A Menu of Victims

Acaricide is good,” Beetlebaum said, mashing the side of one fork prong into his cheesecake, “but ticks and mites aren’t the only pests we eliminate. What else you got?”

My tongue grazed a spoon of spumoni. “There’s culicicide or culicide, ‘an insecticide for destroying gnats and mosquitoes’ from Latin culex, culicis ‘gnat’ and, as we found before, the suffix –icide or –cide from -cīdium ‘cutting, killing.’ I assume the meaning can be extended to mean ‘the act of killing gnats or mosquitoes.’ Look at this,” I said, showing him the screen of my phone. “The Oxford English Dictionary cites a 1900 publication on malaria: ‘The most efficient culicide is tobacco smoke.’ Hmm. Malaria or cancer…?” I asked shifting my palms up and down like the pans of a balance scale.

“OK. That’s another hundred bucks.,” he said, plunking a bill on the table. “Anything else?”

“If you don’t keep your word, you’re a fideicide from Latin fidei, genitive of fidēs ‘faith.’”

He scowled and shook his head slowly.

“If flowers are growing so close to a house that you can’t avoid covering them with your tent you could commit floricide.”

Beetlebaum closed his mouth around a large forkful of cheesecake, set his fork down and slowly wagged his forefinger at me. “You’re stalling. I think you’re out of names for pest-killers.”

“Here’s one: if you help people get rid of snails — or oysters, mussels or octopuses – you’d use a molluscicide. All of those creatures are of the phylum Mollusca.”

He peeled off another hundred-dollar bill. “That it?”

“Nope. Let’s have coffee and I’ll tell you a few more.”

Anopheles mosquito, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Anopheles_stephensi.jpeg {{PD-USGov-HHS-CDC}}

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How Many Names for Murder?

As the bus lurched down Hollywood Boulevard my stomach flip-flopped. Why did I agree to meet Bugsy Beetlebaum? I surveyed the scene through the scratched windows: gaudy signs advertising quick pleasures and simple salvation. As we neared Vine the sidewalks became thick with tourists and other lost souls.

A few more blocks and I hopped off. Something was sticking to my left heel. Yuck. I had speared a wad of discarded spearmint. Now I really am a gumshoe, I thought as I balanced on one foot to remove the gum with a tissue. I skittered around the stars in the sidewalk and through the green mullioned door into Musso and Frank’s.

Beetlebaum was hunched over a menu in the back booth. A short, slight fellow in khaki shorts and a faded T-shirt, he didn’t pose much of a threat. It was dark, though. I felt inside my purse and was reassured by the smooth touch of a mother-of-pearl handle. Good. I had my trusty magnifier. I like to read the fine print.

We made quick work of our fillets.

“You said you wanted to discuss a contract,” I reminded him.

“Like I said, murder is my business. I got the papers here. Sign on the dotted line and I’ll pay $100 a hit.”

I sipped my wine and didn’t correct his grammar.

“I run a very efficient pest control business, but our ads need a little class. You know: an extra helping of je ne sais quoi.”

“So what do you want from me?”

‘”We kill bugs” sounds so crass. I want to say, “We’re experts in the art of, uh, something-icide,” you know?’

“I think I do.” I signed the contract. “Here we go. A is for acaricide, from post-classical Latin acarus, ‘a mite or tick’ and –icide, from classical Latin -cīdium ‘cutting, killing.’”

“That’s one,” he said, slapping down a Benjamin.

“Lots more where that came from,” I replied with a grin.

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All Tied Up in Etymology

The day was heating up. Or was it just me? I would be meeting Bugsy “Murder is My Business” Beetlebaum in a few hours. But I wasn’t sweating it. I just had to tie up a few loose ends, etymologically.

Latin distringĕre was the source of distress and distrain, which lost their first syllables to become stress and strain. But if distringĕre was also the source of district, why didn’t the OED show it as the source of all those other words like restrain and restrict?

I played a hunch. Aha. Latin also had the word Latin stringĕre. Maybe distringĕre lost a syllable too. Distringĕre and stringĕre both mean ‘to tie, bind, etc.’ And when I searched for stringĕre in the OED Online’s “etymology” field — Jackpot!

Stringere is the source of:

Constrain ‘to severely restrict the scope, extent, or activity of’

Strait ‘a narrow passage of water connecting two seas or two large areas of water’

straits ‘a situation characterized by a specified degree of trouble or difficulty’

Straitjacket ‘a strong garment with long sleeves that can be tied together to confine the arms of a violent prisoner or mental patient.’

Strict originally, ‘drawn or pressed tightly together; tight, close,’ now, ‘demanding               total obedience or observance’ with no wiggle room, as you might say

Stricture ‘a restriction on a person or activity’

String ‘a line, cord, thread’

Stringent ‘astringent, constrictive, styptic, esp. with reference to taste’ or ‘of regulations, procedure, requirements, obligations, etc.: Rigorous, strict, thoroughgoing; rigorously binding or coercive’

Of course, there were also restrain and restrict with the re- prefix meaning ‘back.’

Straight is etymologically unrelated, though. It comes from Middle English, the past participle of strecchen ‘to stretch.’ So, though it’s become acceptable to spell strait-laced (meaning tightly cinched like Scarlett O’Hara willing her waist down to 18 inches with the help of a corset) and (the redundant phrase) strait and narrow as “straight-laced” and “straight and narrow,” that’s a stretch.

Well, I was glad to have that etymology neatly tied up. Hmm. Why do we like to tie up the loose ends in English, while the French find a more satisfying conclusion in the ‘untying’ or dénouement?

Illustrations: Ropes by J.B. Herman; Corset LACMA

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Word Snooper Poll: Most Zeitgeist-y Portmanteau

Ch-ch-changes. The idea that our world is changing at warp speed in these modern times is nothing new. But now it seems new inventions and new attitudes are bombarding us so rapidly we need a passel of new words – and quick. The creation of new words by mashing up old ones – what linguists call blending and Lewis Carroll fans call portmanteaux – seems to be accelerating

In a recent column Maureen Dowd worries that gender-bending accoutrements like guyliner, mantyhose, manskirts and tears in eyes of Vladmir Putin may mean the end of men.

With unemployment, part-time employment or delusional self-employment (euphemistically known as “freelancing”) on the rise, another sign of the times is the Venti-sipping laptop-tapper toiling away at the coffice (coffee shop/office).

We may not know how to write a bread-and-butter letter any more, but those laptop-tappers emitting missives into the Twitterverse in 140-character packets had better mind their twitterquette if they hope to be retweeted. Tweet unto others as you would have them retweet you.

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Mystery of the Restricted District

Bands of sunlight struck my face through the blinds. Morning. The memory of a dream, or nightmare, about Bugsy Beetlebaum flashed through my mind and disappeared. After I finished off my third cup of java and a slab of leftover pizza of uncertain vintage I was ready to face the day. Or almost. I needed to finish off some leftover etymology.

So far I had learned that stress and strain were shortened from older words distress and the obsolete distrain. They all derived from Latin distringĕre, which like distrain, meant ‘to grasp, retrain, confine or hold captive.’ But I had Etymologist’s Itch – the feeling that there were more relatives to uncover – and I had to scratch.

I searched the OED Online for distringĕre in the “etymology” field. The yield was paltry: distress, distrain, a couple of obsolete words and district. Here’s the dope on the etymology of district:

< French district < medieval Latin district-us (1) the constraining and restraining of offenders, the exercise of justice, (2) the power of exercising justice in a certain territory, jurisdiction, (3) the territory under the jurisdiction of a feudal lord; < Latin district- participial stem of distringĕre

Something was fishy. What about constrain, restrain, restrict, strict, stricture and maybe even strait and straight?

Illustration: Orchid Cup by J.B. Herman

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Word Snooper Poll: Most Pretentious Buzz Word

The Conceptual Art movement elevated ideas over traditional artistic values like discernment and craftsmanship. Maybe those displaced values needed a home. Is that why suddenly everything outside the realm of art is now “crafted,” “artisanal” or “curated”?

You’ve heard of artisanal beer, bread and gift-wrapping. Now a Hudson Valley craftsman is offering artisanal pencil sharpening. Once you get your hands on one of these hand-sharpened pencils you’re ready to “craft” a sentence. Nobody “writes” any more.

Curating an art exhibition is so 20th century. Now the whole world is ripe for curation. For example, “Curated links” have nothing to do with tasty cured sausage meats, but everything to do with showing the discrimination and taste of a website builder. But when I read about some highfalutin bar serving “curated cocktails,” I was ready to dump my pint of Guinness on somebody’s head.

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Stress and Strain: Twin Words

I was straining under the stress. Maybe puzzling out some word origins would help me relax and get a good night’s sleep before meeting Bugsy Beetlebaum in the morning.

My techie friends, the engineers and physicists, like to distinguish between the nouns stress, ‘pressure or tension exerted on a material object’ and strain, how much something gets bent out of shape by the stress. Okay, for my really picky friends, so they don’t get bent out of shape, make that ‘the magnitude of a deformation, equal to the change in the dimension of a deformed object divided by its original dimension.’ In common use, though, strain can refer to ‘a force tending to pull or stretch something to an extreme or damaging degree.’ Drives the techies crazy.

But stress and strain are twins separated at birth, or “doublets,” as we say in the trade, two words with the same origin. As I had just learned, stress is a shortened form of distress. Distress came into Middle English by way of Old French from *districtia, a word etymologists infer must have existed in late popular Latin. It would have been the past participle of distringĕre to distrain. Distrain? Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of it; it’s obsolete. Remember all those definitions of stress: ‘compress, squeeze, confine, bind, hold captive, etc.’? Distrain meant the same thing. And guess what. It entered Middle English via Old French from Latin distringĕre. And strain? Same story.

Ah. I felt the stress draining from me. Time for some shut-eye.

Illustration: Laura Herman as Lexie Kahn by J.B. Herman

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