Spelling reform (Sacha)

(We've posted on this before, but here's Mark Twain's version:)

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter c would be dropped to be replased either by k or s, and likewise x would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which c would be retained would be the ch formation, which will be dealt with later.
Year 2 might reform w spelling, so that which and one would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish y replasing it with i and Iear 4 might fiks the g/j anomali wonse and for all.
Jenerally, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants.
Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez c, y and x — bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez — tu riplais ch, sh, and th rispektivli.
Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

______________

OK, and now what, where's the corresponding fragment from the Green Eyes? Well, not so easy, we play with spelling only twice, when Maurice's behind is spelled "arse" since he's a Brit. Significantly, both times a beach bear gets involved. The first time because John tries to purloin a towel from said bear to help Maurice cover up his private parts following a close encounter of a certain kind that left Maurice trunk-less (in the sense that he cannot find his discarded swimsuit): 

And so, before time, a shadow falls over my feet, a hand touches my shoulder, and a voice growls: "What are you doing here?" The voice belongs to a mature man, soft in the middle and elsewhere, and it's during the next split second that I commit the next error of the day because I'm not only arrogant, I'm also slow-witted under duress. I should have risen above the suspicious context and ask the bear directly: 'Could you lend me a towel,' perhaps followed by some explanation, perhaps even the true explanation, he would possibly laugh a deep, bearish laugh, his belly shaking, and everything would be fine, and I could walk away with a lent towel to save a British arse. But I don't. "I'm admiring your towels," I say, "trying to find out about the brand, so I could order the same."

"I don't believe you," the towel-owner replies. "I think you are trying to steal something, possibly the booze." "No," I say, no, never." As opposed to me, this round man isn't slow-witted, and he's developing dubious schemes behind his round forehead as we speak. "You were trying to get hold of our champagne," he continues, "a Pommery vintage, ten years old, a bottle that George and I brought to the beach to celebrate the first week of our friendship, the bottle worth 100 bucks."

Lübke English

Heinrich Lübke

Heinrich Lübke was the second president of postwar (West) Germany, and he is remembered for only one thing, his English. He're an example of typical Lübke English:

A: "Hello, Sir, how goes it you?"

B: "Oh, thank you for the afterquestion." 

A: "Are you already long here?"

B: "No, first a pair days. I come not out London." 

A: "Thunderweather, that overrushes me. You see not so out."

B: "That can yes beforecom. I come out Frankfurt."

A: "Das hätte ich nicht gedacht, Sie sprechen ja ausgesprochen gutes Englisch."

So, why do we bring this up? Because of Godehart, of course, the fifth generation descendant of operatic composer Richard Wagner, one of the lead characters in our outrageous novel "Green Eyes."

Spoiler alert: our attempt to dress Godehart in true Lübke English came to nothing --- it's difficult to comprehend (even for Germans), and it wouldn't be convincing given that Godehart is an educated person from an international family whose English ought to be reasonably fluent.

Anyhow, here's a fragment from the Green Eyes, from Chapter 43, "Lets have congress while I explain," where Godehart initiates John to the secrets of Manhunt advertising (Manhunt, the internet dating service):

We've reached full afterplay now, which means we are resting against the chrome grill, not the most comfortable head rests, and I don’t know what to say. Gohard is stroking his dick again. “How about a re-run,” he says as he’s pulling his foreskin in all directions.
“It was great,” I say, “but I need to save some cum for Hunnsbruck.”
“Hunnsbruck,” he exclaims, “I almost forgot. Yes, let us save some cum for Hunnsbruck. Let us get pen and paper.” He jumps off the bed and returns with a Montblanc pen and a leather-bound, Wagner-iconed notebook, this one even prettier than Howard’s lawyer’s diary.

Green Eyes --- Neologism update

Armani minimum (n.phr.) Giorgio Armani's tumescence when he wears his Armani jeans. Usage (Green Eyes, Ch. 30): "Any hint of tumescence is stylishly kept to the Armani minimum."
dead-wife (n.) A female spouse, now deceased. Usage: "Alice had an affair with his dead-wife." Discouraged, cruel.
i-ding (n.) (i) Collective name for Ipads, Iphones, and similar devices. Usage (Green Eyes, Ch. 27): "He flips his I-ding, sends a text message to Google." (ii) The penis of compulsive app-users. Usage: "This I-man showed me his I-ding, but I wasn't i-impressed."
i-impressed (adv.) The state of being impressed by an I-thing or its doings. Usage: "This I-man showed me his I-ding, but I wasn't i-impressed." Awkward, won't fly (sounds like one of the lesser Urban Dictionary inventions).

Fucking noodle soup --- reblogged

Mr. E. (yes, the mysterious Mr. E.) writes (from Thailand) on his blog 50 Shady Gays:

The problem with moving to Thailand is that now we have to endure hearing what Thai people think. The majority of which is not worth listening to; it’s generally something about “Som tam,” “sleeping,”or “playing facebook.”

Take my secretary for instance (please, just take him!). He doesn’t stop talking. He talks so much it has become the background cacophony of my daily life. A piercingly staccato, camp monologue about his family, boyfriends (Giks), food, and Lady-FUCKING-Gaga! He doesn’t even pause for breath, it’s incredible:

“He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem – I – say – cannot – he say – I – have – many – many – Giks – not – good -not – good – I say – he – not – love – me – he – look – at – other – boys – he – butterfly – he – say – he – not – butterfly – I – butterfly…”

 “He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem" 

At first, out of politeness, I would occasionally feign concern or even comprehension: “I think you should talk to him about it, let him know how you feel.”

Cum (Handsheets for the erotic writer (1))

Bob Bienpensant --- Wet Dreams (1)

You write like Shakespeare (reposted)

The IHT had a column by Alex Beam about the new website I Write Like, which uses a Bayesian classifier algorithm to compare anyone's prose to that of  famous writers. Thought up by the Russian programmer Dmitry Chestnykh, the site has already generated serious mischief. Somebody submitted transcriptions of Mel Gibson's phone rants, and I Write Like concluded that he "writes" like Margaret Atwood. Atwood own prose was classified as "Stephen King." A former president of Harvard writes like the sci-fi writer Cory Doctorov, and novelist Claire Messud writes like David Foster Wallace (not true, by the way).

You see it coming. We have to find out about ourself. so we first submit Huck Finn's father's rant against the government, which we posted because of its prophetic anticipation of the Tea Party, and, yes, I Write Like returned the answer: "You write like Mark Twain." Cool.

OK, so now a text of our own. Let's take the Donna Pérignon post from March 2010, one of the countless contributions on this blog so heartlessly ignored by pundits and mainstream media. Donna pays us a visit and rekindles our interest in the Giant Wave. Have you read it now? Donna is actually our neighbor Michelle de la Sala, and she really looks like Michelle Pfeiffer.

We now submit this post (its text) to I write like, and the answer is:

I write like
William Shakespeare

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

What can we say? Buy our new book, GREEN EYES, and find out yourself:

A brief post on style (Frank L. Visco)

Always avoid alliteration.

Prepositions are not words to end sentences with.

Avoid cliches like the plague. (They're old hat.)

Employ the vernacular.

Eschew ampersands & abbreviations, etc.

Parenthetical remarks (however relevant) are unnecessary.

It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.

Contractions aren't necessary.

Foreign words and phrases are not apropos.

One should never generalize.

Eliminate quotations. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "I hate quotations. Tell me what you know."

Comparisons are as bad as cliches.

Don't be redundant; don't use more words than necessary; it's highly superfluous.

Profanity sucks.

Be more or less specific.

Understatement is always best.

Exaggeration is a billion times worse than understatement.

One-word sentences? Eliminate.

Analogies in writing are like feathers on a snake.

The passive voice is to be avoided.

Go around the barn at high noon to avoid colloquialisms.

Even if a mixed metaphor sings, it should be derailed.

Who needs rhetorical questions?

Olympics (Urban Dictionary, July 25, 2012)

Word of the day

Olympics: Loose assemblage of activities undertaken quadrennially by over-ripped folk with an odd view of life and difficulty prioritising. Small trinkets on coloured ribbons and needlessly ostentatious flower arrangements are commonly given to several of the better entrants as stirring tunes play. Flags and advertising signage tend to be prominently displayed and portly men in suits shuffle about needlessly.

We couldn't agree more.

Neckermann Bumms Bomber (Learning Thai (2))

Let's get this out of the way first. Remember the 2 k-sounds from our last post? Here are a few more:

Got it?

Well,  back in the late seventies, my then-colleague Han felt the urge to take the Neckermann Bumms Bomber (his words, you'll figure this out yourself) to Bangkok (กรุงเทพมหานคร). Han had been a seminarist (studying for priest) until the Marxist wave struck the Netherlands and he took up residence in Amsterdam's red light district, where he would spend the evening checking whether he still had the 25 guilders in his pockets to pay one of the neighboring ladies of the night for the standard job (he told me). Arriving in Thailand, he met a girl, fell in love, bought a home, and learned Thai, while keeping a part time appointment at the University of Amsterdam. Thai learning is difficult, he explained with starry eyes, citing the fact that the language has innumerable consonants, among which 5 different k-sounds (there you have it; the table mentions six, but two are obsolete).

And when back in Amsterdam, Han became a pillar of the relationship community, with which I mean to say that he was hired to save gay couples, in particular those comprising a Dutch person and an imported Thai boy. Relationships, Han explained, depend on communication (this was before everybody subscribed to the Harvard Business Review), and the non-existing Thai of the Dutch and the poor English of the Thai boy would inevitably lead to a downward relationship spiral that only Han could stop by intervening as a Thai/Dutch interpreter and helping the couple to regain a new level of understanding. I don't know whether Han kept any statistics. Rumor has it he's now divorced.

Learning Thai

We've arrived safely in Thailand, but are now holed up in the bedroom, since Chang (ช้าง) ("elephant") canceled the a/c in the living room. So, we have no choice but to learn Thai (ภาษาไทย). It will be quite a slog. But the beginning is easy, as it thematizes the chicken-egg problem.


ก ไก  ko (as in) kai" (chicken) and we are pronouncing the  ก  as "k," whereas
ข ไข "kho  (as in) khai" (egg) and we are pronouncing the  ข breezely as "kh."

Cheers:

Hold your bladder, hold your bladder, there is a small problem. Our "ko" (ก), it's some sort of "g" on another web site dedicated to Thai learning.

Stay tuned.

Language lives

Erin McKean invited submissions of neologisms in her last column in the IHT. We reply:

Dear Erin,

in your IHT column, you invited the submission of neologisms. Here's a list I *thought* to have come up with during the last two years:

Trump House (play on White House)
to birther (raising the issue of Obama's birth)
public parts (opposite of "private parts")
de-seat (getting up, in analogy to de-plane)
kay (as in: 100k)
thanky
murderee
palinized
rational exuberance
period porn
beltway addicts
palin' around
to unanswer (a question)

http://morefreedomfries.blogspot.com/

Now, before I wrote (composed, haha) this email, I checked the originality of my inventions via Google, and found out that all --- except for the last two ("palin' around" is of course a play on Sarah Palin's expression "[Obama] pallin around with terrorists") --- had already been invented elsewhere before. But still.

One last remark: the prefix negation "un" is getting a lot of mileage recently. To unanswer here is meant to duck a question in a fuzzy way, like in: "The way Barack un-answers things."

Kind Regards, Michael M.

Sunday night bedstory

Captcha from Gabrielle de Vietri on Vimeo.

(Hat tip: Andrew Sullivan)

Pure speculation (Swiss for beginners)

Philipp Hildebrand, the CEO of the Swiss National Bank,  had traded on the foreign exchange markets a few days before his bank had forced a peg of the Swiss Frank with the EUR that would guarantee an enormous profit to himself personally. No, wrong. It turns out, it was only his wife Kashya  --- nice name, boobs, attractive, a former model perhaps, no, just a former foreign exchange (FOREX) trader, running an art gallery now, Kashya, who knew nothing of her husband's plans to peg the Swiss Frank to the EUR at 1.20, and who, by exchanging enormous amounts of Swiss Franc at the right time, would make an enormous trading profit. Note that we don't use the word "speculation", the word "speculation" has been defenestrated, even here in France it's "trading" now (imagine the French pronunciation), since "speculation" triggers the wrong instincts --- instincts that were already abrogated by Queen Victoria, her of the Victorian age, the woman who famously informed her cabinet that a "wife knows everything her husband knows." So it was only Kashya, and it was only a matter of convenience that she did use her husband's account since the poor thing did not have a trading account in her own name, but it's clear that it was her, and not Hildebrand, who did the trade, since she, as a FOREX trader, knows the future.

Kashya and Philipp Hildebrand, note the plant in the background

And the press of the Free World is eating this up as if it were Yorkshire pudding.

Imagine you're writing a movie script. What's next?

A missing email perchance, that one particular email mysteriously absent from the records that the Swiss National Bank supplied to some thorough investigator who had been instituted to go to the bottom of this and who went there, and could not see anything wrong since the missing email was missing? Or was it somebody else, a highly-payed person (he/she) from a worldwide accountant firm with an interminable name? Like PriceWaterhouseCoopers? Yes, that's it, PwC. PwC, which failed to spot an accounting error of 54.5 billion EUR in the accounts of the Deutsche Hypobank only 6 weeks ago?  The largest accounting error in the history of the planet? That's the ticket if we need somebody to go Santorum.

And now what? Somebody's dropping a glass, it shatters, and Colombo has a heureka moment? Somebody's whispering in the dark? Somebody's impersonating the dog that didn't bark in the dark?

We don't know. What we do know, however, is that the missing email resurfaces, reappears as mysteriously as the account of Hildebrand's trading account itself had resurfaced (which it should not have, since there's the Swiss banking secret, and furthermore, it was sheer coincidence that Hildebrand's wife did trade in her favor on the FOREX market etc etc, it's so unfair).

Queen Victoria

Now, it is now that the script writer reaches the delicate point where he has to go into the finer points of the matter, for which he has the internet here.

You get the gist. Everything is OK. Hildebrand's story is consistent. There's just one minor problem. There was another email, or phone call, or whatever, from Hildebrand, to his bank, to the effect that the last trade was OK (it will never happen again, but the last trade was OK), and that it was OK to "augment" this trade (so as to enlarge the position that led to the profit).

Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, some wit once observed, but that's the best we can do. Hildebrand stepped down yesterday. Life's unfair.

 Relax. Here's a picture from a better Swiss scene:

View of the Valais (Wallis) valley, Switzerland, 2012

Swedish for beginners: Occupy Thanksgiving (reposted)

Can you read this (1) (Dirk)

Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can. I cdnuolt blveiee that I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd what I was rdanieg.

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in what oerdr the ltteres in a word are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is that the frsit and last ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can still raed it whotuit a pboerlm. This is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the word as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? Yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt! If you can raed this forwrad it.

-"Apparently, word order doesn't really matter either."
-"Which brings us one step closer to the fulfillment of the Philosopher's Dream: a sentence that says it all." 

Bible Studies (3)

We find ourselves in the hospital with a broken leg, it’s Saturday night, and the surgeon on duty, Dr. Eva Ursprung, is tired after an emergency operation. We joke about her name (“origin”). Her face darkens --- such were the dire specs of our second Bible Studies cliff hanger.

Dr. Ursprung, entourage, patient, on a Saturday night

Relax. Dr. Ursprung keeps her cool and tweaks my hurt leg with her professional fingers. “It’s very swollen, your foot,” she remarks with her perfect Polish accent. “We can’t do much until the swelling recedes.”

My world falls apart. My brain, still awash in the stress hormones triggered by the accident, had floated in the delusion (this is so overwritten, sorry) that the man in the white coats would coat my broken parts in plaster stante pede and send me back to the Black Run Café, where my loutish friends are already waiting with highballs in one hand and ballpoints in the other, eager to leave obscene messages on the freshly paved landscape of my stricken parts. I explain myself to Dr. Ursprung and entourage. They keep their professional cool. “We rarely plaster these days,” her assistant replies, “98 point five percent of leg fractures receive surgery now.” Dr. Ursprung tweaks my foot some more, shakes her head, waves a good-bye with the x-ray pictures, and leaves. “We’ll have to find you a room,” Nurse Ernst remarks, while pushing my bed towards the elevator. Two minutes later I’ll find myself in a dark hospital room with another man who watches TV. We waive to each other. “Make yourself comfortable,” Ernst remarks helpfully.

I can’t sleep, I know. Ernst has left, and I inspect the night table next to the bed. There’s a copy of the New Testament in the top drawer, compliments of the Gideons. It’s in German, of course (we’re in the German speaking part of the Valais (“Wallis”)), in a modernized Luther translation.

Stay Tuned.

Bible studies (2)

Lying on the ground with a broken leg in the pouring rain, crying for help while the Swiss Frank keeps co-tourists out of the country --- such were the dire specs of our first Bible Studies cliff hanger.

Relax. Arch Angel Gabriel hears our call, and appears in the emanation of Linda, the girl next door. She calls the ambulance (# 144, Swiss-wide,  they would also know your location if you call from a cell-phone),  while we find shelter under the roof of a neighboring chalet. The sun breaks through the clouds, we sit down in a plastic garden chair. Our tired, broken legs are now dangling in the late-afternoon sunshine. We think philosophical thoughts but feel no pain.  Linda prepares a cup of hot peppermint tea. It’s the first time we break something, the first time we will be doing some time in a hospital. Our life will never be the same.

The ambulance is delayed, delayed, but two sturdy men finally arrive and put me on a walking chair and heave me up the slippery, treacherous path towards the rescue vehicle. Rich, antique Romans were carried that way by their slaves, and we feel the fun.

At the hospital (“Spital Visp”) the reception nurse makes reassuring noises. The spital does the ski resorts of Zermatt and Saas Fee, she informs us, and broken legs are their specialty. An X-ray confirms the break. It’s the fibula --- if Google Translate is correct (“Wadenbein” in German). Now what? The Upper Surgeon (our translation of “Oberarzt”) is stuck in emergency surgery. She will decide. We will wait. (Perhaps we forgot to mention that all this is happening on a Saturday night?)

Dr. Ursprung (with colleagues), shortly before we drop the bomb

The Oberarzt, a petite blonde, arrives 2 hours later, around 9pm. She speaks perfect German with a perfect Polish accent, and she’s tired. A tag on her left bosom features her picture and her name: Dr. Eva Ursprung. Ursprung --- that means “origin” in English. “Ursprung,” I say to her in German, perhaps not fully cognizant of the situation, “Ursprung, that would be a nice name for a philosopher.” Her face darkens. Her mouth drops. Her eyes close. The end of the world is near.

Stay tuned.

Hungarian for beginners --- Monty Python

Plus ça change: "Call this a govment"

Huckleberry Finn's father, in chapter VI of Mark Twain's novel (written in 1876, situated around 1845)

"Call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. Here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him -- a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. Yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. And they call that govment! That ain't all, nuther. The law backs that old Judge Thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. Here's what the law does: The law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. They call that govment! A man can't get his rights in a govment like this. Sometimes I've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. Yes, and I told 'em so; I told old Thatcher so to his face. Lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what I said. Says I, for two cents I'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. Them's the very words. I says look at my hat -- if you call it a hat -- but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. Look at it, says I -- such a hat for me to wear -- one of the wealthiest men in this town if I could git my rights.

"Oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. Why, looky here. There was a free nigger there from Ohio -- a mulatter, most as white as a white man. He had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane -- the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the State. And what do you think? They said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. And that ain't the wust. They said he could vote when he was at home. Well, that let me out. Thinks I, what is the country a-coming to? It was 'lection day, and I was just about to go and vote myself if I warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a State in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, I drawed out. I says I'll never vote agin. Them's the very words I said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me -- I'll never vote agin as long as I live. And to see the cool way of that nigger -- why, he wouldn't a give me the road if I hadn't shoved him out o' the way. I says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold? -- that's what I want to know. And what do you reckon they said? Why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the State six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. There, now -- that's a specimen. They call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the State six months. Here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and -- "

Lavender not in our garden

Dirk informs us by email that our lavender picture represents the lavandula stoechas, which blossoms March - June. Sadly, he continues, it is often mistaken for the common lavender of the Mediterranean area, ie. the lavandula officinalis and the lavandula angustifolia, which blossom June - August.

lavandula stoechas	lavandula officinalis

lavandula angustifolia	The bard

While I am putting Dirk's helpful comments into this blogpost, Chang is looking over my shoulder. "you've got the wrong lavender," he says. "We could have had the official lavender. But we didn't. They f@#ed us again." (He means Rubinio, the local pépinieriste where we buy the wrong plants). "Ask our money back," he continues, "call them, they sold us frass." That's what he always says, but he has a point. The lavandula stoechas not only isthe wrong plant, it also sounds the wrong plant. Compare that with lavandula officinalis, which looks terrible, but surely enlivens the popal, I mean, papal gardens, and blossoms from June through August, while Benedictus naps in the sun and enjoys sweet lavender dreams. Didn't the bard already sing in his famous sonnets "Here's flowers for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram." "Yes, he did," Chang intersperses, looking over my shoulder again, "but not in his sonnets, it's from A Winter's Tale."

I disagree, of course, so we have to google (in the past, you had marital disputes, but now you have googles; not you, not yet?...we provide marital google advice at competitive rates).

Google, Shakespeare, google, Shakespeare & lavender, google. And there it is. Chang is right. A Winter's Tale. But that's not all. The thing that jumps off the page is the lavendula spica. What is this? Shakespeare's lavender is not the angustifolia, not the officinalis, not the stoechas. Yet another lavender, the lavendula spica. What now?

Stay tuned.