“I call this shade American Dream”

Well then, what to make of this mess in New Jersey?

Once upon a time there was a mall called Xanadu. Now, the dictionary says that Xanadu is a “…place of great beauty, luxury and contentment…”

But ladies and gentlemen, what we have nine miles west of Manhattan is much further away from any version of paradise.

The mall has flopped (and that’s really what it is, no matter that they call it a “retailment center”). Not entirely the mall’s fault. Overall, shopping malls are in trouble. Recent figures describe that nearly a fifth of the nation’s 2,000 malls are failing. In fact, there are well over 100 “dead malls.” And new malls aren’t exactly sprouting.

Not that this matters to the Xanadu folks.

No sir, forget the recession, forget the hockey stick decline of malls, Xanadu opened clumsily at full steam ahead as the most expensive mall ever built in the US, at a cost of $2.3 billion, more than double the original cost.

From a naming perspective, giving such a boondoggle–such a misstep in planning and construction–a name that conveys paradise surely must strike New Jersey voters as harshly ironic at best, and more likely insulting. Xanadu is the retail equivalent of a drunk showing up at last call, insisting the bar stay open and break out the Johnny Walker Blue.
When paired with its name, you have the bricks and mortar example of an oxymoron.

But rather than recalibrating the offer (perhaps downsizing the grandiose scope, starting with the name) the mall owners doubled down on the eyesore. Disregarding any recognition of the recession or the crippling tax structure of the state, they’ve gone back to the trough, shamelessly asking for even more money to throw at failure.

As sure as putting lipstick on a pig, they’re going to replace the façade. Yes, that will surely convince customers to shop at Xanadu. But wait, they’re also changing the name. In a truly big-hair moment, the mall owners are adopting…wait for it…American Dream at the Meadowlands.

If only they were joking. Just as “jobless recovery” is hardly anyone’s notion of prosperous times, naming this consumer white elephant a “dream” when it will cost an additional $1.25 billion of taxpayer dollars is shockingly bad.

As pundits point out, American Dream will be 25 percent larger. It’s as if the mall were overweight and rather than fight against too tight clothing by losing some pounds, they switch to stretch waist sweat pants.

The tonality and messaging of American Dream is all wrong. It continues the flaws and (albeit unintended) cynicism of Xanadu. No wonder the word on the street is the architect no longer takes calls from the developer. And these same voices whisper that at last count, the developer had leased only 9 of the 200 retail spaces. Gulp. Swallow hard, New Jersey.

Had Catchword been asked about a name, we would have suggested…

Something more credible, accessible, not cotton-candy fantasies of a better life (does anyone really think an indoor Ferris Wheel and a food court is the embodiment of the American Dream).

Instead, why not go for a name that conveys what this claptrap should represent:  solidity, credibility, not false and cynical promises.

We also would have suggested a name that evokes the local surroundings without referencing “Meadowlands” (now there’s a name that comes with its own steamer trunk of baggage).

And to be frank, we’d have gone with a shorter name. Just saying.

We expect better from these developers. After all, they built The Mall of America near Minneapolis. And that place is humming along without co-opting images so far out of focus with the realities of the property and its performance.

But instead, the good citizens of New Jersey are stuck with a bloated, pompous name that is a stick in the eye and a leak on the piggy bank. And that’s a damn shame which could have been prevented.

In other words, a new name is a life preserver for a brand that’s shipwrecked at sea. It will keep you afloat. But you’re still out to sea.

Sure it’s mayo. But damn it tastes good.

So the other night we’re squeezing through the crush at the bar, wondering why is it that every bartender who utters the word “Sidecar” suddenly starts talking like the ghost of Franklin Delano Roosevelt?

But what really gets our attention is a language kidnapping, a semantic hostage situation.

That’s right, people: a perfectly good word has been relegated to the central holding cell of an insult, a smear. We’re talking about “average.”

Used to be it was acceptable to be average. For instance, not so long ago a reasonable academic achievement was a C. The solid C. Nowadays, they throw you out of some ivory towers if you pull less than a B.

On management consulting scorecards, “Average” is not a happy place. No, it’s flirting with “Poor” or “Needs Work.” Even though the “average” class of employees is by far the largest category, typically comprising at least 60% of the workforce. So how did the word come to carry the stench of failed aspirations?

After all, by its very definition, most of us fit within the tall arch of the bell curve. Most of us are going to earn about the same salary, live about as long, visit the usual places, and share common interests.

And what’s wrong with that?

These standard ranges are well documented by everyone from the IRS to insurance companies to the local Chamber of Commerce. Simply imagine the lowered stress, dread and anxiety of simply accepting the basic truth of your commonality. It’s not conceding and it’s not settling. It’s recognizing.

So come on people, embrace and celebrate your average. There’s nothing meh about it.

There’s music every day, all day. And it’s not like Sundance, where you have to be invited to shows; you just get up and go. It’s a place where careers are made. It’s a place where you can see every kind of band that exists, and drink a lot of Lone Star while you do it. But it’s OK! You can walk (stagger) from show to show!

But anyway. The band names! We here at Catchword are band name mavens, so we thought we’d take a quick look at some of the names on the music schedule. However, we quickly realized that actual number of bands ran into the hundreds – indeed, well over 1000 – so we’ll have to stick to just one band name genre.

We’re talking about the The _____. The Beatles are perhaps the most famous example, but that form goes back much further, to Big Bands like The Squadronaires (1939) and The Top Hatters (1937). For a long time, the name had to be “the + plural noun”, like The Crickets and The Doors and The Yardbirds, but sometime in the mid-60s the form expanded to include “the + random word”. Thus we got The Who. In the mid-1980s there was a small mini-trend of “the + gerund + noun”, resulting in The Talking Heads, The Killing Joke, etc.

Now we’ve reached the point where anything goes after “the” – nouns, verbs, objects, adverbs. And it’s more fun that way. We present to you a very small selection of band names – just the As and Bs. They’re awesome!

What are your favorites?

• The Airborne Toxic Event
• The Albertans
• The Almost
• The American Secrets
• The Amity Affliction
• The Answering Machine
• The Antlers
• The Apache Relay
• The Appleseed Cast
• The Atlas Moth
• The Band of Heathens
• The Baseball Project
• The Bears of Blue River
• The Belle Brigade
• The Bellrays
• The Bewitched Hands
• The Black Box Revelation
• The Black Cloud Collective
• The Black Lips
• The Boat People
• The Boom Bang
• The Boom Boom Box
• The Boxer Rebellion
• The Bravery
• The Bright Light Social Hour
• The Brother Kite
• The Bubble Puppy
• The Burning Hotels
• The Burning of Rome

See all of the band names here.

And then we get jarred into wondering, just how did punctuation come to be used?

Because after all, at first there was no punctuation. Of course, at that time there was only a book or two in any village. And those were the hand lettered religious texts for the local house of worship. Punctuation wasn’t necessary because virtually no one except the priest could read. Communication and knowledge acquisition were essentially only verbal.

Texts were created in what was referred to as scriptio continua, a style of writing with no space or other marks between words or sentences. There was no need for punctuation since the text was read aloud. There was also no need for lower case letters, for that matter.

In fact, the text was an afterthought. Speakers memorized the document and kept the printed version on hand as a cue sheet. Kind of the inverse to a Teleprompter, when you think about it.

What we would consider punctuation probably first appeared mainly as an aid to the speaker: space in the text to allow them to keep their place and to maintain a pace.

The nascent paragraph was also often marked by enlarging the first letter of the first word within the text. In the early days of recorded (written) history, books were typically based not on creating new expressions, but in copying classic text. Such copying dictated the development of the shape of the punctuation mark.

While trying to closely duplicate the existing text, scribes deployed punctuation marks where they could be inserted as the dimensions of the paper would allow. That’s why a period (initially referred to as a “point”) is in the shape of a tiny dot. A paragraph might begin with an elaborate letter. But by the end of the page, a scribe would have run out of room.

Another important development was to make the punctuation mark(s) compatible in size and emphasis with their accompanying text. Punctuation marks would support the text and not dominate with an absolute, predetermined size.

With the march of civilization, culture became more sophisticated. Thanks to efforts from diverse sources including Isidore of Seville, there was sustained effort to formally record information into text. Isidore’s most noted effort was his Etymologiae, an early summa, or attempt to document all human knowledge (take that, Wikipedia). But Isidore also spurred the shift from acquiring knowledge through silent reading, not speaking aloud or listening.

One aspect of this shift was the increase in written text. And this text was increasingly written in language that was foreign to the reader.

Punctuation was first useful only to scribes and those closest to them (literally within arm’s reach up in the ol’ garret). It began to regularly appear when texts were more widely distributed. Over time, and particularly due to the efforts of Irish scribes, punctuation flourished.

It provided several vital functions.

First, punctuation ensured a consistent, common understanding. Punctuation could steer the reader to a hierarchy, signaling those portions of the text that were most important. The punctuation also made the text more readable because Latin was a foreign language. Furthermore, with the introduction of the printing press and standardized typefaces, punctuation fostered more uniform communication.

At first there were only a few punctuation marks. The subsequent addition of other marks added increased nuance and subtlety to the language. With greater clarity and tonality from everything to a sonnet to a product name, progress is made.

At Catchword, we are big fans of anything that extends and expands the richness and depth of language. In our naming efforts we strive to honor and exalt language.

In fact, we think this should be part of International Mother Language Day (February 21 y’all) that celebrates the importance of words, including even the lowly yet industrious punctuation marks.

We promise not to set off any bottle rockets off from the roof on IML Day. Okay, well, maybe just one. After all, it’s International Mother Language Day, right?

Unlikely to show up in Google results

Consider the Seven Deadly Sins: wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. At Catchword we consider them essential parts of every contemporary wedding reception.

Although the list has been in its current form since the fifteenth century–even immortalized in a painting by Hieronymous Bosch–each of the words has held up very well, still just as meaningful and part of the common vernacular as when dudes wore ruffled collars and silk breeches.

Except for sloth.

When was the last time you heard someone drop “sloth” into a sentence? It’s a word that has lost its way. Sloth is an underachiever, the Fredo of the seven deadly sins. Oh sure it’s on the list, but still. Kind of like the bright-smiled high school cheerleader who years later is an unemployed nurse living in a trailer in the woods (yes, Traci, we’re looking at you…). Sloth rolls off the tongue about as easily as forsooth, boulevardier or zounds.

Compared to the other sins, the word itself and its interpretation have steadily changed over the centuries. It originally was a reference to sadness and depression. Unlike greed or envy, sloth shape shifted and came to mean an indifference or reluctance to use gifts and talents.

Even though the Vatican is slow to change (hey, those Michelangelo-designed guard uniforms aren’t really Kevlar, are they?) Catchword humbly suggests perhaps a new, more appropriate substitute for sloth.

There are plenty of meaningful options: lazy, slacker, idle, shirker, dodger, apathy, even careless.

Secretly, as a substitute name for sloth we prefer Sam Bowie. Picked ahead of Michael Jordan in the 1984 NBA Draft, he played unremarkably for three teams and was rated as the biggest bust in draft history by Sports Illustrated.

Pope Benedict XVI strikes us as a man of action. Hopefully he’ll warm to this task and relegate sloth to the dustbin of discarded words. And choose a more contemporary word. What a Christmas gift that would be!

How should students interested in naming learn more about it?

Laurel says many naming companies take on interns during the summer, which is an ideal way for a student to get a feel for what naming is like. She emphasizes that “naming” involves numerous tasks and skill sets, and that within the industry, there are a lot of different positions. She recommends students who are interested in this type of direction for their careers start learning a bit about trademarks and marketing, admitting that she would have taken more business classes, since understanding these aspects are just as critical to the business of naming as the language aspect.

And yes, it is better than running a record store, except that I have to get up earlier in the morning.

As the judge helpfully points out, the actual expression is damp squib, which I hadn’t heard either. By sheer coincidence (maybe), a survey appeared in the UK newspaper The Telegraph which listed damp squid as the top misquoted expression amongst Brits. Here’s the entire list:

1) A damp squid (a damp squib)
2) On tender hooks (on tenter hooks)
3) Nip it in the butt (nip it in the bud)
4) Champing at the bit (chomping at the bit)
5) A mute point (a moot point)
6) One foul swoop (one fell swoop)
7) All that glitters is not gold (all that glisters is not gold)
8) Adverse to (averse to)
9) Batting down the hatches (batten down the hatches)
10) Find a penny pick it up (find a pin pick it up)

FYI, damp squib is a term for failure, named after a dud 19th century explosive mining device.

Looking over this this, I was struck by two differences in use between British English and US English. First is the absence of the damp squib expression; I have heard “translations” of it, as in wet match or wet firecracker. So maybe it’s just the squib part that we never imported from the UK.

The one that really surprised me is fell swoop:

Others in the chart include “one fell swoop” which was originally uttered by MacDuff in Shakespeare’s Macbeth but which is often mistakenly repeated as “one foul swoop”.

Foul swoop? Really? The only variation I’ve heard on this one is swell foop, a Spoonerism that’s clearly meant to be playful. Swoop refers to the rapid descent of a bird of prey, and fell means “deadly”. Fell is an old, old English word and is related to the word felon. Tolkien used it to great effect in Lord of the Rings, especially when describing the winged steed of the Nazgûl as “fell beasts”. (Did I just go up 100+ on geek cred or what?)

Glister is a weird word – sounds too much like blister – so I totally approve of changing it to glitter, especially when the two words are synonyms. But I didn’t know the origins numbers 2 and 10:

The 14th century phrase “On tenter hooks” which derives from a wooden frame that hung wet clothes out to dry is often mistaken as “on tender hooks.” The phrase “Find a pin and pick it up,” the first line of a poem in “The Real Mother Goose” book of nursery rhymes is now misquoted as “Find a penny pick it up”.

I’ve picked up a lot of pennies in my time, but not nearly so many pins. I’d rather have the luck and the money, frankly.

As I suspected, this article is really a PR piece masquerading as news, to wit:

The survey of 1,000 people was compiled by hearing aid retailer Amplifon, as part of its “Bringing Sound to Life” campaign aimed at revealing the state of the nation’s hearing.

I’m not sure I understand what hearing has to do with misquoting Shakespeare, but perhaps the good folks at Amplifon can explain it to us. (Hint: it’s not that people have bad hearing, it’s that they encounter an unfamiliar word, like moot, can’t remember it, so they substitute a word they do know, like mute, even if it doesn’t make sense in context. Thus does language change over time.)

Everyone knows that nothing rhymes with orange. Product advertising has been inspired by the orange rhyming deficiency. So have books and t-shirts. Even band names perpetuate the cultural meme.

But did you know that there are over 70 words in the English dictionary that don’t have rhymes? Or more interestingly that there are two other colors that stymie the deftest poets and lyricists?

That’s right. Are you ready for the other two? Purple and Silver. (And no, “purple nurple” does not count as an official rhyme!)

So what’s the deal? Why does orange get all the fame and glory? Purple and silver aren’t exactly rare colors (like, say aubergine and pewter). Purple even shares a spot with orange in the standard eight-pack box of Crayola Crayons. It seems a tad bit unfair that orange should get all the credit for being so rhyme-resistant.

Perhaps one reason it stands out is that orange is also a fruit — a highly tangible thing. Orange’s realness lends itself to funny cartoons like the one above. Purple, on the other hand, is more of an abstract concept. It’s a characteristic but not an object in its own right. This makes purple more challenging to use as the punchline for clever non-rhyming jokes.

Silver shares some of the same difficulties as purple. True, it is a metal. But it’s often used to describe the quality of something else: Silver jewelry, silver lining, silver bullet, etc. Despite being a tangible thing, it’s also somewhat rare (more rare than oranges). And it’s hard to personify silver the way an orange can be caricatured. (The sad little silver necklace who can’t be rhymed? Not very funny…)

Let me be clear: I have nothing against the color orange per se. (It is Catchword’s official color, after all.) But, the next time someone tells me that orange can’t be rhymed, I’ll promptly reply that orange isn’t all that special. Slowly but surely I will help purple and silver get the fame (or infamy) they deserve.