Archive for February, 2024

Baby foods

February 29, 2024

🐅 🐅 🐅  three tigers for ultimate February; for Leap Day, the US is having wild weather (four days of cold rain predicted here on the SF peninsula, where the first flowering fruit trees are already in bloom)

An old One Big Happy strip that turned up in my comics feed recently. The linguistic point is a familiar one on this blog, the enormous potential for ambiguity in N + N compounds in English:


(#1) baby back ribs, baby snow peas, baby green beans, with N1 baby ‘young, immature; small, insignificant (in comparison with others of its type)’ (the sense on the menu) versus baby food, baby carriage, baby book, with N1 baby ‘intended for (use by) a baby’ (the sense Ruthie understands)

The contrast is between two semantic interpretations of the relationship between the modifier N1 and the head N2 in these N1 + N2 compounds.

On the one hand, baby food ‘food for a baby’ is what I’ve called a Use compound; Use compounds (‘N2 for (use by/on/in) N1’) are very common, and sometimes present a pesky ambiguity with also very common Source compounds (‘N2 made from N1’) — some contrasts: Use compound saddle oil ‘oil for (use on) saddles’ vs. Source compound mink oil ‘oil made from minks’ (ugh, but true); Use compound snow tire ‘tire for (use in) snow’ vs. Source compound snowman ‘(simulacrum of a) man made of snow’. The snow examples come from my 1/25/23 posting “Snow tires” on Use vs. Source compounds, taking off from

a classic Don Martin Mad magazine cartoon for the winter season, illustrating the utility and flexibility of N + N compounds in English — and also their enormous potential for ambiguity, which has to be resolved in context

… [with] four examples of N1 + N2 compounds in English, all four highly conventionalized  to very culture-specific referents. In these conventionalized uses, two (snow tiresnowshoe) are use compounds …, two (snowmansnowball) are source compounds … But N + N combinations are potentially ambiguous in  multiple ways; this lack of clarity is the price you pay for the great brevity of these combinations (which lack any indications of the semantic relationship between the two elements).

So: [in the cartoon] we get snow tire and snowshoe understood as source compounds …: ‘(simulacrum of a) tire made of snow’, ‘(simulacrum of a) shoe made of snow’.

On the other hand, baby back ribs ‘back ribs (of pork) that are smaller than the usual (spareribs)’ is what I will now label an Attributive compound, in which some characteristic that’s metaphorically associated with N1 is attributed to N2. Only a few Ns have been conventionalized for use in Attributive compounds: baby for attributing relative smallness (in baby back ribs) or immaturity (in baby peas); giant and monster ‘gigantic, huge’ for attributing (relative) great size (in giant marigold and monster truck); killer ‘exceptional, impressive’ for attributing excellence (in killer abs and killer idea). Since only a few Ns have been conventionalized in this way, Attributive compounds are not very common. But there’s another compound type that’s fairly common and superficially resembles Attributives: what I’ll call the Predicative type, conveying ‘N2 that’s a N1’: baby prodigy ‘baby who’s a prodigy’, killer clown ‘clown that’s a killer’, cowboy poet ‘poet who’s a cowboy’. (The compound killer clown is then ambiguous as between Attributive and Predicative: someone who’s really good as a clown vs. a clown that kills.)

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Love in bloom

February 27, 2024

Valentine’s Day comes with complex emotions for me. On the one hand, it’s my daughter’s birthday, so it’s filled with warm feelings, stretching back to the Boston Lying-In Hospital many years ago. On the other hand, it’s a celebration of romantic love, which has been sadly absent from my life since the last century; what’s endured instead are loving friendships, something different but marvelous in their own way — though, because of the complexities of my life, they’re maintained almost entirely electronically, while I get through my days in solitude, with only my plants for company.

Indoors, a big spathyphyllum (all glossy leaves and white arum flowers) and two waxed amaryllis bulbs (a recent present from a friend), one with white flowers, one with bicolor flowers (white striped with red), now coming to an end of their flowering. Outdoors, a winter riot of cymbidium orchids in many colors: the first one, bright yellow, anomalously came into bloom in November, thanks to some freakish fall weather; the others — pretty much covering the spectrum from (brownish) red through peach, orange, and yellow to (yellowish) white — began to flower, as normal, in January and are still coming into bloom, which will last until the hot dry weather of June.

And then, Holland Bulb Farms (in Michigan) sent me a sale notice: Valentine’s Day was over, and they still had a stock of their My Valentine waxed amaryllis collections (3 red cultivars: Hugs and Kisses, Be My Valentine, and Love Struck Picasso), so they were clearing them out at roughly 1/3 off (they’re living plants, and you can store them for a while, but it’s a long time till the next Valentine’s Day). Waxed amaryllis bulbs are little miracles of botanical technology, so they aren’t cheap, even at 1/3 off, but I so loved having the gorgeous flowers on my worktable to keep me company that I stretched my budget to give myself a Valentine’s Day present. (New frontiers in self-love, I guess.) Yes, it’s frivolous and extravagant.

The bulbs arrived yesterday. They’re now in a spot in my kitchen that’s warm and gets strong indirect sunlight, so that they can begin springing into life there (and then move to my worktable, where the light is weaker). Something I hadn’t expected is that their wax coatings are not just golden (like my previous two bulbs) but are fancifully colored, with a different pattern for each cultivar. Delightful.

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Louis Fratino

February 26, 2024

(Men’s bodies and man-on-man sex in explicit paintings, with some of my commentary in street language, so not for kids or the sexually modest)

Caught on Pinterest, this arresting painting:


(#1) Louis Fratino, Metropolitan (2019), drawing on Picasso’s Guernica to depict a gay night club; from Fratino’s solo exhibition Come Softly to Me, 4/18 – 5/24, 2019, at the Sikkema Jenkins & Co. gallery in NYC.

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UNVOICING

February 26, 2024

From Chris Waigl on Facebook yesterday, coping with the day’s Spelling Bee game on the web, in which she was told that her candidate UNVOICING was not a word — well, not a word acceptable in the game. Her hedged response:

UNVOICING is a word. (Well, maybe.)

(CW is, among other things, a linguist, and linguists often have complaints about what Spelling Bee is willing to accept as a word of English.)

I’ll expand on CW’s comment, and that will take us to a surprising place (AI chatbots and their discontents). But first, some background on the NYT Spelling Bee.

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Today’s Gaze Downward

February 25, 2024

(Underwear models in, well, nothing but underwear, with plain talk about their bodies, so not to everyone’s taste.)

From the folks at Daily Jocks in yesterday’s e-mail, this ad for the company’s racy DJX underwear:

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Jack Spicer’s California summers

February 24, 2024

Yesterday, in my posting “Poet to poet”, I gave you extracts from a Billy Collins poem on the poet Jack Spicer and promised a posting on the poets Spicer and Frank O’Hara. I’ve posted a good bit of O’Hara on this blog over the years, but Spicer has gone unsampled. Looking ahead to the next posting, Spicer and O’Hara share four notable things, beyond their being extraordinary poets: they were almost exact contemporaries (and at one point in their lives went out drinking and dancing together); both their lives were cut off early (at the age of 40; Spicer drank himself to death, O’Hara was killed in a freak accident); they were both openly, defiantly gay (in the 1940s to 1960s, yet); and they both pursued their craft doggedly, compulsively, as if it was something they couldn’t not do.

Their poetry came to me together through the same route, my first male lover, and it was a great gift, but the two men could hardly have been less similar. O’Hara was ebullient, gregarious, self-assured; Spicer was unsure of himself, inclined to depression, a natural loner (who also, however, craved social connections of many kinds). O’Hara’s poetry is famously spontaneous, improvised in the moment, while many of Spicer’s poems were reworked and elaborated over time, though he also longed for poetry that would just come to him through the air, like radio waves. Yes, a bundle of contradictions.

Spicer’s life history is so restless, complex, and fascinating that I’m posting most of the Wikipedia article on him, below. After that I offer you just one, fairly long, poem, “Psychoanalysis: An Elegy” (from the late 1940s), framed as a session between a (maximally laconic) therapist and a patient who’s spinning out a shimmering sensuous vision of California summers that just might never end.

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A proto-Magritte

February 24, 2024

Artists — cartoonists included — rarely preserve and exhibit the drafts of their work, their proto-art. So we should be grateful to cartoonist Dan Misdea (in the latest, 2/26/24, New Yorker) for showing us René Magritte’s first approach to what became his surrealist painting The Son of Man:


(#1) And so the world lost the opportunity for a surrealist soft-porn masterpiece Adam in a Bowler

No doubt the model’s plaintive whining about having an apple glued to his dick encouraged Magritte to reconceptualize the work.

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Poet to poet

February 23, 2024

Extracted from the New Yorker site:

“Thought a Rarity on Paper”
by Billy Collins
February 19, 2024

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The TripTik moment

February 22, 2024

This is massively a MQoS Not Dead Yet posting, noting that I am currently in a state of body and mind unlike anything I’ve previously reported on, and opening up a lot of questions about the many experiential states that are depressive in one sense or another. I’ve been sleeping a lot (10+ hours at night the last two nights, plus a couple of hours napping during the day), but it’s been absolutely delicious sleep — in 2-hour chunks between my nighttime whizzes (instead of my long-standard 1-hour schedule), with astoundingly pleasant dreams (one so seductive that I went back into it while I was standing by my bed happily whizzing into a urinal).

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The discouragements of old age

February 21, 2024

As regular readers will have noticed, things have not been good for me in recent days — physically just hanging on, barely getting through the days; spirits so low I’m almost frozen in discouragement. Many things have no doubt contributed to the fix I’m in, but one part of the story has to do with the late-career recognitions that sum up the accomplishments of the most significant academics: publication of their collected works; a Festschrift from colleagues and students celebrating the influence of their works; honorary degrees; and prizes or awards. I travel in circles where such recognitions are common, but never expected to get them myself: I have genuine talents, with teaching and research ranging over a huge array of topics, and I can pull off an engaging style of presentation, but my achievements are modest.

I’ve had plenty of career recognitions  — a University Professorship at Ohio State; election to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; the presidency of my learned society, the Linguistic Society of America (LSA); the Sapir Professorship at an LSA Linguistic Institute; an assortment of  grants and fellowships — but these are, as a Stanford dean once explained to me, more than a little haughtily, in what I think of as Harvard Talk — merely what Stanford expects of its faculty members, nothing at all special.

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