I’m a bit of an etymology nut, so when I recently heard the hit song, “Kookie, Kookie (Lend me your Comb),” I became intrigued by the provenance of the final lyric, “Baby, you’re the ginchiest.”
Turning to my Dictionary of American Slang, I found that ginch was 30s slang for a woman, a rather unflattering depersonalizing word. It is akin to, and possibly related to “wench.” Some people have taken “ginchiest” to mean “tops” or “the best,” but seeing how the male singer is a self-absorbed, beat-spouting jerk, and the girl (from his viewpoint) keeps pestering him, I think he really means, “Man… you’re such an annoying chick!”
Maybe I think too hard on trivial matters.
I’m happy to announce that this month’s Astounding starts with a bang, but first, I want to detour to the issue’s non-fiction article. It’s the second of its kind that I’ve seen recently, an overdramatic, underrational speculation into the effects of weightlessness and space on the human psyche. The author opines that, in the absence of normal sensory input or gravity, a person trapped in a tin can for any length of time will go nuts.
Well, people have survived on submarines for 50 years just fine (save for the occasional unfortunate build-up of carbon dioxide). I suspect our future astronauts will remain sane. It’s not as if we’re sending them into space inside of sensory deprivation tanks.
Now the fiction. Murray Leinster has a really excellent story in this ish that I hate to spoil with too much description. It’s a story of first contact, of an encounter between spaceships, of the interplay between crews, alien and familiar. And it features a female bridge officer! Leinster’s penchant for repetitive sentences, like he’s orally reciting an Homeric ode, is a little off-putting, but not cripplingly so.
I give it 5 stars. How about you?
P.S. I’d planned to write more, but the next story in the book is a Randall Garrett, and I fell asleep five pages in. I shall try again tonight. Until next time, dear readers…
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