"B.O.!" we would shout, if one of us happened to stink a little too loudly, which where I grew up, in a hot and humid pocket of northern California, (stinking) was quite common, particularly in the summer.
Am I the only one who cringes when someone types "B.O." when referring to the president? Am I the only one who knows "B.O." means "body odor"?
I don't think I have typed "B. O." so many times in my life, but it was worth it.
I think "BHO" is much better. Has a nice ring to it, that three-syllable cadence: FDR, JFK, BHO.
4:46 on a Friday morning. Snow everywhere. Tons of it. I don't like snow, either.
Language is what we have. Words, syntax, sentences; signs and symbols. I also hate it when people say 911 when they should say, 9/11. 911 is a phone number.
Language may inflame, it may inspire; it enables cruel little kids to chase one another around the playground, gleefully shouting, "B.O.!"..."B.O.!"
The mystery of language lies partly in the fact that a person can sit quietly for a minute before the screen, and soon come up with something like this:
I might have wept;
the long-seeming night spread its glittered coat,
as day would soon break.
But what is this "I";
thinks it lives?
Tried to carve its own eternity.
It dreamed of a separated world;
divided itself into many pieces,
yet remains forever whole.
Of what have I been afraid;
to lie beside still waters,
nearly dawn.
My gift to you on this cold, snow-buried Friday morning.
That's all.