Category Archives: Music

September 28, 2010 · 7:52 am

A real stinker

Something else is bugging us here in the nation’s capital. As if we didn’t have enough to worry about, we are undergoing an invasion–in our homes, in our cars, at work, on our persons.

We thought we were safe until 2021, when the 17-year locusts are scheduled to return.

But no, Mother Nature has sent the Brown Marmorated Stink Bug, so named because of the noxious odor it emits when squashed. I understand our neighbors to to the north and south are also being plagued.

I first noticed stink bugs when my two cats started chasing them around the house. Then I spotted them within the window frames, crawling across the kitchen counter, then pretty much everywhere. I’ve picked one out of my hair and one off my clothing. I even plucked one off a stranger Friday night as we waited in line to retrieve our cars from a restaurant valet. It was the least I could do, as I had noticed the poor guy earlier as his dinner companion (wife, girlfriend, first date, sister, don’t know) sobbed through the meal. Then to be attacked by a stink bug.

The stink bug appeared Saturday on the front page of The Washington Post, below the fold, jumping out at readers as they turned over their morning papers. The article quoted a noted entomologist who predicted the invasion “is going to be biblical this year.”

As I contemplated whether to share this creepy phenomenon with my blog readers, I soon learned I had been beaten to the punch.

My friend Dennis wrote a descriptive post on his blog and I didn’t want to be a copycat. Then I thought I’d write a stink bug haiku. Nope, it’s been done. Stink bug rap? Done, including clean and dirty versions.

Then I thought, aha, The Stink Bug Blues.

Doh! How early does a person need to get up to write an original piece on a stinking insect?

So basically, I got nothin’. But the blues…

Maybe this will take our minds off bedbugs for a while.

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September 15, 2010 · 5:27 am

Loopy lyrics

In 1991, my husband, our toddler and I rented a beach cottage in Kill Devil Hills, N.C. It’s the same cottage we still get almost every summer.

Over the years, the owners have upgraded the cottage with assorted amenities but, in 1991, it was pretty rustic. No dishwasher, no microwave, no air conditioning. Worst of all, no TV. There was, however, a cassette tape player.

When we arrived with our two-and-a-half-year-old, we thought the absence of a television would be a plus. That is, until we realized we had one cassette tape. For the whole week.

It was Wee Sing Silly Songs. The three of us must have played that tape—and sung along, with hand motions—20 times or more that week. Got to know all the silly songs by heart.

Who can forget the classic “John Brown’s Baby?” Or as our son sang it, “John’s brown baby.” He had a cold upon his chest, and they rubbed it with camphorated oil.

Oh, what did Delaware, boys? What did Delaware? She wore her New Jersey, boys. She wore her New Jersey.

Good times.

I know that, in years to come, when we are in The Home, drooling in the corner and unable to remember our own names, we’ll still remember the lyrics of the great children’s songs. I’ll have to be sure my son has a copy of “Silly Songs,” in whatever format it will be then, to play for me when I’m old.

My brothers and I grew up on Irish drinking songs and versions of children’s songs that weren’t yet scrubbed of their political incorrectness. Didn’t we all? 

I went to the animal fair, the birds and beasts were there
(we thought it was bees)
The big baboon, by the light of the moon, was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey he got drunk. He fell on the elephant’s trunk.
The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees,
And what became of the monk? 

Then there were the songs we learned on the playground, such as “Miss Lucy Had a Steamboat.” We thought we were so cool because the lyrics allowed us to curse without cursing. 

Or this:

Tra la la boom di-ay, there was no school today.
Our teacher passed away; she died of tooth decay.
We threw her in the bay; she scared the fish away.
And when we pulled her out, she smelled like sauerkraut!

What songs comprised the soundtrack of your childhood?

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September 3, 2010 · 9:16 am

Apostrophe awareness

It was a sign. Literally.

I had apostrophe abuse on the brain, after my next door neighbor had sent me an entertaining video on the topic, along with a message asking, “Will this be the next Schoolhouse Rock?” Who can forget this 1970s classic? Wasn’t everyone’s favorite “Conjunction Junction, what’s your function?” Or did you prefer “Lolly, Lolly, Lolly, Get Your Adverbs Here?”

We’ve talked so much, maybe too much, about apostrophe abuse lately. Still, it’s epidemic. As I considered whether to wax critical on this overdone topic yet again, I saw a sign. 

While taking a walk yesterday afternoon, The Apostrophe Song bouncing in my head, I almost literally stumbled on this placard, as if it had come up to greet me.

Considering I believe in signs, I knew this one was telling me to share the video my neighbor had shared. I think of it as a public service announcement of sorts, increasing awareness of an abuse that still goes unchallenged and giving us the tools to fight it.

It turns out that the video was produced by Adelaide, Australia-based company Cool Rules, which produces learning tools for children. If you’re looking for an easy way to remember when the apostrophe is appropriate and when it is not, or need a fun way to teach others, or even if you just like a catchy tune, give it a listen. And if you don’t care for the pop version, Cool Rules also offers the ditty in hip hop, rock and acoustic varieties.

It’ll make you nostalgic for Schoolhouse Rock.

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August 30, 2010 · 8:38 am

Onomatopoeic punctuation

There is someone in our family who ends sentences with punctuation–when he speaks.

As in “How are you doing, question mark?” This is an affectation among many this person has; in this case, perhaps to be clever or maybe just for emphasis. I tried to stop questioning it long ago, but every now and then, along comes the whiplash-inducing oral punctuation.

In grade school, we learned to express punctuation with the tones of our voices. We end questions a little higher on the tonal scale. We raise our voices as we approach an exclamation point. But in and of itself, punctuation has no sound.

I suspect there are a number of readers out there who are fans of the late Victor Borge, the renowned Danish pianist, conductor and comedian. He died in 2000, so I’d encourage younger readers in whose childhood homes Borge wasn’t required viewing to take a look at his work. Pure brilliance.

I likely saw this routine at some point in my life, but it didn’t strike me quite so vividly as it did over the weekend, when my cousin–under 25, I might add, and a fellow wordie–shared it on Facebook.

Please enjoy it and think of Mr. Borge whenever you punctuate. How fun would it be if punctuation always came alive this way?

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August 11, 2010 · 8:17 am

Plane folks

Do you think airlines intentionally seat well-known people beside people who don’t know them? Sometimes I wonder.

I don’t think this is the case with politicians. I’ve been seated beside former Secretary of State Alexander Haig, former Ohio Senator Howard Metzenbaum and current Texas Congressman Lamar Smith and I knew them all. There’ve been more, but these are the ones who made memorable impressions.

Many years ago, I was making chitchat with my neighbor on a flight from Dallas to Washington. We exchanged pleasantries and I asked what took him to Washington.

“I have some interviews,” he said.

I asked, “Job interviews?”

“Press interviews.” He went on, “I wrote a book.”

“Oh, what’s it called”?

“Run, Bullet, Run.”

“What’s it about?”

‘It’s about football.”

When I got home I told my husband I met a man, and something about a football book, bullet something.

My husband gasped. “You met Bullet Bob Hayes?” Only a two-time Olympic Gold medalist, Super Bowl winner and once considered the fastest human being on the planet.

By the way, I still don’t know what hockey legend I met in an airport in April.

Now that I’m a more seasoned traveler, I rarely take airplane conversations past the hello half-smile as I am squeezing into the seat and reaching under my neighbor’s cheek for my seatbelt.

Yesterday I walked into it again. Just a little.

About midway into the flight, after she and I rolled our eyes at each other over some boisterous passengers behind us, my neighbor thanked me for having been quiet during the ride.

We started talking, I asked what took her to the cities she was visiting and she said she was a musician.

Later in the conversation (which she probably regretted starting), I mentioned I wrote a blog. She asked the usual, what do you write about, I said language and life, and then somewhere in there I said I enjoyed writing about song lyrics.

She said she enjoys writing song lyrics and she shared how she approaches putting her lyrics with the music she writes. She shared with me some of her language peeves and gave me some ideas for future blog posts.

She was lovely and I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a plane chat more. I hope she felt the same.

She gave me the name of her group and I gave her the name of my blog.

You may have noticed Word Nymph typically doesn’t mention people by name. I will say I had never heard of my neighbor and chances are you haven’t either. Maybe one day we all will. Perhaps she’ll read my blog and introduce herself by way of a comment.

Granted, in my opening I mentioned four people by name. That’s all right because they’re famous and three of them are dead.  Now if they comment…

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August 7, 2010 · 8:20 am

Remember the tweens?

At the risk of seeming like Austin Powers, what decade is this?

No, I haven’t just emerged from a cryogenic time chamber, but I do find myself wondering what to call this and the next nine years. We’ve passed the aughts; that was a little weird but we got through it.

There doesn’t seem to be a uniform convention for describing this decade and that bothers me. This baby is eight months old; isn’t it time we named it?

Some say it’s the teens, or twenty-teens. But considering it’s not yet 2013, aren’t we really in the tweens?

I just saw a TV commercial for a car dealership advertising markdowns on “all oh-ten models.”

I thought perhaps we might be in the 2010s, or simply, “the tens.” But oh-tens? I guess technically ‘010 could be considered correct.

As a nostalgia-holic, I like reminiscing about sixties culture, seventies music, eighties fashion (wince) and so forth, so I’d really like a simple word that can be spelled out, just in case I need to reminisce later. 

Any ideas for what to put in the tens column?

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August 6, 2010 · 8:13 am

Sounds easy enough

You’ve seen me refer to the Fake AP Stylebook before. The group puts out funny little comments about language every day on Facebook and Twitter. If you don’t use these, you can go elsewhere to see some great examples. Some really get me thinking.

Case in point:  A recent post observed, “there/their/they’re – What, seriously? This confuses you?”

I have never had trouble distinguishing among the three. I don’t find it confusing at all. But it’s not because I’m good at remembering rules necessarily; otherwise, I’d have gotten this bring-versus-take thing down long ago.

What I realized is that it says something about the way my brain works.

When I hear and when I speak, I see the words written out. I suppose this means I am a visual learner or perhaps a visual thinker. I envision words as they are spelled. Maybe that’s why I have such a sensitive ear when it comes to pronunciation. If people saw “sherbet,” maybe they wouldn’t say “sherbert.”

Like the Fake AP Stylebook, when I see there/their/they’re confused, I am tempted to wonder how anyone can get it wrong. I also wonder how anyone graduated from second grade without mastering it, but perhaps I’m too quick to judge.

“There,” “their” and “they’re” are homonyms. They sound exactly the same. It’s no wonder people who are not visual learners might be homonymphobic.

If we had to spell according to how words sound (“sound it out,” we were always told), especially in this confusing language we call English, how can we be expected to commit the difference to paper?

Maybe I can offer some tips.

Let’s start with “there.” “There” is often the answer to “where?” “Where are my glasses? There they are.” On top of my head, usually. So that one’s easy:  Where?  There! Spelled the same (after their respective consonant digraphs).

“They’re” is a contraction of “they” and “are.” Until I had a baby, I thought contractions were easy. You begin with what you are (you’re) trying to say and shorten it; for example, “They are” doing something. With a contraction, typically a letter and a space come out, an apostrophe goes in and, voilà, two words become one. In a sense, they’re getting married. To use song lyrics as a prompt, “They’re Playing Our Song” or, for readers of my generation, “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa.” By now they probably are.

I haven’t come up with a tip for “their.” Maybe you have one. For now, let’s just say it’s the other one, and remember, “i” before “e” except after “c.”  Oops, and except in “their.”

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August 5, 2010 · 8:09 am

Girl power

Thirty-six hours after the concert, I still have an estrogen hangover. Make no mistake, that’s a good thing. 

The night before last, I had primo seats and VIP privileges at the final stop on the Lilith Fair tour, thanks to some well connected friends.

It feels like years since I’ve been to a concert. I was just glad they didn’t confiscate my Tums at the door.

You will recall that Lilith Fair began in the late 1990s and ran three years as an annual concert celebrating women in music.  Founded by Sarah McLachlan in response to concert promoters’ alleged bias against all-women shows, Lilith Fair featured women solo artists and women-led bands. After 10 years, Lilith Fair resumed this summer and culminated its multi-city tour in the Washington area  Tuesday night. Truly, it was music of women, by women and for women. 

I have nothing against male musicians—in fact, I have secret crushes on many of them—but it’s a rare and stirring experience to wallow in the glory of one’s gender on a sultry evening, enjoying a cold beverage under the stars, in the company of terrific people of both genders.

Following a number of smaller acts appearing throughout the afternoon, the main stage kicked off with Sara Bareilles, new to the Fair and white hot these days, who opened with several familiar hits. She was followed by Cat Power, whom  I didn’t know, but are in the very large cyber-basket I carried out of iTunes yesterday.

For me, the treat of the night was getting to hear Martie Maguire and Emily Robison of the Dixie Chicks, performing as their new group Court Yard Hounds.  They dazzled the audience with their strings (fiddle, mandolin and banjo) and earth-moving vocal harmonies. Best line of the night: “The Dixie Chicks stay at The Ritz. The Court Yard Hounds stay at Motel 6.”

Indigo Girls sprayed a geyser of energy into the pavilion, finishing up with my—and I think everyone’s—favorite singalong, “Closer to Fine.” Then Sarah McLachlan brought it home with a set comprising her classic cry-in-your-chamomile ballads and more upbeat selections from her new record. Whether she’s at the piano, burning up the guitar or demonstrating one of the richest voices in the business today, every one of her songs stirs emotion.

As a student of song lyrics, it struck me at the time how many appealed uniquely to the female spirit. I don’t intend sexism, but I also don’t suspect many men think, let alone sing, “Your love is better than chocolate.” (Maybe “your love is better than a Chipotle double meat burrito with extra guacamole”)

For the finale, Sarah invited all of the preceding acts—and their crews—on stage, where they sang “Because the Night,” written by Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen. It was fitting for the last words of the last song in the last show in what I hope isn’t the last Lilith Fair tour, to be “because the night belongs to us.”

I expect my next hangover will arrive with my iTunes bill.

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July 31, 2010 · 8:30 am

Dear Chelsea

Dear Chelsea,

Please accept my very best wishes for you and Marc on your wedding day today. 

You and I have never met, which explains why I wasn’t invited, though I have met your parents a time or two.  Your future mother-in-law used to be a television news reporter here in my area, so I do feel a remote connection.

I’ve been a fan of yours since you arrived in Washington in 1993 at the tender age of 12.  You endured undue ridicule about your appearance and later, the sex scandal of the century, with grace and maturity and without any siblings to share it with.

You grew into a beautiful woman, excelled at Stanford and landed a high caliber job.  I enjoy the occasions on which you step to a podium and speak with intelligence and poise.

I trust no detail of your lovely affair has gone unattended.  Just arranging all those helicopters to transport your guests to the event must have beeen a challenge. 

Because we can always  count on the public to jab political figures and those they love,  I imagine there will be snickers about the $15,000 you are reportedly spending for Porta-Potties for your Rhinebeck affair, but then you would also take heat if you neglected to make arrangements for your guests’ comfort.  Damned if you do… 

I too had a ridiculously large wedding.  I had no wedding planning consultant or technology to help me.  I did have great parents who helped.  Besides picking up the ridiculously large tab, my father picked out the dinner menu and made sure the reception venue was perfect.  My mother, while not Secretary of State, arranged for all of the flowers and centerpieces and thoughtfully selected the church music (even though the church music director snubbed her requests and played what he wanted anyway).  My husband and I did everything else ourselves. 

I was in charge of arranging transportation for everyone.  Two hours before the ceremony, I stood by to make sure our parents and the wedding party and the groom were picked up on time.  When they had all left, I realized my oversight.  I had forgotten to arrange transportation for myself.  So I threw my wedding dress in the trunk of my car and high-tailed it to the church.

I tell you this, Chelsea, as one bride to another.  It’s just something you might want to check on.

Blessings to you on your special day.

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July 28, 2010 · 7:39 am

Waiting on Godot

My parents were sticklers when it came to teaching us proper speech.  I look forward to sharing more examples later, but one particular lesson comes to mind today.

One approach my father took in teaching life lessons was to warn me about certain behaviors and then say, “Don’t ever do that.”  For example, before I began learning how to drive, he once said, “notice how some drivers make a turn and go immediately into the middle lane.  Don’t ever do that.”  Instead, he instructed, turn into the closest lane and then change lanes gradually.  Even though at the time I didn’t have any personal context, I came to see that he was right; plenty of drivers make these sloppy and dangerous turns.  And I don’t ever do that.

Another time, he warned me that some people say “wait on,” when they mean “wait for.”

I had never heard anyone say “wait on” in any way except correctly.  My father assured me that someday I’d hear someone ask, “what are you waiting on?” and, when I did, he wanted to be sure I didn’t repeat it.  It might be a regional thing, he said; still, “Don’t ever do that.”

I listened for it but it was years before I noticed anyone saying “wait on” in lieu of “wait for.”  I was in the car with my new fiancé, behind another car at a stop light.  The light turned green.  The car in front of us didn’t move.  My then-fiancé honked the horn, stuck his head out the window and shouted, “What are ya waitin’ on?”  The moment about which my father warned me had come.

Let’s just remember that to wait for is to await or expect  someone or something.  To wait on is to serve, as a waiter waits on a restaurant patron.  Unfortunately, to wait on is still misused quite often.

John Mayer is “Waiting on the world to change,” as 30 years ago, Mick Jagger was “Waiting on a friend.”  It could be that the friend was laid up and needed waiting on.

Just this month, we read the following in sports headlines:

  • David Lee Waiting on LeBron
  • Brett Favre Waiting on Ankle to Heal
  • Waiting on Kovalchuk: Why Steve Yzerman should trade for Simon Gagne

Perhaps it’s one of those errors that, having gone colloquial, will in time be condoned by official sources.  That doesn’t appear to have happened yet, thank goodness.

Is it too late to turn the tide?  Or is it worth putting out a reminder and a tip for keeping it straight?

Maybe we can think about the Samuel Beckett play, “Waiting for Godot,” the title of which has become colloquial itself.

We recall that, in the play, the two main characters are waiting for a third, named Godot, who never comes.  The expression “waiting for Godot” has come to mean waiting for something that will never happen, or is futile.  I certainly hope by expecting to turn the tide, we are not waiting for Godot.

Or do we just simply reprimand ourselves, or our friends who ask “what are you waiting on?”  “Don’t ever do that.”

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