The wee small hours of Where am I?

Dear Word Detective:  Please give me a definition of the term  “dog shift.”  It refers to working hours.  I have searched with no luck. — Pam.

Dear Word Detective: When I first started working at newspapers, in the mid-70s, the midnight to 8 am shift was called, not the “graveyard shift,” but the “lobster shift” or “lobster trick.” It was suggested that the name started because many of the staff would go drinking before work and come in “boiled,” but that seems like a stretch. — William Fisher.

This sudden flurry of questions having to do with work shifts is interesting.  Is there something I should know about going on with the economy?  Speaking of the terminology of employment (or the lack thereof), I heard an interview last week on NPR with someone who had been recently laid off, who noted that the equivalent to “laid off” in Britain is “made redundant,” a term which the interviewee said would make him feel less than “personally unique.”  (I did mention this was NPR, didn’t I?)   I’d actually go a bit further and say that “made redundant” has always reminded me of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”  Just don’t fall asleep and you’ll be OK.

Sleeping normal hours is out of the question, of course, if you work a “graveyard,” “lobster” or “dog” shift, all three of which are slang terms for a late night shift, usually from  midnight to 8 a.m.  I’ve never worked a graveyard shift, but I did, for several years, work a “swing” (evening) shift, so-called because such shifts often overlap both the day and night shifts and mark a metaphorical pivot point between the two.

I had never heard the term “dog shift” before, and it doesn’t seem to be very common, although it does turn up fairly frequently in the context of police work.  I was puzzled as to its derivation until I realized that it is almost certainly a modified form of “dog watch.”  This was originally (in the 18th century) a nautical term for a short period of duty “on watch” (two hours instead of the standard four).  Such “dog watches” were, however, very unpopular because they  made the sailor miss his normal dinner time.  The “dog” in “dog watch” is yet another case, one of many, of man’s best friend being used as a symbol of misfortune (e.g., “a dog’s life,” one of misery).   “Dog watch” has, since the early 20th century, been used to mean the late night shift, especially in newspaper offices (“The building shakes with the rumble of the presses; the ‘dog watch,’ detailed to duty in the event of news demanding an extra, opens its game of poker,” 1901).

“Graveyard shift,” a term that dates to the early 20th century, comes from the presumed quiet of the workplace at that hour, although many are just as noisy then as at noon.  The origin of “lobster shift” (originally “lobster trick,” “trick” being an old nautical term for duty at the helm) has been disputed almost since it first appeared in the 1940s.  The story about newspapermen arriving for their shift as florid as lobsters is certainly possible, as is the less plausible explanation that there was so little to do on the night shift that the staff dined out on   lobster and champagne in the wee hours.  But the truth, sad to say, is that “lobster” was, beginning in the 19th century, popular slang in New York City for “a fool or dupe,” probably because lobsters were considered very stupid creatures.  So “lobster shift” probably reflects the sentiment that only a fool (or an incompetent worker) would wind up working the midnight shift.

And whoooom shall I say is calling?

Note: This column originally ran (and was sent to subscribers) in December, 2008.

Dear Word Detective:  An article about a congresswoman who hung up on the President-elect (because she thought it was a prank call) referred to the congresswoman’s “flack.”  Surely a new word, I thought (wrongly).  I gathered that it meant something like a spokesperson, and sure enough, both Merriam-Webster online and my 2nd edition American Heritage confirmed that it refers to a press agent.  MW says it has been around since 1939 (as long as some of my cousins!)  Both MW and American Heritage say origin unknown, although a rather weird site called the Visual Thesaurus relates it to “flak” (anti-aircraft fire).  This seemed to me an iffy connection.  What have you got for me? — Charles Anderson.

Good question.  Incidentally, I saw that congresscritter (as Molly Ivins used to call them) explaining her actions on TV, and I’m on her side in this ruckus.  There’s a serious shortage of skepticism in this country.  I can, for instance, call my local bank and ask for my balance, giving only my account number.  Of course, I also have to answer the Secret Security Question, which is “What’s your name, Hon?”  Maybe I should keep my pennies somewhere that doesn’t have a live bait vending machine in the parking lot.

Visual Thesaurus is a rather weird website.  I went there to see what they say about “flack,” but their fancy-schmanzy interface froze my browser.  In any case, they’re not the only folks trying to trace “flack,” meaning a spokesperson or publicity agent, to “flak,” meaning literally “anti-aircraft fire,” and, figuratively, “harsh criticism.”  But while both “flack” and “flak” are part of the vocabulary of public relations, there is no connection between the two words.

“Flak” is a relic of World War II, when German anti-aircraft guns were known as “Fliegerabwehrkanone,” literally “pilot defense guns.”  The initial letters of the constituent parts of that word spell “flak,” and the acronym was picked up by Allied pilots who also used it to mean the cannon fire itself.  “Flak” first appeared in print in English in 1938, and in its literal sense produced such forms as “flak jacket” (body armor) and “flak happy” (affected by “shell shock,” or what we now call PTSD).

By 1968, “flak” was being used in its now more common figurative  sense of “adverse criticism,” which led to Tom Wolfe coining the term “flak catcher” (in his 1970 book “Radical Chic & Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers”) for a public relations agent who deals with unfavorable publicity.

“Flack” is a product of the same period, first appearing in print (as far as we know) in 1937.  Although many dictionaries list the origin of the term as “unknown,” a magazine called “Better English” reported in June 1939 that the show-business newspaper Variety was, at that time, “trying to coin the word ‘flack’ as a synonym for publicity agent,” adding that “the word is said to be derived from Gene Flack, a movie publicity agent.”  While I do not have access to the archives of Variety from the 1930s, it seems unlikely that “Better English” simply made up the item.  Assuming the story is true, “flack” is an eponym, a noun formed from a proper name, in this case immortalizing a man who spent his life trying to immortalize movie stars.