As my barber was finishing up, he asked: “Would you like any product?”
“No.” I firmly replied. Not simply because I didn’t want anything added to what little hair I have left, but because of my strong revulsion to the grammar of the question. Doesn’t it feel as if the inquiry is missing an adjective? I prefer “Would you like any hair product?” I’m also amenable to adding a prepositional phrase, such as: “Would you like any product in your hair?”
The barber’s question sounded so elitist and self-assured. I’m almost certain that while he was involuntarily rolling his eyes, he was thinking the following: “Of course EVERYONE knows about product. I wouldn’t be so boring as to reference it with any greater specificity. It’s so vulgar and debasing to devote any more time to enunciating a single additional syllable describing it.”
After leaving my barber sans product, I began scanning other industries where there’s this type of grammatical styling. For a framework, I turned to the Michael Scott list of industries, “There are four kinds of business: tourism, food service, railroads, and sales… and hospitals/manufacturing. And air travel.” Here’s my progress thus far:
Fast Food Restaurant: Would you like any ketchup? (i.e., not “ketchup packets”)
Looking for help on this one… please chime in on the comments.
It was a chilly day in Chicago when the “845th Annual Bodies of Water Conference” took place. As a gathering of the who’s-who of liquid players, these conferences had typically been more routine and less dynamic. At this conference, Lake Michigan played the affable host; the larger-than-life Pacific Ocean seemed to clamor for attention at every workshop. Attendees generally agreed that the keynote presentation from Lake Baikal had a depth and profundity that was unrivaled.
The workshop entitled the “Damn Dams” gave a healthy forum to those streams, rivers and waterways who had been converted into lakes through hydrological and agricultural engineering efforts. What had been described as an identity crisis for the past century seemed to crescendo at this year’s conference. It was truly a watershed moment when Lake Oroville rose to speak tremulously: “I was a river. Now I am a lake.” This simple declaration led dozens of other lakes to make similar declarations–Lake Mead, Lake Roosevelt, and Lake Powell among them. There was hardly a dry eye when the Gang of Five (i.e., the Great Lakes) strode across the room and affirmed those transitioned bodies of water: “We are like you. You are like us.”
The “Parts of Speech” workshop had historically been one of the least-attended sessions of any conference. Rarely did an attendee choose to wade into the minutiae of verbs, nouns, and so on. Despite the best intentions of facilitators, invariably sessions devolved into an etymological debate between the “firsters” and the “seconders.” (Groups who debated as to whether the descriptor should,—or should not–precede the name, such as Crater Lake and Lake Shasta.) While the discussion could be lively with valid arguments being made on all sides, there was never a sense of resolution.
What made the “Parts of Speech” workshop so unique this year, making the conference a milestone in water history, was due to parallel developments in technology. New services had been introduced that made it possible to listen to music or watch videos without first downloading the media. It had fallen to this august group to determine how this should be described.
The oceans collaborated to champion a new term: “oceaning”–such as “I’m oceaning a Netflix movie.” After much debate, they conceded that they would accept “tiding” in order to be more inclusive of other large bodies of water such as the seas and large lakes. (Rumors have circulated that these aquatic bodies secretly received funding from the Lunar Society to promote this term. Though the malfeasance is often presented as fact, as of this writing no regulatory board has ever made a formal evidence-backed charge.) The collective voice of the large-bodied water group was so strong, that the discussion nearly stopped at that point had it not been for one lone voice in the room: Meadowbrook Stream. Here, it is worth quoting the statement in full:
“We all acknowledge: you are mighty in droplets. You move with force and your presence is unmistakable on the earth. Your greatness cannot be denied nor is it being challenged. However in comparison to the mighty torrent of bits and bytes that are moving with these audio and video files, you are as still as a pond. It is at this hour, on this day, and in this place that we must attribute this behavior to those who move swiftly and do not share your constancy. This new word is not fit for a large body of water that is swayed by lunar forces. This word is only fit for the waterways that display movement and passion.”
Surprised by her own voice, she yielded to the rest of the room, but the impact of that statement was not lost. After an extended pause, a spontaneous discussion erupted as to what the term should then be: “brooking videos,” “rivering music,” “eddying podcasts,” and so on. Breakout sessions went late in the day in attempting to land on the perfect grammatical fit. At what seemed like a stalemate between “canaling” and “delta-ing” someone (and no one can quite remember who) suggested “streaming.”
As good ideas do sometimes, “streaming” mysteriously and immediately resonated with the group. It was repeated over and over; the word was written and considered with various fonts. Wordsmiths paired “streaming” with various nouns, as if inspecting the various facets of a diamond looking for blemishes. It became abundantly clear that “streaming” was clearly the most apt choice. When the room was fully satisfied, the moderator declared: “Everyone, we’ve done it. As we move into the future, we shall have streaming video and streaming audio.” To this, the room erupted with whoops of congratulations and pats on backs for having solved such a conundrum.
A fitting end to a watershed moment in aquatic conferences.
I’d experienced the event, but never knew what they were called. The event I am about to describe I had been erroneously been calling “long good-byes” (or “interminable departures” if more tired and grumpy). My dear friend who relocated from California to Indiana enlightened me: I have repeatedly experienced a Midwest Goodbye.
Interestingly, long before I knew I was experiencing a Midwest Goodbye, I had learned to prepare myself for these events. Years ago, I created a formula which I then used to pre-calculate how long a good-bye would last when wrapping up a social event. Armed with a duration estimate, my expectations were appropriately calibrated upon arrival.
In my Midwest spirit of hospitality, I will just generously share my formula (perhaps someone out there may wish to leverage it in creating a mobile app).
The calculation to determine “g” the duration (in minutes) the goodbye will last, use the following variables:
f = square feet of the area in which departures take place (e.g., foyer, mud room, carport, entryway, front porch). TIP: Visit places with a tape measure. If planning a first-time visit, you might be able to estimate dimensions using Google maps or the city/county.
s = stimulants involved: coffee, candy, sugar cookies, soda, etc. = 2; no stimulants= 1
c = number of children (under age 12) in attendance
d = weekday: Saturday or Sunday = .742 [Marschuffen’s Constant(*)]; weeknights = 1
t1 = # of days since last visit (TIP: I’m a big fan of using Google calendar to track and have this type of date information easily accessible.)
t2 = # of days estimated until next visit (of course, this is a best-guess approximation)
v = # of minutes of the core visit (i.e., from doorbell ring to the first “Well, we should get going…”)
So, in a scenario when your family is leaving from the foyer of another family of 4, having enjoyed a two hour dinner with peach pie and sweet tea for dessert, and you’ve been catching up since last together 30 days ago and won’t see them for another week–based on this formula and these variables, you should expect your Midwest Goodbye to require 30 minutes on a weekend and a little over 5 minutes on a weeknight.
f = 200
s = 2
c = 4
t1 = 30 days
t2 = 7 days
v = 120 minutes
You can anticipate–and perhaps tune some of the variables–to adjust the duration. For example, though you could move the goodbye event into a larger area (say the wrap-around front porch that’s 500 sft), you’ll discover that doesn’t have much of an impact. However, more frequent visits or eliminating the peach pie and sweet tea could reduce the duration.
Admittedly, it’s an imperfect formula and doesn’t take into account other key variables such as: weather, age, health conditions, time of day, need to use the bathroom, and if food such as leftover casserole needs to be transported and refrigerated. Nevertheless, I’ve found it a handy tool both personally and in my marriage.
(*) For an excellent analysis of the Midwest Goodbye based on the seminal research conducted by Hans Marschuffen and Ernst Müller in 1978, I recommend “An Analysis of the Spatial-Time Modulation Experienced in Extended Departure Conversations.”
In reflecting about songs people broadly tend to treasure, I find they are ones where we get a lump in our throat or our eyes might get misty. They are songs that make us appreciate the world around us, the people in our lives, the things that truly matter, and break down divisions? There’s a litany of familiar songs like:
Amazing Grace
Jesus Take the Wheel (Carrie Underwood)
The Heart of the Matter (Don Henley)
Certainly there are intentionally-depressing songs about breakups or isolation. Yet these are often written with self-awareness that the emotions like anger and revenge are transient.
The point is, I have yet to hear a classic song treasured across generations with a title like:
I’m So Much Better
Self-Love is all I Need
Let me be Judged by all I Say and Do
We deeply treasure redemption, forgiveness, community, reconciliation, and relationships.
The title is an apt summary. Imagine you’re settling in for your 16 hour bus ride. The bus is full, and you’re seated directly next to someone who initiates a dialogue. The following are 10 conversation-starters you don’t want to hear.
Let me know if you get hungry. I packed plenty of tuna fish sandwiches to share and they’re not gettin’ any colder!
Phew! I’m so glad my wife’s not on this trip. She’s a doctor and makes me wear that stupid face mask.
Nice shoelaces. How much you want for ’em?
Quick question…. Do you know how long it takes to kill all the head lice?
Sorry man, but I left my headphones at home. I’ll just turn my volume down.
I’m really excited about this trip I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time, have you? is this your first time on a bus? what’s your name? my name is Kate but you can call me Katie if you want but some people especially if they’re made at me or upset call me Katherine a bus isn’t new for me because I go on bus trips a lot sometimes I will just go back and forth back and forth between different cities I think it’s loads of fun do you like to go on bus trips too? my friend Ellen likes buses she’s been on a lot of buses at least 10 maybe 20 I don’t know she doesn’t tell me about all her trips but I can tell her about this trip…
You look cool! You and me can play Slug Bug during the trip! OK, here we go. I spy with my little eye something green.
You have pretty cuticles.
Just to warn you, sometimes my arms and legs spasm. Don’t take it personally if I bump you. I brought some ice packs just in case.
There are some items in daily life where use for an alternate purpose is acceptable and so commonplace that it garners no attention. For example:
Driving alone, without any passengers, in your crew cab pickup truck
Using a hardback book as a solid surface when writing on a sheet of paper
Using a soft t-shirt to wipe your glasses clean
For other items, use for something for which it was not intended is simply gross, uncomfortable, and socially awkward. This is perhaps no more acutely defined in the seemingly-common, yet highly-specialized items many of us use daily: a brush.
Fun Game o’ the Day: Here’s a social experiment game you can play with friends…. Venture out into a public space (e.g., on a subway or in an airport) and use a brush for a purpose for which it is clearly not designed. Take note as to what people do when they see you brushing your hair with a toothbrush or brushing your teeth with a paint brush.
Here is a short list of common brushes found in many homes:
paint brush
tooth brush
cosmetic brush
toilet brush
bottle brush
hair brush
scrub brush
nail brush
In reviewing this list, you likely recognize most, if not all, of these and can imagine how they appear and the purposes for which they are used. Brushes are deceptively simple and similar in their design. In basic form, a brush is a firm surface into which bristles are extended. When comparing brushes, the spacing of the bristles might differ slightly; the length and firmness may vary; the materials may vary. The intended use for the brush is where there is vast differentiation.
While a mobile phone includes a phone, map, camera, photo album, compass, etc., humanity will not engineer (not should someone engineer) a “Swiss Army Brush” that satisfies all our brush needs with such convenience. There can never be a single-purpose brush. One should not, for example, use a nail brush to clean one’s toilet, give ‘er a rinse, and then proceed to groom one’s hair. Human invention has have reached its zenith with the distinctive families of brushes as we know them. The family tree has branched in a myriad of directions; they should never be joined again.
Ode to a Brush
I thank you brush for never being Where you should not be found. You do your duty, waiting faithfully to be used laterally, vertically, or ’round. O brush of singular purpose! O brush of focus and might! Wait for my bidding. You soon will be summoned. Your bristles’ fulfillment is nigh.
I have a simple request to the creative folks who work in urban planning–those folks who select the names of roadways. Please, stop playing games with us inhabitants. Even in the days of GPS and maps apps, I often remain confused.
For example, in my hometown, we have 1st through 8th streets. We also have–on the other side of town–1st through 8th avenues. Ha ha. Oh what fun our town founders must have had in the late 1800’s.
I imagine there was a late-night conversation over a pitcher of beer in a dark, smoke-filled room. I’m pretty certain there was a debate between a Mr. Edwin McClure and a Mr. James Potter who both wanted to claim their business was on 1st Street. In order to resolve the heated debate–which felt like it nearly came to fisticuffs–Gus Thompson intervened with a suggestion. (Gus Thompson was always respected for being a level-headed businessman.) McClure could have his store on 1st Street and Potter could have his store on 1st Avenue. And so, the debate was summarily settled with handshakes and toasts all around the smoky room.
At least that’s how I imagine it.
McClure and Potter both won–each having claim to their store being on a “First.” However, for the hundreds of thousands of others for several generations, confusion has reigned.
My town is not alone in this epidemic. In the town of Sonoma, CA for example, there is:
Sonoma Street (makes sense)
Napa Street (wait…. isn’t Napa the name of the town and valley just a few miles away?)
Napa Road (very funny…. this isn’t helpful at all…)
Spain Road (while confusing, there’s enough continental dissonance, but still…)
Personally, I’d prefer something akin to Manhattan’s unimaginative-yet-highly-practical grid layout. “I’ll meet you on the corner of 33rd and 6th” or, “I’m walking to 42nd Street.” Simple. No ambiguity. Or, perhaps something that while initially bothersome, yields a dual purpose. For example:
Roads in order of the US Presidents (Washington, Adams, Jefferson…)
Roads in order of Atomic Number (Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium). Could be handy for postal abbreviations (e.g., 26 H St).
Roads in order of states joining the Union (Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey). Again, handy for postal abbreviations (e.g., 26 DE St).
While there might be many solutions, the plight is common. If the place where you live is also afflicted with confusing naming conventions, remember: you are not alone.
If you step into your neighborhood Barnes & Noble you might spot this book: Learn Mandarin Chinese: Speak, Write, and Understand Chinese in No Time. When I spotted this not-too-thick book with CD conveniently included–I was aghast.
You see, I had been naïve to think that Mandarin Chinese was complicated or difficult to learn. Silly me. As a native English speaker, I thought since Mandarin was in a family of languages not at all related to English’s European roots, I might have a dickens of a time learning even the basics of the language.
Turns out I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know about this revolutionary book and CD set. I (and some other folks who needed to learn Mandarin Chinese for extensive business trips in China) made the effort to purchase textbooks, secure a tutor, do homework and attend multiple classroom sessions each week. For months we met in a somewhat immersive conversational program. Several trips to China and business exchange programs gave us opportunity to practice what we learned in real-world situations in restaurants, business meetings, and markets. My classmates and I certainly didn’t absorb what we did in “no time.”
The book’s description claims that the reader will be able to “speak with confidence.” Moreover, the book makes “making mastering this fascinating language fun and easy.” Interesting. At no point in my multiple months of struggling to learn to say “where is the washroom please?” did I find it easy. (It was incredibly fun however. Many, many times we students and our tutor had side-splitting laughter about our mispronunciations.)
To “speak with confidence” as the book self-describes would have been so nice. As you may know, Mandarin Chinese has five tones. These tones impact the meaning of the word. Going up with one’s pitch at the end of the word–as opposed to going down with the pitch at the end of the word–could make the difference between “mother” and “horse.” Try as I might, I wasn’t always confident whether I would be stating to someone the traditional greeting of: “Have you eaten?” or “You are a dragonfly.”
Now, looking back, while I spoke a little Mandarin Chinese (and at times perhaps even spoke with cavalier confidence) I may not have been comprehended by native speakers. So maybe that is the significant-yet-unstated reality of this book: you will learn to write it and say it, but be advised: you may not be understood by any native speakers.
Mind Furniture 