Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dave's Extremely Helpful Guide to Accents of Major English-Speaking Nations
Based on my VAST foreign travels and lengthy study of linguistics I've compiled this extremely helpful and scholarly diagram showing how to recognize the country of origin of a particular English accent.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Les Mis and Mortality
A recent viewing of Les Miserables at the Orpheum, of all things, reminded me of the summer of 2010 when, like the main character but for different reasons, I had to seriously analyze my own mortality and what it meant for raising my daughter. For more than four months that year my body deteriorated to the point where I had to assume, for the first time in my life, that I wouldn't live to the ripe old age I'd hoped for. And if I had to calibrate my life goals downward, that meant I had to think hard about what I owed my daughter with the life that I had left. It wasn't like I was going to keel over suddenly but cashing social security checks didn't seem guaranteed. It's going to take a bit of back story to set this up.
I've had juvenile rheumatoid arthritis in my hips and knees since age 13. To keep this shorter than a Stephen King novel I'm going to summarize hip and knee JRA like this: it's a drag. But that ain't nothing compared to what arthritis is like when you get it in your back and neck, which is what happened to me in late spring of 2010. When arthritis moves into your back and neck it's known as the Scrabble-rific Ankylosing Spondylitis. During the day I could barely function; every movement hurt. At the office, I looked forward to conference calls because I could close my door, put my headset on, mutter something every once in a while, and the rest of the time put my head on the desk and simply try to exist. At night I was completely useless, the aches and pains so bad that I often went to bed at 7. Karen was thinking, "What, this is all I get?" My situation was obvious to most: over the years I've gotten good at disguising a limp but I couldn't hide the fact that I couldn't turn my neck.
Along similarly cheery lines, rarely has a story been more aptly named than Les Miserables. Justice and fairness were in short supply in early 1800s France and Jean Valjean enjoyed even less than the other dregs of society depicted by the actors. Pursued by Inspector Javert for most of his life for stealing a loaf of bread, Valjean finally carves out something of a life under an alias and agrees to adopt and care for the daughter of a woman whose own misery index was off the charts. Hey, let's set this zany story to music! His life becomes a crusade to protect and nurture the daughter, interspersed with a song here and there about how crummy things are.
Back to my miserables, the worst case scenario for hip and knee arthritis is joint replacement, something I had to consider as early as age 17 but have skated without so far. What has made me semi-normal over the years is fairly powerful anti-inflammatory medication. Helped with hangovers too. Unfortunately, it didn't make a dent in A.S. The worst case scenario for Ankylosing Spondylitis is, uh, you grind to a halt. There is no vertebrae replacement surgery. My doctor's proposed treatment cost $2000 per month and he wasn't sure it would work. I was staring complete disability right in the face.
It was easy to assume that there was no way I was going to live to an age where one gets to enjoy being cantakerous with this amount of wear and tear on my body. It was draining just to get through a day with minimal activity -- there was no way I could handle years of this. I started worrying about supporting my family. And that led to wondering how much of my daughter's life I was going to see. Again, I wasn't going to expire in the next couple months, but could my body take this beating for another 20 years? 10?
Seeing my daughter have kids? Maybe not. Seeing her get married? Iffy. That could easily be 20+ years from now. Jean Valjean protected his adopted daughter until he was certain she'd marry a decent fellow. In Napolean-era, lower-class France that was about the best a dad could do for his female offspring. If you simply kept her out of prostitution you were ahead of the game.
Goals are a bit loftier in our current age, Toddlers and Tiaras notwithstanding. I settled on getting her through college as the minimum for which I needed to stick around. At that point, my work is mostly done anyway and she should have the tools to make her way through life and figure out the rest. That meant squeezing out 12 or so more years and being able to work long enough to cover the Lexus-a-year tuition costs.
Arthritis is my Inspector Javert, the man who ruthlessly hunted and hounded Jean Valjean across decades. But arthritis won't throw itself off a bridge and it definitely won't bring the audience to its feet with a rousing solo. The provisional happy ending to my story is... the spendy medication is working for me. The manufacturer helps pay for it (And how much are they making on this if they're paying most of my costs to take it? Let's get Anderson Cooper on this.) and the weekly shots have returned me to what passes for normal. But there are no guarantees that it will continue to be affordable or that it'll continue to ameliorate my condition.
At the end of Les Mis, which coincides with the end of Jean Valjean's life, he sees his daughter get married and he is overwhelmed with relief and love. About 2/3 of the way through the performance I had made the connection between Jean Valjean's epic journey and my atypical circumstances. Even though I'm mostly past the fear of my body grinding to a halt, Les Mis reminded me of the tremendous responsibility of getting my daughter into a sustainable adulthood. I was a lot more emotional at the end of that musical than probably any other male in the theater, most of whom were probably thinking, "What kind of glare will I get if I pull up ESPN on my iPhone right now?" MonsieurValjean, I know a little something of what this means.
I've had juvenile rheumatoid arthritis in my hips and knees since age 13. To keep this shorter than a Stephen King novel I'm going to summarize hip and knee JRA like this: it's a drag. But that ain't nothing compared to what arthritis is like when you get it in your back and neck, which is what happened to me in late spring of 2010. When arthritis moves into your back and neck it's known as the Scrabble-rific Ankylosing Spondylitis. During the day I could barely function; every movement hurt. At the office, I looked forward to conference calls because I could close my door, put my headset on, mutter something every once in a while, and the rest of the time put my head on the desk and simply try to exist. At night I was completely useless, the aches and pains so bad that I often went to bed at 7. Karen was thinking, "What, this is all I get?" My situation was obvious to most: over the years I've gotten good at disguising a limp but I couldn't hide the fact that I couldn't turn my neck.
Along similarly cheery lines, rarely has a story been more aptly named than Les Miserables. Justice and fairness were in short supply in early 1800s France and Jean Valjean enjoyed even less than the other dregs of society depicted by the actors. Pursued by Inspector Javert for most of his life for stealing a loaf of bread, Valjean finally carves out something of a life under an alias and agrees to adopt and care for the daughter of a woman whose own misery index was off the charts. Hey, let's set this zany story to music! His life becomes a crusade to protect and nurture the daughter, interspersed with a song here and there about how crummy things are.
Back to my miserables, the worst case scenario for hip and knee arthritis is joint replacement, something I had to consider as early as age 17 but have skated without so far. What has made me semi-normal over the years is fairly powerful anti-inflammatory medication. Helped with hangovers too. Unfortunately, it didn't make a dent in A.S. The worst case scenario for Ankylosing Spondylitis is, uh, you grind to a halt. There is no vertebrae replacement surgery. My doctor's proposed treatment cost $2000 per month and he wasn't sure it would work. I was staring complete disability right in the face.
It was easy to assume that there was no way I was going to live to an age where one gets to enjoy being cantakerous with this amount of wear and tear on my body. It was draining just to get through a day with minimal activity -- there was no way I could handle years of this. I started worrying about supporting my family. And that led to wondering how much of my daughter's life I was going to see. Again, I wasn't going to expire in the next couple months, but could my body take this beating for another 20 years? 10?
Seeing my daughter have kids? Maybe not. Seeing her get married? Iffy. That could easily be 20+ years from now. Jean Valjean protected his adopted daughter until he was certain she'd marry a decent fellow. In Napolean-era, lower-class France that was about the best a dad could do for his female offspring. If you simply kept her out of prostitution you were ahead of the game.
Goals are a bit loftier in our current age, Toddlers and Tiaras notwithstanding. I settled on getting her through college as the minimum for which I needed to stick around. At that point, my work is mostly done anyway and she should have the tools to make her way through life and figure out the rest. That meant squeezing out 12 or so more years and being able to work long enough to cover the Lexus-a-year tuition costs.
Arthritis is my Inspector Javert, the man who ruthlessly hunted and hounded Jean Valjean across decades. But arthritis won't throw itself off a bridge and it definitely won't bring the audience to its feet with a rousing solo. The provisional happy ending to my story is... the spendy medication is working for me. The manufacturer helps pay for it (And how much are they making on this if they're paying most of my costs to take it? Let's get Anderson Cooper on this.) and the weekly shots have returned me to what passes for normal. But there are no guarantees that it will continue to be affordable or that it'll continue to ameliorate my condition.
At the end of Les Mis, which coincides with the end of Jean Valjean's life, he sees his daughter get married and he is overwhelmed with relief and love. About 2/3 of the way through the performance I had made the connection between Jean Valjean's epic journey and my atypical circumstances. Even though I'm mostly past the fear of my body grinding to a halt, Les Mis reminded me of the tremendous responsibility of getting my daughter into a sustainable adulthood. I was a lot more emotional at the end of that musical than probably any other male in the theater, most of whom were probably thinking, "What kind of glare will I get if I pull up ESPN on my iPhone right now?" MonsieurValjean, I know a little something of what this means.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Dave's 2012 New Year's Resolutions
1. Get my Milli Vanilli tribute band back together again.
2. Ask Derek Jeter to stop pestering me for advice with the ladies.
3. Less leather pants, more leather chaps.
4. Find words that rhyme with "Connecticut" for my new book of limericks.
5. Wear a cape and mask when I use my super power. What's my super power? Blowing through an annual medical deductible before the end of January.
6. Dance in public less than the 1 time I did in 2011.
7. 1 less heat-driven, tequila-accelerated trip to the ER.
8. Play a round of golf where I don't lose a single ball. Bwah-hah-hah! Who am I kidding? No chance.
9. Finally enforce my patent on the comma. Better lawyer up, folks!
2. Ask Derek Jeter to stop pestering me for advice with the ladies.
3. Less leather pants, more leather chaps.
4. Find words that rhyme with "Connecticut" for my new book of limericks.
5. Wear a cape and mask when I use my super power. What's my super power? Blowing through an annual medical deductible before the end of January.
6. Dance in public less than the 1 time I did in 2011.
7. 1 less heat-driven, tequila-accelerated trip to the ER.
8. Play a round of golf where I don't lose a single ball. Bwah-hah-hah! Who am I kidding? No chance.
9. Finally enforce my patent on the comma. Better lawyer up, folks!
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
How Jenna Got Her Name
September-ish, 1999
Brian is visiting the basement of Carl Ancestral Manor which at the time is located in Minnetonka. We're watching the Vikings attempt to recreate the magic of the 1998 season in a fashion that is insufficiently juggernaut-ish. Randall Cunningham has inexplicably and abruptly lost his mojo and the specter of Jeff George looms large. Karen is nearing the "get this thing out of me" stage of pregnancy.
Brian: "So you're having a girl. What are you going to name her?"
Me, absent-mindedly contemplating a career switch to Mojo Recapture and Rehabilitation: "Alexis."
Brian, doing what all friends of guys do (i.e., cause trouble where previously there was none): "Oooooh. Sexy Lexy."
Me, quite alarmed: "HONEY!! What's next on the name list?!?! Alexis is out!"
Brian is visiting the basement of Carl Ancestral Manor which at the time is located in Minnetonka. We're watching the Vikings attempt to recreate the magic of the 1998 season in a fashion that is insufficiently juggernaut-ish. Randall Cunningham has inexplicably and abruptly lost his mojo and the specter of Jeff George looms large. Karen is nearing the "get this thing out of me" stage of pregnancy.
Brian: "So you're having a girl. What are you going to name her?"
Me, absent-mindedly contemplating a career switch to Mojo Recapture and Rehabilitation: "Alexis."
Brian, doing what all friends of guys do (i.e., cause trouble where previously there was none): "Oooooh. Sexy Lexy."
Me, quite alarmed: "HONEY!! What's next on the name list?!?! Alexis is out!"
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Post Script
Avid readers of this space know that several months ago we acquired front row tickets to see the Irish band The Script. After a health-related postponement by the lead singer led to a rescheduling back in June, the day of the concert finally arrived last week.
Our seats were preposterously close to the stage. Not only were we in the front row but we were in the center of the row. I couldn't even manage the front row in the early days of my friend Jeremy's band, Tina and the B-Sides, when they were playing venues like The Rajun Cajun in Mendota Heights. The front 4 rows occupied what is normally the orchestra pit at The Orpheum. Our seats were temporary folding chairs while the unwashed masses behind us were in the normal tiered seating of the theater. Chumps. Our front row brethren consisted of the following: two teen-age girls (more on them later), a couple EVEN OLDER than we are, a mother and an ear-plugged daughter, a handful of late 20s women and a guy who fell into the category of The Bemused and Accommodating Boyfriend. He and I and others of the same ilk -- we shared a bond that night.
At this point I still barely knew anything about The Script. I was aware they were Irish and knew they had a few alt. rock songs getting quite a bit of airplay. For those of you thinking to yourself, "I don't know any Script songs," well, you do. Unless you belong to a cult that forbids FM radio you've heard at least this song (lyrics kick in around the minute mark). But I still didn't know what they looked like. They could have grabbed 3 busboys from Crave and the Orpheum's custodian and trotted them out and I would have yelled "Woo-hoo yeah! Let's rock!"
Eventually the lights dimmed and the band came out and I deemed them to be sufficiently rock-and-roll-y and Irish-y and therefore authentically The Script. They were all nice, clean-cut blokes but when the lead singer came out I had a greater understanding of The Script's appeal. Sure they've got some popular tunes but the lead singer and keyboardist, Danny, is a good-looking gent. When he sings his heartbreaking love songs the ladies think he's singing to them. Lads, I'm on to you.
Here's how I would describe Danny and I don't mean this as a backhanded compliment. He looked like a guy Disney would look for when they needed an actor to play a teenage boy-band heartthrob and found a mid-20s guy to act with the other mid-20's actors in what is supposed to be a teen drama. Anyone with a girl under 12 knows what I'm talking about. He's attractive, seems earnest, keeps hair product companies flush, and you could bring him home to momma. But he can certainly sing and write good songs and you can't blame him for being good-looking.
Danny O'Donoghue , lead singer of The Script and future star of High School Musical 4
A quick perusal of the swath of audience behind us revealed the crowd to be 75% female. The women were intensely focused on the band and the music. They were singing along to all the songs, even the ones that haven't seen the light of day on the radio. They were enthralled. Some of these women brought along their boyfriends and husbands. If they didn't know entering the theater that their significant other had a little crush on Danny, they knew it now. The guys kinda swayed to the music and looked on benignly while their wide-eyed women gawked at the stage. This was all harmless because no one was going to run off with the band, so the guys were Bemused and Accommodating.
Back to the front row. I didn't know the lyrics but I didn't want to seem like a completely un-hip tool. That role was being ably filled by the EVEN OLDER GUY two seats to my right. I wanted to make a good impression for Minneapolis. I wanted to represent. So I pretended to mouth the lyrics as best as possible. Unfortunately there's nowhere to hide when you're 2 feet from the lead singer. We were so close that I could have grabbed Danny and dragged him down to be devoured by the females before security could react. The music was a little lighter-weight than I prefer but reasonably enjoyable so I wasn't faking my enthusiasm, just my knowledge of their lyrics. Luckily the lead singer hardly noticed me because of...
...the two teen-age girls next to me. Oh my goodness gracious they were going absolutely apeshit for Danny. As soon as the band came out they started screaming that high-pitched girlie scream that drowns out banks of amplifiers and makes dogs hide under beds. Armed with a sign asking Danny to bring them up on stage for a kiss, they were doing everything possible to attract his attention: jumping up and down, reaching for him, and crowding the stage the entire concert. If you check out that Breakeven video again you can see them pressed up against the stage in the center of the front row. Around the 1:08 mark they raise their hands when Danny walks by, hoping for a low-five and an exchange of incidental DNA with their idol. The tall-ish guy in a blue shirt behind them who looks like a tool is me.
Immediately following the concert, in acknowledgement for their ardor yet aware of their jailbait status, a roadie handed them the setlist but no invitation backstage. The girls squealed "He touched it!" and they weren't referring to the poor roadie. I don't know how they reconciled sharing the one item between the two of them. I fear it may get rent in two in a fit of teen puppy-love jealousy someday.
Remember the mother/daughter pair I mentioned earlier? The matching father and son were also at the concert but they were in the 4th row. It is no accident that the wife ended up in the front row and the husband was further from the stage. Bemused and accommodating.
The band, and especially the guitarist, were clearly influenced by U2 and there is no shame in that. Several songs had guitar riffs reminiscent of The Edge's church bells-like sustained notes. And Danny's voice echoed Bono's tone on occasion. Any Irish band from the last 15 years is sure to have some thread of U2 running through them. U2's done OK.
Guitarist Mark Sheehan, the Irish Chris Daughtry
Was the concert worth the price we paid for the tickets? That doesn't matter. We had a great time and we got to make a donation to a good cause. Some Script songs will make their way to my ipod eventually. Karen was certainly pleased and she giddily shows her friends the pictures she snapped. And now she's dropping hints about wanting to see The Script in another city...
Our seats were preposterously close to the stage. Not only were we in the front row but we were in the center of the row. I couldn't even manage the front row in the early days of my friend Jeremy's band, Tina and the B-Sides, when they were playing venues like The Rajun Cajun in Mendota Heights. The front 4 rows occupied what is normally the orchestra pit at The Orpheum. Our seats were temporary folding chairs while the unwashed masses behind us were in the normal tiered seating of the theater. Chumps. Our front row brethren consisted of the following: two teen-age girls (more on them later), a couple EVEN OLDER than we are, a mother and an ear-plugged daughter, a handful of late 20s women and a guy who fell into the category of The Bemused and Accommodating Boyfriend. He and I and others of the same ilk -- we shared a bond that night.
At this point I still barely knew anything about The Script. I was aware they were Irish and knew they had a few alt. rock songs getting quite a bit of airplay. For those of you thinking to yourself, "I don't know any Script songs," well, you do. Unless you belong to a cult that forbids FM radio you've heard at least this song (lyrics kick in around the minute mark). But I still didn't know what they looked like. They could have grabbed 3 busboys from Crave and the Orpheum's custodian and trotted them out and I would have yelled "Woo-hoo yeah! Let's rock!"
Eventually the lights dimmed and the band came out and I deemed them to be sufficiently rock-and-roll-y and Irish-y and therefore authentically The Script. They were all nice, clean-cut blokes but when the lead singer came out I had a greater understanding of The Script's appeal. Sure they've got some popular tunes but the lead singer and keyboardist, Danny, is a good-looking gent. When he sings his heartbreaking love songs the ladies think he's singing to them. Lads, I'm on to you.
Here's how I would describe Danny and I don't mean this as a backhanded compliment. He looked like a guy Disney would look for when they needed an actor to play a teenage boy-band heartthrob and found a mid-20s guy to act with the other mid-20's actors in what is supposed to be a teen drama. Anyone with a girl under 12 knows what I'm talking about. He's attractive, seems earnest, keeps hair product companies flush, and you could bring him home to momma. But he can certainly sing and write good songs and you can't blame him for being good-looking.
Danny O'Donoghue , lead singer of The Script and future star of High School Musical 4
A quick perusal of the swath of audience behind us revealed the crowd to be 75% female. The women were intensely focused on the band and the music. They were singing along to all the songs, even the ones that haven't seen the light of day on the radio. They were enthralled. Some of these women brought along their boyfriends and husbands. If they didn't know entering the theater that their significant other had a little crush on Danny, they knew it now. The guys kinda swayed to the music and looked on benignly while their wide-eyed women gawked at the stage. This was all harmless because no one was going to run off with the band, so the guys were Bemused and Accommodating.
Back to the front row. I didn't know the lyrics but I didn't want to seem like a completely un-hip tool. That role was being ably filled by the EVEN OLDER GUY two seats to my right. I wanted to make a good impression for Minneapolis. I wanted to represent. So I pretended to mouth the lyrics as best as possible. Unfortunately there's nowhere to hide when you're 2 feet from the lead singer. We were so close that I could have grabbed Danny and dragged him down to be devoured by the females before security could react. The music was a little lighter-weight than I prefer but reasonably enjoyable so I wasn't faking my enthusiasm, just my knowledge of their lyrics. Luckily the lead singer hardly noticed me because of...
...the two teen-age girls next to me. Oh my goodness gracious they were going absolutely apeshit for Danny. As soon as the band came out they started screaming that high-pitched girlie scream that drowns out banks of amplifiers and makes dogs hide under beds. Armed with a sign asking Danny to bring them up on stage for a kiss, they were doing everything possible to attract his attention: jumping up and down, reaching for him, and crowding the stage the entire concert. If you check out that Breakeven video again you can see them pressed up against the stage in the center of the front row. Around the 1:08 mark they raise their hands when Danny walks by, hoping for a low-five and an exchange of incidental DNA with their idol. The tall-ish guy in a blue shirt behind them who looks like a tool is me.
Immediately following the concert, in acknowledgement for their ardor yet aware of their jailbait status, a roadie handed them the setlist but no invitation backstage. The girls squealed "He touched it!" and they weren't referring to the poor roadie. I don't know how they reconciled sharing the one item between the two of them. I fear it may get rent in two in a fit of teen puppy-love jealousy someday.
Remember the mother/daughter pair I mentioned earlier? The matching father and son were also at the concert but they were in the 4th row. It is no accident that the wife ended up in the front row and the husband was further from the stage. Bemused and accommodating.
The band, and especially the guitarist, were clearly influenced by U2 and there is no shame in that. Several songs had guitar riffs reminiscent of The Edge's church bells-like sustained notes. And Danny's voice echoed Bono's tone on occasion. Any Irish band from the last 15 years is sure to have some thread of U2 running through them. U2's done OK.
Guitarist Mark Sheehan, the Irish Chris Daughtry
Was the concert worth the price we paid for the tickets? That doesn't matter. We had a great time and we got to make a donation to a good cause. Some Script songs will make their way to my ipod eventually. Karen was certainly pleased and she giddily shows her friends the pictures she snapped. And now she's dropping hints about wanting to see The Script in another city...
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