Pop songs = terrible poetry

Catchy? Yes. Well performed? Sometimes. Poetry? I don't think so.

For years now pop songs have been getting worse and worse when it comes to writing. They all talk about the same things (namely sex, cheating boyfriends, sex, and alcohol) and everything they have to say has been said at least a thousand times by previous generations. Obviously though, they don't really care about that; most pop stars don't even write their own music. And no one listens to them for the lyrics - that has been made clear by hordes of innocent young teens who roam around the mall singing their favorite songs, oblivious of their explicit content, to the chagrin of the occasional passerby with morals (not that there are many of those anymore). Clearly it's all about the tune and the beat.

But we must demand more in terms of artistry. I don't pretend to think we could sway the trend towards depravity in "art" and "music" with much ease because no one these days thinks the songs' topics are depraved; however, even the most base of pop aficionados can have his intellect insulted. And I truly believe that pop songs have reached a new low in lyrical quality that requires mass protest.

I listen to NPR in the morning on the way to work to stay up to date on the news, but I often flip all over the place during their brief commercials. Recently I happened upon Star 94, Atlanta's biggest pop station, during one of these surveys and was nearly instantly appalled by the song I heard. It was Beyoncé, and from my trips to various public places, I had heard the song before, but never really listened to its words. This time, though, I realized that in her "Irreplaceable" she ever so cleverly rhymes "minute" with "minute." Yes indeed. She could have chosen all sorts of things: skin it, in it, bend it. In fact, I would have even been satisfied with any phrase ending in "it." But no - she just took the same word and used it again. Atrocity!

But then it happened again, and this one takes the prize for complete lack of lyricism. Kid Rock, in some song about summer (and sex, and drugs, among others), rhymes "things" with "things." ..... ..... Unbelievable. "Things" hardly even counts as a word. I cannot think of any other utterance that I would consider less artistic. So not only did he rhyme a word with itself, he also chose the absolute refuse of language with which to commit his crime. How in-deliciously low.

You know, I realize I might be coming across a bit harsh here. It's true, I abhor this kind of mock artistry. This is one time I simply cannot apologize for my description. If there was any chance of mistake, of accident in these instances, I would recant. But there isn't! No one says you must rhyme. Songs without rhyme can be perfectly artistic and beautiful, and the two examples above would have been infinitely better if they had just avoided the rhymes altogether - these singers had to purposefully insert the paltry pairs. And that is why they cannot be forgiven.

My proposal is to banish said singers and others who emulate them to Antarctica - penguins are famously patient and have the best chance of putting up with the antics of these would-be artists. At least, I do hope, dear reader, that you will not withstand such pathetic poetry. It would be terrific if singers became less popular as they descend to baseness, but since that doesn't happen, the least we can do is protest when they insult our sense of art and beauty. So if you agree, post a comment on this article - it will be our de facto petition for Antarctic deportation.

Which god shall I be today, Brain?

In honor of tomorrow (Thursday) I am thinking of dressing up like a Viking, complete with red paste-on beard and plastic battle axe. Then Friday I will adorn myself with various jewels and parade around town stopping at strategic locales for photo-ops. Saturday I will cover myself in sack cloth and ashes and sit outside the city gate in the dark where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

And so it will continue - I encourage you to join me, dear reader, in my honor of the days. We have month or week-long holidays for just about everything, so why not add a week to honor the week! After all, it's not often you happen upon words in English containing "dn" in a single morpheme (Wednesday). It's cause to celebrate!

For those of you who may not know, all of our days of the week are named after gods or significant objects in mythology. You might not catch it quite so well in English as in the Romance languages where the days are linked to Roman gods, but indeed, most of our days of the week are named for Norse gods. Here's how it plays out:

Sunday - the sun's day
Monday - the moon's day (ok, still no Norse gods, just keep going!)
Tuesday - Tyr's day
Wednesday - Woden's day
Thursday - Thor's day
Friday - Frigg's day
Saturday - Saturn's day

So the first two days are fairly obvious, but who on earth is Tyr? He happens to be a god of fighting and heroes in Scandinavian folklore. This coincides nicely with French and Spanish mardi and martes, both refering to Mars, the Roman god of war. Wodin (or Odin) was the chief god of the Norse, a mysterious one-eyed magician who was consumed by a yearning for wisdom. The corresponding days in Romance languages actually point to Mercury as their basis, the one significant difference between English and the Latin offspring.

Then of course comes Thor, the rash, hammer-wielding man's man. He is likened with Jupiter (jueves, jeudi) in the Roman pantheon likely because of the association with thunder. We know Jupiter to be a bearer of lightning bolts due to the impeccably researched, faultless to a "T," live footage movie of Hercules, by Disney. They released the movie with Roman nomenclature in Italy, of course, which I happened to see with a number of history professors as a wandering 8 year old - I just took the grand tour a little early, that's all. The point being, the professors could find no fault in the movie, even noting that the original English dubbing was actually historically accurate; they cited the recently discovered Ovid manuscript in which he admits English to be his first language.

I could go on with my rambling, but the information is readily accessible just about anywhere (might I suggest Wikipedia, verily an equal to Disney in every way). I just think we should have more fun with life - live a little - pretend to be Thor for a day....minus the smashing people with a hammer.

Of Brooms and Stones

On cold winter days, there is nothing I like to do more than to go outside, find a large stone, and slide it with finesse across a frozen pond. But if I can't find an adequate rock, taking a broom to that frozen expanse is almost as good. In my dreams anyway. Maybe if I lived in Sweden instead of Georgia.

You may be wondering what on earth I am talking about, and you would be justified. If you are perplexed by my sporting wishes, let me be the first to tell you of the best of obscure sports: curling. It is a truly obscure sport, especially in the southern United States where long-standing ice is rare in winter. But curling almost seems to be famous for its obscurity, a delightful paradox. As far as I know, the sport was developed by the Scottish, no doubt in an attempt to fill the bitterly cold winters with something exciting. The plenitude of lochs must have had something to do with it also. Regardless of its origins, it is amazing, so let me fill you in on its wonders.

Basically, you have a large smooth stone with a handle on it, and you have to slide it along the equivalent of an ice shuffleboard into the center of a target. Sounds easy enough. But the strategy can become quickly complicated because competing teams alternate turns. You may launch your stone precisely into the bullseye only to be dislodged by the next team. To heighten the competition, two members of each team are allowed to use brooms (and yes, they really used regular old brooms back in the day) to brush the ice in front of the stone as it hurtles (gently) towards the target. At first I was skeptical that this would have any effect, but I have seen sliding stones spin and twirl behind the able guidance of British broomsmen, among others.

Although I had first heard of the sport in high school as a look-what-I-know anecdote from a rightfully proud classmate, I did not experience the thrills of curling until my college days at UGA. There, due to the misfortune of 8 o'clock classes, I was drawn to the dining hall at ungodly hours with some of my cohorts. It was winter 2006, and the UGA dining staff had set up a projection screen in O-House dining hall to provide non-stop Olympic coverage. Of course, curling did not have quite the following to merit primetime scheduling, so my friends and I would encounter this stone ballet on ice every morning amidst our juice and cereal. We didn't think much of the sport initially - it appeared to require the patience of cricket and was, frankly, quite silly-looking. It's not often one sees grown men and women gliding stones over the ice and frantically brushing away unseen obstacles as if to save their lives. But every morning as we battled our way through endless preliminary rounds followed by the semis and finals, we all became more and more engrossed. We knew which teams had what it took; we knew the basic strategies employed by the epic broomsmen; we even knew that they were stones, not rocks. We knew this was no sport for wimps - this was the sport of champions.

But more importantly, we were bound together by our shared experience of this unforeseeable icy tournament. And not only my group of friends, but all the other students who shared our frozen universe every morning. It was so clear who deserved to win, who was the noblest and finest of them all. In this case, the Americans had no chance for gold (although the men won a very respectable bronze), but we cheered them on nonetheless, for they were us, through and through American. And in fact, our solidarity reached far beyond our little dining hall. At a school so fiercely competitive and proud of its football team, this was the one time we knew that we were one (as blasphemous as it may sound) with all of our Saturday evening enemies. All of us, across America, were joined in hopes of eternal curling glory. It was truly a unique, wonderful experience.

This scene was repeated at a completely different level this year as Michael Phelps swam for golden history. And what awe-inspiring moments he and his teammates produced with their electrifying comebacks, hundredth of a second victories, and even the complete blow-outs. At no other time in my life have I felt such unity with my countrymen, together as one behind one young athlete, hoping he would get that next medal. I know I was not alone in this sentiment.

As special as his triumph was, what happened back home in the US was even greater. I was not around for the era of the large-scale wars of the 20th century; I do not know what it is like to be united by a global war in which every family has a son or daughter helping the cause against Naziism and Fascism. In fact, the recent wars we have fought have been completely the opposite - they have polarized our nation.

So when I stumble unknowingly into the raptures of curling, or when I knowingly hope for Phelpsian records, I am really making an appeal to my homeland, an appeal for unity. And my countrymen respond with brilliance. Beyond all the politics, the personal enmity and everything else that divides our blessed nation, some things rise above. So cherish the memories of these Olympics and others gone, and remember that patriotism need not hibernate until London.

Autumn

It's official; autumn comes early this year. For the past two weeks I have been noticing the breeze drop ever so slightly in temperature and the normally humid heat be replaced with surprisingly pleasant warmth. For Georgia (where I live), this change is almost unheard of. August is usually the hottest month of the year. Heat from the summer builds up constantly and then lingers at the boiling point all throughout the month. At least, that is what I have come to expect in my fifteen years in what I feel to be my home state. But this year things are different.

I had been contemplating this change for the past few weeks but was unready to document it until today. I tend towards over-enthusiasm rather often, so when I felt autumn (probably my favorite season) coming on a few weeks ago, I doubted myself. If anyone was going to grasp at false alarms, it would be me. But today my wife mentioned that there was indeed something different in the air, so now I have reason to believe. And even if heat waves follow on the heels of the turning tide, I will nonetheless feel autumn in my soul henceforth.

Autumn is a special time of year for me, conjuring up all that I consider peaceful and beautiful. Mild warmth in the day followed by the brisk chill of the night and early morning - this is the best of all natural cycles. I spent four years at the University of Georgia and I always remember walking around the Myers quad very late at night in autumn, letting the contrasts of my fleece's warm interior and the surrounding cold equalize and pour a peace over me. And to me, peace is slightly melancholic.

Even before there were "good old days" for me to long for, this time of year always produced that very longing in me. It was always nostalgic and wonderful. Whether I was recalling the beginning of my college days, a hiking trip in Helen, or my late night quad ambles, autumn has always been a time to return to the past. The trees reveal it best of course; the beauty of their demise is the perfect reminder of good things gone by.

But of course, nostalgia is bittersweet, and that is what I love about it. I have long held that America has forsaken the joy to be found in timely melancholia. I do not intend to promote sadness, but rather the peace that only comes from relishing good memories instead of longing for their repeat. We in America have come to expect instant gratification in all realms of life, whether it be overnight deliveries or instant food, we demand what we want, how we want it, now. Perhaps that is why many have forgotten the joy of taking a long walk, remembering times past, and loving every moment. Those times can never come again so why spend time and energy trying to wish them back into the present, right? In fact, no. The fact that they are gone forever is what makes them most precious. That day hiking in the woods with loved ones followed by an unexpected chill and humorously unappetizing food at the local restaurant - it is worth so much because it can never be duplicated.

So maybe the joy of nostalgia is fading in America because people do not like to dwell on good things they can never have again in exactly the same way. But I think many people do in fact enjoy remembering the good old days. Now I think the problem is that everyone is so consumed with work and money that we simply fail to make those memories in the first place. No more family road trips, no more dinners together, no more conversation in the car - we want entertainment that will not cause us unfortunately bittersweet memories. We only dine on the sugar-coated foods of life. But if we took a chance on the more acquired tastes of life, we would realize that the bittersweet memories of time-consuming, non-media events are what really stick around.

Palindromes

Palindromes are amazing, there is simply no other way to put it. I can think of no other form of language (or math, in a way) that is often ridiculous but nonetheless logical and impeccably organized. In case you are unfamiliar with palindromes, the most common form spells the same thing backwards as it does forwards. An easy example is "racecar," which is still "racecar" if you turn it around.

Well, today I had a bit of free time and found myself thinking about palindromes. So I decided to try my hand at creating one or two. My favorites are old classics that are absolutely absurd yet lovely, like "Go hang a salami; I'm a lasagna hog" and "Satan - oscillate my metallic sonatas." Using the words "lasagna" and "oscillate" seem like the upper reaches of palindrome creation. Perhaps one day I will find myself in those celestial heights, but until then, I will settle for the lower world. Here is what I came up with on my first try:

"Do not spill; lilac it. Carpet a colossal lasso. Locate practical ill lips to nod."

I was not terribly pleased with this one, though; using "lilac" as a verb just does not satisfy my verbal cravings. So I decided to try again:

"Go home! Decide! Rob a salad! Alas! A bored, iced, emo hog!"

Too bad I've never met an emo hog in person, but at least I didn't verbalize any nouns. And I give myself extra marks for all the exclamation ! points. (I actually despise superfluous exclamation points, just to be clear.)

Clearly I have not perfected my palindromic skills, but I will try again soon and let you see what I come up with. Until then, let me leave you with another, more perfected word art. I can't take credit for this one, but I hope you enjoy:

Haikus are easy,
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator

Opening Ceremonies

Welcome to The JP Survey! This is my first blog and it may take some getting used to, but I intend to use it as a place to post my thoughts and musings on a variety of topics. I will never be satisfied with a life devoted to only one or two areas of thought, so here I will pursue the interests that I cannot in my professional life. You can expect to see reflections on physics, music, philosophy, science, literature, poetry, mathematics, linguistics, history, and anything else that catches my fancy. You may also see word games, trivia, or other random things. I hope you enjoy my blog, and I welcome your comments to the posted email address.