“Fany Look” is one of many beauty salons here in Puente Genil. You might reasonably assume Fany Look to be a beauty salon owned by an individual named Fany. In fact the proprietor’s name is Inma. What Inma is going for with “Fany” is “Funny.” We’ve already seen that, because the “uh” sound does not exist in Castilian Spanish, it is often replaced with an “ah” sound, represented by “a.” To spell “funny” f-u-n-n-y in Spain would leave us with something like “foony look,” which would sound kind of, um, funny. Instead what we have is a Spanglés version of “Funny Look.”

Which, as a name for a beauty salon, sounds kind of, um, funny.

What Inma may really be going for is “Fun,” as in Fun Look. Because the words fun and funny look and sound so much alike, ESL speakers often confuse them. The two words are related, of course, but each has its own implication. For example, a fun person is not necessarily funny. Think of the kids in high school who organize pep rallies and such. They might be considered “fun” kids, as in kids who generate diversion, but down deep, organizers of pep rallies and such are perhaps rather serious kids with an eye toward beefing up the extracurricular-activity section of their college applications. Correspondingly, a funny person is not necessarily fun. There are a lot of clinically depressed humorists out there. More than a few accomplished comedians have major substance-abuse problems. The expression “tears of a clown” might serve us here, except that clowns are not necessarily funny. Or fun.

As far as a funny look goes, where I’m from, You look funny, boy is not meant to suggest that you look like you may have potential as a humorist. It is meant to suggest that you find somewhere else to be, and soon. Not many people go into a beauty salon and say, I’ll take the funny look. A person may come out of a beauty salon looking kind of funny, but there’s no accounting for taste. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then maybe funny is, too.

At this point we have likely spent much more energy on the name Fany Look than Inma ever did. In the time we’ve spent considering the name Fany Look, Inma has served a goodly number of people, and earned a goodly amount of money. We, on the other hand, have earned not a single céntimo. But hell, it’s been fun.

Addendum: It’s been fun, yes, but totally irrelevant. Further research reveals that the proprietor of Fany Look is a lovely young woman named “Estefanía,” for which “Fany” is the nickname. The confused party in this case, then, would be yours truly, resident smart ass. Hopefully that will seem funny one day. For now, my apologies and regards to Fany. If I had any hair left, I’d be sure to get it styled at Fany Look.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.

T uesday, June 30. The last day of June. Kevin’s birthday. And the second anniversary of Ingmar Bergman’s death. Today’s briefing starts in the film industry, with Werner Herzog’s reflections on nature’s role in the making of Fitzcarraldo. Zak Smith and The Rumpus has a “Sex” section. Well, they need it, as they continue to focus on porn themes (as we do). Following that, a review of Gilgamesh delves into the sack. But now we move away from bedroom passion (ostensibly) and into the passion of anger. Word is that spite may be a precursor to kindness. Garry Wills patched things up with his friend and ideological opponent Bill Buckley and gives an appreciation humanizing Bill, by revealing his flaws. The “In Case You Missed It” department brings us Scott Simon’s 2005 conversation with n+1 editor Benjamin Kunkel, with an excerpt from Indecision. — Andrew Geer

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Momento Mori

Her box of whipstitched cardboard open,
lonesome ancestral weft, it allows me to see
Ma in the tall pasture.

We played games with sticks, toys chipped from slate,
burlap sacks, fish like glass, antique marbles,
dogwood chalices, ornate grapes.

On the backyard block Pa cut off chickens’ heads.
Bodies in entrechats around the woodhouse,
their bloody necks spewed.

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OK, kids. Monday is here. And today’s Body of Work lets fly that tantalizing warning of old: don’t try this at home. To be sure, what is dangerous, or unknown, spurs interesting literature. But sometimes it’s up to the foolhardy to demonstrate what is and what is not suitable for average adults. To wit: James Frey, chasing the dollar bills that dance across his brain, is writing young adult science fiction. An esteemed Creative Writing prof from the New School jumped ship and currently is spinning goat milk in Vermont. A Hemingway spawn republishes A Moveable Feast, the Examiner discusses the virtues of drinking while reading, music writer John Faber writes his swan song, the UFC brands its version of knock ‘em dead novels, and finally, in an effort to right what we may have wronged, we issue balance among the sexes, as the Times Higher Education analyzes a book about the modern woman. Happy reading. — Kevin Murphy

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It’s been a busy week, but no, we did not go hiking, I mean to Argentina.  Kevin moved, and I took to the high seas.  So, without further ado, I give you some completely mindless links related to the mainstream news this week.   There is very little true literary connection.  Instead, I give you celeb-obsession, fake journalism and one from the “in case you missed it” vault.  Some Friday afternoon time wasting, if you will.  My governor  needs some dirty emailing help.  Can some please start a mock Sanford-email site?  I never liked the King of Pop, but, while I’m not too broken up about that whole thing (you know that whole death thing…), let’s examine his financial relationships with private equity.  Farrah hair is gone.  In case you missed it, there’s an article about the last song Kurt Cobain recorded.  [Disclaimer: I do believe he was murdered by a Courtney Love henchman, but I don't doubt the depths of his depression]   To bring some levity back to the fold, a light-hearted Onion link is included.  Finally, Happy 35th Birthday Derek Sanderson Jeter! — Andrew Geer
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