An actual conversation
“There came a time in our lives - around the age of eight - when we chose the paths we would travel. Some chose the fiery route, claiming rage over other senses. Some picked the serene water path, resulting in tranquility of mind. Others claimed the natural green life, giving the great gift of philosophy.”
“Dude, our childhood was Pokemon, not some monologue from Zelda.”
“Thee doth protest too much, methinks.”
“No! You’re not allowed to quote Hamlet! It’s part of Godwin’s law, I’m pretty sure.”
“I see you chose Charmander, didn’t you?”
“Duh, all the cool kids picked Charmander”
“If I chose Bulbasaur, Oak’s grandson would choose Charmander. Would that make him cool?”
“No, because Gary is a douche no matter what.”
“So picking Charmander wouldn’t make a kid automatically cool?”
“It may give him some cool points, but he doesn’t get in that easy. If he named his character Red, he was automatically out, for example. Gary‘s a computer anyway and doesn‘t count. Now what really separated us, at age eight, was the color of game you played. Red versus Blue, the Crips and Bloods of elementary school.”
“What was different between the two games”
“Are you kidding me?! Everything! The screen hue was different, there were different Pokemon to capture, and I swear to you the dialogue was a bit different.”
"So between the version and Pokemon, what was your favorite combination?"
"Red, Charmander. You?"
"Red, Bulbasaur. Blue version pretty much sucked all around."
"Here, here!"
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Prompt 22: Nerdgasm
“So,” I begin with a hint of mockery, “what’s a night like playing Dungeons and Dragons?” His eyes light up like a child talking to Santa, pausing his new Capcom versus Marvel 3, “Fantastical.” His expressions gives way to interest in the game, “Kinda like when our whole group hangs out. Except with a dungeon master and mildly expensive vodka.” Scotty H. everybody. I nonchalantly comment, “So it’s just the epitome of classy” Nodding his head in agreement, “Yeah man, pretty much.”
Between games of his character Phoenix utterly dominating my ass, I poke further into his world. “Like, is there some kind of super nerd ceremony to start the night?” “Not really.” He takes a moment before selecting Wolverine, “Well, there is this one thing.” He fingers his long curly pirate hair behind his ear and smirks a bit, “When we get the game and everything set up, we all stand and say the name of our character, then down a shot of vodka.” He gets up to demonstrate for me, “Like I would say, ‘Zell the Stalker Shaman!’” Scott held his arm out in a salute, “and drink some of that happy juice.” On the same beat I ask “Semen?” His face turns into a sarcastic sour smile, “Oh yeah semen bro, gotta have my semen.”
“You’re probably gonna ask what we do next, since you’re an asshole like that.” He says with an expressionless gaze. With a shrug and quick giggle I reply, “Well, yeah…” Throughout our conversation, Scott gives his responses as an afterthought. Only perking up when something unusually nerdy slips out. Normally giving a description of D&D would result in a plethora of awkward moments for the listener. Fortunately, I name my blog for a reference to an 80’s movie, so it flows fairly smoothly. “What I’m trying to tell you,” A look of fake enlightenment flashes on his face, “is because I play Dungeons and Dragons, I’m like trendier than you.” Which is probably true. Scott was a hipster before they were trendy. He scoffed at mainstream bands long before they had evolved from their emo phase. Looking at him with his little vest and dick-ish glasses, I reply.
“You're just more cultural than I am."
"Girl, I know it." Scott.
Between games of his character Phoenix utterly dominating my ass, I poke further into his world. “Like, is there some kind of super nerd ceremony to start the night?” “Not really.” He takes a moment before selecting Wolverine, “Well, there is this one thing.” He fingers his long curly pirate hair behind his ear and smirks a bit, “When we get the game and everything set up, we all stand and say the name of our character, then down a shot of vodka.” He gets up to demonstrate for me, “Like I would say, ‘Zell the Stalker Shaman!’” Scott held his arm out in a salute, “and drink some of that happy juice.” On the same beat I ask “Semen?” His face turns into a sarcastic sour smile, “Oh yeah semen bro, gotta have my semen.”
“You’re probably gonna ask what we do next, since you’re an asshole like that.” He says with an expressionless gaze. With a shrug and quick giggle I reply, “Well, yeah…” Throughout our conversation, Scott gives his responses as an afterthought. Only perking up when something unusually nerdy slips out. Normally giving a description of D&D would result in a plethora of awkward moments for the listener. Fortunately, I name my blog for a reference to an 80’s movie, so it flows fairly smoothly. “What I’m trying to tell you,” A look of fake enlightenment flashes on his face, “is because I play Dungeons and Dragons, I’m like trendier than you.” Which is probably true. Scott was a hipster before they were trendy. He scoffed at mainstream bands long before they had evolved from their emo phase. Looking at him with his little vest and dick-ish glasses, I reply.
“You're just more cultural than I am."
"Girl, I know it." Scott.
New Group 4 Review
Alyssa - Your first post was very intimate, and through the intimacy voice was established very well. You told a good story while not being overly dramatic. Because it read so personal, I felt like a certain depth in the story was achieved. I loved the photo of Ashbury Williams at the end, it was very redditor of you. In prompt 21, I'm fairly curious how a night on Mill is an escape from the masses. Anywho, the description was good, and the scene was alive. The only problem I had was the beginning of the final paragraphs, "Before you know it," and "Next thing I know," it could be the case that you're trying to finish the essays before midnight, I know that happens to me every week, but I think your story would benefit from a bit more expansive transitions.
Chelsee - "There is no better perfume..." Your description of the first job we all had well. You set a bit of a conflict in the beginning and set to find a solution during the body. It was down to Earth and the story flowed smoothly. "Here you are..." You continued with the same theme, and the post started to evolve into a journal entry near the end. That's not a bad thing at all, it strongly brought out your opinion. Writing about such a strongly opinioned piece is a fine line to walk before it transgresses into a rant. You walked it nicely and stayed in the realm of sanity, thank you.
Leena - Firstly, I didn't think Leena would be recognized as a word, but here it is. I digress, I know the situation of your first post well, being in almost the exact same situation growing up. That gives me a little more insight and connection to your story. Opening up in a story like that almost seems to guarantee a voice for the writer, unless the story is written terribly. I'm not saying this to poke at your essay, but just as a note in general. Your story was given life with the care you presented for your family. "NAU Lecture Hall" I enjoyed the description to open to story, it added another dimension for the story itself. The post progressed well into a fun description of the lecturer and the building. While your second post met the proper length standards, your first post was one paragraph short of requirements. (I think, I could be horribly, horribly wrong)
Chelsee - "There is no better perfume..." Your description of the first job we all had well. You set a bit of a conflict in the beginning and set to find a solution during the body. It was down to Earth and the story flowed smoothly. "Here you are..." You continued with the same theme, and the post started to evolve into a journal entry near the end. That's not a bad thing at all, it strongly brought out your opinion. Writing about such a strongly opinioned piece is a fine line to walk before it transgresses into a rant. You walked it nicely and stayed in the realm of sanity, thank you.
Leena - Firstly, I didn't think Leena would be recognized as a word, but here it is. I digress, I know the situation of your first post well, being in almost the exact same situation growing up. That gives me a little more insight and connection to your story. Opening up in a story like that almost seems to guarantee a voice for the writer, unless the story is written terribly. I'm not saying this to poke at your essay, but just as a note in general. Your story was given life with the care you presented for your family. "NAU Lecture Hall" I enjoyed the description to open to story, it added another dimension for the story itself. The post progressed well into a fun description of the lecturer and the building. While your second post met the proper length standards, your first post was one paragraph short of requirements. (I think, I could be horribly, horribly wrong)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Observer: Lines of Sanity
On the morning of January 8th, I was visiting my girlfriend in Tucson. I woke up to the sounds of sirens. Under a mile away, an insane individual had fired bullets towards Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. Christina Taylor Green, John McCarthy, Gabe Zimmerman, Phyllis Schneck, Dorwann Stoddard, and Dorothy Morris all became collateral damage to the shooter. The following hours, news stations would continually update the nation about Gabrielle Giffords condition. The following days, every news station - so it seemed - tried to place the shooter in the opposing party. "Look at his Myspace, he is so obviously influenced by Liberal ideologies!" or "He was inspired by that Conservative map with the cross hairs!" While in Tucson, the people were fed up with this talk and wanted it behind them.
The group walked out from the cafeteria, "Holy sh... There's so many people!" Today President Obama is addressing the nation in Tucson, to help the community cope. Local news stations reported the stadium wouldn't fill up, that the empty seats should be noticeable on television. They were apparently thinking of the other President that's giving a speech in Tucson. The streets were absolutely swarming with people wandering around in a globular cluster claiming to be a line. "Let's just find some sort of an end and see what happens" The group found the end, about a half mile away. Shuffling towards the back of the line, conversations are picked up by those waiting. Most people are talking about what they expect of the speech, or the current political climate in the country. Though, an unhealthy amount of people aren't able to say who Joe Biden is (Fact). Stopping just short of a shady tree, yes somehow the weather is hot in January, the group takes their seat and begins to wait among the crowd.
"They've been saying this speech is suppose to mark his re-election campaign." "I don't really see it that way, I mean, would this really be an appropriate time for sound bites?" "What I want to know is, why are there so many people walking to the front of the line?!" She had a point. Among the crowd, a dramatic shift was seen in direction. Most people are skipping the line and going straight to the entrance. After a brief discussion about ethics, and a long period of laughter, the group sharpens their elbows and goes to deal with the crowd. "Why didn't the city try and actually set up the event?" The voice could barely be heard over the crowd, "Because it's Tucson, Sara, because it's Tucson!" "Oh yeah..."
The entrance is a complete disaster. A gate is set up in front, where two giant lines going opposite directions converge at this one point, resulting in a massive blob of people. Every tiny movement forward makes the crowd more compact. There's no where to go. A sense of uncertainty came over the shorter part of the group, and even the bigger ones. The mass inched little by little, then a large gap opened up in the front. The entire crowd pushed and shoved to get ahead, creating a small stampede that wound up being the worlds largest moshpit. If anyone were to trip, they would be in a world of hurt. Now, everyone is looking worried. They can't stop the ten thousand people behind them. Why aren't they opening the gates? Twenty minutes of invading private spaces later, the gates finally open. It's like popping a balloon, all of the pressure is expelled and people walk freely to the security checkpoints.
Exhausted from the hours of sun bathing, the group makes one last journey to the seats. Everyone has a half discussion about seeing the President, trying to re-orientate themselves, though in the end, fatigue wins out. The group plops down and naps for the next half hour, still waiting for the speech.
The group walked out from the cafeteria, "Holy sh... There's so many people!" Today President Obama is addressing the nation in Tucson, to help the community cope. Local news stations reported the stadium wouldn't fill up, that the empty seats should be noticeable on television. They were apparently thinking of the other President that's giving a speech in Tucson. The streets were absolutely swarming with people wandering around in a globular cluster claiming to be a line. "Let's just find some sort of an end and see what happens" The group found the end, about a half mile away. Shuffling towards the back of the line, conversations are picked up by those waiting. Most people are talking about what they expect of the speech, or the current political climate in the country. Though, an unhealthy amount of people aren't able to say who Joe Biden is (Fact). Stopping just short of a shady tree, yes somehow the weather is hot in January, the group takes their seat and begins to wait among the crowd.
"They've been saying this speech is suppose to mark his re-election campaign." "I don't really see it that way, I mean, would this really be an appropriate time for sound bites?" "What I want to know is, why are there so many people walking to the front of the line?!" She had a point. Among the crowd, a dramatic shift was seen in direction. Most people are skipping the line and going straight to the entrance. After a brief discussion about ethics, and a long period of laughter, the group sharpens their elbows and goes to deal with the crowd. "Why didn't the city try and actually set up the event?" The voice could barely be heard over the crowd, "Because it's Tucson, Sara, because it's Tucson!" "Oh yeah..."
The entrance is a complete disaster. A gate is set up in front, where two giant lines going opposite directions converge at this one point, resulting in a massive blob of people. Every tiny movement forward makes the crowd more compact. There's no where to go. A sense of uncertainty came over the shorter part of the group, and even the bigger ones. The mass inched little by little, then a large gap opened up in the front. The entire crowd pushed and shoved to get ahead, creating a small stampede that wound up being the worlds largest moshpit. If anyone were to trip, they would be in a world of hurt. Now, everyone is looking worried. They can't stop the ten thousand people behind them. Why aren't they opening the gates? Twenty minutes of invading private spaces later, the gates finally open. It's like popping a balloon, all of the pressure is expelled and people walk freely to the security checkpoints.
Exhausted from the hours of sun bathing, the group makes one last journey to the seats. Everyone has a half discussion about seeing the President, trying to re-orientate themselves, though in the end, fatigue wins out. The group plops down and naps for the next half hour, still waiting for the speech.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Peer Review: Group Two: Week VI
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.
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.
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.
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