Who’d a thot that the most technologically advanced society in the history of the planet would find their authority figures speaking in the parlance of eighteenth-century harpoon-throwing whalers?
Aaaaargh, me buckos – it’s come to that.
As referenced elsewhere, the term Nor'easter originates in British maritime English and - for unknown reasons - the popular media revived it. Certainly, you’ve heard the newscasters use the term to describe any storm on the east coast, which forces the question: Why are indigenous weather patterns elsewhere in the country not described by similarly arcane terms?
I can’t tell you the number of times that I heard someone or another describe a rainstorm as a real “gully-washer,” a common and descriptive term. I believe I may speak for any number of Midwesterners in requesting that future reporting of our weather phenomena include the nomenclature of our heritage in the manner that Nor’easter captures the vernacular of the New England seafaring man.
Katy Couric: A classic gully-washer in Austin Texas today swamped cars and homes in low-lying areas, prompting installation of FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
And when did gunmen become shooters? There was a time that the Violence Union required such terms as Assassin, Murderer, Attacker, or Sniper. Gunman was the logical and acceptable lowest common denominator. Has political correctness rendered the term obsolete?
Katy Couric: The gunwoman seen running from the scene in high heels and Capri pants effectively avoided a gully-washer that sent floodwaters onto streets and FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
While on the subject – what’s up with the rolling of the R’s in Spanish? I’m sure you’ve heard those reports, where the newscaster suddenly reverts to high school foreign language classes and delivers a commonly spoken word with the correct – if surprising – South-of-the-border pronunciation.
Katy Couric: The gunwoman ran through the barrrrrr-ee-oh, splashing floodwaters from the gully-washer onto her chinos. Aaaargh, I forgot chinos is a term only used by novelists, not real people, except those in Ah-mah-reeeee-yo, Tay-hoss.”
Then again, American never had a “grassy knoll” until the Kennedy assassination - that is to say - “shooter incident.” Aaaaargh, me hearties! Shiver me timbers and walk the plank, as soon as we get through this Nor’easter!
Or find it in the dictionary.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Imus Gonus
Who'd a thot three words could bring down a career? And - technically - not even three valid words, but only a hyphenated descriptive followed by a colloquial slang term.
As a young broadcaster I learned the truth about the adage "sticks and stones," and it turns out the part that explains "words will never hurt me" ranks right up there with "a bird in the hand" being worth "two in the bush." No one wants a bird in the hand. Messy - just like the fallout from those words.
In my own case, the lesson was not by way of an open microphone, but words in a soundproof recording booth. It wasn't. I can't bear to repeat what was said, and have to ask myself if that was really me, speaking in that way, back then. The words were overheard, and they hurt even then. Today, they still cause anguish, the pain of my own shame.
On the air, I could never have been as quick-witted as Don Imus. It isn't so much a matter of intelligence, although I could fall flat on my cerebellum in a head to head Iowa Test of Standardized Development with him. Smarts come in several forms. Somewhere, for reasons unknown to me, I developed a governor that held my words in check, a device that forced me to hear the words in my head before they flew from my mouth. Scotch whiskey affects the governor, as many of my acquaintances will attest. I've been in trouble from words before, too.
Quick-witted from me on the radio had to be doubly so. Quips had to clear my own self-censor before they could reach the microphone, and still be timely. I held my own, but could never lead the pack. Having a built-in censor is like racing a car dragging an anchor: happily for me, it isn't a NASCAR world and conversationalists aren't equipped with equal horsepower. I could cruise around the track, passing a few, while others blew my doors off.
There are many avenues for entertainment these days - many more so than when I made a living talking out loud. In a way, it's a shame that those who enjoy Imus for his outrageousness will lose that option.
But I've never really seen the humor in calling people names. And if the defamed aren't present to defend themselves with equally-quickwitted retorts, where is the sport in that?
Not on CBS, I'm guessing.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
As a young broadcaster I learned the truth about the adage "sticks and stones," and it turns out the part that explains "words will never hurt me" ranks right up there with "a bird in the hand" being worth "two in the bush." No one wants a bird in the hand. Messy - just like the fallout from those words.
In my own case, the lesson was not by way of an open microphone, but words in a soundproof recording booth. It wasn't. I can't bear to repeat what was said, and have to ask myself if that was really me, speaking in that way, back then. The words were overheard, and they hurt even then. Today, they still cause anguish, the pain of my own shame.
On the air, I could never have been as quick-witted as Don Imus. It isn't so much a matter of intelligence, although I could fall flat on my cerebellum in a head to head Iowa Test of Standardized Development with him. Smarts come in several forms. Somewhere, for reasons unknown to me, I developed a governor that held my words in check, a device that forced me to hear the words in my head before they flew from my mouth. Scotch whiskey affects the governor, as many of my acquaintances will attest. I've been in trouble from words before, too.
Quick-witted from me on the radio had to be doubly so. Quips had to clear my own self-censor before they could reach the microphone, and still be timely. I held my own, but could never lead the pack. Having a built-in censor is like racing a car dragging an anchor: happily for me, it isn't a NASCAR world and conversationalists aren't equipped with equal horsepower. I could cruise around the track, passing a few, while others blew my doors off.
There are many avenues for entertainment these days - many more so than when I made a living talking out loud. In a way, it's a shame that those who enjoy Imus for his outrageousness will lose that option.
But I've never really seen the humor in calling people names. And if the defamed aren't present to defend themselves with equally-quickwitted retorts, where is the sport in that?
Not on CBS, I'm guessing.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Dawning of a New Age
Who’d a thot that the evolution of the species could fine-tune the DNA encoded shopping gene to an even greater degree, to the point that the proximity-sensing cilia could begin their frantic vibrations in the presence of designer bags and malls at ranges outward of fifteen miles?
Driving through Oklahoma City, my own first realization came in the form of a gentle cooing from the backseat, recognizable as being that of our seventeen year old only when it advanced into a steady and unrelenting drone, interspersed at points with the single, desperate word … mall. Our business completed, and only the drive home ahead of us, the two of us in the front seats found ourselves in a particularly vulnerable state, glazed in guilt at having had to require their presence for the decidedly unadventurous morning appointment.
Still, we had not prepared for mall visitation. I tried to remain strong against the not-so-subtle near-chant, understanding it was only in biological response to the siren-song of the boutique or the scent of the cosmetics counter, both well beyond my own hearing and olfactory abilities. Recognizing the smooth-tiled chrome and glass savannah as her native predatory expanse, I felt the hair tickling at the back of my neck as my skin drew taut, and I tell you brothers and sisters, I was mightily afraid.
I claimed ignorance, loudly and at once. Oklahoma City was too large, too broad, too under-signed - impossible for me to know the location of any suitable locations. I continued driving, trying to imagine following in her wake, straggling behind her muscular and well-rehearsed shopping stride, grazing and gazing amidst the earrings and leather goods.
Throwing myself at the mercy of Prada and Gucci, I made promises that now shame me, even as the droning from the back began to fade. In the waves of relief that followed, I flicked the turn signal and altered our course into the now-safe outer lane, only to spot a telescoped-pole capped with the sign of the golden arches.
Inhaling sharply, and with the knowledge that a five-year-old disciple sat directly behind me, I glanced into the mirror, only to find him fast asleep against the armrest, obviously lulled into his innocent and idyllic slumbers by the steady murmuring of his sister.
There will come a mutant gene to address that masculine reaction, a final evolution, a tweaking of the hereditary hunter-gatherer chromosome that will mark the onset of the Neoshopping Age.
And I’ll be spinning happily in my grave.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Driving through Oklahoma City, my own first realization came in the form of a gentle cooing from the backseat, recognizable as being that of our seventeen year old only when it advanced into a steady and unrelenting drone, interspersed at points with the single, desperate word … mall. Our business completed, and only the drive home ahead of us, the two of us in the front seats found ourselves in a particularly vulnerable state, glazed in guilt at having had to require their presence for the decidedly unadventurous morning appointment.
Still, we had not prepared for mall visitation. I tried to remain strong against the not-so-subtle near-chant, understanding it was only in biological response to the siren-song of the boutique or the scent of the cosmetics counter, both well beyond my own hearing and olfactory abilities. Recognizing the smooth-tiled chrome and glass savannah as her native predatory expanse, I felt the hair tickling at the back of my neck as my skin drew taut, and I tell you brothers and sisters, I was mightily afraid.
I claimed ignorance, loudly and at once. Oklahoma City was too large, too broad, too under-signed - impossible for me to know the location of any suitable locations. I continued driving, trying to imagine following in her wake, straggling behind her muscular and well-rehearsed shopping stride, grazing and gazing amidst the earrings and leather goods.
Throwing myself at the mercy of Prada and Gucci, I made promises that now shame me, even as the droning from the back began to fade. In the waves of relief that followed, I flicked the turn signal and altered our course into the now-safe outer lane, only to spot a telescoped-pole capped with the sign of the golden arches.
Inhaling sharply, and with the knowledge that a five-year-old disciple sat directly behind me, I glanced into the mirror, only to find him fast asleep against the armrest, obviously lulled into his innocent and idyllic slumbers by the steady murmuring of his sister.
There will come a mutant gene to address that masculine reaction, a final evolution, a tweaking of the hereditary hunter-gatherer chromosome that will mark the onset of the Neoshopping Age.
And I’ll be spinning happily in my grave.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
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