Whenever I'm sad or groan-ly
I go right to my typewriter only.
In its inner recesses
Great gifts it possesses!
With 26 friends, why be lonely?

They've all played an important part in my life. Some more than others. They've always been there when I needed them. Most of them travel in groups. Foursomes are the most popular, but there are many groups of five, six and seven.

When I want them all together, I simply say "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog", and they all show up every time. Sometimes, they get together in crowds of ten, 15 or more. Two of them often come alone.

My 26 friends even have a song written about them. It's the first song I ever learned. I was three. "Ay Bee Cee Dee Ee Eff Gee, Aitch Eye Jay Kay Ell-Em-En-Oh Pea. Cue Are Ess Tee You Vee Double-You, Ex Why Zee." I must admit, I have favorites. But to be fair, I'll list them in alphabetical order.

A is a great starter. Hardly a paragraph goes by, that an A isn't first in line. Without an A, we'd all become cavepersons. Instead of "Give me a kiss", we'd say "Give me kiss."

A is a vowel, which means it makes all the consonants work. If you want to swear, you don't say dmn you! You don't mke things; or sw logs; or eat bnns; or go wy.

A+A is Alcoholics Anonymous.

Most of the wee words begin with an A; ad, ah, am, an, as, at, aw, and, ax, art, aft, ale (ahhhh) - and after too much ale - AA.

And - if you believe the bible - we all began with a man whose name begins with an A. Adam. As in madam, I'm Adam.

"Able was I ere I saw Elba" is probably the second most famous palindrome from Asia and Africa to America to Australia to Antarctica. By the way, Mr Tasman's first name: Abel. And he discovered Auckland. And he ascended the Southern Alps.

A final word: at the end of a sermon - without an A, you'd be thanking "men" for the blessings you are about to receive. Which would anger and annoy any and all Alices, Andreas, Alisons and Amelias around.

B is blunt. It looks like a bound 13. It's a left-brained, masculine letter: bull, business, balls, bust, butt, butcher, battleship, bang, bravo, bare-chested, bear, beat, bowl, billiards, blow.

B is big: bulk, billions, behemoth, brawny, bomb (H or A), Brazil, battleship.

But B is also the beginning of life - the blessed event that gives us the miracle of birth and the bountiful, bouncing baby boy or girl.

And B is beautiful. Beginning especially with Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.

Without a B inside Act Three, there'd be no "Hamlet" soliloquy.

C is confused. Sometimes it's for fun - cha-cha-cha, Chicklets, chili, cheers and change - with its challenging choices to children of all ages. Other times it's hard as candy, cat, can and capitol. Still other times, it never ceases to try and make an S out of itself: celebrate, center and certainly ceiling.

Your cup runneth over with a cornucopia of C's: cycle, cure (a lovely four-letter word), cry, cheer, crisis, calm, cross, cease, compose, cool, comfort, cook, copy-copy, clone-clone, club, cradle, cars, chicken, cakes, cookies, computers, cats, cash, champagne, chairs, cokes, checks, children, chiropractors, colleges, cocktails and ... Concorde, conservation, conflict, conceive, contentment and a thousand other con jobs.

And that new camel hair coat can be chi-chi or crude. And, of course, Captain Cook, Christchurch and the most comfortable country in all creation.

It's correct to cite the fact that C is like a chameleon - it changes just like that.

d is a b going the wrong way. Dead, deed, dumb, duck. Mostly short words like do, dog, dumb, ditto, dab, did, doe, deer, desk, dry, drip, drab, deed and Princess Di.

But D also begins the second largest word in the English language. Disestablishmentarianism. The first is antidisestablishmentarianism.

And doubtless you do know the direction of Dunedin.

E is in everything and everywhere. Rarely do two sentences go wherever without an E entering in. It's a vowel - and the only vowel that clones itself and takes its place ahead all the other vowels: eel, east, either, eons, Europe and eyebrow.

E works with all the consonants, too: from Ebenezer to Ezmeralda. It dominates words like eye, ere, eke, bee, eve (Adam's friend or December 24th), bee, wee, fee, me, tee, seem, seek, peek, seed, heed. And geese (which should be pronounced jeese but isn't - see G).

E gives us elephants, epicures, experts, electrocardiograms, eerie events, empires, employment, engines, enlightenment, executives, and existence. E figures prominently in puns, too. As in the sad story about the Ram who killed himself when he heard the song, "There'll never be another ewe". E belongs on Earth. It wobbles a bit going 'round the Sun. But it still elicits lots of energy, excitement and eternal optimism.

And a sad E word? The End.

F is in a fix. And all because of one f______ word. It's a freaking shame. Because F is the beginning of fun and faith and feelings and friends. You can't have a fine future without F. Or a fire in the fireplace. And you can't fly, or fritter or find flowers without an F. And seeing a sale ad in the newspaper with a big headline - REE OFFER! doesn't fit. And there'd be nothing twixt good and poor. Just air.

Then there are all the funny words we get when one F becomes two: off, tiff, riffraff, (four!) stuffy, fluffy (three!), huffy, muffin, stuffin', to mention a few.

Finally, without our F's, we could only count to eight.

G is a great gem of a letter. It can give a grand and glorious world or one that is grave and gloomy. It can be hard and soft from the get-go: gags, gaga, giggles, goggles and gold to gee, gel, geology, giant and George. G can start out in bad company, too, like gangs with gall and guns and gas guzzlers. But often we see it among good, gracious and gentle people. Sometimes, it's seen but not heard: through rough nights and laughing days. It ends more words than it starts - but often with an n before it; with a bang of a gong or a song you can sing.

G doesn't work good with other consonants. But it works well. Especially with L's and R's - two grand and glorious letters. It even sneaks in a few N's when no one is looking: when was the last time you actually saw a gnu gnawing on a gnarled tree or a gnome with a gnat in his hat?

Without a G, would most religions start worshipping Od Almihty?

H goes all the way from hell to heaven. It can be heavily aitchy: happy or hurting, homely, heroic or handsome, hairy or hair-less, heinous or holy, healthy or hopeless, healing or harming, history or herstory, Hereford or Hampstead, horny or housebroken.

H makes us laugh - ha ha ha. And makes g's into f's as in a rough graph. Sometimes H will make the vowel I out of why. As in "hyper or hyena". And then, H becomes human and turns itself into a y - with humor and hubris and always a u.

I has an ego problem. More sentences begin with the self-indulgent letter I than any other letter. I did this. I like this. I want that. I see. I taste. I touch. I feel. I smell a rat. I believe. I can't. I can. I did. I didn't. I this, I that, I the other thing. I get tired of seeing I all the time. It's an id thing.

So many sentences start with I: It is the only … In the beginning ... If you say so, Irene or Iris or Irma or Ida ... I'll never ... I'm sorry ...

I is a team player, too. Add i to the end of a word (with n and g), and people don't have to stop what they're doing, or saying, or trying, or having. Put an I with two l's, an m, n, or an r and you can change people forever.

Perfect people become human. Mature people become kids again. Literate people can't read. Matched couples become incompatible, regular people go to the bathroom at all hours of the day and night.

Most of the time, I's sound like an I should sound - as in wide, tide, hide, ride, side, kite, bike, tike, hike, mike or pike. Or in this snide aside:

"In Hibernia, they describe alcoholism as the Irish virish."

But some I's become eh as in pick or sick or hid or did or will or him or hint or hip or hit or miss or mix.

Ism, by the way, makes a word very important - social becomes a doctrine; Buddha becomes a world religion; nude becomes respectable.

The best I I know is irrefutably the I in ice cream.

J must be judged by its jarring, jolting impact. You'll find J joined or injected into words like jujitsu or injurious. But mostly J juts out front with John, Jim, Joe, Jewish, Jesus, justice, jumping for joy, job, jeopardy, junior, and Jack and Jill who jet to Jakarta, then to Japan, where their jogging's a joke.

K keeps us guessing. It gives us a kiss. Then it kills us. We get a kick out of it. It can be kind or kind of kinky. We wear it as khaki or a tacky bikini. And sometimes, k has a knack of keeping quiet when knitting, knowing, knocking or throwing a knife at the knee of a knight who works for a king who keeps kangaroos.

L is a lustrous letter. It's soft as a lamb or a lullaby. Yet it brings us life. And love. And law. And laughter.

It can be as long as a line can be long, as little as the littlest Lilliputian, as large as the Louvre, or as lazy as a log. It can be left as a liberal, and as limitless as language itself.

L locations in every land are limitless: London, Los Angeles (Lala Land), Leeds, Lisbon, Lucerne, Lima ... a long list.

We like L in Latin, love, longitudes, literature, Longfellow, laundromat, links, lakes, lap-tops, lobster newburgh, leisure, lasciviousness, Lincoln.

When you put two L's together, two things can happen. Either you end up with a camel-like creature in the Andes called a llama (not, as Ogden Nash tells us, to be confused with the Dalai Lama). Or - with a little ' in front of two l's, he'll go to the future, she'll fall in love, they'll lounge lanquidly by the lake, while I'll listen to the lilting lyrics of "Loch Lomond".

Lastly, we learn of L words un-liked in polite circles: lawyer, leper and loo.

M is a marvelous mot. A major mot. A many-splendoured mot. M is for the miracle of motherhood (mom spelled backwards is mom); the miracle of medicine; movements of a Mozart symphony; moon, Mars, the Mississippi, Melbourne, movies, muffins, Maori, Mexico, Malta, Marilyn Monroe, Mr. Moto, Moliere, Monet, Manet, Madras, Moscow, Madrid, Milan, Minneapolis, Macao, Machu Picchu, the manipulative magic of modern Merlins, medicine men, Mona Lisa, mountain cabin, mathematics, MIND over matter, micro/macro, mince pie à la mode, Mickey Mouse, morning glory, and the mystery of myths.

M also begins to make the most mordant and malicious of mots. Like murder, mayhem, malignant mass, miserable and money.

And a mis ahead of any nice word makes it amiss, as in misbelieve, miscarriage, misconduct, misfire and mislead.

But mostly, M is a model letter - one to mull over and meditate on.

N is next and negative. Non, not, no, never, nothing, nary, negligible, negate, nix, nonexistent, neglect, neither/nor, nonentity, none, nope, nonplus, nonsense, nothing, Not now, Nathan, I'm napping.

Now, we note some niceties about N. Without it, nothing would be new or normal; night would turn into a long, nauseating noon; nouns would become nothing (I noticed the _______and the ________) and neatness would be non-existent, and there'd be no Newburgh Sauce for our lobster.

Naturally, there are noteworthy, nonpareil, ne plus ultra N's nearby. Number one: New Zealand, the nation nearest Nirvana.

O operates in overlapping circles. When it's alone, or one of a few, it looks like an oh and sounds like an oh. Go, ho-ho, yo-yo, fro, also, olio, embryo, Calico, boffo, Yoko Ono. But when allowed to add a W, somehow - wow! - you've now made a cow, a vow, a row (fight), a plow, a sow (pig), so take a bow.

Oh oh! Look out - add a W other times and you know what - you'll go directly to oh, as in show, grow, bow (as in arrow), mow, low, sow (plant seed) and tow.

Lo and behold, if you add an E to O you still get an oh. As in toe, Joe, roe, floe, aloe, doe, woe, moe and - of course - Edgar Allen. That's not a tough row to hoe.

P is powerful. It has the power of the press, of prayer, of political pap, petroleum, pressure, parliament, pride, The President, Prime Minister, Pope, Police, panthers, professional football players, prizefighters. P can be a primitive primate or a post-modern poet; a posturing pedant or a principled professor; a punk pornographer or a popular printer; a petty prank or a perilous position; a potable drink or a poisonous one.

P can be peppy as Popeye, pom poms, pollywogs, pocket pool, patio play, pattycake, player piano and perky people.

P is a possible problem perforce: pollution, pride (too much), pregnancy (unwanted), paranoia, pettifoggery, pestilence, persecutions, perfidy, pimps, panderers, peeping Toms, picky people, palpitations and panic.

Preposterous as it appears, P is an F in phone, phony, phallic, photography, physical, phantom and pharmacy. But P as an S? Yes! Ask your psychiatrist about psoriasis and psychics and the 23rd Psalm.

Phew!

Q is the quintessentially quirky, quixotic letter. It won't go anywhere without you. It gives you quick quotes, questions, quacks, quaff, quakes, and - when the quake is quiescent - quiet. And it quenches the flame.

R gives you room to roam. I can be raucously riotous, rabidly reactionary, remarkably rested, ravenously randy, rigorously rigid, rationally religious, raise the roof, relish relish, and I'm always right, relaxed and renewed.

R runs the race in a range from rabbits, raccoons, rock and roll, rag dolls, Ra, reason and Robert Redford to rancor, ranting, raw, restless and on relief. R is regarded well for radio, rabbis, railroads, Russia, Rembrandt, Roosevelt, racquetball and reality; and it doubles up to carry more weight or arrange a date.

S is a simple letter that starts words, ends words and sometimes sits in the middle. Like sights and sounds, side arms, sisters, sasses, skirts, skids, slams, sleeps, smokes (and kills millions every year!), snakes, swings, synagogues, swells, sweats and suns.

S is assessed as securely situated around the world: in Sweden, Switzerland, Serbia, South America, South Africa, Southern Alps, Saskatchewan, Saudi Arabia, Saigon, Seattle, Singapore, Sydney, Sudan, Seychelles, Syria, Sri(!) Lanka, Spain, Sweden, Stalingrad, South Island, St. Crois, San Salvador, Senegal, Somalia and the super-ship-savior Suez Canal. To name a few.

S is a skillion miles away. In Saturn.

Sibilantly speaking, S has more stirring words than any letter: some, sex, sumptuousness, sweets, sex, sensuousness, satyr, sublime, surrender, sex, soft, supple, sensate, smooth, skin, shape, sex, soul, sip, sleep, swoon, stirs, stars, stud, sticks and stones, stirs, sees, stems, stars, surging, spicy, sexlike, salacious, Spanish fly, secret, and supercalifragilisticexpialadocious.

Of sixteen oft-said words, seven start with S: sorry, sure, some, so, say, sue and sex.

Good Sign: Scorpio.

T attests to the truth that it is top of the text with ... the. T-H-E. Sometimes, pronounced THEE (a Quaker's four-letter word for love). Thee can't type, tape, taunt, take a trip (travel), talk, tell, thank, titillate, toast, torment, trade, train, transact, transfer, transport, translate, teach or even twattle without a THE.

There's T for two, tab, table, tag, tail, tame, tar, tap, tart, task, tattoo, tax, tear, toot (Otto spelled inside out), that, think (ahea), throw, tickle, sex, time, tie, tiger, tilt, tip, tire, ton, tooth, toss, tote, touch, tour, town, toy, trait, tram, treat, teat, tree, treetop, trip, and true. True. And that's just page 222 in "The Thesaurus" (which, by the way, is impossible to say aloud! Try it!)

Traveling? Try Timbuktu, Thailand, Tasmania, Timaru, Tashkent, Trinidad, and Tobago, Texas, Toronto, Tropic of Capricorn, Tierra del Fuego and that ever-terrific Tunisia.

U is two U's. The U of you. And the U of un.

The U of you includes: ubiquity, union. United (states, airline, and bra slogan: "united we stand, divided we fall"); usury, unanimous, use, usual, user, urinal, urgent, useful, useless, uppity, usurp, utility, UN, Uganda, United Kingdom, the USSR, Ulanbaatar, and - of course - Uruguay (you're a guy).

The U of un is unbelievable: unsexy, unbeaten, unknown, untold, uncle, under, unclear, understand, unfold, unhappy, undid, and unfinished. It goes un and un and un.

V is a versatile letter and ventures into the vacuum of space (Venus) to the venues of Venezuela, Victoria, Vancouver, Vladivostok, Vatican, Valencia, Venice and - never very far out of mind - Vietnam.

How versatile? In our view, very: valve, vulture, victory, vow, vulgar, vain, vouch, vox populi, vote, vivid, vulva, vital, visit, vision (or, as US President George Bush said, "I have this vision thing"), virus (as in Irish virish), voodoo, virgin, virile, visa, Venus de Milo, vacate, viper, violin, village, vigor, video, vice, value, verse (rhymes with worse), vile. Voilà! Variety.

W. Double-U. As in Double-U Oh Double-U. We worship the way W makes writing a walk in the park. It's the "Five W's and an Aitch":

WHO are the characters?
WHAT did they do?
WHEN did they do it?
WHERE did they do it?
WHY did they do it?
HOW did they do it?

We knew a wily journalist who went to all her interviews with one 3x5 card on which was written one wee line: "5W's + H".

(Not unlike the Exxon Valdez captain, whose little card said: "Starboard/right Port/left".)

W is the 23rd most-used letter. It has its pwace, Elmer Fudd. And some worrisome words we want not: wretched, woeful war (WW I, WW II or WW III), witch-hunts, without, wiseguys, wino, windbag, wilted, wrath, wounds, worminess, wickedness, warden, wimp, worthless, wanting, worsening, wet-blanket, wacko, widow, worry, worn and a worst way with words .... wop (Like Kike, Nigger, Mick Spic = wrong).

But we do get wonderful words like witty, warm, wacky, winsome, wisteria, whimsy, wide-eyed, whittling, whitecaps, working, weekends, wind-down, wafting, whiff, wiggle, worthy, wherewithal, workmanship, worship, wonder, wonderful, wanderlust, woman, women, womanhood, wise, worldly (but not too), winner, windy, wings, warbler, windjammer, windows, will, welfare, well-made, well-mannered, well-read, and just plain well.

Witness, if you will, some double-u words that went aitch: whole, whore, wholesome and wholesale. All WH words. But other WH words are still wheezing: while, which, whip, whirl, whirlpool, whiz, Whig, whet, wheelbarrow.

Where are all the W's? All over the world: West Indies, Western Australia, Warsaw, Wellington, Washington, Winnipeg and Waikiki. Welcome. Wait!

And there's one W word we all agree on: WOOL.

X is a bad starter. Xerox, X-ray, x-shaped, xylophone and ... that's about it. Unless you're in the market for a xylograph, show symptoms of xanthosis or believe in Citizen Kane's Xanadu.

X is excellent if you're an accountant whose Mother tongue is Latin. Or you do x-word puzzles. Or you take too many multiple choice tests. Other than that, X it. It's not too exciting as a second-letter either. With the exception of axiom, ox, ax, axle, oxymoron, expert, Excalibur, excel, exercise, explore, exhibit, existentialism, exotic, expanse, expedition and extra.

Y is mostly you, your or young. But there's yellow, yelp, yacht, yuk, yak, yodel, yawn, yard, yell, yet, yogurt, Yoga, damn Yankees, yo-yo, and yummy, too.

Z is zygote, zoo, zinc, zillions, zest, zebra, zenith, zig, zag, zealot. But don't forget Zorro, Zoroastrian, Zacharia, Zola, Zanzibar - proper names, all. And - finally - we zoom to the place whence your very special island nation was named - the Dutch region of ZEELAND.

If you're not now a lover of language and worker with words, I hope you will begin playing with these 26 friends - as I just did. Soon, they can become very real and very good friends of yours, too.

Rob Robinson
la mirada, california