pamie gets cultured
Eric’s version of pig latin cracks me up. He never learned exactly how it goes, so he just says what he knows.
“Ixnay on the presentsnay.”
He knows “Ixnay,” but I don’t think he realizes what it stands for, and he doesn’t know how to rearrange the words to make it into Pig Latin… but it still confuses people the same, because they try and translate what he’s saying back into English, and end up reverse Pig Latining it. “Spresent? What is that?”
Web site trackers. They find the coolest stuff. Someone had come to my page via The Dialectizer. And I had a bit of fun looking at yesterday’s page through it. It takes whatever page you plop into it and translates the entire page into the dialect of your choice (from their pull down menu.)Some of the “dialects” are just stupid. Don’t bother with the “Moron” or “Elmer Fudd:” And when we got into town, Dad took me to Stawbucks. Oh, dat scwewy wabbit!
That’s all the Elmer Fudd one does is change the “r” to “w” and add “Oh, dat scwewy wabbit” after every paragraph.
But, I really enjoyed the cockney one. You see, Eric’s family always reads these books that are more prestigious than I read. They are a family of teachers and writers, and they are always reading the latest award winning collection of short stories or whatever, and I’m plodding through the latest Wally Lamb or something. So, recently at the house there has been the book How Late It Was, How Late, and both Eric and I have tried to read it. It is written in a terribly hard to read style. Here’s the book jacket description:
“Ye wake in a corner and stay there hoping yer body will disappear, the thoughts smothering ye; these thoughts; but ye want to remember and face up to things, just something keeps ye from doing it, why can ye no do it; the words filling yer head: then the other words; there’s something wrong; there’s something far far wrong; ye’re no a good man, ye’re just no a good man.”
From the momentSammy wakes slumped in a park corner, stiff and sore after a two-day drunk and wearing anotherman’s shoes, James Kelman’s Booker Prize-winning novel How Late it Was, How Late loosens a torrent of furious stream-of-consciousness prose that never lets up.
It is terribly impossible to understand, unless you read it aloud. I began calling it “How Hard I Was To Read, How Hard.” And when I popped yesterday’s entry into the dialectizer, I found that “The Homecoming” sounded like it might be the next recipient of the Booker Prize:
Into the bloomin’ kitchen they go, right, and ‘e brews a pot of Folgers. The smell instantly ‘its evry room of their two story ‘ome, and in the wee mornin’ light of dorn, the parents ball of chalk dahn the apples and pears, wrappin’ their robes ’round ffem, right, wonderin’ ‘ow wee Sally made coffee. As they ‘ave a look dahn the apples and pears, wee Peter– ‘oo is now big Peter, right, has coffee on a tray. He bends dahn ter one knee and ‘ave a looks up ter ffem ‘umbly– the bleedin’ prodigal son returnin’. The chuffin’ muvver wispers ‘is name, just barely, right, and takes Peter into ‘er arms lovingly. The bloody favver stands behind them, and pats Peter on the bloody back, smilin’. “He’s done good again,” ‘e finks.
Somehow my prose has become beautiful.
And in Pig Latin, “ethay omecominghay” was just darn annoying.
I wasn’t too excited about the “Jive” section, since I found it to be most not funny, but I did find a particular section that amused me: the closing lines.
So, ah’ still gots mah’ coffee. All doodads considered, I’ll snatch a Mocha Latte upside a pot uh Folger’s any day. Slap mah fro!
What the hell does “Slap mah fro” mean? No clue.
Eric called earlier to brag about his Christmas haul. I got some new dishes, a CD holder, socks, lots of bras and underwear (a much needed gift), some bath/shower toys, hair accessories, a Tigger shirt, and the parts of my dad’s old car CD player. Hopefully someone will know how to install it.
I have another Christmas in five days. When Eric comes home, we have another Christmas evening to celebrate. And that, my friends, is when I’m sure to get a Bouncing Tigger. Most assuredly.
My father told his old college friend about this page on the phone today. I heard him say, “Well, I don’t read it very often. She talks about sex and stuff in it, which is something that a twenty-three year old shouldn’t know anything about. That and she makes up stories about her childhood. She seems to remember them so that they all favor her.”
Well, hasn’t he ever heard of a literary licence? Jeez. Of course I’m going to slant the stories towards me. It’s cheaper than therapy.
He asked me yesterday how I maintained my web page. I think he’s interested in trying one out on his own. He says it’s just going to be pages and pages of the “real” story behind every false one I tell. He just has a bad memory. I rarely stretch what happened. He just forgets the details. He knows that the stool softener incident happened, he just doesn’t remember my boyfriend standing there at the time. He remembers what he wants to remember, and that’s just fine with me. If he ever gets his page up and running, I’ll be sure to link it.
Well, it’s time for me to install and begin to play Computer Scrabble with my mom. This should be interesting. My father brought up a good point: how will we not see each other’s tiles? We shall soon see.
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