The Idioms and Expressions of Argentine Lunfardos used in Argentina


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In every country you will find a wide range of idioms and expressions that are used in everyday situations. Here is a list compiled of the ones you should know while you are in Argentina but watch out, make sure to know how to use them and with who because sometimes they can be offensive. These idioms and expressions, along with lunfardo, will keep your knowledge up to date while you blend in with the locals.

no le llega agua al tanque
when someone isn’t thinking straight or is missing the point.
a las chapas
to go really fast
arrastrar el ala
to hit on someone or advance with romantic intentions
lo atamos con alambre
to jerry-rig it
bajá un cambio
To relax or chill out
cara rota
a shameless person
caer como peludo de regalo
a way to say an unwanted guest who shows up unexpectedly
calavera no chilla
you get what you deserve
calienta la pava pero no ceba los mates
Someone that messes with you or teases you
faltan cinco pa’l peso
to come up short
echar panza
to let go of yourself, to be lazy and gain weight
comerse un huesito
to sleep with a hot babe or when you make out with someone
echar un polvo
to have sex
no dejar titere con cabeza
to take no prisoners, when someone destroys everything and takes it without leaving anything behind.
estar en el horno
to be in a bad situation
dejate de joder
get out of town! You gotta be joking! Stop messing around
echar un cloro
take a piss
más loco que una cabra
Something very crazy
le faltan algunos jugadores
Someone who isn’t there or when one he is out of his mind. A stupid person
medio pelo
mediocre
hacer gancho
to play matchmaker, to be cupid
meter la mula
to rip someone off
hablar hasta por los codos
to talk a lot without stopping
la verdad de la milanesa
the real deal
hacerse la mosquita muerta
to act innocently after doing something wrong
hasta las manos
to be busy, have your hands full
ni a ganchos
no way
ni a palos!
no way
mala leche
bad luck; also when someone has bad vibes
no dá
sorry, unacceptable, doesn’t give
la noche está en pañales
the night is young
ponerse la camiseta
to be a team player
parte la tierra
wow what a beautiful woman!
me pica el bagre
I’m hungry
qué pito toca?
What is his story? Whats up with him?
me quema la cabeza
it blows my mind
tirame las agujas
give me the time
la sacaste barata
you were lucky
tener una vena
to be super pissed off
saltar la ficha
to blow a fuse
tomátela!
screw you, take it!
tomalo con soda
calm down, take it easy
tirar los galgos
to flirt or hit on someone
Esta mas bueno que comer pollo con las manos
Something really good
mas aburrido que chupar un clavo
To be extremely bored, so bored that you would suck on a nail.
mas feo que tropezar descalzo
Something that is really ugly “Worse than stepping on something without shoes”
más feo que patada en los huevos
more ugly than getting hit in the balls
perdido como turco en la neblina
When you are super lost and don’t know the way
desubicado como aceituna en Pan Dulce
Something out of place “Like putting tunafish on sweet bread”
desubicado como chorizo en ensalada
Something said or done that is out of place/rude
mas buena que Lassie atada
When someone is courteous or nice
más pobre que ratón de Iglesia
Someone who is very poor. “more poor than a church rat”
más contento que perro con dos colas
Someone who is very happy. “happier than a dog with two tails”
más peligroso que mono con navaja
Something who is very dangerous. “More dangerous than a uncontrollable monkey with a pocketknife.”
ordinario como canapes de polenta
Something ordinary
más al pedo que bocina de avión
Something very useless
más duro que perro en bote
Someone who is very scared
menos onda que un renglón
someone or something boring
mas feo que pisar mierda descalzo
When something is very ugly or undesired, Ojo!, this is offensive
mas duro que gato de yeso
Someone who is scared
el muerto se rie del degollado
When one criticizes another person when he/she has the same defects
Más aburrido que choque de tortugas
When something is very boring. More boring than a turtle crash
más falso que billete de tres pesos
When someone or something is fake or stupid
más fuerte que trompada de oso
Strong . “Stronger than a punch of a bear”
mas inutil que cenicero de moto
Doesn’t serve any purpose
pesado como sopa de chancho
Someone or something that is overbearing
mas solo que Indio malo
To be alone without friends
peor que casarse y vivir con la suegra
When something is difficult or complicated
raro como perro verde
When something is strange
raro como politico honesto
A situation or person that you have little confidence in. Seems too good to be true but you give it a chance.
mas pesado que collar de sandias
A thick minded person, over bearing or has no manners
mas nervioso que pescado en Semana Santa
When you are very nervous for something.
fuerte como aliento de perro
Something strong “Like the breath of a dog”
menos onda que bandera de chapa
When someone or something isn’t fun, cool or is boring.
mas solo que Adan en el dia del amigo
To be alone without friends
mas cerca del arpa que de la guitarra
When you are about to die or in a critical situación
Menos estado que Palestina
when someone has is not phisical capable of performing something.
Hacerse la rata
skipping school.
Estoy seco
I have no money.
No te hagas el vivo
don’t be a smart ass
Seguirla remando
Keep trying.
Es un bagayo
She is really ugly.Ojo!, this is offensive
Pegar un tubazo
To make a phone call.

Source: Cheviste.com

Tis the Season for Tereré


terereIf you live in BA and are not lucky enough to have a pool at your apartment, it’s time to make friends with someone who does. The heat is edging into the upper thirties and it’s not getting cooler any time soon. You are not even safe if you have air conditioning due to the all-to-frequent cortes de luz. How do you stay cool when the heat is insoportable? Have a tereré.

Tereré is traditional mate infused with cold water or fruit juices instead of hot water.  Originally from Paraguay, the drinking of tereré is wonderfully refreshing and a nice alternative to sugary sodas. Just find yourself a termo and fill it with your favorite iced beverage.  Try fresh-squeezed lemonade with mint leaves, mango, peach, or pineapple; don’t be afraid to get creative. Even powdered juice mixes are good if you don’t have time to make it fresh.  Add lots of ice, fill up your mate with yerba and a couple of ice cubes,  put in your bombilla and find some shade. When the power goes out again use it as an opportunity to get to know your neighbors by sharing a tereré with them.

The Science of Misheard Lyrics or Mondegreens


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Excuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

My sister has a rare talent for mishearing lyrics. When we were younger, song meanings would often morph into something quite different from their original intent. In one Wallflowers hit, for instance, she somehow turned “me and Cinderella” into “the incinerator.” My favorite, though, remains that classic of the swing age, “Drunk driving, then you wake up”—a garbling of the Louis Prima hit that saw a brief resurgence in the nineties, “Jump, Jive, an’ Wail.”

My sister’s creation of a night of drunk driving from jumping and jiving is actually a common phenomenon, with the curious name mondegreen. “Mondegreen” means a misheard word or phrase that makes sense in your head, but is, in fact, entirely incorrect. The term mondegreen is itself a mondegreen. In November, 1954, Sylvia Wright, an American writer, published a piece in Harper’s where she admitted to a gross childhood mishearing. When she was young, her mother would read to her from the “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” a 1765 book of popular poems and ballads. Her favorite verse began with the lines, “Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands / Oh, where hae ye been? / They hae slain the Earl Amurray, / And Lady Mondegreen.” Except they hadn’t. They left the poor Earl and “laid him on the green.” He was, alas, all by himself.

Hearing is a two-step process. First, there is the auditory perception itself: the physics of sound waves making their way through your ear and into the auditory cortex of your brain. And then there is the meaning-making: the part where your brain takes the noise and imbues it with significance. That was a car alarm. That’s a bird. Mondegreens occur when, somewhere between the sound and the meaning, communication breaks down. You hear the same acoustic information as everyone else, but your brain doesn’t interpret it the same way. What’s less immediately clear is why, precisely, that happens.

The simplest cases occur when we just mishear something: it’s noisy, and we lack the visual cues to help us out (this can happen on the phone, on the radio, across cubicles—basically anytime we can’t see the mouth of the speaker). One of the reasons we often mishear song lyrics is that there’s a lot of noise to get through, and we usually can’t see the musicians’ faces. Other times, the misperceptions come from the nature of the speech itself, for example when someone speaks in an unfamiliar accent or when the usual structure of stresses and inflections changes, as it does in a poem or a song. What should be clear becomes ambiguous, and our brain must do its best to resolve the ambiguity.

Human speech occurs without breaks: when one word ends and another begins, we don’t actually pause to signal the transition. When you listen to a recording of a language that you don’t speak, you hear a continuous stream of sounds that is more a warbling than a string of discernable words. We only learn when one word stops and the next one starts over time, by virtue of certain verbal cues—for instance, different languages have different general principles of inflection (the rise and fall of a voice within a word or a sentence) and syllabification (the stress patterns of syllables)—combined with actual semantic knowledge. Very young children can make mistakes that shed light on how the process actually develops. In “The Language Instinct,” Steven Pinker points out a few near-misses: “I am heyv!” as a response to “Behave!”; “I don’t want to go to your ami” in reply to going to Miami. People immersed in an environment with a new language often initially experience the same thing: a lack of clear ability to tell what words, exactly, should properly emerge from the sounds that are being spoken. Most likely, my sister’s unconventional talent stems partly from the fact that English is not our first language. For us, on a basic level, word processing will always be just a bit different from that of native English speakers.

A common cause of mondegreens, in particular, is the oronym: word strings in which the sounds can be logically divided multiple ways. One version that Pinker describes goes like this: Eugene O’Neill won a Pullet Surprise. The string of phonetic sounds can be plausibly broken up in multiple ways—and if you’re not familiar with the requisite proper noun, you may find yourself making an error. In similar fashion, Bohemian Rhapsody becomes Bohemian Rap City. Children might wonder why Olive, the other reindeer, was so mean to Rudolph. And a foreigner might become confused as to why, in this country, we entrust weather reports to meaty urologists or why so many people are black-toast intolerant. Oronyms result in not so much a mangling as an incorrect parsing of sounds when context or prior knowledge is lacking.
Other times, the culprit is the perception of the sound itself: some letters and letter combinations sound remarkably alike, and we need further cues, whether visual or contextual, to help us out. In their absence, one sound can be mistaken for the other. For instance, in a phenomenon known as the McGurk effect, people can be made to hear one consonant when a similar one is being spoken. “There’s a bathroom on the right” standing in for “there’s a bad moon on the rise” is a succession of such similarities adding up to two equally coherent alternatives. (Peter Kay offers an auditory tour of some other misleading gems.)

What usually prevents us from being tripped up by phonetics is the context and our own knowledge. When we hear a word or phrase, our brain’s first cue is the actual sounds, in the order in which they are produced. According to the cohort model—one of the leading theories of auditory word processing—when we hear sounds, a number of related words are activated all at once in our heads, words that either sound the same or have component parts that are the same. Our brain then chooses the one that makes the most sense. For instance, if I’m talking about the role of the syllable in language comprehension, you’re also, on some level, thinking about a silly-looking ball rolling away. You’re also considering the smaller snippets that form each word’s makeup: roe, along with roll; sill, along with silly and syllable. Only after I say the whole phrase do you understand what I’m saying. Songs and poems, in some sense, lie between conversational speech and a foreign language: we hear the sounds but don’t have the normal contextual cues. It’s not as if we were mid-conversation, where the parameters have already been set.

Along with knowledge, we’re governed by familiarity: we are more likely to select a word or phrase that we’re familiar with, a phenomenon known as Zipf’s law, according to which the actual frequency of a word can affect how seamlessly it’s processed. If you’re a member of the crew team, you’re far more likely to select “row” instead of “roe” from an ambiguous sentence. If you’re a chef, the opposite is likely. One of the reasons that “Excuse me while I kiss this guy” substituted for Jimi Hendrix’s “Excuse me while I kiss the sky” remains one of the most widely reported mondegreens of all time can be explained in part by frequency. It’s much more common to hear of people kissing guys than skies. Expectations, too, play a role. You’re much more likely to mishear “Cry Me a River” as “Crimean River” if you’ve recently been discussing the situation in Ukraine.

Mondegreens are funny, of course, but they also give us insight into the underlying nature of linguistic processing and how our minds make meaning out of sound. In fractions of seconds, we translate a boundless blur of sound into sense. It comes naturally, easily, effortlessly. We sift through sounds, activate and reject countless alternatives, and select one single meaning out of myriad homonyms, near-matches, and possible parsings—even though speakers may have different accents, pronunciations, intonations, or inflections. And, in the overwhelming majority of instances, we get it right. To gain a better appreciation of how complex that constant instantaneous interpretive dance is, consider the problems of speech-recognition software, which, despite recent improvements, still usually generate a mix and muddle of whatever a user was trying to say.

Our brains are exceptional creators of logical meaning—even when it’s not quite the intended one. Some mondegreens are so plausible that they can become the real thing. “Spitting image” was once a mondegreen, a mishearing and improper syllabic split of “spit and image.” (Spit is another term for likeness.) When you eat an orange, you’re actually consuming “a naranj” (from Persian and Sanskrit). Your nickname is, historically speaking “an ekename,” or an additional name. Who knows. Maybe someday, when you do something for all-intensive purposes, no one will blink an eye. And, maybe in the future, some avant-garde poet will finally pen a verse to that most lovely of women, Lady Mondegreen.

BY

Source: The New Yorker

The Verbing of the English Language


One of the most inventive aspects of invention-friendly English is verbing, the denominalization of nouns into verbs.

It’s nothing new — verbs have been created from noun forms throughout the life span of Modern English and perhaps even before it evolved from Middle English; what’s been different during our lifetime, perhaps, is the rate at which it occurs.

verbing weirds language

Denominalizations most of us have grown accustomed to because they’ve been around a while include pencil (“I’ll pencil you in for tomorrow at nine o’clock”), trend (“Stocks continue to trend downward”), and impact (“That’s going to significantly impact our plan”). If those usages aren’t annoying enough, you can make people cringe by using dialogue (“We’ll dialogue about this later”).

Brand names even get denominalized, as was the case with Xerox and, more recently, Google. But verbing isn’t confined to the office. At home, mothers and fathers parent, and people host guests. Active folks ski and skate, while those out on the town get seated, sometimes only after they’re carded.

The primary cause of the recent proliferation of verbing is technology: Before the average person had access to personal computers, programmers were accessing data online. When the Internet went mainstream, we began to bookmark our bookmarks. As many people began to favor text messaging, texting stood alongside phoning or calling. (By extension, overt flirting and text-based phone sex was dubbed sexting.) Social networking gave us the verb form “to friend” (and, inevitably, “to defriend”), as well as a new sense of “to like,” where liking is a deliberate action rather than simply a feeling.

Denominalization is controversial and prompts much antipathy. But why? Some of the most basic words in English — dress, dream, sleep, strike, talk — are verbs identical in form to their parent nouns.

The answer: English encourages neologisms, but many of its users are (often rightfully) averse to upstart words. Many of the denominalizations we take for granted may have struck listeners and readers as awkward and annoying when they first experienced them, but although many others no doubt fell by the wayside for that very reason, numerous ones have long since been granted status as standard English.

There’s only so much you can do to champion denominalization or to choke it, but in the end, it’s a democratic process: If a neologism appeals to you, promote it by using it. If it appalls you, demote it by eschewing it. Not every grating verbification will last, and if one that particularly annoys you goes extinct, you can take partial credit because it has always been absent from your writing.

 

Source:

http://www.dailywritingtips.com/the-verbing-of-the-english-language/

and

http://www.gocomics.com/calvinandhobbes

3 Tips to Improve your Argentina Spanish Grammar


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As with other local Spanish languages, Argentine Spanish includes some deviations from typical Spanish grammar. These rules will help you begin to better understand Argentinians.

1. Vos: 
In Argentina, the tu form of verbs is not used. Instead, vos is the term that is used to mean “you”. For instance, instead of the typical Spanish phrase Tú tienes que comprar el pan in Argentina the phrase would be Vos tenés que comprar el pan.

Verb conjugations for Tú and Vos
Conjugating verbs using the vos form is actually easy. Regular verbs adhere to the following scheme:

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Take a look at this more detailed explanation of the usage of Vos if you would like to understand it better.

Irregular verbs can be a bit different, but since each one is unique you will have to learn them on the fly. A couple of irregular verbs are decir and venir.

2. Acordarse / recordar: 
The word acordarse is commonly used instead of the grammatically correct word recordar. An example is the sentence Me acuerdo que hablamos de eso la semana pasada. The correct version would be Recuerdo que hablamos de eso la semana pasada.

3. re-: 
The prefix re- for any word demonstrates “extra” of whatever is said. For example, re-canchero would mean extremely cool, nifty or neat. The sentence Martín se vistió re-canchero para salir con María would mean that Martín dressed extremely snazzy (or cool) to go out with María.

Source:

www.speakinglatino.com

Quimps, Plewds, And Grawlixes: The Secret Language Of Comic Strips


You’ve probably never heard of a blurgit or a swallop or a grawlix or an agitron, but you see them every day in your newspaper’s comics section. Here’s a primer on the secret language of comic symobls.

   When you think about it, the real world doesn’t have much to do with your favorite newspaper’s comic section.If you were a cartoon character, canaries would erupt from your cracked skull and fly around in circles every time you hit your head. When you swore, your curse words would censor themselves as a long, seemingly random series of nonverbal iconography. If you didn’t bathe, visible smell waves would waft off of you. And every time you said anything, it would result in words actually burbling up to hang in a cloud above you.

   That’s not what happens in real life, obviously. But if you look beyond the simple linework and frozen-in-time gags, the comics section is really the part of every newspaper that is dedicated to the language of cartoon symbology. In both importance and scope, there’s a lot more to the design of the comics section than you might realize.

   In 1980, Mort Walker—the creator of comic strips like Beetle Bailey and Hi and Lois—published a charming book titled The Lexicon of Comicana. Barely 96 pages, mostly cartoons and white space, The Lexicon was Walker’s own silly attempt to classify the symbols used in comic strips around the world. But the book ended up doing far more than that. To this day, it’s studied in art schools around the world, not just as a textbook but as a treatise explaining why the funnies matter.

   Born in 1923 in Kansas City, Missouri, Mort Walker has been an insanely prolific cartoonist for almost 75 years. He had his first comic gag published at the age of 11. By 14, Walker was a pro cartoonist, selling gag cartoons to a number of boy-friendly pulps like Flying Aces and InsideDetective. By 15, he was cranking out a weekly strip for the Kansas City Journal; by 18, he was the chief editorial designer for Hallmark Cards. And this is just what Walker accomplished before he created his most famous comic creation, Beetle Bailey, in 1950.

comix

   If you asked Walker, he’d probably say there was nothing special about him being so precocious at such a young age. “Every child is a cartoonist,” he writes in The Lexicon. “We all begin by drawing crude symbols of people and houses and trees. No one ever starts out as a Rembrandt. But Rembrandt started out as a cartoonist.”Walker might joke that what made him so wonderfully suited to being a career cartoonist is the fact that he never grew up. Even today, at 89, Walker makes his living by “drawing crude symbols” of people, and houses, and things. Not a lot of people would claim that Beetle Bailey and Hi and Lois are sophisticated examples of the cartooning art. But they are, and after reading The Lexicon, it’s almost impossible not to have an almost idolatrous appreciation for Walker’s comic strips, when before they might have seemed clichéd and woefully behind the times.

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   As a reader, The Lexicon of Comicana‘s principal charm is that it lays out a series of cartooning phenomena that you’ve probably never thought too hard about, gives them funny, onomatopoeic names, and then lays out examples of how your favorite comic strip might use them. For example, there’s the emanata. Emanata, The Lexicon explains, are symbols that emanate outwards from cartoon characters to show their internal state. Many emanata are unclassified by Walker (for example, hearts bubbling out of a character’s head to show that he’s fallen in love), but of the varieties identified by The Lexicon, there are some real winners. If you’ve ever read Cathy or a Japanese manga, you’ll already be familiar with plewds, the drops of sweat that spray outwards from a cartoon character under emotional distress. The more plewds a character has, the more upset he or she is: There’s a big difference between the two plewds a comic strip character might show if he ripped the backside off his trousers and the eight he might have if he was skydived naked into the middle of a conference of clergymen. 

   If you like to tie one on, The Lexicon can afford you a useful grammar of cartoon drunkenness. If Leroy Lockhorn stumbles home with just a couple of tiny squeans above his head in the comics, he’s unlikely to get walloped: he’s just a little bit tipsy. If that squean is accompanied by a spurl, though, he’s loaded, and Loretta’s likely to bring a rolling pin down on his head. (As a personal note, after reading The Lexicon for the first time, I adopted the words “squeanish” and “spurlish” to describe my own relative state of inebriation. They’re very useful.)

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   In a section of the book devoted to lines cartoonists use to show motion, Walker coins some more great terminologies. For example, any line used to show something moving is called a sphericasia. Shake something hard enough and these lines are called agitrons, while the lines that show which way a comic strip character is pointing are called digitrons. And when Sarge punches Beetle Bailey in the comics, the punch is made up of three distinct elements: A little dust cloud called a briffit to show where the punch started, a swalloop to show the arc of the fist as it smashes across Beetle’s jaw, and the terminating point at the end, which is a whitope.

   Speaking of briffits, they are most often found in the comic strips in the accompaniment of hites: horizontal lines streaking between a cartoon character and his briffit to represent speed. “The more hites, the more speed,” Walker explains. But there are also vites and dites. As their names imply, these are vertical and diagonal hites, but they don’t show speed. Instead, they show that an object is reflective. There are also uphites and downhites, which come out of a character when he is jumping or falling.

   A related line species to the vite is the solrad, which is a line emanating from an object to show that something—like a lightbulb or the sun—is bright. The solrad is similar but not identical to the neoflect, which are the lines that bounce away from something like a diamond ring or automobile in a comic strip to show us that it’s brand new. There’s also the indotherm, a squiggly line that might drift out of a cup of coffee to show that it’s hot. Or how about the delightfully named waftatron, which is the wisp of stream that comes from a cartoon pie to show that it smells good?

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   The Lexicon also will draw your attention to some surreal examples of comic strip symbology that you probably never noticed before. For example, have you ever heard of a lucaflect? Whether a door knob, a freshly shined pair of shoes, or a bald head, the lucaflect is the symbol cartoonists use to show something is round, wet, or shiny. What’s really curious about the lucaflect, though, is that it’s usually drawn as a four-pane window reflected in the object. Quips Walker: “It doesn’t matter if a window is nowhere near. You will probably never be questioned about it. If you are, clam up and only give your rank, name and serial number. . .or go out and rent a window.”There’s even a science to word balloons. Walker likes to refer to them as fumetti, which is Italian for “balloon.” There are many different types of fumetti, though. For example, there’s the regular word “balloon,” which is meant to convey something being said in a normal speaking voice. But what if Snoopy is the one talking? Well, Snoopy can’t talk, of course—that would be absurd—but he can have an internal monologue using a cumulus fumetti, which allows the reader to hear his thoughts.

   What if your favorite comic strip character is on the phone? Then you use the “AT&T fumetti“—visually, a sort of static-y, crackly word balloon with fuzzily scrawled words hovering in the middle —to show that the voice is being relayed electronically. There are other types of word balloons, too. “The Frigidaire fumetti,” writes Walker, “conveys a cold-shouldered snub,” and is principally illustrated by showing actual icicles hanging off the balloon. But for yelling, you use the ‘Boom!’ fumetti, where the edges of the balloon are drawn in spikes. “The volume is determined by the size of the serrations,” The Lexicon explains.

   Comics even have their own fascinating symbology for obscenity. “Even in today’s permissive society many four letter words are not permissible in the comics,” Walker wryly explains. Comic characters, therefore, are expected to self-censor themselves by speaking in the bizarre iconography of maladicta. The maladicta is made up of jarns, quimps, nittles, and grawlixes. What’s the difference? Quimps are mostly astrological symbols, jarns are usually different types of spirals, nittles are bursting stars, and grawlixes are squiggly lines that represent “ostensibly obliterated epithets.” Naturally, they can all be mixed and matched according to the level of profanity a cartoonist wants: Stubbing your toe and dropping an anvil on your foot would result in some very different combinations.

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   This is all a lot of fun, of course, and at the end of the day, the grammar, taxonomy, and classification of cartoon symbols with which The Lexicon of Comicana concerns itself might seem like a bunch of tongue-in-cheek silliness. That’s because it is! After all, Walker was a born cartoonist, and he has spent his entire life trying to get people to crack a small smile every day when open their newspapers.But something can be silly and still be important. To Walker, understanding the design language of the comics was important. Cartooning is usually one of the first means of written expression a child learns, and for Walker, understanding the language of cartooning was the key to communicating with other people in an increasingly international world.

   “Cartoon symbols are being used more and more throughout the world to bridge international language behaviors,” Walker writes. “The more international we become, the more we need symbols and the more important it becomes that they are universally understood… We must take heart, then, when we see people in remote parts of the Earth reading Blondie and Peanuts and Donald Duck. Not only are they being entertained but they are educating themselves in the world language of symbols.”

Source :

http://www.fastcodesign.com/1673017/quimps-plewds-and-grawlixes-the-secret-language-of-comic-strips