Alright, my dearest literary renegades, it’s time to sharpen your quills and dive into today’s word of the day: inchoate. This is the perfect word for those of us who live for the messy, half-formed brilliance of a story still finding its fangs. So let us tear into it like a pack of wolves on a full moon.

Inchoate (adj): Just beginning, not fully formed, or still a chaotic mess—like a half-baked plan to rob a bank or the first draft of my novel where the characters are still figuring out who the hell they are. It’s the embryonic stage of something big, but right now, it’s a hot mess of potential, teetering on the edge of greatness or disaster.

This gem comes from the Latin inchoatus, the past participle of inchoare, meaning “to begin” or “to start.” Break it down further, and you’ve got in- (into) and cohum (the strap of a yoke), so it’s got this vibe of hitching up the oxen to start plowing a field—except the field’s a shitstorm and the oxen are drunk. It slunk into English in the 1530s, and it’s been the perfect word for describing anything that’s still a rough draft of itself ever since.

I’m a bit behind schedule today, so I don’t have the time or bandwidth to come up with a story that’ll make you snort-laugh into your whiskey.  So instead, you’ll get this:

Frankie “Two-Fingers” Malone, a small-time crook with big-time dreams, is holed up in a dive bar, scribbling his master plan on a cocktail napkin. He’s got a crew of misfits—Vinny the Snitch, Carla the Klepto, and a guy they just call “Mouth” because he never shuts up—huddled around him, trying to make sense of his inchoate scheme to steal the mayor’s prized taxidermy peacock. “So we, uh, bust in at midnight, right?” Frankie slurs, smudging the ink with his sweaty thumb. “Then Vinny… does somethin’ with a crowbar, and Carla, you… fuck, I dunno, grab the bird?” The crew stares at him, mouths agape, as Mouth mutters, “This plan’s so half-assed, it’s practically mooning us.” Frankie slams his fist on the table, spilling his beer. “It’s a work in progress, assholes—genius takes time!”

Sorry for such a hack job, dear reader, but I’ve got a big, hairy deliverable due tonight, and Mgmt is acting rather adamant about this deadline.

N.P.: “Century’s End” – Donald Fagen

Happy Sunday, dear and I’m assuming by some of the mail I’ve received lately, occasionally drunk reader.  Today we crack open Uncle Jayson’s lexical grimoire and snort a line of pure lexicological blow.  Today’s word is somnolent, a slinky little adjective that slithers into your brain like a quaalude-laced dream.  As you likely know by now, dear reader, having endured the ruthless and brutal assault by the Woke on the entire English language, I no longer refer students to what-used-to-be trusted dictionaries for reliable definitions.  In fact it will soon be time to wage open war against the likes of Merriam-Webster, The OED, and the Cambridge Dictionary, and the rest of their pathetic ilk who became intentionally unable to define simple terms like “woman” for fear of angering The Mob.  But until I publish my own correct dictionary, we’re stuck with these losers.  So, according to the pussies over at Merriam-Webster, somnolent means “inclined to or heavy with sleep; drowsy,” but it’s got a deeper, slightly more sinister vibe – like the kind of torpor that hits you after a three-day bender on bootleg mezcal and existential dread.

Etymologically, it’s a highfalutin’ French-Latin mashup, from the Old French somnolent and Latin somnolentus, both rooted in somnus (sleep), the same root that gives us “insomnia” for all you night-owl freaks who can’t stop doomscrolling X at 3 a.m. It’s been narcotizing the English language since the 15th century, and it’s here to drag us into its hazy, half-conscious underworld.

I’m holed up in my favorite fleabag motel off Route 66, the kind of place where the roaches have unionized and the neon sign buzzes like a dying star. I’m three Red Bulls deep, trying to bang out a 5,000-word screed on the semiotics of reality TV for some pretentious lit mag, when my neighbor—a tweaked-out conspiracy theorist named Carl who claims he’s been probed by Martian IRS agents—starts pounding on the wall, screaming about chemtrails turning his goldfish into a communist. I’m somnolent as fuck, my brain a swamp of half-formed sentences and caffeine tremors, when Carl kicks down my door, buck-naked except for a tinfoil codpiece, waving a BB gun and yelling, “The lizard people are in the mini fridge!” I grab my laptop, hurl a half-eaten burrito at his head, and bolt into the desert night, leaving that motel hellhole to its own deranged circadian collapse. Moral of the story? Never trust a man who thinks his goldfish is reading Das Kapital.

That’s it, dear reader—somnolent, a word that captures the drooling edge of consciousness where nightmares and absurdity collide. Now go forth, wield it like a switchblade, and carve some chaos into your day.

N.P.: “Hot Stuff” – Blue October

Okay, dear reader, it’s time for your daily dose of linguistic debauchery. Today’s word is diffident.  I used it late last night in reference to some rather limp-wristed whiskey.

Diffident (adj) means shy, reserved, or lacking in self-confidence—like a wallflower at an orgy who’s too scared to grab the lube.

This little gem comes from the Latin diffidere, meaning “to mistrust” or “to lack faith,” from dis- (apart) and fidere (to trust). Picture some toga-clad Roman stammering in the Forum, too chickenshit to ask Cleopatra for a quickie. It slunk into English in the 15th century, and we’ve been using it to describe spineless bastards ever since.

So there’s this diffident fucker, Larry, at the bar—sweaty palms, shifty eyes, the whole pathetic package. He’s been eyeballing this tattooed goddess with a rack like a Renaissance painting for an hour, but does he make a move? Hell no. He’s over there nursing his fifth PBR, muttering to himself about how she’d probably rather bang a cactus than his scrawny ass. Finally, his buddy Dave—six-foot-four and built like a Viking on a bender—drags him over, slaps him on the back, and yells, “Oi, Sheila, this shy little boy wants to buy you a shot!” Sheila smirks, downs the tequila, and says, “Grow some balls, Larry, and I might let you lick the salt off me next time.”

Don’t be Larry, dear reader.  Fortune favors the bold, and so does Sheila and her ilk.  And that’s it—diffident: the word for when your spine’s on vacation and your libido’s crying in the corner.

N.P.: “She Is Beautiful” – Andrew W.K.

Does your life lack unrestrained indulgence?  Do you gaze wistfully at people with silk sheets, wine cellars, and a suspiciously large collection of imported cheeses?  Well then, dear reader, it’s time to add the word “sybaritic” t your vocabulary arsenal.  Not because it will fix your life, but because it’ll make you sound sexier than that guy at the party who can’t shut up about his artisanal olives.  Dig:
Sybaritic (adj):  a love for sensual luxury or pleasure. Picture decadent feasts, velvet robes, and candlelight champagne baths.
Imagine someone lounging in an infinity pool atop a private  villa, sipping champagne, while a butler fans them with palm leaves.  That’s sybaritic.  Now imagine the rest of us eating instant ramen while staring at an Amazon cart full of shit we can’t afford.  That’s…well, not sybaritic.
This gloriously decadent word comes all the way from Sybaris, an ancient Greek city in southern Italy whose inhabitants were famous for living it up like rock stars in toga form.  They were all about good food, good wine, and the general art of treating yoself.  Tragically, the city was eventually destroyed by their very, very un-chill neighbors.  But did they die with regrets?  Probably not.  They were too busy eating grapes off a golden platter.

Last Friday night, my friend Miranda invited me to a “wine and charcuterie experience” at her downtown loft.  Naturally, I assumed this was code for “two bottles of Yellow Tail and a block of sweaty cheddar.”  I wasn’t ready for what greeted me when I stepped through the door.
Imagine chandeliers dripping with crystals (real, not Ikea).  A man in a bowler hat playing the violin for no apparent reason.  Trays of hors d’oeuvres I couldn’t pronounce (am I supposed to eat caviar with my fingers, or will I get arrested?).   Every square inch screamed, “Welcome to a lifestyle you will probably never be able to afford.
I should have bowed out gracefully and gone home to Netflix and stale pretzels, but no.  Like an idiot, I stayed.  By my fourth glass of fancy red with a name longer than my rent contract, I was feeling great.  Until, of course, I made the questionable decision to sit on the Moroccan couch.  You know, the $10,000 centerpiece that you look at but don’t touch?  Yeah, I touched it – with a glass of Malbec in hand.  One clumsy elbow later, there was a rather artistic wine stain sprawling across the pristine fabric.  Miranda’s jaw dropped so hard, I thought it might crack on the marble floor.  “Are you…serious right now?” she hissed, her voice thick with barely suppressed rage.
“What can I say?” I slurred with a self-deprecating shrug.  “The sybaritic life style may not be for me.”
She did not laugh.
The moral is, of course, that some of us are meant for a world of wine and luxury, and some of us should just stick to boxed rosé and Netflix.  Know your limits, dear reader, and keep your accidental chaos away from $10K couches.

N.P.: “Captain Love” – The Winery Dogs