Elizabeth: You have a very interesting article, i've always wondered how the security guards approach to student security is like. A few humble suggestions: I think that describing their personalities more would help. There is a lot of emphasis on how being a security guard sucks. how much do they get paid? is this a career choice for them or just temporary? What is the resolution of the story? we are all responsible in the end, but for what? The crime on campus or the attitudes we have? Great first draft!
Jackie: Great start, i think the theme is quite clear. Your piece brings in a lot of different elements, maybe why it is so long, but if you could keep the length i would say it is a well rounded piece that needs a stronger ending, some resolution and more more narrative. It comes off a little cynical, where is the hope?
Martin: Good narrative! The theme of loving something to death i think is the best part of this piece, it would be interesting to see that developed a little more. Also, maybe a description of the actual dune during daytime and what it would mean to the community, real estate, michigan, anyone or preferably everyone, if the dunes dissapeared. But def one of the better narratives here.
Toni: I like the facts and statistics in this piece, they help to frame the piece. It is a strong first draft, but i think that what the final focus is, is a little unclear. The title says wine could save ohio, but why does ohio need saving, is tobacco not profitable? I think you could intertwine the elements of romance, wine and saving ohio more neatly. But great start.
Mae: This could be a good profile of the bar, or of working there, There are a lot of scenes but the theme is escaping me. It could use more structure. how does it compare to working at other bars maybe? how is business since the economy slumped? what is the best selling beer? how often are there fights? what does it all mean, tie it all together.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Another One Bites the Dust
Regis Hanna Jr.
6-1-09
Marin Heinritz
Narrative Journalism
Another One Bites the Dust
It is early, 6:30am, on a Sunday morning late in spring on the football field of Kalamazoo College where a small group of loyal students and friends on a picnic blanket guard and hold on to a beige high altitude balloon connected to a helium tank, that should reach the edge of space before noon. Next to them Noah, his dad and an old man with a long beard, the real crew, work to get the balloon and equipment ready.
Noah Klugman, the architect of this adventure, is a 20 year old computer science major. He is tall with brown shaggy hair and has a mad scientist’s twinkle in his eye as he talks, grinning, about his technological endeavors.
“There are going to be kids with better grades and smarter than me, so my plan is to have something done when I graduate to put on my resume” he explains casually.
Noah grew up reading Dilbert, a comic with satirical office humor about a white-collar engineer, and decided that he never wanted to work in a cubicle. “Kids today are so conditioned to feeling like they get everything they need from classes.”
It takes a gamble to do what he does. “I get b’s and c’s in my math and physics courses” he confesses, “but I also build something every term.”
Among his projects are a laser harp out built out of cardboard and lasers from china, for 35$, and a decoded apple remote for an autonomous robot that dances to “Another one bites the dust”.
His newest project is to send a high altitude balloon to 100,000 feet above the earth’s surface with camera’s attached. It is not the most novel idea, having been done by many students before him, except perhaps that inside the makeshift lunchbox that will be attached to the balloon a High Definition video camera will take footage of the trip in addition to the normal still picture camera that will take pictures every 20 seconds or so. The reason for going through all this trouble? Possibly stunning pictures and video of the boundary between earth and the rest of the universe, and the rewarding cloud nine bliss of 9 weeks work paying off.
Weather conditions the previous night warned of rain and lightning, postponing an already time sensitive project. Noah’s dad, a High-school science teacher for 27 years, has flown out to help him and there probably wont’ be another chance to do it any time soon. “This has become an obsession,” he reflects. Finishing this project would end be the end of an addiction.
Everything seems to be going as planned. He begins to check the radio equipment with the help of John Tucker, the old man with a long beard who is also an amateur hand radio aficionado of Kalamazoo who has generously helped Noah with the radio technical aspects of the project. Attached to the balloon is a GPS whose signal will be converted into audio by a terminal node connector and broadcast far enough for Noah to receive it on the other end and figure out where it is.
Aware that the balloon is no longer inflating, Noah diverts his attention from the radio equipment to check on the frost covered helium tank. The barometer reads empty and the balloon is only about 70% as full as it needs to be. “The helium is probably frozen inside,” he concludes, although with nervousness in his voice. “Lets let it warm up a bit.”
A few minutes later Noah checks the tank again—the barometer still says the tank is empty, and reality is beginning to dawn on us: the tank really is empty, not frozen. Our denial has only wasted us time before the wind picks up and now the project’s fate depends on getting a helium tank early on a Sunday morning, its looking grim.
“When I bought the tank I asked ‘how much does it weigh?’, the lady answered ‘about as much as you girlfriend does passed out drunk.’ That should have tipped me off right there that something was wrong. They ripped me off.”
Somebody jokes that we should steal the helium tank in the student development center, but it’s not a practical option. Instead, after a series of phone calls, Noah and his dad race to Meiers, the only store open, which has small helium tanks for 30.00 a piece. It will take at least five or six to fill the rest of the balloon, a hefty additional price, and we don’t know if we have the right nozzle to use them.
In the midst of the calm uncertainty of the project’s fate an elderly stranger who is intrigued by the large balloon, approaches with his Hot Dog dog, named Shiva after the god of destruction and transformation. He is a retired K professor that lives nearby. Although he is unaware of the predicament that hangs over our heads, it is perhaps because he can sense it that he looks out on the horizon as if remembering and says “I’m always surprised how in social projects it often takes the good faith of the whole group to overcome difficulties. It comes down to that critical moment when you have to decide to keep trying or give up.”
It is comforting because although the situation is dire, the people there have not complained once and are still high-spirited. If hope ever made a difference, we had it as an advantage. While we wait the stranger returns with two pots of tea, a show of empathy by someone who somehow understands the situation and wants to help, however little.
Despite the tea, despite our hope, it is no use. They return, and as they walk over Noah gives us a thumb-down. He kneels next to us all, as a coach would in a football team when there is no hope for victory, and asks what he should do, as if he has a choice anymore. But he does.
Stealing the helium tank in the student development center now looks a bit more enticing, albeit criminal. Rather than risk jail for his project, he goes out on a limb to make one last attempt to get helium. He dials 411 and tracks down Brian Dietz, head of student development, hoping that a phone call to his home at 8:00am Sunday is not too inappropriate to ask for a favor……and it pays off—at a moment when we had all but given up.
We return with a full tank of helium and this brilliant stroke of luck has given everyone an electric excitement. People repeat over and over their astonishment that this has somehow worked out. As the balloon fills, Noah tries to finish the preparations that he had begun before. He checks, and double checks everything—it would be a damn shame to mess up now.
Now ready, the balloon is about 7 feet in diameter and has a rope that extends 20 feet long, like the tail of a kite, with a camera equipped lunch box at the end. The balloon should expand to a maximum of 25 feet in diameter (the atmospheric pressure decreases as it ascends), and then explode, as the cameras begin their descent with the help of a small parachute. Where it will land, nobody knows, but it could be as far as Ohio and as dangerous a location as a highway, where cars would destroy the equipment.
A line of six people hold on to the balloon and rope, from one end to the other, and walk down triumphantly to the center of the football field. On a count to three, they all begin to let go when something unexpected happens. The balloon’s initial ascent it so quick that it jerks the rope, and with enough strength to separate it from the camera equipped lunchbox. In an instant our triumph has turned to sorrow and we all watch helplessly as the balloon climbs higher and higher, no longer with purpose.
Its too painful to say anything and too painful to be silent, but silence gives more peace and so its quiet for a few dark moments, in which we all futilely fight the inevitable—to grudgingly accept this terrible fate. There is no stroke of luck this time. It is bewildering.
Although Noah will not get an F in some class for this failure, nor will he be castigated by some superior, it is still painful. Although he has will still have an internship this summer helping NASA program the flight software for the Mars Rover, there are few words for remedy. Everything is packed up silently, disappointingly resolved that this is just another amateur scientific project that bit the dust.
6-1-09
Marin Heinritz
Narrative Journalism
Another One Bites the Dust
It is early, 6:30am, on a Sunday morning late in spring on the football field of Kalamazoo College where a small group of loyal students and friends on a picnic blanket guard and hold on to a beige high altitude balloon connected to a helium tank, that should reach the edge of space before noon. Next to them Noah, his dad and an old man with a long beard, the real crew, work to get the balloon and equipment ready.
Noah Klugman, the architect of this adventure, is a 20 year old computer science major. He is tall with brown shaggy hair and has a mad scientist’s twinkle in his eye as he talks, grinning, about his technological endeavors.
“There are going to be kids with better grades and smarter than me, so my plan is to have something done when I graduate to put on my resume” he explains casually.
Noah grew up reading Dilbert, a comic with satirical office humor about a white-collar engineer, and decided that he never wanted to work in a cubicle. “Kids today are so conditioned to feeling like they get everything they need from classes.”
It takes a gamble to do what he does. “I get b’s and c’s in my math and physics courses” he confesses, “but I also build something every term.”
Among his projects are a laser harp out built out of cardboard and lasers from china, for 35$, and a decoded apple remote for an autonomous robot that dances to “Another one bites the dust”.
His newest project is to send a high altitude balloon to 100,000 feet above the earth’s surface with camera’s attached. It is not the most novel idea, having been done by many students before him, except perhaps that inside the makeshift lunchbox that will be attached to the balloon a High Definition video camera will take footage of the trip in addition to the normal still picture camera that will take pictures every 20 seconds or so. The reason for going through all this trouble? Possibly stunning pictures and video of the boundary between earth and the rest of the universe, and the rewarding cloud nine bliss of 9 weeks work paying off.
Weather conditions the previous night warned of rain and lightning, postponing an already time sensitive project. Noah’s dad, a High-school science teacher for 27 years, has flown out to help him and there probably wont’ be another chance to do it any time soon. “This has become an obsession,” he reflects. Finishing this project would end be the end of an addiction.
Everything seems to be going as planned. He begins to check the radio equipment with the help of John Tucker, the old man with a long beard who is also an amateur hand radio aficionado of Kalamazoo who has generously helped Noah with the radio technical aspects of the project. Attached to the balloon is a GPS whose signal will be converted into audio by a terminal node connector and broadcast far enough for Noah to receive it on the other end and figure out where it is.
Aware that the balloon is no longer inflating, Noah diverts his attention from the radio equipment to check on the frost covered helium tank. The barometer reads empty and the balloon is only about 70% as full as it needs to be. “The helium is probably frozen inside,” he concludes, although with nervousness in his voice. “Lets let it warm up a bit.”
A few minutes later Noah checks the tank again—the barometer still says the tank is empty, and reality is beginning to dawn on us: the tank really is empty, not frozen. Our denial has only wasted us time before the wind picks up and now the project’s fate depends on getting a helium tank early on a Sunday morning, its looking grim.
“When I bought the tank I asked ‘how much does it weigh?’, the lady answered ‘about as much as you girlfriend does passed out drunk.’ That should have tipped me off right there that something was wrong. They ripped me off.”
Somebody jokes that we should steal the helium tank in the student development center, but it’s not a practical option. Instead, after a series of phone calls, Noah and his dad race to Meiers, the only store open, which has small helium tanks for 30.00 a piece. It will take at least five or six to fill the rest of the balloon, a hefty additional price, and we don’t know if we have the right nozzle to use them.
In the midst of the calm uncertainty of the project’s fate an elderly stranger who is intrigued by the large balloon, approaches with his Hot Dog dog, named Shiva after the god of destruction and transformation. He is a retired K professor that lives nearby. Although he is unaware of the predicament that hangs over our heads, it is perhaps because he can sense it that he looks out on the horizon as if remembering and says “I’m always surprised how in social projects it often takes the good faith of the whole group to overcome difficulties. It comes down to that critical moment when you have to decide to keep trying or give up.”
It is comforting because although the situation is dire, the people there have not complained once and are still high-spirited. If hope ever made a difference, we had it as an advantage. While we wait the stranger returns with two pots of tea, a show of empathy by someone who somehow understands the situation and wants to help, however little.
Despite the tea, despite our hope, it is no use. They return, and as they walk over Noah gives us a thumb-down. He kneels next to us all, as a coach would in a football team when there is no hope for victory, and asks what he should do, as if he has a choice anymore. But he does.
Stealing the helium tank in the student development center now looks a bit more enticing, albeit criminal. Rather than risk jail for his project, he goes out on a limb to make one last attempt to get helium. He dials 411 and tracks down Brian Dietz, head of student development, hoping that a phone call to his home at 8:00am Sunday is not too inappropriate to ask for a favor……and it pays off—at a moment when we had all but given up.
We return with a full tank of helium and this brilliant stroke of luck has given everyone an electric excitement. People repeat over and over their astonishment that this has somehow worked out. As the balloon fills, Noah tries to finish the preparations that he had begun before. He checks, and double checks everything—it would be a damn shame to mess up now.
Now ready, the balloon is about 7 feet in diameter and has a rope that extends 20 feet long, like the tail of a kite, with a camera equipped lunch box at the end. The balloon should expand to a maximum of 25 feet in diameter (the atmospheric pressure decreases as it ascends), and then explode, as the cameras begin their descent with the help of a small parachute. Where it will land, nobody knows, but it could be as far as Ohio and as dangerous a location as a highway, where cars would destroy the equipment.
A line of six people hold on to the balloon and rope, from one end to the other, and walk down triumphantly to the center of the football field. On a count to three, they all begin to let go when something unexpected happens. The balloon’s initial ascent it so quick that it jerks the rope, and with enough strength to separate it from the camera equipped lunchbox. In an instant our triumph has turned to sorrow and we all watch helplessly as the balloon climbs higher and higher, no longer with purpose.
Its too painful to say anything and too painful to be silent, but silence gives more peace and so its quiet for a few dark moments, in which we all futilely fight the inevitable—to grudgingly accept this terrible fate. There is no stroke of luck this time. It is bewildering.
Although Noah will not get an F in some class for this failure, nor will he be castigated by some superior, it is still painful. Although he has will still have an internship this summer helping NASA program the flight software for the Mars Rover, there are few words for remedy. Everything is packed up silently, disappointingly resolved that this is just another amateur scientific project that bit the dust.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Reading Response
arghh, so i wrote this and then it got erased, but here i go agian. =/
I really enjoyed bother stories. I have to admit that i liked The Road is Very Unfair more but that had to do more with the material and context than the writing itself. These were really in depth pieces where the authors immersed themselves, in truck driving in africa or in the soviet at the height of perestroika, and then selectively chose scenes from their trip that brought up important issues about life. In Conover's story what really stood out for me what the contrast between his standards of morality and risk assessment and the people who work in these caravans.
Each scene was easily accessible and engaging because it was chosen to say something about the truck drivers or soviet life. I think that each story was improved by the fact that each author seemed to already be familiar with the geographical circumstances that they were in.
As far as ethics in writing, after reading Writing Short Stories, i can see that it is important to stick to what is there, and build from that, and not just invent facts. It is impossible to be perfectly objective, and in fact i think that such a story would be boring. It is up to the integrity of the writer to make boundaries between describing something from a certain angle and injecting emotions or thoughts. In both these stories i thought there were instances were i could question whether the author really knew what he knew about how the characters were, but i trust that they did because it i didnt i could not read the story and enjoy it. I guess it is a test of trust between writers and readers.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Pearls Before Breakfast, NEW article for this week's class
So here it the article for this week. It is a Pulitzter prize winning piece about an experiment in which a world class violinist, Joshua Bell, plays in a metro in washington to see what happens. Will a crowd form or will nobody recognize him? The piece uses this to delve into the issue of what beauty is and what place it has in our society. It is about a 15-25 min read. Enjoy!
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html
Felled Wood NOT the article for this week
if you check your email you will see that Marin has asked me to find a different article, so read Felled Wood for FUN if you like, but i will promptly post another article. Thanks, and i am sry for the inconvenience. =)
Monday, May 11, 2009
Week 7 Feature
"Felled Wood" by Wells Tower, Nytimes Lives Column
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/19/magazine/19lives-t.html
This is a fun, short article from the Lives Column in the Nytimes. It is a non-conventional perspective of environmentalism that is both silly and provocative. It flows very easily, making it quick to read and has many creative sentences that are rewarding like
"The backyard was so dense with pines and poplars you could barely yawn out of doors without getting bark stuck in your teeth." Although the focus is a bit ambiguous, the author does a good job of capturing a very humanly flawed approach to being environmentally friendly. It is a topic that everyone can relate to.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Profile Responses
Elizabeth: This is a very good first draft. I got a very good picture of where the places that the story took place in but I was not sure how many of the scenes tied in with the overall focus, which if it is the gay pig, then the ending should reflect that more. Good lead, bad kicker!
Jackie: The way I read this is that it was a story about a nurse who has a strong conviction in helping other but has limitations, like fighting pharmaceutical industries of laws relating to her job. I’d like to see it delve more into how her presence maybe has affected the community here and what here goals are, any projects she is working on etc?
Martin: I liked that small simple conversations that you had helped capture the atmosphere in the café. Your theme is clear, smoking indoors, but I felt that it became a little bit redundant in that you could explore other implications/angles about how that defines the cafeteria. What inside the cafeteria is hospitable/not to smoking, how do non-smokers feel about it and the like.
Mae: This is a good collection of scenes and descriptions that capture what the bar is like but what it is lacking is in the elements of a story, conflict-resolution, and tying into a bigger point that you should make. I wanted to know more about the regular morning drinkers, a good description of you dad maybe too.
Austin: So, this was really fun to read but really short. I wasn’t really sure if the pool of water was a little pond in the parking lot or a moat or what, so I was lost in the beginning. Write more more more more!
Toni: Good narrative, there are a lot of elements here (immigrants, hardships, community, family business, cultural divide), narrow it down a bit. Also, I wanted to know more about the location of the place, what is next to it? Is Juanita the main profile or the restaurant? Or is it a shop too? How has it changed in its history? Good used of quotes btw.
Jackie: The way I read this is that it was a story about a nurse who has a strong conviction in helping other but has limitations, like fighting pharmaceutical industries of laws relating to her job. I’d like to see it delve more into how her presence maybe has affected the community here and what here goals are, any projects she is working on etc?
Martin: I liked that small simple conversations that you had helped capture the atmosphere in the café. Your theme is clear, smoking indoors, but I felt that it became a little bit redundant in that you could explore other implications/angles about how that defines the cafeteria. What inside the cafeteria is hospitable/not to smoking, how do non-smokers feel about it and the like.
Mae: This is a good collection of scenes and descriptions that capture what the bar is like but what it is lacking is in the elements of a story, conflict-resolution, and tying into a bigger point that you should make. I wanted to know more about the regular morning drinkers, a good description of you dad maybe too.
Austin: So, this was really fun to read but really short. I wasn’t really sure if the pool of water was a little pond in the parking lot or a moat or what, so I was lost in the beginning. Write more more more more!
Toni: Good narrative, there are a lot of elements here (immigrants, hardships, community, family business, cultural divide), narrow it down a bit. Also, I wanted to know more about the location of the place, what is next to it? Is Juanita the main profile or the restaurant? Or is it a shop too? How has it changed in its history? Good used of quotes btw.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Skate Zoo
Throughout their youth kids are inclined to follow a hobby or activity that will help form their identity and highlight the individuality that each person contributes amongst their peers. Skateboarding does just that. Kzoo Skate Zoo doesn’t look like much at first. Sitting on the side of a highway street, next to an extreme hardware store (which must come in handy) and surrounded by forests, it’s the perfect location.
As soon as you walk in, you notice the posters that cram the entrance. One states rules for the park like: “Take turns skating (don’t go forever), “Don’t cut people off”, and “Skate within your ability.” Each rule echoes of the experienced problems for which those rules exist. The same goes for the sign that italicizes “thieves will be banned for life.” Taking the hint, I hide my valuables in my bag and put it in clear view.
There are no bleachers set up for audiences. It is the type of place that says: if you are here, it is to skate, rollerblade, bmx, take your pick.
Little do many people know but skating has its origins from surfers who were frustrated from the lack of waves. To solve their wave-withdrawal they first attached wheels to a surfboard and then to custom made boards of wood. The sport made sense, it was surfing without the water, without having to wait for a swell, without the surf wax, jelly fish to worry about, or waves to catch. Instead of coral reef to worry about it became streets. Instead of avoiding sharks, they avoided cops.
As I walked up to the hangar, uneasy about how I would be accepted, two guys sat on the curb outside and one said “Hey”.
“Hey” I responded.
“You here for the shop?” he asked.
“Nope, im here to skate.”
A short pause and then he asks, “With that?”, referring to the bamboo longboard with larger than normal clear rainproof wheels.
Today a new form of skating is gaining popularity that bears many characteristics of skateboarding but it closer to the original intent of its creators. This is longboarding. Not to be confused with longboard-surfing, in which seven to thirteen foot surfboards are used to get hang-tens on real waves; longboarding is done for the ride, for the carving, for feeling like you are on a wave and not a street. It’s has a much more fluid dynamic that is not concentrated as much on the tricks that you can do with the 45 degree angled tails of regular skateboards, but on the journey itself. That’s not to say that there are no tricks, but its not as important. For this reason they are great for traveling short distances stylishly.
The inside of the park is very spacious. The 25 foot high ceiling of the gray hangar is propped up by bare wooden beams, which large speakers hang from. The music here never stops playing: rock, punk rock, rap, hip hop and beyond. But its harder to hear in the outside section of the park they have outside. This part is almost as big as the inside, but strangely, always less crowded.
I take a seat on the one bench available, perched on the top of a ramp. In front of me two rollerbladers take turns on the half pipe doing grind after grind, backwards, forwards, spins and eventually bails on a trick and crashes to the floor. He gives a loud groan of frustration and then his friend calls out: “You okay dude?, “Yeah im good”, and it all continues on. Trick after trick, fall after fall.
Just next to them a group of three skaters take turns on another ramp. This one heads down to a rail and after that, against the wall on the far end, finishes with a ramp nearly 12, bodacious feet high. The height they are getting is impressive and it’s done with a non-chalant swagger.
Ready to take my own stand, I take position and begin my feeble attempt of taking the longboard form of skating and adapting it to the ramps and rails of the kzoo skate zoo. I zoom down a ramp and try to carve the inside of one of the ramps only to bail onto the floor. A few more tries teaches me that my wheels don’t skid as easily on the glossy wood of the ramp as they do on the street. But my scrapes are not as painful as usual—instead of bleeding scrapes I’m covered in what feels like rug burns that sting at the contact of dirt and sweat.
After a short while my effort seems to be paying off as I almost grind a rail on one of the pipes and I’ve gained a bit of attention. A ten year old kid named Gerald asks emphatically “Wow, can I try that board?”
“Sure, give it a whirl”
Gerald is about four feet tall, has curly brown hair that touches his shoulders, and is covered in a helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and couple sweat bands. He also wants to be a pro skater when he grows up. “I come here to skate every day after school and on the weekends too.” Clearly an expert, he trades boards with me and after dropping in on a couple ramps and riding around concludes with a smile that my longboard is “really scary”. We trade back our boards and all of the sudden, we are already friends.
It doesn’t take a zoologist to understand why kids skate at the kzoo skate zoo. Without a specialized arena in order to skate in and with the explosion of the popularity of skating a predictable clash occurred between the pioneers of this new sport who had no designated arena and those who saw and could not understand or emphathize. People tend to fear what they don’t understand. Skating is not like soccer or hockey with boundaries and goals. The world is their playground. Or at least it was. It remains to be seen if longboarders will adapt, create their own parks or continue to be able to ride the free road.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Memory and Frank Sinatra has a cold.
Memory is very cute and yet very depressing. It serves as a sort of window into the world that exists in a nursing home. The author's writing was able to capture a sort of infantile nature in the old people and i thought that this was a good contrast in the story. But the humor is constantly shadowed by the nature of the story; these people are old, going senile and are near death and now they are all in a home comforting each other with stories of their lives. But it is still touching and heartwarming.
Frank Sinatra has a cold is a very good description of what frank sinatra, i think, is supposed to represent, or rather how people see him. I dont know much about him, but the profile seemed to be on the perception of who this man is, in which case it did a marvelous job. Realistically speaking, i doubt the economy slumped whenever he had a cold. Never the less the writer captured the awe inducing character traits that form the man. I cant but helpd get the feeling that the reason this profile was so well done is because it really resonated with all the people who know about frank sinatra and while reading it were nodding to themselves because it captured the spirit of frank sinatra for anyone who did know what he was about. In order to do this the author really revolves around his relationships with everyone, because that seems to define him. That he can throw catchup at someone face because it was on his food and still be adored is to say the least interesting.
Frank Sinatra has a cold is a very good description of what frank sinatra, i think, is supposed to represent, or rather how people see him. I dont know much about him, but the profile seemed to be on the perception of who this man is, in which case it did a marvelous job. Realistically speaking, i doubt the economy slumped whenever he had a cold. Never the less the writer captured the awe inducing character traits that form the man. I cant but helpd get the feeling that the reason this profile was so well done is because it really resonated with all the people who know about frank sinatra and while reading it were nodding to themselves because it captured the spirit of frank sinatra for anyone who did know what he was about. In order to do this the author really revolves around his relationships with everyone, because that seems to define him. That he can throw catchup at someone face because it was on his food and still be adored is to say the least interesting.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Regis Hanna
Narrative Journalism
Prof. Marin Heinritz
4-22-09
Juega Vivo
There is an unofficial motto that circulates in Panama: “juega vivo”. It is their way of saying that life is a game and that if you can get away with something then why not do it? It is the part of the Panamanian spirit that makes them want to yell profanities as the referee of a soccer match, make a Panamanian cop accept a bribe instead of actually writing a speeding ticket, and for making them want to speed in the first place. This attitude is particularly harsh on foreigners because they are easy targets and last summer it a fresh reminder that no matter how much I want to believe it, I’m not very Panamanian.
I was at a local indoor soccer stadium that was popular amongst my friends to rent out and play in during the weekdays. As a teenager, I used to take a taxi there and then try to bum a ride back home afterwards. But on this occasion I was old enough to drive there in my parent’s car. I had grown up most of my life in Panama, and being back for the summer after a three-year absence, I was excited to see if anything changed. After parking the car outside, I nonchalantly put the keys and my wallet inside my backpack with my water and towel.
Fifteen people came to play and only ten fit on the court so we divided into teams of five and played for five-minute intervals or until a score of three goals. I was out of shape and needed someone to step in for me by the second game. The oppressive humidity didn’t help either. I was always out of my league there; some of these people worshipped soccer. But being the underdog didn’t matter t compared to seeing old friends, getting some exercise and getting out of the house. Life was good.
I walked back to the bleachers to get my water from my backpack and with a slice of sudden alertness realized that it was not where I had left it. Like a flood, instinct and suspicion came over me, and I scrambled over to see if it might just be covered by someone else’s stuff. Realizing that it wasn’t, a happiness wrenching thought flashed in my mind “oh no the car”.
The juega vivo mentality is something I had grown used to going to high school in panama. It was the life spring of countless practical jokes and scandals. That sixth-sense of extra-alertness that I had adopted while living in Panama had worn off in the three years since I had left. It was that little voice that warned you by saying things like “check to make sure you still have your wallet”, “don’t trust the crazy drivers around you” and “keep an eye on the luis (a friend of mine), he has a telling mischievous smile on his face.”
Now there was the slight chance that the supposed criminal I believed at this point existed had missed the car keys that were in my backpack and stole just my wallet with 40 dollars in it. But as I ran to where I had left the car my hopes became as empty as the parking space I was staring at. My intestines started to squirm; I hate being the bringer of misfortune. The police arrived quickly and were on the hunt for the thief practically seconds after their arrival, but their search was practically useless. The car was found abandoned a few months later in a different province of the country and by then the insurance agency owned it.
That same week a high school friend of mine threw a birthday party at her house in the city. Once there I related to my very humored friends that someone had stolen my parent’s car from me. Amongst their many reactions the most notable was a sort of condescending consensus that I was a gringo, an American, and that by simple deduction you could conclude that I simply did not understand how not to be taken advantage of in Panama. I brushed it off as a joke, but shortly thereafter something happened that forced me to reconsider their theory.
I left there that night at about 2:30am with a beer safely locked in my hand for the journey and confident that I could manage Panama’s trickery with a newfound alertness. I walked down to the main road and waited patiently for a taxi. It took me about 20 minutes before I hailed one down that already had two people in it. I always try to be friendly to taxi drivers, but when I’ve had a few drinks I act like we are already best friends. I chatted freely with the taxi driver about how I was just visiting from the U.S. but lived there for nine years. Secretly, I was hoping to emphasize how local I was so that I would not be expected to pay more for the ride.
We dropped off one passenger and I told the driver to head to Albrook, the name of the area I lived in. It was a pleasant drive until the taxi pulled into a desolate road on the left, stopped in the middle of it and pulled out a gun. The charade was up. The driver and passenger stole the money out my wallet, this one with about 45$ in it, and told me to get out, walk away with my hands up and not to look back. I stepped out of the cab and said “Thanks for the ride”, as sarcastically as you can to a make with a gun in your face. Resolute about the fate of my situation and temporarily dumbfounded by the proximity of these two misfortunate robberies I heard the taxi call out, “Hey!” I turned around and watched as three single dollar bills floated out of the car window; “For a cab home” he called out.
The taxi sped off and I eventually brokered a ride back home with the police. Even without the money I had lost that week, I still survived fine enough and my parents collected insurance for the car. So little harm was done. But more importantly I came to accept that I was maybe more foreign to the country than I was proud to accept.
Outline
Complication: Regis becomes naïve.
Development: a) Regis’ car robed
b) Regis tells friends
c) Taxi robs Regis
Resolution: Regis accepts identity.
Narrative Journalism
Prof. Marin Heinritz
4-22-09
Juega Vivo
There is an unofficial motto that circulates in Panama: “juega vivo”. It is their way of saying that life is a game and that if you can get away with something then why not do it? It is the part of the Panamanian spirit that makes them want to yell profanities as the referee of a soccer match, make a Panamanian cop accept a bribe instead of actually writing a speeding ticket, and for making them want to speed in the first place. This attitude is particularly harsh on foreigners because they are easy targets and last summer it a fresh reminder that no matter how much I want to believe it, I’m not very Panamanian.
I was at a local indoor soccer stadium that was popular amongst my friends to rent out and play in during the weekdays. As a teenager, I used to take a taxi there and then try to bum a ride back home afterwards. But on this occasion I was old enough to drive there in my parent’s car. I had grown up most of my life in Panama, and being back for the summer after a three-year absence, I was excited to see if anything changed. After parking the car outside, I nonchalantly put the keys and my wallet inside my backpack with my water and towel.
Fifteen people came to play and only ten fit on the court so we divided into teams of five and played for five-minute intervals or until a score of three goals. I was out of shape and needed someone to step in for me by the second game. The oppressive humidity didn’t help either. I was always out of my league there; some of these people worshipped soccer. But being the underdog didn’t matter t compared to seeing old friends, getting some exercise and getting out of the house. Life was good.
I walked back to the bleachers to get my water from my backpack and with a slice of sudden alertness realized that it was not where I had left it. Like a flood, instinct and suspicion came over me, and I scrambled over to see if it might just be covered by someone else’s stuff. Realizing that it wasn’t, a happiness wrenching thought flashed in my mind “oh no the car”.
The juega vivo mentality is something I had grown used to going to high school in panama. It was the life spring of countless practical jokes and scandals. That sixth-sense of extra-alertness that I had adopted while living in Panama had worn off in the three years since I had left. It was that little voice that warned you by saying things like “check to make sure you still have your wallet”, “don’t trust the crazy drivers around you” and “keep an eye on the luis (a friend of mine), he has a telling mischievous smile on his face.”
Now there was the slight chance that the supposed criminal I believed at this point existed had missed the car keys that were in my backpack and stole just my wallet with 40 dollars in it. But as I ran to where I had left the car my hopes became as empty as the parking space I was staring at. My intestines started to squirm; I hate being the bringer of misfortune. The police arrived quickly and were on the hunt for the thief practically seconds after their arrival, but their search was practically useless. The car was found abandoned a few months later in a different province of the country and by then the insurance agency owned it.
That same week a high school friend of mine threw a birthday party at her house in the city. Once there I related to my very humored friends that someone had stolen my parent’s car from me. Amongst their many reactions the most notable was a sort of condescending consensus that I was a gringo, an American, and that by simple deduction you could conclude that I simply did not understand how not to be taken advantage of in Panama. I brushed it off as a joke, but shortly thereafter something happened that forced me to reconsider their theory.
I left there that night at about 2:30am with a beer safely locked in my hand for the journey and confident that I could manage Panama’s trickery with a newfound alertness. I walked down to the main road and waited patiently for a taxi. It took me about 20 minutes before I hailed one down that already had two people in it. I always try to be friendly to taxi drivers, but when I’ve had a few drinks I act like we are already best friends. I chatted freely with the taxi driver about how I was just visiting from the U.S. but lived there for nine years. Secretly, I was hoping to emphasize how local I was so that I would not be expected to pay more for the ride.
We dropped off one passenger and I told the driver to head to Albrook, the name of the area I lived in. It was a pleasant drive until the taxi pulled into a desolate road on the left, stopped in the middle of it and pulled out a gun. The charade was up. The driver and passenger stole the money out my wallet, this one with about 45$ in it, and told me to get out, walk away with my hands up and not to look back. I stepped out of the cab and said “Thanks for the ride”, as sarcastically as you can to a make with a gun in your face. Resolute about the fate of my situation and temporarily dumbfounded by the proximity of these two misfortunate robberies I heard the taxi call out, “Hey!” I turned around and watched as three single dollar bills floated out of the car window; “For a cab home” he called out.
The taxi sped off and I eventually brokered a ride back home with the police. Even without the money I had lost that week, I still survived fine enough and my parents collected insurance for the car. So little harm was done. But more importantly I came to accept that I was maybe more foreign to the country than I was proud to accept.
Outline
Complication: Regis becomes naïve.
Development: a) Regis’ car robed
b) Regis tells friends
c) Taxi robs Regis
Resolution: Regis accepts identity.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
This was a surprisingly easy book to read. It shouldnt be a surprise because it is written by a pulitzer prize winner. In any case, it gave me a much better understanding of what narrative journalism is about. The Ballad of Old Man Peters and Mrs. Kelly's Monsters were really good and while reading them i was assuming that most of what was on the page came from inspiration, that this is what makes a good writer. But after studying their structure and going through them with the author it was surprising how intentional many things were. I can now see what i am writing as a process of creating an artificial experience which just like good real experiences helps the person learn something or grasp a part of a greater truth. In particular also i really liked the chapter about outlines. It was very persistent and in the end i realized that outlines really help create a good paper, not just in arts journalism. It is something that i should be doing in my polisci papers as well. I hope to be able to re-write my story and find out that these techniques work well.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
How I Got Robbed Twice in One Week
I was at a local indoor soccer stadium that was popular amongst my friends to rent out and play in during the weekdays. As a teenager I would take a taxi there and tried to bum a ride back home afterwards. But on this occasion I was old enough to drive there in my parent’s car. I had grown up most of my life in Panama and being back for the summer I was excited to see if it had changed. After parking the car outside I nonchalantly put the keys and my wallet in my backpack with my water and towel. After a few handshakes I set down my stuff on the bleachers and jumped into the first game.
Fifteen people came to play and only ten fit on the court. So we divided into teams of five and played for five-minute intervals or until a score of three goals. I was out of shape and needed someone to step in for me by the second game. I was always out of my league there, some of these people worshipped soccer. Being the underdog didn’t matter though when compared to seeing old friends, getting some exercise and even better getting out of the house.
I walked back to the bleachers to get my water from my backpack and with a slice of sudden alertness and adrenaline, realized that it was gone. Like a flood, instinct and suspicion came over me, and I scrambled over to see if it might just be covered by someone else’s stuff. Realizing that it wasn’t, a thought flashed in my mind saying “oh no the car”.
Now there was the slight chance that the criminal I believed at this point existed had missed the car keys that were in my backpack and stole just my wallet with 40$ in it. But as I ran to where I had left the car my hopes became as empty as the parking space I was staring at. This is a moment that many people can find familiar; it’s when you pinch yourself and check to make sure you are not hallucinating. I had just participated in event that led to the loss of a very expensive possession, a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, barely a year old. I didn’t have a cell-phone so I borrowed one from my friend and called the police as soon as I could find their phone number.
The police arrived quickly spread the word but that made no difference in the end. Oh, and the phone call home, what a drag. Saying “Hi dad the car has been stolen” can be a funny joke if you are pretending, but it’s not funny when its true. The car was found a few months later in a different province of the country, beat up but still working. Cars in panama are often stolen to use for illegal activities like kidnappings and drug trafficking rather than for the cars themselves.
That same week a high school friend of mine threw a birthday party at her house in the city. Once there I related to my very humored friends that someone had stolen my parent’s car from me. They had already heard about it since some of the people had been there when I was calling the police. But they amused at the fact that I was a gringo, an American, and implied that I simply did not understand how not to be taken advantage of in panama. I brushed it off then but they were right.
I left there that night at 2:30am with a beer half empty, cuddling with my left hand and a grin on my face. I walked down to the main road to catch a taxi and reminisced about how life in panama had shaped me as an individual and if I was an American. I had time to because it was tough catching a cab. It took me about 20 minutes before I hailed down a taxi that already had two people in it.
I always try to be friendly to taxi drivers, but when I’ve had a few spirits I act like we are already the best of friends. I chatted freely with the taxi driver about how I was just visiting from the U.S. but lived there for nine years and blah blah blah. We dropped off one passenger and I told the driver to head to Albrook, the name of the area I lived in. I have to say that it was a nice cab ride until the taxi pulled in to the left on the highway, into a road that was quite desolate and pulled a gun on me. I cooperated politely and gave them the wallet I had replaced the last one with. This one had about 45$ in it. They told me to get out and walk away with my hands up and not to look back. I stepped out of the cab and said “Thanks for the ride”, sarcastically of course, and with my beer still in my left hand and a grin on my face. As I embarked onward again I heard the taxi say “Hey!” I turned around and saw the thieving punk throw three single dollar bills out of his window; “For a cab home” he called out.
The taxi sped off and I hitched a ride back home from the police. Even without the money I had lost that week I still survived fine enough and my parents collected insurance for the car. So little harm was done. But more importantly I came to accept that I was maybe more foreign to the country than I thought.
It had not occurred to me yet that according to everyone “crime in Latin America, panama included, had gone up”. There were no signs of this anywhere, no notices that read: “watch out because bad things are more likely to happen now”. It was just something everyone knew from the stories that they heard about friends and family about crimes. As of then I had been absent from any tales of horror and entered a different country unaware and naïve because I had hope that it was as I had last left it.
I was at a local indoor soccer stadium that was popular amongst my friends to rent out and play in during the weekdays. As a teenager I would take a taxi there and tried to bum a ride back home afterwards. But on this occasion I was old enough to drive there in my parent’s car. I had grown up most of my life in Panama and being back for the summer I was excited to see if it had changed. After parking the car outside I nonchalantly put the keys and my wallet in my backpack with my water and towel. After a few handshakes I set down my stuff on the bleachers and jumped into the first game.
Fifteen people came to play and only ten fit on the court. So we divided into teams of five and played for five-minute intervals or until a score of three goals. I was out of shape and needed someone to step in for me by the second game. I was always out of my league there, some of these people worshipped soccer. Being the underdog didn’t matter though when compared to seeing old friends, getting some exercise and even better getting out of the house.
I walked back to the bleachers to get my water from my backpack and with a slice of sudden alertness and adrenaline, realized that it was gone. Like a flood, instinct and suspicion came over me, and I scrambled over to see if it might just be covered by someone else’s stuff. Realizing that it wasn’t, a thought flashed in my mind saying “oh no the car”.
Now there was the slight chance that the criminal I believed at this point existed had missed the car keys that were in my backpack and stole just my wallet with 40$ in it. But as I ran to where I had left the car my hopes became as empty as the parking space I was staring at. This is a moment that many people can find familiar; it’s when you pinch yourself and check to make sure you are not hallucinating. I had just participated in event that led to the loss of a very expensive possession, a 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, barely a year old. I didn’t have a cell-phone so I borrowed one from my friend and called the police as soon as I could find their phone number.
The police arrived quickly spread the word but that made no difference in the end. Oh, and the phone call home, what a drag. Saying “Hi dad the car has been stolen” can be a funny joke if you are pretending, but it’s not funny when its true. The car was found a few months later in a different province of the country, beat up but still working. Cars in panama are often stolen to use for illegal activities like kidnappings and drug trafficking rather than for the cars themselves.
That same week a high school friend of mine threw a birthday party at her house in the city. Once there I related to my very humored friends that someone had stolen my parent’s car from me. They had already heard about it since some of the people had been there when I was calling the police. But they amused at the fact that I was a gringo, an American, and implied that I simply did not understand how not to be taken advantage of in panama. I brushed it off then but they were right.
I left there that night at 2:30am with a beer half empty, cuddling with my left hand and a grin on my face. I walked down to the main road to catch a taxi and reminisced about how life in panama had shaped me as an individual and if I was an American. I had time to because it was tough catching a cab. It took me about 20 minutes before I hailed down a taxi that already had two people in it.
I always try to be friendly to taxi drivers, but when I’ve had a few spirits I act like we are already the best of friends. I chatted freely with the taxi driver about how I was just visiting from the U.S. but lived there for nine years and blah blah blah. We dropped off one passenger and I told the driver to head to Albrook, the name of the area I lived in. I have to say that it was a nice cab ride until the taxi pulled in to the left on the highway, into a road that was quite desolate and pulled a gun on me. I cooperated politely and gave them the wallet I had replaced the last one with. This one had about 45$ in it. They told me to get out and walk away with my hands up and not to look back. I stepped out of the cab and said “Thanks for the ride”, sarcastically of course, and with my beer still in my left hand and a grin on my face. As I embarked onward again I heard the taxi say “Hey!” I turned around and saw the thieving punk throw three single dollar bills out of his window; “For a cab home” he called out.
The taxi sped off and I hitched a ride back home from the police. Even without the money I had lost that week I still survived fine enough and my parents collected insurance for the car. So little harm was done. But more importantly I came to accept that I was maybe more foreign to the country than I thought.
It had not occurred to me yet that according to everyone “crime in Latin America, panama included, had gone up”. There were no signs of this anywhere, no notices that read: “watch out because bad things are more likely to happen now”. It was just something everyone knew from the stories that they heard about friends and family about crimes. As of then I had been absent from any tales of horror and entered a different country unaware and naïve because I had hope that it was as I had last left it.
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