NJ 4 Lyfe

group responses

2009-06-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

Marni-
there is so much information here, so many quotes and figures that to be honest i had to read almost every paragraph twice. i'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. perhaps a big part of that is my own lack of knowledge about healthy foods.

I think Maureen's idea about asking Freshmen what they think is a very good one. despite the subtle differences in the seniors' opinions, they all seem somewhat in accords, i want more variance so the piece feels more balanced, you know?

Maureen-
wow, buzzkill. lol.

this is really fantastic, you set the scenes very well and give us a real sense of who Javin is as a person, while exposing some social injustices here at school. bra-fucking-vo. i used to feel like that guy. Camilo is also right, introducing pixley and ponto's opinions gives you authority, but when you delve too far into the professional aspects not personal ones to javin, you lose me.

i feel like here an ending with more poetic oomph is in order as well.

Camilo-
very interesting subject matter. i would have liked to see more of Rufus' personality in this, i got a great sense of his ideas and ambitions, but who is he as a person?

it starts a little slow, but the second half is strong, and those last two paragraphs are absolutely killer.

Mary-
ah so you changed the beginning again. for the better, though. this is your strongest yet. don't take this weirdly or anything, but your own insecurity with nudity shows here, and i think it makes the piece stronger, because to an extent it is self-confronting, it feels written by a voyeur-cum-nudist to other voyeurs saying "come join the madness." so, i want more of that feeling here and less of a clinical edge.

still, fuckin A.

Colin-
wow, that's so cool. feel like the costume part is cool, but those last two paragraphs should come earlier. i feel like the central conflict is the economic crisis, understandably, so I'd end it with "fuck that building," but consider that i am schafer and that's a very me thing to say.

great images and quotes.

Emily-
Difficult to be objective, I am a huge Natalie Bourdon fan as well. Overall I don’t feel the transitions between sections are completely smooth enough, but the actual content of the sections is good. Colin is right when he says it leans heavily on her history and could use more personality, but all of her quotes are so good I’m not sure how else you’d do it. I guess this needs lots of fine tuning, rather than a few parts changed out.

Bardeen and Friends

2009-06-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

Bardeen may very well be one of the most popular and well-loved people at Kalamazoo College. His name is whispered in the cafeteria among close circles of friends, who often go to visit him once the day’s classes have ended. Bardeen does not go to Kalamazoo College, though, nor does he have a job, because Bardeen is dead.

Bardeen was never technically a single person, rather it’s the name engraved on the side of a massive family plot marker at Mountain Home Cemetery. Obviously that makes calling Bardeen a man a smidgeon obtuse, but the general consensus among students seems to be that Bardeen is male—he comes across like a John Wayne sort of guy, stoic, quiet, and strong. Bardeen stands under the shade of a willow tree at the top of a hill, overlooking one of many scenic vistas. The edge of the Kalamazoo Valley, dotted by blinking red lights from high tension towers, is easily visible while sitting on Bardeen.

Mountain Home is nearly as old as the city of Kalamazoo itself, first being founded in 1850, according to the History of Kalamazoo County published in 1880. That book refers to Mountain Home as the pride of the city of Kalamazoo, one of the finest cemeteries in the state (maybe the country) at that time. Nobody has been buried there since the 1930’s, and Mountain Home is now a historical landmark. Numerous politicians are buried there, their graves marked with plastic American flags, blissfully unaware of the sorry economic state of their beloved Michigan, which seems blissfully far away in the cemetery’s scenic surroundings.

At Mountain Home Cemetery the young and alive mingle with the old and dead often, thanks to scenic graves like Bardeen. Bardeen is easily recognizable, made of smooth granite, and lies low enough to the ground so that students can sit on him and be shielded from the wind by him at the same time, making Bardeen the perfect place to sit down and smoke some pot.

If someone were to stake Bardeen out they could easily see three or four groups of people casually walking up the paved path that leads to him before huddling behind him (safely out of sight) before watching small puffs of smoke rise from behind him before mixing with the clouds overhead. That number seems to swell on weekdays between the hours of four and five PM. Sometimes, high schoolers skip class or go out on their lunch breaks to smoke hookah in their sedans and vans while parked under some shade. When those groups of people spot another group of people on or near Bardeen, they usually about-face and find a different, less well-known grave.

Apparently they prefer the company of the dead to the living, even visitors who aren’t there for illicit activity. Students from Western and K have been seen walking around reciting Lil Wayne lyrics, or discussing philosophy and puffing on cigarettes. Sometimes, Kalamazoo College’s Childish Games Commission has games of capture the flag on the shady, more cluttered slopes near West Main. The abundance of hiding spots and difficult terrain makes the graveyard a challenging and rewarding place for such activities. One student told me he’s recreated parts of the graveyard in Counter Strike (a popular first person shooter game for PC’s) because he loves playing there so much. In the late days of may Kalamazoo College students often recline on the grass in bathing suits and soak up some solar rays—some students say they prefer the tranquility and familiarity of the cemetery to the chaos of south Haven Beach on Day of Gracious Living. Oddly enough that makes Bardeen, and Mountain Home Cemetery, one of the most consistent and lively places for youth social interaction in Kalamazoo.

Despite occasional rumors that Mountain Home is haunted, young people lave about there after dark and well into the early morning, even though visiting hours end at ten PM. They drink Bud Light and Jack Daniels straight from the bottle and watch the clearly visible stars—Mountain Home is fairly well protected from downtown Kalamazoo’s light pollution. They clean up after themselves, leaving emptied bottles in trashcans which seem to be filled only with the remnants of similar after dark endeavors. The most unsettling feature of the graveyard is a worn down statue of a dog which eerily resembles a sleeping wolf at night. The only boogeyman there is Mountain Home’s lone anonymous security guard who is known to chase pot smokers out of the graveyard after dark, but never seems to catch anyone.

In a way it’s refreshing to see young people in a technology-obsessed nation with a swelling obesity rate climbing steep hills and spending long amounts of time in fairly undisturbed nature. Outside of the rolling hills being covered with old tombstones, Mountain Home Cemetery comes across more as a peaceful nature reserve. Squirrels and birds noisily play there, protected from the noise and bustle of nearby West Main Street by groves of thick trees and tall hills. Old couples bring their grandchildren there to escape the chaos of city life, to play in the thickets and to learn how to respect the dead.

At first glance it would appear that all the excess traffic at Mountain Home is less than respectful to the dead. Tombstones lie toppled over many hills, facedown and cracked. The logical conclusion would be that young vandals are responsible, maybe feeling reckless after a few too many drinks or tokes behind Bardeen. Sadly, that’s not the case, because the real culprit is not so easily stopped. The tombstones are falling because of a natural phenomenon called, fittingly enough, soil creep. Mountain Home’s stoic hills, the same hills that made it a desirable spot to bury the dead, were carved during the ice age by glaciers, leaving the area with rich, loose topsoil. With most of Mountain Home being covered by grass, not trees, years of rain is washing the soil away, leaving the grave markers on uneven slopes where simple gravity brings them down. This oasis of the dead will eventually wash away to simple rock unless more trees are planted there, so those who want to enjoy the scenery have only a few decades left to do so.

Reading Response

2009-05-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

sorry if this is a bit late, but i spent a great deal of thought on the subject that fianlly, fINALLY, came up in our reading--ethics. I know I've brought it up in class before, it is a pet peeve and problem of mine, i confess, and i like petting my ethical dilemmas. i feel as thoguh if the ethical quandry can purr, to extend a metaphor, it tends to result in superior writing. journalism, as near as i can tell, has SOMETHING to do with justice ("go after the greedy, the corrupt, the secret mongers..."164), and when there is an ethical issue to be solved, justice kicks into high gear.

regardless, i have certain issues--Toni and Marni had a dicussion on Marni's blog about the desire to interfere, step in and help, a desire i share, but refrain from. the only way to reconcile it is to really bleive that the pure peice of work that results from witnissing horrible things can motivate some sort of justice or retribution, but how often does that really happen? i have my doubts. to bring in reading from the Ethics course i took, Kant said we have a moral obligation to do the right thing above all else, so if there is doubt the journalism will do good, how is it the paramount right thing?

another interesting thought, one borught up by Roy Peter Clark on 168, and one that if requently cite in my Junior Seminar, is the Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle--jsut observing something will change it, absolute objectivity, like warp speed, is a physical impossiblity. so we need to know that by recording events, by being open, honest, unobtrusive journalsits, we still ahve some sway in the course of events in history... while that degrades highminded ethics, it brings the journalist some much needed agency, i think: if we will change events anyway, then maybe we can change them for the better JUST by observing.

after i finsihed the reading, i saw The Onion Movie, and it actually put some things about journalism into perspective--the growing trend of consummerism hinted at in the book, the corporate power creep (wikipedia power creep as it relates to Game Theory).. so even though i spent the alst few paragrpahs talking aobut how ethics are sort of impossible to really achieve in journalism, i think striving for ethical and moral high ground is more important now than it ever was before, just to get people the damn news.

comments for everyone!

2009-05-06T11:06:00.000-07:00

so i will not be at the workshop. so sad. i have made in depth edits to all your pieces, and will get those to you as soon as possible. if you'd rather have them emailed, tell me, if not i can print them off.

Mary- fucking funny, and considering it’s munchies mart that’s a good thing. I don’t feel your “I” belongs here, and instead I’d rather get a better taste of paul and will, they’re interesting guys. The very beginning and very end need tinkering, but the middle is solid gold,.

Camillo- this is an odd piece with a very powerful emotional core, but I feel like you need to be, in a sense, more poetic. The language is very plain and I feel does a bit of a disservice to the subjects of life, death, and rebirth. Let it breathe and then reread it with fresh eyes. You’ll see more, then!

Maureen, what a piece. It feels more short story than narrative journalism though, except it’s quite anticlimactic. What you do here is just follow and present (good job not putting yourself in) and expect the reader to draw their own conclusions, and yet I smell bias. None of jane’s quotes advocate herself at all, just condemn others. I hate to say it, but you’re making her out to be a bitch. Is that what you want? Maybe it’s just me. This is very strong though.

Marni-this is cool! That said, you gotta finish it still, right? I feel like if you went over the 15 word outline again it would help. She has a conflict, but it is not complicated, and as a result could get boring if handled improperly. Either way stronger to get more complexity, methinks.

Lindsey- you are the only slacker in the world that goes over word limits. Jk, jk. man, I love you, but this feels like an ad sometimes. If you really love it that much, cool, but I hate advertisements. I feel like the cure for that is drama, and you have some here, but I’m hungry for more. Maybe if you brought in how that corner is like, cursed for business, this will be a much stronger piece, but your sentences and descriptions are amazing. This piece has maybe the best vocab of any I read.

Colin- Oh, colin, there’s so much of you in here, and it’s good, but I want to get to the conflict quicker. Your images are sweet, but oversaturated toward the beginning. Start with the murder to hook me, then use the images to reel me in, not vice versa. I love how you sort of turn the train station into hell, though.

Emily- good piece, if a bit long. Honestly I feel some judicious cutting is in order. Your images are tasty, rich, full, colored… and extravagant. You only need a few, not a billion. It needs more action. Also: it’s about Fitzpatrick, right? Come on. You know it is. Screw the other artists, focus on her, she’s the one you’re most interested in.

Johnny Behrang Has A Patch

2009-05-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

It’s Friday, March 27, 2009 at the Bowery Electric in New York City, minutes before Electric Black’s first show, the show that could make or break them, and their drummer is late. Band members mull about the crowded underground space anxiously making smalltalk with people who have never heard of them, and only came for the open bar. Their manager, eager to take his mind off the possible late concert start, grills me and my photographer, Chad. “Did you get in alright? I told them you were coming. They almost didn’t let Johnny’s mom in.” Everything is alright, I told him. But where is Johnny?

Johnny Behrang, lead singer, songwriter, and driving creative force of Electric Black, is standing off stage right, leaning on the wall, disguised in shadow and aviator sunglasses. He doesn’t bother to talk; it seems useless amidst the club chatter and the distant rumble of Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” through the PA system. He seems very placid, until nervously he touches two fingers to his lips, remembers he no longer smokes, and shoves his hand in his pinstriped suit coat pocket. Somewhere underneath the glitzy rock star garb is a nicotine patch, and I’m sure it’s bugging Johnny.

The only request he ever asked me in my time reporting on him was to not smoke too close to him. It’s not that he’s trying to save his voice—Johnny’s singing is always thick and full of rubble, drawing all too easy comparisons to Tom Waits. It’s that restraint is his primary mode of operation.

“I’ve been there, man, all the cliché rocker addictions. It was hard, but I had to give them all up to get where I am now.” Johnny entertained me with hedonistic anecdotes from his time living alone in a New York loft, where he began to master guitar and stage performance in front of his friends. “I don’t even go after the women so much anymore. After a while excess gets dull.” The loft days are over, for now.
Johnny now sleeps on a twin mattress on the floor of his two room apartment a short walk from Avenue B. His apartment is sparse, there are only two folding chairs and a low table for furniture, most visitors, and Johnny himself, prefer to sit on floor cushions—a reminder of his Iranian heritage. Of course there are empty coffee mugs, an ashtray, and a Jimi Hendrix poster to ground everything firmly in America, veritable totems to the gods impoverished rockers pray to. There are also neatly stacked posters, advertising cards, and Tee shirts all emblazoned with the Electric Black logo. Johnny has made many of them himself, and they take up more space than his personal possessions—that’s dedication.
Johnny is nothing like a typical musician about to release a debut album. He is not cocky, overconfident, disrespectful, or egotistical, despite his formidably songwriting chops. Rather he, and his lyrics, seem toughened by the very act of life, still kicking, but weary. The first song on Electric Black’s sample disc is called “God Must Be A Smoker,” and the same weariness of combating loneliness and addiction seeps into his Work and his words—carefully chosen, cool in the literal sense. There was an anxiousness to him talking about that first show; Johnny gave up a year’s worth of bleak economic time working on Electric Black, finding musicians to play and write with, and polishing his songs rather than his resume. It’s a gamble, perhaps the kind of fool’s errand that typified the teenagers of the 90’s, but there is a gravity in the way he talks that converys something deeper than confidence, an almost religious faith. “Electric Black’s almost a survival mechanism. I need to make music, just to live.” New York is a competitive town: bands that fail to acquire a fanbase quickly tend to die fast, and Johnny’s had a few amazing breaks in the process of getting this young record deal, so there was a melancholy fear that maybe his luck ran out before the very first show

He spoke to me at length on the way to practice about his influences and loves, vintage singer-songwriters with a taste for the dark and moody. He paraphrased Leonard Cohen after we passed a sleeping, possibly dead, homeless man in a Manhattan gutter: “of course, everything’s cracked. That’s how the light seeps in.”
The Sunday before that show was the first time I saw his other side, the performer. To promote the show, Johnny took Electric Black’s accordionist, Mellissa, and lead guitarist tucker out with acoustic instruments, and one hundred balloons. They marched through the streets while jamming, and stopping traffic. The music, and the bulbous mass of multicolored rubber and helium draws peoples’ attention, but Johnny keeps it, showing a steely confidence that wasn’t there back in his apartment. He became like a sort of crazed pied piper once the band reached a small park, and attracted a crowd of small children.
Andreas told Johnny giving too many balloons to kids was a poor choice: children can’t pay to see rock bands in clubs. There was a guilty pause, and Johnny decided to play a song for the kids in the park anyway. This cause some debate amongst the band—isn’t the music a little bleak for children? Aren’t they a bit too innocent to be exposed to love and liquor lost? After a minute of convincing, they play one song, “So it Goes.”

Later, at the concert, Johnny plays the same song, dedicating it to his immigrant stepmother, the same who, like me, was nearly barred entry. The crowd is dancing, booty grinding, intoxicated by strains of electric guitar and accordion, seemingly oblivious to the gentle nihilism in the words. It seems Electric Black is coming alive into its own, not purely out of Johnny alone—that’s a good thing, the band needs to be a group effort. The crowd likes it, I’m fairly certain many of them will follow Johnny and Electric Black to at least one more show, but I’m not entirely impressed.

The song seemed more vibrant when Johnny sang it without a microphone in the park, and handed a balloon to a passing toddler in the space where the guitar solo is supposed to be.
“Think he’ll remember the jerk who gave him a balloon?” Johnny asks to no one in particular.

Reporting status

2009-04-29T10:39:00.001-07:00

Reporting on my reporting is going to be odd, considering it’s mostly done, and was by the start of the class.

When I spent time with Johnny behrang before his first big show, we did do the typical musician-chat: influences (tom waits, bob Dylan, etc) how he was signed, what he wants Electric Black to be, but that was maybe the least interesting part.

What stuck with me was him talking about his addiction, and seeing that bleed into the lyrics, and practicing with his bandmates (we had to leave the building to smoke a cigarette, he’s on the patch and hating it), and the family/emotional attachment he has to the music: at the concert he dedicated a song to his immigrant stepmother, he spoke at length about how creating music, for him was not only an expression of his ethnic background (which is prominent in the sound) but also him trying to hold on to some sort of hope in these bleak, depressing times. He’s a sad, moody guy, and the music is dark.

That didn’t come across more than at one point when he and his band (and i) walked around the lower east side, as troubadours or the pied piper, handing out balloons with his band logo. He had wanted to not give any to children: they wouldn’t be able to come to the show, so why promote to them? And then this swarm of them in a park begged for them, and to watch him give in, make the wrong business decision for the right reasons, was really something. Later he played a song for the park, and the bleakness of it, of him, affected the people around us, even though they still smiled and cheered.

That moment, that mix of light and dark, of happiness and misery, IS john Behrang, and that’s what the focus of the article will be on.

WK5 reading response

2009-04-29T10:27:00.001-07:00

So, Frank Sinatra Has a Cold, is it? About time—Marin’s been talking this one up for… since I’ve known her, and yes, it was worth it.

I have a love-hate relationship with Celebrity as a concept, and Papparazzi as a concept. I’m not going to focus on this issue, but Talese just followed Frank Sinatra around, never directly speaking with the man, but what’s left in his wake… sort of the bits and pieces of ghosts he leaves behind. That may, in a poetic sense, be a more accurate means of information-gathering (measuring stones by water displaced?) but isn’t it being a paparazzi? I want to discuss THAT issue in class.

My thoughts are kind of jumbled at this point: I love that the cold becomes this metaphysical ailment, it’s not just that he is sick, it’s that Frank Sinatra was, at that time, about to become irrelevant. That really stuck with me when he kicks Harlan Ellison out of the club (I had no idea I’d find one of my favorite childhood writers in this piece) and wants everyone in suits and ties… when the world is changing.

Dabbling in Burlesque REVISED!!!!

2009-04-22T11:14:00.000-07:00

I was smoking outside a swanky nightclub in Manhattan’s Lower East side when the loneliness of the city hit me with a haymaker. It was only two weeks since my time at the New York Arts Program had started, and that solitary feeling had been hitting the students I lived with one by one. One of my companions, a pretty girl from Texas with an internship at MTV named Alma saw it on my face.

“You look a little upset.” She said. “Don’t worry, people come here to meet people. Make connections. Network.” We, as a group, had taken the V train downtown that night to catch a burlesque show. I was a little cautious, clubs aren’t my thing, but I agreed to come, thirsty for a fresh form of entertainment and secretly hoping to take someone home with me that night. After finishing our cigarettes, we walked in to be ritualistically harassed by the doorman.

“You aren’t all twenty-one. There’s so many of you. Yes, I’m aware you know the owner. The list says plus guests but…” and so on it went. He initially asked for thirty dollars per person (a fortune on a 2009 student budget), but one of my peers had a connection with the event organizer, and got us in for ten.

We stood in the coat check line for about forty-five minutes, huddled in a cramped hallway surrounded by people seemingly much older and more well-to-do than us, judging by their clothes. These people probably had Versace boxers and bras, even their cigarettes were designer. That made me uneasy, for some reason.

Pocketing my coat check ticket, I got a Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash of coke and ascended the stairs to the second floor where the real action was going on. I can only describe the scene above as something out of a 50 Cent music video.

Things were terribly cramped, with bodies everywhere, being pressed into one another involuntarily. Music thundered from every corner, seemingly as loud as the amp feedback at a Kiss show. The air reeked of sweat—having any sort of meaningful interaction in that place seemed impossible. What good is sex without that?

There was no dancing, just primal grinding of crotch on butt, and lip on neck. Yeah, every patron of the place was clothed, but it struck me as some sort of roman orgy anyway. I felt sick.

Then, there was the stage, covered with women wearing high heels, excessive makeup, and nothing else. Dollar bills littered the floorboards on and around the stage, thrown by a crowd of slightly overweight businessmen in very expensive suits—Wall Street types. A few of them had wedding rings. Most of them were going gray or bald and wrinkling, but their eyes were wide and shining like those of a toddler on Christmas morning.

Inside a little voice whispered “those are the men that are killing your country. Those are the men that should pay for what they’ve done.” One of them chopped up a line of coke and snorted it right off the stage. The cold hand of Catholic guilt spider-walked up my spine. Welcome to New York City.

Then, Alma tapped me on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you having a good time? Everyone loves it” she was right, behind her the people I lived with were smiling, dancing, having a good time. She kept prodding, what’s wrong, what’s wrong.

“Man, there’s nothing in here but drugs, dirty money, and loose women.” I said. “Fuck this.”

“This is my scene, this is what I live for.” She said. Looking like I just kicked her puppy.

“You live for nothing.” That sentence registered loud and clear through the drum and bass. I scurried off to get my coat, having lost my temper in front of a friend.

After another half hour in the coat check line, I was informed by the coat checker that the club had lost my jacket. I looked over her shoulder, and saw my jacket hanging neatly in a corner. I gently tried to bring this to her attention.

“That jacket’s number does not match the number on your coat check ticket. I can’t give it to you. Yeah, I know you’re not trying to scam me. There’s no need for you to get upset. I’m going to have to ask you to sit down until the line clears up. If there’s no seat at the bar, sit on the floor.”

I sat, staring at the ankles of those Versace zombies, feeling my Catholic guilt transform into poetic irony. I wanted nothing more than to leave, and was stuck there—I had no money for a cab, no subway card, and no way to walk home in the freezing wind without my jacket. That club was the circle that Dante had forgotten.

The barman gave me free drinks in an effort to calm me down. I knocked them back fast, and pondered the scene upstairs. The combination had me sick to my stomach quick.

An hour and a half later, Alma walked down to talk to me again.

“I thought you didn’t want to be in here with the whores like me.”

I was too tired and angry to fight; I just explained my coat situation. She sat next to me, and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. More irony, to have insulted the only person there who wanted to connect with me. Everyone else was getting ready to leave, notably free of coat check problems.

“I’ll wait here with you till they find your coat.” When I heard that, something changed, and I stood up.

“You won’t have to.” I said, cutting to the front of the line and walking past the coat checker into the room. I grabbed my coat before she managed to grab me. I explained to her that if another patron had a black coat with my wallet and an iPod full of death metal in it, then I would pay them back personally, and walked out.

Alma offered to take the subway back with me, but I politely declined, feeling the urge to enjoy my loneliness rather than fight it. I walked home alone, polishing off half a pack of American Spirits by myself while walking through the cold neon of Times Square.

WK3 Reading Response

2009-04-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

A true cofnession: i'm not done with the reading as of yet, due to a crazy weekend, but i did get far enough to formulate some thoughts: Jon Franklin deserved his pulitzer, that's for sure.

none of his words are wasted and every sentence crackles with wit, personality, and laserlike efficiency. almost ruthless, i like that. He's got an excellent grasp of the process of writing, which makes sense cosndiering the quality of his work (even if i didn't find it that engaging, but to be frank "Human Interest" pieces tend to bore me).

I paid special attention to the Outline section, for a few reasons: firstly Marin told us to, and i shall not disobey. second, i never outline and know i need to devleop that skill. third, the section i was most interested in, the reporting section, was covered as well in the alternate readings, so doubletracking the material was somewhat tedious.

Yeah, i should start Outlining, so thank you Jon Franklin wherever you are for exposing the evils of the English Teacher's Revenge, or ETR (personally i called them Black Seeds of Vengeance before now, but you know). those roman numerals and italics were always so computerized as to seem abstract. the thing about rules inw riting is there are sof ew already and thsoe few are so interesting when broken, that adding rules to an outline is pointless to me.

my understanding of hwo i would do an outline now is kind of like writing a movie trailer for a movie, but doing that with my article. too foten i "dangerous"ly free-wrote my rough draft, whcih is usually strong inv oice and wit but weak in cohesion, so in practice i may outline, do an UNRELATED first draft, and in my second draft attmept and fuse the two, becaus ei enjoy having a lot of raw material to edit from, but i realize now that you cans ee the cut-and-paste nature of it. my Narrative journalism should be less of a collage, and more of a cohesive... mosaic? not sure.

Narrative Journalism for the masses!

2009-04-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

so for my NJ selection i picked an article from the paper i worked at this winter, The Brooklyn Rail.

this peice is interesting not only because it is a profile of a place, not a person, but because it's about my favorite city in the world. enjoy.

http://www.brooklynrail.org/2009/04/express/notes-from-rio

reflections-- through a looking glass or six.

2009-04-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

Maureen- Man, haven’t we all been there? The makeover experience? This piece really speaks from the voice not only of you at present, but of you at that time. While that may not be the most ‘journalistic’ thing in the world, I feel like it really establishes that mood, you know? Puts me in the mindset. Plus, seventh graders are economic with words, always a journalism plus! The jeans seem kind of ‘magical’ almost. I want to know more about them. The piece has some tonal shifts where it becomes alternatively very narrative, and very reflective. I feel like a blend of the two would be a superior alternative. I thought it would blend more when it reached the ‘aha’ moment, but that moment never fully hit for me. It’s strongest when the reader sees the jeans, the new outfit, etc, but then it just completes the story, and there’s no tone shift after. It feels like a blip, not a shift until the “eventually.” I like the message, and the way it all wraps up, it’s a good story, but don’t spell it out for me with that last sentence. Make me think.

Camillo- I’m in junior seminar right now, and the focus of that class is on contact zones and traveling, so this piece really fit nicely with my musings on that subject. The ‘I said I’m not bringing food’ breaks up your nice line of questions in the first paragraph. Also the phrase short bitter interrogations is magical gold, man. I like the amount of detail, but the Putine section seemed a little like a tangent. The fact that you’re exposing the intimate corruption and injustice of profiling and the police in general, even in Canada, gives my inner anarchist an excited twitter. This is awesome, man. I guess my question is more of whys. Why weren’t you upset? Shouldn’t you have been? This is very removed and third-person, but it is your story. How DID it make you feel, outside of the logic? As a human being? I feel like you have powerful one-liners here, but some filler that could be cut (Kalamazoo college, spelled as it sounds—cute, but not really needed, I don’t think) to make this already human story even more human. The way you were treated is unforgivable, so make reading this hurt. That is all nitpicking though, this is strong.

Colin- this starts off with an uneasy feeling in my stomach, I hope that was the intention—I think it was. “Most expensive homeless person ever” funny! Very you. The flashback to your childhood, however brief, says a lot for the tale. How are all your cows… needs some explanation, but so funny. The whole thing is a little esoteric. Dude you MIGHT want to watch he actual-name use. That can bite you in the ass later, maybe. I’m not entirely sure. I’m not going to whine about the sexism jokes, but I’m sure somewhere down the line someone might. Ok so tons of flavor and reality in the piece, but I never quite got a sense of, well…narrative. You start out strong, and I get some sense of the conflict, but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere, it’s just walking along the narrative and then…some stuff happened… denouement! Yay! Maybe if you ran out of room you’ll have to pare it down and add more in later. I guess I want a climax. This screams for a climax or altercation and there isn’t one. If one did not occur, well… maybe this isn’t the story to tell? But it’s technically very nice, and I get a great sense of that colin voice I like.

Lindsey- a little longer? Kind of an understatement. This NEEDs to be shorter, but you’re not going to get there in sections. You’re going to have to go section by section and snip unnecessary words till you’re a lot closer THEN look at weakened blocks of text…which is such a bitch to do. You’re thinking like a poet…cus I know you are! That can be a strength, but it can be a weakness too, in journalism, where you need to be very strong and punchy all the time. What you really get here is the emotional intensity of that abusive environment. I guess I just never got that ‘aha’ moment though. It jumps from the problem continuing to never wanting to practice the instrument again, and I guess that’s kind of the point, what with the incredibly ominous ending, but its one rough point to make in a piece this long. Almost experimental…avant… I like that. The cracking of the violin is sweet though. It just doesn’t have that zen-ness to it yet. But it could.

Emily- what a homely piece! I too have a little heritage that leaves me a predisposition for the glorious foodstuff that is the matzo ball! A lot of people disregard the immense impact food has on us—through religion, culture, art, and all these things, so thank you for bringing a sense of the culinary to narrative journalism. This isn’t so much one meta-narrative as a collection of smaller narratives—your parents, the boyfriend (who deserves a name), the synagogue, etc. and that works up to a point but I would have appreciated a stronger through-line. There seems to be some sort of passing of judaisim here from true religion to something less concrete… is this a celebration or mourning of that? (I drew this observation specifically from the father singing, but I got the impression elsewhere as well, in the food-fight chaos.) This is great contact between different creeds, the tension and elation therein really culminate in the aha moment, which is brilliant.

Mary- why on earth are you MB? That was worth some random el oh elz, as was your description of this story last night. The piece is almost incomplete without your hand turning imitation. You reached further back witht his than anyone else I know, and I like that—it’s still vivid, but I sort of wonder could you drudge up even more details? Like the phone numbers later. great touch. The devil is in there, you know. I can really feel being you though, the light, the breeze, the ditch… you put me behind your eyes... into the cockpit I suppose. Calling her ‘mumsy’ has so much of that dry Mary attitude I adore. Doubly so for the section on patting your head and rubbing your belly. (learning to drum will teach this skill as well, by the way) The sentence with Ponto is confusing—is it a one man service? That would be good to know. This whole damn thing, once you get to the point of learning to drive and getting your permit, is so you, and so fucking sharp I could shave with it. Maybe I’ll reminisce on my own license experience, which is similar. Rhonda the Honda. AWESOME! I guess I just want a bigger epiphany, a bigger A-HA! (that’s been my comment on all these) I guess NJ is a haiku-like art.

Dabbling in Burlesque

2009-04-07T12:35:00.000-07:00

During my studies in New York City I had to make a decision about the way I was spending my nights. None of my internships began early in the morning or ended deep into the evening, leaving me gratuitous amounts of after-dark free time, and unlimited choices of how to spend it. Initially I thought indulging in one of the advantages of metropolitan living—clubbing—would entrance me. Sadly not, after one horrid experience.

While I was studying journalism, the students I lived with had many varied interests—mostly theater, a few interns at MTV, and one comic book artist—that didn’t normally get involved in stimulating nightlife connections. Imagine our surprise when someone extended an invitation to some of the students to attend a private club for a burlesque show.

I agreed to come, thirsty for a fresh form of entertainment, but when picking an outfit had a conflict of interest. I prefer to not label my ideologies, but some people have described me as a feminist, and I’ve always thought of myself as someone with respect for women on his list of ideological priorities. Would someone like that see a bursleque show? Eventually I put on a pinstriped jacket and some slacks, deciding “Hey, I owe anything at least one try. If I’m not comfortable, I can leave.” I expected at least some class to be involved: nice jazz music, a soothing film-noir atmosphere, some restraint in short. I kept that in mind as we rode the V train downtown, into a swanky block on the lower east side.

In the end, fourteen of us came. A hefty number, but the place was three stories high and didn’t seem busy from the outside. After a round of smokes, we walked in to be ritualistically harassed by the doorman.

“You aren’t all twenty-one. There’s so many of you. Yes, I’m aware you know the owner. The list says plus guests but…” and so on it went. We stepped outside for another round of smokes, pondering over the bargain we had haggled with the doorman: thirty dollars each for entry and complimentary champagne. On a 2009 college student budget that’s a big night.

It could have been a wasted opportunity, but I did enjoy the idea of a night with no moral hang-ups (which are scarce in New York, what with the separated classes and racism on every corner). White guilt slipped out of my mind when the club doors swung open and we were urged to come in. I guess the doorman had a change of heart—we got in for just ten dollars in the end, but we had to check our coats, a long and uncomfortable process.

We stood in the coat check line for about forty-five minutes, huddled in a cramped hallway surrounded by people seemingly much older and more well-to-do than us, judging by their clothes. These people probably had Versace boxers and bras, even their cigarettes were designer. That made me uneasy, for some reason.

Coat checked, I got a Jack Daniels on the rocks with a splash of coke and ascended the stairs to the second floor where the real action was going on. I can only describe the scene above as something out of a 50 Cent video (I actually found out later music videos had been shot at the club). Things were terribly cramped, with bodies everywhere, being pressed into one another involuntarily. The air reeked of sweat—I finished my drink in about ten minutes, just to stay cold.

Then, there was the stage, covered with women wearing high heels, excessive makeup, and nothing else. Dollar bills littered the floorboards on and around the stage, thrown by a crowd of slightly overweight businessmen in very expensive suits—Wall Street types. A few of them had wedding rings. Most of them were going gray or bald and wrinkling, but their eyes were wide and shining like those of a toddler on Christmas morning.

Inside a little voice whispered “those are the men that are killing your country. Those are the men that should pay for what they’ve done.” One of them chopped up a line of coke and snorted it right off the stage. Welcome to New York City.

Behind me, a friend I lived with, the girl who had the connection that got us into the party, tapped me on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you having a good time? Everyone loves it” she was right, behind her my respected peers, the people I lived with, were smiling, dancing, having a good time. She kept prodding, what’s wrong, what’s wrong.

“Man, there’s nothing in here but drugs, dirty money, and loose women.” I said. “Fuck this.”

“This is what I live for.” She said. Looking like I just kicked her puppy.

“What you live for sucks.” And I scurried off to get my coat and walk home. Having lost my temper in front of a friend who had done me a favor, I walked home with my head hung low, not taking the subway, polishing off half a pack of American Spirits by myself.

Between about the fifth and sixth smoke, a thought occurred: they knew. Everyone else, or at least a lot of them, knew what we were in for, I just fell for the advertising. Burlesque, strip club, mob joint. All the same thing, just gotta read between the lines. Hard lesson learned while walking through the neon of Times Square