A few weeks ago I wrote a column on the complexities of the English language and how tough it was for the foreign born, young and especially the old, to handle so many English words we Americans speak. Words that are spelled exactly the same, yet mean something entirely different.

Stan Laskin of Napa got me onto the subject when he e-mailed his example of American English including phrases like, "The bandage was wound around the wound" and, "When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes." Stan sent a long list and each phrase had me chuckling. But I realized that our language was anything but funny for English students and folks trying to learn our lingo.

To my surprise, after I worked Stan's letter into a column, my phone started ringing and the e-mail machine's red light began blinking with readers contributing scores of examples of why so many young and old English learners shake their heads in despair and hopelessness.

One message in particular really stood out. Sybil Hinkle of Napa was originally a Pennsylvania girl, who in high school edited the school's newspaper and yearbook. As a teenager, she wrote a column for the local newspaper. She chipped in with a marvelous recollection.

Sybil said that she did a smart thing by eventually becoming an English teacher, and she wrote of the discrepancies and illogical constructs found in the English language. She recalled the frustrations of conjugating verbs and she also recalled trying to make the dreaded English grammar classes she taught, a game as in calling out things like "ring, rang, rung," "ding, dang, dung" and "think, thank, thunk" just to keep students awake and to see who would catch the ridiculous non-entities first. In short, Sybil said, "Those games would point out the many inconsistencies in our language, which most of us battle with every day."

I thanked Sybil for her great letter and mentioned that New York City cops have a language all our own -- a language I thought I never brought home from the streets, precinct sitting rooms, muster rooms and squad rooms, yet one day some years ago, I realized how wrong I was.

Sybil Hinkle said that she'd love to read my recollections of "Nuu Yawwk" cop talk. So here goes, Sybil, and I'll be merely scratching the surface of a language like no other.

One evening, when my daughter was about 11 or 12, she said after completing her homework, "Dad, will you please give me a scratch?" I was surprised to hear her say "scratch" and asked where she heard that phrase?

"From you, dad" she laughed, and that's when I realized that Nuu Yawwk cop talk did slip out now and then. You see, in the police department a "scratch" meant a sergeant on patrol giving a foot cop a "see" (visit) and signing an officer's memo book (a scratch).

But, let's begin at the beginning. "The Mummy Squad" was the label all street cops assigned to Police Academy instructors, who knew the rule book, but knew nothing of the street.

"Shoo flys" were members of the Internal Affairs Division, cops out to rack up a "score" in terms of looking into complaints about street cops crossing a line. Guys had to do work like that, but you didn't have to like it.

In Manhattan, a cop taking a break to use the bathroom, catch a smoke or warm up next to a radiator would enter a "coop." But in not-so-ritzy Brooklyn, the "coop" was called a "heave."

When the police commissioner visited a wounded cop's hospital bedside he would say, "Kid, you paid your dues." That meant that upon the officer's recovery and return to duty he'd be transferred out of Hell to a quiet precinct.

A "grounder" meant an open-and-shut case, and a "sweet deal" would usually be a case that would wear out shoe leather and keep you up nights.

"I'm on duh job" meant that you were a member of the force, that is until a politically correct mayor one day thought "force" too harsh a word and softened it to "department."

"Civilians" meant everyone not "on duh job," including your own family.

"White shields" were uniformed patrolmen and "gold shields" were detectives and the superior officer ranks from sergeant to chief.

"Boss fighters" were cops in the NYPD who had forgotten rule number one in our Rules and Procedures, which was, "In a showdown between you and the department, always bet on the department."

A cop's meal hour was generally a slice or two of pizza and a Pepsi in a radio patrol car before or after a "'10-13' -- cop down, or assist patrolman." Everyone responded on that call and to a "10-30 -- robbery in progress," when the heart was really pumping.

On quiet tours, when a cop could actually enjoy a sit-down meal in some dive in the precinct, you'd seem to always run into three types of guys. One was the "schlemiel." He was the waiter who'd bring you a bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup with his battered thumb in the bowl. The second guy was the "schlemazel," the waiter who would accidentally dump the steaming hot soup in your lap, and that sure did hoit! And finally there was the poor "schlep," the victim, done in by busy and tired waiters.

Time and space do not permit me to go on so I'll end this column with two of the lowest of the low. The "skell" in NYPD cop tawk was the guy who'd give up his own mother for a lighter sentence. Even lower than the "skell" was the "mutt," the beauty who never hit his grandma with a clenched fist on a Sunday unless the old woman answered him back.

So Sybil, thanks for your kind words and for jogging my memories of another time and another language, which once long ago was a part of my life.

Ev Parker can be reached at evjenpar@mailbug.com or 224-9956