The Perils of Mishearing.

Let me start out by saying, I am very deaf. Not clinically, not diagnosably—but the truth is, probably as a result of the Devil's Rock Music, I often have a difficult time understanding what people are saying—that is, unless they speak at a reasonable volume & enunciate like an overzealous middle-school drama teacher (To siT in SoleMN SI-LENSSS, etc.). This is why I prefer text messages or Skype to telephone calls, face-to-face conversation above all—& why, even then, I've had to develop a system for educated aural guessing, so that I don't, as a friend once jibed, "have more stilted conversations than [his] 96-year-old grandmother."

The system goes thusly: pick out the vowel sounds, analyze their order, tack on any consonants you were able to glean (though those are often unreliable), &, most importantly, apply context. Context is paramount, is key, the name of the game, on & on—because, for example, if someone is telling you a story, & they say a word that sounds roughly like "ooo-ays," you might infer that, were this a travel story, they meant "suitcase"; a shoe-shopping story, "bootlace"; a proposal-gone-bad story, "bouquets"; a celebrity gossip session, "new face." As long as you stay alert, it's essentially foolproof.

Unfortunately, there are some cases in which even this elastic system fails, the most frustrating being in music. Song lyrics—complicated as they are by pitch (which is why I will never tackle Mandarin) & poem-like brevity—are often impossible to infer from context. For example, why, oh why, oh why again, would a song called "I'm Looking Through You" come to the end of its chorus with a line like "& you're nowhere"? Doesn't that negate the song's whole premise? Doesn't it make so much more sense for the line to be "I'm looking through you: your underwear"? Because then it's a song about awesome x-ray vision goggles, not mixed relationship metaphors. Right?

Consider the fictional case of Ramona (of Beezus & Ramona fame), who, after being subjected to our embarrassingly constructed national anthem (really, America: it's two not-quite-rhetorical questions), comes away with the understanding that it begins "Oh, say, can you see by the donzerly light," which she logically interprets as "light from a lamp." She then proceeds to show off her new vocabulary by loudly asking her sister to turn on the donzer—&, of course, humiliation ensues. Or, if you like, another true-life version: as a disciple to Britney Spears's nasal throat-hack in younger years, I would proudly sing along to the first line of the second verse of "Lucky": "Lost in a nevitch in a dream..." I was convinced that a nevitch must be a kind of crevice, a crawl-space in which Britney could dream-hide from her newfound fame—as opposed to, you know, "an image." Similar mishearings of mine include: "Now, it's nothing but a mile 'way" (vs. "[a-]my[-uh] way"), "6'15" in my stilettos" (vs. "since fifteen"), "the pianic [as in, piano-related] spike of my life" (vs. "the BMX bike"), on & on.

Another problem with my system (as exemplified by the above examples from my past) is its self-selecting age requirement: in order to pick up patterns in speech or contextual concepts, you need to have been around long enough to recognize norms. Because we learn speech by hearing speech, it's perilously easy to misunderstand, especially at a young age—&, once these warped interpretations imprint themselves on young lobes, they tend to cement, essentially guaranteeing you an embarrassing conversation somewhere down the road.

My (roundabout at best) point is: I have serious empathy for those who unknowingly use some misheard verbiage—& there are certainly a number of English sayings that people seem to flub, again & again, with the sincere unabashedness of misunderstanding. As someone who knows full well what it feels like to get called out—while simultaneously instilled by professor parents with a nails-on-chalkboard deathwish reflex to any & all grammatical mistakes—I think it's in both of our best interests that I clarify some for you now. Here goes:

For all intensive purposes. = For all intents & purposes.

When you classify the purposes as "intensive," you're actually narrowing what you want to say; rather than including all possible intents & all possible purposes, you're now only talking about the really, really intensive purposes, & leaving out intents altogether. When making a generalization, as you're probably doing when this phrase comes into play, my guess is that you want to be all-inclusive (e.g., "For all intents & purposes, cats like lasers"), as opposed to action-movie-climax specific (e.g., "For all intensive purposes, cats like lasers, but when they're not working to negotiate a hostage situation or deactivate a bomb, they don't really have a preference").

Beckoned call. = Beck & call.

Think about it this way: in the misusage, the call is what's being beckoned, which, I'm guessing, is not what you're going for. Meanwhile, in the correct one, this person is at both your beck & your call—two whole words!—so, you exert extra power over them.

Supposably. = Supposedly.

This one's subtle: "supposably" means you're able to suppose it, while "supposedly" designates something already supposed. It's possible to suppose anything, at least as a premise (e.g., "Suppose that trees, when seen from far away, are actually broccoli held up by giants")—but it would be incorrect to call such premises "supposed," as this implies the knowledge has been accepted by someone else first (e.g., "Scientists confirm broccoli-tree hypothesis" = "Supposedly, faraway trees are broccoli—but I don't buy it").

Nip it in the butt. = Nip it in the bud.

When you nip—or, cut—a bud from off its stem, the flower can no longer bloom, thus averting a potentially disastrous gardening situation. However, when you nip—or, bite—someone in the butt, you are either a dog, a mosquito, sexually aggressive, or rabid. This solves nothing.

Case & point. = Case in point.

I screw this one up all the time—case in point, the beginning of my entry on Glee-Rocky, which has since been corrected out of familial shaming. I guess the best way to understand it is this: all good arguments have both a case & a point, but the reason you're singling this one out is because its case is in its point—because it's self-evident. Classifying an argument as "case & point" is nothing special; "case in point" makes it exceptional.

Off the cusp. = Off the cuff.

The cusp is the edge; if you make a remark off it, you might as well not have made the remark at all, as the remark has now fallen off a cliff. However, if you make a remark "off the cuff," it's just tumbled out of your sleeve, like a bunch of flowers at a magic show. So, consider how you want your comment to be received; getting surprise flowers is far more pleasant than jumping off a cliff.

[ NOTE: For those of you who've been watching Logo's The A-List—because, really, why wouldn't you?—you may recognize this as the verbal gaff made by unconscionably frustrating Austin & subsequently mocked by Dorito-spraytanned Derek. However, I would point out that Derek was the inspiration for the above "nip it in the butt" entry, just as I recently made a "case & point"; no one is perfect, dear Reader... ]

Irregardless. = Not a word.

You mean "regardless." Just trust me. This is like when people say "I could care less," when, in fact, they're trying to convey that they couldn't. Oh, those tricky negatives...

&, finally, a write-in suggestion that I have never actually heard from the lips of another, but which I find profoundly, wonderfully bizarre:

It's a doggy dog world. = It's a dog-eat-dog world.

Okay (she says, with knuckle-crack & determined expression): from what I understand, a "doggy dog world" would be a world in which dogs are doggy—thus fulfilling their necessary, teleological, Aristotelian purpose. A "doggy dog world" is the ideal towards which we strive, a world in which there is a place for everything & everything is in its place—basically like Pleasantville, but for some reason, it's populated entirely by dogs. This, then, is opposite from the chaotic, cannibalistic violence of a "dog-eat-dog" world—a saying we use to remind ourselves of the cut-throat, back-stabbing moral cesspool we currently live & die in. We should pray, always, to live in a "doggy dog world," never curse it.

In conclusion, just for fun, I wrote you this short story:

"For all intensive purposes, David Bowie is at my beckoned call," she quipped, off the cusp.

"Irregardless!" I shot back. "Supposably, he's planning to nip it in the butt!"

"Well," she sighed, "it's a doggy dog world. Case & point."

Now, do not-that. & remember: when lost in your nevitch, just turn on the donzer.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

I'm Looking Through You—The Beatles.

Seriously. It should be "underwear," right? Am I the only one who thinks this??

"Blah Blah Blah, But Can You Dance To It?"

[ Good evening, Internet! First, some business:

1) Work has officially ended, which means no more chasing small children, therefore far less exhaustion, followed by far more writing.

2) The Gaga-Bowie thing was a hoax—as proven by this post on his official website—& all I can say is: Thank the Good Lord Above. Despite the likelihood of this circumstance, I don't necessarily feel foolish for last week's entry; it felt all too good to vent. Scary, still, how close it seemed to real... ]

With more & more time to waste, I've been reading more & more: Stories, a collection edited by Neil Gaiman to sate my fetish for short fiction, along with Legend of a Rock Star: The Last Testament of Dee Dee Ramone, which is fresh & fascinating & nearly illiterate in the most joyously poetic sort of way. Most importantly, though, I've gotten back to the News—capital N—which for me means a decent scan across the front pages of the Guardian, the Times, & the Globe, ending with an archaeological dig through their Arts & Leisure sections.

It was on one such expedition that I encountered this article about Ms. Katy Perry, who has, of course, been on my radar since her frustratingly heterosexist "I Kissed a Girl," & whose voice unfailingly wheedles its way into my eardrums from some stray speaker every 15 minutes with that insipid "Tik Tok" rehash—the one about Daisy Dukes & bikinis & utterly mind-numbing "OMG POPSICLE = DICK" innuendo. I read the piece because I was curious—because I wondered what exactly about Perry, who speaks in a baby voice while striving valiantly to bring back the bow, classifies her as a "Pop Cartoon." What I learned is what I expected—that is, not much. But beyond that, I was struck by a few passages in the article:

“A lot of people criticized ["I Kissed a Girl"] for playing into masculine fantasies as opposed to saying something new about gender politics,” said Sadie Stein, a contributing editor at the blog Jezebel, who has followed Ms. Perry’s career. She paused, considering that statement. “It seems silly to even say that,” she said.

It was, after all, just pop: that was Ms. Perry’s line of defense, to call her work lightweight, fun, throwaway. (She has also spoken in support of gay marriage.) Still, her credibility has been questioned throughout her career: is she a symbol of rebellion or a rote representation of a good girl gone bad, a manufactured product of the music industry or an individual with a loopy sense of style, blah blah blah, but can you dance to it?

Yes, that last bit—"blah blah blah"—is, in fact, written into the text of a New York Times article.

It just bums me out, because what this reporter is saying—or, rather, shaming Sadie Stein into saying—is that pop criticism is unimportant; that it doesn't matter that what passes for entertainment today is Katy Perry lying naked & doe-eyed in a pile of cotton candy, winking as she says "on top," while pre-packaged synthesizer beats bop along & millions of copies are sold. It's unremarkable that an infantilized pinup who spends her time playing (one assumes, being generous) dumb struts around in a bustier while calling herself a strict Christian. I could perhaps entertain the point that Katy Perry is such an inconsequential flash in the pan that she's not worth discussing, but as long as her "music" garners enough attention to be number one on the Billboard charts for six weeks, I'm going to care.

When I rant & rave about Lady Gaga, it's not in the slightest because I hate Stefani Germanotta, the girl with excellent fashion sense & marketing who happened to strike a few chords right on a piano; it's because I'm frustrated with her fanatic fan base, the legions who hold her up like a deity without much real cause, while better, campier, more interesting acts flounder in obscurity—frustrated that they've settled. Because this is what pop—short for "popular"—music does: it mirrors back at us what we want; what we, as a society, are feeding into the Music Machine to be ground up, spit out, & played on Top 40.

Perry's songs may be "lightweight, fun, throwaway," but the fact that her Jessica Rabbit meets Candyland visuals—complete with that insipid, breathy ditz-voice & a straight-girls-making-out-for-male-amusement cliché—are so widely accepted, even lauded, drives me absolutely up a wall. Because it means that's still what we expect: stupid sex kittens, coy smiles, good Christian girls with after-hours clothes. We are just as sexist, crude, & slow as we always were—or, if we aren't, our tastes have been dulled by so much Pure Shit that we've given up on asking for better, & that depresses me.

Of course, there are plenty of just-as-deserving targets for my vitriol—Ke$ha, Britney Spears, even 3OH!3, Perry's sometime collaborators who boast they've brought the "fun" back into music (though why fun has to come at the expense of quality or taste, no one's quite sure...). But Katy's in my crosshairs because I found her article first, because I fucking loathe that California song, & mostly because I refuse to tolerate shit like this:

Asked if she ever regretted not finishing school, [Katy] said: “No, because spell-check exists everywhere.”

We need to—need to—stop idolizing willfully dumb people in this country. It just has to stop. Not one person has ever benefitted from foregoing education, whether high school or grad school or taking the time to read a book about something new. Whatever you can stomach—or afford; knowledge & intelligence, information & communication has to prevail. Stupidity erodes as much as it sells, & that is why I see doom spelled in the flourescent wigs of Katy Perry—who, with her braindead innuendo & cherry chapstick, has rocketed to the Top of the Pops.

So sure, you can dance to it—but only just.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Let's Go Surfing—The Drums.

Hot & quick like the best rock 'n' roll, throbbing with the surf sensibility of the Beach Boys—from whom Perry stole & perverted her title—this song is utterly adorable & danceable & catchy as all calamity. The perfect summer anthem for a summer's end.

A Question.

A blip of a momentary interim post. I apologize again for my endless hiatus, but really: you try chasing after children 8 hours a day—sometimes even for an Overnight (I shudder at the memory)—& see how eager you are to pluck the keyboard strains.

There is, however, something that has been plaguing me. It's been gnawing at the edges of my consciousness since I first heard the offending song played over earbuds in the subway, then on every subsequent listen-through (though, for obvious reasons, there haven't been many)—& really, whenever my brain has the time (& volition) to take a break & turn to pop. It has befuddled & confused, perplexed & dare I say bamboozled—& now, it's time to exorcise my demons:

Why, for the love of all that is holy, does the Britney Spears song "3" list Peter, Paul, & Mary as its three threesomely names?

I mean, of course, after listening to the song at all—or viewing this lifeless excuse for a video—most of the words in that question seem to fall away, leaving one big looming "WHY?" Really now: there are about 157 problems with this song—the amateurish deep voice echoing in the background, the trashy-lewd premise, the insertion of a moan in place of "sex"—but most egregious & most careless is the lyric issue: the issue being, they are painfully stupid. As if Faith Hill hacked up a hairball, or Ryan Seacrest blurted them out during his conversion therapy. So. Fucking. Dumb. As to boggle the mind. I mean, really now, let's take one of the more ridiculous lines to task:

Living in sin is the new thing.

Is it, Britney? Really? Because there are several hundred thousand corpses left over from the Spanish Inquisition who may beg to differ. Perhaps if we hop forward a few hundred years, we could talk to some Antinomians. Maybe even zoom ahead to the underground clubs of the '80s & '90s—results of the sexual revolution that flowed right alongside your three favorite folksingers. My point is not that a pop song need be a history lesson, but that every source in which words are spoken should stray from asinine generalizations, no matter how alliterative. (Also, how sick is it that in the edited version—the one showcased in the video above—this already frustrating line was altered to "living like this"; that someone in marketing thought a mere mention of "sin" would tank the song's sales. Someone, please—I dare you to deny we're slipping into a theocracy.)

But back to my main point—that is, the naming of '60s folk trios—because this one is an easy fix. Three names. That's all you need: in a threesome, there are three people, & therefore three names. Any three names would, in fact, have been better than Peter, Paul, & Mary: they sang "Leaving on a Jetplane," for fuck's sake! "Blowin' in the Wind"! "Puff the Magic Dragon"! They are perhaps the least inherently sordid human beings possible—& not even really in an interesting or ironic way.

What I mean is, if she (oh, who are we kidding: her various publicists & lyricists) were interested in sullying the sacred—perhaps to live better in sin, as I hear it's the new thing—why not pick three biblical characters who didn't sing folk songs, who actually interacted in a way that could be spun lewdly? (The Three Kings, anybody?) & honestly, if you're going down that road, you have THE FREAKIN' HOLY TRINITY staring you right in the face.

There is, of course, the distinct possibility that the people who barfed out this song at coke o'clock on a Tuesday just couldn't think of another trio ending in "-ee" to fit the syllable count. I have taken the past minute & a half to come up with some examples:

"Larry, Moe, & Curly"

"Huey, Dewey, Louie"

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis" (If pronounced Frenchly.)

"Children of Destiny"

"Heaven, Hell, Purgat'ry"

or, the perfectly innocent: "Jack, Jill, & Britney."

Any of those—or, really, anything at all—would have been better than what stays, etched into the fiber of so much cheap plastic. Because really, Peter, Paul, & Mary are just awkwardly tepid—not sexless, but not sexy—& therefore an exquisitely poor choice.

That is all.

Today's Headphone Fodder:

You Don't Like Rock 'n' Roll—Hunx & His Punx.

I am obsessed with this song—& its video. Not only does it combine every pop culture facet I adore—cheeky, punky (in the original sense), straight out of a John Waters movie—but it's also catchy as all calamity, while being simple & basically perfect & speaking the motherfucking truth: You don't like rock 'n' roll, & I don't like you, indeed.