Nathan Tyree: Lost in translation
So, I have this essay called Twisted Sisters. It's been published on a ton of crappy websites. In the past I've ponted out places that it has appeared in other languages. Today I was looking at the French version. I used Google's translation tool to zip it back into English. The results are baroque and kind of fun:
I tried not to lean me against anything. Bending, I have fears, would give the false impression. It could seem too occasional. The meeting was also not an option. I also made my the best of level not to make the contact of eye. It étaitplus hard which it resounds. When you are surrounded by people with the teeth which resemble the broken barriers of stake and it is very difficult to look at front armlevers decorated with tattoosde model with house of prison (some apparently made by cutting forms in the skin then pouring the ink of India in the wound) it anywhere other that their eyes. Fear causes this.
The name of the bar was "the twisted sisters." I am serious. I would not lie about something this deep. With the place was run by two small old women ladies the deeply ruffled faces and the voices of waitings of Tom By the moment when they gave you a beer cup "here the obligatory ya ' disappear the hon" came in a voice which resembled was to him sculpted Scottish good market and from the cigarillos.
The place was populated by observers of the "angels of hells on wheels" and each bad film of prison ever made. This woman continued to knock herself in me. Bruneétait cuts average, thin, had long hair and three teeth. Its face looked at as fire had caught to him and a certain worrying person had tried herself to extinguish it with an axe. Each time we ran up I made excuses nervously and it went far. By behind it could have been Miss America. I swear.
I was in this piqué because my old Murphy buddy had invited me. The type of Murphy' S of the type which appreciates really this kind of thing. The comrade is something of a enigma. He looks of as he belongs in the back room of a place like the twisted sisters, but those which know it know its control and the years when he spent teaching at the university of community. A hard type of Murphy' S; made in prison boils right and others in the navy. Then it had the practice the invoice of GI to obtain an education. Now it hangs outside in the places like this.
Murphy continued to buy beers to me and try of me obligeràto speak to the other owners. I occupied myself pretending to be an anthropologist studying a certain exotic tribe. Jen' did not belong, but perhaps I could learn something.
I had just started on another beer when somebody dropped some coins in the box from juke. The music was bad country. With my total dislike the first song which played was that "I want to stick a boot to the top of your superb-patriotic end", thing the ultraone by the type in advertising films of truck deFord. The people around me started to sing strong length.
Devil? Why would these people, these the underclass, this scorned minority, feel a relationship avecun singer which represents the good statu quo wing? Shouldn't these types listen to Steppenwolf (or at least Eminem)? Leave the face it, the principal jet of America does not trail in the places like this. In fact, the majority of the suburban cretins of the middle-class would prefer that these people disappear simply from planet. Thus why the customers with the twisted sisters obtain would behind cenouveau superb nationalism? It was like seeing the Jewish kids singing Deutschland Uber Alles, in the intéret of a god.
I decided to undertake a small experiment. I sauntered (or tested with the saunter, it is hard really with the saunter when you fear that you could be shivved constantly, or worse: to have your glasses broken) in the box of juke and looked above the choice. I hoped for Randy Newman or Bruce Cockburn or perhaps even dead Kennedys. A no such chance. Then I saw it. CD by chicks of Dixie. I dropped my money and chose four songs by Dixters (I cannot support to type "chicks of Dixie" more than one once... Rien.Je right did it twice). Then I went again to my spot close to Murphy and waited.
When my songs started half of I expected that a riot starts. I thought that if these people liked this type of truck of Ford which they could revolt with the musical stylings these a-American girls. That did not occur. After the bars first somebody started to sing length. Then a second voice joined inside. Then a third. With after one minute outellement each one in the place sang with these traitors same the fervor and joy they had exhibé in response to this song earlier.
I quickly arrived at a startling conclusion: people will sing length with anything. The content of the song does not import. The policy simply does not enter pasdans it. People sing really length with the melody, ouàthe low line or with something. What it average of words really is not very significant.
Little one later I undulated my hand around in front of my face with open space part of smoke and a lignede seen gives me. I drained my beer and said to Murphy that I have dûécoper. It slapped me on the back and moves towards the old marked table of swimming pool. While I walked outside in the sunlight I thought that I should never re-examine the interior of this place.
For clarity here it is in the original english:
I tried not to lean against anything. Leaning, I Feared, would give the wrong impression. It could seem too casual. Sitting was also not an option. I also did my level best not to make eye contact. This was harder than it sounds. When you are surrounded by people with dentition that resembles broken picket fences and forearms adorned with jail house style tattoos (some apparently made by carving shapes into the skin then pouring India ink into the wound) it�s very difficult to look anywhere other than their eyes. Fear causes this.
The name of the bar was �Twisted Sisters.� I�m serious. I wouldn�t lie about something this deep. The place was run by two little old ladies with deeply wrinkled faces and Tom Waits voices. When they handed you a mug of beer the obligatory �Here ya� go hon� came in a voice that sounded like it was sculpted by cheap scotch and cigarillos.
The place was peopled by extras from �Hells Angels on Wheels� and every bad prison movie ever made. This woman kept bumping into me. She was medium height, slender, had long brown hair and three teeth. Her face looked a little like it had caught fire and some caring person had tried to put it out with an ax. Every time we collided I apologized nervously and she walked away. From behind she could have been Miss America. I swear.
I was in this dive because my old buddy Murphy had invited me. Murphy�s the type of guy who actually enjoys this sort of thing. The fellow is something of an enigma. He looks like he belongs in the back room of a place like Twisted Sisters, but those who know him know of his masters degree and the years he spent teaching at community college. Murphy�s a tough guy; did a little stretch in prison and another in the navy. Then he used the GI bill to obtain an education. Now he hangs out in places like this.
Murphy kept buying me beers and trying to get me to talk to the other patrons. I busied myself pretending to be an anthropologist studying some exotic tribe. I didn�t belong, but maybe I could learn something.
I had just started on another beer when someone dropped a few coins in the juke box. The music was bad country. To my utter disgust the first song that played was that �I wanna stick a boot up your butt� super-patriotic, ultra-jingoist thing by the guy in the Ford truck commercials. The people around me began to sing along loudly.
What the hell? Why would these people, this underclass, this despised minority, feel a kinship with a singer that represents the right wing status quo? Shouldn�t these guys be listening to Steppenwolf (or at least Eminem)? Lets face it, the main stream of America doesn�t hang out in places like this. In fact, most suburban middle class goons would prefer that these people simply vanish from the planet. So why would the customers at Twisted Sisters get behind this new super nationalism? This was like seeing Jewish kids singing Deutschland Uber Alles, for god�s sake.
I decided to conduct a little experiment. I sauntered (or tried to saunter, it�s hard to truly saunter when you fear that you could be shivved at any moment, or worse: have your glasses broken) to the juke box and looked over the selections. I was hoping for Randy Newman or Bruce Cockburn or maybe even the Dead Kennedys. No such luck. Then I saw it. A CD by The Dixie Chicks. I dropped my money and chose four songs by the Dixters (I can�t bear to type �Dixie Chicks� more than once... Damn. I just did it twice). Then I went back to my spot near Murphy and waited.
When my songs started I half expected a riot to begin. I thought that if these folks loved that Ford truck guy they might revolt at the musical stylings of those un-American girls. That didn�t happen. After the first few bars someone started to sing along. Then a second voice joined in. Then a third. After a minute or so everyone in the place was singing along with these traitors with the same fervor and joy they had exhibited in response to that earlier song.
I quickly came to a startling conclusion: people will sing along to anything. The content of the song doesn�t matter. Politics simply don�t enter into it. People are really singing along to the melody, or the bass line or something. What the words actually mean is immaterial.
A little later I waved my hand around in front of my face to clear some of the smoke and give myself a line of sight. I drained my beer and told Murphy that I had to bail. He slapped me on the back and headed toward the old scarred pool table. As I walked out into the sunlight I was thinking that I�d never have to see the inside of that place again.
Browsing: you know it
Comments (0)
![[Valid RSS]](themes/mario-world/valid-rss.png "Validate my RSS feed")