Vol XXXII, No 2 [Spring 2008]
Taking Bridge Too Far: The Words Goren Forgot
Michael J. Corey, Bellevue, Washington
Time was when you could schlep from Yoknapatawpha County to the shores of Half Moon Bay without stepping on anyone who didn’t play bridge. Learning the rules was a social mandate. Bridge was the most popular game on earth, and deservedly so. Contract bridge is the noblest means of wasting time ever developed. Who should know better than this writer, who’s tried them all?
I assume herein no knowledge of bridge, but I need to impart some basic information. Four players sit around a table. One of them distributes rectangular pieces of pasteboard, which are then used in the play. The player opposite you is your partner. A partner in bridge is defined as ‘the worst player capable of even theoretical existence.’ One might think that the opponents come in for kinder treatment (as one’s primary source of excuses), but one would be wrong, and here we begin our study of real bridge terminology—not the words one reads in a bridge book, but the words that actually find utterance. Perhaps surprisingly, Edinbugger gaberlunzie is less commonly used than it was in Hugh Kelsey’s day, but modern players are able to identify such species as the LOL. This means ‘Little Old Lady,’ and it also means ‘watch out.’ They look chubby and sweet, but their clubs are really studded maces and their spades are as sevenfold swords. Dead people are opponents who don’t play as well as you do, but probably better than your partner. The worst thing you can call a bridge player is client, which refers to a player who’s so bad he has to pay someone else to play with him. You don’t believe such a thing exists? Check out http://home.alltel.net/djneill/danbridge.htm or any of hundreds of similar sites. (A twelve o’clock pro represents a further refinement of the concept: a so-so player who shows up at noon for a one o’clock game, more than willing to settle for a sawbuck and dinner with an LOL.) Finally, there is also a term for the most fearsome type of opponent of all, the kind that always leaves me on the floor in fragments of low molecular weight. Once I even had to play against two of them, and the result was as expected. The term is pregnant.
Fine, but what actually happens at a bridge table? First there’s an auction, which decides the contract (the obligation of the side that wins the auction to capture a certain proportion of the cards played) and the trump (of the four suits in bridge, the trump is declared the divine suit for a single hand—a suit that cannot be bested by any mere mortal card, no matter how high in rank). After the auction terminates, the play occurs, during which the assets of all four players are thrown into the center in wild abandon, whereupon the valuable cards are gathered in by the competitor with the fiercest-looking firearm. Afterwards, each of the four explains that all was done according to a plan, which partner as usual has failed to comprehend. This discussion is known as a post mortem, a term that is more informative than you might think. Serious bridge players form agreements about exactly how to approach the auction so as to communicate and cooperate effectively; these agreements are known as conventions, treatments, and marital counseling. Players also attempt to cooperate during the play, and records are often kept of these adventures; the correct term for such a record is Exhibit A, since murder and aggravated assault are common outcomes of these proceedings.
One day you may decide to play in a tournament sponsored by the American Contract Bridge League, known as the ACBL or the Horde of Lucifer. Tournament bridge eliminates most of the social aspects of at-home or party bridge. In fact the players interact very little and rarely get to know each other; hence the increasing popularity of the tournament game.
If you win at bridge, you get points. Suppose you’re playing in a victory-point Swiss tournament. (Swiss tournaments use a special pairing system which ensures that the weaker teams endure maximal humiliation by losing to dead people or clients.) You enumerate your aces, kings, queens, and jacks to calculate the high-card points in your hand. These points don’t do you any good for scoring purposes, but at least they’re misleading. Then you play, and if you prove superior to your opponents, you score points. Assume, for example, that you score 620 points, while your opponents score only 500 points. The differential is 120 points, which, you learn by referring to a special table, equates to three International Match Points or IMPs. Now suppose you maintain your three-IMP advantage through seven hands. This will earn you twenty Victory Points (or maybe twelve), and if you accumulate enough Victory Points to win or place in the tournament, you will earn Master Points, which may be gold (if you’re good), red (if you’re bad), black (if you’re really bad), or silver (if you’re old). I’d explain matchpoint scoring to you as well, but it’s too complicated.
We turn now to the vast array of expressions that designate systems for use in the bridge auction. There are two philosophies of the auction in contract bridge: constructive and destructive. Constructive systems go by pretentious names such as Precision, Ultimate and Intimate, and the Blue Team Club, named for the famed Italian Blue Team, which was led by the great Benito Garozzo, who could place the king of diamonds four tables away by smell alone. Destructive systems are based on envy of those with brains enough to invent constructive systems and bear labels such as CRASH, DONT, IDAK (‘Instant Destroyer and Killer’), EHAA (‘Every Hand an Adventure’), and the infamous Polish Pass, which so confused the opponents that the auction would often last two hundred rounds, terminating only when the perpetrators pointed out that the other competitors had left.
If you psyche (bluff), you may catch partner with a moose (or rock-crusher—a strong hand), and he may name a contract he mistakenly believes to be cold (frigid, cryogenic—easily made), causing an opponent holding a stack (an unexpectedly powerful holding in trumps) to hit it or express doubt (double) and partner to rewind or crank (redouble). You may then go for a number (lose numerous points), but you should hope it’s not the dreaded telephone number, though it’s possible to do even worse and lose sticks and wheels (1100 points) or, if partner is truly a mackerel (turkey, martian, or client), the notorious telephone number with area code. On the other hand, partner may be sandbagging (the opposite of bluffing, feigning weakness with a moose). All is still lost, however, at least psychologically, if an opponent pulls a Grosvenor Gambit. This, the most important coup in bridge, is defined as a play so utterly pointless, so staggeringly foolish and profoundly imbecilic, that it confuses one’s opponents into making a compensating error. By definition the Grosvenor Gambit can never gain, but if it succeeds in breaking even, he who commits it walks on clouds for a week.
Certain bridge situations are covered by unwritten rules that mandate specific, highly formalized remarks. I describe here only the two most important. Suppose you’ve gulled your opponents into doubling you (increasing the stakes dramatically) in a contract which you are going to wrap (fulfill, scoring impressive numbers of points), when partner mistakenly assumes you are in terrible difficulties and rescues you to a failing contract, perhaps one going for sticks and wheels. You must immediately say, “My knight in shining armor!” This is most effective if you’re playing with your husband and you have a strong Judy Holliday impersonation in your repertoire, although Rita Rudner will do.
Finally, a bridge position which is unfortunately rare, a virtual syzygy of bridge circumstances, is one in which you are both playing and directing, i.e., serving as the referee of the event. On rare occasions, one of your opponents may be unaware that you are in fact the director, and may call for adjudication of an alleged irregularity by shouting “Director!” If this occurs, it is absolutely mandatory to respond with the phrase, “I am the goddam shore patrol!” quoting Jack Nicholson in The Last Detail, a film in which he plays a sailor who requests free liquor from a store owner. The latter protests and threatens to call said shore patrol to enforce discipline, whereupon Nicholson slams his pistol on the counter, utters the quoted phrase, and is immediately served. Failure to say this when required is punishable by immediate suspension from worldwide bridge for three months and the infinitely worse obligation to tell partner “Well played,” after the first ten hands following reinstatement. This, however, represents a merciful lessening of the original penalty. If you broke this rule back when I was young, you had to switch to chess.
By Way of Middlebrow English
Jonathan Caws-Elwitt, Friendsville, Pennsylvania
Though it has been routinely scoffed at by highbrows—well, that’s their job, isn’t it?—fair-minded language scholars have long recognized the important contributions to our tongue made by Middlebrow English.
Old English, Middle English, and Early Modern English are, roughly speaking, chronological distinctions. (I say “roughly” based on the premise that Old and Middle coexisted, interbred, and shared an office for some time, like Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon.) Middlebrow English, by contrast, is not as easy to place on the timeline. When did it originate? Is it in decline? What, exactly, is its historical relationship to the New York Times Best Seller list?
Even without answers to these questions, we cannot deny our debt, day in and day out, to terms and usages that are etymologically rooted in MBE. If you tell me over a latte that your cousin missed her book club meeting because she was off on a winery tour with a friend whose tastes run to light classical music and historical fiction, you are—let us hope unwittingly—demonstrating the rich heritage of Middlebrow in contemporary English.
Some experts assert that MBE was originally a specialized offshoot of Early Modern (the language, not the furniture—though let’s not rule anything out just yet). Specifically, it is theorized that in the Age of Dryden, drama critics began to describe plays as powerfull [sic] or even emotionally chargèd, with frequent references to playwrights making bolde statements or raising important questionnes and, occasionally, to their brandishing imperatives and bandying sentence fragments. While not all of these expressions have survived intact, there is much to be said for the belief that the Middlebrow thread in Modern English began in the free seats at Drury Lane. And, according to this school of thought, MBE was quite slow to spread from the drama page to society in general (possibly because even the literate segment of society avoided the drama page). What is suggested is a gradual development of the MBE strain in English, spanning the past three centuries, rather than anything on the order of what an MBE speaker might call a revolution.
On the other side of the microfiche reader we find scholars who see a watershed, who pinpoint a definite moment at which MBE can be said to have taken a recognizable form. Interestingly, the experts in this camp differ strongly as to which definite moment they wish to pinpoint. Even among those who place the critical juncture within the twentieth century, we find some who advocate for 1936 (the year Will and Ariel Durant’s Story of Civilization series first began to appear) and others who favor 1954 (the beginning of Steve Allen’s stint as host of The Tonight Show).
As happens sometimes with concurrently prevalent dialects, encounters between speakers of Modern and those practicing Middlebrow have been known to lead to laughable misunderstandings, embarrassing faux pas, and the occasional one-night stand. Wilde was fond of telling a story about Shaw—or possibly vice versa—in which the great wit found himself seated next to the wife of a not-particularly-prominent industrialist at a dinner party. “Oh, Mr. Shaw [or possibly Wilde],” said the lady. “Your genius [or perhaps that of her interlocutor’s great rival] is unmatched in our century, if one is to believe what one reads in the Times.” Finding himself at an unaccustomed loss for words, the author of Pygmalion [or The Importance of Being Earnest] fell back on a pickup line. “Yes,” he [or the other guy] replied blandly. “I am quite certain that a clever and alluring observer like yourself, madam, can read much in the times.”
According to the story, the wit and the lady soon left what must (we infer) have been an especially dull party in each other’s company. I therefore note, in view of Shaw’s reputation as a celibate and Wilde’s as a homosexual, that this incident, if true at all, presumably happened neither to Wilde nor to Shaw, but to some third, long-forgotten literary immortal. Nonetheless, it illustrates what one would, in Middlebrow English, call a trend of deep significance, and this is why I have reproduced it here, even though it really isn’t all that diverting. (You will have noticed that late-nineteenth-century wits often try to persuade us that a piece of repartee is more amusing than it actually is by inserting the word “madam” in the center of it, between two commas—which, I admit, looks pretty sexy on the average witticism, particularly if the commas are black and lacy. Samuel Johnson’s superfluous “, sir,” by contrast, does nothing for me.)
In more recent times, we have the tale of Dr. Constance Planck, an applied mathematician who dated a graduate student from the psychology department. “How would you characterize our relationship?” the young man asked her one night in MBE, after they’d attended a weekend retreat together at his request. “1:1,” answered the professor.
But these impasses (or, on a good night, passes) are the exception. Most of the time, the relationship between MBE and Modern English is a harmonious one. Whether we’re in the mall, hastily purchasing something special for our pet cat’s birthday, or at home, reading up on current events in a magazine . . . the fabric, texture, and very thimble of modern life in the English-speaking world depend heavily upon a continuing influx of MBE vocabulary. To a language lover who is free of snobbery, this element is not only recognized as part of what frames our collective identity, it is actively and cheerfully embraced, in the same manner as sweets are welcomed by the chocoholic and a new set of speakers by the audiophile.
OBITER DICTA: Fruit Fly Gene Names
Saul Ricklin, Bristol, Rhode Island
Some of the earliest studies of mutant genes were done on the fruit fly, Drosophila. Scientists doing the studies had a creative sense of humor in assigning names to the genes based upon the Bible, literature, popular culture and other themes. Some examples of the colorrful names and the associated mutation problem are as follows.
Dunce: Impaired in learning
Amontillado: Larvae are unable to hatch, named after the Edgar Allen Poe story in which a man cannot escape from a sealed wall.l
Sarah: Sterility, as Sarah was barren for many years in the Bible story.
Tinman: Lacking a heart (as the character in the Wizard of Oz).
Glassbottom boat: Transparency.
Ken and Barbie: The males and females have no external genitalia.
Cheap date: Sensitive to alcohol.
Tudor: No progeny (as in the Royal Tudor family).
Icebox: Females are uninterested in courting males.
This style of naming has begun to cause concern, now that human versions of these genes are being discovered. These colorful names can produce difficulties when physicians talk to their patients, who may not enjoy being told that they have a “lunatic fringe” gene mutation (which in humans can cause skeletal defects) or that they have a bad “sonic hedgehog” gene (which in humans can cause brain damage). As a result the Human Genome Organization’s (HUGO) gene Nomenclature Committee now wants the human genes to have letter designations such as LNFG for the lunatic fringe gene or SHH for the sonic hedgehog gene.
All The Presidents' Adjectives
Christopher Devine, Chicago, Illinois
The ghost of John F. Kennedy has haunted the last twelve presidential elections. JFK’s untimely death in 1963 left a gaping hole in America’s political landscape—a hole that presidential candidates have been trying to fill ever since. From George McGovern and Michael Dukakis to John Kerry and Barack Obama, dozens of White House hopefuls have sought to cast themselves as the Second Coming, each aiming to recreate the sense of hope and inspiration that JFK brought to the campaign trail in 1960. This brand of imitation is not without precedent; both Democrats and Republicans have been dancing in the shadow of Mount Rushmore for decades. As candidates lay claim to the legacies of presidents past, journalists, bloggers, pundits and politicians offer their own set of comparisons, and we are inundated with a torrent of presidential adjectives: Jeffersonian, Lincolnesque, Rooseveltian, and the like.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, Madisonian and Jeffersonian were the first presidential adjectives to appear in print. The two stood side by side in the title of a lyric poem from 1800: “The death of Washington with some remarks on Jeffersonian & Madisonian policy.” (Sounds pretty lyrical to me.) The OED’s definition of Madisonian—‘Of or relating to President Madison or his political doctrines, esp. his federalist views on democracy’—provides a template for the definition of all presidential adjectives. Trumanesque, therefore, is defined, ‘Of, pertaining to, or resembling Truman or his policies, esp. in being energetic, candid, or single-minded.’ And Clintonesque, which does not appear in the OED, might be defined, ‘Of, pertaining to, or resembling President Clinton or his policies, esp. in being personable, charismatic, and prone to extramarital affairs.’
Over the years, these adjectives have been applied to sitting presidents, presidential candidates, and other prominent politicians. They have been used to characterize physical appearance: “John Kerry looks Lincolnesque” (New York Times, Feb. 22, 2004); persona: “Shriver’s ability, personal charm, and his quick, Kennedy-esque humor command a rare loyalty” (Harper’s, Dec. 1965); foreign policy: “Yates Praises Kennedy For Cuban Action; Tells Democrats It’s ‘Rooseveltian’” (Chicago Daily Tribune, Oct. 24, 1962); political tactics: “Behind Ford’s Veto Spree is Trumanesque Strategy” (New York Times, Dec. 8, 1974); personal indiscretions: “For as much as Mr. Clinton protests that his situation is nothing like that of the late and unloved Richard Milhous, his actions have been decidedly Nixonian” (Washington Times, May 9, 1998); linguistic dexterity: “Mr. Reagan had turned away from jingoistic rhetoric to use Wilsonian cadences: ‘Who among us would wish to bear responsibility for failing to meet our shared obligation?'” (New York Times, May 5, 1983); and fiscal policy: “Hooverian Nixonomics,” (New York Times, July 29, 1974).
The lexicographical record of these presidential adjectives (and similar derivatives) is remarkably inconsistent. Hooverian, for example, which has appeared in print more than forty times since 1917, is listed neither in the OED nor in the New Oxford American Dictionary (NOAD). Meanwhile, Reaganesque and Nixonian appear in the OED; Reaganism can be found in both books, although it is not defined in the NOAD; Clintonite (as noun and adjective) is in the OED, but Clintonesque is not; Roosevelitan (referring to both Teddy and Franklin) is in the OED, but not the NOAD; and Bushism appears in the NOAD, but not in the OED. The inconsistencies continue in this manner, with words such as Coolidgesque, Eisenhoweresque, Johnsonian, and Carteresque overlooked entirely. American Heritage and Merriam-Webster present a similar set of inconsistencies.
But the largest oversight, in my mind, is Kennedyesque. LexisNexis, an electronic archive of English Language periodicals, counts more than 600 instances of Kennedyesque over the last twenty years, yet this word is conspicuously absent from the pages of the OED and the NOAD. As far as I have been able to determine, Kennedyesque was first printed on March 20, 1961 in the Washington Post and Times Herald: “Mayor Brandt is evidently going to conduct a Kennedyesque campaign against Chancellor Adenauer and the uninterrupted postwar rule of the Christian Democratic Party.” Mayor Brandt is, of course, Willy Brandt, and although he may have run a Kennedyesque campaign, he lost the 1961 election for the West German Chancellorship.
Kennedyesque is, without question, the most contentious presidential adjective. Over the last four decades, a handful of critics have tried to debunk the Kennedy myth—portraying JFK as a liar, a conspirator, and a womanizer. But Camelot has proven unassailable, and JFK’s legacy retains is mystical allure. Comparisons to America’s political superhero are not taken lightly.
In the 1988 vice-presidential debate, Republican Senator Dan Quayle brazenly likened his legislative resume to that of JFK. Quayle’s opponent in the debate, Democratic Senator Lloyd Bentsen, issued a biting rejoinder, which has earned a lasting place in our political lexicon. “Senator,” Bentsen said, “I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.” This dig set a stern precedent for any politician who fancies himself worthy of a seat at the Round Table.
Sometimes though, comparisons to Kennedy are beyond a candidate’s control. In his quest for the 2008 Republican presidential nomination, Mitt Romney was faced with the challenge of defusing concerns about his Mormon faith. The news media was quick to invoke memories of JFK’s 1960 bid for the White House, when Kennedy strove to convince voters that his Catholicism would not influence his governance. Romney tried to distance himself from these comparisons—to do otherwise would be electoral suicide—but his efforts were in vain. In the weeks and months that preceded the 2008 primaries, newspaper headlines, blogs, and letters to the editor were continually peppered with Bentsenesque protestations: “Mitt Romney is no Jack Kennedy.”
Romney may have turned his back on JFK, but he did make numerous attempts to channel the spirit of Ronald Reagan. To little avail. Just five days before the Iowa caucuses, Reagan’s daughter Patti Davis wrote a scathing editorial in Newsweek, condemning all of the presidential candidates for trying to imitate her father and “proclaim themselves more Reaganesque than their competitors.” Davis quipped, “Where is Lloyd Bentsen when you need him?”
Republicans are not the only target of such rebukes. Bill Clinton, the once-presumptive savior of the Democratic Party, also faced repeated criticism for trying to emulate JFK: “From time to time, [Clinton] has made what some might consider a Kennedyesque gesture or two—or 20. And he barely gets through a speech without quoting JFK” (Washington Post, Aug. 25, 1993). “The problem for Clinton is that every time the new president evokes John Kennedy, either in his language or in his mannerisms, he diminishes his own presidency… The new president still is struggling to develop a style entirely his own, no longer Kennedyesque but purely Clintonesque” (Boston Globe, Jan. 15, 1993). “Here we have a guy who clearly is, on paper, Kennedyesque… Clinton is young like Kennedy, smart like Kennedy, dynamic like Kennedy… And yet for all that, Clinton isn’t Kennedy. Not close. Something’s wrong. Clinton lacks that Kennedy sparkle, that Kennedy magic. The mojo isn’t working” (Washington Post, July 20, 1994). Any Kennedy sparkle Clinton did have was irrevocably tarnished when the Republican-run House of Representatives slapped him with two articles of impeachment in December 1998.
Now, America has found a new superhero. When Barack Obama declared his candidacy for president in early 2007, he was almost instantaneously charged with the task of filling the prodigious Kennedy gap. People began likening Obama to JFK in July 2004, when Obama delivered the acclaimed keynote address at the Democratic National Convention in Boston. In 2006, Australia’s Canberra Times described Obama as a “first-term Senator with a gentle but dazzling smile, a deft way with words (both spoken and written) and a Kennedyesque glamour.” The following year, conservative pundit Tony Blankley was a bit harder on Obama, calling him a “completely inexperienced, African American possibly former Muslim, partially Indonesian-raised, Harvard-trained Kennedyesque candidate” (The Washington Times, May 16, 2007). And in early 2008, the Los Angeles Times stated, simply, “Obama is Kennedyesque.” These comparisons took on a new level of authenticity when Caroline and Ted Kennedy collectively endorsed Obama’s bid for the Democratic nomination. And in the wake of his historic triumph on November 4, President-elect Obama is poised to inherit JFK’s legacy, to rekindle the eternal flame.
While there is little dispute that Barack Obama possesses many Kennedyesque traits, at this point, I’m not sure anyone could live up to such an idealized epithet. Unlike other presidential adjectives, Kennedyesque has come to denote something much greater than the personality or the political doctrines of its antecedent. When John Simpson, chief editor of the OED, adds Kennedyesque to his dictionary, he will most likely adhere to the definitional template that the OED employs for similar presidential adjectives, and the definition will probably look something like this: ‘Of, pertaining to, or resembling John F. Kennedy or his policies, esp. in being charming, eloquent, and inspiring’. But if the job of a lexicographer is to observe the ways in which a particular word has been used over the years, and derive the definition accordingly, perhaps Mr. Simpson should add a second definition of Kennedyesque, one that is more reminiscent of the word perfect:
Kennedyesque, adj. In a state of complete excellence; free from any imperfection or defect of quality; that cannot be improved upon; flawless, faultless.
On the twenty-fifth anniversary of JFK’s death, Henry Allen of the Washington Post wrote, in a display of subjunctive brilliance, “If Kennedy had lived, all the Esques wouldn’t be around, or if they were, Kennedy would be laughing at them the way that he laughed toward the end of his life, showing some lower teeth, the sides of his mouth stretching out for enough that the corners turned down a little, not just sardonic but self consciously sardonic.”
[Christopher Devine is a graduate of Vassar College. He is the author of Word Perfect, a one-man play about a door-to-door Oxford English Dictionary salesman; and Of No Fixed Address, an oral history of homelessness. He is a regular contributor to the Huffington Post Chicago.]
Horse’s Mouth
Ken Snyder, Louisville, Kentucky
A theme song for a ‘60’s TV show about a talking horse, “Mr. Ed,” began with, “A horse is a horse, of course, of course.” Right? Whoa-a- a-a-a! Not so fast. (I couldn’t resist.) The easiest bar bet to win is a wager with someone on how many horses ran in the last Kentucky Derby. The answer? None. Technically speaking, or at least according to horseracing terminology, a horse isn’t a horse until age five. And then this applies only to males. Under age five a male horse is a colt. (As for fillies or females under age five, who do occasionally start in the Kentucky Derby, they become mares.) Ok, ok, but a colt is still a horse. Yes? Well, yes and no. Think of a male baby. Is it a man? Of course not. Case closed. This logical analogy, however, still won’t prevent you from getting your jaw jacked, at least at some of the bars I’ve frequented. (Notice I said easiest bar bet to win, not easiest to collect.)
The terminological quirk in whether a “horse is a horse” is part of a breadth of terms, definitions and descriptions applied to Thoroughbred horses and racing that is very established and unique. In fact, it isn’t unusual to find a glossary of terms in horseracing books and on racing-related websites.
Of course, what matters most to racing fans isn’t a Thoroughbred’s age or sex, and appropriate term deriving from those facts, but rather, which of two basic categories it falls: runner or “common” horse. While they all run, of course, not all are runners. (Stay with me on this.) Essentially some run to win and others are just out there seemingly for the hell of it clueless that they are supposed to outrun their competitors. Common horses are dismissed as such for the lack of talent to pull it off even if the intent was there. Whether it’s a Kentucky Derby trophy or a $5,000 purse, winning or coming close is the thing. If a colt, filly, horse, or mare is out there trying to win and does occasionally finish in the top three of a race (the top three finishers pay off on bets) then that horse, by damn, is a runner. Within the runners’ category, there are some sub-distinctions with unique terms based on the preferred running style. There are “closers” who run at or near the back of the pack in any race, saving themselves and hoping to overtake tiring horses in the last stages of a race; there are “stalkers,” who run mid-pack, keeping the leading horse or horses within striking distance; and lastly, or actually firstly, there are “front-runners” who are what the name implies: they tear off and try to stay at the front from start to finish. Front-running, however, is not always related to a preferred running style, and here is where some terms come into play that are common but not related to racing in dictionary definitions. Some horses never learn to “rate,” for example, or control an inclination to run as if its tail is on fire rather than settling into a pace that will leave a little gas in the tank for the finish. Reasons for this vary from being clueless (see common horses above) and also if the horse is what is known as “rank.” In a trainer’s or jockey’s mouth the term is practically spat in disgust; it refers to a rambunctiousness that always means a horse will shoot its proverbial wad early and finish last or well back of the winner.
Another “r” condition that some believe impedes running potential with an un-gelded or anatomically intact male capable of breeding is to be “randy.” That is, a colt or horse is too worked up, shall we say, hormonally, to focus on racing. One tip-off to this condition is a colt draping its neck over the pony that accompanies it to the starting gate before a race. Things, on occasion, do progress from there and more than one grandstand full of aghast race fans has witnessed all-out sexual assaults. Dictionary.com’s secondary definition for randy as “rude and aggressive” is an understatement of epic proportions considering that we’re talking about public sex in front of God and everybody. More astounding, the behavior involves an object of affection for the love-crazed colt or horse already “mounted” by a pony rider not to mention the fact the amorous colt or horse is himself already mounted by a jockey. (Ménage à quatre, non?)
Whether a runner or common, descriptions of running tend toward over-the-top exaggeration due, I’m sure, to the fact that money is at stake for all parties in a race—trainers, barn help, jockeys, owners and last, but not least, bettors. Horses may all look like they’re moving forward and indeed they are, but jockeys will complain of their mount “climbing” as one excuse for poor performance. What they refer to is a stride too far up rather than forward. The most extreme exaggeration is for a horse that hesitates as the starting gate opens. It is said to have “dwelt” in the gate. (My goodness, does a second or actually a split-second spent in the gate behind one’s peers make said gate a dwelling?)
After a horse really is a horse (again, colts become horses at age five, remember?) the ones you might have seen draping their necks over ponies or losing all inhibition on the racetrack become sires. That’s not, necessarily a given, either. Maybe the reason why rude and aggressive sexual behavior is not seen more frequently on the racetrack is that the overwhelming majority of males you will see on a day at the races have been castrated or “gelded.” (Something about, “He’s a gelding,” to refer to anatomy sounds immeasurably better than, “He’s a castrate.” The latter even sounds worse than “He’s been cut,” the most common phrase among barn workers.) Although the English developed the breed, sire comes from the French monsieur and dam for mares from dame. So there you have it, if not from the horse’s mouth, from a horse’s you-know-what—at least according to the most recent person that I bet couldn’t tell me how many horses were in the last Kentucky Derby.
Save Me
Judith B. Herman, Rancho Palos Verdes, California
There’s nothing wrong with me, but lately, more and more people, including some of my best friends, are shunning me. Even Prince Charles, who should know better, avoids me. Folks act as if even mentioning me will make them sound ignorant and crude.
This could mean the end of me. If people continue saying things like, “Give it to Bob or I” and “You’ve been a big help to Ashley and I,” me is doomed. It could go the way of bywhopen and dingthrift—once proud English words chucked into history’s landfill.
I wince every time a certain friend says, “Thanks for inviting Steve and I.” She must think I hate Steve, but it’s not that. I miss me.
Sure, languages are living things, always growing and changing. The absolutely impenetrable Old English of Beowulf didn’t make a quantum leap into the “Hey, I can get every other sentence” of Chaucer’s Middle English. Shakespeare didn’t pick up his quill one day and start writing Early Modern English after speaking Middle English all his life. English evolved too gradually for anyone to notice —anyone except a few contumacious fussbudgets like me, that is.
When I completed my master’s degree in linguistics a mere quarter-century ago I turned up my nose at prescriptive grammarians, busybodies who thought they could legislate and enforce “correct” grammar. I was a devout descriptivist. I knew the job of linguists was to observe native speakers and describe a language “as she is spoke.”
English has changed and so have I. It’s easy to be a descriptivist when you’re young. But now that parts of the language I grew up with are in danger of disappearing, I don’t want to let go. Against my better nature I am turning into a grammar cop.
I take me personally. It’s a pronoun, after all. There are zillions of nouns but only a few pronouns. Pronouns, unlike nouns, are not subject to changing fashion and technology. I expect words like scrivener to step aside for others like blogger, but me is basic. It’s been around since at least the 13th century. Can we afford to desert it now?
Now it’s when those pesky conjunctions “and” and “or” pop up that folks get discombobulated. No one would say, “Thanks for inviting I.” That’s absurd. So before you say “Steve and I,” think how the sentence would sound with Steve out of the picture—and save me.
Anglo-American Crossword No. 108
Compiled by Philip Marlow
Across
1. Modern guards protecting road and sources of current information? (10)
6. Prize gained by friend with money (4)
9. Author scribbling odd line? Two lines (nothing more) (3,7)
10. Politicians’ slant? It’s wrong to keep quiet (4)
12. I held a boy let off in seat of justice (3,3,6)
15. Triumphal cry by girl in play (7)
16. Take Arab around two states in coach (7)
17. Assorted birds close to tree (7)
19. Chauffeur skirts immediately wintry hazard (4-3)
20. Composer composing a carol (and on piano) (5,7)
23. Dupe put back rifle (4)
24. Asians struggle before celebrity in wild set (10)
25. Observe denial of echo? (4)
26. Fervour means this is spread around university (10)
Down
1. Reminder to leave out good artistic subject (4)
2. Old actor, we hear, in decline (4)
3. US writer making short walk beside two birds (7,5)
4. State area mostly covered in song (7)
5. Tricky type, daughter with fugitive? (7)
7. US region getting to horrify a companion north of Iowa (10)
8. Goodness about singular arrangement? It provides means at post office (5,5)
11. Residents of state at heart of scam? (12)
13. Director making deal, say, and longing to include everything (5,5)
14. Possibly bend over books to get clamp (6,4)
18. English poet showing feeling (7)
19. Story in school creating big stain (7)
21. An achievement bringing up time for cheese (4)
22. Patriots, say, featuring in gazette amazingly (4)
Answers to Anglo-American Crossword No. 108
