by Peter Berryman
Totem Talk and the Plugged Sluice
For The New York Times Magazine's August 4th column On Language, Barbara Wallraff wrote a piece called Bad Writing. She started by talking about the Bulwyr-Lytton Fiction Contest (an annual bad writing competition), and quoted this year's winner, Ms Rephah Berg of California. I will too:
On reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.
Barbara goes on to wonder why people would want to write badly, even for fun, because there is so much bad writing at every turn. Her subtitle is: "Don't look now, you're surrounded." She reads from various instruction manuals and soup can labels to prove her point.
Writing can be bad in a number of ways. The Bulwyr-Lytton badness makes fun of writing that is overwritten. It's supposed to sound like someone trying too hard to sound like a writer; self-conscious writing, with strained metaphors, forced alliteration and so forth. And the examples Ms Wallraff uses in the rest of her article are of writing that is bad for other reasons: it's unclear, or too technical, or silly, or pointless, or ad-speakish, or otherwise not english-comp-class good writing.
My brother Jeff used to call breezy stupid ad writing "Totem Talk," because there was a car dealership in town by the name Totem whose ads were made up of such peculiar yakkings, like "Totem, where pennies are your stature in waiting, and cars are the business of timelessness." All pushy, dreamy, catchy gibberish.
But when you think about it, poetry is often "bad writing," in that it doesn't necessarily conform to standard rules of grammar or composition. Many of the technically bad writings in the general flow are more like found poems, or what the Surrealists called "Readymades." Years ago I used to wait for a bus every day by an awning that said "Palm Ice Cream Steaks Chops Palm Ice Cream." That's really just a list, but I still love it as a found poem. "Please Help Keep This Place Clean" is another one I like, with all those popping and swishing one syllable words. I remember a card hanging on a laundromat bulletin board which read "for sal lan mor an ader tules" which I finally figured out meant "For sale, lawn mower and other tools." Loses something in translation; I prefer the original.
Once I drove out East Washington Avenue and spoke into a recorder, reading every word I could spot. I transcribed it later into about eight pages of "shocks mufflers lane ends merge right bus stop rummage sale fri sat sun unleaded leaded diesel coke 12 pack lavoris pabst tow away zone..." We even wrote a song with that gold mine of mindless roadspeak, called Shocks and Mufflers. Way boring, as you might imagine, and also I think it sounded too much like Totem Talk, triggering the audience's TV brain-shunt. We performed it once.
But just look at the goofiness riches in the Sunday paper, like some endless mantra of Zippy the Pinhead:
Zip Front Logo Hoodie. Hours vary for one hour photo optical pharmacy and portrait studio where available. Exceptional Price, Price Cut and Low Price items are at everyday low prices. In Avignon Satin, St. Germain, Messina, Bistro, Fabiola, Alexis, Savoy and Poetry. Block tulip garden hurricane lamps. Nature, Star, Metro, Sexy: choose your favorite. With one light sweep, put shine on hold for hours. Flouncy dresses, saucy decolletage, unrepentant drapery and unbridled androgyny suggest the imp at full throttle.
Most of this Totem Talk gets its idea across, which in one sense means it's not really bad writing. Some people insist that if it transmits the meaning it is supposed to transmit, then it's good writing, and that's that. The writing that bothers me the most is documentation for software or cars or bifold doors that explains poorly, even if the writing is correctly structured and flows like a hymn. Though I have to admit this kind of writing is difficult. I tried writing instructions for tying shoes one time, and quit after two unsuccessful pages.
The coffee table vibrates with crazy bits of odd writing & sometimes if you squint and look at it sideways, it's not bad at all. Here's an amalgamation from a few pages of a recent TV Week insert:
A houseboat scares Theodore. Black bean chili, meatloaf, dumplings. Emmy and Max build a treehouse. Antonio tells Eve about his love for Sheridan. A mouse overcomes shyness through dance. Dorian woos the new intern at the car dealership. Zoboo sees a larva and wonders what kind of legs it will have. Buster comes home. Cher's friends decide to rescue her and bring her back to Beverly Hills. A woman understands a Barney Fife image. Noonoo eats Dipsy's hat. Brad has math problems. Snuffy thinks the moon is following him. A woman shows up on her date topless. Herky has the hiccups. Fishing connects siblings. Arnold's cells turn orange. Art expo features an X-ray of Hank's colon. A man in a tank top searches for a Southern belle. Sagwa meets a bat.
Many songs begin as found poetry. A street sign or classified ad or, even more often, a conversational throwaway can suddenly radiate and become song fodder:
Trailers for sale or rent. I been workin' on the railroad. The old gray mare she ain't what she used to be. Dear Prudence. Hello Central. I'm sittin' on top of the world. Brother, can you spare a dime.
As a matter of fact, most songs probably start this way. I know most of ours do. And when I'm going through a dry period, it's usually not be the output sluice that is plugged, but the input sluice. And there's no Roto Rooter like a cupboard full of bad writing.
Bibliography: The New York Times Magazine, August 4, 2002