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The Unlikely Evolution of @
(@ Fast Company)

Once a bookkeeper’s shorthand, @ has become the fulcrum of our digital identities. How did that happen?

“In Danish, the symbol is known as an “elephant’s trunk a”; the French call it an escargot. It’s a streudel in German, a monkey’s tail in Dutch, and a rose in Istanbul. In Italian, it’s named after a huge amphora of wine…

In 1971, a keyboard with a vestigial @ symbol inherited from its typewriter ancestors found itself hooked up to an ARPANET terminal manned by Ray Tomlinson…

“It’s difficult to imagine anyone in Tomlinson’s situation choosing anything other than the ‘@’ symbol, but his decision to do so at the time was inspired,” explains Houston on his blog. “Firstly, it was extremely unlikely to occur in any computer or user names; secondly, it had no other significant meaning for the operating system on which it would run, and lastly, it read intuitively–user ‘at’ host.”

READ THIS POST because it’s wonderful. I especially love the identification of @ as the fulcrum of an email address. Because it IS one!

And then if you can resist pre-ordering Keith Houston’s upcoming book you’re a stronger person than I. (Come on. It’s called Shady Characters: The Secret Life of Punctuation. How could I/you resist?) 

I would be even if it wasn’t on my business card. (It is.)

I wake up a proofreader. I go to sleep a proofreader. It’s possible my dreams are pedantic.

I adore abstract art, and messy hair, and long-form improvised jazz, and unplanned weekends. But the methodical neural sequences are always running — as subtle, pervasive and persistent as those that maintain subconscious respiration and the miraculous auto-focus of my blessedly functional human eyes. I don’t switch this part of me on and off as I approach and depart the office each day.

As a proofreader, that’s the way things work, and it’s the way I work (even when I’m not at work). Just as an artist sees the world through creative eyes even in the non-painting, non-sculpting, non-drawing moments. Just as the curiosity that drives a scientist, deep-sea explorer or astronomer isn’t silenced the moment they step away from the microscope, periscope or telescope.

{image via PowerScore}

People are afraid of the red pen.

They fear seeing their writing covered in proofreading glyphs, and they resent the person who made it so.

Some editors use green or purple ink because red is ‘too aggressive’.

But red is also the colour of love, and of passion.

I do not proofread in anger. I proofread with passion. When I scrawl all over the page, I am sharing the writer’s devotion to the words they have coaxed forth. It is with love that I — as gently as possible — nurture and nudge those words just a little bit more, hoping to make them as perfect as we both desire them to be.

So writers? Don’t hate the red pen. Your proofreader actually loves your writing.

Proofreaders, don’t be ashamed to be called a persnickety, pedantic perfectionist. Wear that badge with pride (especially if you couldn’t take it off if you wanted to).

And everyone: go to as many Sydney Writers’ Festival events as you can between now and Sunday (26 May 2013). Let your brain be caressed and your thoughts provoked.

When savoury food isn’t salt-and-peppery enough, we say it’s unseasoned (and probably unsavoury).

So why “unseasonably warm”?

Hint: it’s not because we can’t improve the weather with salt and pepper.

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The OED lists season (n.) as “any one of the periods, longer or shorter, into which the year is naturally divided by the earth’s changing position in regard to the sun” (and so on). That’s all based on an early version of the verb to sow (thus “sowing time” , from Latin and Vulgar Latin via Old French and Middle English, with variations in Modern French, Catalan, Portuguese, Italian). Humans have been talking about seasons since about 1340.

The concept of seasoning (v.) — “to render more palatable by the addition of some savoury ingredient” — turned up in around 1400, and is based on the same Old French concept: we leave fruit to ripen fully with the seasons, becoming as delicious as possible before we devour it or bake it into a pie.*

So unseasonal weather makes sense to me. But why unseasonable and unseasonably? Unable to be seasoned?

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The construction is literally just season + the able suffix.

Season+able (adj.) means “occuring at the right time or season”.*

Season+ably (adv.) means “in a fitting time; at the right moment; in due season”.

But if you ask me, the real answer comes back to a noun: seasonableness.

So if something is unseasonable it’s unsuitable or unreasonable.

When I comfortably wear a sundress in April — or am forced to wear a woollen scarf in December** — I do so because of weather that is unreasonably warm or cold (within the context of the season). I am unable to provide a reason for such inexplicable weather …Except to say that we should consume less, recycle more, and look for alternative sources of low-impact, renewable, sustainable energy.

And all this still has very little to do with salt and pepper, other than the fact that a cold day in Summer is generally thought to be unsavoury.

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* As opposed to seasonal (adj.), which means “depending on or happening with the seasons”. In Japan, cherry blossoms appear seasonally; if they flowered all through the year they would be unseasonal — unrelated to or unaffected by the prevailing season. Which means you could talk about an “unseasonally warm day” and still technically be correct, but you lose the element of unreasonableness and incongruity.

** That one is hemisphere-specific.

A chart with one or more sectors separated from the rest of the disk is known as an exploded pie chart. This effect is used to either highlight a sector, or to highlight smaller segments of the chart with small proportions.

– Wikipedia (of course)

For example, this is an exploded pie chart OF pies:

{via Peltier Tech}

The thing is that regular pie charts are (potentially) amusing enough…

{via cheezburger}

…even if doughnut charts are better.

{via The Functional Art}

But an EXPLODED pie chart! The New York Times knows what I’m talking about (no really, in response to an article about the death of pie charts, someone worked out how to make an actual pie actually explode, and then actually did it).

Of course this also means there’s such a thing as exploded doughnuts. Er, exploded doughnut charts. (I know, more boring. Sorry.)

SO.

If doughnut chart > pie chart… and exploded pie chart > regular pie chart… then by reason, exploded doughnut chart > regular doughnut chart… and the hierarchy of baked-good–based data presentations is:

1) exploded doughnut chart
2) exploded pie chart
3) doughnut chart (intact)
4) pie chart (intact).

Which is, oddly enough, the exact inverse of my personal preference for actual pies and doughnuts.

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PS. I don’t* have the time to delve into the differences between “doughnut” and “donut”, but it’s interesting to note that the latter, while deemed wholly** American by English-speakers outside the US, might only be used one-third of the time in US English. Anyway, the Macquarie Dictionary spells it “doughnut”, as do the all the best doughnut joints I’ve frequented, so that’s good enough for me.

PPS. The difference between the American concept of pie (Apple! Pecan! Pumpkin! Peanut butter! Cherry! Banana cream!) and the Australian concept of pie (meat) is even more perplexing and not worth discussing. Sweet pie (NOT exploded; see the conclusion to the list above) is better and that. Is. That.

*The apostrophe doesn’t mark a missing “u”.

**And “holey”, I suppose.

A young Neil Armstrong.

There’s a passage in Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s World that explains the difference between children, grown-ups and philosophers. To paraphrase, we are born with the infinite capacity for wonder — to be amazed by everything we see; to see everything as a miracle. As infants we are thrilled by everything; the smallest thing surprises us. As we grow older, we become jaded. We learn to accept some things as normal (we just accept that planes fly, for example; that’s just what they do) or we deem it ‘uncool’ to think that something might be marvellous. Most grown-ups could easily become jaded having seen Mount Everest up close, or after travelling through five major cities in as many weeks. “Been there, seen that. I know all there is to know and nothing can impress me now.”

Philosophers (and others who have nurtured their inquisitive nature) spend their lives trying to buff away the frosted glass of adulthood; to view the world through a child’s eyes, always asking questions, awed by nature’s most banal accomplishments.

Earthrise from the surface of the moon, from that great Apollo 11 landing of 1969.

Neil Armstrong was a quintessential human — a fine example of someone whose childlike enthusiasm never dulled with the passing of time, even after he walked on the Moon and had seen, at least in terms of long-distance travel, all there is to see. As his family said of him,

“He remained an advocate of aviation and exploration throughout his life and never lost his boyhood wonder of these pursuits”.

I believe space travel isn’t about claiming new territories for humankind, or finding footholds for off-world colonies in a dystopic future. It’s about recognising — and championing — the undeniably curious nature that makes us human. Yes, space exploration is about Curiosity.

It’s the desire to know more about the things we see from a distance, and to better understand what makes our own planet so special. The inquisitive spark deep inside the human spirit that drives our impulse to read, explore, experiment, create, travel, study, work, meet new people, go to the zoo, cross the North Pole, and watch David Attenborough documentaries.

Layers at the base of Mount Sharp, captured by the Mars Curiosity rover.

The day that space exploration became an optional frivolity — and gradually faded from the global (funding) agenda — was a sad day for human curiosity, creativity and innovation. After all, space exploration isn’t just about flying rockets and walking on the Moon. As documented by NASA:

• The technology behind liquid-cooled spacesuits used for moonwalks is now used to treat those suffering multiple sclerosis and spinal injuries.
• A lightweight breathing apparatus now used by firefighters was the result of a NASA project.
• Robotic arms developed for operating on machinery in space formed the basis of robotic arms now used to operate on humans in delicate surgical situations. (In 1994, doctors used one of these robotic arms to remove a woman’s gallbladder. Gallbladders are much smaller than space stations.)
• The Statue of Liberty and Golden Gate Bridge are both coated in a protective material that NASA invented to protect launch pads from hot, humid, salty air.
• Multispectral imaging used to map the surface of Mars was later used to decipher previously hidden text in Roman manuscripts damaged by the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 AD.
• Space Pen, Space Food Sticks and Astronaut Ice Cream. Because humans are also inextricably delighted by frippery.

But without government funding — or some way to ensure scientific research in private space exploration endeavours — the refrain of “I’m going to be an astronaut when I grow up” seems to have vanished like a waning crescent Moon. (When was the last time YOU heard those words pass the lips of a bright-eyed child, filled with wonder at the mysteries of the universe?)

So. Vale the space program, hail curiosity (and Curiosity), and let us hope that Neil Armstrong isn’t the last of a dying breed.

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PS. The next time you get overly excited at the world around us — by a beautiful bird flying overhead, or a particularly huge moonrise in a glowing amber twilight, or a ladybug landing on your sleeve, or the beauty of falling snow — and someone tells you to stop being such a child… just ignore them. It’s never uncool to be curious about — and delighted by — the universe.

>> A word for that: Grawlix

Until its OED entry is solemnized, we’ll have to settle for this definition on Wiktionary: “grawlix, n. A string of typographical symbols used (especially in comic strips) to represent an obscenity or swear word.” I don’t think I’ll ever look at a character set quite the same way again.

%^&*@ing glorious!

Read the whole thing at Hoefler & Frere-Jones (via @GrammarMonkeys and @mental_floss)

{ Every reform movement has a lunatic fringe via FFFFOUND! }

I just can’t stop wondering why Brooklyn (as in New York) is popularly (and officially) abbreviated to BKLYN.

À la:

{ Brooklyn Spoke }

If we’re getting rid of vowels (which is the NRMAL… I mean, NRML way) shouldn’t it be BRKLYN?

{ The Pursuit Aesthetic, via FFFFOUND! }

Are some of those penguins Emperors, and others Adélies?

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{ via Colossal }

Current distraction: wondering about the mouthfeel. Chewy? Sticky? Sans-serifs-y? Alphagetti?*

(Subsequent distraction: the curious difference between American “jelly”, which is Australian “jam”, and Australian “jelly”, which is American “jello”.)

*If it’s named after what it clearly IS named after, shouldn’t there be an H after that G?

And I wanted to like it, it I really did. (Because I love the whole Brothers album so very much.) But I just couldn’t forget how fantastic The Basics version is:

[Do ignore the Californication thing. How is that even relevant?]

And then I was worried that I only liked The Basics version because of the joyful, pop-y Beatles-yness (and the perfectly imperfect syncopation).

But then I listened to the original by Richard Berry, which is about as pop-y as it gets:

…and I didn’t like it so much.

Ergo, I think my taste in music (or at least this song) is like my taste in food: really savoury isn’t my thing; completely sweet isn’t (always) my thing; but I truly adore salted caramel. (No really. Give me a bouquet of PayDay bars and I’ll be happy until I die of the diabeetus.)