More great words I'll find it hard to use

Today's word is equally fantastic:

logorrhea \law-guh-REE-uh\, noun:

1. Pathologically incoherent, repetitious speech.
2. Incessant or compulsive talkativeness; wearisome volubility.

Mr. King, who possesses an enviable superabundance of imagination, suffers from a less enviable logorrhea.
-- Michele Slung, "Scare Tactics.", New York Times, May 10, 1981

Logorrhea is derived from Greek logos, "word" + rhein, "to flow."

And today's technology equivalent (taken from the Samtionary):

blogorrhea \blaw-guh-REE-uh\, noun:

1. Writing more on your blog than even your mom really cares to read; turning your blog into an unsightly emo diary.
2. Feeling such an intense urge to share the minute details of your life that your egocentric dispatches spill into Twitter, where they become even easier and more compelling to produce.

I really didn't need to know that at 5:38pm on September 13th Ivanka Trump had "just left the US open..."; that was total blogorrhea.
-- Sam Jewler, to nobody in particular. September 17, 2009.

Blogorrhea is derived from Techie blog, "web-log" + rhein, "to flow."

Vocabulary gluttony

Twitter has been acting disobedient lately, and by that I mean it won't upload anything I write on it -- thereby forsaking one of its two reasons for existence. So I'm back here, where it's a bit more lonely but at least I can write as many words as I want.

I just want to share with the world the glory of dictionary.com's Word of the Day. When I got today's Word of the Day message in my inbox I took a glance at the word and immediately blew it off as urbandictionary.com's Word of the Day, which is generally far less interesting. But I took a double take and immediately realized I was staring at my newest word to be used way too much in daily conversation. So without further ado, dictionary.com's September 14th Word of the Day:

crap⋅u⋅lous

–adjective

1.	given to or characterized by gross excess in drinking or eating.

2.	suffering from or due to such excess.

Apparently that is actually a word. A quick search revealed that it indeed carries some legitimacy -- the New York Times has printed it 115 times since 1851. That's almost once a year!

One such printing is in a book review from 1985 in which the author refers to her youth thusly: "In the desert years of long ago, when I was a deluded young would-be writer tangled up in my own crapulous ambition...." Funny how the struggles of a young writer can be made to sound so romantic.

In related news, it's good to know this exists:

Between a Stone and a Hard History

I've embarked upon Howard Zinn's classic 700-page tome A People's History of the United States as pleasure reading -- now that school's started my progress in it will go about as far over the course of the semester as it did in a week of August. The book is enlightening in the way that it's showing me whole new ways to be cynical, ashamed and -- OK -- occasionally hopeful about our country.

One section that strikes me in particular is the beginnings of the movement for women's rights, which first appeared as repressed rumblings in the mid-1800's with Amelia Bloomer's new style of dress meant to liberate women's abilities by freeing their physical movements. By the 1820's, women -- whom Zinn calls "the intimately oppressed" -- had been introduced to factory work by the beckoning of capitalism and its infinitely churning profit motives. Twenty years later they were starting to organize and gather en masse to protest for better wages and working conditions. And between 1840 and 1870 women's literacy doubled.

But all of this improvement didn't just happen by the magical workings of unseen natural forces. It happened thanks to the efforts of people like Lucy Stone, a feisty female and original Oberlin activist. The first known American woman to use her birth name after marriage, Stone is said to have delivered a speech that moved Susan B. Anthony to take up the fight for women's rights.



Stone developed her inspirational oratory skills at Oberlin in the 1840's, despite the fact that the school's rhetoric class only permitted men to debate publicly. At one point Stone and fellow student activist Antoinette Brown convinced the head of the department to let them debate each other in public. The session was hailed as "exceptionally brilliant," but the Ladies' Board, a group of faculty wives, raised so much protest that they were never able to repeat the performance.

When it came time for Stone to graduate she was approached and asked to write the commencement address. The only catch -- it would have to be read by a man. Stone appealed for the right to present her own writing, but it was no hope. Once again, even the Ladies' Board stood in her way. Being a strong, self-respecting person, Stone refused to write the address, saying she would do nothing to acknowledge "the rectitude of the principle which takes away from women their equal rights, and denies to them the privilege of being co-laborers with men in any sphere to which their ability makes them adequate; and that no word or deed of mine should ever look towards the support of such a principle, or even to its toleration."

Her spirit was infectious; several others who had been asked to write essays for graduation boycotted with her. During her time at Oberlin Lucy Stone was a whirlwind of radical activism. When she wasn't working three jobs she was active in the peace society, in antislavery work, teaching colored students and setting up a debate club for girls which was held secretly in nearby woods.

Stone can be an inspiration to every Oberlin student who is proud of their school's activist history but not totally aware of the specifics of it. History moves forward when strong, courageous people swim against the tide of backward movements. Small acts of justified defiance and activism do have meaning -- Oberlin initiatives we see today like SEED House and student groups tutoring at public schools and volunteering with Murray Ridge make real differences in people's lives. Those are projects students undertook in the face of uncertainty and fear about what might be impossible or infeasible. And they're making the world a better place.

My Blog Hiatus

I know it's been a really long time since I posted here. I had what was certainly one of the best summers of my life, yet there's very little record of it here or in any journal of mine. Why was it such a good summer? I got published several times by New York Magazine -- once in paper and three times on the website, saw great concerts, had delicious food and beer; speaking of that I turned 21 and had most of my best friends come up for an unforgettable party. I lived on my own for a month and learned to love cooking for myself and going to my interesting, dynamic ten to six. I felt like an adult! Few things are as pleasing as when you feel yourself maturing, even when it's a false sensation. Isn't that feeling part of what underage drinking and smoking are all about?

So in a nutshell that was the glory of my summer. Why didn't I write about it here? Well the first day I got home from my internship at the Magazine, I sat down at my computer and wrote breathlessly about my thrilling first day on the job -- a day that in retrospect was pretty mundane. I was on cloud nine at the time.

The next morning my boss emailed me: "Sam, please come see me." I normally don't assume I'm in trouble in this kind of situation, but I got the sense that I was this time. I scurried eagerly to her desk, and entered the cubicle to the sight of my blog page up on her screen.

"Is this yours?" she asked.

"Yeah...," I said, not sure whether to expect praise or admonishment.

"You have to take it down immediately," she said. My post had made brief mention of the stories I was helping with; the magazine couldn't afford to let that information leak. "Several editors told me to tell you."

How several editors came across my blog post in one morning I'll never know, but the experience brought me to this shockingly obvious conclusion: anyone -- no, everyone can read what I write on this blog. Something about the scolding and my internet epiphany spooked me so bad I couldn't consider coming back to this open diary for the rest of the summer. It was something more insidious than writer's block, something like... writer's trepidation. That doesn't sound quite as good though, does it.

The Roots: Selflessly Perfect

I just got back from the most awesome -- in the dictionary sense of the word -- concert of my life.

The Roots rocked the house at the Highline Ballroom, and it was mostly thanks to their brilliant selflessness. Some of the premier jazz talent in New York City (read: in the world) took the stage with ?uestlove and Black Thought and set the crowd in motion with its fervent swing.

A few highlights stick out in my mind:

The stage boasted at least 20 different musicians over the course of the show, with maestros switching in at every instrument -- keyboard, keyboard 2, bass, guitar, guitar 2, drums, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, and mic. There were frequently at least 10 people on the stage at once.

For the last half of the show, three people (including ?uestlove of course) were simultaneously jamming on the one drum set -- seamlessly.

Finally the show came to a beautiful, perfectly climactic end... and then the keyboardist went into a Michael Jackson song -- the buoyant I Want You Back. Having expected to be done, legendary drummer ?uestlove gave him an exasperated look before diving into the beat with the kind of gusto only a recently deceased immortal can inspire.

Halfway through the instrumental ecstasy, the guitarist realized something was missing and jumped boldly to the mic, bringing the song fully to life.

The song came to its natural close, and the keyboardist stood up for one tantalizing moment -- then hit the cool opening notes of I'll Be There. ?uestlove looked at him in tired wonderment; then sure enough, right on time he came back in. Someone we hadn't seen ran on stage from the back and started singing with authority. On the chorus he turned the show democratic, pointing the mic out to the delirious crowd.

"I'll be there... I'll be there!!!"

"Where there is love, I'll be there..."

Too soon, the song came to its epic, glorious end. ?uestlove played the end like it was really, really the end. And it was.

Except for the insatiably generous energy of the keyboardist. No sooner had the song come to its climactic end than he set off into Rock With You. ?uestlove rolled his eyes in disbelief, waited a few beats and joined in. The house went crazy.

Last night Alison and I discovered a new NYU dining hall. This one allows the diner to collect unlimited amounts of food. Being the glutton that I am, I didn't realize I was full until I found myself halfway through my third plate of food, my innards bursting with dull, painful agony. At that point I decided the rest of my food would be more useful to others than it would be to me.

So I brought the rest of my tofu teriyaki to Tariq. It was my second time bringing him food. I felt determined to please him, after watching my first food delivery crash and burn. Once again Tariq was talking to some friendly people I'd never seen before when I plopped down next to him and eagerly put the styrafoam container in his lap.

"What did you bring me this time?" he excitedly drawled.

"I got you some tofu; it's good," I said. I gave him the fork I'd taken from the dining hall.

His simple response made me feel truly appreciated: "Man... you cool. And he brought a fork!"

Then, "Ay, you got a dollar?"

I wasn't sure how aghast to be. "Man, I just gave you some food and now you're gonna ask me for money?" I not-really-jokingly jibed him.

"Yeah man!" he volleyed back.

"What are you getting with this money?" I asked.

"Some beer, man!"

Then I realized I was squabbling over a dollar with a homeless man who'd accepted me at some level just minutes after first laying eyes on me. He'd opened my eyes to another social dimension of this park that I otherwise would have blinded myself to.

Still, there was something that bothered me. Tariq turned back to the people he'd been chatting with when I arrived. Sitting on his other side, I could see how it would be a bit awkward for him to talk to all of us at once. But I suddenly felt passé, like I was the exciting new guy but not anymore. Like Tariq has been living on the streets for decades, and he's seen my type come and go -- the open-minded, middle class white guy who feels cool, urban and gritty for hanging out with relatively happy homeless guys. Tariq directed a story at the others about some rich girls who had summoned him excitedly to the street one night and bequeathed him a trunkful of leftover, gourmet catered food. It sounded grand. I stood up, bid him farewell and walked home.

I got to the park late tonight, about 10 minutes before its midnight closing. I scanned the crowd of new characters huddled around the music, finally feeling at home again when Tariq emerged and cheerfully greeted me.

Tonight was less idyllic than other nights have been. There was another "nut", according to Tariq, but he was a lot less appealing to me than Steve or Harv. In very little time, I found myself breaking up a fight between him and an exasperated regular.

A police van rolled up to disperse our crowd just as the two men's tempers subsided. The nut asked a fellow hobo for a sip of his drink, and was turned down. All I remember is what rang out into the dark, empty night as I walked away from the smattering of stragglers.

"No one ever gives me anything, and you wonder why I fuckin' do heroin! Look at my arm!"