Time Traveler: Profanity no longer an art form

Time Traveler: Through the course of the years I have been writing this column, it has always been apparent I don't know how to write. I'll never write the great American novel, never be a Steinbeck, Hemingway or William Sydney Porter. Early on, realizing my shortcomings as a word painter, I adapted. The regular readers of this column realize they are not reading what I write, they are hearing me talk. The me you talk to on the street is the same me writing this column, although the street me uses metaphors slightly more … uh … earthy than I can get away with in writing this column. Were it not for Jana Ordaz and several other stalwarts who have carried the banner and transcribed my words for submission to the AJ, most of my scribbles would be swept up by my offspring and deposited in the trash, along with decades of old phone bills and tax records after I bite the dust. I suppose I could transcribe them myself, but I don't know how and I don't want to learn. I've noticed the other columnists featured in this paper seem to be sophisticated, erudite and polished. I am none of those things, perhaps because my life's path took a slightly more adventurous route. I spent a few years between 20 and 30 frequenting biker and cowboy bars. Sophistication, erudition and polish do not lend themselves well to survival in those places. I remember one morning, in about 1969, standing before Judge Wayne Wiley as he looked sternly over his glasses at me saying, "Mr. Downs, you were arrested last night for being intoxicated to the point that you were a threat to yourself and everyone around you and I strongly advise you not to have reason to appear in my court again." With that, he smacked his gavel and continued, "Now get the hell out of here, and don't come back!" I opted not to appeal the judge's decision. I would like my readers to imagine Susan Rushton in a 6x9 cell rattling her tin cup on the bars of her cell door yelling, "Hey screw, when do I get my phone call?" Can't imagine it? Me neither. As I just noted, my language on the street is slightly saltier than in this column. We have always been told the use of profanity indicates a lack of vocabulary and education. With apologies to English teachers everywhere, I beg to differ. Mark Twain once said, "Profanity skillfully administered is an art form." Or maybe it was me, I'm not sure anymore. I once worked with an old horseman, Lester Towne, who was working cows and horses in Montana and Wyoming, probably in the 1920s. Lester was capable of delivering a stream of invective and unparliamentary language, whether directed at me or a stubborn horse, that was almost poetic in its rhythm and cadence, and I believe he could have gone on for five minutes without repeating himself. It could have been put to music. Sometimes, I would purposely annoy him just to hear it. I think the horse enjoyed it, too. However, he never displayed his talents in front of the ladies or children. There were limits. BUT! Yeah, here comes the but. Over the last 20 years or so, the art of profanity has been corrupted. Where it once was used sparingly to emphasize a point or, often in my case, to ease the pain of a smashed thumb, it is now used constantly and crudely. I feel it is a reflection of a society that has become base, coarse and low-minded. I'm not a prude but several years ago, I walked out of a comedy show because the so-called comedian was prancing across the stage and every other word was the four-letter word we all know. I wasn't as much offended by this mental pigmy as I was by the audience who yucked it up every time the word was used, like so many 12-year-old simpletons. He wasn't funny, and as far as I could determine, the audience was brain dead. I got out of there before my IQ started to drop. While I have no problem with profanity skillfully and sparingly used to make a point, it probably isn't necessary at all. When I was growing up, we had no electricity ergo no TV, so I missed out on the old shows featuring Milton Berle, Jack Benny and others. But I've watched tapes since and they were funny. Still are. No profanity. I remember one night we went over to the McClellans to watch a show on their new TV. It was called "Riverboat" and starred Darin McGavin and a young Burt Reynolds. In one scene, the script called for McGavin to exclaim, "Well my aunt Annie's fanny!" Mrs. McClellan heard that from the kitchen. Shocked, she tottered out and wailed to her husband, "Mac, he said fanny on the television." Oh, how far we have come from those dark days of yore into today's enlightened world. You can hear my latest podcast on YouTube at TimeTraveler1860. Don't forget to hit the subscribe button. To comment on this column, call 530-320-6441.