Category Archives: Music

The ants are my friends

They’re blowing in the wind.

Mondegreens.  What a cool name for a mistake.

The term reportedly was coined in 1954, in Sylvia Wright’s “The Death of Lady Mondegreen,” published in Harper’s Magazine.  In the essay Wright wrote that, as a child, she misheard a line in a ballad and subsequently sang “and Lady Mondegreen,” instead of “and laid him on the green.”

Ten years before there was a term for it, a novelty song based on the concept had listeners all over the world singing:   “Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey.”

Humor columnist Dave Barry wrote occasionally about such matters.  I remember one in particular that appealed to my inner Sylvia Wright.  The song was “Help Me Rhonda.”  For those of the Beach Boys generation, stop and think; can you sing the first line?  Here’s a hint.  It begins with “Since you put me down…”  Barry felt compelled to point out that the second part is not, “there’ve been owls puking in my bed.” I am still not sure what the lyrics really are because the liner notes make no sense.  Puking owls make more sense.

There are plenty of other famous mondegreens:  CCR’s “there’s a bathroom on the right” and Jimi Hendrix’ “’scuse me while I kiss this guy.”  And everyone loves that favorite Christmas carol, “Deck the Halls with Buddy Holly.”

I had a friend in college who sang The Police’s “Canary in a Coal Mine,” as “Mary in a coma.”

Another told of her little brother singing “Cracklin’ Rosie peed on the floor.”

And who can’t name two mondegreens in the same line of Manfred Man’s “Blinded by the Light?”  Please keep those to yourselves, as this is a family blog.

Anyone have any clean ones?

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Busted

I am pathologically compliant.  I obey the law, play by the rules and follow instructions. 

So you can imagine my shock yesterday morning when Central Casting sent their most type-cast North Carolina State Trooper to make me feel bad about myself.

Let me back up a bit.  I was driving home after a long week On the Road.  If you’ve been following my adventures (very un-Kerouac, I assure you), then you know I’ve been enjoying alone time in the car, listening to songs alphabetically on my iPod.  I am up to the F’s.  It was a sunny spring morning and I was singing along with Jackson Browne’s “For a Dancer” when I noticed a twinkle behind me.  I pulled over.

“Ma’am, I clocked you going sixty-nine in a fifty-five,” the trooper said.  I said nothing.

He took my license and registration and, when he returned from his cruiser, handed me a Uniform Citation and said, “This shows I caught you going seventy in a fifty-five mile-per-hour zone.”  I thought to myself, 70 in a 55 sounds serious.

I responded, “You said I was going sixty-nine.”

“I was confused,” he said.  “The last person I pulled over was going sixty-nine.  You were going seventy.”  That’s fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit.  He acceded that the speed limit on that road switches back and forth from 55 to 60, but it happened to be 55 where he stopped me.  He said, “I suggest you appear in court.”

I asked once again why he wrote the citation for 70 mph when he initially told me I was going 69. 

He essentially said, “I’ll see you in court” and walked away.

I sat there staring at the “Defendant Copy” of the citation.  I have never been a defendant.   I’ve never even seen the inside of a court room.  Suddenly I felt ashamed.  My compliance streak was busted and so was I. 

So I got back on the road, stayed in the right lane, and went exactly the speed limit the rest of the way home.  For 200 miles, one aggressive driver after another tried to run me off the road.  Where were all the troopers in North Carolina and Virginia then and why was no one nabbing the speed demons who were on my tail?  Automotive sodomy must be legal in those states.

I’ll be travelling by air next week and will be happy to be out of the car for a while.  Now if I can just stay alert during the boarding announcements (see Word Nymph April 12).

Note:  Just a reminder that Sunday is a no-blog day for the Word Nymph.  This week she’ll be curled up reading the North Carolina traffic code.

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Filed under Foibles and Faux Pas, Music, Travel

Poetic license suspension

It’s tough duty being a fan of good word usage and classic rock. 

I spent my formative years in front of the radio, appreciating the Great Poets of my time—Elton John, Jackson Browne, James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt, to name a few.  To this day, the lyrics of the 60s and 70s occupy most of my cranial hard drive, leaving room for little else.

While so many of the classic lyrics are nothing short of pure poetry, there are some that still assault my ears like teeth on a fork.  I am betting you have a few examples of your own.

Now I’m not talking about the obvious no-no’s that give rock music its character.  This may come as a surprise, but I’ve got no beef with “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.”  “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother” happens to be one of my favorite songs ever.  And a phrase from The Vogues’ “Five O’Clock World” — “livin’ on money I ain’t made yet” — has become my personal tagline.

Further, I have less of a problem with liberties taken to force a meter or a rhyme than I do lyrics that their writers assumed correct, or likely deemed smart-sounding.  If only for their place just under the radar, there is a small sampling of well-known lines that mustn’t in good conscience go unchallenged.

So, at the risk of offending fellow fans of some of the greatest artists of my generation, I must take issue with:

“Touch Me” by the Doors – “til the stars fall from the sky for you and I”

“Heard It in a Love Song” by the Marshall Tucker Band – “I was born a wrangler and a rounder and I guess I always will”

“Live and Let Die” by Paul McCartney – “But if this ever-changing world in which we live in…”

I plan to someday write in this forum about lyrics I do find poetic and will ask you to share your favorites, irrespective of the genre.

But for now, what’s your lyrical peeve?

Reminder:  Word Nymph rests on Sunday but welcomes (and reads) your comments.

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Boogie on down the road

We’ve taken a lot of road trips lately, Rosebud and I.  I’ve never been one to name an inanimate object such as a car or anything else, but iTunes makes you give your iPod a name when you register it.  Anyway, mine’s Rosebud; I’ll just trust everyone knows the origin.

In the car I have been listening to Rosebud’s entire song list, more than 1,000 songs in all, in alphabetical order.  No play lists, genre affinities or artist groupings.  I am enjoying the way in which the random play renders no noticeable theme or pattern, except that multiple songs begin with the same word. 

Yesterday, songs beginning with “Boogie” carried me a good long way down the New Jersey Turnpike.  Which got me thinking.  Now that I have overanalyzed my magazine rack, and enjoyed the comments on yesterday’s post, I will turn to search for meaning in my MP3.

Does the fact that 61 songs on my iPod begin with “I” or “my” but only 31 begin with “you” or “your” make me an egoist?  Does the fact that I have as much Mormon Tabernacle Choir as I do heavy metal make me schizophrenic?

What other words dominate my song titles?  Setting aside “how,” “what,” “when,” “where,” subordinating conjunctions and other minor words, I watched for a theme to emerge.   “Love” popped most prominently but that’s no surprise.  Except on the devices of a few evil souls, Love dominates everyone’s iPod.  So let’s take Love out of the equation, just for balance.

What’s left in my top five?  “Boogie” to be sure, along with “dance,” “rock,” “crazy” and “bad.”

In the absence of any logical conclusion, I leave it to Avril Lavigne, who sums it up aptly in “Anything but Ordinary,” as she observes, “Sometimes I get so weird, I even freak myself out.”

Note:  After another brief look at song lyrics tomorrow, Word Nymph will turn to another topic.  At least until she is On the Road Again.

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Who gives a fig about an Oxford comma?

They say if you love something, set it free.  That’s what I am doing with the Oxford comma.

Just a refresher:  the Oxford comma, also called the series comma or the serial comma, is the comma used immediately before a grammatical conjunction—such as and or or—preceding the final item in a list of three or more items.  For example, a list of three fruits can be punctuated as either “apples, oranges, and bananas” (with the Oxford comma) or “apples, oranges and bananas” (without the Oxford comma).

I don’t know for certain, but I suspect the Oxford comma made its way into accepted practice around the mid-1960s.  At least that’s the time I began writing sentences.  I must have been right on the cusp, so I’ve always used the comma. 

I do know those older than I eschew it.  My father is horrified by an Oxford comma.  My brother, eight years my junior and an accomplished public relations executive, uses it.  The attitude of some much younger may best be expressed in a 2008 song by the group Vampire Weekend, called “Who Gives a F*** About an Oxford Comma?”  In general, older writers don’t like the comma, younger ones do and the youngest ones may not really care.  That’s a subject for another day (but let it be noted that I have some faithful readers who are under 25 and keenly attuned to such matters).

Whether or not an Oxford comma is correct truly depends upon which authority you consult.  Nevertheless, a wise wordmistress reminded me just recently that consistency is what’s more important.

Either way, this year I’ve made a definitive choice.  Perhaps it is a desire to return to a cleaner, simpler way of life.  I am making a conscious shift and ditching the Oxford comma.  No ifs, ands or buts.

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