Stupid question.

Long, long ago, when I was a student in journalism school, we learned about interviews. The whole point was to learn to ask probing questions, learn to ask follow-up questions on the fly, ask questions requiring more than “yes” or “no” answers, ask again when someone dodges a question, ask for additional information to provide context to answers to questions, and so on.

You’ll note two words are repeated several times: “ask” and “question.” That, we were taught, was how reporters and writers and journalists and broadcasters and talk show hosts and others in the interview business conduct business—by asking questions.

It seems to be a lost art nowadays. Seldom do I hear interviewers ask a question. Now, it seems, the method-du-jour is to give orders. Instead of asking, you tell the person you are interviewing to “talk about” this and “talk about” that. Talk about, talk about, talk about. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s breaking news, hard news, political reporting, sports interviews, talk shows, panel discussions, or whatever. Interviewers seldom seem to ask questions anymore. Instead, it’s “talk about.”

Talk about this. Talk about that. Talk about, talk about, talk about.

Whatever happened to questions and answers? I suppose that’s a stupid question in today’s world. I guess I should say, “Talk about the demise of asking questions in interviews.”

Really Stupid Words, Chapter 23.

And now for something completely different.

This edition of Stupid Words does not involve words at all. It does involve language, but not spoken language. It involves waggling two fingers on each hand in what is known as air quotes.

I guess somebody, somewhere, sometime, decided that waggling fingers like that resembles printed quotation marks. It’s a reach.

It’s a mystery to me why and how it caught on, as the gesture serves no real purpose.

Still, some people feel obligated to waggle, thinking that waggling with their fingers adds emphasis to what they are saying with their mouth. It doesn’t. It’s more a distraction, really. For many, an annoyance.

Besides, the human voice is perfectly suited to add emphasis, no fingers required. There’s volume, there’s inflection, there’s pacing, stretching, stress, intonation, cadence, pitch, timbre, tone, even silent pauses. I’m sure there are other ways to emphasize what you’re saying, but waggling your fingers to make air quotes need not (and, to my way of thinking, should not) be among them.

If ever you are tempted to waggle your fingers when speaking, remember how the late Chris Farley showed how stupid air quotes are with his character Bennett Brauer. You can look it up.

Stupid words redux.

After my latest rant on abuse of our shared language, a friend suggested I did not like to see language evolve. But it happens. It’s something that can’t be helped. Most of the time it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s an improvement. Sometimes it’s not.

But I can sleep at night knowing that many—at least some—of the stupid words I rant about will end up on the trash heap of speech, discarded as the useless, even noxious, locutions they are.

Using only words extant during my lifetime, I offer some examples of this self-correction.

Time was, people who were “cool” (a word that was silly then and still is, but has demonstrated staying power) were ofttimes referred to as “cats.” If they were really cool, they were “hep” cats. No more. In the same vein, “groovy” has pretty much disappeared. And when was the last time you heard something cool referred to as “far out” or “bitchin’?” “Fab” had its day, which has long since passed. And we no longer say we “dig” things that are cool. An event or incident that was the opposite of cool was often called a “bummer.”

Clothes were once “threads” but now they are not. No longer are women “chicks” or “dames.” I haven’t heard police referred to as “fuzz” lately. And we have moved beyond all the silly CB radio-inspired lingo too expansive to chronicle here. To that I can only say, “10-4 good buddy. See you on the flip side. Keep your ears on.”

 

Really Stupid Words, Chapter 22.

You hear a lot about “hacks” nowadays.

Not, in this case, “hack” as a means to cut or sever or chop with repeated irregular or unskillful blows, as most dictionaries define the word’s original and primary meaning.

Nor does it conform to another longstanding sense of being unable to deal with a given situation successfully, as in “he can’t hack it,” or “he’s a hack writer,” both of which can be seen to have evolved from the original meaning.

Nor is the current usage related to the meaning of the word that came along with the rise of computer networks and the internet, where people “hack” into computer systems where they have no business being, whether for fun or to do damage—chopping their way in, so to speak.

No. The current buzzwordy use of hack has to do with something altogether different, and I am not sure how or why it applies. You hear a lot these days about this “hack” or that “hack” that seems (apparently) to be a shortcut or something of the sort. Just lately, I have been advised of “hacks” for life, fishing, parenting, productivity, health, housekeeping, heating and cooling, cooking, cleaning, clothing, crafts, decluttering, organization, school, math, travel, and on and on and on…

On a side note, “hack” seems to be popular with the same people who are fond of “side hustle” (which sounds to me like being up to something no good) and “the gig economy.”

I cannot fathom the word “hack” in this most recent—but already clichéd—usage. I guess I wish there were a “hack” for understanding stupid words.

Really stupid words, Chapter 21.

Sometimes, perfectly good words get overused and abused and stretched to the point that they become stupid. One such word that has been stirring my curmudgeonly coals of late is “journey.”

At its core it is a fine word, describing “travel or passage from one place to another,” the key word being place. While it can be suggestive of other things, place generally indicates a physical location. That notion is forgotten more often than not nowadays when it comes to journeys.

Chinese philosopher Lao Tzu voiced what must be the most famous saying about “journey” when he said, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” The implication of moving from one physical location to another is surely implicit, if not explicit. Still, the saying and the source have contributed to the dilution of the meaning of journey. More to blame, perhaps, is a bumper sticker phrase of uncertain origin and many iterations: “Life is a journey, not a destination.” Notice how the idea of going from one actual, physical place to another is missing, watering down the meaning of “journey” to the point where it can be applied to anything, everything, and nothing.

The New Age (which elevated Lao Tzu and his sayings) and all its psychobabble latched onto the word back in the 1970s and there has been no turning back. Healing and transformation became a journey, along with your health and wellness journey, your recovery journey, your emotional growth journey, and your soul journey. And, of course, our spiritual and religious journeys.

Now, even unfortunate situations like fighting cancer have become journeys. So have trivial situations, like my hair loss journey. Grief became a journey. Education is a journey. So is weight loss. Business has latched onto the idea with a passion, tracking customer journeys, service journeys, training and development journeys, leadership journeys, workday journeys….

Writers are not immune to the infection. Seldom have I attended a conference where the “hero’s journey” wasn’t held up as the essence of most any and every piece of literature. (I confess ignorance of its finer points.) And, of course, we are each on our personal writing journey.

That’s all for now. While the “journey” journey may be an endless journey, we’ve come far enough on our journey for one day.

Really stupid words, Chapter 20.

A reader (and legendary writer) friend pointed out after one of these complaints that there are no stupid words. I suppose he’s right, mostly. But, as I said when I first started posting these whiny gripes, people have an annoying habit of taking perfectly good words and using (misusing) them in stupid ways. The result is communication that is imprecise and often incorrect, all from feeble attempts to sound important or clever or trendy.

I continue, then, to test my curmudgeonly conviction that by pointing out stupid words—or the stupid use of words—that we all might think more carefully about what we say and write.

Imagine yourself at a restaurant. The kind with tables and chairs where someone shows up and says, “May I take your order?” Almost without fail, someone will respond, “I’ll do the (enter selection here).” Then, more likely than not, someone else will say, “I’ll do the (enter selection here).” The trend may well continue around the table, with everyone (except me) saying they will “do” their choice of food.

“Do?” What are they going to “do” to it, or with it, other than eat it? I guess you could “do” other things with the food, but few of them seem appropriate in public.

People used to say “I’ll have” or “I’d like” or “I’ll try” the menu item of their choice. Those phrases make sense to me, they mean something. “I’ll do,” on the other hand, sounds stupid.

Maybe I’ll feel better after I eat. I guess I’ll “do” a burrito and see.

Really stupid words, Chapter 19.

If I said, “People use a lot of really stupid words and phrases,” someone may well reply, “I know, right?”

I know, right?

I hear that all the time. I even read it sometimes. I have no idea what it means. The first part seems straightforward. You hear, “I know,” and it is fairly safe to assume the speaker is agreeing with what you said. But then they add, “right,” inflected as a question. What does it mean? Are they asking you to agree with their agreement? Are they asking you to agree that they know? Are they asking you to acknowledge that you heard what they said? Are they asking you to verify that you believe what you said was correct? Is there an expected response at all?

If not, why ask the question? 

I don’t know, wrong?

Really stupid words, Chapter 18.

So, there’s word—a tiny two-letter word—that has been annoying me for some time now.

So I have been considering writing (whining) about it.

So, when several friends expressed similar irritation with hearing it ad nauseam, that spurred me to get it done.

So, here goes.

It seems there are hundreds, thousands, millions of speakers of North American English who can no longer start a sentence or other statement with any word that isn’t “so.” If your ears are like mine, they hear it all the time. All the time. Now, “so” is a useful word and has an important place in our language when used properly, usually to indicate a result: They said it, and said it, and kept saying it, and would not stop saying it, so I got annoyed.

But “so” has taken its place with other overcooked, overused, worn-out words and phrases and sounds such as “I mean,” “y’know,” “like,” and the ever-popular “um” that have insinuated themselves into our speech to the point that they are thrown about willy-nilly, automatically, without thought, and, I suspect, without the speaker even knowing it. Or, if they do know, without care.

So, what do we do? Perhaps we should arm ourselves with little bells or whistles and give a ding or toot whenever we hear it. I doubt all the racket raised would be any more annoying than its cause.

So, what do you think?

 

Really stupid words, Chapter 17.

 

When was the last time you heard someone say, “I’ll call them,” or “I’ll write to them,” or “I’ll talk to them,” or even, nowadays, “I’ll text them.”

Not long ago, perhaps. But, if your ears hear the same things mine do, it is likely that more often than not you hear, “I’ll reach out to them.”

I hear it all the time. I don’t mind it, really. But it seems less precise than saying what you actually intend to do—such as call, write, talk, text, or what have you. On the other hand, it’s hard to deny that “reach out” has more cachet. And it sounds more personal, warmer, fuzzier, and all that. Like going for a hug, sort of.

Here’s why.

I will bet cash against cow pies that it all started back in 1979 with an advertising campaign from AT&T. Back then, telephone service was provided by regulated monopolies. AT&T was it for long-distance calls (for those who remember such things) and for local service through the Bell System. The campaign encouraged more long-distance calling—for which they made money, of course—by persuading us to “Reach out and touch someone.” That tag line punctuated a lovely (and touching) little jingle on TV and radio that I can still sing to this day. It firmly established “reach out” as the thing to do, and we still “reach out” today.

Except for me. I prefer to write. Or call.

Really stupid words, Chapter 16.

 

Now and then I hear a word bandied about that makes no sense to me. Most of the time, it is spouted by highbrow academic types—say, some anthropologists, ethnologists, archeologists, museum curators and, sometimes, historians—and it always strikes me as uppity.
    The word: peoples.
    Why does anyone, ever, need to add a plural-forming “s” to a word that’s already plural? (I opened a dictionary and it defined “people” as “plural: human beings making up a group or assembly or linked by a common interest.”) You can’t have a single people—that would be a “person.” By its very existence, the word “people” means more than one.
    Is it possible to make a plural even more plural by adding an “s”? I don’t think so. It makes no sense to say womens or mens or childrens. Why not add more plurality to, say, chickens by adding an “s” and making it chickenss? Or, if you mean more horses than just horses, say horsess? And, of course, if you don’t find the word cattle to be plural enough to suit your fancy, make it cattles.
    I don’t know about you, but I see no need for a grandiose, ostentatious word like peoples. But I did find a dictionary that defined “peoples” as the “Third-person singular simple present indicative form of people.”
    Huh?
    I rest my case.

 

Really stupid words, Chapter 14.

    For several years now there has been a tendency among us, when bereft of any logical argument against an opposing point of view, to sniff in derision and make a weak-kneed accusation of “political correctness.” It’s easy to do and allows us to simply—and thoughtlessly—dismiss people and ideas we disagree with.
    When I was a young man (or old boy), I tended to run in packs that were (as we put it) rude, crude, and unabashed. And, in some sick way, we were amused by it. We poked oafish fun and made mean jokes based on race, ethnicity, physical appearance, religion, sexual orientation, employment, politics, ideas, points of view, or anything else we thought might get a laugh—no matter how cruel or heartless.
    In hindsight, it wasn’t funny. Even then. And though it took too many years to outgrow those ways of thinking, I like to think they are behind me. I hope so.
    A common defense, usually heard just prior to an accusation of “political correctness” is that “those people” are just thin-skinned and too easily offended.
    Well.
    I do not get to decide what offends you or anyone else. Likewise, it is not up to you to decide what I or anybody else finds offensive. Or cruel. Or hurtful.
    It seems to me that anyone who claims to be guided by any kind of moral compass would make every effort to avoid causing pain to others. To, as the old saying goes, treat others the way we would like to be treated.
    Then again, such thinking may be nothing more than “political correctness.”

Really stupid words, Chapter 13.

 

Long, long ago, back in the 1970s, there was a popular television show titled The Six Million Dollar Man. The idea was that a test pilot crashed and wrecked his body, but surgeons and scientists fixed him up by adding a lot of wires and circuits and stuff to make him half-man, half-robot with extraordinary mental and physical powers. Every week, during the show’s introduction, as we’d watch a montage of doctors at work and futuristic computer renderings and such, a weighty voice would say, among other things, “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology.”
    It’s only a guess on my part, but I think today the voice would say, “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technologies.”
    I don’t know why. Technology is a collective of sorts, and works perfectly well in the singular form for any purpose. But nowadays, you hear it with an “ies” stuck on the end more often than not.
    One of my dictionaries defines technology as “The branch of knowledge that deals with the creation and use of technical means,” and “a scientific or industrial process, invention, method, or the like.” I added all those italics to emphasize the singular nature of the idea.
   Wikipedia says, “The suffix ology is commonly used in the English language to denote a field of study.” As a field (not fields), technology does not require a plural. Technologies is as useless as biologies, meteorologies, sociologies, geologies, physiologies, and other such unheard-of things.
    Don’t ask me why I cringe when I hear “technologies.” Perhaps a therapist would blame it on my deranged psychologies.

 

Really stupid words, Chapter 12.

For some reason I have never been able to discern, certain words and phrases spread like viruses and, seemingly overnight, become buzzwords, banalities, clichés, trite, and hackneyed.

As so much of our discussion of late has turned to the spread of another kind of virus and the associated illness, there are a couple of phrases that are so overused they are making me sick.

“New normal.”

Was there an “old normal”? Is there even a “normal”? We live—as has humankind as far back as history can teach us—a fluid, ever-changing existence, where expectations are seldom realized and the unexpected is ever-present. “Normal,” whether new, old, or otherwise, seems meaningless in any concrete way. Now, perhaps, more than ever.

Then there’s “game changer.” What started out as a sports cliché is now used to describe almost anything that might affect something. Or everything. The “things” involved don’t seem to matter. Nor does it matter that there is no game involved. If “game changer” was ever an apt metaphor, it has long since lost its power.

Why not just say or write what you mean? Why not describe the behavior or activities that are changing, rather than tossing out meaningless twaddle like “new normal”? Why not explain the effect something will have rather than just calling it a “game changer” and leaving it at that?

The answer is simple. Tossing around clichés is easier than thinking. The inability to think clearly, then speak or write clearly, seems to be the new normal. And that could be a game changer.

Really stupid words, Chapter 11.

It has long been a curiosity why, when we have perfectly good words in our rich language, we are so eager to jump on the bandwagon of the latest Rube Goldberg-concoction and turn it into a buzzword.

A somewhat recent example: “Going forward.”

Now, I am a soccer fan. And, for as long as I remember, “going forward” is what a soccer team does when it is on the attack. It’s a simple, apt description of something or someone moving in a defined direction in the physical world.

Nowadays, it has become almost standard vernacular used to describe something else. And the description is not nearly so apt, if it is apt at all.

We used to say, “in the future” or “from now on” or, if you wanted to sound pretentious, you might say, “henceforth” or “hereafter” or “from this time forth.” All those words and phrases mean what they mean, cannot mean anything else, and are perfectly descriptive.

“Going forward”? Not so.

Then there’s the long-standing philosophical argument about whether time moves in a “forward” direction at all, or whether it moves around and around in a cycle. But we’ll leave that discussion to the philosophers.

Years ago, in a meeting at the office, a coworker used “going forward” when it was still fresh and new. Afterward, I asked him why, and he said he did not know any other way to say what he meant. I guess he forgot that, as recently as the day before, he would have been perfectly happy to say, “from now on.”

Stupid.

Really stupid words, Chapter 10.

As you know, American English is a rich language with enough words and phrases to tell about anything and everything. And yet, rather than just use words as they are meant to be used, we abuse them and misuse them. Usually, in feeble attempts to sound more important. But those efforts fool few of us, and are just plain stupid.

Then there are simple, ordinary, everyday words that get thrown into sentences where they serve no purpose whatsoever. “Different” comes to mind. It has a distinct, clear meaning to describe things that are not alike, or dissimilar, or, sometimes, unusual.

For example: “I talked to three people and got three different answers.” It is clear that each person’s account was unlike the others.

But I hear people say things like, “I talked to three different people,” or, “We visited six different states.” What purpose does “different” serve in those examples? Surely you couldn’t talk to three “same” people, or visit six “same” states.

On the other hand, considering the first example, you could talk to three people and get the same answer.

As far as I know, economy of language requires not wasting words by using them needlessly. Like “different.” You may have a different opinion.

Giving thanks.

Today is the day set aside to do something we should do every day—give thanks for all the blessings we enjoy just for being alive. Things that are ours through no effort of our own. Things that should remind us that while the world may not owe us a living, it provides one anyway.

I am grateful today, as always, for the alphabet.

The twenty-six letters, symbols, scribbles, given to us who use American English have provided me a long life of education, employment, and entertainment. Numbers and I do not get along. But the alphabet, and all that comes from it, is an ever-present friend and companion. Just think of a world without the ability to share thoughts, feelings, ideas, knowledge, and more through a written language. It is beyond contemplation.

Despite the occasional quirks and complications inherent in using our alphabet, and despite the hatred, lies, and cruelty some fashion from it, I am thankful today for the wonder of the alphabet and the many miracles it lavishes on my life.

I hope I remember that tomorrow.

Really Stupid Words, Chapter 7

American English is a rich language. It changes and evolves, and words and usages come and go. Some clarify, improve, enhance, and enrich.

But some are just plain stupid, and ought to be replaced by more meaningful language. Or, left unsaid altogether.

“We control our own destiny,” for example.

You hear people spout this inane phrase all the time. It gets thrown around as if it actually means something, rather than positing the impossible.

Destiny, by its very nature, is something that cannot be controlled. It’s usually defined as something like, “the predetermined, usually inevitable or irresistible, course of events,” or “events that will necessarily happen.” Note the words “predetermined,” “inevitable,” “irresistible,” and “necessarily.” In other words, uncontrollable.

So, no matter how much you might like to think so, or how hard you try, you cannot control your own destiny.

(Assuming, that is, that “destiny” even exists. But that’s another story.)

Really Stupid Words, Chapter Five

American English is a rich language. It’s always changing and evolving. New words and usages come and go. Many that come along are helpful. They clarify, they improve, they enhance and enrich.

But some are just plain stupid.

They obfuscate, they complicate, they confuse. They reveal a lack of understanding.

“Skill set” has become about as ubiquitous as water.

One must ask why.

What does “skill set” offer our language that isn’t covered by “skills” other than the fact that it adds a syllable? And we all know how some people will never use one syllable when two—or three—or four—will do. All those syllables make you sound smarter, don’t they?

That question is easily answered with a simple, one-syllable, two-letter word: no.

 If you can think of a reason to use “skill set” rather than “skills” let me know. The ability to change my mind is among my skills—or is it within my skill set?

Really Stupid Words, Chapter Four

American English is a rich language. It’s always changing and evolving. New words and usages come and go. Many that come along are helpful. They clarify, they improve, they enhance and enrich.

But some are just plain stupid.

They obfuscate, they complicate, they confuse. They reveal a lack of understanding.

One that really sets my teeth on edge (sometimes) is “issue.”

Now, this one is complicated because “issue” is a word of many meanings. Magazines have issues. Births have issues. Politics has issues. Discussions have issues.

People do not.

Ninety-nine times out of ninety-nine, when someone says they have an “issue” what they really mean is they have a problem.

What’s wrong with “problem”? Everyone knows what it means and, unlike “issue,” it means pretty much one thing.

But some time ago, within my memory, someone in the psychobabble business decided “problem” was negative, and, well, we can’t have that, can we. If we use a word like “problem” that may have negative connotations, we might hurt someone’s feelings.

“Issue” is a whole ’nother thing. Nothing negative about “issue.” In fact, in this use, there’s really nothing much at all in the word “issue.”

Except that when it gets abused like this, I, for one, have a problem.

Really Stupid Words, Chapter Three

American English is a rich language. It’s always changing and evolving. New words and usages come and go. Many that come along are helpful. They clarify, they improve, they enhance and enrich.

But some are just plain stupid.

They obfuscate, they complicate, they confuse. They reveal a lack of understanding.

One of my favorites is “readjust.”

Now there’s a word (if it is a word) with absolutely no reason for being. If something needs to be adjusted, you adjust it. If it needs doing again, you simply adjust it. You can adjust it again. Then you can adjust it some more, as often as need be.

Adjust is somewhat related to “change.” You can change things repeatedly, but no one ever calls it “rechange.” Same with move. You can move things over and over. But if you “remove” them, that’s something else altogether.

I am firmly against the use of “readjust.” And I will remain that way, unless or until I readjust my thinking.