Ok, this is a little bit bonkers: HeyGen's Video Translate tool will convert videos of people speaking into videos of them speaking one of several different languages (incl. English, Spanish, Hindi, and French) with matching mouth movements. Check out their brief demo of Marques Brownlee speaking Spanish & Tim Cook speaking Hindi or this video of a YouTuber trying it out:
The results are definitely in the category of "indistinguishable from magic".
Right now, the Portland, OR area is suffering through a heat wave, with high temperatures some 20-25°F above normal. Earlier this year, meteorologist Guy Walton began naming North American heatwaves after oil companies:
Obviously, I'm naming heatwaves to highlight this worsening climate problem and perhaps save lives by getting the public to focus on this weather threat. This year I'm naming major heatwaves after oil companies to shame them in the process and to identify culprits that are exacerbating these deadly systems.
Portland's hot spell, the fourth heatwave of the summer, is named Heatwave Citgo...having been preceded by Heatwave Amoco, Heatwave BP, and Heatwave Chevron. Next up on the list:
5. Conoco (Phillips)
6. Dana
7. Exxon
8. Frontera
9. Gazprom
10. Hess
11. Koch
And several more as needed. Here's Walton's criteria for choosing what constitutes a nameable heatwave (mirroring the scale for hurricanes):
CAT 3: A major level heatwave severe enough such that a few fatalities are reported. A city in a CAT 3 heat wave would be under a heat emergency for a few days. Many heat records would be either tied or broken.
A CAT3 or higher heatwave would be considered to be a major heatwave and would get a fossil fuel corporation name.
The highest category of heatwave is CAT5:
CAT 5. Catastrophic heat wave. Many all-time temperature records would be shattered with thousands of deaths reported. Remember the European heat wave of 2003 in which there were well in excess of 10,000 fatalities? This event would certainly fit my CAT 5 category.
The media should actually start using these more widely. (via @dens)
Scrabble is one of those games where pro/expert gameplay differs so much from amateur/novice gameplay that it might as well be a totally different game. In this entertaining recap of the finals of the 2023 Scrabble World Championships, former US champ Will Anderson explains how finalists David Eldar and Harshan Lamabadusuriya think and strategize throughout the best-of-seven series.
Gameplay aside, the thing that stood out for me is how many of the words played I'd just never heard of before. Like, at least 60% of them. Like I said, it's just a completely different game at the expert level, with a shit-ton of memorization required. I don't play Scrabble for this reason — because if you don't have a bunch of two-letter words and Q,Z, & X words memorized and you're playing against someone who does, it's not fun. But it is fun to see two heavyweights of the game go at it on equal terms. (via peterme)
According to recent research from linguists Phillip Carter and Kristen D'Alessandro Merii, a new dialect of English is forming in South Florida. The dialect, distinct from Spanglish, is spoken English that borrows lexical and semantic rules translated from Spanish. Carter writes:
For example, we found people to use expressions such as "get down from the car" instead of "get out of the car." This is based on the Spanish phrase "bajar del carro," which translates, for speakers outside of Miami, as "get out of the car." But "bajar" means "to get down," so it makes sense that many Miamians think of "exiting" a car in terms of "getting down" and not "getting out."
Locals often say "married with," as in "Alex got married with Jos'e," based on the Spanish "casarse con" — literally translated as "married with." They'll also say "make a party," a literal translation of the Spanish "hacer una fiesta."
We also found "semantic calques," or loan translations of meaning. In Spanish, "carne," which translates as "meat," can refer to both all meat, or to beef, a specific kind of meat. We discovered local speakers saying "meat" to refer specifically to "beef" — as in, "I'll have one meat empanada and two chicken empanadas."
I particularly liked this one:
We found that some expressions were used only among the immigrant generation — for example, "throw a photo," from "tirar una foto," as a variation of "take a photo."
Hand Talk sign language has been used by indigenous communities for thousands of years as a lingua franca between groups and tribes that didn't share a common spoken language. Hand Talk is an endangered language — the US government tried to eradicate indigenous languages starting the late 1800s — but it's still in use today.
This was fascinating. For example, as with all languages, Hand Talk vocabulary reveals how they thought about everyday concepts like time:
For example, let's take the simple question: "How old are you?" First, there's a single sign for "question." So for a question about someone's age, you'd use the motion for question with the motion for "winter". How many winters are you? That's what I ask. In PISL you measure months by moons, days by the sun. And to refer to different times of day, you would show hand placement according to the position of the sun in the sky. So this sign for morning, afternoon, or night.
Hand Talk was also one of the influences on ASL and the borrowing of vocabulary between the two language groups continues.
Political cartoonist Jen Sorensen recently published this cartoon at The Nib about the harmful mischaracterization of human rights battles as mere "culture wars".
Here's what she wrote about it:
The term "culture wars" is used by many well-meaning people, including many progressive writers and activists I admire. It's a convenient way to refer to a number of issues. But in this current political moment, I think it's a highly misleading euphemism. What we are experiencing in America right now is an asymmetrical attack on basic freedoms — a fascist movement that thrives on targeting certain groups, erasing history, and spreading dangerous falsehoods through a vast media apparatus. To call this a "culture war" is to legitimize the contemporary GOP and its extremist counterparts as a coherent and authentic "culture" worthy of respect. This is a misuse of the concept of culture, creating a false equivalence between marginalized groups and those who would harm or eliminate them in a quest for ever more power.
Yeah, spot on. You can follow Sorensen's work on Mastodon, The Nib, Daily Kos, and Patreon.
Shetland Islanders, descendents of Jamaican immigrants living in London, and African Americans all tend to say "axe" or "aks" instead of "ask" when speaking. Linguist Geoff Lindsey traces the history of differing pronunciations of ask/aks from all the way back to the beginnings of written English up to the present day.
See also Ask or aks? How linguistic prejudice perpetuates inequality and linguist John McWhorter on The 'ax' versus 'ask' question.
First, it's important to understand that, as English goes, "ax" is a perfectly normal thing to have happened to a word like "ask." Take the word "fish." It started as "fisk," with the same -sk ending that "ask" has. Over time, in some places people started saying "fisk" as "fiks," while in others they started saying "fisk" as "fish." After a while, "fish" won out over "fiks," and here we are today. The same thing happened with "mash." It started as "mask." Later some people were saying "maks" and others were saying "mash." "Mash" won.
With "ask," some people started saying "aks," and some started saying "ash." But this time, it wasn't "ash" that won out. Instead, for a while "aks" was doing pretty well. Even Chaucer used it in "The Canterbury Tales," in lines such as this one: "Yow loveres axe I now this questioun."
There is an element of chance in how words change over time, and we will never know why "aks" and "ash" lost out to "ask." All we know is that the people whose English was designated the standard happened to be among those who said "ask" instead of "aks" - and the rest is history.
(via @peterme
In 1955, the Ford Motor Company hired poet Marianne Moore to come up with some names for their revolutionary new car. Moore ended up submitting some amazing names, including "Silver Sword", "Intelligent Whale", "Angel Astro", and "Utopian Turtletop".
What Moore lacked in corporate nomenclature experience, she made up for in enthusiasm and imagination: she submitted over two dozen names for consideration, each one more delightful — and unlikely — than the last. In the end, the poet's suggestions were rejected and the company's chairman himself named the vehicle. Thus was born the notorious car known as the Edsel.
Ford realized perhaps too late that they shouldn't have, in fact, sent a poet — but we're sure glad they did.
Back here in the present day, Pentagram commissioned the legendary Seymour Chwast to turn Moore's amazing collection of names into a booklet of illustrations that imagine what these cars might look like.
Two ancient clay tablets discovered in Iraq in the 1980s and possibly smuggled illegally to the United States during the Iran-Iraq War (!) bear cuneiform-like writing. But while one of the scripts is in Akkadian, a kind of Babylonian lingua franca that is well-known to scholars of ancient writing, the other is in Amorite, a "lost" Semitic/Canaanite language that is not well-attested elsewhere. Put the two together, and you have another Rosetta Stone for deciphering an ancient script scholars otherwise couldn't read.
The account of the Amorite language given in the tablets is surprisingly comprehensive. "The two tablets increase our knowledge of Amorite substantially, since they contain not only new words but also complete sentences, and so exhibit much new vocabulary and grammar," the researchers said. The writing on the tablets may have been done by an Akkadian-speaking Babylonian scribe or scribal apprentice, as an "impromptu exercise born of intellectual curiosity," the authors added.
Yoram Cohen, a professor of Assyriology at Tel Aviv University in Israel who wasn't involved in the research, told Live Science that the tablets seem to be a sort of "tourist guidebook" for ancient Akkadian speakers who needed to learn Amorite.
One notable passage is a list of Amorite gods that compares them with corresponding Mesopotamian gods, and another passage details welcoming phrases.
"There are phrases about setting up a common meal, about doing a sacrifice, about blessing a king," Cohen said. "There is even what may be a love song. ... It really encompasses the entire sphere of life."
Amorite is a western Semitic language, like ancient Hebrew, but these tablets, estimated to be 4000 years old, are at least 1000 years older than any extant Hebrew writing. (The Amorites were one of the frequent enemies of the ancient Hebrews.)
David Shariatmadari, an editor at The Guardian, was asked by a colleague to "have a go" at inventing a new game, a new viral sensation like Wordle. The game he came up with is called Wordiply (it's fun!) and he wrote up the whole process of how he went about designing it. The idea behind the game is a simple one and the way in which Shariatmadari arrives at it is a familiar trope in discovery stories:
That's where my older brother, Daniel, comes in. While I'm racking my brains about how to come up with a better version of Boggle, he's with his partner Nic in a hospital waiting for their baby to be born. On the morning she is due for an induction, they arrive bright and early at 8am. I call at about 11am to see how things are going. "What about if you had a word," Daniel says, "of three letters — and the point of the game is to find the longest word that still has those three letters."
"You mean like an anagram, but you make it longer?" I ask, confused.
"No, you've got to keep them in order. So if you had 'bid', then maybe, er, 'forbidden' would be the longest word."
"Or 'ambidextrous'."
"Right."
This is typical. I've been thinking about this for weeks. Daniel is supposed to be having a baby today and instead he's come up with something that just might be the next Wordle.
"I think that's pretty good," I tell him.
"Yeah, OK — gotta go."
"What about the bab — "
It's worth reading the whole thing — stories of invention and discovery are always interesting and the familiarity that most people have with word puzzles makes this one easy to follow and even to place yourself in the creator's shoes. A key part of the design process is to look for the spark:
Next, I pitch the longest word game: "So if you have a word like 'pit', you could have 'spit', 'spittoon', 'hospitable'." "Amphitheatre!" Will exclaims, triumphantly. There's a beat before we realise it doesn't work. But I can hear an excitement in his voice — pride at having swung even if he missed. Maybe there is something to this. We do a paper prototype, and decide to play it against the clock — 15 seconds. I call out the word "cub" and everyone scribbles furiously. Time's up before we know it, and all I managed is "scuba". Someone gets "incubation". Will has "cubism". "You know what?" he says. "It's a good game!" Entrancement? Unlocked. Well, possibly.
I found this via Clive Thompson, who riffs on Shariatmadari's piece here.
Alas, there is no magic formula to finding the right mix of rules. You just have to tweak and tweak, and test and test.
Often the hardest part of finessing a design can be some incredibly weird thing you'd never predict.
For Shariatmadari, the hardest part was creating the list of allowable words. Since the goal of his game was - given a target word like "pop" (for example) - to find the longest possible word that contains the target, there are a ton of super-long medical and chemical words one could use, like "pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism". But allowing words like that could break the feeling of fairness, giving an advantage to people who rote-memorize really long medical words. (As an aside, this is why I find competitive Scrabble rather dreary: Success hinges upon memorizing endless marginal two-letter words that normal people rarely ever use in daily speech; this does not feel, to me, like a particularly interesting skill.)
I have a weird relationship with word puzzles. I don't like crossword puzzles but have been doing them recently with a friend over FaceTime, which has been enjoyable. Boggle is my jam and has been since childhood, but I dislike Scrabble with an intensity that is almost absurd. I've never played Wordle (I know!) but I do Spelling Bee every day. I'm not sure why I love some of these games and dislike others — all word games require pattern matching to some extent, which is something I enjoy and am good at, but for some reason Scrabble and Wordle don't interest me at all while I cannot get enough Spelling Bee.
I read (and loved) Middlemarch this summer and was delighted to find this surprisingly modern usage of the concept of trash-talk about halfway through the book (boldface mine):
But in this doubtful stage of Lydgate's introduction he was helped by what we mortals rashly call good fortune. I suppose no doctor ever came newly to a place without making cures that surprised somebody — cures which may be called fortune's testimonials, and deserve as much credit as the written or printed kind. Various patients got well while Lydgate was attending them, some even of dangerous illnesses; and it was remarked that the new doctor with his new ways had at least the merit of bringing people back from the brink of death. The trash talked on such occasions was the more vexatious to Lydgate, because it gave precisely the sort of prestige which an incompetent and unscrupulous man would desire, and was sure to be imputed to him by the simmering dislike of the other medical men as an encouragement on his own part of ignorant puffing. But even his proud outspokenness was checked by the discernment that it was as useless to fight against the interpretations of ignorance as to whip the fog; and "good fortune" insisted on using those interpretations.
Curious if that term had been in use before George Eliot wrote Middlemarch in the early 1870s, I found Mark Liberman's post on Language Log, where the earliest citation of the "abuse of opponents" sense of the phrase seems to be 1933. I will leave it to the etymological experts whether what Eliot meant by the phrase can be linked to the competitive speech of Muhammed Ali, Michael Jordan, and other athletes.
For 40 years, the Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest has invited people to come up with the worst possible opening sentences to really bad novels. From the results of the 2022 contest, here's this year's grand prize winner:
I knew she was trouble the second she walked into my 24-hour deli, laundromat, and detective agency, and after dropping a load of unmentionables in one of the heavy-duty machines (a mistake that would soon turn deadly) she turned to me, asking for two things: find her missing husband and make her a salami on rye with spicy mustard, breaking into tears when I told her I couldn't help — I was fresh out of salami.
I am also fond, for some reason, of this one:
Apart from his undergraduate degree in art history and several years under the tutelage of Simone d'Poisson, preeminent Monet scholar at the Louvre, truckin' was all Billy knew.
The name of the contest is in honor of Edward Bulwer-Lytton, a British writer and politician who was active in the mid-19th century. He's typically roasted for having the worst opening line in an actual novel: "It was a dark and stormy night." But Bulwer-Lytton also came up with several pithy and memorable turns of phrase, like "the pen is mightier than the sword".
Google has developed a typeface called Noto that seemingly includes every single character and symbol used for writing in the history of the world. I mean, look at all these different options: Korean, Bengali, Emoji, Egyptian hieroglyphs, Coptic, Old Hungarian, Cuneiform, Linear B, Osage, and literally dozens more.
Noto is a collection of high-quality fonts with multiple weights and widths in sans, serif, mono, and other styles. The Noto fonts are perfect for harmonious, aesthetic, and typographically correct global communication, in more than 1,000 languages and over 150 writing systems.
A particular shoutout to Noto Emoji: it supports the latest emoji release (14.0) and includes 3,663 emoji in multiple weights.
Perhaps it's time for a new typeface 'round these parts...
Update: I got it in my head that Noto was a new typeface, but it was first released in 2013. But Noto's monochrome emoji font is new — I think that's where I got confused.
In January 2020, John Hendrickson wrote an article for The Atlantic about Joe Biden's stutter...and his own. Hendrickson has written a memoir about his "lifelong struggle to speak": Life on Delay: Making Peace with a Stutter.
In Life on Delay, Hendrickson writes candidly about bullying, substance abuse, depression, isolation, and other issues stutterers like him face daily. He explores the intricate family dynamics surrounding his own stutter and revisits key people from his past in unguarded interviews. Readers get an over-the-shoulder view of his childhood; his career as a journalist, which once seemed impossible; and his search for a romantic partner. Along the way, Hendrickson guides us through the evolution of speech therapy, the controversial quest for a "magic pill" to end stuttering, and the burgeoning self-help movement within the stuttering community. Beyond his own experiences, he shares portraits of fellow stutterers who have changed his life, and he writes about a pioneering doctor who is upending the field of speech therapy.
Sounds fascinating and the cover is fantastic (who designed it?):
See also Austin Kleon's Our Stutter:
Around Christmastime, my son started stuttering differently and more frequently.
"Why are you so glitchy?" my 5-year-old asked him. "I'm worried about you."
We might've been worried, too, except that we'd been through it before. The previous Christmas, we'd called Dr. Courtney Byrd at the Lang Stuttering Institute here in Austin, Texas, and she assured us that it was perfectly normal for stuttering to change during the holidays and that even good, exciting events can cause changes in stuttering.
So now, when Our Stutter changes, our listening changes.
We listen with more love.
The segment he references from This American Life featuring JJJJJerome Ellis is fantastic and a must-listen if you've never heard it before.
Update: Hendrickson reports that the cover is by Oliver Munday, whose work I admire greatly.
See also Why Are There So Many F**king Best-sellers Right Now With F**k in the Title?, What the F*ck Is Up With All These Sweary F*cking Book Titles?, and What Is With All of the Self-Help Books With Swear Words in the Title?
In response to a Freedom of Information Act request in 2014, the FBI released their internal 83-page guide to internet slang (most of which are initialisms and acronyms). The quality of the scanned document is very poor, but it's (just) readable. A few of my favorite phrases gleaned from skipping around the report:
BMUS - beam me up, Scotty
EMFBI - excuse me for butting in
JC - Jesus Christ/just curious/just chilling
MOS - mom over shoulder
PS - photoshop/play station/post script
SMG - sub-machine gun
TOTES FRESH - totally precious
YOYO - you're on your own
WYLABOCTGWTR - would you like a bowl of cream to go with that remark?
For their annual publication that they send out to their company mailing list, Pentagram recently made a far more legible and well-designed version of the FBI's guide featuring some of their own favorites.
The booklet challenges readers to identify 14 abbreviations of varying difficulty and absurdity, with answers at the back. The acronyms are set in two custom typefaces designed by Pentagram partner Matt Willey, based on the markings that appear on the agency's uniforms, particularly in popular media. The two fonts are fittingly named Edgar Sans and Clyde Slab in honor of longtime FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover and his deputy and alleged lover Clyde Tolson.
Nathan Pyle has come up with some alternate names for everyday foods: wheat wands for breadsticks, leafbucket for salad, fried beans 2.0 for refried beans, guac cartridge for avocado, and breadcocoon meatapillar for corn dogs. Click through for more.
Michael Hobbes, late of You're Wrong About, has made a video essay arguing that "cancel culture" is a moral panic and not some huge new problem in our society. He says you can tell it's a moral panic because of the shifting definitions of the term, the stories are often exaggerated or untrue, the stakes are often low, and it's fueling a reactionary backlash.
Even if you think that cancel culture really is a nationwide problem, I don't see why we should focus on random college students and salty Twitter users rather than elected officials and actual legislation. Look, I'm not gonna sit here and pretend there haven't been genuinely ugly internet pile-ons. Social media makes it easy to gang up on random people and ruin their lives over dumb jokes and honest mistakes.
But for two years now, right-wing grifters and the liberal rubes who launder them into the mainstream have cast cancel culture as a problem for the American left and a sign of creeping authoritarianism. They're wrong. Internet mobs are not a left-wing phenomenon and historically speaking, the threat of authoritarianism usually comes from political parties that try to overturn elections, make it harder to vote, and censor ideas they don't like. All of this is obvious, but that's what moral panics do: they distract you from an obvious truth and make you believe in a stupid lie.
Back in October, Hobbes wrote a piece on The Methods of Moral Panic Journalism that pairs well with this video.
A group of activists called Slavers Of New York is working to educate people about the prominent New Yorkers who lent their names to the city's geography (Nostrand, Bergen, Rivington, Stuyvesant, Lefferts, Boerum) and were also slave owners or traffickers. From the NY Times:
Just a few months before, while scrolling through social media, Mx. Waithe had stumbled upon records from the nation's first census in 1790, which listed well-known New York families like the Leffertses, the Boerums and the Nostrands. To the right of those names was another category: "slaves."
According to the census, the Lefferts family enslaved 87 Black people throughout New York City (Prospect Lefferts Gardens and an avenue in that Brooklyn neighborhood were named after them). The Boerums owned 14 slaves (the neighborhood Boerum Hill is named for them). And the Nostrands (of the eight-mile-long Nostrand Avenue), enslaved 23 people (this number would nearly double by the beginning of the 19th century).
The discovery sparked Slavers of New York, a sticker campaign and education initiative dedicated to calling out — and eventually mapping — the history of slavery in New York City.
The group detailed how they started where the project is headed in an interview in Guernica:
Mainly, our goal is to just educate people about the legacy of slavery and how it persists in the present day. We don't advocate for changing the names in any way. We hope that, if people feel so inclined to change names, they create their own groups and engage in political action. I definitely think there should be more context available in public places. When Maria and I went to Stuyvesant Square in Manhattan, a statue of Peter Stuyvesant was there in the middle of the park, glorified, and there's no information about his slave-owning history.
What's really interesting is that some of the naming of places for slavers happened more recently than you would imagine. Boerum Hill wasn't called "Boerum Hill" until 1964 or so, when that name was resurrected as part of the gentrification of Brooklyn. You can see, directly, the entanglement of the history of slavery and gentrification. Bringing this man's name back into the neighborhood is a symbol of violence. The persistence of these names and links carry this space through history.
You can keep up with the group's efforts on Twitter and Instagram and support their mission on GoFundMe. (Map above courtesy of The Decolonial Atlas.)
Ikea names their products after locations all over Scandinavia and a bunch of those places in Sweden are fighting back against the practice with a clever "discover the originals" ad campaign.
From Strange Maps:
Bolmen. Now there's a word you don't use every day. Where have you encountered it before? In IKEA, where it's the name of a cheap toilet brush — for a dollar, it's yours. What you probably don't know is that the brush was named after a pristine lake in southern Sweden. And now that you do know, that lake doesn't sound so pristine anymore.
Call it the Curse of IKEA. A curse repeated hundreds of times across the map of Sweden. Beautiful places with exotic names, their appeal diminished by association with mundane items from the world's most popular furniture catalog. Where does that leave the tourist industry around Lake Toiletbrush? Down in the dumps, is where.
Bodviken is "more than an IKEA countertop sink"; it's a UNESCO World Heritage site. Voxnan is "more than an IKEA shower shelf"; it's home to a marvelous river for fishing, paddling, and hiking. Björksta is "more than an IKEA picture with frame"; it's an historic Viking site. You can check out more of the originals here.
My favorite contemporary writer is probably Lydia Davis, in no small part because I don't know if anyone takes a finer care for the language they use, as a writer and reader.
Davis also does double duty as both an original writer of fiction and essays, and a translator of other people's writings, in multiple languages. In her new collection, Essays 2, she describes her unusual technique:
Although she learned German by immersion, Davis's preferred method of language acquisition is quite different, and, to an outside observer, demonically challenging: She finds a book published in a language that she does not fully or even partially understand and then tries to figure out what it means.
To improve her Spanish, she digs into a copy of "Las Aventuras de Tom Sawyer." In some cases the decryption proves easy. Words like "plan" are the same in English and Spanish. In other cases she inductively reasons the meaning of a word after noticing it in different contexts. Hoja initially stumps her when it pops up in the phrase hoja de papel — "hoja of paper." Later in the book, it occurs in the context of a tree. Finally, Huck wraps a dry hoja around something to make a cigarette, and Davis realizes that only one meaning would work as well with paper as with a tree or a cigarette: "leaf." Of course, it would be possible to solve the hoja enigma in two seconds by plugging the word into Google, but that would destroy the fun.
I'm (re)learning Italian right now — I sort of learned it backwards the first time, starting with Dante and Petrarch and only now learning how to ask where the bathroom is (dove el gabinetto?) and the difference between coat (cappotto) and hat (cappello). But what remains exciting are the little associations you learn, the conjunctions of phrasing, the possible substitutions of one term for another, the way a question and an answer can reflect the same structure — a map of phonemic possibilities that is also a way of seeing the world. Davis's method might be impractical for learning a second language, but for a gifted language learner, it seems to put a premium on finding those connections. Which is, indeed, a big part of the fun.
Jumbo the Elephant was one of the most famous animals in the world. Bought as a calf in Sudan by a European animal dealer in 1860, Jumbo found fame first at the London Zoo and later as the centerpiece of the Barnum & Bailey Circus in the US. Jumbo was so beloved in London that news of his sale to P.T. Barnum prompted 100,000 children to write to Queen Victoria, urging her to nix the deal. In the video above, Andrew McClellan recounts Jumbo's too-short (and probably unhappy) life and the impact he had on society.
The word "jumbo" hadn't been known or used in the English language before he came along and has since become the byword for anything humongous or supersized. So every time we use the word "jumbo jet" or "jumbotron", we're actually referring back to Jumbo the elephant.
(thx, ben)
For The Atlantic, Katherine Wu writes about the difficulty of communicating how vaccines work and how they protect individuals and communities from disease: Vaccines Are Like Sunscreen... No, Wait, Airbags... No, Wait...
Unfortunately, communal benefit is harder to define, harder to quantify, and harder to describe than individual protection, because "it's not the way Americans are used to thinking about things," Neil Lewis, a behavioral scientist and communications expert at Cornell, told me. That's in part because communal risk isn't characteristic of the health perils people in wealthy countries are accustomed to facing: heart disease, stroke, diabetes, cancer. Maybe that's part of why we gravitate toward individual-focused comparisons. Slipping into a pandemic-compatible, population-based frame of mind is a big shift. In the age of COVID-19, "there's been a lot of focus on the individual," Lewis told me. That's pretty at odds "with how infection works."
As someone who has struggled with analogizing the virus & vaccines, I was nodding my head a lot while reading this. Something I've noticed in recent years that Wu didn't get into is that readers desire precision in metaphors and analogies, even though metaphor is — by definition! — not supposed to be taken literally. People seem much more interested in taking analogies apart, identifying what doesn't work, and discarding them rather than — more generously and constructively IMO — using them as the author intended to better understand the subject matter. The perfect metaphor doesn't exist because then it wouldn't be a metaphor.
Fermi's paradox is fairly well known: given what we know about the chance of intelligent life appearing somewhere in the universe, why haven't any other species to date so far made contact with humanity? You can formalize the paradox via the Drake equation or some other method, but that's the crux of it.
What's less clear is how Enrico Fermi originally phrased the paradox. At Language Log, Mark Lieberman points out that each of the participants in the original conversation remembers it differently:
At lunch, Fermi suddenly exclaimed, "Where are they?" (Teller's remembrance), or "Don't you ever wonder where everybody is?" (York's remembrance), or "But where is everybody?" (Konopinski's remembrance).
As Liberman writes, "our memory of exact word sequences usually fades more quickly than our memory of (contextually interpreted) meanings. More broadly, the exact auditory sensations normally fade very quickly; the corresponding word sequences fade a bit more slowly; and the interpreted meanings last longest."
My own favorite (for purely aesthetic reasons) is "where is everybody?" It just kind of says everything you want such an observation to say.
Using publicly available datasets of English words, their etymologies, and their semantic distances, software engineer Daniel de Haas generated pairs & triples of words that have a common origin but otherwise are unrelated to each other.
"actor" & "coagulate"
Both of these words derive ultimately from the Latin "ago", meaning "act", "do", "make", and a bunch of other things.English "actor" is a short hop away from "ago", but "coagulate" takes a longer path: "ago" ➔ "cogo" ("collect") ➔ "coagulum" ("a clot") ➔ "coagulo" ("to clot").
"educate" & "subdue"
I never would have picked those two words out of a lineup as having a shared etymological root, but sure enough it sits right there — the "du" in the middle of each word, which ultimately derives from Latin "duco", meaning "lead"."Educate" comes from the Latin "eductus", meaning to "lead or bring out", and then the Latin "educare" ("raise, train, mould"). I love the image of education as the process of extruding a refined person out of a base of unrefined material.
"Subdue" comes from the latin "subduco", meaning "lead under". Again, a very clear physical description of what the word means — to put beneath you, or bring under control.
Update: Oh here's a good one: the words "fascism" and "fajita" are both derived from the same Latin root.
Singer and actor Leslie Odom Jr., who grew up in Philadelphia and who you may know from Hamilton and who is wearing an amazing purple sweater in this video, breaks down some Philly slang for us, including jawn, Mummers, MAC machine, old head, water ice, and outta pocket.
The Wikipedia page listing company name etymologies is a good place to spend some time.
7-Eleven - convenience stores; renamed from "Tote'm" in 1946 to reflect their newly extended hours, 7:00 am until 11:00 pm.
Samsung - meaning "three stars" in Korean
Coca-Cola - derived from the coca leaves and kola nuts used as flavoring. Coca-Cola creator John S. Pemberton changed the 'K' of kola to 'C' to make the name look better.
Pepsi - named from the digestive enzyme pepsin
Jordache - from the first names of the Nakash brothers who founded the company: Joe, Ralph, David (Ralph's first son), Avi, plus che, after the second syllable of "Nakash"
GEICO - from Government Employees Insurance Company
Häagen-Dazs - name was invented in 1961 by ice-cream makers Reuben and Rose Mattus of the Bronx "to convey an aura of the old-world traditions and craftsmanship". The name has no meaning.
Hotmail - founder Jack Smith got the idea of accessing e-mail via the web from a computer anywhere in the world. When Sabeer Bhatia came up with the business plan for the mail service he tried all kinds of names ending in 'mail' and finally settled for Hotmail as it included the letters "HTML" - the markup language used to write web pages. It was initially referred to as HoTMaiL with selective upper casing.
Mozilla Foundation - from the name of the web browser that preceded Netscape Navigator. When Marc Andreesen, co-founder of Netscape, created a browser to replace the Mosaic browser, it was internally named Mozilla (Mosaic-Killer, Godzilla) by Jamie Zawinski.
(via sam potts)
Back in December 2020, Nepal and China announced that the height of Mount Everest had been remeasured and updated from a height of 8,848 meters (29,028.87 feet) to 8,848.86 meters (29,031.7 feet). Did the mountain get taller? Or the measuring more precise? And how do you measure the height of a mountain — or "sea level" for that matter — anyway?
In December of 2020, China and Nepal made a joint announcement about a new measurement for Mount Everest: 8,849 meters. This is just the latest of several different surveys of Everest since the first measurement was taken in 1855. The reasons why the height has fluctuated have to do with surveying methodology, challenges in determining sea level, and the people who have historically been able to measure Everest.
Also worth noting the (romanised) Nepalese and Tibetan names for the mountain: Sagarmāthā and Chomolungma. The section on its name at Wikipedia is pretty interesting — apparently George Everest, for whom the mountain was named, pronounced his name differently than we all do today.
In the US and other English-speaking countries, the names of Donald Duck's three nephews are Huey, Dewey, and Louie. As this map shows, they have different names in other countries — like Tick/Trick/Track in Germany, Billi/Villi/Dilli in Russia, and Ripp/Rapp/Rupp in Iceland.
You should check out the rest of the maps on the Mapologies blog as well, including maps of what the Milky Way is called in different countries and what people say when toasting.
This is a map showing the real-time location of Scotland's fleet of snow plows (which they call "road gritters"). As Jackie Sojico discovered, Scotland names their plows and some of them are hilarious.
Some of the plows are named things like Sprinkles or Salty but there are also Gangsta Granny Gritter, Mr Plow, Spready Mercury, License to Chill, Ready Spready Go, and Gritney Spears. A possibly out-of-date list of plow names shared on Twitter includes Darth Spreader, Gritty Gritty Bang Bang, and Snowbegone Kenobi.
Plows elsewhere in the UK are also given interesting names: Basil Salty, David Plowie, Freezy Rider, and Roger Spreaderer. (thx, meg)
