Hang ‘Em High

A recent column in the Houston Chronicle by the estimable Leon Hale bore a headline proclaiming: “Year Can Begin Now that Calendar Has Been Hanged.”  I quickly scanned the column to learn what heinous crime could have been committed by a calendar to warrant its capital punishment by this barbaric means.  As it turned out, the calendar was guiltless and was not hanged at all—it was hung.

Since I am certain that Leon Hale knows his way around a grammar book as well as, if not better than, anyone else, I can only chalk this solecism up to some callow doofus on the copy desk (you have to wonder if they still have copy desks) who doesn’t know there is a difference between the two past and past participle forms of the verb to hang. I’ll let language expert Bryan Garner explain, since he speaks with such authority in his Dictionary of Modern American Usage:

“Coats and pictures are hung, and sometimes so are juries.  But criminals found guilty of capital offenses are hanged, at least in some jurisdictions.  But just because it’s a person doesn’t mean that hanged—which implies execution and near-certain death as a result of the suspension—is always the right word.  If a person is suspended for amusement or through malice, and death isn’t intended or likely, then hung is the proper word.”

Garner points out that Italian dictator Benito Mussolini was hung upside down after he was executed, but he was not hanged.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou is merely trying to hang in there.  Yes he’s trying—very trying.  These words are a case in point:

            If I am ever hanged, by heck,

            I'll turn into a nervous wreck.

            I’ll survive, I suppose,

            If I'm hung by my toes,

            But not if I'm hanged by my neck.

Just Come Live With Me, Dammit, and Be My Love!

The New York Times lamented in a recent article that there is not a completely satisfactory word to refer to either of two people who live together and are not married.  Wife, husband, and spouse are obviously out of the question, since they have specific meanings related to a state- or church-sanctioned unions. 

The Times article suggested that partner was “awful—anodyne, empty, cold”; lover too sexualized; boyfriend or girlfriend too youthful sounding; significant other too “1980s,” whatever that may mean; and special friend simply “ridiculous.”  As for POSSLQ the abbreviation coined in 1980 by the U. S. Census Bureau for “person of the opposite sex sharing living quarters,” it’s a bit unwieldy.  The Times quotes Charles Osgood’s whimsical quatrain: 
         
         You live with me, and I with you,
         And you will be my POSSLQ.
         I’ll be your friend and so much more;
         That’s what a POSSLQ is for. 

And, of course, POSSLQ is not useful for same-sex couples.

Now that seven million Americans live with a paramour who is not a spouse, it’s time to come up with a term we can all get behind. 

Not mentioned in the Times article is the word I have always favored to describe one in such a relationship: convivant, which seems to derive from the Latin con (“with”) and vivere (“live”).  The suffix –ant is Greek, by way of Old English, and means “one that performs (a specified action)” or “one connected with.”  If you wanted to distinguish between male and female, you might borrow from French and substitute the feminine ending –ante.

An Urban Dictionary entry says convivant was coined by British author Simon Winchester (who wrote a best-seller about the Oxford English Dictionary) on an NPR program in 2002.  But I came across the word (on an actor’s room request form for a national tour) in 1988, so it’s been around a good while.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou has also been around a good while—correction, make that a “long” while.  There isn’t much about him that we would call “good.”  See for yourself:

         If you will be my POSSLQ,
         I promise I won’t jostle you;
         I shall be your apostle true,
         And not like some old fossil who 
         Imparts a dour and docile view.
         I’ll ply you with some wassail, too!

Winners and Paloozas

An op-ed article by the pundit David Brooks of The New York Times appeared under the headline “Social Science Palooza III.”

Not everyone, myself included, immediately grasped the meaning of the headline (the meaning of the article itself is another question, not to be dealt with here).  What, you might wonder, is a palooza? 

You probably know the word lollapalooza, which is is a "remarkable or wonderful person or thing." It dates at least to 1896 in American English, and is of uncertain origin, although the Online Etymology Dictionary attributes it to "fanciful formation," whatever that may mean.

Old reliable Wikipedia provides this helpful information: The word—sometimes alternatively spelled and pronounced as lollapalootza, lalapaloosa, or lallapaloosa (the last by P. G. Wodehouse)—dates from a late 19^th- or early 20^th-century American idiomatic phrase meaning "an extraordinary or unusual thing, person, or event; an exceptional example or instance." In time the term also came to refer to a large lollipop.

Now for palooza: lollapalooza has given rise to this slang suffix that is used in the same way as other suffixes like “a-thon,” "a-go-go," "o-rama", etc. The suffix "a-palooza" is often used to imply that an entire extensive event is devoted to one subject, such as “Hip-hop-a-palooza,” “Crawfish-a-palooza,” “Quantum physics-a-palooza,” and so on.

Wiktionary has the word palooza, as follows: from Lollapalooza, a music festival, from lallapalootza [origin unknown, probably a fanciful formation], a neologism meaning "an exaggerated event."

The Urban Dictionary lists palooza with the following user-provided definitions: "an all-out crazy party”; “a very drunken extravagant party with the host’s name attached, e.g. Billapalooza”; "a big Norwegian festival"; or “a hopelessly love-lorn, insecure person, desperately seeking a relationship, but forever facing rejection." (I think there is some confusion in that last definition with palooka.) 

The headline on Brooks' column would seem to suggest that it is a variety of vivid miscellaneous information about social sciences, and that it is the third such roundup that Brooks has authored.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou is noted for his “Drivel-a-paloozas,” of which the following is a representative example: 

            The New York Times costs several bucks. 
            At first, you might exclaim, “Aw shucks, 
            That’s not as much dough as it looks, 
            To get essays by David Brooks, 
            And all the other learned sages 
            Who fill the Times’s Op-Ed Pages.” 

            But once you’ve coughed up all that jack 
            Then you may want to get it back, 
            When you have found you’re truly pissed off 
            To read a piece by Nicholas Kristof, 
            Or if you learn that Maureen Dowd 
            Is much too liberal and too loud, 
            And furthermore, that guy Bill Keller 
            Is really something less than stellar, 
            Not to mention that Ross Douthat 
            You’d like to run off at the mouth at, 
            And you simply cannot bear a 
            Word that comes from Joe Nocera, 
            Or thoughts that seem a little loony 
            From former epicure Frank Bruni, 
            And you’re affected by Gail Collins 
            The same way as you are by pollens, 
            And realize that Charles Blow 
            Writes nothing that you want to know, 
            And that Paul Krugman and Tom Friedman 
            Are columnists you just don’t need, man. 

           That’s when you may feel it’s outrageous 
            You paid big bucks for Op-Ed Pages, 
            When you don’t like a single pundit. 
            As for your dough--they’ll not refund it.

In the Beginning

At this season of new beginnings, it’s appropriate to ponder this profound question: How often do you read a book’s preface?  Or its foreword?  Or even its introduction, or its acknowledgments, not to mention the occasional prologue?  And why do we have all these different names for something that precedes the actual book?

Known dismissively in the book trade as “front matter,” along with dedications, tables of contents, and the like, these preliminary pieces of writing serve slightly different purposes, most of them unnecessary.

A preface, from the Latin praefatio (“something said beforehand”), is a statement, usually by the author, describing the book’s purpose, pointing out difficulties encountered in its writing (as if we cared), and also sometimes thanking (or blaming) people for their help.

Often the helpers are mentioned in a separate section known as acknowledgments, or, if you’re British, acknowledgements (with an extra “e”).

An introduction (Latin intro “inside” + ducere “to lead”) is similar to a preface, but usually has more substance to it with respect to the book’s subject.  It might even be written by someone other than the author. Induction is an archaic form of the word introduction and is sometimes used to mean a specific framing device for the main work, as exemplified by the opening scene of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, which sets up the premise for the action that follows.

A foreword, whose etymology seems self-evident but may be a translation of the Dutch voorwoord, is an introductory statement almost always written by someone other than the author—presumably, someone who will say nice things about the book.  A foreword is not to be confused with the word forward, although it very often is by ignorant doofuses.

Some books have several preliminary pieces, and when they do, the usual order is foreword, preface, acknowledgments, introduction.

If you wish to be fancy-schmancy with your vocabulary, you can call any of these pieces a prolegomenon, from the Greek pro (“before”) and legein (“to say”). This word is often shortened to prologue or even prolog, which means the same thing, and is usually applied to an opening section of a dramatic work that precedes the first act.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou always has trouble getting started when he writes, but once he begins it is very hard to stop him, or sometimes even to understand him.

            I read an astute prolegomenon
            That I thought was quite a phenomenon
            By a writer most gifted— 
            Till I learned it was lifted
            Word for word from the Paralipomenon.

Note: Just in case you’ve forgotten, the B. of B. B. wishes to remind you that Paralipomenon (from the Greek for “things omitted”) is the name given by the Roman Catholic Vulgate to the two Old Testament books known as Chronicles in the KJV.  (That rascal is such a font of obscure information!)

Words of the Year

Legions of learned lexicographers annually nominate candidates for their Words of the Year, and 2012 was no exception.  The Oxford Dictionaries and the Merriam-Webster crowd are the chief perpetrators of this verbal pageantry, and among the past year’s leading contenders are:

Malarkey – This word was used by Vice President Joe Biden to describe GOP candidate Paul Ryan’s foreign policy ideas. It means “nonsense,” akin to baloney, or "insincere talk or writing intended to distract attention from ulterior motives." The origin of malarkey, sometimes spelled without the second “e,” is unknown, although Biden suggested it was Irish-American. It may be from the Irish surname Mullarkey, or, possibly, the Greek word malakia, which means “worthlessness.” The word first showed up in print (as Milarkey) in 1922 in a newspaper cartoon by T. A. Dorgan (“TAD”), and again in another of his cartoons (as Malachy) in 1924.

Meme – This is a trendy word that refers to a concept or a behavior pattern that spreads from person to person within a culture, rather like a contagious disease.  We get a lot of that these days, thanks to the Internet, which has popularized such memes as “Gangnam style” (the most widely viewed video on YouTube).  Other popular memes of 2012 include Mitt Romney’s “binders of women,” flash mobs in public places like train stations and airports, pictures of Hillary Clinton texting, and anything to do with Justin Bieber.  The word meme was first coined in 1976 by Oxford don Richard Dawkins in a book called The Selfish Gene.  Dawkins wanted a word that described the Darwinian notion of survival of the fittest, so he adapted the Greek mimeme, from which we also get the words mime and mimesis.

Schadenfreude – This word is composed of the German words for "harm" and "joy" and means “pleasure one may feel in the troubles of others.” It was widely used by the media after the 2012 elections—referring to the feelings of guess which party. The word in English dates to 1895.

Touché – Thanks largely to "Survivor" contestant Kat Edorsson, who misused the word to mean "tough luck" before she was voted off the island, this word has gained traction. Its look-ups at Merriam-webster.com were up sevenfold over 2011. From the French toucher  (“to touch”), it is a fencing term that acknowledges being hit, that is touched with the sword, by an opponent.  Figuratively, its use dates to 1904, and it means “your point is well, or wittily, made.”

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou rarely makes any point at all, let alone making it well or wittily.  When nudged into semi-consciousness from his customary stupor, he allowed the following balderdash to spew through his gin-washed lips:

         When Ryan spouted foreign policy

         Joe Biden was a little snarky,

         And said, “Now, listen here, by golly, see,

         Your views are just Malarkey!”

        

         But Ryan did not counter with “Touché,”

         Instead, he hollered “Bloody moidah!”,

         Allowing Biden, on Election Day,

         To bask in Schadenfreude.

        

         The moral of this cautionary tale:

         Don’t let your views become extreme,

         And if your words are chosen well, then they’ll

         Become a winning Meme.

                 

Crèche Course

On a walk through our neighborhood, I saw a Nativity scene on a lawn and pointed out the “Christmas crèche” to the Chief Critic.  “Is there any other kind of crèche?” asked the C. C., in a slightly sassy tone.  Well, I wasn’t sure, so I looked it up. 

That hoary old standby, the Oxford English Dictionary apparently never heard of Christmas, for the only definition of crèche on offer is “a public nursery for infants of poor women while they are at work”; in other words, a day care center. The Online Etymological Dictionary cites an 1854 usage for this meaning.

The origin of the word is Old French cresche, meaning “crib, manger, or stall,” but there are cognates in Italian (grippa) and Old High German (kripja).

Webster’s dictionaries have more Christmas spirit.  The Second Edition International first gives “day nursery,” then “foundling hospital,” and, finally, the definition we expect: “a representation of the stable at Bethlehem, with the Infant Jesus, surrounded by the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, oxen, asses, adoring shepherds, and Magi.” It offers no usage history, but its cousin Webster’s Collegiate says it was first used in that sense in 1792—predating the “public nursery” meaning by 62 years.

The Collegiate adds that a crèche can also mean a “group of young animals (as penguins or bats) gathered in one place for care and protection.”  Who knew?

Certainly not the Bard of Buffalo Bayou, who tried to steal the Magi’s gold from the last crèche he saw, but mistakenly grabbed a big pot of myrrh instead.

         That time I stole a pot of myrrh,

         It’s not what I hoped would occyrrh,

         It happened in a hazy blyrrh,

         When I had drunk too much liquyrrh.

         I now repent that I did yrrh,

         And acted like some amatyrrh!     
   

A Merry Little Christmas Bonus

In this week before Christmas, here is a reposting of a blog that ran last year, but I think it’s timely and interesting enough to re-run.  You may have missed it, and even if you read it, you have problably forgotten it.

A favorite song this time of year is Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” with its heart-warming lyrics that cheered up adorable little Margaret O’Brien when Judy Garland sang them in Meet Me in St. Louis.  The original lyrics by Martin, however, were not at all  heart-warming.  In fact, Garland and director Vincente Minnelli found them downright depressing.  The original lyrics were:

 

               Have yourself a merry little Christmas,

             It may be your last,
             Next year we may all be living in the past.
           

            Have yourself a merry little Christmas,

            Pop that champagne cork,
            Next year we will all be living in New York.

            No good times like the olden days,

            Happy golden days of yore,
            Faithful friends who were dear to us

            Will be near to us no more.

            But at least we all will be together,

            If the Lord allows,
            From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow,
            So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Martin resisted changing anything, but finally agreed to make the song more upbeat.  His new lyric was:

            Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
            Let your heart be light,
            From now on, our troubles will be out of sight.

            Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
            Make the Yuletide gay,
            From now on, our troubles will be miles away.

            Here we are as in olden days,
            Happy golden days of yore.
            Faithful friends who are dear to us           
            Gather near to us once more.

            Through the years we all will be together,
            If the Fates allow,
            Until then we’ll have to muddle through   

                    somehow,           

            So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.  

You’ll note that the “Lord” is changed to the “Fates.” Apparently, Hollywood felt you shouldn't be too religious about Christmas!

In 1957, Frank Sinatra asked Martin to “jolly up” the line "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow" for his album "A Jolly Christmas." Martin's new line—"Hang a shining star upon the highest bough"—is now more widely known than the original.

Yet another lyrical change was in store.  In 2001, Martin, a devout Seventh Day Adventist, wrote a religious version of the song:

            Have yourself a blessed little Christmas,

            Christ the King is born,

            Let your voices ring upon this happy morn.  

           

            Have yourself a blessed little Christmas,

            Serenade the Earth,

            Tell the world we celebrate the Savior's birth. 

            Let us gather to sing to Him
            And to bring to Him our praise, 
            Son of God and a Friend of all, 
            To the end of all our days. 

            Sing hosannas, hymns, and hallelujahs, 
            As to Him we bow, 
            Make the music mighty as the heav'ns allow, 
           And have yourself a blessed little Christmas now.

         

So take your choice—depressing, uplifting, or religious—but since Martin died last year, at the age of 96, there probably won’t be any more versions.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou, who is not yet 96 but after years of dissipation looks about 105, spins out new versions of his stuff with alacrity, hoping someday to get it right.  So far, he hasn't.
 

             Whenever I’m lyrical,

             I’m a song-writing miracle,

             A self-serving Merlin,

             Just like Irving Berlin,

             When I wave my wand, I’m

             A new Stephen Sondheim.

             My songs are high-powered,

             Like those of Noel Coward,

             You’ll find that my arts are

             The same as Lorenz Hart’s are,

             My grammar’s fine,

             Like Hammerstein,

             And my wit is much rarer

             Than spoofs by Tom Lehrer,

             Words spun from my web

             Rival those of Fred Ebb,

             They’re snappier and shorter

             Than songs by Cole Porter.

             When I’m in my prime,

             There’s no name I can’t rhyme!

             Just take Ira Gershwin….

             Well… maybe I’d better not give up my day job.

Chimping Champs No Chumps

Chimping, I am advised by a customer who is a noted photographer and linguistic gadabout, is a term that describes the activity of checking each image on the display screen of a digital camera immediately after taking the picture.

Among the first users of this word was Robert Deutsch, a USA Today staff photographer, who wrote of “chimping” in an email newsletter in 1999. There are two competing explanations of this word’s origin, neither of them entirely compelling.

One school of thought holds that chimping derives from the noises photographers make when appraising their photos—“ooh, ooh, ah”—which are regarded as similar to those made by an excited chimpanzee.  This strikes me as a bizarre and unpersuasive explanation, inasmuch as I often check my own digital pictures and have never uttered an “ooh” or an “ah” in so doing.  For that matter, I’ve never heard anyone else make such noises.

The second explanation is that the word is an acronym of “CHecking IMage Preview.”  This strikes me as a back-formation, devised in an attempt to explain the word after it came into being.  Why would you say “image preview” instead of just “image”?

One online commentator believes chimping means something else entirely—holding the camera over your head at crowded events and shooting blindly, hoping to come up with a usable photo.  The analogy is to the old saw that if you put a chimpanzee in a room with a typewriter, eventually it would write Hamlet and War and Peace. 

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou has been trying to write Hamlet for many years now, somehow having failed to realize that it has already been written quite satisfactorily.  Here’s his latest effort, which you will agree still needs a little tweaking:

            To be, or not to be, or maybe not,
            I must take arms against a sea of troubles.
            Oh, what outrageous fortune I have got, 
            The fire burns and cauldron bubbles.

            To die, oh, yes, perhaps, and then to sleep!

            To sleep, or just count sheep, aye, there’s the rub!
            While deep asleep, I creep without a peep,
            Right down the street into the local pub.
            
            Our conscience then makes cowards of us all,

            We shuffle off this mortal coil—to bed,
            But soft! The fair Ophelia comes to call:
            I think I’ll just pretend that I am dead.

Slinging Slang with the Hash

Did you encounter Adam and Eve on a raft this morning?  Or perhaps it was two chicks looking at you with Noah’s boy?  If you did, you were having breakfast in one of the few remaining establishments in which the staff still uses the once ubiquitous but now rapidly fading diner slang. 

Adam and Eve on a raft is a way of saying two poached eggs on toast, and two chicks looking at you with Noah’s boy is two eggs fried straight up with a slice of ham.

Other breakfast items might include cackleberries (eggs), which could be blindfolded (basted), flopped (over easy), deadeye (poached), or wrecked (scrambled). They could be served on a log (with link sausage), or instead, the waitress might tell the chef two spots and a dash (two fried eggs with bacon). And of course you’d accompany them with a blonde in the sand (coffee with cream and sugar).

A lot of diner slang is associated with breakfast, but such other staple items as stew (Bossy in a bowl, clean the kitchen, sweep the floor, or customer will take a chance) come in for their share of colorful language. 

Burn one means a well-done hamburger, or, if really well done, a hockey puck. Walk a cow through the garden means a hamburger with lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onion. Or the waitress might say Two cows—make ‘em cry, paint ‘em red, and drag ‘em through Wisconsin, but keep off the grass—which would mean two hamburgers, with onions, ketchup, and American cheese, but no lettuce.

The Old Testament provides a wealth of diner slang.  In addition to the previously mentioned Adam and Eve and Noah’s boy, Eve with a lid on means apple pie and Eve with a moldy lid is apple pie with cheese. First lady is an order of spare ribs (since Eve was made from Adam’s rib, right?).  And kill Lot’s wife would have to mean hold the salt.

Noah’s boy, by the way, might be ordered with Murphy carrying a wreath, which would mean ham with potatoes and cabbage.

Other colorful bits of lingo include foreign entanglements (spaghetti), put the lights out and cry (liver and onions), burn the British (toasted English muffin), dough well done with cow to cover (buttered toast), zeppelins in a fog (sausage with mashed potatoes), shingle with a shimmy  (toast and jelly), and the ultimate commentary on a diner’s taste, why bother (decaffeinated coffee with non-fat milk).

The origin of diner slang, and the reasons for it, are uncertain.  Most authorities conclude it started in U. S. eateries in the 1880s, probably as an inside joke among African-American waiters and cooks, partly for amusement and partly as easily understood mnemonic devices.  Such a usage as whiskey down for “rye toast” probably originated as a means of being quickly and clearly understood in the clamor of a busy kitchen.

Some diner terms, like mayo, BLT, and short stack (two pancakes), began as specialized lingo, but have now entered the general vocabulary.

Diner argot is dying out for a variety of reasons.  The prevalence of franchised fast-food establishments with limited, regimented menus (hamburgers, pizza, chicken) has seen the disappearance of the all-purpose diners that served many different kinds of short-order foods. Further, restaurant personnel consisting of short-term student help and immigrants for whom English is not a native language make the use of slang unlikely. 

But here and there, “retro” diners are springing up, fashioned like the shining railway cars of the past, and maybe their personnel will try to keep diner slang alive, along with the juke boxes and chrome trim.

The Bard of Buffalo Bayou rarely eats in diners, preferring to take his nourishment from a bottle.  He writes, incoherently, from some sordid den of unspeakable iniquity:

            The cook is in the diner,

            And the cow is in the corn.

            The sheep is in the meadow,

            And the snail is on the thorn.

            The fox is in the henhouse,

            And the pea is in the pod,

            The cream is in the coffee,

            And the bricks are in the hod.           

            The lark is on the wing,

            And the butter’s on the bread,

            The sun has crossed the yardarm,

            And The Bard is still in bed.

Getting In Whack

Recently I have come across the terms “whackos” and “whack jobs” and sometimes “wackos” and “wack jobs.” These were references, of course, to certain members of Congress whose names must not be spoken. Tea, anyone?

But which word is correct?  Is it “wacky” or “whacky”?  Well, actually, it can be either.

Whack started as a verb, in the eighteenth century, meaning to “strike sharply.” Its origin was probably echoic, possibly derived from the earlier word thwack, from the sound of such a sharp blow.  First noted as a verb in 1719, whack was used as a noun in 1737, meaning a “vigorous blow.”

By 1785 whack was used to mean a “just portion or share” of something. It is speculated that this usage originated with thieves’ sharing their loot and giving each robber his proper cut (or whack). Whack was later used to mean the agreement on which the sharing of the loot was based, and, by extension, any agreement that all parties regard as just.

As a noun referring to a “fool or crazy or eccentric person,” whacky was in use by the late nineteenth century.  It probably originated to suggest that the person had been rendered senseless by a blow or “whack.” The variant wacky, without the “h” and used as an adjective, is first cited in 1935. Although the original spelling was “whacky,” the current dominant spelling is “wacky,” and if you use the older form, people are likely to think you’re wacky.

To say something is out of whack, meaning not working properly, derives from the thieves’ meaning of “agreement,” with the connotation that something is not done correctly, as it was agreed.

Out of whack is a cousin of out of kilter—and that mysterious phrase deserves a blog all its own. 

Speaking of whack jobs, you need look no farther than the Bard of Buffalo Bayou, who fills the bill in every respect.

                        TO-DO LIST

                        Whack a wacky wicket,

                        Pick a pokey pocket,

                        Kick a khaki cricket.

                        Lick a lucky locket.

           

                        Back a bulky bucket,

                        Pack a plucky packet,

                        Thwack a talky tucket,

                        Junk a jockey jacket.

                        Wreck a rookie Rocket,

                        Block a balky Beckett,

                        Seek a sticky socket,                       

                        Hook a hokey Hecate.

               
                        Rake a reeky racket,           

                        Truck a tacky ticket,

                        Poke a peaky packet,

                        Track a tricky thicket.

Spam Scams

In this holiday season, it’s time to consider some of the qualities of spam—not SPAM(R), that gelatinous pork product that I earnestly hope did not find its way to your Thanksgiving table—but the unwanted email variety. 

Expert spammers have devised many ways of trying to outwit spam detectors designed to intercept spam and consign it to a cyberdungeon.  Marketing expert Herschel Gordon suggests a number of ploys, most important of which is avoiding a giveaway word like “free” in the subject line. Instead, he says, try “no charge” or “it’s on us.”

 

Other words that may trigger spam filters and that should be avoided in the subject line are complimentary, sale, discount, loan, fun, buy, own, approved, saving, win—and, of course—those old email standbys, Viagra and Cialis—which is why they show up so often as V#%G@A and C#+L*S.

 

Another method to fool the filters is to generate random text to accompany the ad copy, so that no two messages are exactly alike, even though millions may be sent. At first, these random sentences seem like pure gibberish, but occasionally they rise to the level of poetry, albeit with a Dada-ist tinge.  Try reciting the actual examples printed below, which are from a recent spam letter, reproduced verbatim, but rearranged as free verse. 

 

Oh, by the way--full disclosure: one stanza below is not spam gibberish but an excerpt from a well-known twentieth-century poem.  Can you spot the real poetry amidst the fake?

 

A narrative renders a pardon,

A pot thinks!

An electronic bump humbles through worship,

The coal smells any token,

The country colors over the degenerate frown,

The cube dips the obstructed race.

 

Another troop jokes?

Should the constraining guide bend the incident?

Does the army laugh?

The sickening addict rots near an operator.


Another ownership sauces the sermon,


A translator butters the chance,

The influential arcade chooses the radical temperature,

Around the spit gossips a believable sun.

When will the crossing material consent above the undergraduate?

The zero adjective progresses.




The god decays inside the authentic sophisticate,

The holder attends within our snobbery.


The marriage turns!

Our mountain stills the geology,

The ancient bicycles above the spotted ditch.

The heaven chalks?

The tribe talks?




The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare,
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green cool light;
Dew-haze blurs, in the grass, pale ankles moving.
Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees,
Choros nympharum, goat-foot, with the pale foot alternate;
Crescent of blue-shot waters, green-gold in the shallows,
A black cock crows in the sea-foam.

 

Below the dictator decides an abysmal highway,

Before the pun boils an asserted convict.

How will the gulf wet a slogan?

 

The abandoned mark sugars an independence,

The wrecked sophisticate despairs against the risen biography,

The baking stereotype bays,

The uncle truncates a cable,


The sect coughs beside the geographical shadow.


Why won't the radical revolt?

 

The jaded Bard of Buffalo Bayou is unimpressed by these poems—both the faux and the real—having effortlessly written tons of equally incomprehensible gobbledygook himself.  To wit:

           Whenever I feel a little bit bibberish,

            I drink some wine and write some gibberish.

            That’s why you’ll find a Babel of nonsense

            On the pages of my table of contents.

            But I am not a stellar spammer,

            Or one well-versed in mellerdrammer.

            When I write, I jot tomfoolery—

            Just dribbles of my dot-com droolery.

 

Oh, yes, in case you’re interested: the seven lines beginning “The silver mirrors catch the bright stones and flare” are from Ezra Pound’s Canto IV.