Final Responses

Camillo- I like this profile of a fun, if somewhat typical, international student at K college. I think your kicker kind of describes the rest of the piece in that he's a motivated young African man who is definitely going places. I liked the idea you're using for your documentary better though, I'm interested to see the tension between local students and the international kids. Maybe Rufus sees one of the in state kids wasting a bunch of food in the caf, that could be dramatic. I don't know what I'd change here besides your subject, but I think I've just read too many student profiles.

Marni- I like this piece as an expose of a pretty selfish and misleading system, but I was kind of looking forward to you trashing it or flipping out like in class. I like all the people you chose to interview, especially students who don't have a meal plan presumably, it makes it more relevant to our campus. I also thought that in class you said you had interviewed a Meijer employee of some sort, or you said you couldn't, anyway I think it would be good to have some really weak, bullshit defense to support your offense. 

Schafer- Really good opening and I like how you characterize Bardeen from a student's perspective, which means it was idealized and made up. I like that groups of students intending on participating in illegal activities don't overlap, but rather vie for the location or intentionally ignore each other. Weird, nitpicky complaint, I think you use 'some' too often, some pot, some shad, some solar rays, it's not totally necessary, you know? Way to incorporate soil creep in there too, did you take Physical Earth? I think I would try to add some conflict between the people that frequent the spot. Like a scene of the security guard chasing out some pot-smokers, or get some stories from students about experiences there. 

Mary- Good job at profiling a culture and interviewing people that are really pertinent to your expose, as it were. It's really interesting how much you bring up the legal issues, and how you compare our naked culture to that of other higher education institutions. I was wondering where the elbow-breaking part was, I thought that was going to fit in right when you were talking about observers sexualizing nudity. You're writing is really tight as always, and I'm not sure I agree with Marin about you not including yourself in it. You insert yourself for a second which makes you seem unsure too, so say take the plunge or just keep your pants on, so to speak.

Emily- I enjoyed your descriptions of your relationship to Bourdon, especially the fourth paragraph and the kicker, it's really indicative of what you called 'search for role models.' I think you could have expanded on Africans being agressive towards her husband just to inject a little drama, and I think you slip a little too much into her history as opposed to the meat of her personality, you know? But that kind of thing is hard when you're just sitting down in the Strutt, you have to hang out with people for months to get their real personality on paper. She does come through in her quotes though, and I like her city persona. 

Maureen- This is an interesting profile, I think kind of a revisal of your last one, and this one is definitely better. I like the explanatory Pixely, and then the illustrative Javin. It's interesting he talks trash about the cliques, but that's really what he wants. I was wondering what his life was like back home, more specifically in high school. I really like your little details about who his neighbors are and a little bit of your interpretation of his habits quickly rectified by his interpretation of his habits. I like that he is so contradictory, saying certain things and feeling others, and so it was really good that you had Pixely's comment about counter-intuition in there. 

week 10 reading

Slouching towards Bethlehem is one crazy read. It did a lot to purify my view of the era which is usually only described through rose, or poop-colored glasses. I loooove the title as it describes everybody's search for the ultimate as it were, especially in the sixties, they were all looking for something. It's interesting that the kids that were attempting to create 'a community in a social vacuum,' would just hang out, defy the don'ts that their parents established, and talked in this kind of thematic language with grooves and trips. But can it not be simply explained by their need to reject those that brought them, 'saran wrap and nukes?'

The blackface scene goes a long way to illustrate the radical political culture, and how sometimes they just wanted to start some shit. But the characters are the best, i like how they are defined by their drug practices to a large extent. Whether they shoot crystal, do acid, STP, or smack is very descriptive of their social standing on Haight St, and their views and personalities. 

The only part I'm not sure about is the whole explanatory section where she tells the media how dumb they are, which was probably good for the time as a way to counteract media poisoning, but it upsets here deep method of show-don't-tell.

Movement

Movement

Lights flash over head as bass thumps in your chest, a quick one hundred eighty degree turn reveals that everybody is feeling the music in the rest of their bodies too, the buildings behind them stand silent and illuminated, ignoring the celebration below. Focusing back on the stage, your peripheral vision reveals a young woman snorting a pinch of cocaine off a key right next to a shirtless, older bald man frantically spinning glowing balls in front of his face. The DJ on stage switches back and forth between records, one maintaining the beat the other slowly repeating three words between scratches: Welcome to Detroit.

Memorial Day weekend is a good weekend for the ailing D, as electronic music fans and artists make the journey from all over to congregate in Hart Plaza for three days of dressing strangely, doing drugs and listening to music that defies the moody shadow that hangs over the city the rest of the year.

“Anytime you bring your money to Detroit you are welcome.” Muses a middle-aged Detroit resident. She doesn’t attend the festival but watches the procession with her husband, from the waterfront. “So the festival is definitely a good thing for the city.”

This is true this year more than ever, as the companies that own the buildings surrounding Hart Plaza lobby for government dollars and file for bankruptcy. The pride around old ‘Motor City’ is becoming more and more strained and conflicted, the contrast between the opulence of the monolithic, phallic GM building and the half-burnt outer city where the company’s workers used to live is stark. Detroit’s citizens are becoming warier of the GM logo that stares out like a blue and white eye of Sauran, over the industrial decay creeping ever closer towards it’s glass walls.

“I’d like to offer my condolences to the auto industry,” reports Columbus based DJ RJD2 (born Ramble John Krohn) in the middle of his set. “I’ve got a lot of friends that have been laid off and hurt by the downslide of the big three and that really sucks, man.” He and his fellow visiting artists know the situation and are proud to offer respite from reality, if only for a mere long weekend.

“Mother fuckers have nothing else to do this weekend,” jokes Los Angeles DJ Flying Lotus (Stephen Ellison), whose Coltrane lineage gives him strong ties to Detroit (his great-aunt is the late Alice Coltrane). His music owes a lot to his jazz genes as well as the electronic beats of local legends like the late J Dilla. Donning a shirt sporting Dilla’s name for his stint in Detroit, Mr. Ellison appreciates what the city and its people have done for him.

Even legends like Afrika Bambaataa have nothing but good things to say about the city. “The great Motor City’s got the great Motown, great funky techno, and all the electro, they done gone got their funk on!”

The undeniably diverse and influential music history of the city is apparent at the festival, and many of the local artists show that the movement is still going. But Detroit has had trouble harnessing the power of local artists into a revenue attractor. Motown itself moved to Los Angeles in the early seventies over royalty issues, but some have speculated that less focus on the auto industry and more on other marketable exports of the city could have encouraged Motown to stick around. And since Motown has heavily influenced so much of today’s music, keeping Motown and it’s constituents alive and in Detroit could have made it even more of a cultural hub for tourists and townies alike.

DJ Z-Trip (Phoenix native Zach Sciacca) proclaims during his set, “Detroit has so much musical history it’s incredible, but when people think of Detroit they only think of that building,” he points to the GM building looming disapprovingly over the stage. “Fuck that building, it’s about the music!”

The Tech Fest as it was originally called was a step in the right direction in the opinion of the organizers, music fans, and even city leaders when it was launched in 2000. There were no reported crimes, about a million attendees, and an estimate of $90 million for the local economy. But the huge attendance is generally attributed to one tiny fact: It was free. Subsequent shows were also no charge for entry, but even with almost a two million-person head count for 2001 and 2002, the festival started losing money. In 2003 the local government retracted it’s usual $350,000 fund and after two more years of failing to break even, the original event organizers had to hand the festival over to Paxahau, a record label and booking company based in Ferndale, MI.

Now the cover charge is $45 for a weekend pass if you buy it online and in advance. Despite this revolution in charging practices the line-up this year as well as the crowd, were substantial, energetic, and all were enjoying themselves.

            An older woman sitting on the grass surrounded by people drinking, playing hacky sack and comparing piercings still feels very comfortable. “It’s better than people watching at the airport,” she says, “It’s great here, everybody’s having a good time and getting along.” A man with a knee-length, blood-spattered lab coat walks behind her, his true identity obscured by an equally bloody surgeon’s mask, glasses, and a shower cap. He bumps into a large black man in an LA baseball cap, gold aviators and an oversized red t-shirt. After apologizing profusely they strike up a conversation concerning their respective costumes.

           

 

Article Post

Hey, so I forgot about the article posting with all of the missed classes, but I found a short one in the New York Times Magazine about someone dealing with swine flu in Mexico City.
Also I'm not sure if it's narrative, but there's this cool article, written in a series of tweets, by former New Yorker writer Dan Baum about getting laid off after seventeen years at the publication.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/24/magazine/24lives-t.html?_r=1&ref=magazine
http://www.danbaum.com/Nine_Lives/New_Yorker_tweets.html

Transitions (Revised)

Standing across West Kalamazoo Ave. you stare down the vortex of brown-brick archways, you get the feeling that not everybody is here for the same reason as you. You see to the left, a group of young African-Americans, popping wheelies and skidding on bmx bikes in the bus station parking lot. They are here to pass the time. In the foreground is a nervous caucasion, a waist high pile of luggage to his right, and a camper’s backpack on his shoulders. With every passing minute he becomes more unsettled. He stands in front of a blue sign on a brick wall that reads: Kalamazoo Metro.
Approaching the waiting room, you notice the archways are decorated with old-time, roman-numeraled clocks that are associated with train stations. As each pair of opposing clocks passes by, time seems to slow, the clicking of bicycle wheels to the left slows and deepens, the couple playing patty-cake to your right do the same.
You pull on the door softly and its handicap assistance takes over, mechanizing your entry into the waiting room. Cackling laughter echoes from every surface, intermingling with the sounds of rolling suitcase wheels belonging to a couple of muscular travelers who are only using this room as a bridge from the train to the world outside. “This is a nice restaurant,” one muses to the other looking over the walls before exiting twenty-five paces after his entrance. The laughter echoes on, fading but not going anywhere.
Walking to the left past the ticket kiosks and rows of uncomfortably angled benches you here a young female voice whine, “Let’s go home!” She has become bored of this place. Continuing down the windowed hallway, past an overweight janitor and a skinny, young man in a track coat and a ball cap talking in friendly and familiar voices with each other. Those that don’t leave the station seem to all know each other. Curious you ask the skinny one; “Excuse me, where are you trying to get to?”
“I’m still looking for somewhere to go.” Comes the reply. Confused you approach the bathrooms.
To the left is the men’s, to the right the women’s. Turning to enter the restroom, you are greeted by a full-length mirror revealing to yourself the hardened expression and demeanor of a traveler. A complementing mirror behind you creates the illusion of yourself repeating into infinity. In the top left corner of this unsettling piece of glass is a sticker that informs you that, “For your safety, this area is monitored 24 hours a day by surveillance cameras.”
It was here on August 17, 2000, where a University of Michigan student of social work named Kevin Heisinger was found in a pool of his own blood. A scream from a 9-year-old boy who stumbled upon the scene alerted authorities of the crime committed by a schizophrenic who had forgotten his medication.
It was lack of surveillance and the unwillingness of adults within a close proximity to the incident that caused a stir in the community, and drove Amtrak and the city to begin working on the new walls and benches, archways and clocks. It was the fact that five individuals were within earshot of the murder when it was happening that pushed for this change. It was the two men who went into the bathroom, saw Heisinger, saw the blood and walked back out and across the street for coffee that put the sticker on the mirror. “For your safety.”
At the time of this murder, the train station was darker, less inviting, arch-less, with fewer busses, no electronic display of arrivals and departures, no surveillance except in the ticket kiosks. It was a relic, built in 1887, a part of the National Register for Historic Places since 1975, and the mixture of dilapidation and culture clash was a volatile one.
3.8 million federal tax dollars later the station is adorned with lights, electronics, cameras, archways, more buses, more land, more room for people to inhabit and other people to ignore. The government has polished the walls that enclose the problem.
The transitory and absent-minded culture of the train station waiting room made the station itself into a permanent resting place for this young man. Those who mistake the station for a restaurant in their mission to get back to their lives don’t have the time or patience to help somebody in need, this room is just a bridge, and its not their problem.
The people that are stuck there during the day, in between trains, or just looking for a warm, dry edifice don’t have the empathy to deal with a traveler in trouble. They too are stuck in the limbo of the transitory area. They know what happens when the destined and the lost intersect.
The only escape for the lost seems to be to challenge the train tracks by foot or bicycle as many do. As you sit with the between-train-ers and stare out the window, every few minutes the flash of a cyclist or a couple laughing carrying plastic bags, or a woman pushing a baby carriage, or even a pony-tailed man on a Vespa appear on the tracks. They have given up on being trapped; they follow the tracks in search of a destination. But will likely only find another vortex of time, another limbo.
And there too there will be people with money and bags, headphones and laptops, people that step through this place without a thought, they are more comfortable when they’re not there. Maybe they’ll stop to use some of their money to buy a sugary snack, containing just enough nutrients to get them to their next destination. If they all gave some of their snack money to a limbo dweller, they could maybe buy a ticket and go.
But the destined have no time and the others just sit and stare, playing on oversized, digital solitaire devices, avoiding the patrolling policemen, talking to their fellow limbo dwellers, passing the time. The time that means nothing to them and everything to the fleeting because they have no time to waste here. But many have too much time to leave.

Week 7 Reading

I really liked the Road is Very Unfair, the story was inherently dramatic, and I liked that it explained a lot of the mindset behind why AIDS is so persistently spreading in Africa. It was a little long, but I feel like all of the imagery and issues addressed were necessary for the story arc and the message. He definitely needs to have himself in the story, as how the turnboys interact with him illustrate the culture he is describing. His quotes are really well placed and pertinent, the scenes were he is a complete outsider are very poignant like the one with the drunk Rwandan soldiers contemplating stabbing him. It just shows through how fascinated he is with these people and this place and how much he cares, but how helpless he is. 

Access wasn't as good I don't think. It was in a similar area socially and economically, but reading somebody complain about bureaucracy isn't quite as interesting as pure survival. I had a hard time keeping my attention focused on this piece. Also it felt a lot less personal, there wasn't the sheer number of colorful characters that developed over the story. These were good stories to contrast though, with ethical dilemmas of writing about your subjects in difficult situations, and writing about a world you are relatively foreign to. 

Telling True Stories was uninformative as usual. Maybe I'm just dense.  

Final Feature

I would like to cover the Detroit Electronic Music Festival and what it is doing for the suffering town if anything. First of all the show is going to be ridiculous and full of action, and also Detroit is always a good frame to put things in. I'll be there for three days and I can talk to audience members and maybe even some of the smaller acts. 

Responses

This was a good week from everybody as usual, I think in general we were all a little low on structured conflict (myself included). 

Mary- I really liked this one, i think it could have gone in the Index this week, since it was strapped for articles. For people that frequent the joint, it was right on target, it completely displayed exactly what Munchie is all about: booze and cigarettes and munchie food, and people under the influence of booze, weed, cigarettes, and anger. I really like the workers versus patrons attitude even though it was sad that there was no infamous bat. The metal, the drunk asses you got to witness, the quotes are really good and well placed. I feel like the only downside would be for readers that are not familiar with the place, or have as an emotional tie with it as i do, they might not get it completely, but I don't know how you'd fix it.

Maureen- I'm glad you let me know that my neighbor is such a drag. Just kidding, the most interesting characteristic about her I thought was her intense agoraphobia. I think you could do more on just how a college campus alone could conflict with this issue of hers. Also more on Crystal ball would be good, you might want to give a little background in that regard, the guys in dresses are funny but for outsiders it might be a little confusing. You could also talk more about why she came here and the few people she has made friends with. 

Camilo- This lady is really cool, it's weird finding out that people you see everyday have such a distinguish history. There's some gramatical issues, but it's pretty tight overall. If she has more conflicts you could throw in there it might spice it up a little. Like why is she a priest of all things, or stories from hospice, or her husband's death, her son worrying about her while abroad. You've got a lot of opportunities in there just don't be afraid to ask difficult questions.

Joseph- This is a really cool profile of a really cool dude and I'm sorry to hear you say that he has since fallen on rough times. I think the title is too close to the Frank Sinatra article but that is an easy change. I'm also not sure there's a place for you as a character in it, when you reveal your attitudes about the band and him, it starts sounding reviewy, plus you obviously have somewhat of a man-crush on this dude, so I think too much praise is a bad thing, let us figure it out for ourselves you know? The rock addictions are really cool, I think if you go back to those it might help unify this bitch a little.

Emily- Your intro is really good and descriptive, the descriptions of her speech patterns and gesticulations are well worded and picture painting. But all the description overshadows some of the action, which is a problem I had too, people are doing stuff, but you spend so much time describing it that you run out of space for actual movement you know? Cool lady though.

Lindsey- I like your language and word choice a lot and the quotes are pertinent and flowingly placed. I think it's a really good piece, only I think it's a really good review, or even a really good advertisement. You're writing chops are apparent, there's just no conflict. Maybe some of the bands are having trouble or more on the outdoor liquor fiasco?

Marni- This is a really accurate profile of exchange students. I just did a documentary film on a CHinese dude and he is overworking hardcore as well. I like Omari's quote and the bowing kicker quote, I think you could have done a little more with the culture clash, just a little more conflict I believe. 

Transitions

As you cross West Kalamazoo Ave. it’s impossible to miss the impressive stretch of brick archways, and a bright blue sign out front that introduces you to the Kalamazoo Metro Station. You approach the waiting room, passing rows of carefully groomed flora in reddish-brown brick inlays that match the color and pattern of the archways. The archways are decorated with old-time, roman-numeraled clocks that are associated with train stations. As each pair of opposing clocks passes by, time seems to slow, the clicking of bicycle wheels to the left slows and deepens, the couple playing patty-cake to your right do the same.

            You pull on the door softly and its handicap assistance takes over, mechanizing your entry into the waiting room. Speckled black and white tile flooring is cut short by determined, vertical grains of strong, dark brown wood walls, varnished to a mirror sheen. The wall paneling has launched a further offensive on the meek tile, scattering the room with benches of the same composition and color as the wall and ceiling, and with backs at an angle too acute for comfortable seating.

            Laughter echoes from every surface, punctuated by stomps of the foot to accentuate the perceived hilarity. These noises come to a halt, replaced immediately by the sounds of rolling suitcase wheels belonging to a couple of muscular travelers who are only using this room as a bridge from the train to the world outside. “This is a nice restaurant,” one muses to the other.

             All the varnished wood adornments shine with the yellowy light diffusing out from two bulbs under the Amtrak sign above the cast iron-barred ticket kiosk. These lights pleasantly overpower the overhead fluorescent inlays in the ceiling, but all light seems to avoid a large sign directing the way to the restrooms and concession counters. Entering the heavily windowed hallway under the aforementioned sign, you pass vending machines and water fountains. You peak into the colorful concession booth, embellished by bright labels of snack foods and energy drinks, containing only enough nourishment to get the traveler to his next stop. Then you come upon the restrooms.

To the left is the men’s, to the right the women’s. Turning to enter the restroom, you are greeted by a full-length mirror revealing to yourself the hardened expression and demeanor of a traveler. A complementing mirror behind you creates the illusion of yourself repeating into infinity. In the top left corner of this unsettling piece of glass is a sticker that informs you that, “For your safety, this area is monitored 24 hours a day by surveillance cameras.”

            It was here on August 17, 2000, where a University of Michigan student of social work named Kevin Heisinger was found in a pool of his own blood. A scream from a 9-year-old boy who stumbled upon the scene alerted authorities of the grizzly occurrence.

            It was lack of surveillance and the unwillingness of adults within a close proximity to the incident that caused a stir in the community, and drove Amtrak and the city to begin working on the new walls and benches, archways and clocks. It was the fact that five individuals were within earshot of the murder when it was happening that pushed for this change. It was the two men who went into the bathroom, saw Heisinger, saw the blood and walked back out and across the street for coffee that put the sticker on the mirror. 

            “I mean, just a simple scream for help might have stopped this individual’s death, And it’s sad that it took a child. And it was still too late,” commented Bea Raymond, chief of staff to Portage Senator Dale Shugars in an interview with the Kalamazoo Gazette.

            The transitory and absent-minded culture of the train station waiting room made the room itself into a permanent resting place for this young man. Those who mistake the station for a restaurant in their mission to get back to their lives don’t have the time or patience to help somebody in need, this room is just a bridge, and its not their problem.

The people that are stuck there during the day, in between trains, or just looking for a warm, dry edifice don’t have the empathy or attention-span to deal with fellow lost souls. They too are stuck in the limbo of the transitory area. They sit and stare blankly, lacking direction and destiny, weaving between the walls and down hallways. One man in a tan jacket drags a four-pronged cane behind his apparently functioning legs. Even a cane is robbed of its purpose if it remains here too long.

The only escape seems to be to challenge the train tracks by foot or bicycle as many do. As you sit with the between-train-ers and stare out the window, every few minutes the flash of a cyclist or a couple laughing carrying plastic bags, or a woman pushing a baby carriage, or even a pony-tailed man on a Vespa appear on the tracks. They have given up on being trapped; they follow the tracks in search of a destination.

The sound of tinny pop music from a pink Dell laptop brings you back, “Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol baby!” This respite is cut short by an armed police officer telling the limbo-dwelling owner of the laptop that she needs to have headphones or turn it off. A woman’s voice replaces the contrived rhythms, “They’re closed, I can’t get a ticket! I’m stuck here ‘till tomorrow!” In contrast, a young girl in aviators squealing, “Let’s go home!” Some are never here, while some are here forever. 

Week 5 Reading

Frank Sinatra was sooo good. It encapsulated his need for attention, his stereotypical Italian lifestyle and demeanor. I love that he was like a don, people needed to pay their respects to him when they walked into his bar, the description of him being the town leader cruising down the street, everyone kissing his hand, it was great. And his competition with the Beatles, and the profile of his mom and everybody around him, his marriage to Ava Gardner, it was all so deep and it was incredible how much I know Sinatra now. I don't even listen to his music, I just have a mash-up with him and Biggie, and I've seen Manchurian Candidate, so it was cool getting to know ol' blue eyes. 

Memory was cool too, it was kind of a downer and I thought it meandered a bit, but I like that it settled on the two dudes bro-ing out and telling stories, and all they have is their memories. I guess the disrepair of the structure is to reflect the illusion of life these people are living, but I feel like that realization only comes through conscious analysis of the piece, he didn't make me feel like these people you know? It was a huge bummer too for most of it. 

Week 4 Reading

Trina and Trina was crazy! I almost feel like with this kind of subject matter its hard to go wrong, some of the best stories are about addiction, so a real life depiction is ridiculously dramatic. Her mood swings and the things she does keeps you reading no matter what is going on around you. But beyond the things she says and does, the writing is so descriptive and sad. The narrator as a character really brings you into the story, you feel why her parents ignore her when they drive by, and ignore her letters and her insistence that she's clean. It's an awesome story.

I like that The American Man at Age Ten was about me, and its a very objective and memory-inducing examination of American male childhood. I really like that she even writes how a child would sometimes, I feel like she writes like Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes would. It was a lot chiller than Trina and Trina so it was a weird contrast, but still very charming and expository. Cool stuff I look forward to reading more.

Oozing Sores (revised)

A quick hug and my mother turns away from me, not even looking back as she leaves me on my own in a state I’d never been in, with people I’d never met, about to take a twelve hour bus ride and spend three weeks in a Canadian State Park with complete strangers.

            “Hi!” someone exclaims to my right as I catch the last glimpse of my mother’s severely silver head. “I’m Luis! Where are you from? I’m from Texas!”

            Oh Jesus, I thought… Texans. I abandoned the conversation to change into the wilderness garb that had been accrued by my parents for me, based on a list sent by the school. Nylon, mid-thigh length, brown shorts, SmartWool socks, black Tivas, green windbreaker, blue bandana, Aviator sunglasses, I looked like the most expensive homeless person ever.

I felt even more out of place when I returned from the bathroom and realized I was the only person decked out like a fool at this juncture. My eyes welled as the Velcro ankle straps of my dorky shoes stripped a couple of layers of skin from my Achilles. This was going to be terrible.

I wasn’t an away-from home kid. I attended camp once, and by that I mean my mom dropped me off only to get a phone call from her wailing seven-year-old a mere three hours later begging her to come get me. Luckily the camp wasn’t but ten minutes from my house, in Granby as opposed to North Granby, Connecticut, and it wasn’t even an overnight affair. I just didn’t like being away from my familiar house with the familiar people.

With this knowledge of myself, I gritted my teeth, verbally flagellated myself, and entered the Recital Hall in the FAB to be debriefed along with my normally dressed cohorts. I took a seat near the back, and started eavesdropping.

I heard a lot of names of towns I assumed were in Michigan: Troy, Dexter, Detroit… Well the Detroit Area, Ann Arbor, Grosse Pointe, Ann Arbor, and then a throaty voice said, “I’m from Avon, Connecticut.”

Holy crap!

“Dude I’m from Granby!” I blurted. “Oh wow, how are all your cows?” asked Ryan Douglass, my fellow Connecticutian and future semi-close friend.

“I just have chickens thank you,” I replied, “How’s all your money?”

“Just wonderful.”

Well he’s kind of an ass, I thought, but at least he’s relatable. As my comfort zone expanded as slowly and painfully as my oozing Achilles wound, I found myself caring less and less that the people around me were either snarky dicks or complete douche bags.

“I’m Sam, I like Cake!” shouted the four foot, patchy faced kid in the seat in front of me at the beginning of the day long bus ride. “Do you play any sports?” Asked a deep voice to my right. Lunatics and jocks, it was just like high school.

 All I could do at this point was ignore the fact that I had more in common with the Cake-loving, (he meant the band but it took a while to figure this out) Lord of the Rings fanatic with serious opinions about the structure of capitalism than the relatively sane jock in the seat next to me. Eventually I fell asleep.

I woke up to see we had stopped at  a Tim Hortons filled with UPers all dressed entirely in plaid. I noticed simultaneously that my cheek was quite damp with drool, and that the muscular shoulder of my athletic seat companion was much damper.

The remaining hours of the trip were spent apologizing awkwardly to my companion. And just when I started to feel comfortable again, the old feelings of dread and discomfort flooded back when I saw, through the windows, about eighteen twenty-somethings, dressed entirely in fleece, circumnavigating the bus at top speed, shouting and jumping like coked-out second graders encircling an ice-cream truck. I quickly discovered that these asylum escapees would be leading us through the Canadian wilderness. My heart sank.

Lining up for group selection, I noticed that there was only one attractive female leader. All right, I thought, if I get into the hot leader’s group, maybe I can use that as evidence that things won’t be so bad. I’ll just use this girl as a chauvinistic omen. Slowly, names were called out, a drool stained shoulder appeared and was called to join the hot leader’s group, then a gangly kid with a stupid last name, a curly haired girl with a mean mug, a short, dark-haired girl talking at the top of her voice to stamp out nervousness, a tiny gymnast girl, and then…

“Colin King.” A sign from the god of sexism, everything would be all right. And despite the girl with the train whistle for a voice, and the Kentuckian hippie who cried whenever possible, everything was all right.

After embarrassing myself in introductions where we had to pair our first name with the name of an animal starting with the same letter, (I thought alternate names for roosters were funny, I did have pet chickens for Christ’s sake) and discussing Amelie a little too passionately, I realized that I’m not that different from these idiots. We like similar movies, we all laugh boisterously, and we all have to be disgusting together, so whatever!

And it was this realization that these losers were the exact same kind of loser as I was the formula that concocted some fantastic wilderness adventures: Scaring off a monster together after responding a shriek from the curly-haired New Yorker, pulling canoes through waist deep bogs, only to then have to carry them on our heads for three kilometers through the woods. Making a giant rope swing while the leaders were gone, and then another with them present. These were the same leaders that later convinced us that we all had Giardia, and were going to have to make use of the butt plugs we’d been carrying around, until we opened the packaging and discovered they were concealed candy.

 I’ve since had a few adventures with the angry girl with the curly hair, I live with the gangly kid, and my saliva-covered muscle-man turned out to be one of my best friends of freshman year. And I didn’t even have to call my mom once because the freak found his home.

 Outline: Conflict: Apprehension of College.

1.     I feel isolated

2.     Surrounded by lameness

3.     I am lame

Resolution: Lameness accepted universally.

 

Profile Pitch

I would like for this next project to spend a few hours in the public library downtown. The library is interesting in its architecture, and has apparently won a national award for best library, yet it is also a congregation point for all sorts of colorful characters. It's right by the park in the middle of town, where a lot of homeless people hang out and they wander over to hang out inside occasionally. It is also a place where a lot of families and petitioners and old people frequent, so mere observation should give me a decent body of material.
I think I'm going to chill at the front desk for a couple hours because that's where all the confrontation happens, but I will wander around the library to see all the screaming kids and such. But mostly it will be a profile of the check out counter, hopefully some people will get angry over some fines or something.
So more than following a direct chronological order, it would be an establishing introduction, a series of vignettes and a conclusion.

Response to Writing for Story

This book was really cool, the story examples were quite enjoyable, I liked that one was kind of a downer and the other was ridiculously uplifting. The tips help me realize how important small details are in narrative. Smells, sounds, people’s characteristics and mannerisms, all add flavor to your narrative and make it connectable, which is the ultimate goal.

            Also the importance of a theme that is kind of silhouetted throughout the whole story, like the beep-beep-beeping of the heart monitor in Mrs. Kelly’s Monster, and the repetition of the phrase ‘Keep on keeping on,’ in The Ballad of Old Man Peters.

            Something else that I already knew but was good to have reinforced since I don’t apply it that often is the outline. The amount of detail and just pure stuff in these stories is overwhelming, and it would be incoherent without a premeditated structure.

            Also the notion the deceptive simplicity is elegance really stuck with me. The technique that boils down complicated ideas and stories into cohesive language is the most daunting challenge of the book, but also the most important.

            It’s also interesting that all stories have conflict and complications, but also a story can be about damn near anything in our lives, so it dawned on me how much of our lives deals with conflict and complications. 

Oozing Sores

“Bye, Colin.” A quick hug and my mother turns away from me, not even looking back as she leaves me on my own in a state I’d never been in, with people I’d never met, about to take a twelve hour bus ride and spend three weeks in a Canadian State Park with these strangers.
“Hi!” someone exclaims to my right as I catch the last glimpse of my mother’s severely silver head. “I’m Luis! Where are you from, I’m from Texas!”
Oh Jesus, I thought… Texans. I abandoned the conversation to change into the wilderness garb that had been accrued by my parents for me, based on a list sent by the school. Nylon, mid-thigh length, brown shorts, SmartWool socks, black Tiva’s, green windbreaker, blue bandana, Aviator sunglasses, I looked like the most expensive homeless person ever.
I felt even more out of place when I returned from the bathroom and realized I was the only person decked out like a fool at this juncture. My eyes welled as the Velcro ankle straps of my dorky shoes stripped a couple of layers of skin from my Achilles. This was going to be terrible.
I wasn’t an away-from home kid. I attended camp once, and by that I mean my mom dropped me off only to get a phone call from her wailing seven-year-old a mere three hours later begging her to come get me. Luckily the camp wasn’t but ten minutes from my house, and it wasn’t even an overnight affair. I just didn’t like severe, long-term change, or what I perceived to be so.
With this knowledge of myself, I gritted my teeth, called myself a pussy and entered the Recital Hall in the FAB to be debriefed along with my normally dressed cohorts. I took a seat near the back, and started eavesdropping.
I heard a lot of names of towns I assumed were in Michigan: Troy, Dexter, Detroit… Well the Detroit Area, Ann Arbor, Grosse Pointe, Ann Arbor, and then a throaty voice said, “I’m from Avon, Connecticut.”
Holy crap!
“Dude I’m from Granby!” I blurted. “Oh wow, how are all your cows?” asked Ryan Douglass, my fellow Connecticutian and future friend who would later transfer after freshman year.
“I just have chickens thank you,” I replied, “How’s all your money?”
“Just wonderful.”
Well he’s kind of a dick, I thought, but at least he’s relatable. As my comfort zone expanded as slowly and painfully as my oozing Achilles wound, I found myself caring less and less that the people around me were either snarky dicks or complete douche bags.
“I’m Sam, I like Cake!” shouted the four foot, patchy faced kid in the seat in front of me at the beginning of the day long bus ride. “Do you play any sports?” Asked a deep voice to my right. Lunatics and jocks, it was just like high school.
All I could do at this point was ignore the fact that I had more in common with the Cake-loving, (he meant the band but it took a while to figure this out) Lord of the Rings fanatic with serious opinions about the state of the economy than the relatively sane jock in the seat next to me. Eventually I fell asleep.
I woke up in a small puddle of drool on the muscular shoulder of my athletic seat companion. Apologizing awkwardly, the old feelings of dread and discomfort flooded back when I saw out the windows, about eighteen twenty-somethings, dressed entirely in fleece, circumnavigating the bus at top speed, shouting and jumping like coked-out second graders encircling an ice-cream truck. I quickly discovered that these asylum escapees would be leading us through the Canadian wilderness. My heart sank.
Lining up for group selection, I realized that there was only one attractive female leader. All right, I thought, if I get into the hot leader’s group, maybe I can use that as evidence that things won’t be so bad. I’ll just use this girl as a chauvinistic omen. Slowly, names were called out, a drool stained shoulder appeared when a Joe Malone was called to join the hot leader’s group, then a gangly kid with a stupid last name, a curly haired girl with a mean mug, a really loud half-Korean, half-Italian girl, a tiny gymnast girl, and then…
“Colin King.” A sign from the god of sexism, everything would be all right. And despite the girl with the train whistle for a voice, and the Kentuckian hippie who cried whenever possible, everything was all right.
After embarrassing myself in introductions where we had to pair our first name with the name of an animal starting with the same letter, (I thought alternate names for roosters were funny, I did have pet chickens for Christ’s sake) and discussing Amelie a little too passionately, I became great friends with these people. I’ve since had a few classes and adventures with the angry girl with the curly hair, I live with the gangly kid, and Joe Malone turned out to be one of my best friends of freshman year. And I didn’t even have to call my mom once.