Nerd of the Day

Since the issuing of my fancy corporate email account, I have been receiving and religiously filing away Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day emails, aspiring to one day study them like a fifth grade spelling list, potentially sparking the reactivation of a writer’s brain paralyzed by six months of transcription, travel & expenses and filing. Late one Friday afternoon, finally reaching the pinnacle of office boredom, I formulated the more specific goal of trying squeeze as many Words of the Day as possible into random sentences at work. This really did used to be one of my LEAST favorite elementary spelling and vocabulary exercises. I believe it was Tuesday’s regular assignment:

Monday: Write the word five times (Come on, this is cake.)
Tuesday: Use 10 words in a sentence. (Significantly more difficult.)
Wednesday: Use 15 words in a story. Story must contain a minimum of ten sentences. (Bitch, this will take me past Full House.)
Thursday: Study for exam. (Only if Veronica Vaughn practice tests me.)

Of course when the next Monday came around, instead of attempting to seamlessly integrate the word “gimcrack” into an email about the new central conference calendar, I defaulted to poring obsessively over Gawker’s jabs at Oprah fans (“OPRAH! OHMAGAH! YOU ARE SUUUUCH AN INSPIRATION!”) and searching Pitchfork for clotty reviews of over-hyped albums I’d missed while rotting away in my cubicle de silence. It wasn’t until January 13, 2005 that a particular Dictionary.com word nudged me out of my language lethargy. Most Word of the Day submissions are pretty pedestrian, but every once in a while a word will jump out, as did Jan 13th’s “sesquipedalian,” which, landing in my inbox, prompted an immediate forward to my friend Jen-Z – even before I read the definition – with the commentary, “Longest word of the day EVER.”

Opening the email then reaped the grandest of rewards:

sesquipedalian \ses-kwuh-puh-DAYL-yuhn\,
adjective:
1. Given to or characterized by the use of long words.
2. Long and ponderous; having many syllables.

noun:
A long word.

I mean, OBVIOUSLY.

This is the kind of gratifying coincidence that prompts nerdy boasting, an activity at which I excel. Last Wednesday afternoon by the copy machine, I had to tell Ken Tailey.

“I thought this Word of the Day was really long and then it turns out the word means really long and wordy!”

(Ken stares blankly.)

I forwarded Ken the aforementioned Word of the Day email and he was enthralled with my linguistic enthusiasm, you could tell. Later that afternoon, scanning my Word of the Day storage bank, I felt compelled to send him yet another word-related email:

From: Jones, Stacia
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 4:28 PM
To: Tailey, Ken
Subject: FW: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

another good one, especially if you're looking for words to convey a general state of wordiness:

Word of the Day for Tuesday December 6, 2005

logorrhea \law-guh-REE-uh\,
noun:
Excessive talkativeness or wordiness.

To which he responded…

From: Tailey, Ken
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 4:34 PM
To: Jones, Stacia
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

isn't that a venereal disease?

From: Jones, Stacia
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 4:38 PM
To: Tailey, Ken
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

stick to finance kent.

From: Jones, Stacia
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 4:40 PM
To: Tailey, Ken
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

although, the fact you spelled venereal correctly (and knew how to pronounce the word "heifer") proves you have a certain aptitude for the english language. i think...

From: Tailey, Ken
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 4:51 PM
To: Jones, Stacia
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

i pride myself on my ability to spell venereal. thanks for noticing.

I finally recognized our discourse as the perfect opportunity to begin integrating my Dictionary.com words, prompting a chain of (quite obviously business-related) vocab-laden emails…

From: Jones, Stacia
Sent: Wednesday, January 25, 2006 5:03 PM
To: Tailey, Ken
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

i am but a tyro when juxtaposed with your assidious and laudable pursuit of lexicon mastery.

(4 dictionary words of the day in there.)

Which morphed into an all out war…

From: Tailey, Ken
Sent: Thursday, January 26, 2006 11:06 AM
To: Jones, Stacia
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

i think you mean assiduous. the fact that you wrote assidious instead of assiduous is insidious.

From: Jones, Stacia
Sent: Thursday, January 26, 2006 12:07 PM
To: Tailey, Ken
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

Not so much insidious as incommodious or unpropitious.

From: Ken Tailey
Sent: Thursday, January 26, 2006 12:46PM
To: Jones, Stacia
Subject: RE: logorrhea: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

i was going for the faux rhyme w/ your made-up word, so while the definition could be construed as not perfectly apt, i'd wager it's not incorrect to describe your offense as tantamount to grammatical treachery.

Good game Kent. However…

Although you lambast me for errors of spelling, you fail to recognize how overly caustic language (Treachery? Really?) and non-existent, half-French compounds (What exactly is a faux rhyme?) encumber your execution. But in an attempt to assuage you and quell our respective pugnacious inclinations I offer this small concession. As Grammar subsumes both the spelling and usage of words, I acknowledge that neither of our grammatical delinquencies was significantly more contemptible than the other.

And as I demonstrate my commitment to the assiduous pursuit of proper grammar and spelling, I ask that you set aside your vainglory and allow me to conclude this discourse, as I am notoriously sesquipedalian and approach logorrhea.

Unless you feel compelled to comment, that is.

"and get more cheese than Doritos, Cheetos or Fritos..."

Last night Doom spit my very favorite line off Madvillainy, and for an artist with such an extensive catalog to choose from, that’s all I could ask for, really. I didn’t know most of Doom’s jams. He played a ton off MMM…Food and earlier albums I don't own, only touching briefly on the insta-classic that sold me and not at all on his latest Aquateen-splattered collab. No surprise cameo from Danger Mouse and no banging kick-start. My ladies and I, after force-feeding ourselves booze and drilling for last-reserve adrenaline until 12:05am on a Thursday night, held out for a particular menacing beat to mark Doom’s entrance, hoping the tinkling of West coast piano chords and a Cee-Lo chorus would announce our hero.

“His name’s…DOOM.”

No such luck. Although we did get the mask (for 40 measly minutes!).

The show, starting at 9:00 in the Space Mountain-like cavern of the Nokia Times Square Theater featured a legion of wordsmiths, many of whom eluded my quaint hip-hop knowledge base. We arrived in time for Big Daddy Kane’s entire set, a sizzling display of mike skills and gripping beats that bumped my crew into motion, even in our exhaustion and impatience. A jacked rapper in a black muscle tank (don’t ask me who it was, I have no idea) came out to sling some old-school hits, striking the reminiscence chord dead on. He flaunted the most obscenely huge triceps on record, bricks bulging beneath his skin. Throwing those hands in the air to “wave ‘em like you just don’t care” appeared to be quite the strenuous exercise.

The crowd was a mellow, breezy bunch, buzzed on weed and cradled in slick grooves. Miss Jazzy J was the first to point out the male/female ratio imbalance, about 80/20 in our favor.

“And they’re all fiiiiiiiine Stacey.”

For true. The theater housed a collection of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen under one NYC roof. Stylish brothers with silky swaggers. And Lillycita and I pointed out almost simultaneously, delicious scents smothered and seduced us from every direction. In a moment of pure creepiness we actually leaned forward and took a whiff of the guy in front of us, deciding that he, and his immaculately groomed compatriots, emanated the delicious floral aroma of freshly washed laundry. You know you’ve been hanging out at too many hipster shows when showers and clean clothes are enough to send you swooning.

**UPDATE: The grossly muscular rapper mentioned above has been identified as the Furious Five's Melle Mel. If you see this man on the street DO NOT give him any more spinach.

Someone Get Mama a Strunk and White

Miss Stacia is full of punctuation brainfarts these days, surely making errors including but not limited to:

- misplacement of commas/apostrophes
- over-hyphenation
- misuse of dashes
- limited understanding of dialogue/script formatting
- annoyingly excessive, although perhaps not erroneous, use of the parenthetical

These things used to be simple. My brian is dying in the citi.

If I could stop playing it, I would.

Dig up a hit, rock solid, let it grow Celtic moss.

This is the kind of jam that inspires joints to exercise their rotational properties. Unlock those hips, those shoulders, those wrists. Here in Reggaetown we slink and crawl. We seep, liquid fire down molten mountain.

Some songs are made for recycling. This one is also made for repeat.

Kissing Frogs

Mom, Pops and Rachel are in the city moving Rachel into the Cornell Medical School dorms for her upcoming Urban Semster. Miss Stacia has joined them for the day and the foursome is walking off a monster dinner on the UES when mom launches into an unsolicited attempt to play matchmaker for Miss Stacia:

MAMA JONES: You know who wants to reconnect with you Stace? You’ll never guess.

(Expectant pause that is met only with Miss Stacia’s icy glare.)

MAMA JONES: (devilishly) Jordan Drago

MISS STACIA: Ugh, for real, Jordan Drago? God no. Mom, the last memories I have of Jordan Drago are of him bludgeoning a frog to death with a hammer in his garage.

PAPA JONES: It was a bat, actually.

RACHEL: Yup, a bat.

MAMA: Do you remember how he did it? (Throws imaginary frog in the air with her left hand and swings both arms, choked on an invisible bat, at the croaking wiffle ball.)

STACIA: Ugh. He was a maniac.

RACHEL: You know one of the first signs of psychopathic behavior at a young age is the mutilation of small animals.

STACIA: (turns to mom) Did you give this kid my number?

A Litte Early For Enlightenment

Since Howard's debut on Sirius satellite radio, Mama Jones has taken to calling her daughter at work to recount the on-air exploits of her beloved, nappy-haired obscenity machine. Tuesday morning, mom phoned to detail Howard's new "Revelations" segment in which each member of Stern's warped crew anonymously contributed a debaucherous secret or anecdote, prompting an intense guessing game to match deed to perpetrator. Eventually the culprits were outed, accounts of Howard's subtle-but-lame plastic surgery procedures and Artie Lang's reciept of a "load blow" to the chest, confirmed.

"Robyn likes to masturbate with meats and vegetables," my mother informed me. "I don't know where she finds meat that small. Pepperoni maybe?"

This morning's mother-daughter sharefest began around 9:30, a bit later than usual but disturbing as always:

"I'm in the car listening to Howard. He just had someone pour salad dressing on a girl's crack and lick her ass clean. Not just around, but UP! He just went up there and got it!"

"And how do you feel about that mom?"

"That's one place I'd never go." No thanks."

When asked if Howard is finally starting to test her limits, Mama Jones chuckled.

"He's a wild man. He really is."

Born Into This

I was there for The Call.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006, around 7:30 pm in Miss Stacia’s UWS apartment. Miss S and Dazrazzle are primping for Damsel's first live performance at Fat Baby when Dazrazzle’s phone rings. The Daz picks up.

DAZRAZZLE: Hello?

RANDOM EVENT PLANNER: Hi, Sarah Gownie? Have you given any thought to your ten-year high school reunion?

Daz’s cherry pops.

DAZRAZZLE: Well actually…

Holding back the gush, Daz “uh huhs” and “Yes, I still keep in touch with so-and-sos” her way through a survey of her Half Hollow Hills High School East Class of 2000 familiarity and currency, eyes wide, hand partially clasped over her mouth to signify the ” ridiculousness Stacey!” After about five minutes Daz hangs up the phone and turns to Miss Stacia, who has lent half an ear to Daz’s end while attempting to make her hair look more Eleanor Friedberger, less Jennifer Aniston. Daz wears a smirk that is equal parts suspicious amusement, suppressed pride and resigned acceptance.

DAZ: Stacey, you WILL NOT believe who that was.

MISS STACIA: You are planning our high school reunion, Sa. We have always known this. It was only a matter of time, really.

DAZ: Yeah, I guess. But don’t these people know that I have more important things to plan over the next four years than my high school reunion?! Like my pachatch. I must plan for my pachatch*.

*Spelling of the word pachatch provided by Miss Daz.

Tom Robbins' Advice for the New Year

"Erleichda!"

Experimental Fashion Friday: It's Electric!

Attention: Due to a technical barrier that prevents Miss Stacia from loading new pictures to Collections are Dangerous via her work computer, Experimental Fashion Friday entries will now be posted a wee bit after their day of occurrence. Takes some of the fun out of it for sure, but don't blame Miss Stacia, blame The Man. And don't forget, your input is still welcome. Now...

Meet Ken Tailey.



Ken is a polished if fairly conservative dresser with a penchant for flat-front khakis and earth-tone sweaters. Every once in a while Ken gets saucy with the sweater selection, his upper half swathed in baby blue or punchy maroon, his lower half balancing the calculated fashion risk in a classic shade of golden sand.

A couple weeks ago, when Ken was brought up-to-date on Experimental Fashion Friday’s mission, he claimed ownership of a “neon green” sweater, promising to pull it out the following week. Alas, EFF came and Ken failed to flash electric green. As punishment I constructed a little Starship Enterprise symbol out of a post-it note and pinned it to his inadequate olive stand-in. Sitting behind his desk with his neatly clipped, side-parted coif, lacquered arm cast (a product of hand-to-hand combat with sell-side representatives) resting authoritatively on mounting stacks of research, Ken looked ready to command interstellar investment fleets to financial victory.

Hilarious, but still not quite experimental.

Ken was prepared to make it up to the Board of Experimental Fashion Friday however, dry cleaning the elusive sweater and sporting it with pride on the very first post-Cayman EFF. The knitwear, of a color not so much neon (neon = day-glo) as 1950's-kitchen-appliance lime, worked hard to broadcast EFF’s message of Bland Corporate Fashion Intolerance to the office.

The movement is spreading.

Better still, in a formidable display of Teammate Telepathy, Miss Marianne McCrann, coworker and Ken's occasional triathlon partner (the two won a race together back in the fall), happened to show up for work on Friday in a citrus-charged sweater of the exact same shade. Standing side-by-side the two analytical athletes melted together, a double popsicle stick of super-tart lime, wooden legs of pressed khaki jutting out from lickable green tops that matched right down to their accenting candy buttons.

Although wearing the EXACT same outfit as your co-worker pretty much negates the individuality component of EFF's objective, coincidences like this one are totally worth the sacrifice.



As for my own EFF ensemble, I chose to go with teal (or “Smurf blue” as coworker Julia McMattress tagged it) in the hopes that it would both complement my fleeting Cayman bronze and augment Kent’s “neon" motif. But the consensus was that my outfit as a whole was a success, surprisingly wearable, and therefore not truly experimental. My coworkers tend to look forward to my “fashion gone awry” moments more than my accidental streaks of fashion competence. No matter that no one has worn teal that bright inside 399 Park since 1987. Forget that my belt, purchased by my mother in her thirties during the original heyday of big buckles and elastic hip-wear, was last flaunted as part of my Halloween costume. Apparently my ensemble isn't experimental unless the sight of it activates the gag reflex.



Time for your weigh-in. Motherly support is encouraged.

The Money Shot

Photographic evidence of Mama Jones in action is worth its weight in battery-operated genitalia.

Unplugged

If Miss Stacia takes a nine-day vacation in the Cayman Islands but fails to blog about it, has it even actually happened?