The Archives of Misheard Lyrics

The pool has long been sitting on a big old secret of mine. I appreciate that they have never shared my secret. Really, thanks guys. But I'm ready to come clean on my own, I'm ready to take the leap, so here goes.

There's something wrong with the way I hear music lyrics. More often that not, it seems that I've never heard music lyrics quite right. Often, I learn this the hard way, i.e. I'm in the midst of passionately singing a song and I open my eyes to find people looking at me and laughing, because I've sung the wrong words. Time and time again, people, it happens time and time again.

Today, I've found that I'm not alone. I'M NOT ALONE! There's an entire website called "The Archive of Misheard Lyrics" devoted to people just like me, those of us who "mishear" lyrics. Some of my top misheard lyrics can be found on this site:

Irene Cara's What a Feeling: the real lyrics are "take your passion, and make it happen" while I heard "take your pants down, and make it happen." Come on, that makes sense!

Commodores Brick House: the real lyrics are "She's a brick house. She's mighty mighty, just letting it all hang out," while I heard "I'm going to break, oooouuuutttt."

And the list goes on and on...so carpool, you don't have to protect me anymore. We can just let it all hang out.

Definitions

Of all the different types of debates that erupt in the carpool, the debates that are likely to be settled most efficiently and definitively are those that involve the meaning of a word.

Although many of our debates require later research on wikipedia, our "definitional" debates can be laid to rest in the car -- at least, Sparky's and mine -- because we carry pocket dictionaries for that very purpose. Given how common our word debates have become, my very own American Heritage pocket dictionary (pictured) has become somewhat well worn. (For those of you who know us -- which, I'm guessing, is everyone willing to read this damned blog -- we can debate about far pettier things that the meaning of a word. Don't make me prove that, by the way.)

Just last Friday, in fact, we used the AH dictionary to settle a word debate on the way home. I will refrain from saying what word we needed to look up, but it is a verb that can have two meanings: one (it's usual usage) that is very "men's locker room," and a second, whose proper usage probably fell out of favor in the early 1800's, when locker rooms were invented. The purpose of this blog entry, however, is not to point out which one of us was right and which one of us was wrong about the second usage of the word (although that would be a legitimate point to make as well). Instead, I wanted to discuss an issue that Mumbles raised after Friday's debate was settled: Who in the hell picks the photographs that illustrate dictionaries, and on what guidelines are those photographs based?

My AH dictionary, for example, has a photo to illustrate the definition of "swan dive." But why? I would think that the point of having a picture in a dictionary would be to make an obscure definition clearer with the help of an illustration. Was the written definition of "swan dive" so vague that it was deemed necessary by Dell Publishing to include a photo? ("A dive with the legs straight together, the back arched, and the arms stretched out from the sides" seems pretty frickin' clear to me.) Was the editor receiving bagloads of mail from dictionary readers everywhere, complaining that they wanted to go try a swan dive, but just couldn't figure it out from the definition? And who the hell looks up "swan dive" anyway? Was the professional diving lobby somehow involved?

The AH dictionary also has photos to illustrate "George Bush," both senior and junior. Once again, why? Do the photos really help to understand that they were the 41st and 43rd presidents of the United States, respectively?

And yet, while AH provides us pictures of the Bushes, Gerald Ford, and Jimmy Carter, the dictionary folks decided that we didn't need to see what "poison oak" looked like. Wouldn't that be more helpful? And if they are not out to be helpful -- and, instead, are seeking to be entertaining -- then I say go ahead and include a photo to illustrate "skinny dip" (yes, there actually is a definition for that).

Or what about "buttocks"? C'mon, that's entertaining. Instead, we get to see what Calvin Coolidge looked like. Whoop-dee-frickin'-doo.

Freud, Part Two

Many of you may remember that, not too long ago, I went all "Freudian" on the members of the carpool (see Tell me about your coffee . . ., August 2, 2006). My thesis was that a careful observer (e.g., myself) could tell a whole lot about someone from what they put in (or didn't put in) their coffee. I think I was pretty much right-on with my analyses of Sparky, Mumbles, and myself.

But today, I learned that Madd Dogg's beverage psychoses need to be re-analyzed. Allow me to explain:

By the time Madd Dogg arrived at the carpool meeting place today (it was just her and I in the carpool), I noticed that she had already finished her tea. "Hmm," I thought. "Very interesting." You may recall that I earlier opined that Madd Dogg drinks tea because of her need to be different and -- although she will object -- fancy. Because it is decidedly un-fancy to slurp tea, I thought it strange that she already had consumed hers. Putting on my Freud specs, I sat back and waited.

After we arrived in the city where we work, something else strange happened. Madd Dogg swerved into the Dutch Bros. Coffee drive-thru and (gasp!) bought a cup of coffee (regular, black). Now as every true analyst must, I refrained from offering any judgments about this at the time. Instead, I watched her suck down that coffee and I waited. I didn't have to wait too terribly long.

Later in the morning, I went to Madd Dogg's office to see how she was doing. Well, let me just say, it was lucky that she wasn't down at the bus mall because I think she would have been arrested on suspicion of amphetamine use. Her eyes were zooming from place to place. Her speech was rapid. She was, in short, a woman on the edge.

By late afternoon, she was barely recognizable. She self-reported to me that while listening to a news story on the radio about a man named Harry Mitchell, she kept picturing his name as Hairy Mitchell. Although I was not there to see it, she apparently laughed herself silly. She later told me that she thought she suffered from Uncontrollable Laughter Disorder (or ULD).

Yes, Madd Dogg, in my opinion you do have ULD, associated with your consumption of coffee. The good news is that it your ULD is entirely manageable. Just stick to tea.

Pet Profile: Rudy

You may recall that, last month, Madd Dogg treated us all to a profile of her dog, Houston.

"Hmm," I thought after reading it, "don't I have a dog lying around here somewhere? And if so, shouldn't I do a pet profile as well?" At that point, I got distracted by something shiny and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.

Well, today, while walking to the kitchen to look for some snacks, I tripped over something. Whatever it was, it was warm, fuzzy, and weighed about 65 pounds. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, grabbed a handful of tortilla chips, and then went back to see what I had tripped over.

You guessed it: It was a dog. A golden retriever, to be more specific. My golden retriever, Rudy.


Rudy's greatest "talent" is -- as you can see from the picture -- his appearance. He is incredibly handsome.

His second-greatest talent is his ability to hold things between his paws, like the Texas Toast that he is holding in the picture above.

From there, Rudy's talents become a little more obscure. Let me put it this way: if you would say that it takes talent to eat, sleep, and run away from me (sometimes, dangerously close to cars), then Rudy's talents are manifest. In fact, he is probably one of the five most talented dogs West of the Mississippi.

Whatever his talents, we (Erin and I) love that dog. And we don't need fancy reasons why. If pressed, I'll give you one reason that Erin finds particularly compelling: "The bottoms of his paws smell like Corn Puffs."

Well said, Erin. Well said.

Mmmm. . .humble pie

"To eat humble pie, in common usage, is to apologize and face humiliation for a serious error."
--See Wikipedia

Professor Alan Brinkley, et al., in "American History: A Survey" (McGraw-Hill: 8th edition), sealed my fate (even before I saw Fidget's diary entry on the blog). Sure, Roanoke is off the coast of North Carolina, as I mentioned in the 'pool but that will be little consolation after losing this bet. Sorry, Mr. Roberts (my high school American History teacher), I didn't mean to let you down.

Fidget Strikes Back, Roanoake-style

The following is an excerpt from Fidget's diary, dated August 9, 2006:

Dear Diary,

Today was an amazing day. I actually won a bet!

Now, Diary, I know that you might be a little dubious right now. I mean, I never win bets, right? (I'm sure you remember the tears I cried over a recent bet involving Sylvester Stallone [See Blog Entry July 6, 2006].)

Well, today I won a bet! And it feels great!!!

I'm sure that you are wondering what the bet was about. Well, here it is:

I was in the back seat talking to Mumbles (who is total dreamboat, by the way). He and I were talking about Jamestown, which was one of first colonies. I mentioned to Mumbles that I had read about some other colony, whose people, like, totally disappeared without a trace. Mumbles said that he thought it was Roanoake. That sounded right to me, so I said, "yeah, that sounds right to me."

Sparky, who was driving, disagreed. He said that it was Jamestown. He offered to bet me over it. I was pretty nervous, but I knew deep in my heart that the lost colony wasn't Jamestown. So I did bet him (a cup of coffee).

Well, I checked Wikipedia when I got home, and the "Lost Colony" was Roanoake!!!! I'm, like, totally stoked!

Anyway, Diary, if you are interested in the very intriguing story of the "Lost Colony" of Roanoake, check this out.

That's all for now, Diary.

Fidget

[Photo by Schnittke]

Road Gods

Look, we don't want to force any sort of "religious" beliefs on anyone. We're against that. So please, dear reader, understand that what follows is a matter of utmost carpool importance -- an issue of the highest order in our carpool.

Mumbles: You will honor, respect, and otherwise conform your carpool behavior to the dictates of the Road Gods. You will.

You must understand by now, Mumbles, that (as Sparky, Madd Dogg, and I have explained to you countless times) the Road Gods get to decide whether we get home at 6:15pm or 10:15pm. You don't get to decide; other drivers don't get to decide; the Road Gods do. Now you may not like the fact that the Road Gods have so much power over us, but they do. Consider the evidence, which is unrefuted:

Whenever anyone in the carpool says something like, "Gee, traffic isn't too bad today," within the next 10 to 15 seconds, traffic comes to a crashing halt. Every time.

The puzzling thing, Mumbles, is that you keep testing that precept. You insist on making comments when traffic is good. And every freaking time, we end up looking at the ass-end of someone else's car. For the love of all things holy, you must stop talking about traffic.

The answer is simple, Mumbles. Respect the Road Gods. When traffic is good, don't talk about it. Don't even think about it. And if you do, just apologize to the Road Gods. It only takes a second. And yet, it could save us hours.

Beta rays, Suri sighting, and 43 days and counting...

Beta rays. What a beta ray, you ask, and why are we blogging about them? Because, my friends, said word has blissfully replaced (for the most part) Mumble's use of the abhorrent terms "chicks" and "honeys." A beta ray is a stream of beta particles, especially of electrons. It's a noun. And how did our dear Mumbles decide to use that? I suggested he pick a word, really any word, from the dictionary. We're all encouraged to keep those in our carpool cars, because so often our disputes (read: our bets) center around the meaning of particular words. So Mumbles opened up Fidget's dictionary and voila, the beta ray was born. I tried to find a picture of a beta ray, but was only able to find Beta Ray Bill, action figure and hero. See picture...

In breaking news, Penelope Cruz, Tom Cruise's ex partner, reports that she has seen Suri. She is perhaps the first celebrity non-Scientologist to see her (mad props to one of our sources who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent for passing this tidbit along ). So, perhaps we've gone about this whole thing the wrong way. Instead of asking Mumbles to offer a proof of life, perhaps we need to appeal to Mumbles' ex-partners....

And for those of you who care (yes, I know that's not you, "just passing through"), we're at 43 days and counting....

Haulin' Oats

Today, I had the distinct honor of being the only friggin' person in the carpool. With Madd Dogg taking the day off, and with Sparky and Mumbles teleworking, I had plenty of leg-room in the old Civic.

Unfortunately, I didn't need leg-room; I needed company. Instead, I had the radio.

Well, let me tell you, the radio bites. I spent the entire drive (today, 1:15 minutes) hitting the "scan" button, trying in vain to hear a song -- any song -- that didn't suck ass. At the end of it all (when I wanted to end it all), I had heard only two:

First, I heard I Can't Go For That (No Can Do), by the unstoppable duo Hall and Oates. Man, those guys kicked ass. After turning the volume up to a level at which even a teenager would say, "ok, that's a little much," I remembered hearing that Hall and Oates had met at the highly acclaimed Juilliard School of Music. But having just checked Wikipedia, I can tell you that it is not true. (They really met at Temple University, in an elevator.) My favorite all-time Hall and Oates song: A tie between Say it isn't So and Kiss on My List

Then, I heard All This Time, by Sting. Well, what can you say about a song with lyrics as wonderful as the following:

Teachers told us
The Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple on the edge of the Empire garrison town
They lived and they died
They prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled
Till all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found

Simply beautiful. Makes me think of jolly old England (see photo).

[Lyrics by Sting]

The Name Game

When I get home, my partner often asks me what we talked about in carpool. Just as often, as soon as I start describing the most recent (and ridiculous) conversation we've had, she kind of drifts off into another room (understandably)...

Sometimes, though, I come home and tell her that we played the name game. What's the name game, you ask? It's a game that is perfectly suited to pass the time in carpool, and a game we usually start when we're about to rip each other's faces off because the traffic is so bad. As an aside, we've tried playing the alphabet game, but Fidget got really mad because I was winning, so we don't play that anymore. Anyway, back to the name game. It goes like this:

1. I pick a famous person's name. They can be dead or alive, famous in entertainment, politics, sports, whatever. It has to be a person though, it can't be an animal or a character. So, for instance, I pick Michelle Rodriquez.

2. It's the next person's turn to pick a famous person's name that starts with R, the first letter in Michelle's last name. So, for instance, that person picks Rachel Hunter.

3. The next person picks a famous person that starts with H, like Halle Berry. (Yes, I tend towards the entertainment folks, although I also am a big NFL fan, so I use lots of quarterback names and Seattle Seahawk players).

4. And it goes on and on and on until a person can't think of a famous person's name. It used to not take very long, but we've gotten really good and we can go for miles and miles and miles...

5. There's a twist. If someone picks a famous person's name that has the same letters for both first and last name, that reverses the order of the game. For instance, I chose James Spader. Next if Fidget, who picks Steven Speilberg. Double "s". It goes back to me, and I have to pick another famous person. Now, I used the double "s" example because there are loads of famous folk with double s names, to wit: Sally Struthers, Susan Saradon, and...oh hell, I forget. But there are a bunch. So what happens is a back and forth between two people for like, well, hours.

6. Fun, huh? As I said, I tend towards the entertainment and Seahawk famous. Fidget is the most diverse, covering entertainment, sports, and politics. Sparky tends towards obscure authors, which often prompts me to call bullshit on his names (as in, he just made that up). But then he can name some book that person allegedly wrote, and since I don't read much outside of my job, who am I to argue?? As for Mumbles, well, who the hell understands what he's saying??

Tell me about your coffee. . .

First of all, we apologize that we haven't blogged lately. We've been busy (or maybe just lazy). Plus, in light of the fact that the jury is still out on whether Mumbles actually exists, we're operating with only three active bloggers. (And let's be clear, Sparky still has posted only once. Although, to be fair, it was quite entertaining.)

Anyway, we're back.

Today's carpool topic: Freud.

As we all know, Freud spent an unhealthy amount of time and energy researching the following topics: (a) sex with one's mother, (b) sex with one's father, (c) pooping, and (d) putting stuff in one's mouth. And although all of that stuff is pretty great, I can't help but think that he should have been researching the issue that came up in carpool today: What does a person's taste in coffee say about them? Now, I'm no "Freud," and neither is Sparky (whew!), but here are our interpretations of what the carpool members' choice in coffee says about them:

Mumbles
What he drinks: Drip coffee, in really large cups, with sugar.
What it means: Mumbles has a Peter Pan complex; he doesn't want to grow up. He uses sugar because he is essentially a "boy" with a sweet-tooth. He subconsciously knows that drinking coffee is an "adult" thing to do, but he has to do it on his terms, and that means sugar. The really large cups also show his youthfulness; he is hovering at the stage where he is convinced that bigger is better.

Sparky
What he drinks: Drip coffee, black in the morning, but with cream in the evening.
What it means: Sparky drinks his coffee black during the day because black coffee is bold and assertive -- the way that he wants to be during the day. He doesn't like complications at work, he likes things straightforward and up front. (As Mumbles said about people who like black coffee, "They think they've got it all figured out.") At night, Sparky adds a little cream to his coffee in an effort to "let his hair down."

Fidget (me)
What he drinks: Drip coffee, black.
What it means: Fidget is, as the rest of the carpool knows, forgetful. His choice of coffee means one of three things. First, it could mean that he has forgotten to buy cream and sugar. Second, it could mean that he has cream and sugar, but he has forgotten to add them to the coffee. Or third, and perhaps most troubling, it could mean that he has forgotten whether or not he likes cream and sugar.

Madd Dogg
What she drinks: Tea; sometimes, a chai latte.
What it means: Madd Dogg likes nothing more than being her own person. Most people drink coffee. So she drinks tea. If she sees someone with tea, she'll order a chai latte. If chai becomes more commonplace, who knows what she will drink?