Text Message Shorthand and It's Effect on the Thumb and the English Language

I don't know if you noticed or not, but the Polar Bear Periodical has been seriously lacking in blog contributions during the month of September and October. Finding time in a day that only has 24 hours is extremely hard for a polar bear that requires, food, hibernation, and a thought provoking daily contribution to social networking. So in the interest of saving time and avoiding any real responsibilities in my life, I've decided to take a closer look into shorthand, specifically in regards to thumb-thumpin' chain texters.

Seeing as how the thumb is the ugly fat guy of all the fingers, it seems fitting that it would be the reason that we've come up with txt msg shorthand. Mr. Thumb has been living a life of social rejection ever since humans stopped climbing trees and holding hammers. No more thumb-sucking; that will give you bucked teeth. No more thumbing for a ride; that could give you some guy with bucked teeth that kills you. No more thumb-wrestling and certainly no more twiddling of the thumbs. Just about the only things left for a digitally and socially outcast thumb to do is to turn your music up and to send quick text messages. The other sexy fingers could dance on the keyboards of our lives, touch-typin' through news feeds, email's and digital diaries like Doogie Howser M.D. But the low-slung thumb digit says, "Use me, Use me. Quit letting me dangle here in the tiny fob pocket of your skinny jeans. I'm filled with texterity, I want to be textually active. I promise I won't give you texter's remorse, just good ole fashioned textertainment."

We'll we've been in such a hurry to send our text message we have not realized what it's been doing to our English language. LMAO, LOL, BRB... Text message shorthand reigns in the cellular airwaves and summons the peasants of sentence structure to bow before it's emoticon throne. As our thumbs have gained prominence in "shorthand legislation" the language rules have evolved quicker than Cortisol into belly fat.

Apparently, a mobile phone service in Britain has given text message shorthand a big boost in language development by saying that is useful in learning classic literature. Classic literature? "How dare you?!" says the writer. "Un-freakin'-believable. First, electric wheelchairs for the elderly, and now this? What is this nation coming to." Believe it or not, Dot Mobile is attempting to translate classic works of literature into abbreviated SMS text messages. "Romeo, Romeo, Wher4 RT Thou Romeo!"
They have researched this avenue of ad campaigning immensely and even have an English professor in their corner named John Sutherland, who says that it could act as a useful memory aid for students who want to learn the classics by helping them "filet out the important elements in a plot." Take a look at some of these traumatizing translations.

Hamlet's famous soliloquy, "To be or not to be, that is the question," becomes "2b? Nt2b? ???"
John Milton's epic poem, Paradise Lost, begins, "devl kikd outa hevn coz jelus of jesus&strts war." (The devil is kicked out of heaven because he is jealous of Jesus and starts a war.)
The ending to Jane Eyre — "MadwyfSetsFyr2Haus." (Mad wife sets fire to house.)
Jane Austen's description of Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice becomes "fit&loadd" (handsome and wealthy).

BTW, As you may have imagined there are naysayers. Author and political commentator Oliver Kamm reminds us that classic literature is more than just plot. "What you lose with text messaging in literature is what makes literature what it is — the imagery, the irony the nuance." He considers this project "a travesty."

A project like this will obviously have to be headed up by the thumb. You can't very well use text message shorthand without the thumb. The long sexy fingers won't stoop to type out such crap. Therefore news of this travesty have thumbs everywhere registering for concealed weapons permits or jumping from 15th floor apartment windows.

Here's my thought. Text message shorthand, has it's uses but it isn't to teach classic literature. It does save time and actually exercises that puzzle solving part of our brain. Who needs crossword puzzles when we have, "WDYMBT". I for one do not stand by a classic work of literature being thumbed out on a tiny keyboard somewhere in the back alleys of Liverpool, but I do appreciate a little time saving note or two when things are crazy so I don't have to deal with the menial task of actually talking to someone on the phone. What a bore!

One bright note in the midst of all this text purgatory is Autocorrect. Autocorrect? Yes, Autocorrect. As well as provide hours of entertainment on the internet, reading embarrassing textersations, Autocorrect is also doing a lot to bring us out of the dark ages of text message shorthand. It will actually complete words for us (whether we want it to or not) turning a letter or two into a possible suggestion for what you want to say. It's a writer's dream! Genius! Unfortunately, the autocorrect dictionary includes some text message shorthand which kind of defeats the purpose, but it's a step in the right direction.

We live in an age where fast and tiny nanotechnology keep us moving like kids without Ritalin. As a result we cut things short only reading half of the email or yearly Christmas card update and responding with such brevity that God can't even figure out what we mean. Stop it. Take a moment in your crazy life to soak in a few extra words a day. Perhaps consider a punctuation mark or two in your text message to help clarify. It might take an extra few seconds out of your day but you and the English language will be better off for it. So thank you for reading this blog in it's entirety and feel free to leave a comment with some ridiculous text message short hand.

 

Here We Are Now, Entertain Us (Part 1)

A dichotomy has arisen in the last few decades among the moral majority, and as a result many among us have missed out on some of the greatest storytelling in generations. Nakedness, alcohol, drugs, swearing, sex, violence, wizardry and homosexuality are all frowned upon by the Christian elite. Keep it out of their movies and TV shows, off the streets and billboards, but for Christ's sake, leave it in the Bible. As defined by the Urban Dictionary the Bible is "an ancient novel full of murder, corruption, homosexuality, bestiality, incest and cruelty. It is often read to children on Sunday."

You wouldn't believe the lengths that the Christians have gone to in order to keep the very stuff they object to in Hollywood, right smack dab in the middle of the Bible. Scribe after scribe, council after council, crusade after crusade, martyr after martyr, philandering televangelist after philandering televangelist, all of these folks, seriously vigilant about making sure the story of King David's harems (2 Samuel 5:13) and Samuel's genocide (I Samuel 15) is told with gusto. Sordid affairs involving prostitution and incest (Genesis 19), detailed portrayals of violence involving a disemboweling (2 Samuel 20:9-10) and some beheadings (Matthew 14:3-12), and one amazing story of angels having sex with women to create a giant race of humans called Nephalim (Genesis 6:1-4). All of this and more is part of every Christian's heritage. Don't mess. Seriously, don't mess with the Bible, unless you want to go to hell. Haha. just kidding, sort of (Revelation 22:19).

Here in lies the dichotomy: Rejecting the function of immorality in storytelling, but accepting it within our spiritual heritage.

The Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) puts a rating on almost every movie we watch in the theaters. Movie promoters live and die by these ratings, because one extra curse word could push a "PG-13" to an "R" and drop the expected revenue by 50%. By this logic, one could argue that Christians shot themselves in the foot when it came to marketing their famous book. If there were a movie made that encompassed ever story in the Bible, I'm confident that it would receive a worse rating than NC-17. They would have to make up a rating like 40-EGA-21 (Elderly Guidance for Adults: No admittance to anyone under 21 and those over 21 must be accompanied by someone over 40). The Bible may be God's Word, but try bringing the movie version to Sunday School. Eat that scroll, Enid Strict!

Who doesn't love a good story, whether its from the Bible or the theater or a good book. There are some mind-blowing stories out there in our world. Several come to our minds immediately, and everyone has a favorite, Treasure Island, The Conversion of Saul, Ben Hur, The Matrix, Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan. Most of those favorites include some realistic curse words, violence, or even some nudity.  I would argue that these are variables within each story that actually make it great.

Who appreciates the beauty of the outdoors more than the man in a solitary confinement? Who appreciates riches more than the man who grew up poor? Who appreciates life more than the man who almost died? Exactly. Sometimes you have to see hell to appreciate the beauty on the other side. Story-tellers take us through these hellish situations to help us appreciate the final outcome. The End. Denouement. Resolution. Catastrophe. I call it "The Payoff". That's when you know if the journey that the story took you on was worth it or not. Did it payoff well or not so well? Speaking of the Bible, again, it wouldn't be worth it's weight in shekels if it wasn't for the payoff at the end.

Do you think that people working on a movie with a superbly gory scene are bloodthirsty heathens? No. They are wholesome people with families and kids and Sunday school classes just like you and me, that are part of putting together a good story. Do you think the author who vividly describes a rape scene to his reader is a closet sexual deviant? No. He's telling a story, building up the emotion to bring it all home for a great read. Do you think the people who wrote those disturbing stories in the Bible were creepy lunatics? No. They were normal people for their day and age, putting together the greatest story ever told.

To him who has an ear let him hear, the morality portrayed in a story should not be relegated to a single line or even a single scene but the art as a whole, except, of course if it is blatantly obscene or pornographic.* So, don't give up on a story, based on a few bad words or some splattering blood. It might just be the Bible.


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*(Legal definition of obscene: an act, utterance, or item tending to corrupt the public morals by its indecency or lewdness.)

Cheapskates Get Bad Haircuts

"Ouch." A hair is yanked from its dream follicle on the side of my head by a 30-year-old barbershop buzzer. My Bigdaddy smirks and teases me about taking it like a man, and I grow an inch taller on that butt-punishing, iron stool placed perfectly just outside the garage. It happens again, but this time I just wince.  I'm 7, and this isn't the first haircut Bigdaddy has given. He'd been doing it for years, but that razor was on it's last leg. He must have seen me wince, because he mumbles something about oiling the blades.

I was at his mercy, much like the thousands in his unit who needed buzz cuts during the war. I would sit on that old black stool for thirty minutes, staring at the cars whizzing by on Atlee Road while he buzzed and clipped away at my aching scalp. Haircut Day never failed to be the most gorgeous day of the week to sit motionless on a device intended for torture while your brains constantly vibrated under a tool that can only be described as a jackhammer with scissors. Tiny fibers of distressed proteins rained down past my shoulders and landed in piles on the driveway. 

I couldn't wait to feel that soft brush on my neck that signaled the end of my misery. The existence of those remaining prickly hairs on the back of my neck would drive me to madness every time. As soon as he would unfasten that white cape, I would make for the swimming pool faster than a subatomic particle. It was always emotionally and physically painful and I winced constantly, but I didn't let anyone else touch my hair with a razor until I turned 16.

Although my mother would argue with this, I think I gave up those haircuts way to easily. No one could ever give me a haircut like Bigdaddy... because his were free.

As I grew older, It was a surprise to learn that people would pay money to experience this misery.

$12 for a haircut plus tip.

$23 for a shampoo and a haircut plus tip. 

$18 for a hot towel $10 for a shampoo and $11 for a haircut PLUS tip.

$40 for consultation, head massage and a haircut... PLUS TIP!

Call me frugal or Mr. Scrooge, but I hated paying any amount of money for this tribulation, much less, a tip.

Hair stylist: "Excuse me sir, may I crucify you on this stool and let you watch in this beautiful mirror. In the mean time, I won't bring you any drinks or onion rings to make this any easier on you, so you must give me a tip when I'm done."

Me: "Okay, and while you're at it, can you dangle loose hairs in and around my eyes in an attempt to blind me? Thanks."
No. Not anymore I won't stand for it. So I went looking for a way out.

Coupons gave me some relief, but one afternoon on my way to a raw bar with some friends I found it. The Virginia Beach Beauty and Barber Academy. "$2 a haircut. No tips." I couldn't contain my excitement. Finally, an answer to my faithless prayers. I wrote down the number and made an appointment for that evening.

Work ended anticlimactically, and I hustled over to that Academy like a school boy going to his first coed sleepover. Jittery with excitement, I grabbed a couple of quarters from my ash tray to complete the total required for my haircut. I sauntered toward my destination thankful that I thought to make an appointment, because looking through the tinted windows from outside, I realized I wasn't the only one that had found this "Secret Garden." 

INT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - LATE EVENING

The door opens and a tall, handsome, debonair, young gentleman walks in with a grand smile. He walks up to the front desk.

 SHAGGY YET HANDSOME MAN 

         My name is, Ben Hornby, I have an appointment for 5:30. 

As his name and appointment time is confirmed he lifts his head to take in his surroundings... 

CUT TO:

EXT. CROWDED BARBERSHOP - STRIP MALL - LATE EVENING - CONTINUOUS

Someone screams, "Noooooo!" from inside the barbershop.  

I freak out. A mob of small Asian men all dressed in white smocks with black pants are staring directly at me. I'm the only Caucasian, so I'm a head taller than anyone else in the room. An unusual murmur ripples through their ranks as they glance back and forth at each other and at me. This goes on for a couple of minutes until the voice of the attendant behind me cuts through the air and states, "They want you to pick." 

"Pick what?"

"Who cuts your hair."

Suddenly overcome by a desire to flee, I point and say, "Eenie, meanie, miney, moe...; ...catch a tiger by his toe?" My awkward smile turns to a nervous smile as I realize my sense of humor was my last hope. Defeated, I say, "I don't care."

It is then that I notice, how many empty chairs there are to chose from, 30. This barbershop school, the venue I have chosen for the demise of my head of hair, is larger than the largest hair salon/barbershop/killing floor I have ever been in.

Thirty Asian men and ME. You have failed, Grasshopper, only your own ambition. More murmurs. Then silence. All eyes center on me again. The sea of identical bodies begins to part and one emerges taller and more confident than the others. "I will do it," he spoke in broken Engrish. 

He took my hand, and I was a lamb, a tiny little lamb being led to the slaughter. The mob follows, closely behind me, as I land in a cushy chrome chair. I sit and look at my face in the mirror. Every last pore has opened and sweat erupts from me. I am glistening. They turn me towards the student gawkers and then the torment begins. 

However, not the torment I'm used to, an excruciating torment that reminds me of the fourth level of Hell. The last thing I see before shutting my eyes and splintering off into a thousand personalities as a coping mechanism, is one man standing before me with a pair of scissors in one hand and a razor in the other hand visibly shaking because I must be his very first paying customer ever.

I kid you not, two hours later, (yes, two hours later) smiles begin to emerge on the faces of the onlookers. The sculpture is beginning to take shape and I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My phone is now buzzing every 5 minutes because I forgot to tell my wife I had stumbled into a Hunter S. Thompson nightmare. 

The smiles ripple through the audience and just before a round of applause arrives, I am spun around to observe the masterpiece in the mirror. Everyone takes a deep breath. Something is weird. All the faces stare back at me through the mirror waiting for me to rejoice, then I look into my own eyes. I don't recognize myself. And then the horror of it sinks in to my numb skull. I look like... them, like the Asians. With my white cape, my black pants and now my Asian haircut, I look like them. I am now an American-Asian.

I want to be clear here. I love the Asian people, Asian food, and Asian culture but I don't want to be Asian. So naturally, I begin to feel a little ridiculous. I smiled, then hummed and hawed, admiring the absurdity of it all, then I asked him to take a little more off the top, because that's what customers sometimes do. He does, and I nod, and accept his mild offering. Another awkwardness ensues as I wait for him to take my white smock/cape off and finalize the deal. After waiting long enough I reach for the snap myself and hop out of that chair. 

They all bow and nod and thank me for coming in as they escort me to the front desk. I continue smiling and reach in my pocket for the two dollars. I pull it out. And then God Almighty slaps me in the face. There in my hand is four quarters and a receipt for a Pepsi that I got at 7-11 during lunch. AUGHHHH! I apologize profusely, run as fast as I can over to the ATM across the street, withdraw twenty dollars, walk back in, hand him the twenty dollars, then wait for my change.

No change. I. am. the. only. paying. customer. 

I turn and walk out the door leaving Alexander Hamilton laying face up on the counter in front of thirty Asian men who are no doubt bouncing off of the walls. Then I call Jenny and tell her I am going to Hair Cuttery down the street to pay $20 dollars for someone to fix my fool-headed fool head.

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I tell this story because you may be like me, a curmudgeon. Stop it. Don't let it ruin your life. Someone once said, "You get what you pay for." I would like to amend this by saying, "You get what you pay for, unless, you try to get something that you didn't pay for then you end up paying for it twenty times over."

Yes, I still pinch pennies, but not as many as I used to.

*This may or may not have been what I looked like.