Katie Arrivas -
Strengths: "Bad Brains" Having been to quite a few concerts, I know exactly that feeling. Though I've never exactly been the youngest demographic, so that was fun to read about. I thought you conveyed the events and tone smoothly in your writing. I thought you gave "the punks" strong characteristics that made them unique in your story. "All-American" strengths: Onomonopia! You brought us a scene that we all know very well and you described it beautifully. Short and sweet and ketchupy. A very good overview of an All-American eats.
Weaknesses: The only problem I had was Andrew randomly finding his way into the story, I was under the impression it was only two of you. If I misread it, I'm terribly sorry.
Kimberly Thomas-
Strengths: Your post, "Wild Ride", brought an excellent voice and atmosphere in the writing. The rainy and foggy scene brought a calming element to me, and slowly the danger mounted. The ending was very well played out, if a bit short compared to the build up. Your grammar and sentence structure were both very well done. For "An Ethnic Melody" I never considered the origins of Buffalo Wings, though I was always a bit curious. Thanks to you, I now know! You set the table great in the introduction, and th culture salivated from the writing. The food tied in nicely to the culture. Again, your grammar and structure was exceptional.
Weaknesses: I feel like a failure to constantly come up short of weaknesses, but that's probably a good thing.
Nicola Simmons - Did not complete in time.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Witness: The Final Countdown
My grip was slipping with sweat. My eyes were straining to see the track. One more lap. One more lap to endure. One more lap to prove myself. I hear the cries of engines behind, waiting for their moment.
I trained for this moment the entire summer. Countless hours spent at the track, honing my skill. To me, this race was a passage entering adulthood. I was tired of being looked down on because of age. I needed to be considered equal. Winning this race would prove to everyone I belonged. One more lap.
The cries of engines become howls. They were right behind me. "Come on, come on" I mouthed. The summer of experience told me Yoshi was tiring. The green dinosaur and I had been through too much to lose the Special Cup on the final lap. We had frozen in the icy tundra of Sherbet Island; traveled through the sands of the Kalimari Desert, and finished first against the evil spirits in Bowser's Castle. This was my time, and no mushroom head Toad was going to take it from me. One more lap. However, there was a problem. Toad was controlled by my sister. She and Toad were the Yin to my Yang, my Pokemon Red to Pokemon Blue. If I were going to prove myself, it would be through her. One more lap.
The colorful track of Rainbow Road became an epileptic blur. Toad and the others ready to pass. I made my choice. Entering the large jump, I turned left hard, and hopped over the rails. The next few moments seemed to linger forever as I watched Yoshi free fall into nothingness. Then Yoshi landed. I had never experienced such bliss, I was halfway through the lap with the others far behind. Though, nothing worth having comes easy. My sister inconceivably made the jump. We were neck and neck for the remainder of the course. Trading bandannas and green shells.
The finish line was in sight. The mystery boxes past us, this was a battle of will. What happened next was unimaginable. I inch ahead ready to take the glory. I was ready to burst with ecstasy. Then my sister pauses the race, and quits the game. My hearted stopped. She claimed I cheated on the second lap when I stole her mushrooms with a ghost. With my childhood still intact, I walked away knowing I had it in me.
I trained for this moment the entire summer. Countless hours spent at the track, honing my skill. To me, this race was a passage entering adulthood. I was tired of being looked down on because of age. I needed to be considered equal. Winning this race would prove to everyone I belonged. One more lap.
The cries of engines become howls. They were right behind me. "Come on, come on" I mouthed. The summer of experience told me Yoshi was tiring. The green dinosaur and I had been through too much to lose the Special Cup on the final lap. We had frozen in the icy tundra of Sherbet Island; traveled through the sands of the Kalimari Desert, and finished first against the evil spirits in Bowser's Castle. This was my time, and no mushroom head Toad was going to take it from me. One more lap. However, there was a problem. Toad was controlled by my sister. She and Toad were the Yin to my Yang, my Pokemon Red to Pokemon Blue. If I were going to prove myself, it would be through her. One more lap.
The colorful track of Rainbow Road became an epileptic blur. Toad and the others ready to pass. I made my choice. Entering the large jump, I turned left hard, and hopped over the rails. The next few moments seemed to linger forever as I watched Yoshi free fall into nothingness. Then Yoshi landed. I had never experienced such bliss, I was halfway through the lap with the others far behind. Though, nothing worth having comes easy. My sister inconceivably made the jump. We were neck and neck for the remainder of the course. Trading bandannas and green shells.
The finish line was in sight. The mystery boxes past us, this was a battle of will. What happened next was unimaginable. I inch ahead ready to take the glory. I was ready to burst with ecstasy. Then my sister pauses the race, and quits the game. My hearted stopped. She claimed I cheated on the second lap when I stole her mushrooms with a ghost. With my childhood still intact, I walked away knowing I had it in me.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Cultural Tastes: The Joy of Eating
Let's make a little mountain here. Let's take some black, some blue and a little bit of crimson. Let's say that mountain lives right here.
Five in the morning. Mom needs about fifteen minutes to get ready before we set off. The house has a drowsy feeling. Like everything is covered in a gentle mist, just happily laying on the furniture, not trying to make too much of an impression. Quite possibly my favorite moment of the morning. While I wait, I peel an orange. I let the citrus vapor find it's way onto my face. Enjoying the calming sensation I settle on the couch with a calm man, well into a painting. This is the world of Bob Ross eats.
We like things that are happy here.
Culturally, Bob Ross is a small phenomenon. Not immensely popular during his time, he has captivated later generations with a voice that leaves Morgan Freeman jealous. My time with him was always a special little time, and always seem to be accompanied with certain foods. Happy little foods find their way onto my plate. Oranges are more often than not the focal point in the meal. Just ever so gently finding their way among the patches of grapes and lake of cereal, both minding their own business. It's a happy little breakfast. Now and then, sometimes a change in direction is nice. Just ever so slightly, maybe some cranberry juice finds it's way into a cup. Who doesn't like new juice every once in a while?
Let's take a little halo blue, a little bit of crimson, and we'll just put a little bit of color right here. Just basically blend it into a bit of nothing.
His afro and anecdotes about fury little animals only add to his aura that has increased through decades. Listening to the story about a small squirrel Bob's assistance is mending, I keep eating. A small dash of milk mixed with a generous amount of cereal; sometimes the most accidental spoonfuls can be the best. I let my little fingers meander down towards the purple grapes. It doesn't matter which I choose, they all look so happy. I settle for a modest grape. Not too large, not too flashy. Just a nice little grape, not looking for any trouble. Off in the distance, I hear signs my mom is close to ready. That's all right. I'll enjoy what time I have left.
Now, let's give this guy a friend.
The episodes last for an entire painting, a convenient time frame of fifteen minutes or so. I have a few moments with the painter until my mom is ready, no rush. I switch around from using my spoon to drink the leftover milk and lifting the bowl. Whichever I feel for the new morning. Whichever I feel. I left one happy little orange slice for the last bite. Sometimes I like to have a fun aftertaste, just a bit of citrus vapor I started my day with. I finish my small breakfast, nothing special, just another variety of food in this happy little culture. Now I can begin my day.
Happy painting, and God bless my friend.
Five in the morning. Mom needs about fifteen minutes to get ready before we set off. The house has a drowsy feeling. Like everything is covered in a gentle mist, just happily laying on the furniture, not trying to make too much of an impression. Quite possibly my favorite moment of the morning. While I wait, I peel an orange. I let the citrus vapor find it's way onto my face. Enjoying the calming sensation I settle on the couch with a calm man, well into a painting. This is the world of Bob Ross eats.
We like things that are happy here.
Culturally, Bob Ross is a small phenomenon. Not immensely popular during his time, he has captivated later generations with a voice that leaves Morgan Freeman jealous. My time with him was always a special little time, and always seem to be accompanied with certain foods. Happy little foods find their way onto my plate. Oranges are more often than not the focal point in the meal. Just ever so gently finding their way among the patches of grapes and lake of cereal, both minding their own business. It's a happy little breakfast. Now and then, sometimes a change in direction is nice. Just ever so slightly, maybe some cranberry juice finds it's way into a cup. Who doesn't like new juice every once in a while?
Let's take a little halo blue, a little bit of crimson, and we'll just put a little bit of color right here. Just basically blend it into a bit of nothing.
His afro and anecdotes about fury little animals only add to his aura that has increased through decades. Listening to the story about a small squirrel Bob's assistance is mending, I keep eating. A small dash of milk mixed with a generous amount of cereal; sometimes the most accidental spoonfuls can be the best. I let my little fingers meander down towards the purple grapes. It doesn't matter which I choose, they all look so happy. I settle for a modest grape. Not too large, not too flashy. Just a nice little grape, not looking for any trouble. Off in the distance, I hear signs my mom is close to ready. That's all right. I'll enjoy what time I have left.
Now, let's give this guy a friend.
The episodes last for an entire painting, a convenient time frame of fifteen minutes or so. I have a few moments with the painter until my mom is ready, no rush. I switch around from using my spoon to drink the leftover milk and lifting the bowl. Whichever I feel for the new morning. Whichever I feel. I left one happy little orange slice for the last bite. Sometimes I like to have a fun aftertaste, just a bit of citrus vapor I started my day with. I finish my small breakfast, nothing special, just another variety of food in this happy little culture. Now I can begin my day.
Happy painting, and God bless my friend.
Peer Review: Group Two: I Missed a Week Somewhere: Week 5
Katie Arrivas: "A Trip [Not Taken] to My Homeland" I learned something reading this - the seating chart deity is not monotheistic as I previously imagined. In the third paragraph you start with, "I stepped off" and start the next sentence the same way. I'm not sure if this was an accident, but I know a lot of writers try and create a theme with repeating the start of sentences. I feel if you kept that up a little longer, a sub-theme in the paragraph could have been established. (Disregard that if it doesn't make sense) For "A Monsoon" I definitely enjoyed the examples of alliteration. "sloshed and slammed" and a few others. Alliterations are my favorite. For the essay, I enjoyed the atmosphere, we've all been there on the monsoon and you captured it nicely.
Kimberely Thomas: "Prompt 11: 'una donna del patrimonio Siciliano'" First, I loved the description of Siracusa, likening it to a bastard child between two American cities. That allowed even more of your voice to be brought out. Also your variety of sentence structure was very well done. As a reader, I was never lulled into a monotonous trance, but always left enthralled. Sometimes when I re-read my prompts, I like to read the first sentence of each paragraph. That gives me a real sense of the tone and voice of the story. Your prompt works perfectly for this. "Foregrounding Place – 'The Pilgrimage'" You nail the prompt. The descriptions were phenomenal. I've always known and have read about the Japanese prisons, but this groups has really put a face on history for me.
Nicola Simmons: I enjoyed both posts very much. Of course you already know the problem. I'm sure if you had the time, you could have elaborated on the story much more. But sometimes time isn't our best friend.
Kimberely Thomas: "Prompt 11: 'una donna del patrimonio Siciliano'" First, I loved the description of Siracusa, likening it to a bastard child between two American cities. That allowed even more of your voice to be brought out. Also your variety of sentence structure was very well done. As a reader, I was never lulled into a monotonous trance, but always left enthralled. Sometimes when I re-read my prompts, I like to read the first sentence of each paragraph. That gives me a real sense of the tone and voice of the story. Your prompt works perfectly for this. "Foregrounding Place – 'The Pilgrimage'" You nail the prompt. The descriptions were phenomenal. I've always known and have read about the Japanese prisons, but this groups has really put a face on history for me.
Nicola Simmons: I enjoyed both posts very much. Of course you already know the problem. I'm sure if you had the time, you could have elaborated on the story much more. But sometimes time isn't our best friend.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Writing Prompt 13: The Show That Never Ends
In the desert's summer, heat doesn't abide by the rules of night. Veiled behind a promise of relief from intolerable temperatures, is yet another level of Dante's Hell. Beads of sweat laced with the scent of sunscreen remain instilled in the air, shirts are still cemented to perspiring bodies, and the insufferable sound of flip-flops flopping continue resonating in the dusty atmosphere. Even the purple mountains appear to sag during the brief darkness of summer months. Surviving night in "The Lovin' Spoonfull's" summer is an evolutionary trait acquired only by the cold-blooded residents of Phoenix, Arizona. Some flock to the sizzling swimming pools. Others prefer to protect their homes from the heat like the zombie apocalypse, god forbid you open their front door. I prefer a less drastic route, Diamondbacks baseball.
The crack of the bat is timeless - though maybe serendipitous with the Diamondbacks - and the smell of freshly cut grass is mesmerizing. Munching on peanuts and crackerjacks, enjoying the cool air the stadium has to offer, keeping score just like fans of fifty years ago did. "Root root root for the home team" and all that good stuff. That's fine for the old couple sitting a few rows behind us. But damn it, I'm a fan and I love it. Each Diamondback base hit is treated like VE Day, and each run we score is praised like the second coming of Jesus. Ok, maybe not quite that much celebration. We do have dignity unlike some Red Sox fans I know of.
Baseball is the perfect retreat from the smoldering night. Sitting alongside friends in the cheapest cheap seats possible. We watch the game, of course, but what comes more naturally is the conversations. Some pertain the baseball, but most sound like they belong in a sitcom. "If Pokemon were real, which would one taste the best?" A voice replies, "I'm willing to bet Picachu. I mean you would feel horrible eating it because of the cuteness factor..." Or how awesome it would be to lifeguard at the pool in the stadium. Strangers glance at us with curious looks, half eavesdropping half having their own conversations. Once our seats are taken, we loose ourselves in the past-time.
On summer nights the roof and panels stay closed, protecting us from the inferno outside. Once that 27th out approaches, we find ourselves praying for extra innings. We know the heat is lurking, preparing for us to return. The Diamondbacks aren't exactly doing us any favors. At a record setting speed, they help the stadiums air conditioning by whiffing at-bat after at-bat. The game ends on a low note, and we leave the comfy confines into the big summer shadow.
The crack of the bat is timeless - though maybe serendipitous with the Diamondbacks - and the smell of freshly cut grass is mesmerizing. Munching on peanuts and crackerjacks, enjoying the cool air the stadium has to offer, keeping score just like fans of fifty years ago did. "Root root root for the home team" and all that good stuff. That's fine for the old couple sitting a few rows behind us. But damn it, I'm a fan and I love it. Each Diamondback base hit is treated like VE Day, and each run we score is praised like the second coming of Jesus. Ok, maybe not quite that much celebration. We do have dignity unlike some Red Sox fans I know of.
Baseball is the perfect retreat from the smoldering night. Sitting alongside friends in the cheapest cheap seats possible. We watch the game, of course, but what comes more naturally is the conversations. Some pertain the baseball, but most sound like they belong in a sitcom. "If Pokemon were real, which would one taste the best?" A voice replies, "I'm willing to bet Picachu. I mean you would feel horrible eating it because of the cuteness factor..." Or how awesome it would be to lifeguard at the pool in the stadium. Strangers glance at us with curious looks, half eavesdropping half having their own conversations. Once our seats are taken, we loose ourselves in the past-time.
On summer nights the roof and panels stay closed, protecting us from the inferno outside. Once that 27th out approaches, we find ourselves praying for extra innings. We know the heat is lurking, preparing for us to return. The Diamondbacks aren't exactly doing us any favors. At a record setting speed, they help the stadiums air conditioning by whiffing at-bat after at-bat. The game ends on a low note, and we leave the comfy confines into the big summer shadow.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
A Trip Never Taken: In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
Step One: Desire
Nature was always a gift I cherished. I lived for the fresh smell of autumn shaded forests. Or conquering mountains dotted by squat barrow cacti. If for no other reason than life; nature was captivating. Of course, with this love of nature came a need for exploration. Something new was needed, mankind has stepped on the moon, the least I could do was step outside Arizona.
Step Two: Discourse
"Why was this trip so important?" I was asked many times, friends and family were curious why this was so imperative. To those inquiring minds, California meant beaches, San Diego, Los Angeles, and the soul sucking attraction that is Disneyland. My wholly unsatisfactory explanations told them this trip was my pilgrimage, my Mecca. I literally had dreams of the Redwood Forest through my life. My thought process was if I don't go now, I may get boggled down with this "life" thing I kept hearing about.
For the first time, I had no idea what was next. Fifteen years of schooling was mercifully drawing to a close. Though during those years, I always had the next educational step planned out. Junior high, high school, and the expectation of college, these were safe, predictable choices. Now that step plateaued, leaving an exhilarating landscape for exploration. It was scary. The Redwoods, in my mind, marked the beginning of exploring that plateau.
Step Three: ???
Hour seven into my drive I was seriously questioning my pilgrimage. While it wasn't cold enough to snow, I was in desperate need of a heater. I was wearing three layers of shirts, a jacket, long-johns, and of course sandals. I love me some cold feet. Also the radio was broken, so I had to loop my only tape. Honestly, there's only so many times a man can listen to Pat Benatar before he's convinced the shadows of the night are stalking him. I assume I blacked out during hour nine. I can't remember the rest of the drive.
Step Four: Profit!
Finally I came to, recognized my surroundings as a hotel, located a map and set off. An easy twenty minutes later I spotted a pre-historic sized tree. Then suddenly, as if playing a magical game of peek-a-boo, the trees gave way to the Redwoods.
Walking in Eden
My senses were now thoughts. I saw the unbridled beauty of nature. I tasted the crisp scent unleashed by antiquated trees: heard beams of sunlight navigate branches, and felt all religions God. This was heaven. And it was good.
Drifting through the forest was like exploring Eden. The Redwoods seemed impervious to society, raising to such great heights as to say, "Look at me, I'm older than you can possibly imagine. Who are you to stand next to me?" Every Redwood was more alive than any of us, entire cultures of species called each one home. Perspective is a powerful thing. Unfortunately, there's a reason this post is titled, "A Trip Never Taken."
Nature was always a gift I cherished. I lived for the fresh smell of autumn shaded forests. Or conquering mountains dotted by squat barrow cacti. If for no other reason than life; nature was captivating. Of course, with this love of nature came a need for exploration. Something new was needed, mankind has stepped on the moon, the least I could do was step outside Arizona.
Step Two: Discourse
"Why was this trip so important?" I was asked many times, friends and family were curious why this was so imperative. To those inquiring minds, California meant beaches, San Diego, Los Angeles, and the soul sucking attraction that is Disneyland. My wholly unsatisfactory explanations told them this trip was my pilgrimage, my Mecca. I literally had dreams of the Redwood Forest through my life. My thought process was if I don't go now, I may get boggled down with this "life" thing I kept hearing about.
For the first time, I had no idea what was next. Fifteen years of schooling was mercifully drawing to a close. Though during those years, I always had the next educational step planned out. Junior high, high school, and the expectation of college, these were safe, predictable choices. Now that step plateaued, leaving an exhilarating landscape for exploration. It was scary. The Redwoods, in my mind, marked the beginning of exploring that plateau.
Step Three: ???
Hour seven into my drive I was seriously questioning my pilgrimage. While it wasn't cold enough to snow, I was in desperate need of a heater. I was wearing three layers of shirts, a jacket, long-johns, and of course sandals. I love me some cold feet. Also the radio was broken, so I had to loop my only tape. Honestly, there's only so many times a man can listen to Pat Benatar before he's convinced the shadows of the night are stalking him. I assume I blacked out during hour nine. I can't remember the rest of the drive.
Step Four: Profit!
Finally I came to, recognized my surroundings as a hotel, located a map and set off. An easy twenty minutes later I spotted a pre-historic sized tree. Then suddenly, as if playing a magical game of peek-a-boo, the trees gave way to the Redwoods.
Walking in Eden
My senses were now thoughts. I saw the unbridled beauty of nature. I tasted the crisp scent unleashed by antiquated trees: heard beams of sunlight navigate branches, and felt all religions God. This was heaven. And it was good.
Drifting through the forest was like exploring Eden. The Redwoods seemed impervious to society, raising to such great heights as to say, "Look at me, I'm older than you can possibly imagine. Who are you to stand next to me?" Every Redwood was more alive than any of us, entire cultures of species called each one home. Perspective is a powerful thing. Unfortunately, there's a reason this post is titled, "A Trip Never Taken."
Monday, February 7, 2011
Peer Review: Group Two: Week Two: The Sequel.. So Week Three
Katie Arrivas - “The Mysterious Burnt Piano” I thoroughly enjoyed the story, although I condemn the burning of a grand piano, regardless of its physical state. The storyline was good, an entire night summed up in a few paragraphs with one or two detailed conversations is impressive. The grammatical offender was in the first paragraph with “they’re”, something which would surely be caught with one more proof read. Your “Best Friendships” is all sorts of bitter-sweet. Very well done establishing mood, voice, tone and whatever other literary devices we were supposed to use. Although, I did find use of alliteration disturbingly low. If there’s one thing I don’t like about all of our pieces, it’s that they’re too short to really establish any merit. But we perform well with the length used.
Kimberley Thomas - “Not Ready to Forget” You put one hell of a voice in this one, and I can clearly see why. Generally when people feel outraged about a subject, they tend to rant and spiel off topic, ceasing to form cohesive sentences. However you walk that line well and use things I like to call “facts” to bolster your point of view. I don’t want to watch that video you posted because I know some tears will form. “You May Find Peace…” Powerful. Your mood, tone, voice, emotion, rhythm, everything was inspiring. I mean, I’m not even a fan of Peter Gabrielle, never grew towards Genesis, but I may just be a fan of his now.
Nicola Simmons - “Proposed Changes” While there’s no way I can fully understand, I try put myself in your position. I can see how having a different government impede on your rights as a sovereign people is infuriating. I try to understand as much as I can. Your heartfelt arguments came through as a rant to me. Which is unfortunate because as a writer like yourself, wonderful arguments can be made that do not place blame on a government when the actions of a twisted individual are to fault.
Kimberley Thomas - “Not Ready to Forget” You put one hell of a voice in this one, and I can clearly see why. Generally when people feel outraged about a subject, they tend to rant and spiel off topic, ceasing to form cohesive sentences. However you walk that line well and use things I like to call “facts” to bolster your point of view. I don’t want to watch that video you posted because I know some tears will form. “You May Find Peace…” Powerful. Your mood, tone, voice, emotion, rhythm, everything was inspiring. I mean, I’m not even a fan of Peter Gabrielle, never grew towards Genesis, but I may just be a fan of his now.
Nicola Simmons - “Proposed Changes” While there’s no way I can fully understand, I try put myself in your position. I can see how having a different government impede on your rights as a sovereign people is infuriating. I try to understand as much as I can. Your heartfelt arguments came through as a rant to me. Which is unfortunate because as a writer like yourself, wonderful arguments can be made that do not place blame on a government when the actions of a twisted individual are to fault.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
La La La: Gypsies Tramps and Thieves
You had a charming airAll cheap and debonair
Though I did not speak her language, I understood her sound. One of exhaustion, abandonment, of quit. Yet, the beggar’s plead possessed an air of trickery. Once she gained my full attention, I realized why. She had the appearance of an ancient gypsy. Her body was covered by an old tattered rag that exposed only her shoeless feet and wrinkled head. From her crown emerged a glutinous red texture - unmistakably - her brain. I found this not inconceivable, but incredibly intriguing. The beggar was professional, and she was quite good at her business. Watching the poor tourists forced into her trap amused me. Her eyes would glimpse up and with her shaky hand present the tiny tin can. The tourist would drop the money, pity her, and continue on their tour while she would empty the can. I was inspired by the beggar. I needed to know the city. How alien it all felt I could not help but meander the real grounds.
And so she took you in
I fled the commercial district, left the merchants herding their cattle and set off. The homes raised a great distance over my head, leaving damp shadows on the narrow roads. The streets themselves could hardly be called streets at all. By stretching my arms I would touch buildings on either side at the same time. The stories these roads must hold, I thought with envy. Each decision to turn enveloped me deeper into it’s heart. Tourists did not wander here; they were content gawking at historical sites they’ve all seen many times in pictures and paintings. To me, this was the sight to see. I passed two souls, neither of them well-spirited. I was on my own. I had no direction other than the slightest slope towards the main dock. Lost in the city I was happy.
But, oh! What providence!
What divine intelligence!
I then imagined the gypsy, not as the beggar, but as she lived her life. I created a fictitious character with a strange atmosphere. She existed here; not now, but many years ago with a son whose father left for sea. She was left to piece their lives together, and the gypsy was forged out of desperation. These streets chronicled her deceptive life. This fabricated story would remain with me long after I left that place. Occasionally my mind would refer back to the beggar and her city, but quickly revert back. Until I heard this song. The Mariner's Revenge memorializes the story I created for her, and the life I felt, being lost in the city.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
News, News, News..
Taco Bell made fairly small headlines the other day. The reason being; meat is apparently not on their menu. It’s claimed that only 35% of their meat is - well, meat. The lawsuit was eventually met with a defense by the taco chain claiming that their meat is well over 80% FDA approved meat with the remaining bit their “secret recipe”. I always cringe a bit when I hear a major company boast that they have a secret recipe.
If anyone has had the unfortunate occurrence at eating at Taco Bell, this comes to no surprise. I’ve stopped eating there a few years ago, with an exception whenever the Diamondbacks scored six or more runs (shameless advertisement plug). Every time I would eat three of their admittedly delicious soft tacos, my stomach would strongly disagree. Now, I’m not exactly known for my iron stomach, but Taco Bell especially caused me some pain. Maybe I should jump on the lawsuit bandwagon
Through the years of not eating Taco Bell, I’ve been persuaded by Jack in the Box and their tacos. They might posses about 2% more actual meat than Taco Bell. Really, I’m not sure the story here is that Taco Bell doesn’t use people food. To me, the story is more about the state of our fast food. I’m almost afraid to look at the food before I eat the stuff, using the old ignorance is bliss approach. In no way am I advocating a boycott or anything like that, the food they sell is cheap, and cheap things are good things. If anything I’m just deciding for myself to avoid these foods and maybe learn to cook. Though, that is a mighty big maybe.
If anyone has had the unfortunate occurrence at eating at Taco Bell, this comes to no surprise. I’ve stopped eating there a few years ago, with an exception whenever the Diamondbacks scored six or more runs (shameless advertisement plug). Every time I would eat three of their admittedly delicious soft tacos, my stomach would strongly disagree. Now, I’m not exactly known for my iron stomach, but Taco Bell especially caused me some pain. Maybe I should jump on the lawsuit bandwagon
Through the years of not eating Taco Bell, I’ve been persuaded by Jack in the Box and their tacos. They might posses about 2% more actual meat than Taco Bell. Really, I’m not sure the story here is that Taco Bell doesn’t use people food. To me, the story is more about the state of our fast food. I’m almost afraid to look at the food before I eat the stuff, using the old ignorance is bliss approach. In no way am I advocating a boycott or anything like that, the food they sell is cheap, and cheap things are good things. If anything I’m just deciding for myself to avoid these foods and maybe learn to cook. Though, that is a mighty big maybe.
Peer Review: Group Two: Week Two
Katie Arivas - With prompt #5: Grandpa, I liked how you told what seemed like a fairly busy day, and slowed it down to the voice of your grandpa. I tried to imagine an older voice narrating, but my mind kept reverting back to the little child. Re-reading I managed to get the older voice. In any case my one critique is one I do myself, which is a few too many comas. They can run on the sentences and sometimes lose interest.
I enjoyed your kitchen prompt, I love pets, even cats, so this story was easy for me to connect to. The dialogue about naming the cat was also amusing. That seems about how every conversation about naming a cat goes. They usually have colored feet so socks is always an option. My own cat is called Sneakers. My critique of this prompt is on the second to last paragraph. It’s very short, and while still connected to your subject, the cat, it seems out of the way. If it were elaborated on a bit, I think the story as a whole would benefit.
For your autobiography of… I very much so enjoyed the authenticity of the story. Without getting into too many details, you summed up the experience nicely. I really couldn’t find any improvements. It was very well done.
Kimberly Thomas - The voice in “The autobiography of a Migrant Mother” was absolutely wonderful. I really enjoyed your description of the church, you had seamless transitions. There isn't any helpful advice I can really give you, you're writing is great.
Nicola Simmons - All of your writing was so culturally filling. I remember back in grade school I had a teacher who was Hopi, and she would tell stories from her perspective of birth of a Hopi child. I was reminded of her in both of your prompts. It seems like prompt #7 and #5 can go hand in hand which is good, because both were exceptional. My critique, I suppose, would be to go in depth with a few things. You overview it wonderfully, I’m very interested to hear closer stories.
Mickey Pagel - I really like the voice in your writing, you just have to submit your prompts on time so we can give them the attention the deserve!
I enjoyed your kitchen prompt, I love pets, even cats, so this story was easy for me to connect to. The dialogue about naming the cat was also amusing. That seems about how every conversation about naming a cat goes. They usually have colored feet so socks is always an option. My own cat is called Sneakers. My critique of this prompt is on the second to last paragraph. It’s very short, and while still connected to your subject, the cat, it seems out of the way. If it were elaborated on a bit, I think the story as a whole would benefit.
For your autobiography of… I very much so enjoyed the authenticity of the story. Without getting into too many details, you summed up the experience nicely. I really couldn’t find any improvements. It was very well done.
Kimberly Thomas - The voice in “The autobiography of a Migrant Mother” was absolutely wonderful. I really enjoyed your description of the church, you had seamless transitions. There isn't any helpful advice I can really give you, you're writing is great.
Nicola Simmons - All of your writing was so culturally filling. I remember back in grade school I had a teacher who was Hopi, and she would tell stories from her perspective of birth of a Hopi child. I was reminded of her in both of your prompts. It seems like prompt #7 and #5 can go hand in hand which is good, because both were exceptional. My critique, I suppose, would be to go in depth with a few things. You overview it wonderfully, I’m very interested to hear closer stories.
Mickey Pagel - I really like the voice in your writing, you just have to submit your prompts on time so we can give them the attention the deserve!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)