I don't see Of Mice and Men in that list anywhere. That book was hugely important to the shaping of America. Also, Wieland should be on that list as well, considering it was one of the first actual novels ever written on American soil. Also, I'm disappointed to see no Poe or Nabokov, either. It is a thorough list, but it needs more.
I don't see Of Mice and Men in that list anywhere. That book was hugely important to the shaping of America. Also, Wieland should be on that list as well, considering it was one of the first actual novels ever written on American soil. Also, I'm disappointed to see no Poe or Nabokov, either. It is a thorough list, but it needs more.
Shaped America = What made America what it is today. Poe nor Nabokov nor Mice and Men didn't really do anything. (like politically and mentally)
edit: Basically, it's books that shaped America as it is today. Gatsby was about prohibition. Jungle was about how disgusting the meat packing industry was and so on
Poe raised the American short story to a new level, writing works that completely modernized detective fiction, science fiction, and, of course, the horror story.
That's shaping the world of literature, not America.
edit: and i take my comment back about mice and men. I got that mixed up with a different book for some reason.
A lot of those books on that list don't fit the criteria, then. What does Huckleberry Finn have to do with politics? Or perhaps the Call of the Wild or the Cat in the Hat? It doesn't have to be political, but how about social? Doesn't that have anything to do with how America is founded? Nabokov helped many authors and people learn to think outside the box, and he even played the part of the antagonist when he put out such an offensive book as Lolita mainly because he wanted to.
Lmfao, of course I have. I just don't see how the Cat in the Hat helped to shape the political world. It's about a cat that plays around with kids to make them less bored. It's also an allusion of envy wherein the kids feel they need the help of someone else to remove themselves of boredom rather than relying on themselves and because of it, they have to deal with the faults that come along with it. Simply the book says that you need to rely on yourself to get what you want done. And really it's a great message, but I don't see that changing the political climate, especially when it was written in 1954, a good 9 years after the end of WWII, where we pretty much already declared ourselves a world power.
In 1955, Dr. Seuss and William Spaulding — director of Houghton Mifflin’s educational division — stepped into the publisher’s elevator. Its operator was Annie Williams, an African-American woman who wore white gloves and a secret smile. Spaulding thought Seuss could solve the Why Johnny Can’t Read crisis by writing a better reading primer. Seuss gave this book’s protagonist Williams’ white gloves, sly smile, and color. The Cat in the Hat is black because Williams and other influences were black. Another source is Krazy Kat, the red-bow-tied, ambiguously gendered creation of African-American cartoonist George Herriman. Seuss, who admired Krazy Kat, also draws upon the traditions of minstrelsy — a recurring influence in his 1920s magazine cartoons. In this paper, I read the Cat in the Hat as racially black. Doing so helps delineate the African-American cultural imaginary in Seuss’s work, the evolution of Seuss’s racial politics, and how children’s literature reflects and obscures the struggle for civil rights.
What Eric Lott says about nineteenth-century minstrels might also be said about Seuss’s twentieth-century black cat. The Cat and minstrels are ambivalent figures “with moments of resistance to the dominant culture as well as moments of suppression,” and they emerge during a struggle over the role of blacks in American society. Though not explicitly about integration, The Cat in the Hat (1957) dramatizes a conflict between a black cat and white children. The Cat’s character and costume borrow from Zip Coon, that foppish “northern dandy negro,” who William Mahar calls “a confidence man who is sincere and ignorant of the values associated with social station or power.” The Cat’s umbrella and outrageous fashion sense — striped hat, bright red bowtie — recall Zip Coon, as does his pretense of knowing this middle-class household’s rules. Like Krazy Kat, another black cartoon cat with roots in minstrelsy, Seuss’s Cat is ambiguous, both crossing boundaries and reminding us of where those boundaries should be.
Emerging at a crucial juncture in Seuss’s development as a consciously political artist, The Cat in the Hat displays both the unconscious racism of his earliest work and the progressive ideals of his mature work. In the 1950s, Seuss introduces this anti-prejudice motif in “The Sneetches” (Redbook, 1953; book, 1961), and Horton Hears a Who! (1954), published the same year as Brown vs. Board of Education. Yet, Seuss also publishes If I Ran the Zoo (1950), in which protagonist Gerald McGrew travels to the “African island of Yerka,” where he meets two mostly naked black natives, and to “Zomba-ma-Tant / With helpers who all wear their eyes at a slant.” The Cat embodies the contradictions of Seuss’s work in the 1950s. A black character in a white family’s home, he is both fun and terrifying. He liberates Sally and her brother from stifling social rules, but brings many dangers — the very real possibility of the household’s destruction, the fish’s death, and mother’s censure. Read as racially black, the Cat conveys a mixed message about integration, performing Seuss’s struggle with racism.
Yeah, you can find several analyses of the book. Just like there are millions of books on a single Shakespeare play. And the beauty of literature allows it, because there's no single way to analyze any work. I had a professor tell me that if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck that it must be a duck. But what about looking at the duck from the side? Or underneath or above it? How about looking at the duck's internal organs, or focusing entirely on its leg? The same thing can be seen in literature. If you find race to be at it's forefront, then so be it. I found another article that mentions that the Cat in the Hat is about the school system and the climate of the time. Bearing that in mind, though you can see the Cat in the Hat as a piece of racial literature, it doesn't embody the movement as prolifically as something like Malcolm X's work or the narrative of Fredrick Douglass. Again, I would argue that the Cat in the Hat alone did nothing to change the political climate, unless you can offer me definitive proof of someone passing a law entirely based on something the Cat in the Hat suggested. Social change is just as large a part of America as politics are, and that is entirely what literature is about. That's what it's been used for as long as literature has been a medium in human history. Whether it's being used as a forefront of a social movement (which in many cases also begets political change such as the the Cavalier works which brought about the British Civil war) or used as a step in the right direction for personal use (such as Emerson's Self Reliance), literature plays that role. And Nabokov, Poe and Steinbeck are just as much a part of that as anything else.
I want to write a book in which I have no hidden meanings, then watch everyone analyze it and try to determine what hidden messages there are.
Would be fun to see what people say.
That's why I love Nabokov so much. He purposefully wrote Lolita trying to imagine the most offensive topic imaginable. To this day people still don't understand. I had a classmate who read the same book and publicly announced to the class that she thought the book was a waste of time and she hated it, etc. And I realized that's the point. If you're worried about what it has to say and find it offensive, that's just Nabokov trolling you. He loved this attention, because he always felt that his work like all literature is a work of art, and simply that. Don't try to think of it didactically, he didn't mean it to be as such. He wasn't an advocate for pedophilia. He wrote it because it was just as much art to him as say looking at the Mona Lisa. And if people get offended, they don't get the point.
I want to write a book in which I have no hidden meanings, then watch everyone analyze it and try to determine what hidden messages there are.
Would be fun to see what people say.
That's why I love Nabokov so much. He purposefully wrote Lolita trying to imagine the most offensive topic imaginable. To this day people still don't understand. I had a classmate who read the same book and publicly announced to the class that she thought the book was a waste of time and she hated it, etc. And I realized that's the point. If you're worried about what it has to say and find it offensive, that's just Nabokov trolling you. He loved this attention, because he always felt that his work like all literature is a work of art, and simply that. Don't try to think of it didactically, he didn't mean it to be as such. He wasn't an advocate for pedophilia. He wrote it because it was just as much art to him as say looking at the Mona Lisa. And if people get offended, they don't get the point.
That's pretty awesome. Not everything needs to be analyzed to the ground!
There's another one of his works which I really want to read called Pale Fire. In it, within the first few lines he suggests that in order to understand this, you need to turn to this other page. So you put your finger in the page at the time and flip to the other page to read what he's talking about. A little while longer while you're reading the explanation, he tells you that you need to go to this other page to understand what you just read. So you do so again. After a little while, you already have one full hand in there with each finger holding another page when you realize that Nabokov has trolled you once again. That ***is awesome to me.
I think I'm already on the verge of something like that. See, now I really want to post what I have of my story so far. Actually, what the hell? Why not? I'll just spoiler it, and those that want to read it can.
Look, I know most people narrating a novel or a story or whatever usually start off with some epic introduction. I also know that First Person writing is rarely seen in this day and age. I also don't care. My story needs to be told, and I'm not going to bother making some great hubbub, fooling myself into thinking that this is the next Great American Novel. I'm sure you the reader has to deal with enough ***shoveled down your throat every day from people who think their lives are the only ones with any meaning, and the last thing you need is yet another self-righteous *** to once again make you feel insignificant. That's not my plan.
No, my plan is something so much more sinister. My plan is to get the past out of my head and onto paper or in a Word® Document so I can finally get some damn sleep. It's a weird story, though. Just putting that out there.
Alright, that's sufficient warning. Let's get this party started.
…
Someone tell me how to get this puppy started. Hold on a sec. I need to confer with my roommate real quick. Just uh... read a magazine or something. Be right back.
Yeah, that jackass wasn't much help. It's on me. Let's see, now. When should I start this? I could start it off with that moment where that dude was holding onto my leg a couple thousand feet above the ground.
“Back off, or this guy will meet his untimely demise!” the darkly clad Doctor Pain shouted to Captain Awesome as I dangled helplessly. I was afraid of heights, but at that moment, I just didn't give a crap.
I was all, “Dude, I don't even care. Just fuggin' drop me, okay? I'm having a real shitty day.”
No, hold on. That doesn't work. Look, you guys need setting and character development and stuff, right? Yeah, I'm just wasting your time, here. You know, Hollywood could use a pointer or two about the whole plot and character development thing. Did you see that one stupid movie with those orange colored dragons and the tall blue cat-people? What was all that about? Some shmoes were after a pretty rock with a really redonkulous name or something like that. Plus, dude goes into the cat-people's tree or whatever and becomes one of them, then suddenly his people attack, and he's painted as the bad guy. Yeah, because that hasn't been done, before. My grandma could have predicted that movie.
I think I'm off topic. Let me give this another whack. We're gonna go back a lot for this. I may have forgotten most of it, so bear with me if it's not a hundred percent accurate.
As I crouched in the winter-swept forest silently, I clutched the grip on my silenced sniper rifle tightly, listening to the crunch of new fallen snow under the foot of my pursuers. They knew not that they were pursuing me at that day, but if I made the slightest sound, the surrounding forces would come down upon me and my Captain with all the fury of eternal damnation.
Over the com, the whispers from my Captain carried the orders I knew would come. “Soap, let's go.”
We were Oscar Mike. Nodding to him silently, I followed behind, wondering why on Earth he insisted upon wearing a Boonie when his plan was to be stealthy. Ignoring the obvious stupidity of the moment, I followed close at his heels. I was the wind, and nothing more.
As quickly as we had started, the order was given to stop. Crouching down in the snow once again, I already knew what was about to be pointed out to me. There was a patrol ahead of us.
Carefully, I aimed down the scope of my rifle. My Captain insisted I take out the soldier on the left and his dog while he lazily sniped the one guy on the right. I wanted to question his motivation, mainly because I was on his right side. But, he was my Captain, and as such he should be blindly followed. No questions asked. Taking a deep breath, my finger quivered near the trigger as I waited for the one word that would allow for a perfect synchronization.
“Now.”
Without hesitation, the guy on the left and the one and the right fell limply as the fresh holes in their heads allowed them the chance of everlasting rest. There was however, a slight miscalculation. The dog. I had forgotten all about it.
I took aim, but it was too late. Suddenly the once quiet forest was whipped into a frenzy as the sense of alert permeated throughout the gray sky. The dog gave chase, as well as a large group of soldiers who seemed to simply come from out of midair. Perhaps they were better at being stealthy than we were.
Panicking, I stood and pulled out my sidearm. I had two options. I could make a stand, or try and make a run for it. However, that decision was made for me as the troops neared and shots rang out through the wooded plane.
“Go loud!” was all that my Captain had to add to the situation. Thanks, Price. Like I didn't know that, already.
Quickly, I ran to the first soldier I could find, and slugged him in the head with my silenced M9. Immediately, I tossed the pea shooter away and picked up the then dead troop's AK47. At that moment, we were cooking with gas.
Letting out a blood-curdling cry, I bounded for the next group of Russians. I waved the weapon wildly and fired in an unadulterated fashion, not caring whether I actually hit anything.
Another soft thud by my feet indicated another dead soldier. I cackled. How could something so easy and seemingly simple go down in such a horrific way? The irony of it all sent shivers down my spine.
Of course, my mirth was cut short as I took a shot in the shoulder. I started seeing red. Apparently I was the candy filled pinata that those soldiers were after. Another shot in my upper thigh. I was going down, and soon the sweet release of death was the only thing I would see. Falling to my knees, I saw my angel of death. It wasn't a God, and it wasn't even human. It was a rottweiler.
It came down on me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly, there was no snow covered ground, no litters of pine trees. Only the face of a dog, saliva streaming from its gnashing jaws. I feebly reached up in an attempt to twist its neck. Alas, I was too weak, and my timing was horrible. In one fell swoop, the dog's head went down towards my neck, and my vision went black.
Darkness ensued. I was dead.
You know that feeling you get where despite how hard you try, the odds are just stacked against you? At this point, you have one of three options. You can just simply give up, put it on the back burner and hope that you might come back to it. Another option is to not let it defeat you and to continue brazenly until the job gets done. Or, you can take the third approach, which is my personal favorite. It kind of falls between the two.
Frustrated, I yelled at my television screen and tossed the game controller across the room. A friend once told me to not let the machine get the best of me, but at that moment I understood why things like the Matrix could happen. The machine done got me good.
Taking a few flustered breaths, I simply stared at the black screen with the only variety being text asking me if I would like to try again.
No. I didn't want to try again. I never wanted to try anything ever again. I just wanted to sit there on the couch, fuming. If that was all I ever would do again, I could die a happily frustrated man.
“What's all that howling about? Did you die at the sniping mission again?” It was the voice of my roommate, Mike. Once my high school buddy, I detested him more and more every day. It's true what they say about moving in with your friends. Rarely will the situation yield pleasant results. That and he smells like soup. I mean, all the time. I'm kind of hoping he doesn't read this, because I'm sure I'd get my *** kicked out. But who am I kidding? This is my cash cow. After this story gets published, I'm gonna buy a condo by the ocean.
Glancing to my right at the hallway where Mike was surely getting dressed, I simply yelled out to him. “Dude, how the hell did you get past this part? I'm always missing something.”
Grimacing as he walked out of his room wearing nothing but a towel on his waist in the typical cliché roommate-coming-out-of-the-shower way, he stared me down. “Yeah, that's the problem. You need to pay attention, moron. Let me guess. You capped the dude on the left, but let his dog raise the alarm.”
“Well, that's my point! He's a fuggin' dog! How can a goddamn dog raise an alarm? They can't push a big red button, and I'm pretty sure they don't speak friggin' English!” I spewed as I got up to retrieve the controller from its current resting place.
Mike smirked smugly. Sometimes I'd like to just knock his *** out. “Do we have to go over this again? All he needs to do is bark and make a ruckus.”
I nodded impatiently as I sat back down on the couch and clicked on the “Yes” option in the game. “That's fine, but for all those soldiers could know the stupid dog is barking at a squirrel or something.”
“A squirrel. In the dead of winter.” he replied incredulously.
I shrugged. I've heard of weirder things. Ever hear of the Darwin Awards? That crap is real. Some dude died by giving an elephant a fiber suppository. I'd believe the winter squirrel over that.
As I picked up where I had left off and tried shooting the boonie hat from Price's head, I heard a disgusted grunt. Sighing, I hit the pause button and looked up from my game. “Can I help you?”
“Kevin, get in the shower. You know we have to get going.” he spoke calmly. See what I mean? Smug ***.
Shoving my tongue in that little part of the bottom part of my lip that's not quite the lip but is the cheek-like substance between lip and teeth (I'll call it a chain't), I glared before turning the system off. Standing, I gave my roommate a sarcastic curtsey uttering, “Yes, mother,” before shuffling off to cleanse myself for the upcoming day of selling cell phones.
You guys got that I was acting facetious, right? I want to make that clear. My roommate and I don't live out some weird fantasy where he's my mom.
Also, I'll omit the part where I hop in the shower and whatnot. You don't need to hear about what soaps I use or powders or deodorants I apply and what have you. Plus, I'm not at all afraid to go into great detail of how I look naked. But, to save the ladies some time, let it be known that I'm sexy. Like, super sexy. Moving on (I'll leave my phone number hidden in the glossary, ladies).
Upon exiting the shower thoroughly scrubbed up and squeaky as well as appropriately clothed in my BU&U cellular company work shirt that officially brands me as that guy at a tiny kiosk in the mall that yells at passersby in a feeble attempt to nab a sale, I was surprised to note that my roommate had miraculously found clothes in the allotted time.
Holy crap, that was just one sentence? Give me a second; I need to congratulate my vocabulary skills for that one.
Okay, where was I? Oh yeah, so I'm out of the shower and so was Mike. Mindlessly picking at the scratchy polo, pulling off stray threads, I nodded towards the door. Dialogue was for the weak, and our job didn't allow weakness.
When we went through orientation a few years prior, they told us in no uncertain terms that we needed to do everything short of harassing our target demographic in order to get them to buy into our company. Forget the fact that almost every single one of them (including the toddlers and infants!) had some form of phone hidden on their person at all times; we didn't care about their needs. All we cared about was the contents of their wallet and that sweet, sweet commission that came with a sale.
Does that make us monsters? You bet your *** it does. Monsters who are struggling to pay rent without a college education. Well, I have a bachelor's degree, but in this town you might as well use it as toilet paper. Unless your connections are tight enough, you're stuck in a twelfth floor apartment covered in mold. At least, that was the case for Mike and I. Plus, I hate heights.
By the way, those last few paragraphs have a ton of foreshadowing in them. You may want to bust out the highlighter.
Mike turned wordlessly toward the door. It was the usual ritual between the two of us. Our commute would begin soon, and we had the subway's schedule down to a science. It would take us ten minutes to get to our station, two to get onto a car and another twenty to make our way downtown.
As we walked by the couch that I had been sitting at previously, a purple flash streaked past our window, heading towards the sky.
Mike, showing a piqued interest rushed to the window and looked up, hoping to get a better view. I was less thrilled, however. That was the sort of thing that had become a mainstay in this city, and though it was exciting at first, a few years later it was as boring as the same view of the same skyline.
“Come on, man. We're gonna be late,” I mumbled.
“Kevin, I don't know how you get bored of that crap,” he replied as he walked away from the window and headed for the apartment door, “I think it's still hard to get used to.”
“You know what I can't get used to? Watching people having the time of their life while I'm stuck in a dead end job selling phones. That's something I can never get used to,” I interjected as I closed the door behind us, venturing into the long hallway to the elevator.
He simply smirked as our shoes plodded on the carpet in the hallway. He's one of those guys who finds joy and merriment out of some of the stupidest things. That might explain why he had a social life and I preferred staying home. Does that make me jealous of him? Nah.
Pressing the button to the elevator, we stood there awkwardly silent as we waited for the machine to make its way to our floor. As I kicked at the carpet a bit, the wait continued on unabated when by some freak of nature, the silence was cut short by a loud crash and a cacophony of screams.
Mike was suddenly alert and his eyes bugged out to almost inhuman proportions, but I knew better, and I simply checked my watch. Whoever just got their building trashed would probably ***their pants, but there was always someone there to rescue them. All that sound meant was that our taxes would go up. Again. I rubbed at my eyes. As if the situation wasn't bad enough already, those stupid super villains had to make things even more difficult for the everyman.
I remember that at that exact moment, I felt like I could really go for a drink.
Chapter 2
As we exited the building, all I could think about was the aftermath that would surely show itself due to the damage done.
Y'know, I still have a problem with those ***. I get it, they like fighting and destroying stuff, but do they have to do it in such a populated city? I mean, why couldn't they take it somewhere quiet, like Nebraska? Honestly, the worst that could happen would be a couple of silos get toppled over, and we'd have to get all our beef from Japan or whatever.
You show me a populated city in Nebraska, and I'll show you a guy who's laughing his *** off.
So, yeah. Anyway, Mike and I left the apartment with eager minds. True, it wasn't exactly something that happened once in a lifetime, but there was always a part of man who likes some good carnage. Why do people watch Nascar? To see a couple of corn-fed rednecks turn left for 20 hours with no pee break? I highly doubt it. They want to see a wreck. Everyone wants to go home with Jeff Gordon's fuel injector.
By the way, you wanna know who my favorite racer is? *** Trickle. No, I'm not making that up.
Already, a crowd had developed, which apparently wasn't that big of a feat considering most of them were waiting to hail a cab or a bus or something. You want to get away from the crowds? Go to Nebraska.
Pushing past the group, we wanted to get a good view for ourselves. In the rubble, there were people clambering over the bricks unscathed. That was impressive. Sure these idiots were causing unseen amounts of money in damage, but the bystanders get by without a scratch, instead only with a story to tell their buddies.
From the angle of the remainder of the building, I could tell that it was from an apartment complex, almost identical to mine. I squinted at a couch that was at the time flipped over and strewn about on the twisted I-beams. It was identical to the one in my apartment. Snickering, I clapped Mikey on the back. We had to make like a tree and vamoose.
He nodded and turned, but as he did so, the crowd began to swoon and he turned back around. Grimacing, I looked at my watch. Our train was leaving in... 3... 2...
Captain Amazing was at the helm of the crowd's sudden interest as he flew easily towards the crowd. Typical superhero. He needed to address the crowd for his own vain interests. Sure he had powers and whatnot, but in the end he was just another guy with an inflated ego. The good guys were always the bigger pains-in-the-***. Oh yeah, 1.
“Worry not, citizens,” he announced in that typical holier-than-thou manner that was becoming of these self-righteous buffoons. “Mr. Nefarious and his Laser of Doom won't be bothering you any longer.” He floated proudly, awaiting the inevitable applause.
He was not disappointed, and instantly his short and rather cliché speech was followed by a thunderous roar. Well, from everyone but this guy.
Yeah, I flicked him off. I waved my middle finger proudly in his direction, hoping he'd see it. That's what he gets for thinking he's better than me. Take that, society.
I even watched him, hoping his gaze would fall upon me, and I would wave it proudly in his face like a flag of hate. I mean, he's got X-Ray vision. I'm sure a single digit could be visible in a crowd, even one of that size.
Unfortunately, I didn't get any such satisfaction from his end, but there were certainly a few who noticed it, especially the mindless drones surrounding me. An old woman next to me was giving me the evil eye, and I was sure her intentions were to curse me and all the sperm in my nugget pouch.
Slowly, I lowered my hand as my eyes darted to each person in my proximity. I got a mix of glares paired with murderous gazes. Who knew they were willing to defend Captain Butthole's reputation and ego?
“C'mon, Mike...” I quietly urged as the pressure from the people around me worsened. Surprisingly, they were still clapping. Odd how a mixture of pride and hate could actually be implemented in a layer cake of obscurity.
My roommate however, was just as blind as the rest of the crowd, and as I recall, I think I had to drag his *** by the collar of his shirt through the crowd. If we worked fast enough, we might actually be able to catch the next train to our crap-tastic job.
The rest of the commute is a bit of a blur to me from there. I vaguely remember getting on our train and heading to our destination. If I can bring myself to think of it, there didn't seem to really be anything out of the ordinary. Mundane activities turn the details of the past into pillows of mush. Well, at least it does with me. You take a trip to the mall once, and you might as well have done it a billion times before.
So, to save me some writing time (and you some precious TV watching time), I'll breeze past our boring, gray trip and get to the good stuff.
Approaching the mall grumpily, my roommate and I plodded to entrance number four. I know it's entrance number four because every time you pass through the automatic doors, a magic voice reminds you of the entrance you are currently at. First in English, then Spanish.
As we passed by the doors, both of us did what we'd been doing for years; recited the greeting message. In chorus, the two of us and an oddly erotic female voice announced the following: “You are entering the door to entrance number four. Ustedes entra en la puerta para encantar número cuatro.”
You know, after looking at this, I'm beginning to realize just how droll it all must seem. The last thing you guys need to read about is me nattering on about the boring process we go through at work. I'll sum it up for you.
We make it to the kiosk, bug the hell out of poor, defenseless shoppers for about eight hours, then leave.
I feel kinda bad for those people who have to be put up through such crap. The job starts off so innocently. As a cell phone salesman in the mall, my first job at nagging my victim is to pick off the weakest one in a pack. At this point, the power of observation becomes infinitely useful. I'll give you an example.
I see a group of obvious “rebels” and “freaks” coming towards me. Most of them wear all black clothing, Robert Smith haircuts (the guy from The Cure), a mass of cranium accessories (thanks for that one, Mitch Hedberg; RIP, buddy), black lipstick and eyeliner and all have that “dead to the world” attitude. You may see these guys and think to yourself, “They are a danger to society!” or “What a bunch of freakish nerds.” But me? I see an opportunity.
So, I search the group hard, and I find my shining glimmer of hope. In the back, there's a girl who doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the group. She's got red hair, fishnets on her forearms, and believe it or not, a Team Edward t-shirt. That's my in.
Staring directly at her with concentrated intensiveness yet holding off to make me seem friendly and not so creepy, I holler out a random association with her interest, like “Stephanie Meyer speaks to my soul!” Then, I await the result.
A response, a quick look, hell even a piqued expression is enough for me to get my foot in the door. At this point, I bait the victim further by pretending to know everything about that person's interest. For instance, “I agree! Vampires are always depicted as monsters. I personally think that they all really just want a real relationship and a hug.”
So, the back and forth commences for a while, but as I blather on with her annoying subject, I'm inching my way closer to relating it to the sale.
However, such a subject has a problem. How can I associate Vampires to cell phones? If you're a true genius, I'm sure you can find a loop hole. Me? I prefer subtly changing the subject. “You're so insightful. I can't believe I'm the only one who thinks the same way. Hey, lemme ask you a question. Who's your cell phone service provider?”
This is usually the part where I hold my breath. The sale at this point can go down in two ways. Either I've put myself out on a limb impossible to back up on, or the girl is at this point so upset with her current company that she is willing to talk about it.
In most cases, I get the prior, and I will admit, I've been laughed at on more than one occasion. Still, there is that small percentage where I've caught my little fishy; hook, line and sinker. Sorry for the cliché. It's imbedded in my American brain.
At any rate, before long Mike and I are 8 hours tired and-... Oh, you want to know how the sale went for the Vampire lover, hmm? Okay, I'll give you a hint. BU&U's stock went up a minute percent of a point, thanks to my wily smooth talking. There's a reason I still work there. I'm good at it. Plus, the money's nice. But, I digress.
After a long day of work, the two of us finally made our way out of the subway tunnel, neither speaking a word to each other. Not that we had any current arguments brewing, but rather we'd been blathering on non-stop about cell phones, and we were both sick of talking. Well, at least I was. I can't really account for Mike. Maybe he was angry at me. Who knows?
Oh, crap. Hold on a second. Those tacos I had earlier are rushing right through me right now. Give me... oh, a half hour.
…
Hmmm...
OK, wile me 'n mike started walkin 2 are apartment I coud not help it but 2 tell him that he was the coolest person I know. He of corse agree 2 what I say witch is awesome cause we our 2 cool for school. I wish I coud be as cool as him but it is impassible. U no wat I mean?
Alright, I'm finally back. That's the last time I get the number 5 from Taco Pete's. It's so damn good, but it's... hold on a second.
What the hell is that crap up there? I didn't write that! 2 cool for school? Oh christ, this has Mike's handiwork written all over it. That's it. From now on if I need to use the john, I'm taking my laptop with me.
I mean, I suppose I could delete it.
Nah. It's actually kinda funny. Besides, I'll give the douche-bag his moment in the sun. Well, unless he wants royalties. If that's the case, I'll delete it faster than you can say “Unjustifiable principality indicted in municipality”.
Okay, back to the matter at hand. As the two of us plodded back to our building, we were greeted with a friendly reminder of the disaster that had happened a few hours prior. As I had predicted, the scene was now swarming with the city's Finest, and they had roped it off like someone had died.
Sure, it's all glamorous to first see the carnage and a shining example stepping through the rubble and saving the denizens, but the hard truth of the matter is, the damage was very costly. Looking up at the once pristine obelisk, I could already hear the “ca-ching!” as more the of taxpayers' money was sucked up as if by a vacuum.
Grimacing, I rubbed at my eyes as we had to avoid the sidewalk altogether to get around the “crime scene”. And a scene it was. As typical as most cop dramas would depict, we saw swarms of mixed officers. There were the usual patrolmen who were there basically to keep the riffraff (such as myself) from tampering with any evidence, as well as trench coat wearing detectives walking around the beat up rubble like it was a Rubik’s Cube.
Among the collection of cleared personnel was a legion of the fire department who were standing around, apparently not so much fighting fires as they were preventing future possible blazes. Joining them was the group that usually don't make much of an appearance in those all too popular dramas; the construction crew. Out of the throng, these guys appeared to be the only ones doing actual work. They were clearing away some of the shattered cement to assist the detectives in future detection. Each one of them were probably unsung heroes in their own right. Once again, the little man is simply a stepping stone for the more charismatic ones.
Glancing at the scene haphazardly, I found myself scouring what I could see for foul play, myself. Not that I'm a detective. I mean sure, I've seen my share of CSI: Jacksonville. Well, at least to the point of that one guy who is way too dramatic for the role. I think his schtick is what keeps him in his job at that point. If I could do half of the things with my sunglasses that this guy was able to do, it'd probably be raining ***, at this point.
“Kevin, it appears as though the van was full of illegal aliens!”
“Well. I guess these Mexicans have turned into... Mexican'ts.”
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
I feel like that was racist. I didn't say I would be good at the role. But you know... raining ***.
Anyway, after about a half a minute of looking at the scene, my eyes rose skyward instinctfully. Well, instictful nowadays, that is. It's rare to find a group of terrorists that don't have access to super powers. Ever since that nuclear fallout in Chernobyl, it seems like anyone who had anything to do with the world's goings ons had at some point been rolling around in nuclear waste. This is a world not filled with political leaders or dictators; instead, superheroes and villains. Well, I think it was nuclear waste. Either that or aliens. Whatever.
At any rate, being satisfied with examining the rubble, I dragged Mike by his collar back to our apartment. I was tired, and frankly I had *** rising up to my ears. All I wanted to do was watch a couple episodes of my favorite show (you know the one – with the tall short guy with the blondish brownish blackish hair), maybe take another crack at those Russians and then hit the sack so I could do the same damn thing the next day. Monotony seems to be the only spice in my life, after all.
As we entered the lobby, my shoulder hit the shoulder of a chick as I tried to make my way to the elevator. I glanced back at her, and though I couldn't really tell, I suppose she was kinda hot. What, you want me to describe her? Y'know, you're a lonely perv if you want the dimensions while you're reading a book. I mean... you have the internet, right? If you get your jollies off of someone describing an attractive woman in a book, surely you know a few “adult” websites. Or if you don't, maybe I'll encode a website later on in here... or something.
Look, she was a brunette with a height that is typical for an average woman. Slender, but not to the point of annorexia and curvy. Is that good? I didn't catch her eyes at that moment, so I'm not really at liberty to tell you what color they were. I mean... oh, screw it. She had a round butt, alright? Moving on.
I guess like a man being a typical man I watched her walking for a little bit. I suppose Mike wasn't watching her because he hadn't noticed. Oh hell, hang on.
…
No, he didn't notice her at that moment. Anyway, I felt some force connecting me to her, some binding emotion that clutched onto my heart and squeezed it as if telling me that she would be my world; my muse. It had to be love; what else could it be?
Bahahaha! Did you fall for that? No, there wasn't any Freudian connection to the chick. I didn't forsee myself having many of the babies with her. I mean, I wouldn't have minded getting her number, but then again I never really had the courage to do that. Actually, it's kind of ironic, really. A man who spends his entire life trying to convince someone to buy a phone can't convince himself to get a single number. I should write that do-... oh, wait.
The rest of the ascent to the apartment was typical and boring, so I won't bother you with it. Needless to say (I really hate that phrase; if I don't need to say it, why am I?) Mike and I made it to our apartment. As we walked up to our door and I fumbled for the keys, Mike actually piped up, something that surprised even me. Most of our conversations were sparse, at that point. “Hey Kev, by the way just letting you know, you're on your own, tomorrow night. I actually got invited to a party, and it's been a while for me.”
I blinked as I jabbed my key into its respective hole. What did I care if Mike had a social life? I simply shrugged as I turned it and jostled the doorknob to open the door. “Cool, man. It's all good. Who invited you?”
As we walked in, I threw my keys on the countertop in the kitchen, not passing him a second glance. “Oh, well... really, it's not so much a party, I suppose. Maybe more of a meeting.”
I grimaced. I knew it. He had been talking about this meeting for weeks, and I suppose that day sort of drove the last nail in the coffin. “You're going to the Captain Amazing fan club, aren't you?”
I got silence as a response. Nodding, I wandered over to the fridge. A part of me was hoping that the leftover tacos from the other night were in there. As I opened the door and a vast army of condiments met my gaze, I frowned in disapproval. At least there was the turkey lunchmeat. I would have to go grocery shopping, at any rate. “Well, have fun, Mike. Let me know if Captain Awesome is really as Awesome as his name hints towards,” I finally muttered with a very sarcastic air.
I did get a response, that time. Something along the lines of, “*** you, Kev,” before he went off to his room. I snickered. This was my best friend. We were like amigos or something, Mike and I.
The rest of my night was spent doing exactly what I told you. I ate some ketchupy mayonnaise, watched some episodes of my favorite show that you'll never know the name of for copyright issues, took another crack at the Russians (again, unsuccessfully... I really need to change the difficulty setting on there from “Oh my god my spleen, why are you eating my spleen” to “Walk in the park for the momma's boy-weenie”) and hit the hay. Hard. With my fists. Both of them. So angry at that hay. Little did I know that shortly after my head hit the pillow that my life would never be the same. Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuuun! Isn't that agonizing? It's like watching a show where the main character looks dramatically into the camera and says, “The mayor is dead, and I know who the killer is.”
But I'm not that mean. I'm not going to make you all suffer by using a new chapter to interru-
Chapter 3
Shouldn't take more than 20 minutes to read the whole thing.
I want to write a book in which I have no hidden meanings, then watch everyone analyze it and try to determine what hidden messages there are. Would be fun to see what people say.
That's why I love Nabokov so much. He purposefully wrote Lolita trying to imagine the most offensive topic imaginable. To this day people still don't understand. I had a classmate who read the same book and publicly announced to the class that she thought the book was a waste of time and she hated it, etc. And I realized that's the point. If you're worried about what it has to say and find it offensive, that's just Nabokov trolling you. He loved this attention, because he always felt that his work like all literature is a work of art, and simply that. Don't try to think of it didactically, he didn't mean it to be as such. He wasn't an advocate for pedophilia. He wrote it because it was just as much art to him as say looking at the Mona Lisa. And if people get offended, they don't get the point.
What if they get the point and are offended anyways?
I want to write a book in which I have no hidden meanings, then watch everyone analyze it and try to determine what hidden messages there are. Would be fun to see what people say.
That's why I love Nabokov so much. He purposefully wrote Lolita trying to imagine the most offensive topic imaginable. To this day people still don't understand. I had a classmate who read the same book and publicly announced to the class that she thought the book was a waste of time and she hated it, etc. And I realized that's the point. If you're worried about what it has to say and find it offensive, that's just Nabokov trolling you. He loved this attention, because he always felt that his work like all literature is a work of art, and simply that. Don't try to think of it didactically, he didn't mean it to be as such. He wasn't an advocate for pedophilia. He wrote it because it was just as much art to him as say looking at the Mona Lisa. And if people get offended, they don't get the point.
What if they get the point and are offended anyways?
Well, they don't have to read it. Y'know, unless their grade depended on it.
this all kind of reminds me of when that world famous violinist went down into the subways of new york and started to play on his strat for tips as a kind of expiriment or what not... no one paid him much attention or knew who he was or even seem struck by the beauty of the music... While others pay hundreds of dollars and dress up just to go see him play...
Not everyone understands or appreciates things the same way nor do they hold the same importance or significance...
Edit: As of 2010-10-05 14:48:06 CST, Ni reached 10,000 pages.
Since we all can't be on the same linkshell in game, this can be our cross server linkshell thread.
Like most linkshells, it can be pretty dead at times. Other times it's full of intense conversations about either rl, gear, goals, pokemon or anything else you want to contribute.
We can cover any sort of topic at all, within reason of the forum rules. No real main topic, just a bunch of FFXIAH friends/people coming on and discussing random things.
Yeah Chuu. Bringing you up to speed, Ludoggy is the LS pedophile. I'm the fountain of random and useless knowledge that makes you go "Hrm" with the occasional side of "holy shit he said what?"
Kungfu is the LS nutjob, spouting super random things that are usually sexist, until Savvy or Alyria comes into the room. Then he's a classic case of sexual harrassment. Rumaha is also true to the second part; we're wondering about his sexuality though.
Daj is Ludoggy's gay lover. Not much else is known about this Asuran. Tairo is kinda new, but since is a female and Alyria's lesbian lover, she fit right in real quick.
Celene(F) and Rowland(M) are more of the shyer members, but often say things that are witty, have a good pun and sometimes cause three page discussions. Celene hates when people hit on her. It doesn't stop them from trying.
Krizz is just social and likes to kill time here during work Tbest is about the same, except tends to be a douche to guys and affectionate toward girls.
Alyria is the most social female, gets groped a lot without provoking it by others, and Tairo ends up stabbing people for it. Cai is just a barrel of lols, I might be gay for him. If I wasn't straight.
Not sure about Citag, s/he's new. Kiriyu is just an in-out kinda person. Says one thing every three days that every guy makes a big fuss over. Ludoggy gets really defensive since she's asian and underage (might be 18 now).
Artem is the wayward soul that makes you ponder the meaning of life by constantly reminding us life can suck. But he deals, and so do we. About the same for Savannah, except people are more "AWH!" to her because of a vagina involved.
Dasva is the ex military man (as is Krizz but this doesn't apply to him) who hates the world and plots a way to destroy most of it.
Number2 is kinda like a mix between Cai and I; never bashes, likes to laugh and has odd avatars. His current suits a lot of the convos this LS gets into. Barti is most well known for his moustache. He gives mousatche rides for a fee. I'm missing a few people but whatever. CARRY ON!
Luelle Smells.
Roster of FFXIAH Ni (as of April 1st, 2010 Pocoyo avatar craze)
Happy b-day ls.
Heres my lame gift to AHLS, since Row is lame and took away the OP, I made my own!
Haseyo/Bignose: He's got a bigass nose, Leader of the RL avi revloution or some junk no one gives a crap about...crazy about his asian pop/rock bands and is a closet pedo. AKA LAME
Dameshi: wont level his sam sub and is a lolblu, LAME
Citag: Doesnt put out, Really lame
Dasva: Uses Chu as a cover up for his desire for me greased up and naked on his bed, Lame.
Rydiya/Bra+Panties: Secret lesbien, doesnt wear bra+panties, like to knit and other old people stuff (bingo)
Pikachu/Chu: Hi Chu, I love chu
Kryee/Socks: Noms on socks, wears the sam red pair everyday and frequently sniffs her arm pits.
Cheyne: Domo origoto, Mr Roboto...I think he's gay.
Urial: SOCCER IS LAME AND YOU'RE LAME.
Thundars: LOLCANADIAN
Spence: LOLFRENCHCANADIAN
Enterius/ghost: He's a ghost...he'll say something witty to me later.
Ixe: Ducky face and cant seem to get a straw in her mouth (can get other things in there though)
Mairah: She cool...lame
Bart: Full times OPO-OPO, free mustache rides otherwise LAME
Sav/Mango: Field trips, yay!
Aly/thatgreenmodthatwillbanmeifIsayanythingbad: *tapes*
Woody: You're not Italian...no tea for you.
Sectum: My apprentice...loves asian girls, loves to cook...he's awesome. put me in a story where I wasnt a pedo and that'd cool
Rum:STOP RAIDING MY BASEMENT AND TAKING AWAY MY GIRLS GAWD. Long Islander...lame
Valencea:Wont tell me the color of her undies, you lost the bet...no we cant get married...NO MEANS NO
Kojo:Open pedo...he likes scat, ewww
Tohsou: I think he's a pedo with a girlfriend as cover up, lame.
Kiriyu/strawberry: Lurk Less post moar! I see you what you are doing!
Krizz: Mohawk guy #1
Triet: Mohawk guy #1...wait
Bloodbathboy: The Hulk
Kungfuhustle: AH%DUE%$JNSRGHSRHHEYHEHSA Y%HEDHGSR EAT AHUYY DONKEY NUTS
Celene: Quit...Canadian...who the hell quits?
Tbest: MIA
Eternaltriumph: Where the hell has he been? Is he gone cause he got pussywhipped or something? Whatever...
#2: GOD...I miss him /cry
Luelle/otherlu: The Other Lu.
Zekky: Quit, kicking ass, raped me :\
Krystale/Girlwithpiercing: Magnets stick to her, Toke Canadian, hawt...she's 15 right?
Marzbarz: NINJA
Rowland: All your Pocoyo are belong to...him
Weewoo/Tool: He liked Asura and wont admit it.
Miemo: Has a mithra avi c.c
Kalyna: is a girl right? right? oh...lame
Gimmeurselables: TOO MUCH BOUNCE...TOO BIG, EWWWW
Sagittario: Lame elf whu runs around in a diaper subligar
Ludoggy: Faggot
Edit: The Family Ni Tree
Luelle's (And Citag's too!) birthday present
[h1]H1[/h1]
[h2]H2[/h2]
[h3]H3[/h3]
[figlet]Figlet[/figlet]
[spoiler="Custom spoiler!"][h1]Yay[/h1][/spoiler]
[soundcloud]http://soundcloud.com/matas/hobnotropic[/soundcloud]
Will try to get to more stuff when I can.
Disclaimer: Your Feelings May Get Hurt In Your Stay Here.
