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Posts Tagged ‘language’

The wrinkly future.

The wrinkly future.

Part of my morning ritual at work is to get to the office a little early, get some coffee and read all of the things during the day that really don’t seem professional such as PerezHilton, Blogtheque,  Bill Maher’s New Rules on Huff Post and of course the sugar crack website that draws us all in like blinded sheep: Facebook. 

Typically I look over Hargusta and the Caus’ profiles, respond to any wise ass posts I get from my dear friends and then look to see what my family is up to.  Since I’m not a huge phone person, (I talk on the phone to my parents and sister about once a week) FB is a good way to see where everyone is.  Yesterday I was viewing my dad’s FB page when I was socked in the face with the status update: “If Tom Brady gets hurt again, whose fault is that? WTF!?”

Hold the phone.

WTF? Did my dad really just say that?  For those who know the Skelladay family you know us to be respectful, cultured, conversational people in front of the curtains and rowdy, whisky drinking pirates off stage.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve heard my father drop some Fs and even some MFs in the midst of a beer drinking and sports family session.  From the stories I’ve heard, I’m sure the Fs also flew in his younger days when every Saturday night was like a scene from a Burt Reynolds film.

But here it was, in social media form, for everyone to see…and I don’t think I liked it.  The Caus, being the ever helpful and enlightened friend recommended that I expound on my father’ s new found text knowledge and teach him STFU, also known by its more formal phrase, “Shut the F*ck Up!”

Can you imagine? My father in his recliner, Monday Night Football on, talking to his friend: “Oh-em-gee! You shot two under par? On that course!? STFU!!  Wow, the Detroit Lions couldn’t get any worse than they were in 2008! LoL!” 

My friend Ryan encouraged me to direct my dad to Webopedia to where he could learn all of the text vernacular that has made us all so inherently lazy.  Curious, I went there yesterday and learned that there are over 1,180 different text abbreviations.

Um, excuse me?  While the majority of them are for Dungeons and Dragons virgins who need to kick ass on Play Station 3 when they should be at prom, there were others that seemed to come completely from left field.  I will occasionally throw an OMG at Hargusta if she tells me big news, but for the most part I stick to the English language I treasure so much.  Would you know what it meant if someone sent you a message that said LTLWDLS?  I didn’t think so.   It stands for “Let’s Twist Like We Did Last Summer.”  Apparently, Chubby Checker songs are so vital to our every day communication that an acronym will help get you out of a pinch if, say, you’re being mugged and your attacker has an affinity for classic American oldies.

While still an undergrad, I worked as a writing tutor for academic services to help pay for beer and beef up the wet noodle limp resume most graduates have when all of a sudden they’re not in college anymore and have to get a real job.  While one day helping a girl edit a Freshman composition paper on the love of Orpheus and Euridyces, this darling student managed to squeeze “LOL” into her final paragraph just as she explained that, damn it, if Orpheus hadn’t looked back Eurydices wouldn’t have been taken back to the depths of the underworld. 

Correct me if I’m wrong, but being stolen away to live in the underworld with Hades and the three headed dog doesn’t seem like an LOL moment, and furthermore, it scares me to think that we are gravitating toward a world where resumes are peppered with TTYL and Obama will be referred to as the HBIC (ahem, that stands for Head Bitch in Charge).  There’s even a musical group now called LMFAO…you may be familiar with their annoyingly catchy song “I’m in Miami Bitch.”  Perhaps Jeff Buckley sings it as he rolls over in his grave…

Upon looking back on the incident from yesterday, I’ve come to realize that I actually enjoy having my parents on facebook.  I am one of those people who gets along incredibly well with her family, and for that I’m lucky.  But my iPhone wielding father using WTF means there are no more secrets.  He gets FB, he understands text lingo, he harasses Terrell Owens on Twitter and with that, I’ve come to the sad assumption that unless we’re willing to consciously step away from our Crackberrys and go hide in the Adirondacks for a long weekend, none of us can be totally anonymous again.  Everyone from 5th graders to senior citizens is on board with technology, meaning that your business is now your neighbor’s whose business is her ex boyfriend’s, and so on and so forth.

So rather than going on and making this seem like a whining lament, I will just say to my dad: I am going to Nashville next weekend for Halloween, and if it gets out of hand and you see pictures, I hope that you LoL rather than WTF. 

 

Skelladay

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Hip_Hop_Harry1Music buffs and fly bitches, please take a seat.  This is not a musical dissertation and certainly not going to be documented by Norton Anthology for your consideration.  Yes we can talk about the block parties of 1970s Bronx, Rick Rubin’s influence or N.W.A.  But you know what?  I’m not even Licensed to Ill.  Rather, I’m a head band wearing, VW driving, Catholic school attending white girl from the east coast and this is my story.

I started thinking about this post the other day when I was flipping through my iPod and noticed that, yes, in fact it is bogged down with “sad indie songs” (as my friend Nick put it).  How could it be that my nano had become swallowed by only Bon Iver, Great Lake Swimmers and Fleet Foxes when I know every word sitting pretty on Tupac’s All Eyez on Me album?  It seems I was suppressing the ill nana that was begging to come out.  It was time to figuratively pop some Cris and roll the doj.  I’m not saying I’m going to trade my J crew chinos for Apple Bottoms jeans, but are you Picturin’ Me Rollin’? I know you are.

As evidence by this blog and other works,  those in the know are familiar with my love of words.  Using them, reading them, writing them- – language is beautiful.  To me there’s nothing better than taking an oatmeal blah of a paragraph and transposing it into a spicy Cajun something- it’s the sexy equivalent of black stilettos. Ever since my first writing was published at the age of 9,  (a little diddy about Earth Day, spare me the heckling) I have been destined to appreciate the poetic ebb and flow of placing Louis Vuitton Don into a song nine times. 

There’s certainly an arguable stance on each side of the table for the musical merit of hip hop but for me it’s Jedi mind trick ability to put me in a good mood seems reason enough to turn Lupe Fiasco on at a Rufus Wainwright kind of  intellectual soiree.  Hip hop can be incredibly painful and stunning like Lauryn Hill’s Miseducation of Lauryn Hill or downright dirty, nasty, silly like Ludacris’ Chicken n Beer.  Where you want to fall on that color wheel is up to you.

When I’ve had an awful work day and a parking ticket is waiting on my car you bet I’ll choose Biggie over Neil Young.  If you’re in a bad mood who wants to be The Only Living Boy in New York when No Sleep Till Brooklyn is one flick of the iPizzle wheel away?

My belief is that a lot of the appeal to my demographic is for three fleeting minutes we can sit on dubs, drop it to the floor, check chedda like a food inspecta or serenade our loved ones to the sweet sounds of Jeremiah’s birthday sex.  College shortys can get low and accountants daydream about switchin four lanes in the Rove.

This past spring I was out in downtown Denver at a hippy bar, with a hippy band and the visceral smell of patchouli and the insistence of forgoing showering for grad school papers; naturally about art therapy and tree sap emulsification.  Sounds like a typical granola night, right?  Well when this hippy band decides to cover Ice Cube’s It Was A Good Day, who is singing, “I gotta go cause I got me a drop top /And if I hit the switch, I can make the ass drop?”  That’s right, 150 pantagonia-coveting, Birkenstock wearing local brahs and the women that love them.  If that’s not a case for getting on Amazon right now and buying Jay-Z’s Blueprint 3, I don’t know what is.

Yes the word poser could probably be a synonym for my name, maybe worse depending on how you see my opinion.  But if a few thousand white kids at Vanderbilt’s Memorial Gym can get em high for Lil Wayne for the sake of having a good time, who am I to not join in? 

By the way, I did join in and it was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen.

Skelladay

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