Conservations from the Red Phone
4/8/09
“My Standard of Usage”
This memory seems fitting for a writer, as it is a memory of words on a page. Even as a youngster, I was fascinated by the mysterious characters containing another world. I wanted to know how they worked, to pop the hood of a book and see up close how the pistons fired. I became a word mechanic in Oshkosh Overalls. Grammar was something felt, never being taught the mechanics until high school. There I began to hate grammar and everything it represented. I wrote without care and concern to grammar. I read Kerouac, and took from him the belief in a world without boundaries, and writing without rules. First thought, best thought. Benzedrine, Belvedere; beautiful things.
I failed ninth grade grammar with a Cockney grin. College reinforced my flippancy towards grammar, being fortunate enough to study at the College of Creative Studies. At CCS, there was no wrong, and failure nonexistent. We floated on clouds of fierce belief that what we were doing with our undergraduate education was right, rules be damned. I had a concept of Standard English I called the gut. It was simple; there were right and wrong ways to write. We held our prose to high standards, and helped one another in taking our pieces to the next level. After college, my gut turned out to have a name – usage. I learned the right and wrong way to this language was called Standard English. Language use, I found, depends on the time, age, gender, region, and situational and educational status of the speaker/writer, as well as the intended audience.
Of the four standards of usage, I would classify myself as prescribing to the standard of the linguistic norm. I strive for an economy of words in my writing, and this is reflected in my speech as well. However, I always have a keen ear open for new and exciting usages of words in the language. I am fascinated by the speech differences in where I live, San Francisco, as opposed, say, rural Nevada. People from both areas speak English, but they speak the language differently. In San Francisco, for example, the spicy addition of some Spanish words (carniceria, panaderia, hijo, hija, hermano, cayate, etc.) to the spoken English gives this city a language all its own. In rural Nevada you would be hard pressed to find someone who will not say ain’t or ya’ll in casual conversation.
Formally, I adhere to an educated usage that is the product of growing up with two teachers and having Emily Post’s Book of Etiquette conspicuous in the living room library. I also recognize that English is not a static language, and that the changes and regional distinctions of the language must be celebrated and not nit-picked to death. I pick and choose my language with the daft precision of a guided missile. I write and speak for an effect, to either reinforce a point I am trying to make or inspire an emotion.
Whatever is normal for a given situation, be it in the sagebrush sea of Northeastern Nevada, or the urban jungle of San Francisco, I adapt and use the language economically. While we are all English speakers, we are also speaking specific variants of the English language. There are no wrong ways to speak or write English in my mind, as long as one is able to communicate the point they are striving for. Grammar is the benchmark by which we can judge Standard English, but for me this is too cut and dry. Great works of fiction, Faulkner particularly, often fall far from the tree of Standard English. While it is good to have a clear, strong signature, sometimes it is necessary to be quick and scrawl. Language is situational, and usage even more so.
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3/17/09
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“Between You and Me”
I’ve been waiting the better part of awhile for you to come. Yeah, you, reading this, watching these words slip along the page like a drunk penguin crossing a frozen lake, watching and waiting for the period, for this sentence to end – or did you think – I’m sorry, I’ve begun to wander. Pay no attention to the words and sounds that surround you, give me a page and I promise, scout’s honor, not to disappoint.
I like your shoes. They fit your feet well. Are those leather uppers? You say you aren’t wearing shoes – you’re barefoot? Well, nice feet. I think that I’m falling for you, or your feet at least, just look at ‘em! Beautiful! Hey – don’t pretend like I’m not here, don’t look the other way – don’t close this! HEY! LISTEN TO ME!
Come on, you’ve never had an antagonizing reader experience? Please, you think this is the worst it can get, I dare you to start reading this aloud. I guaran-damn-tee you that most of the peeps around ya think you’re crazy as it is anyway for reading this, this, piece. Give ‘em somethin’ to think about when you’re gone. Have ‘em thinkin’ what a crazy uninhibited mofo you are – leave an impression. Remember that bum you saw the other day talking to himself by the bus stop that had hair like Einstein’s and smelled like burnt poop? You can be that bum! Hell, that’s what I’m doin’ – tryin’ my best to make you think about me more that this word or that phrase – picturing you picturing me writing this in your past that is my present which, indubitably, you’re reading in my future. Reread the sentence again if you have to. I’ve got all the time in the world.
Sure, check the time. Drink a coffee. Buy some carbon credits and burn some gasoline for groceries. You’re drifting – FOCUS. Hear me out. Are you still reading aloud? No? Don’t think that I can’t tell because I’m the writer writering and you’re the reader readering. Unbeknownst to you this page is embedded with a RFID tag broadcasting from this very location your exact whereabouts and shopping preferences.
Like margarine do ya? Ha! Of course you don’t, you’re a butter lover, through and through. Don’t ask me how it’s possible I know – it’s the future dammit! Everything is possible with nothing forbidden! I’m so far back in the past that before you read this here on the page I wrote my draft on paper. With a pen! Do you know how many trees I cut down to make the paper? Three! And a practice sapling to get familiar with the chainsaw! Fair trade? Hell, I shot a California condor full of OO buckshot and made glue from its bones for binding!
But I digress, again I am boring you and I apologize. Please, take this to the counter and redeem it for your favorite beverage, my treat. It’s the least I can do. They might look at you a little slant eyed but do not despair future reader – paper is still the going currency, right? Feel free to judge me on the basis of the coherence of this run-on sentence, for I truly hope that this future world you live in has accepted the fact that half of your peers haven’t read a novel from cover to cover their entire adult lives. You are the exception – the rarified royalty of printed prose! Rejoice and believe, wholeheartedly, in the gospel of word upon paper!
Remember, I am not anything new or exciting; I am part of the collective memory puked up and duplicated again and again and one last time to come to rest in your sweaty palms. I must say, you smell quite nice, much better than the dude in back of you, desperately trying to look like he’s not trying to read this fantastic collection’s title from the top of your page. It’s the squinting that gives it away. He really should get glasses. Don’t you think he smells like sage? I think he might be one of those new-age hippie types. If there’s one type of person you can’t trust it’s someone that smells like sage. They’re just askin’ for trouble, but don’t, for the love of God, tell him I said that. Let’s keep that little secret between you and me. There’s nothing in the world worse than a new-age hippie worming their way into your life. Simply stand up, stretch your arms above your head, close this book, and walk away. Do not, I repeat DO NOT, make eye contact. Good luck, future reader, I hope you make it to the door before he gets wise.
Leisurecane’s Spain Office recently came across this excellent excerpt by a man known affectionately as Tumbalocas:
But when I was with you I couldn’t say deletrear or tararear. Well I guess I could have, but you wouldn’t have understood me.
Frigorífico.
Webster
Floatin
Jammin
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Long ago, I was once attached to a tree. There were many of us, all fluttering in the wind. But one day I fell from my place under the warm sun. I fell into the water below and was buried by sediments, sand, silt, and clay. It grew dark. The weight of the sediments above me grew heavier. I could no longer hear the water flowing or the rustling of other leaves.
Time passed. Tens of millions of years. Don’t ask me exactly how much. I don’t know. At times it was cooler, at times hotter. But it remained dark. My chemical composition changed. I lost most of my original organic matter.
One day there was noise again, a loud ringing and the sound of rock breaking. Grave diggers. They have come to disturb my resting place. Come to steal what remains, though I am a now only a ghost.
Broken, blinded, exposed. They looked me up and down and touched me without permission. They marked with a number. They wraped me in the shredded, pulverized, reworked, pressed, flattened and tattooed remains of my relatives. They put me in a box.
Next I find myself unwrapped and placed on a metal tray. It is no longer sunlight that blinds me. The image is taken of my impression and reproduced.
And now what? What was this all for? A picture in a magazine?
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We’re in the climax of our second (2nd) annual issue.
Available shortly in .pdf, and in print thereafter.
Check out our new Future Erotica issue 2
This site is our working copy, a place to put stuff.
leisure.cane@gmail.com for recepie suggestions, submissions, letters to the editor, coupons.
We take all forms of media, including media of the multi variety.
Also a good place to donate your boat, truck or RV.
-Albert Ross, Logistics Manager, Saftey Expert
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ABBREVIATED MINUTES FROM THE SECOND MEETING OF LEISURECANE, 11/9/08:
“We’re 30 minutes to launch, dude.”
“I told you that two hours ago.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Ryan, where’s your stuff.”
“It’s on here already.”
“I’m just sayin’ what I know.”
“Alligator Spirit pictures?”
“Styles and smiles.”
“I’m not interested in you, I have scientists listening.”
“GET THERE!”
“You’re not a good team member right now, and you are not.”
“Right now I know everybody’s name; Brian, Ryan, Doug, Dave, Ryan, William, Matt, me.”
“Of course you can recycle it.”
Beer Can Crunches“I’m gonna try that.”
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ABBREVIATED MINUTES FROM THE FIRST MEETING OF LEISURECANE, 11/5/08:
“Professional and Ugly”
“well i don’t have the software.”
“We’d be hard-pressed to have it printed right now.”
“That’s 10.”
“You could call the Leisurecane chatroom the Leisurecane Garden.”
“Are we going to edit it this time?”
“I don’t want you touchin’ mine, dude. I want all the scratch-outs, and dot-dot-dots and shit.”
“ever been to Kabuki?”
“At this place I’m working we have a full setup.”
“we have to ride the electric bike, and film it.”
“ohhhh, ok.”
Rainstick sounds.
“We could do that, but it’d be REALLY expensive.”
“It would be really funny to have the Leisurecane Garden look like that.”
“I have to take off in 10 minutes.”
“Your house is light and crunchy.”
“I look forward to this stuff rollin’ in, and we’ll do what we can.”
“You scanning stuff set?”
“Yeah, yeah, yea…”
“1 o’clock?”
“Me and my pajamas?”
“Stoked.”
“I have a dance show coming up – not this weekend but next weekend.”
“The stuff we have is going up Saturday, this Saturday, the 8th.”
“A future erotic issue.”
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“Please Don’t Leave Me By the Television”
Ryan Alpers
Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe this is something more than you think it is. Maybe if you read this standing up, rather than sitting down, your legs will start to feel faint, and you’ll fall to the ground. Maybe, when I am writing this, I become bored, stop writing, come back later and crumple this up in a ball and burn it in a small Weber grill. Maybe this never even saw ink and paper, and never really existed outside of a computer screen. Maybe you’re still reading this, thinking about something else, so you put this down, stretch your back a bit, walk outside and realize that you’ve forgotten your umbrella. Maybe I am by the television, unread.
A loud explosion, and hundreds of me explode in thousands of pieces in a parade in Des Moines. Or, somehow, I end up in space. Or you do. Maybe I am trapped inside this story, or maybe Jim is. Don’t you know Jim? He’s been here for years, a little pudgy at the sides, short red hair, pigeon toes? I mean, really – Jim is a great guy.
“Hello,” Jim says, waving frantically a short distance away, “great day, isn’t it?”
Maybe I’m there with Jim, controlling him with piano wires attached to his elbows, shoulders, knees, and head like some county fair sideshow. Maybe I’m creeping slowly closer behind you; can’t you feel my breath on the back of your neck? That’s a little strange though – I think that I would much rather take a short nap in the middle of the afternoon, and then go for a swim minutes before sunset some warm evening. But I’m still here with you. Hey, are you going to eat that? Thanks.
Let me be straight with you for a minute; Jim’s got this huge crush on that person over there and wants you to put in a good word for him. Go ahead, just a little head-nod and a smile? All you need to say is, ‘Jim says hello,’ it’s easy. What? You’re not gonna do it? You’re just gonna sit here and read? Quitter.
Maybe you stopped reading and went to go introduce yourself to the lady over there, or maybe you found that man there more attractive, and just wanted to show him this crazy story you’ve been reading. Perhaps this person you later marry in shady circumstances in Reno, only to curse the name of Jim after the love of your life shot you in a dingy suite at The Nugget.
“Hahaha.”
Jim, stop laughing.
“Sorry,” Jim says.
It’s OK Jim.
Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re reading this, instead of doing a number of other things that wouldn’t really be as good for you as this. Or, you could be doing stuff cooler than this. I sure hope I am. I mean, I’d much rather be free-diving for abalone or riding an elephant or eating Mentos and drinking some Diet Coke.
Oh, damn, did you see that? Jim just did the Mentos and Coke thing!
“I think I’m gonna die,” Jim says.
Careful where you step, there’s Coke everywhere, I mean, you wouldn’t want to mess your shoes up, would ya? Or maybe you would, just so you’d have something to show people when you tell ‘em this crazy story.
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