I just looked up 'pork pie hat' to make sure it's the hat I was describing in a story, and to be confirmed in its two-wordiness. It is the hat I wanted, various hat vendors affirmed. Now I have to wait a week for my new straw pork pie to be delivered.
So-called because the crown is shaped like a well-filled pork pie. Famously worn by Duke Ellington, and more famously–worn (en dash alert!) by Lester Young.
Details politely requested; abstruse, ancient mirth sounds deeply appealing to me.
"Riddley Walker": I will never cease to be amazed that Russell Hoban's authorial output includes both "Riddley Walker" and "Bread and Jam for Frances."
Grey is the sea on a dull, cool, delicious, but somehow ominous day. Gray is that action figure's arms, or the army-chic pants. Grey is always on the illustrator Elisha Cooper's paint palette. Gray is-- oh! My husband's backpack is gray. I'm so glad I've cleared that up for everyone, and may I introduce you to the hill on which I am prepared to die? Please, consider yourselves welcome.
I was discussing the soprano Mary Garden, who during her tenure running an opera house in Chicago dubbed herself its directa.
I illustrated that with a photo of Garden as Salome holding the head of John the Baptist and suggested that he (or what was left of him) represented the first and last of her colleagues who snickered/sniggered at her choice of term.
As long as we’re here, I also noted two contemporaneous references to Garden in The New York Times as a directrix.
And I'm so glad I did because I did not at all know that she was in Chicago at any point! How very interesting. And what an interesting story. I only remember her name because she was in Pelléas et Mélisande, which I adore. (I think she premiered the role of Mélisande?)
(I've always thought that snickered is more fun to say-- I love the click of ck. But sniggered sounds funnier in my head. Why? I do not know. But I can entirely appreciate your choice in the moment, particularly in the fast-paced venue of social media, as opposed to the slower-paced readership of, say, a novel or article.) (I do not applaud my use of parentheses in this moment. Oh well.)
A very, very late comment that I'm glad I get to leave while I'm still checking daily to see if my ship has come in. Editrix is in frequent use at Wonkette, the delightful site where I first learned about this delightful site a bit over a year ago. Editrix, informally and affectionately 'trix, is Rebecca Schoenkopf, who owns the place, signs the paychecks and writes some of the great stuff one goes there to read.
I really enjoyed this; thank you. Thinking of "nosegay" and "bouquet," I remember when I was little (say, 50 years ago) I was visiting my grandmother, who took in boarders. One was a young woman studying at the university, and a young man came to the door and said he wanted to leave this young woman a "posy." Even as a little kid I was struck by how quaint that word was. I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone say it since!
Re: Data is/Data are... Thank you, I feel seen. (I'm in the data-as-a-singular-collective-unit camp.) And I had to look up tussie-mussie. I thought you were making it up. You weren't making it up.
I see the details about your allusion to abstruse, ancient mirth have been requested and supplied. Thanks so much.
I just googled "tussie-mussie" and am amazed at the variety of what showed up.
Regarding titter - I'm reminded of a joke I read in my youth (probably from Playboy which I read mostly for the jokes being too young to care about the articles 😂). It seems back in colonial times someone in one of the colonies had replicated the British court system just from reading accounts of it in the newspapers. Upon visiting, a Brit noticed they'd gotten all the details correct from the floor plan, to the robes, to the powdered wigs. However periodically a topless woman ran through the place waving scarves around. When asked about this, the colonial creator of the court said they read that occasionally a nervous titter would run through the gallery.
“ Mysteries are, or can be, fun, so if you’re reaching for a bouquet but settle on a nosegay or a posy or a, are you sitting down?, tussie-mussie, perhaps just enjoy the journey and let what happens happen.” Just before “tussie-mussie,” I tripped over the commas. Why not “—are you sitting down?—“ or maybe parentheses?
I fear that there was something about separating the “or a” and the “tussle-mussie” with, merely, commas (plus the question mark–comma combo pack after “sitting down”) that appealed to my perverse sense of fun.
And though I would, given the chance and your keen eye, shift those commas to dashes (and of course I can always edit post-publication, and often do), I’m going to leave the commas in place in tribute to my weirdness (and to see if anyone else reacts to them strongly or otherwise).
Every time I see the word "nosegay," I think of poor little Alice Adams and her paltry clutch of purloined flowers. I love relatively obscure words that immediately conjure a visual image.
Here she resumed her search, but it was not an easily rewarded one, and for an hour after her arrival she found no violets. She walked conscientiously over the whole stretch of meadow, her eyes roving discontentedly; there was never a blue dot in the groomed expanse; but at last, as she came near the borders of an old grove of trees, left untouched by the municipal landscapers, the little flowers appeared, and she began to gather them. She picked them carefully, loosening the earth round each tiny plant, so as to bring the roots up with it, that it might live the longer; and she had brought a napkin, which she drenched at a hydrant, and kept loosely wrapped about the stems of her collection.
By the way, I've added your comment, plus instructions on reading the passage in question, as a footnote. People who come to this entry late—and who are perhaps not in the habit of reading the comments (of course they're missing something!)—might still have the chance to revel in some heart-rending Tarkington prose.
I just looked up 'pork pie hat' to make sure it's the hat I was describing in a story, and to be confirmed in its two-wordiness. It is the hat I wanted, various hat vendors affirmed. Now I have to wait a week for my new straw pork pie to be delivered.
Yes! The whole pork pie–trilby–fedora–homburg thing must be carefully minded!
Also noting a rare instance in which I've used en dashes instead of hyphens and there isn't a capital letter in sight.
So-called because the crown is shaped like a well-filled pork pie. Famously worn by Duke Ellington, and more famously–worn (en dash alert!) by Lester Young.
And then there's this fella: https://static1.cbrimages.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/popeye-doyle.jpg
Now I'm hungry.
I'm on board - and the first footnote gets my vote. 'Titular' is spreading here like a rash. Why? Title role is shorter and easier to say.
Do people think it makes them sound clever? (It doesn't!)
Well, my nose is gay … but being Jewish, not so dainty.
Titular is too statuesque for most of its uses.
“… tussie-mussie”? That’s gets me argie-bargie!
Details politely requested; abstruse, ancient mirth sounds deeply appealing to me.
"Riddley Walker": I will never cease to be amazed that Russell Hoban's authorial output includes both "Riddley Walker" and "Bread and Jam for Frances."
Grey is the sea on a dull, cool, delicious, but somehow ominous day. Gray is that action figure's arms, or the army-chic pants. Grey is always on the illustrator Elisha Cooper's paint palette. Gray is-- oh! My husband's backpack is gray. I'm so glad I've cleared that up for everyone, and may I introduce you to the hill on which I am prepared to die? Please, consider yourselves welcome.
I was discussing the soprano Mary Garden, who during her tenure running an opera house in Chicago dubbed herself its directa.
I illustrated that with a photo of Garden as Salome holding the head of John the Baptist and suggested that he (or what was left of him) represented the first and last of her colleagues who snickered/sniggered at her choice of term.
As long as we’re here, I also noted two contemporaneous references to Garden in The New York Times as a directrix.
Well, you asked.
And I'm so glad I did because I did not at all know that she was in Chicago at any point! How very interesting. And what an interesting story. I only remember her name because she was in Pelléas et Mélisande, which I adore. (I think she premiered the role of Mélisande?)
(I've always thought that snickered is more fun to say-- I love the click of ck. But sniggered sounds funnier in my head. Why? I do not know. But I can entirely appreciate your choice in the moment, particularly in the fast-paced venue of social media, as opposed to the slower-paced readership of, say, a novel or article.) (I do not applaud my use of parentheses in this moment. Oh well.)
Garden indeed originated the role.
I just read the Wikipedia entry on the opera, and its early history is kind of hilarious.
That was a trip! Vintage, matured gossip is always best. Wine, cheese, gossip.
When I gave up legal copy editing for kids books, of all the legalisms I was abandoning, I was sorriest to leave 'testatrix' behind.
See relatedly one of my favorite words of all time, aviatrix.
All these 'trix's conjure thoughts of the Honeymooners.
Now I wonder whether you ever had cause to emit (in jest or otherwise) the word "editrix"
I don’t think I ever got (or took) the opportunity.
A very, very late comment that I'm glad I get to leave while I'm still checking daily to see if my ship has come in. Editrix is in frequent use at Wonkette, the delightful site where I first learned about this delightful site a bit over a year ago. Editrix, informally and affectionately 'trix, is Rebecca Schoenkopf, who owns the place, signs the paychecks and writes some of the great stuff one goes there to read.
And. also, "Turtle Diary" -- a quiet masterpiece.
Hmm … as we go out dancing to a Latin beat.
I really enjoyed this; thank you. Thinking of "nosegay" and "bouquet," I remember when I was little (say, 50 years ago) I was visiting my grandmother, who took in boarders. One was a young woman studying at the university, and a young man came to the door and said he wanted to leave this young woman a "posy." Even as a little kid I was struck by how quaint that word was. I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone say it since!
Re: Data is/Data are... Thank you, I feel seen. (I'm in the data-as-a-singular-collective-unit camp.) And I had to look up tussie-mussie. I thought you were making it up. You weren't making it up.
Hooray for "miasma", a word one does not hear enough of.
I see the details about your allusion to abstruse, ancient mirth have been requested and supplied. Thanks so much.
I just googled "tussie-mussie" and am amazed at the variety of what showed up.
Regarding titter - I'm reminded of a joke I read in my youth (probably from Playboy which I read mostly for the jokes being too young to care about the articles 😂). It seems back in colonial times someone in one of the colonies had replicated the British court system just from reading accounts of it in the newspapers. Upon visiting, a Brit noticed they'd gotten all the details correct from the floor plan, to the robes, to the powdered wigs. However periodically a topless woman ran through the place waving scarves around. When asked about this, the colonial creator of the court said they read that occasionally a nervous titter would run through the gallery.
Ha ha and ha!
That missing comma put me off watching the doc. xo
That can happen!
I wonder if it's because snickering reminds them of knickers?
“ Mysteries are, or can be, fun, so if you’re reaching for a bouquet but settle on a nosegay or a posy or a, are you sitting down?, tussie-mussie, perhaps just enjoy the journey and let what happens happen.” Just before “tussie-mussie,” I tripped over the commas. Why not “—are you sitting down?—“ or maybe parentheses?
I fear that there was something about separating the “or a” and the “tussle-mussie” with, merely, commas (plus the question mark–comma combo pack after “sitting down”) that appealed to my perverse sense of fun.
And though I would, given the chance and your keen eye, shift those commas to dashes (and of course I can always edit post-publication, and often do), I’m going to leave the commas in place in tribute to my weirdness (and to see if anyone else reacts to them strongly or otherwise).
Even this response, I realize, indicates that my punctuation mood today might best be described as manic.
Well, I think we all need such a tribute now and then. 🙂
Every time I see the word "nosegay," I think of poor little Alice Adams and her paltry clutch of purloined flowers. I love relatively obscure words that immediately conjure a visual image.
That’s MARVELOUS.
I’ve just reread the passage in Tarkington, and man oh man that fellow could write.
Here she resumed her search, but it was not an easily rewarded one, and for an hour after her arrival she found no violets. She walked conscientiously over the whole stretch of meadow, her eyes roving discontentedly; there was never a blue dot in the groomed expanse; but at last, as she came near the borders of an old grove of trees, left untouched by the municipal landscapers, the little flowers appeared, and she began to gather them. She picked them carefully, loosening the earth round each tiny plant, so as to bring the roots up with it, that it might live the longer; and she had brought a napkin, which she drenched at a hydrant, and kept loosely wrapped about the stems of her collection.
😢
Man,
Alice Adams here, Pelléas et Mélisande there…not to mention Jayne Mansfield. Cool.
And, as for aviatrix…there’s a word. And what a look.
By the way, I've added your comment, plus instructions on reading the passage in question, as a footnote. People who come to this entry late—and who are perhaps not in the habit of reading the comments (of course they're missing something!)—might still have the chance to revel in some heart-rending Tarkington prose.
Wonderful!
Is there any way you could be put in charge of dictionaries?
Asking for a friend.