I'm woefully out-of-touch with American life.  It's incredible how much some things have changed over the last seven and a half years, since I moved from Ohio to Amsterdam.

Take text-messaging, for instance.  When I left America, mobile telephony was nowhere near as common as it is today.  In fact, I didn't get my first mobile phone until I moved to the Netherlands.  At that point, people mostly used cell phones for making phone calls.  Over time, though, text-messaging started to become popular -- in Europe as well as in North America -- and though the technological part of it didn't give me any troubles (I actually wonder if Europeans may have adapted to text-messaging more quickly than Americans), I just couldn't keep up with the popular American usage and cultural evolution of the technology.  Text-messaging short-hand in particular.  I heard about it in the media, and I understood the ways that the 4s and 8s and R's and U's and consonant contractions were supposed to save time and space -- but I genuinely thought that it was just a silly thing that high-school sophomores did, like practicing your "autograph" a thousand times on the back of your Trapper-Keeper.

After a week of trying to assimilate back into my "home" culture, though, I realize that I was seriously mistaken.  Text-messaging is at a totally different level than I ever anticipated.  And the usage of the text-messaging short-hand is far more widespread than I had ever imagined.  Last Friday, I responded to one of my friend's text messages with a suggestion and he wrote back "k."  I knew that his single-letter response meant "OK / Affirmative" (I'm not that clueless about text-messaging short-hand).  But when I laughed about the incident to my sister and her husband, saying that I would have to harass my friend (who's my age) about his teeny-bopper short-hand, they stared at me with blank looks on their faces that told me how far off from reality I was.  It turns out that "k" is a perfectly professional and adult way of responding to text messages -- confirmed by several people my age or older, with occupations as prestigious or more prestigious than my own -- and, if anything, it's considered just plain silly to write back the extravagantly overblown two-letter version of the affirmative response.

As you can see, I'm woefully out-of-touch with American life and linguistics.

Part of me wants to be indignant and stubborn about this -- pouting about how text-messaging "impoverishes" the English language, fussing and fretting about grammar and syntax.  But ultimately, I don't want to be that guy.  Truth be told, American linguistics have always been about adaptation and transition.  Looking up the history of the phrase, "OK" (or "okay," depending on your preference), it's easy to see that "k" is every bit as good as any of the other derivatives.  No one actually knows what the "O" and the "K" are actually supposed to stand for.  Some think it's a bastardization of the Choctaw (Native American) word "okeh," which means "it is indeed."  Others suggest that it's an adaptation of the Greek phrase "Ola kala," meaning "everything's good" or "all good" -- brought into popular usage by Greek railway workers in the United States during the 1800s, as the initials were stamped on various shipments to indicate that they were ready to go.  Still others trace the usage of "O.K." back to Martin van Buren's campaign for the American presidency, in the late 1830s, in which he used the abbreviated version of his nickname, "Old Kinderhook."  But the most widely accepted etymology of "OK" goes back to an American fad during the early part of the 1800s, in which comic misspellings of common phrases were abbreviated and cemented in the public consciousness:  "K.G." for "Know Good" (no good) and "N.S." for "Nuff Said" (enough said)... and, most notably, "O.K." for "Oll Korrect" (all correct).  Some very interesting -- and widely varied -- theories, wouldn't you say?

Ultimately, no one really knows how the phrase "OK" came into popular usage.  We just know that it was an American phenomenon -- though it's now been adopted by hundreds of other languages -- and that it was likely based on some sort of "incorrect" grammar (possibly intentional).  Based on all these criteria, then, the text-messaging "k" seems to be a surprisingly appropriate adaptation of the old terminology.  I may not like it, and I may be slow to adapt to the cultural transitions -- but hey, such is the American way.  K?

It's strange, but I've had a couple of people initiate conversation me in the last month -- pretty much out of the blue -- to talk about the meaning of my last name.  "Hey, I just learned what your last name means," the conversation goes.  "Do you know what your last name means?" I have a few ideas of what my last name means, but having had this conversation numerous times throughout the course of my life, I tell them that it depends.

According to Wikipedia, the word "Asp is the modern Anglicization of the word aspis, which in antiquity referred to any one of several venomous snake species found in the Nile region.  It is believed that the aspis referred to in Egyptian mythology is the modern Egyptian cobra."  This is what most people are getting at, when they say that they've discovered the "secret" meaning of my last name.  An Asp is a kind of snake.  "Which means I better watch out for you!  Har, har, har..." is the standard follow-up joke.  The deadly snake -- perhaps most famous for being the instrument of Queen Cleopatra's suicide -- has also given rise to modern usages of the name "Asp" for (among other things) a type of hand-gun and for the name of (the little orphan) Annie's Chinese chauffeur / body-guard.

As far as I've figured out, however, my last name is actually more closely linked to the Aspen tree than to the Aspis snake.  At least when it comes to Swedish and Norwegian names (there's some confusion about which side of the Scandinavian peninsula our ancestors -- and indeed all people with the surname Asp -- came from), the surname Asp generally indicates "dweller by the aspen trees."  It's a name derived from geography -- from a landmark.  And since this is a lot more peaceful and pleasant and benign than the idea of being named after a deadly snake, this is usually the definition that I typically embrace.

It really goes further than etymology, though, doesn't it?  Ultimately, the public perception of any given name comes down to random word association.  And that's where I've been saddled with a name that sounds unfortunately similar to the English word "ass."  Yes, there are other near-homonyms as well -- "ask" and "as," for instance.  But those sound-alikes are not nearly as fun for experimentation among school-aged children.  Thus through the years, I've picked up a lot of creative permutations of the name Asp, including (but by no means limited to) the following:

• Kick-Asp
• Kiss-Asp
• Jack-Asp
• Dumb-Asp
• Pain-in-the-Asp
• Asp-hole
• Smart Asp
• Hairy Asp
• Rudy-poo candy-Asp (i.e. an adjective, describing anything exceptionally wimpy)
• Big-Asp (i.e. an adjective describing anything exceptionally large)

One of the classic jokes along these lines goes with the naming of children, given the fact that Harry, Jack, and Candy are occasionally used as personal names (and how cruel it would be for me, as a parent, to give one of these names to a child born into our family name!).  But suffice to say:  I've heard these variations on my last name for so long that it's even gotten to the point where I can genuinely appreciate it if anyone comes up with a new one!  It's a whole lot more fun to play along and make light of the situation than it is to become hurt or offended anytime someone pulls one of these word associations out.  So I'm curious:  can any of you think of any other good ones?  I'll give bonus points to anyone who comes up with something original...

And in the meantime, I'll just go on with being an Asp.

Language is full of trap-doors, surprise snares, pitfalls.  But I only recently figured out that the Dutch word for this type of misleading mistake -- valkuil -- is, in fact, a trap-door surprise of its own.

You see, previously, I had always heard the word valkuil as valk - uil (falcon - owl).  And I had actually come to like the connotation of a dangerous falcon-owl, catching us in our moments of weakness.  It seemed like a very vibrant word-picture:  some stealthy bird of prey sneaking up behind us on a seemingly pleasant and peaceful evening stroll and digging his talons into our unsuspecting shoulders.

But for whatever reason, it just recently dawned on me that my personal translation of this word has been incorrect.  Embarrassingly off.  The more correct interpretation of the phrase valkuil is actually val - kuil (fall - pit).  Of course, this actually makes a lot more sense, as it's basically a direct translation of the English term "pit-fall."  But, albeit more logical, I somehow find this realization disappointing.

So all that to say this:  Beware the valkuil, whether it's the talons or the drop.

Elliot has somehow gotten back into the habit of blogging again.  It's hard to say how long his interest will last, but for the time being he's writing a lot of poems on his blog.   Most of them are kind of silly, but today he wrote one that I thought was genuinely beautiful.  I thought I'd share it with you:

The Autumn Sounds
By Elliot Asp

The birds are flying in the breeze.
The leaves are shaking in the trees.

The mole
is digging his hole.

The skink
is taking his drink.

The deer
is sitting right here.

The squirrel
is going to hurl
acorns at the girl.

And I
am looking at the sky.

It's definitely getting to be autumn here in Amsterdam.  I don't mind too much -- though the prospect of imminent winter does not excite me.  And it certainly would be nice to see more of the leaves and acorns and deer and such that are actually a bit hard to come by in the city.  But even so, I'm choosing to enjoy the moment for what it is.   Autumn in Amsterdam.

I was talking with my friend Marc this afternoon about formal titles.  It was fascinating to learn of some of the intricacies of the Dutch language.  For instance, the most proper for of address for a mayor in the Netherlands is De hoogedelgestrenge heer.  Thus, if addressing an official letter to Amsterdam's mayor Job Cohen, you'd address it to "De hoogedelgestrenge heer Cohen."  Literally translated, that means "the highly-noble-very-stern Mr. Cohen."  Isn't that awesome?!?!?  The principal of the high school (let's pretend this one is a woman) would be "De weledelgestrenge vrouwe __________" -- "the definitely-noble-yet-stern Ms. ___________."  Seeing that I serve as the leader of a church community (which tends more towards the Protestant end of the spectrum than the Catholic), it may not be too far-fetched to think that I could be addressed as "De weleerwaarde heer/vrouwe Dominee Asp" -- "The Definitely-Honorable Mister-Reverend Asp."  Sounds kind of nice, huh? :-)  You can find a specific title for just about any role in society on the Wikipedia page about "Aanspreekvorm."

Then I found out about the English equivalents.

To my surprise, there were almost two times as many forms of official "honorifics" in the English language!  Most of us probably know that the President of the United States is officially addressed as "Mr. President."  Or that a judge is typically called "The Honorable Judge __________" (addressed as "Your honor" in a court-room setting).  But did you know that there's also a special form of address for the King of Hungary ("His Apostolic Majesty")?  Or that a bishop in the Church of England should be addressed as "The Right Reverend and Right Honourable _________?"  Crazy stuff, isn't it?  In case you're interested, you can also find more information about English honorifics on the Wikipedia page about "Manner of Address."

I love this kind of stuff in theory.  I hate this kind of stuff in practice.  Good thing almost everyone I know is content to simply call me "Eric."  But if you really wanted to try out "De weleerwaarde heer Dominee Asp," well... I'd be willing to give it a try. :-)