2: Teh Lulz:

I do it fur dem.

I am fond of lolspeak. Which, I suppose, is a branch off of internet speak in general. But I don’t like all the mutations that happen on the interwebs—so this blog will be one about my likes and dislikes in that subject, because I’m curious as to what’s the discerning factor between what I like and what I do not.

I started getting into using internet shorthands in junior high, back when AOL Instant Messaging (AIM) was the hottest thing since pie. I was its Pavlovian little pet—I swung back to the screen when I heard that distinctive ding (not all that different from my response to plurk these days), or the creak of a door opening (the sound when someone signed on) or slamming closed (when someone logged off). The sound of a door opening and then closing moments later could mean two things: 1) that the person was just checking to see who was online (or if a specific person was online). Or, the more sinister 2) The person had signed on, then immediately clicked the “invisible” button so they could talk to some people while avoiding others. The whole “I can see you when you’re online” is realistic, in the sense that irl, you have to wait until you see someone before you can talk to them (unless you know they’re standing behind a very tall biscuit or some silly business like that). But it’s adding an element of the real world that, frankly, seems out of place (out of context?) on the interwebs—especially with the addition of the invisible/hide/appear offline function on these kinds of things. Any real world element brought into a screen comes with real world expectations, often, expectations that don’t apply in the interwebs. If someone takes a long time to respond, is their internet being slow? Are they reluctant to answer? Are they reluctant to talk to you? Irl, you have facial expressions to go off of; via telephone, you might even get a telling “ummm…”

But often times, the internet doesn’t come with any of these contextual markers. So we start playing games—like the file of a crime, we lay out facts about friendships and conversations on the table, trying to match up shapes and patterns. Make our own, sometimes. Like writing stories. Sneaky, smirking, but ultimately false, stories. The internet is a dangerous place for those of us who like to read into holes.

But to get back to the subject: I do use lolspeak irl. Mostly “lol,” occasionally a “rofl” here and there, if appropriate. I use them because I like how they sound, and how they look in my head—they’re associated with certain images that link up with the situation. I don’t consider ‘lol’ a replacement for laughing out loud so much as I consider it something you’d find under the latter in a thesaurus—similar in meaning, but not identical.

I say “teh” instead of “the,” and often replace S’s with Z’s when I speak(and write). But not all the time—only when it fits. I associate these mutations primarily with lolcats—so when I say them, it’s to invoke that context. It is sometimes like saying “I imagine this situation is of the sort a lolcat would find itself in.” Sometimes. Other times, it’s just a friendly allusion—a connection point, like when I use lines from Eddie Izzard skits (love that man), or pick up phrases from South Park episodes. Most of my conversations with my sister are riddled with these phrases, allusions—it’s like donning a skin or a costume; borrowing some thunder for the space of a sentence.

To an extent, I wonder if this is how the royal society in The Tomcat Murr uses the French language; learning it enough to make a sound, an in—a badge that says, “look, I’m on the inside, too. All these jokes are my jokes. All these things are my things, too. I belong—I speak the language of affluence.”

What are we to call this language of screens, then? The language of the well-read amateur? Of the editor? The builder? The changer? There is this sort of frenetic construction or compounding activity that I think of when I imagine the more populated (and successful?) places on the internet—wikipedia, facebook, 4chan.

There are certain internet mutations of language that I do not use, however. I do not like them. There is no sense behind them—no context. No reason to use them; a cat (or a rat, for that matter) does not search for scraps at an empty table in an abandoned house.

I’ll try to finish this thought later tonight or later in the week—but for now, I have to down some narsty antibiotics.