Because I am, apparently, an all-purpose resource on questions of linguistics, a fellow emailed me this question a couple of days ago: “Is it true that ‘jerry-rigged’ is derogatory and offensive?”

Actually, I have no idea why he asked me, aside from the fact that we met briefly about ten years ago and maybe I’m the only writer he’s ever encountered. But it’s always nice to be considered an expert in something, so after doing a little research I wrote back to say that the proper term is “jury-rigged” and that, no, it’s not derogatory and offensive.

Oh, yes it is — at least in the city of Durham’s municipal offices.

It seems that “jerry-rigged” doesn’t pass muster with the language police at Durham city hall, where my correspondent works. The phrase is officially verboten. My guess is that it made the blacklist because the original phrase “jury-rigged” — an old naval term referring to a hasty repair job using whatever material is available — somehow evolved into “jerry-rigged,” a perceived insult to Germans. (Which I don’t get, frankly. When they’re not weighing the pros and cons of invading Poland, Germans tend to be meticulous craftsmen.) My suspicion, however, is that the phrase is forbidden because “-rigged” is sometimes paired with the N-word. When that happens, yeah, it’s malignant.

Whatever the case, the countdown to doom for “jury-rigged” has probably already started. It doesn’t matter how innocent a word may be. If it shares enough letters with an offensive term, it will be purged. Surely you recall the various flaps over this word.

This is the age in which we live. Every year, innocent words are sacrificed to cultural sensitivities — “polo,” for instance, or “caveman.” (The first is elitist and the second is sexist, according to the book “The Language Police.”) Can anyone doubt that “jury-rigged” eventually will find its way onto that list?

So much for my career as a language expert. I don’t even know an insulting term when I read one.

You have to admire a good takedown, and this one’s a doozy. I’ve always been noncommittal about Bono — never quite warmed up to him (or U2 itself, for that matter), but he always seemed to treat rock ‘n’ roll as something worth doing well, so I gave him credit for that. I even admired Bono’s effort to put debt relief for Third-World countries on the agenda for discussion. But all celebrities walk a fine line in this regard. It’s one thing when a famous person uses his or her ability to attract media attention to highlight a cause. It’s a much different thing when a celebrity, unelected and ungovernable, apparently decides that fame gives him the right to dictate global policy. Uh, Bono? If you want a seat at the table, stand for office.

A passage in this article stopped me dead while I was reading. It said: “Journalists, like novelists and filmmakers, used to romanticize warfare by closing their eyes to much of the horror of it … [Now] in the media’s reporting of war, honor and glory have become at least as invisible as the ghastly flow of blood and viscera once were to their predecessors.” The essential truth of that observation is undeniable. In fact, the same thing can be said of the contemporary reporting on both politics and business. Where journalists once tended to give deference to elected officials and corporate executives, today they are more likely to treat them cynically and disdainfully. Hardly anybody wins journalism prizes these days with accounts of virtue and sacrifice. Scandal and wrongdoing are the tickets to career advancement.

Is your favorite stoner movie mentioned here? You may not think of it as an actual genre of film, but this piece points out that there is a specific stylistic template that stoner movies generally observe. (”Two guys + a big bag of weed + some kind of task to complete = awesome times.”) That formula probably explains why the most famous stoner movie ever — Disney’s “Fantasia” — doesn’t get a mention. Personally, I always thought Martin Scorcese’s “After Hours” was a great stoner movie, even if it doesn’t exactly fit the template.

Speaking of movies, here are two video clips for you. I’m suspicious of the first, because it ends abruptly. I think that dog had himself a nice snack just seconds after the filming stopped. The second shows a Japanese bullet train swooshing by a spot where people clearly gather just to see it. That thing is traveling at 310 mph, by the way. I’d like to meet the hobo who can snag a ride on that train.

I’ve been collecting magazines lately to send to my son and his fellow Marines in Iraq. A key player in this effort is a gentleman I’ve met only briefly, but who works at the area’s biggest advertising agency. The variety and volume of magazines he receives is astonishing. Who knew that dairy farmers in Ontario not only have their own glossy magazine, but also possess the firm conviction that somebody in North Carolina wants to read it?

I’m grateful for this gentleman’s efforts, and happy to do the necessary triage on his magazine offerings. (Maxim makes the cut. Ontario Dairy Farmer goes into the recycling. C’mon, they’re Marines.) All this is a long way of explaining how I belatedly came into custody of the May issue of Vanity Fair, which I’ve been thumbing through this week. It was VF’s 2nd annual “Green Issue,” and my teeth were on edge before I even got past the cover.

But let me say something first: There was much valuable information inside, once I got beyond the cover. Also, I’m not one of those global-warming skeptics (although I do get skeeved out when I hear environmentalists declare that the debate is over and all contrary voices should — no, must — be ignored or silenced). But getting lectured by a magazine which ….

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s talk about VF’s cover.

It showed Leonardo DiCaprio standing in an icy landscape, looking all green and resolute. Inside, a note explained that he’d been photographed by celebrity photographer Annie Leibovitz “at the Jokulsarlon glacier lagoon, in Iceland.” Unless the actor and photographer just happened to encounter one another while there, it’s almost certain that the two of them traveled to Iceland — spewing carbon emissions the whole way — just to be photographed for VF’s Green Issue cover.

Inside, the magazine devotes seven full pages to explaining the damage wrought on the environment by everyone’s simple daily routines. (Read it, and you’ll never drink coffee with a clear conscience again.) It also suggests ways you can reduce your carbon footprint — emulating movie stars, for instance, many of whom now travel by hybrid vehicles. Except when they need to go to remote locations for glamorous photoshoots.

This is the great inconvenient truth that celebrity environmentalists want you to ignore. Like Leona Helmsley once said of taxes, carbon reduction is for the little people.