s eeeeeeeeating away at me. Image via Wikipedia

The prefix “e” — shorthand for “electronic” — exercises eminent domain in digitizing common English words:
e-mail, e-book, e-ticket, e-commerce. Like Pac-Man, it chomps through unnecessary syllables to create perfectly understandable fad words like “e-zine” and “e-vite.”

Amid this e-English racket, I want to give voice to the silent e, which has been around forever, a caboose working hard to make distinctions that are increasingly ignored by our e-audience.

It couldn’t be easier to remember the difference between, i.e., “breath” and “breathe,” or “loath” and “loathe,” yet I see these egregious errors daily. Pay attention; not gonna say it twice.

In these examples, the words ending in “e” are verbs. The others aren’t. You breathe breaths. “Breath” is the noun. Think of holding your breath, and please withhold the e.

“Loath” seems trickier for people; it’s an adjective. If you are loath to loathe someone, you are reluctant to detest them. Think of “loath,” like “breath,” as holding something back — unwilling, averse, disinclined.

Now, you can take a deep breath, and breathe easier when writing your
e-masterpieces —”e-pieces”?

Let’s hear it for the silent “e”! We are loath to use it incorrectly, because we loathe errors.

30-second Word Whoop: “Mulligan”

Caricatures: GOP Presidential Debate Participa...

Politics is not so much a war of ideas as a war of words. Monday night’s battlefield: the Republican presidential debate in Tampa.

I tuned in, and there’s that word again: “mulligan.” I heard it volleyed by Mitt Romney at last Wednesday’s debate in Simi Valley, Calif. (though I think Rick Perry started it …). Romney was being defensive, saying every candidate deserved to take “a mulligan” or two on bad decisions from the past.

This time, Michele Bachmann lobbed it repeatedly at Rick Perry as one of her talking points — saying that in the case of government-mandated inoculations against a virus that causes cervical cancer, “little girls don’t get a mulligan … they don’t get a do-over.”

I’ll leave it to the pundits to keep score; I just want to know what, exactly, it means.

I’ve heard of mulligan stew — a hodgepodge. It’s Irish, right? Maybe goes well with a swig of something?

The “Mulligan Man” pops to mind, like the Roto-Rooter guy. Oh, wait. It was “Hey, Culligan Man!” Thanks, YouTube:

Turns out, a “mulligan” relates to scorekeeping in golf. Its etymology is debatable. Could be Scottish; I lose track of who kicked whom out of whose country. First popularized in the 1940s, mulligan refers to a second shot allowed by an opponent after a player hacks his swing.

I thought candidates aimed to be folksy and speak to the American people, not use lexicon straight from the country club.

A pile of golf balls, not goofballs. 🙂

Maybe the term will come in handy as the 2012 presidential field tries to navigate the obstacle course in the remaining SWING states. (Maybe the mulligan stew even will start thinning out.)

30-Second Word Whoop: “Whelm”


The joke goes — overheard in both the newsroom and the comedy club — why are we always “overwhelmed” and “underwhelmed”? What if I wanna be just plain “whelmed”?

Guffaws all around, as if the word doesn’t exist.

The joke’s on you. It does. There’s even “a picture in the dictionary,” as the popular joke set-up goes, showing a shell with water surrounding it. Yet nobody told the “spellcheck” tool; as I write, it underlines “whelm” as a red flag.

“Whelm,” which means to submerge, engulf, cover with water or bury, is also a synonym for “overwhelm.” That’s like “wet” being a synonym for “drenched.”

Why overdo it with the “over” overkill? You could say that, in usage, “whelm” has been overwhelmed by “overwhelm.” Or “overwhelmed” underwhelmed by “whelm.” Even the urban dictionary has downgraded the meaning to:

1. Verb. To Whelm. When someone or something is distinctly average and you are not moved by him/it at all.

2. To be in a state of inflicted normality. See also OVER and UNDER whelm.

Gee, if I were “whelm,” I’d first see a therapist.

30-Second Word Whoop: “Bologna”

Bologna by Bar-S Foods, Phoenix AZ (USA)

Image via Wikipedia

Bologna” … “baloney” … “boloney” … what nonsense (secondary definition)!

Many foodstuffs are named for geography, as this American mash of beef, pork, veal — or all of the above — and direct descendant of the Italian mortadella (yikes! — I spy the root for “death” in it) from its namesake city in Italy dating to the Bronze Age.

But comic Jim Gaffigan says it best.  Only 90 more seconds. Enjoy!

30-Second Word Whoop: “Hack”

hacking in a suite at clarion

Could be the workspace of a hacker ... or a hack like me.

As a headline writer, I celebrate versatile words with multiple meanings. “Hack” can refer to writers, cabdrivers, geeks or politicians. It describes being industrious enough to chop wood, idle enough to waste time (yours or someone else’s) and durable enough to “hack it.” Hackers inspire fear and awe; hacks, derision. A “hacktivist” is a hacker with principles, good or bad.

But the newest application of “hack” is to devise a workaround or beast a challenge. It has become a clickable headline word: 5 Hacks On Your Taxes. Not cheating per se, but simply getting them filed — hopefully, without getting hacked.

If you’re a hackney, you drive a cab; if hackneyed, you’re common or trite; if hacked, you may be breached or mangled.

You could have a hacking cough, but better a hacking jacket, which you wouldn’t likely wear while writing code, but riding a horse.

According to Webster’s, “hack” comes from the Old English haccian or German hacken — which may have translated as “hook” or “hatchet.”

A hackamore is a type of rope; to “get someone’s hackles up,” like a dog’s, means to make them bristle, with anger or tension — unraveled, unhinged.

In basketball or rugby, hackers foul. But if you simply annoy someone, they’re hacked off.

Hackberries and hackmatacks are types of trees. A hacksaw could easily cut them down.