Carnivores eat meat. Herbivores consume plants. Verbivores devour words. I am such a
creature. My whole life I have feasted on words — ogled their appetizing shapes, colors, and
textures; swished them around in my mouth; lingered over their many tastes; and felt their juices
run down my chin. During my adventures as a fly-by-the-roof-of-the-mouth user-friendly wizard
of idiom, I have met thousands of other wordaholics, logolepts, and verbivores — folks who also
eat their words. What is there about words that makes a language person love them so? The answers are
probably as varied as the number of verbivores themselves. There are as many reasons to love
words as there are people who love them. How do we love thee, language? Let us count the
ways.

Some word people of etymological persuasion are intrigued by the birth and life of words
and phrases. They love the fact that when a candidate for office went to the Forum in ancient
Roman times, he wore a bleached white toga to symbolize his humility, purity of motive, and
candor. The original Latin root, “candidatus”, meant “one who wears white,” from the belief that
white was the color of purity and probity. The Latin verb “candere” “to shine, to glow,” parents
the English words “candid,” “candor,” “candle,” and “incandescent.”

While many fabrics and garments are colored or printed after they are woven, wool is
sometimes dyed before it is ever woven or made into cloth. The color of that wool is through-
and-through and impossible to remove completely. So when we say someone is a “dyed-in-the-
wool” conservative, liberal, environmentalist, animal-rights supporter, Padres fan, etc., we mean
that their beliefs are steadfast and permanent.

Still another denomination of verbivores, logologists see words as collections of letters
to be juggled, shuffled, and flipped. Pattern seekers like me fantasize about a biologist who
maintains raccoon habitats: “a raccoon nook keeper” —six consecutive sets of double letters.
They also dream of another biologist who studies the liquid inside chickadee eggs. They call this
scientist a “chickadee egg goo-ologist” — and into the world are born three consecutive clusters
of triple letters!

Then there are the grammarians, who enjoy trying to transmute the briar patch of pronoun
cases, subject-verb agreement, sequence of tenses, and the indicative and subjunctive moods into
a manageable garden of delight. Such devotees of correct usage often explore the nuances of
confusing word pairs — “lay” vs. “lie” (“lay” means ”to put”; “lie” means “to repose”), and
“podium” vs. “lectern” (you stand on a podium; you stand behind a lectern).
Other wordaholics experience the joy of lex by prowling the lunatic fringes of language.
These recreational word players ponder why we drive in a parkway and park in a driveway and
our nose can run and our feet can smell.

Finally, there are the legions of pundits, punheads, and pun pals who tell of the Buddhist
who said to the hot dog vendor, “Make me one with everything.” That same Buddhist never took
Novocain when he had his teeth drilled because he wished to transcend dental medication. These
pun-up girls and pun gents become even bigger hot dogs when they tell about Charlemagne, who
mustered his Franks and set out with great relish to assault and pepper the Saracens, but he
couldn’t catch up. (Frankly, I never sausage a pun. It’s the wurst!)

I am heels over head in love with language. When I say “heels over head,” rather than
“head over heels,” I am not two letters short of a complete alphabet or a syllable short of a
coherent statement. “Head over heels” is the normal position, sort of like doing things ass
backwards, which is the way we do everything. I don’t know about you, but when I flip over
something, my heels are over my head.

When I say “language,” I mean by and large that glorious, uproarious, notorious,
victorious, outrageous, courageous, contagious, stupendous, tremendous, end-over-endous
adventure we call the English language. That’s because in matters verbal, I am unabashedly
lexist. Just as many would say the Italians do food well and the French do style and fashion well,
I believe we English speakers and writers do language well. One might say we do it lexicellently.

***

On Thursday, December 12, starting at 10 am, at Rancho Bernardo Oasis, and on
Monday, December 16, starting at 1:30 pm, at Remington I in Rancho Bernardo, I’ll be
presenting my Christmas humor show.
On Saturday, December 14, starting at 11 am, at the Coronado Public Library, I’ll be
performing “A Feast of Words.”