I will admit that Twitter is somewhat of a new phenomenon to me, and I really only use it for work purposes, but the hash tag culture has me intrigued. When I discovered that FRiGG’s summer issue was entirely Twitter themed, I antcipated some laughs—and I wasn’t disappointed. In the editor’s note—appropriately titled “#WhatIsThis?”—Ellen Parker says, “most people on Twitter aren’t writers. (Which I love.) At least, they don’t know they’re writers. But you should see some of these people’s tweets. They’re brilliant. . . . All of the contributors here call themselves writers, and they were selected because the people I know online tend to be writers, but I want to make it clear: I love many people on Twitter who do not call themselves writers.”
Each of the pieces is a collection of past tweets, gathered and arranged for our enjoyment. Perhaps the writing wasn’t originally intended to become a “poem” or “piece of prose,” but writing is writing, right? Rather than comment on the pieces, I’ll just let it them do their job and let you laugh.
At the beginning of the issue is a piece by Jules Archer that starts, “You know what word we need to use more: paddywagon. . . . I’ve heard ‘Help Me, Rhonda’ three times today. Dear god, Rhonda, you bitch, help him.” The collection was an assortment of tweets by @JulesJustWrite. Here’s more:
Planned Parenthood next to a Motel 6. Seems fitting.
This is the kinda hotel room you’d do cocaine in.
things i hate: olympics. cabbage patch dolls. The Muppets. Basically, i am not an American.
Dear Hotel Bathroom, thanks for having a scale. Asshole.
Ms. Blooms’ Day: A Twitter Stream of Conscious” starts:
I hate it when I hit my fancy alarm’s “schmooze” button instead of “snooze” and I’m stuck making polite chitchat first thing in the morning. Someone bought up all the hair weaves and flip flops from the Piggly Wiggly and now I have no clue what to wear on casual Friday. Suri Cruise would make fun of my shoes.
Ravi Mangla’s piece actually reads as if it could be a story, ending with:
I wasn’t allowed to have soda as a child, so I had to drink my scotch neat. I have a soft spot for fontanelles. I don’t understand pears. This is my last hurrah before I give up last hurrahs for good. Anything you have to say to my sock puppet, you can say in front of me.
John Minichillo’s “Everything Tastes Better from a Star Wars Lunchbox” ends:
Me and the three-year-old watch Pooh cartoons, Pooh in the thralls of honey obsession, and the three-year-old’s mom says, “You know what honey is in a blues song?” I dream I watch out our window as a penguin wanders the neighborhood. Our three-year-old wakes us in the morning and asks if we want beer. We don’t, but are tempted.
So while it’s hard to take this issue of FRiGG seriously—but seriously, I don’t think you’re supposed to—it is certainly highly entertaining, and, of course, it makes me want to come back for future issues.