The record states that the first couch potato was named and affectionately shamed in Pasadena, California, in 1976, when Tom Iacino phoned his friend Robert Armstrong, a cartoonist and TV lover. Why, I wondered, did the harvest dwindle? Was the couch potato going the way of the bedpresser, or was it already gone? After a steady increase in written usage between 19, “couch potato” peaked just after the millennium and then began to fall sharply. A later search of Google Ngram Viewer, which charts the appearance of words and phrases in books, supported my suspicion. On reflection, there did seem to be fewer couch potatoes lazing around than there used to be. It struck me then that this question revealed more than a gap in one young person’s vocabulary. No one could divine the real meaning-“a heavy, lazy fellow.” Trying to be helpful and contemporary, I said that a bedpresser was like a couch potato. Another ventured, with a surprising degree of confidence, that it was someone who pushed beds around in the streets. To have the yux is to have the hiccups, and a fopdoodle is “a fool, an insignificant wretch.” Then we came to the word “bedpresser.” One student guessed that it referred to a prostitute, though she put it less delicately. At the end of our tour, the guide gave us a quiz, to see whether we could work out the definitions of a handful of obsolete words. Between 17, Samuel Johnson compiled his famous dictionary there. The museum is a wonderful eighteenth-century oddity in an otherwise mock-Georgian square, a place devoted to the joys of language. ILLUSTRATION BY CHRIS PHILPOTĮarlier this year, I took my American study-abroad students on a tour of Dr. The sloth of the eighties and nineties has been digitally reformatted as ceaseless consumption.
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