Meet Senator Luddite
For what it’s worth, I’m nineteen and most of the way through a computer science degree. Further to that, I do minimal reading. In these and all other ways, I have no real cause to know obscure words, and the last time I wrote an essay was in year twelve lit three years ago. However, I knew (prior to reading this post) what ‘Luddite’ meant in the sense one would usually use it (a person who opposes technological advancement), but was unaware of the historical meaning.
So no, I wouldn’t really consider the word obscure… it does seem strange that a room full of lawyers would mostly not have heard of it.
~ Isaac
I think I first read the word “Luddite” in an SF story when I was in high school. The author either explained it there, or I looked it up. I don’t remember encountering it outside of SF or a technology context. But it’s not that obscure.
xayoz306: No idea about “sangrinacious”. Are you sure that’s the correct spelling? The OED has “sanguinaceous”, which means bloody.
I see the word “etiology” has been used in this thread to refer to the origin of words. That should be “etymology”. But tomndebb used it as a joke, referring to “diseased words”.
This all reminds me of a great old flame. From Opal’s Page of Flames:
The flamee was longtime fave Cyberian54, who spent years trying to convince the Dopers that the Jews were really Khazars and that Hillary Clinton’s butt was big, which was bad and somehow worth commenting on. Hysterically, Cyb looked up the word and still didn’t get it. His response was something like “What? You think I should smash looms?” It’s not on the Page of Flames, I just remember giggling over it.
The last time I used that word, people thought I was referring to a warrior princess.
With all due respect, Mr. D, the use of fungible doesn’t seem to fit a description of professional sports. Perhaps I am wrong, but a cursory check of its definition reveals that it is used in law to describe an equanimity, or interchangeability of goods or commodities; or replaceable by another of like nature or kind in the satisfaction of an obligation. It kind of fits, but there may have been other phrases that may have better conveyed the idea of a parity that exists within pro football.
As for the description of baseball as soporific, I imagine that tranquilizing, tiresome, or even boring are words too philistine to be used.
Reminds me of the time a coworker, someone from El Salvadore who spoke English w/o an accent and was outgoing and a really beautiful girl, turned to me and asked what “certainly” meant. When one has to explain a word that common and in everyday usage it sets one aback.
The problem with questioning the use of a word by referring to one dictionary definition is that dictionaries often leave out definitions which still apply and include definitions which probably should be ignored. It is a good idea to use several dictionaries and to read discussions by reputable lexicographers.
Etiology, for example, can be used generally to refer to the origin of anything, including words. The word ‘etymology’ may have been the target but “etiology of a word” says the same thing.
And ‘fungible’ has the general meaning of ‘interchangeable’ and can apply to football teams as well as anything.
You might question the choice of words but don’t start making bets.
(liberty vs. chaos, expression vs. confusion; as in so many things the trick is to know where to draw the line.)
Aww. That’s so sweet. Come to daddy!
jehovah68 - I didn’t have to go any further than MW’s Collegiate to see INTERCHANGEABLE listed in caps as the 2d def. I believe fungible was an entirely appropriate and mildly amusing manner for her to explain that she cares not a whit for the differences among the many football teams.
rowrrbazzle - Wow! Thanks for the much needed correction. Of course I meant to say entymology! Must’ve gotten all antsy.
Gundy - I’ll certainly accept that you love the ability to find just the precise word. But how come you seem to find most of your words in the gutter? 
Because sometimes – often – nearly always – that’s precisely what I mean.
I didn’t think you used smilies. Huh.
I always aim to surprise the ladies.
Besides - they’re so cute!
Me, at work meeting, as our boss is trying to convince us that her Pointy Head Boss’s new policy on something or other was really quite brilliant, and not a rehash of something that was tried and failed 2 years before:
Me: “That’s a fallacious argument”
Boss: “It’s WHAT???”
Me: “Uh??? “
Turns out she thought I said “fellatio”. And no, she had never heard the word ‘fallacious’ before, so she thought *that *meant, “ like someone fellating something”. Thank god they’re transferring me.
:wally
Headline from today’s paper (in the “Golly, Martha” section, usually noted for oddball but presumably true stories)
“Moral: If you’re on the lam, date a Luddite”
by Dan Horn of the Cincinnati Enquirer.
That is the only use of the word Luddite in the article. It is the story of a man who has been eluding authorities for more than a year and then last week made a date with a woman who ran his name through Google and promptly contacted the FBI and told them where to find the man on Friday night.
I found [url=http://www.kokogiak.com/logolepsy]Luciferous Logolepsy
, a site that is devoted to “dragging obscure words into the light of day.”
I bet “Luddite” isn’t on the site.
Have fun with that one, kiddies. 
F_X
Oops… the link was supposed to be Luciferous Logolepsy.
Have fun with it.
Moe Howard: “Kid, what’s a good word for scrutiny?”
Larry Fine(thinks hard): …“ah…ah…SCRUTINY!”
Moe:“thanks , kid,you’re a genius!”
Years ago, I worked in customer service in a call-center, and on one of the calls I wrote up, I remarked that the customer kept “meticulous” records of all her correspondence with our office. My supervisor came to me, sort of chuckling, and said “What does met-i-KYOOH-luss mean?”
And I explained through gritted teeth and barely stifled laughter in the simplest possible words what the word meant, inwardly rejoicing that I now had proof of what I’d always suspected, that I’m smarter than other people. And yet, in the heady afterglow of my victory, I couldn’t help but look down from my moral hilltop and sigh with melancholy at the intellectual paupers in the valley below, and weep. I wept for their children, and for the future of their kind. I can feel complex emotions like that, because I am very deep.
Actually, I just explained what I meant and forgot about it until right now. I guess I’m secure enough in my own smartitudinousness that other people’s vocabularies are not really a concern of mine.
I’m 25 & am hurtling toward a B.A. in English & an M.S. in Education. I consider myelf to be reasonably well-read, though not as well-read as I’d like to be.
I kinda knew what “Luddite” means. That is, I knew that I knew what the term means, but it wasn’t until I looked it up that I smacked my forehead & exclaimed, “Oh yeah, that’s right!”.
I was once stumping for NYPIRG when I had to explain to someone how to fill out an interest card: I explained that he was to check off his “paramount” area of interest (homeless advocacy, education, etc.) & quickly sense that I had to explain myself, so I did.
One of my fellow volunteers commented that I shouldn’t use “big words” while trying to convert the masses. Oh, well.
I’m 25-ish (24 and 11 months to be exact about it) and I’ve known the word Luddite since at least junior high (7th and 8th grade, ages 12 and 13.) I’m in retail (blech) with a degree in film production.
I don’t think I’ve ever read it anywhere. Someone said it to me once and I got the meaning from context. It was along the lines of “I’m no Luddite, but new computers confound me” or suchlike.
I’m shocked that fairly well-educated people had never heard it.
Years ago when I was in college, I used the word tout in an English paper. My teacher, a grad student in English, did not recognize it and marked it wrong!
Furthermore, he couldn’t find it in his dictionary so therefore it must not exist. His dictionary, by the way, was perhaps best described as a micro-dictionary. Very small – small enough to actually fit in a shirt pocket. He wasn’t interested in seeing the word in my dictionary; that dinky little thing he had was the final authority.