"Dope, Drink and Tonic" or "The Other Cola Wars"

I was raised by and around linguists, and thus heard murmurings regarding the competing merits of the words "pop" and "soda" throughout my childhood. I never paid them much heed; in fact I suspected it was a fake disagreement, like the University of Chicago's annual Latke-Hamantash debate, or perhaps some epiphenomenon of the then-raging Cola Wars. I thought to myself, "What's the big deal? They're both perfectly neutral and interchangeable terms."

Then I left the comforts of Chicago for college and was confronted by a dormitory full of Californians and Northeasterners who would howl with derision and displeasure any time I said "pop." Suddenly it occured to me that there was something to this matter. I asked around a little, discovered the (to me) surprising Southern use of "coke" as a generic term, as in "7-Up is my favorite kind of coke." Upon further reflection I realized that while "soda" struck me as a neutral term, one that I would never notice someone else using, I would never utter it myself. Ultimately I formed a more-or-less accurate mental map, with "coke" in the South, "soda" in the Northeast and California, and "pop" in the Midwest and Pacific Northwest.

Fast forward to last year, when I found the following map, (which the Chocolate Lady mentioned in a recent comment):


Beautiful, isn't it? I should mention that maps are a lifelong passion; give me an atlas and I can stay happy and entertained for hours.

Why do I love this map so much? Mostly because the data is so clearly presented; you don't need any isoglosses artificially thrown in, especially in the East where population is dense and counties small. The quality and clarity of the data is all the more remarkable given the incredibly scientific sampling method: the data comes from a website that had a form for visitors to fill out. That's it. Such beauty from such humble origins. What this shows is that this is an entrenched lexical difference in American vernacular speech, and moreover one that involves frequently used words -- in classical American dialectology, the reliance upon obscure terms borders on the ridiculous: "What do you call an oblong barrel for fermenting barley in -- a jim-wheelie [That's the Midland term] or a huck-pot [the Southern one]?" Okay, I made that up. Anyways, whoever you are, wherever you're from, if you're American you use a word for sweet carbonated non-alcoholic beverages that reflects where you are from more than anything else.

A few remarks about the map itself. First off, the distribution of "coke" is an amazingly good indicator of southernness. Not only does it skip over the heart of Appalachia (West Virginia, Eastern Kentucky), but it includes the "Hoosier apex," that is, the part of southern Indiana that Hans Kurath considered a northerly outpost of Southern dialect. Furthermore, Maryland's Eastern Shore, the most culturally Southern part of the state is an isolated "coke" area. In contrast, the pop/soda isogloss does not fit neatly with any cultural isoglosses I know of. And as a pop-sayer myself, I look with pride on the grand stretch of blue from western New York all the way to Seattle.

Notice also the sort of indeterminate area in North Carolina where "soda" and "coke" meet. This is due to two different local terms, "dope" and "drink." I think this proves what I suspect Walt Wolfram of believing, that North Carolina is the weirdest part of the country, dialectologically speaking. That the Boston area has a lower percentage of "soda" sayers is due to another localism, "tonic." I asked a Bostonian friend if he knew the term, and he said, "Sure. Gym teachers say it." I think that's an interesting sociological observation right there. For my part, I always associated a strong Chicago dialect with car-salesmen. Though now that I think about it, gym teachers weren't far behind. I always thought that Coach Z talked exactly like a coach should. Then I realized he was supposed to have a Chicago accent.

Also noteworthy are the two "soda" islands in the Midwest, one in eastern Wisconsin and another in a large area roughly centered on St. Louis. I can only speculate about why they exist, but I can relate that people from these areas have told me that for them "soda" is a prestigious term that they associate with urbanites, while hicks say "pop." This makes sense, since the eastern Missouri/southwestern Illinois soda island radiates out from a major city (St. Louis), and eastern Wisconsin one divides the more urban, industrial eastern part of the state from the rural, agrarian west.

Finally, I think I now understand why I failed to see any real distinction between "soda" and "pop." While I was from the heart of the "pop" zone, I was exposed to mass American culture, which is produced in the "soda" saying lands of California and the Northeast. Thus "soda" seemed so acceptable to me that I didn't even know I didn't say it.

A footnote about Coach Z: although his Chicago dialect (or maybe just Inland Northern, though his dental fricatives do border on plosives) is not bad -- certainly not much worse than that of the Superfans -- the feature of his speech that gets the most attention is an exaggeration of a Midland one.

Caption Contest #37

"This isn't what we meant by trial in absentia."

A bit obvious, I know.

Northumbrian Burr

If you've never heard it before, and even if you have, you may do so here. Moribund, unfortunately, and hard to find nowadays even among the very elderly. Wild, no?

Happy Birthday Wolfgang!

1. If Mozart were alive today, he would be blowing out 250 candles at the Composers' Rest Home.

2. Like his father Leopold, Wolfgang had a misshapen ear. Because of this, the congenital fusion of the crura of the anthelix and the helix has come to be known as a "Mozart ear."

3. Mozart died at the age of 35 in Vienna. I read somewhere that the life expectancy for a resident of Vienna in the late 18th century was 35 years, so in some sense he didn't die young. On the other hand, such statistics take into account infant mortality, so the fact that the life expectancy was 35 years doesn't entail that 35 was a typical age to die at.

4. Apparently his favorite food was trout. I'm guessing Schubert liked trout too. Both composers died in their thirties in Vienna; maybe it wasn't such a good idea to eat trout right out of the Danube back then.

Why We Don't Say Chicago The Way We Think We Do

There was recently a bit of discussion at Language Log over the new term "blawg," meaning a law blog. Mark Liberman remarked that "blawg" and "blog" are pronouced the same, but Benjamin Zimmer responded that they only sound the same if you have the "cot/caught" merger, in which there is no distinction in pronunciation between these two vowels, and hance between the two words. Generally, this merger has occurred in the "midlands," that is, in stripe from the mid-Atlantic states westward. The merger tends to be more common the farther west you are. Wikipedia has the following map, which is pretty nice:


In this map the blue lines enclose the areas where the vowels are fully distinct, and the green lines enclose the areas where they are completely merged. The rest is either transitional or there is insufficient data.

Me, I'm from solidly blue turf. So I thought about it a while, and realized that I use the same vowel for "blog" and "law," namely the vowel from "caught." Thus, I would pronounce "blog" and "blawg" the same, but not "cot" and "caught." Sure enough, John Lawler, who's from the same neck of the woods as me, (I'm from the spinal column of the woods, he's from the esophagus) wrote in to the same effect.

So I got to thinking about all the trouble this merger gets us Chicagoans into. Not like the trouble a different vowel merger causes for a Philadelphian friend of mine, who insists on having her name pronounced "Carrie" with a lax /a/, not "Care-y" with tense /a/, even though I can barely produce this sound. No, the trouble stems from how our dialect is stereotyped. Cast your memory back, if you will, to the SNL skit "The Superfans" - you know, the one with the Chicagoans who discuss the Bears and Bulls in an exaggerated dialect while feasting on something they call "Polish sassage." This always rang a false note with me, and now I know why. Sure, Chicagoans ואני בתוכם front the /ah/ vowel to the point that "hot" could be mistaken by an outsider for "hat," but "sausage" has a different vowel, which doesn't get fronted. But to all those folks from within the green lines on the map above (lines which strike me, I must say, as conservative), "sausage" and "hot" have the same vowel, so if Chicagoans say "hat" for "hot," shouldn't we say "sassage?" But we don't. We may say "cat" for "cot," but not for "caught."

A good number of the actors who played the Superfans were Chicagoans or from the Chicago area - George Wendt, Joe Mantegna, Chris Farley. On the other hand, Farley grew up in Southern California, and Mike Myers, who it must be said has a decent ear for dialects, nevertheless hails from solidly cot/caught merging Canada. My suspicion is that the latter two actors suggested "sassage," and the Chicagoans didn't pick up on the wrongness of it, trusting Farley's Chicago roots and Myers's facility with accents. But the bottom line is that, as any good student of language knows, intuition is no substitute for data; language is so complex that as speakers we are unaware of how we speak. Just because we Chicagoans don't say "sassage" doesn't mean we know we don't. Case in point? Ask just about any Chicagoan what the locals call the city, and they will immediately reply "Chicaahgo." But that just ain't true. Listen to this sample from York University. Wait until the end. Hear that? That's how we say it. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise.

Ephemera and Miscellany

First, two anecdotes:

1. I was in the grocery store and the Eddie Money song "Take Me Home Tonight" came on. Now, I'm sure this song has its merits, but they're lost on me. But one thing caught my eye. Ear. There's a part of the song I'd never thought about where he sings "Just like Ronnie sang:" and then a female voice chimes in, "Be my little baby." Now this is, of course, a reference to the Ronettes classic "Be My Baby," which many (myslef among them) consider one of the best pop songs of the era. Brian Wilson, in fact, listened to it obsessively, until he became convinced it contained secret messages for him meant to drive him mad. A good song'll do that to ya. So Eddie Money is employing a cute trick, and one that I'm overfond of, which is weaving lines from well-known songs into one's own songs. Quoting, some call it. But what suddenly struck me was that the female voice was none other than that of Ronnie Spector herself. In other words, how cool must it be to be Eddie Money? (Boy, I never thought I'd say that.) Seriously, to put a reference to "Be My Baby" in a song and get Ronnie Spector to sing it? Almost makes me like the song.

2. Later that day I was in the park (it's been unseasonably warm here in New York) and I passed by a father who was saying to his kid, "You hafta finish your pop." It's not just that he said pop, although that particular non-count noun is certainly a rara avis in these parts (Soon I'll post on pop/soda/coke. I have, as we say in Yinglish, what to say on this topic). But it was also the "hafta," raising the /ae/ through the damn roof. Warmed this Chicagoan's heart. I almost went over and talked to him, but then I remembered all the other times I did things like that, and how it was never a good idea.

Now two facts that delight me whenever I think about them:

1. Ever think about the word 'em? As in "Take 'em out of the oven and put 'em on the table." I always assumed it was a contraction of "them." But since when can you drop a "th" from the beginning of a word? In fact, 'em is a relic of an entirely different pronoun, hem. How cool is that? It's a well known fact, but one I love. And though 'em may seem weird, folksy or extremely casual written out, I don't know any native speaker of American English who doesn't say it. Oh yes, of course I have data to back up that claim.

2. There's a song that I used to hear all the time on the radio called "Blinded By The Light," whose claim to fame is that there's a line where the singer seems to sing "douche." He doesn't. The real line, as penned by the songwriter, who happens to be Bruce Springsteen, is "Wrapped up like a deuce/ Another runner in the night." [or rather "Revved up"]

The famous version of the song, the one where the singer seems to sing "douche," is by Manfred Mann, who, years earlier, he had been the drummer in a band called Manfred Mann, who had a hit with the song "Do Wah Diddy Diddy" (originally by the Exciters, who are quite good). Got that - Manfred Mann was in a band called Manfred Mann. Now, in an organized record store (which is right next to my data proving all Americans say 'em), individual musicians are alphabetized, unsurprisingly, by last name, while band names are alphabetized by first letter. Thus Jethro Tull is under J, whereas if Jethro Tull had taken a break from inventing the seed drill in 1701 to go cut an album, it would be under T. So if you're looking for "Do Wah Diddy Diddy," look under "Manfred," but if you want "Blinded By The Light," look under "Mann." Which is right next to "Manfred," usually.

As for Manfred Mann, he's originally from South Africa. Oh yeah, and his real name is Michael Lubowitz.

Caption Contest #36

"Then she say's I'm not the father."
or
"Well, at least I still have hair."