Orientation Day on the Island of Worn-Out Superlatives

Incredible: Good afternoon, and welcome to Superlative Island. What’s your name?

Superb: I’m Superb. Who are you?

Incredible: I’m Incredible. Superb, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Superb, this is Tremendous. Tremendous, Superb.

Superb: Fantastic to meet you, Tremendous.

Tremendous: I’m not Fantastic, I’m Tremendous. This is Fantastic.

Fantastic: Hi Superb, I’m Fantastic, but don’t worry, I’m often mistaken for Tremendous.

Superb: I know, I was just—

Incredible: And this is Magnificent…

Magnificent: Phenomenal to meet you Superb, I’m Magnificent.

Phenomenal: Excuse me, Magnificent, as you know, I’m Phenomenal. It’s Superb's first day here and he's just going to get confused if you keep tossing names around.

Superb: It’s fine, Phenomenal. I’m following along pretty well.

Incredible: Amazing’s here; you have to meet Amazing. Amazing, this is Superb, Superb, Amazing.

Superb: Hi, Amazing. If you don’t mind my asking, who’s the guy with the gray hair?

Amazing: Oh, that’s Awesome. He’s been here longer than any of us.

                                                  The Greatest

 

What's in a name? A traitor perhaps...

The English language has developed many words and phrases to describe those who betray their clan. There are turncoats, defectors and collaborators. There are back-stabbers, sellouts and two-timers. From the animal kingdom, we’ve got weasels, rats, snakes and wolves in sheep’s clothing. Perhaps the most interesting category of characterizing the double-dealing, fifth-column renegade is the eponym.

At the top of that list is “quisling,” coined in recognition of Norwegian army officer, Vidkun Quisling, who collaborated with Nazi Germany and helped facilitate its 1940 invasion of Norway. He ruled as a puppet leader while promoting fascist policies and assisting the Gestapo in suppressing resistance. Naturally, Quisling was despised by Norwegians. After Germany’s defeat, he was arrested, tried, and executed by firing squad.

Another eponymous double-dealer was Judas Iscariot, whose betrayal of Christ caused his given name to become synonymous with traitor. The words Judas and quisling differ a bit in that quisling is more fully lexicalized, to the point where dropping the capital letter from Vidkun Quisling’s surname is the common usage. Even when using Judas as an epithet for untrustworthiness, the capital J is retained. 

Another eponymous expression for the betrayer is Cataline, which is the family name of Roman Senator Lucius Sergius Catilina, whose attempted overthrow of Cicero in 63 BCE was revealed by Cicero in front of the senate. Catilina fled rather than face trial and was finally killed in battle against the Republic. 

My former home state of Vermont was a longtime host to Benedict Arnold, who secretly negotiated with the British in 1779–1780, planning to surrender West Point for money and a commission. He died in England after serving with the British Army, his name permanently cemented in American memory as a symbol of treachery.

Brutus qualifies as well. One wonders which of the current crop of American traitors will find their way into the dictionary.

                                    Norwegian police photographs of Vidkun Quisling

Etymology and usage of the word, "nerd."

There is some question as to the origin of the word “nerd” as meaning "studious and socially inept," but it is generally accepted that the first instance of its usage was in the 1950 Dr. Seuss book, “If I Ran the Zoo," albeit with another meaning.

A “nerd” in “If I Ran the Zoo" is an imaginary animal that the book’s young narrator feels is a conspicuous hole in the zoo’s inventory (see illustration). Gerald McGrew is the boy’s name, and he has a very clear picture of what belongs in the zoo of his deepest imaginings, and it includes a “nerd.”

“And then, just to show them, I’ll sail to Ka-Troo
And bring back an It-Kutch, a Preep, and a Proo,
A Nerkle, a Nerd, and a Seersucker too!”

The nerd illustrated by Seuss is no nerd by today’s standards.  He more has the aspect of a gray-bearded uncle to the Grinch, primed and ready to resent his upcoming captivity. There are competing theories as to how “nerd” emerged in its current usage. My favorite is that it derives from “knurd,” a fraternity inversion of the word “drunk” that refers to someone who never parties. I doubt it though. 

It didn’t take long after the Seuss coining for "nerd" to be swept into its current meaning. In 1951, an article in Newsweek on the slang of the day reported, “…someone who once would be called a drip or a square is now, regrettably, a nerd…” Why regrettably, I’m not sure. One presumes the writer to be some kind of a nerd.

By the 1970s, “nerd” was the go-to insult for socially awkward intellectuals, an epithet I’d surely have suffered had I been better at math. At this point, nerds across America have essentially done the same thing that African Americans have done with the other N-word, which is to embrace it as a badge of pride, and now that nerds own pretty much everything, they’re using this opportunity to give all of us a weggie. 

 

 

Which is correct? “Holland” or “the Netherlands”? And why are its people Dutch?

To answer the first question, neither. The country is properly called “The Kingdom of the Netherlands.” In much the same the way “The United States of America” is commonly shortened to “America,” “The Kingdom of the Netherlands” is commonly shortened to “the Netherlands.” 

So what in the wooden-shoe hell is up with “Holland”? 

The Netherlands consists of twelve provinces. “Holland” refers to just two of them—North Holland and South Holland, which between them contain the Netherlands’ three largest cities: Amsterdam, Rotterdam and The Hague. Amsterdam being the seat of government and a decades-long haven for legally tolerated weed-smoking and prostitution, Rotterdam being Europe’s largest port and the general location of its famous dikes system, and The Hague being the last stop for war criminals including Slobodan Milošević, Radovan Karadžić and Charles Taylor, it’s no wonder that these are the Netherlands’ two best-known provinces. 

Because of their overwhelming prominence, foreigners in the 17^th century began calling the whole country “Holland.” Much to the annoyance of the other ten provinces, it stuck—so much so that the government ran a campaign in 2020 to phase out “Holland” in its international branding. The effort failed. 

And what in the tulip-growing hell is up with “Dutch”?  

Firstly, the Dutch don’t refer to themselves as such. It is strictly an English language artifact that managed to stick. Natives call themselves “Nederlanders.” 

“Dutch” comes from the same root as “Deutsch,” which traces back to the Old High German word “diutisc,” meaning “of the people.” In the early Middle Ages, this distinguished everyday Germanic languages from Latin, which was used primarily by scholars and the Church. 

Before the 1600s, “Dutch” could refer to people from what is now Germany as well as what is now the Netherlands and Belgium. “High Dutch” meant German speakers in the mountains and “Low Dutch” meant those in the flatlands, including the Netherlands. As England’s contact with seafaring traders from the Low Countries increased, “Dutch” came to refer specifically to people of the Netherlands while “German” became the standard word for people from Germany.

With many people’s Netherlands familiarity beginning and ending at the Sherwin-Williams paint can, I hope this has cleared up a few things. 

 

What are you, some kind of clown?

If so, what kind? There are three basic types—whiteface, auguste and character. 

A recognizable contemporary whiteface clown might be “Puddles,” a tall, imposing clown who sings power ballads in an extraordinary baritone and does some physical comedy and mimed tragicomic drama. Puddles’ outfit—a loose, flowing tunic with big buttons and ruffled collar—recalls the Pierrot costume from the Italian commedia dell’arte traditions of the 16^th and 17^th century, widely accepted as the progenitor of modern clowning. His face is painted white with bold eyebrows, teardrops and red mouth accents—classic whiteface. 

Bozo the Clown is a readily recognizable auguste from my generation. An auguste often has flesh-tone skin with exaggerated features (big red nose, painted mouth and bushy blue eyebrows in Bozo’s case) rather than full whiteface. The auguste's clown suit augers more toward the playful than the elegant, and the mannerisms tend to be silly and bumbling, geared toward children’s humor rather than, for instance, the pathos of Puddles’ Pity Party.

Thirdly, we have the character clown. Character clowns are commonly recognizable archetypes like policemen, doctors, chefs or hobos. One of the best-known character clowns is Emmet Kelly, the sad and downtrodden “everyman.” He has shabby clothes, oversized shoes, a floppy hat and a painted-on, downturned mouth. There’s also a happy version of Kelly’s hobo/tramp character, most famously manifest in Red Skelton’s Freddy the Freeloader.

There are other clown types, of course, but most are derived in some way from these three basic categories. There is always of course, the “elected official” clown, an often malevolent actor for whom we have no one to blame but ourselves. 

Gerrymandering—a great word is born...

The word “gerrymander” has been in the news and as a result, its etymology has enjoyed some recent publicity. Here it is again. “Gerrymandering,” the process of redistricting a region for electoral purposes, is a portmanteau of early-19th-century Massachusetts governor Elbridge Gerry’s last name and the word “salamander,” whose sinuous form resembled the convoluted voting map for the state’s 1812 state senate elections. 

Gerry's starkly partisan redistricting plan was not merely proposed, it was enacted, and not merely enacted, it was successful. Democratic-Republicans won 29 out of 40 seats in Massachusetts’ state senate elections that year despite the Federalists receiving more overall votes across the state. While Gerry himself did not design the map (and reportedly disapproved of it), by signing it into law he would give birth to a pejorative that would become better known to history than he would. Gerry would lose the next gubernatorial election largely due to the injury his reputation sustained over the issue, but his political career ended at very near the top of the United States’ political process when he died in office as James Madison’s vice president.

The Boston Gazette published the cartoon (see illustration) that popularized the word, but the specific editorial writer who coined “Gerrymander” is not definitively known. It’s possible the original cartoonist—Elkanah Tisdale—created the conflation, but it’s more likely that it bubbled up organically within an editorial brainstorming session and was run unattributed (I like to think it was some kid from the mail room). I know, I know, it looks more like a dragon than a salamander, but perhaps in the estimation of the editorial board, “gerrydragon” lacked the implication of slipperiness inherent in “gerrymander.”

Why do you think they call it “dope”? Well, I’ll tell you…

The word “dope” derives from the Dutch word, “doop,” which means “sauce.” “Doop” is the noun form of the word, “doopen,” which means “to dip.” “Doop” was initially used in cooking contexts, but soon also came to refer to any thick, viscous fluid, such as paint, tar or beeswax. In 17^th century usage, “dope” owed more to dinner than it did to drugs. 

By the 1850s, “dope” came to reference medicinal preparations, including opium-based concoctions. Morphine and other narcotics fell under the “dope” umbrella at around this time, broadening its meaning to "a drug or narcotic substance."

By the early 1900s, “dope” became a slang term for any kind of illicit drug, but most often referenced heroin and marijuana, especially in jazz and beatnik circles. "Why do you think they call it dope?" emerged in the 1970s as an anti-drug message, playing on the double meaning of dope—both as a slang term for drugs and as an insult meaning a stupid person. 

The answer to the question, “Why do you think they call it ‘dope’?” is saucy indeed.