Turns out the word does come from the Dutch ezel, originally “ass,” from the Middle Dutch esel, from the Latin asinus, or “ass.” The comparison, according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, is to “loading a burden on a donkey and propping up a painting or canvas on a wooden stand,” or a sawhorse.
Almost reduces fine art to the domain of peasants.
Rudyard Kipling’s poem The White Man’s Burden pops to mind. It was published in 1899 in Life magazine alongside this political cartoon showing imperialist bourgeoisie riding “sullen peoples” in developing countries as if they were burros.
Easel-wise, somehow France is the country that most often comes to mind, civilized and sophisticated with accessories of paint palette and beret. An easel today can be made not only of wood but metal or Playskool plastic. You see them equally at home straddling early-education nooks and retirement retreats.
Interesting too how this artist’s workbench is both a tool of creation and a pedestal to display all variety of showpiece and advertisement.
Consider a starving street artist, selling her labors to afford her next meal. Art is definitely that unique field where indigenous simple folk and wealthy snobs intersect. As the rich rack up trips abroad, they collect trophies, displayed like stuffed game around the house.
When an artist faces a blank canvas, does she feel the burden of creation? Is it a job like any other, performed by calloused hands and measured by output?
Some of the burden is no doubt lifted by the easel, making art work a little easier.
This site is no dictionary.com. We prefer to “riff” on words rather than act as an authority or stretch your vocabulary. Still, sometimes we run into a stretttttttttchy word like “sesquipedalian” that stops us short.
“Sesquipedalian” may sound like a six-footed monster or belabored joke, but surprise! The definition:
1. given to using long words.
2. (of a word) containing many syllables.
3. a sesquipedalian word.
Literally, it means “a foot and a half long.” Let’s break it down: sesqui- comes directly from the Latin sesqui (“one and a half”); + pedal, from Latin pedis, form of pes (“foot”), + adjective suffix –alis or in this case -ian.
In order for “sesquipedalian” to be truly a foot and a half long, it would have to be written in 74-point type. I know, because I tested it.
Sesquipedalian is not a great Twitter word. At 14 characters, it would take up a tenth of your tweet. You’d think I could get away with tweeting out 10 sesquipedalians at once but, because of spaces, Twitter restricts me to eight. It works without spaces, but it’s a little hard to read that way. I know, because I tested it.
Of course, you are what words you use. Meaning: using the word “sesquipedalian” could make you it. Nyah-nyah.
Love those Orbit gum ads. Kinda loopy, right?
Quite possible those creatives were smoking falafel to come up with their “Falafel” ad concept. Definitely an international flavor to this gum. Or shall we say “universal”? (See “Taco” or “Kabob” or any number of globular comfort foods served up from this marketing buffet.)
Although “orbit” is a far-out term, referring to “the path of a celestial body or an artificial satellite as it revolves around another body” or even “one full revolution of that body,” it is a perfect example of how the cosmos mirrors a body’s microcosm.
“Orbit” also refers to each bony socket of the skull that holds our eyeballs. (Or in reference to other animals, it is the skin surrounding the eye of a bird … or the hollow in which lies the eye or eyestalk of an insect or other arthropod.)
It’s from the Latin orbita, or “course,” and orbis meaning “circle” or “orb.” That alone sounds spacey.
On an atomic level, it is the path of an electron in its motion around the nucleus of an atom. Beyond the physical, “orbit” can define any observable range of activity, experience, or knowledge. It’s also apparently a video game.
Add a “z” to get Orbitz, the online travel company that invites you to circumvent the globe and add to your range of activity, experience and knowledge. Just be sure to pack a pack of Orbit gum to take care of any foreign food particles lingering behind.
What goes around comes around.
- Orbit Girl Returns With More Talking Food (adrants.com)
- Orbit Gum Helps You Vanquish Giant Annoying Talking Meat and Potatoes (adweek.com)
“It looks like a trap!”
“Shut your trap.”
“He bears the trappings of a fool.”
None of these machinations of “trap” is an open-shut case. First off, identifying a trap would defuse its power. In case two, your free will defies such a command. In the third usage, the meaning is “disguised”: Trappings might say one thing and reveal another.
Sometimes a trap is a good thing. A lint trap protects your dryer. A sink trap protects your plumbing. A U-shaped or S-shaped pipe can protect you by trapping harmful gases. In Scotland, a trap, or stepladder, can help you reach the attic to set critter traps. A death trap for mice, and such. Yet a better mousetrap refers to a springboard for creativity, a snappy brain.
Sporting types are aces when it comes to traps. A trap can refer to a device that hurls clay pigeons into the air to be shot at by trap shooters. The stalls that racing greyhounds are released from are called traps. In golf (or putt-putt), you can try to avoid the traps, or bunkers, but they tend to sneak up on you (OK, me). There is no trapdoor.
Other pleasurable applications of trap include a light, two-wheeled carriage, and percussive instruments used in jazz.
Computers are not only time sucks, they are laced with internal traps: built-in interruptions in software triggered by some exceptional action allows the operating system to take over for a moment, then return control to the user when the coast is clear. But I don’t really understand this definition, so moving on …
To have a mind like a steel trap usually means you’re sharp — you process ideas quickly and have quick recall, not unlike a computer.
On the other hand, the Cockney idiom pony and trap — often shortened to “pony” — is defined as rubbish, nonsense or something of poor quality. Like most Cockney nonsensical idioms, the word “trap” is inserted only because it rhymes with “crap.”
The origins of booby trap — hazard a guess? — are much contested.
Could be nautical:
“In need of a bit of dietary variety, sailors would set up a simple rope noose on the decks of their ships baited with bread or stale biscuits. Passing seabirds, like boobies, would land on deck seeking rest or shelter and be lured and caught in the rope.”
Could be simply slang, referencing nincompoop:
Coined by our Colonial cousins, meaning dope/simpleton, a booby trap is any sort of trap, e.g. an object balanced over a door, that would catch a simple person by surprise.
“Booby” meaning “a dunce, a nincompoop,” is recorded in English as far back as 1599, probably deriving from the Spanish “boho” (a fool), which may come from the Latin balbus or “stammering.” A “booby hatch,” referring to an insane asylum, may have its origins as the term for a police wagon used to take outlaws to jail, which is traced to 1776. (Source: Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins by Robert Hendrickson. Facts on File, New York, 1997)
Of course, the Mafia and modern wars cast quite a grim shade of meaning to “booby trap.”
In the so-called good ol’ days, a girl would set a bunny trap for someone she’s sweet on, providing unlimited sex and ceasing to use birth control. (You recall? The old pregnancy test involved sacrificing a bunny.) Now who’s the nincompoop?
I imagine the word “trap” is just one more pitfall that non-native English speakers must learn to avoid.
It finally happened. My reading skills failed me.
As digital journalism scooches into the spot old-fashioned journalism used to live in my brain — you know, SEO (Search Engine Optimization) supplanting the 5 W’s (Who, What, Where, When and hoW) and all that — I mistook the word “content” here: “(So-and-so) upped the ante in the technology race aimed at proving it’s not content simply to be …”
Oh! You mean “content,” accent on the “tent,” as an adjective … a la “satisfied” or “smug” or, far be it for me to assume, “happy.”
I first read it as evidence it didn’t qualify as “content,” accent on the “con,” as in the noun describing “substantive information,” “news product” or even “filler” — the stuff we’re filling websites and news holes with these days.
Wowie zowie. As we race to provide content for various digital delivery systems, have we left out one key ingredient? Our happiness?
Journalists were never a very happy bunch, anyway, true that. And most news sites these days are content merely to have fresh if not original content, doesn’t much matter what it is.
“Content” is an example of a homograph: a word that has the same spelling as another word but has a different sound and a different meaning, like lead, wind, bass. Not to be confused with a homophone (pray/prey) or a homonym (heir/air). Forsaking for the moment the argument that some homophones are homonyms or a homonym must be both a homograph and a homophone to qualify as a homonym, back to the content at hand.
As a plural noun, “contents” can mean something that is contained or topics covered in a book … or perhaps on a table, as in “table of contents,” jk. “Content” alone can refer to significance or profundity — a jukebox musical that lacks content.
What came first? The filler (content) or the fulfillment one gets from it (content)?
It seems the filler did, dating to 1375–1425 late Middle English, derived from the Medieval Latin contentum, the noun form of a neutered Latin contentus, the past participle of continēre, to contain. Fulfillment came as an afterthought in 1400–50 late Middle English, deriving from Latin contentus satisfied, special use of past participle of continēre.
Still, closely aligned. Like a pie filling and the feeling you get having fully digested it. Another thing we journalists know only too well.
You may feel you’re stuck with your lot in life, unless fortunes change and you win the lottery.
“Lottery,” defined as a game of chance, stems from the Italian lotteria. It’s rooted in the Old English “lot” — hlot, with a silent “H” — which means an “object (anything from dice to straw, but often a chip of wood with a name inscribed on it) used to determine someone’s share,” also “what falls to a person by lot.” In other words, a portion or share that is not necessarily meant for sharing.
There’s a lot about Lot in the Bible. In Genesis, he travels with his uncle Abram, has incestuous relations with his daughters — hey, this is the guy Jesus descended from? Indeed, “through David’s great-grandmother Ruth, who is descended from Lot’s son Moab,” according to Wikipedia. And, just guessing, the Bible as a second source.
I suppose we all take chances when we procreate.
Drawing lots can sometimes mean the “winner” is a loser, as some dreaded task befalls the one holding the short lot.
Parking lots allow us to fit a lot of cars in one place, saving lots of time getting in and out because of their orderly arrangement. One place you don’t want a ticket is a parking lot.
From order, we know, comes chaos.
The game of lotto — which the dictionary defines as “bingo” — relies on a whole lotta luck and random forces being aligned in your favor. Chances are, you won’t win.
To increase your chances, though, dive in with a pool of people and divvy up shares — “lots” to be parceled out — which may prod you to trade in your current house and lot for something more stately, perhaps with pillars.
Just beware the fate of Lot’s wife who, when fleeing Sodom, looked back and turned into a pillar of salt.
- Beware of sharks swimming in your lottery pool (usatoday.com)
If you’re in the news media business, the answer might be: “Everything.”
“Homefront” is the term we at USA TODAY use to refer to the “front page” of our website. More commonly, website designers and users refer to any dotcom landing page as a “home page” (coined in 1993).
The patriotic concept of “home front” hails from 1917, the World War I era.
The patriotic nation’s newspaper was established in 1982.
Something about the term homefront in our digital all-hands-on-deck race raises the stakes — as if we’re constantly at war.
And we are, against the clock and ourselves, as we are our own worst enemies, knowing full well haste makes waste.
One thing for sure: We at USA TODAY try to ensure our homefront always maintains a certain curb appeal.
“Hogwash” seems an oxymoron, unless the pig in question is awash in mud.
The term comes from the slop that pigs sloppily eat — a farm mix of refuse that swine have a hard time refusing. Fascinating how many loosey-goosey synonyms for hogwash we can find on the farm:
- balderdash (on Scottish farms, a mix of milk and ale)
- baloney (homonym for “bologna,” made from the pigs)
- bilge water
- bull dust
- a load of manure, crap, shit, etc.
- fiddle-faddle (using corn from the farm)
- horse feathers (mythically speaking)
- humbug (chasing the horseflies)
- poppycock (daddy rooster? No, literally “soft dung”)
I’m on a sausage roll.
It’s all nonsense, however you slice it. Whether or not there’s truly a bacon shortage, there’s no shortage of ways to say “nonsense” — so no sense limiting yourself to “nonsense.”
A few choice more, for the rinse:
- soft soap
As promised, in time for holiday hams, we dissect “piggyback.”
This site doesn’t typically scrape so low as to piggyback on dictionary.com’s word of the day, but recently we slipped. The word was “dovetail,” a verb the urban dictionary calls a synonym for “piggyback.” Today, we’re piggybacking on that thought.
With “piggyback,” used as a verb since 1952, it seems we have a failure to communicate: It’s one of those words that got lost in translation, like piglatin. Most word detective sites say it’s a case of a folk etymology alteration — a corruption — of “pick pack” (1560s) or “pickaback.” The “pick” in this case is a dialectal variant of “pitch,” to throw. The 16th-century pickaback, then, described throwing something on one’s back to carry it, as a beast of burden might. Piggy power wasn’t harnessed in this way, though, because they are snooty and unruly beasts who’d rather pitch themselves into a pitch pit.
What’s interesting is that “piggybacking” today is not so much about work, but play. Most piggybacking observed across the animal spectrum is about parents carrying offspring — giving them rides, whether as a practical method of transportation or as an amusement — the organisms appear fused, but it’s really just strengthening their bond. A synonym is “pooseback” — you can picture the papoose. Like a human caboose.
Another modern definition of piggyback: “to obtain a wireless Internet connection by bringing one’s own computer within the range of another’s wireless connection without that subscriber’s permission or knowledge.” A free ride on the Internet. Executed by low-life swines.