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Adventures in Real Life turned to general essay purposes.

Started by Freeky, February 09, 2012, 06:40:23 AM

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Freeky

Quote from: Alty on February 12, 2012, 11:44:34 PM
I liked it.

I just want to state for the record that I am about as intimidating as a drunk, wet rag.

Don't tell that to my writing class, and I'm sure I'll do fine.  :lol:

Freeky

Successful essay is successful!  Second draft, which will have more emphasis on dialogue to better accommodate scene segueing and also some things that perplexed the audience axed, to be posted when I'm done with it.

LMNO

Tip:  After writing the dialogue, say it out loud, in a conversational manner.  See if it sounds authentic.

Freeky

Quote from: LMNO, PhD (life continues) on February 14, 2012, 07:22:25 PM
Tip:  After writing the dialogue, say it out loud, in a conversational manner.  See if it sounds authentic.

Funny enough, the dialogue was the one thing that nobody, even the teacher, had anything bad to say about it. 

That's a good tip, though.  Thanks, I never would have thought of it.  :)

Freeky

#34
        I could hear Jen laughing in exhilaration as Roger came to a stop.  He stuck his head out the window and yelled up at me, "I think we should be done for the day!" 

   I pulled the unlit cigar out of my mouth and shouted back, "BALLS!"  I never smoke, but there's some things you need to be "smoking" a cheap cigar while you're doing, or else what's the point?  I adjusted my grip on Roger's Bisley, and plucked at the tie-down securing the lawn chair to the now permanently dented roof of the jeep.  "You had a way longer turn.  One more go!"  I heard more laughing from inside the jeep, this time from Alty (or , if you wanted his real name.  I simply can't pronounce it, mostly because I am, as Alty says, a heathen), who was sometimes from the Internet¿ but mostly from Alaska. 

   "I never thought you guys were serious about this sunroofing thing," Alty said. 

   "We were serious, Alty.  We're serious people," Roger said.

   "WE'RE SERIOUS ABOUT HAVING A GOOD TIME!" I shouted down.   

   Jen smacked the back of Roger's head and said, "Yes, again!"  She giggled.  The giggle had a leer in it. 

   "AHH!  Woman!  Alty, do you see how these crazy womenfolk treat their holy man?"

   I grinned.  I knew I could always count on Jen to back me up when it came to fun-having.  From the muffled laughter, I knew they had rolled up their windows again.  I made sure I was secured to the makeshift harness on top of the jeep.  I reloaded the six shooter.  I kicked the roof of the jeep as I might a steed, spurring it onward towards victory.  The jeep trundled around in the clearing at the end of the nameless dirt road I had once found while driving up Oracle out past that small town Catalina, trying to escape my worries with speed and reckless lane-changing.  When he was turned around, I took the safety off (there's stupid and then there's suicidal, kids!) and kicked again, signalling Roger to GO-GO-GO-GO-GOOOO!   

   There's nothing quite as exhilarating as being strapped to the roof of an old beat up jeep as it drives at about twenty miles an hour down a dirt road, shooting at signs you've supplied for that express purpose, with a revolver that is louder than some jilted harpy laughing at three dumb broads fighting over some silly apple and a war that annhialated an entire city.  It makes a man--or woman-- feel like they own the world.  Like nothing can stop them. 

   I whooped as Roger peeled out.  The first sign, "NO TRESPASSING," came up on my left, fast.  BLAMpwong!  A solid hit!  I cocked the hammer again and aimed to my right, where another sign proclaiming "HIPPIES USE BACK ENTRANCE" was bearing down on me.  BLAM-ping!  Another hit!  The next sign, "PRIVATE PROPERTY,"  was too close, but I tried anyway. Recock     BLAM!  Missed.Recock     BLAM-ping!Recock     BLAM!Recock     BLAM-pwow!  Not bad, I thought.  I only missed twice. 

   The Jeep rolled to a stop, and I unhooked myself from the rooftop contraption and hopped down.  After removing the lawn chair and various ropes from the damaged vehicle and stowing them in the back, I clambered in next to Alty.  "Where to now?" I asked. 

   "The Grill, I'm starving," Roger responded.  The Grill was a restaurant down on Congress Street, a block or so west of the Hotel Congress.  "We'll figure out what to do next after that."  We drove off.

   The ride was long (and for the back seat riders, cramped), but was filled with talk and funny stories.  The Good Reverend Roger, my best friend and larger-than-life extraordinaire, led the conversation.  Jen, his wife and my other best friend, was a quiet one, although not in a "I'm totally shy" or "I'm such a downer" way, more like "I'll add to this conversation when I'm good and ready, and you had best listen when I do!" way.  She's awesome like that.  Alty, the angry Alaskan biped, was listening to Roger with good natured incredulity.  One of the stories Roger recalled was the time at the Meetrack when this drunk dude and his girlfriend started... Well,
they were obviously having fun, I'll put it that way, on the pingpong table, while at the same time these two guys were talking about chili recipes.  This is a totally true story, and one of the examples of why the Meetrack remains my favorite bar.  You never half-ass anything when you're at the Meetrack.

*****

   We sat down at The Grill, the lot of us positively starving.  Alty read the menu, and the rules of The Grill on the back.  "Wait," he said, "we aren't allowed to order cheese with tater tots?  What?"  He laughed. 

   "Yeah," Roger said.  "Apparently its some sort of blasphemy, so they won't give you cheese on it.  Our friend Frank the Bastard," my memory found the file Roger was about to talk about immediately, "had a long debate with the waitress on it.  Eventually, she conceded that if he were to order a side of cheese separate from the tater tots, they couldn't do anything about it."  We all laughed, and our waitress came to take our orders.

   The conversation wandered hither and yon while we waited for our food.  When it came, a few minutes of almost silence took place as we stuffed our faces as fast as we could.  Alty's face began to fall as some inner monologue started playing.  A few moments later, wearing a look of disgust and frustration, he opened his mouth and a rant most Holy™ fell out.

   "You know something?  Every time, every time I get close to making some kind of emotional connection to any dude things go south. I don't mean dates or dating, though I have more than enough horror stories about that. I mean I go south--in before LMNOuendo (ELL-em-en-oh-WEN-do¿)."

   I put down my spoon.  My Cap'n Crunch was getting soggy, anyway, and rants always deserve one's full attention.

   "It's like a process that develops over time and repeats itself, growing exponentially.  It starts with slight nervousness, like, self-doubt.  Then I tell myself, you know, to get the fuck over it and let it go. But after a short time it doesn't really have any, any effect.  I'll spare you all the gory details, but by the end of it--the point where I just throw my hands in the air--after cleaning up the vomit--and vow to never try to deal with men again.  Then I get a girlfriend, it ends, and I tell myself, 'You ought to get over this thing with dudes, work through it.  Face the fear'--I can hardly look men I know in the eye.  My belly is filled with red hot rage at everything remotely masculine."  He was speaking quite loudly by this point, and rose out of his seat to gesticulate.  Roger and Jen had also paused to give Alty their undivided attention.   

   "And then the cycle starts back over!  You know, I used to feel similarly about women.  I used to feel that way about everybody once.  But with men, the overwhelming sensation of anxiety, tension, rage, and fear sits waiting, and I don't know how to break through that wall.
 
   "And its like, you know, nobody seems to know what the fuck I'm talking about!"  He turned to us, now addressing rather than spewing, and said rather more calmly, "If you freaks have any insight to provide, I'd appreciate it.  I value you guys' input."  He plopped back down into his seat.  The restaurant had gone dead quiet.  The other patrons were probably stunned and embarrassed into speechlessness, but that was their problem.  He regarded his burger and declared, "When I get my master in SCIENCE!, I'm gonna invent a ray gun that makes boys into kittens."  He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.  Swallowed.  "Stupid kittens."

   "Preach it, Brother Alty,"  I testified, exuberant.  "Kittens are better than boys, anyway.  Well except in one way."

   Alty turned to me, slightly puzzled.  "How are kittens not better than boys?"

   I paused, suspicious.  I waited to see if he was pulling my leg.  Apparently, he wasn't.  "The drawback here is that kittens need carefully rationed food so they don't eat so much that they puke.  Boys don't do that.  Generally speaking, anyway.  Otherwise, kittens are CLEARLY the better option." 
   The four of us laughed at that.  The rest of the diner turned back to their meals.  Our meal done, we concluded we had better pay and go, snickering the whole time.  As we left the diner, we decided to walk around a bit, to take in the view.

   Up and down Congress we walked.  It was Second Saturday, and the freaks were out in full force.  A number of people had dressed up as four legged things resembling elephants, and some others had dressed up as people who reminded me vaguely of a game called Warhammer 40k, or maybe of Krampus, some demon who kidnaps naughty children on Christmas Eve, if he also herded animals. The elephantine creatures, every time traffic stopped for a light, would gallop away through the streets.  It was amazing and bizzarre, and fascinating to watch.  There were bands, and stalls selling all kinds of novelties and craftsy things.  It was bustling, crowded, and there was so many things going on I'm sure I missed most of the good stuff. 

   But there we were, walking down Fourth Ave., when who should my eyes have espied but Shayne.  Shayne, the compulsive liar to everyone about everything, repeated thief of my shit, and general sociopath.  Shayne, abuser of women, particularly my bestie, Torch.  Shayne, the only person to ever have actually earned my burning, unending loathing.  All that rose in my memory and my gullet like a wave.  How I hated him.  How I despised him.  How I wished I could wipe the ever-present smirk off his stupid face.   Preferrably with something sharp, like a bag of broken glass. 

   He spotted me at nearly the same time as I did him, and came over to say hi.  I can hear you asking me, "If you hate him so much, why would he be coming over to you?  Does he know how you feel?"  Why yes, gentle reader, he does.  As to why, I can only assume it's because I guess that's what you do if you see someone you know.

   I was seething, enraged;  how dare he intrude on my good day?  He was wearing that winning, confident smile that so set me on edge as he approached.  "Hey, Nicole, long time no see!  How are you?"

   He wasn't being particularly offensive, I thought as I grit my teeth, so I supposed that it wouldn't be polite to get hostile right away.  "I've been fine.  Torch has been doing great, too."  He looked at me blankly.  Just then I noticed some chick hovering possessively behind him.  She was skinny, technically pretty, and vapid looking.  She was also looking at me in a weird way.  Sort of judgementally

   I took a quick stock of myself: old, worn, ill-fitting jeans and T-shirt; a bit on the heavy side, with bad teeth that gives me that meth-mouth look; hanging out with a middle aged couple and some pale freak.  Even so, she had no right to be judging me and my friends.  Oh well, so much for polite. 

   "I see you have a new lady friend!  My, you do go through them, don't you?  Is this one your main squeeze or are you seeing her behind someone's back?"  I put on a look of polite curiosity.  Inside, I crowed as his face turned red and he balled his fists.  So what?  I thought.  So fucking what if he hits me?  It'll be worth it.  I recalled a  Subgenius commandment from The Book of the Subgenius, "Don't just eat a cheeseburger, eat the hell out of that cheeseburger!"  Well, I was certainly taking the situation to The Wall (in the internet¿ discordian sense), but I was thinking to myself I think I'm about to bust through it. 

   I resisted looking around at the others.  I sensed that if I showed weakness, if I took my eyes off him for a minute, stopped daring him to punch me in the face, he really would.  He looked at Alty, looked at Roger.  Alty is a skinny dude, but he's really tall, and doesn't look like a push over.  Roger is just intimidating in every possible way, including his personality, even when he's just standing there doing nothing.  I realized that Shayne would probably walk away, and felt a measure of disappointment that I would not be trading blows with him; the only time in my life when I would have done so with anyone. 

   "Whatever, you stupid bitch," he said.  I tried, I really tried, but I couldn't stop the condescending laughter as it burst out of me.  He turned even more red, then said "Come on," to his girl toy as they walked away.

*****

   It was getting dark as we approached the day's final destination, the shrine of the Black Madonna.  Hidden away in what I believe is technically South Tucson, it stands out of place, a wall of ancient conrete blocks standing alone next to a small gift shop.  It was once part of a building, or so it looks.  According to local legend, it had been moved to the current resting place for reasons unknown.  A creepy, spooky vibe surrounded it.  A candle altar, such as you might find in a Catholic church, was filled with long-dead Virgin Mary candles.  Rolled up papers were stuck in the cracks in the mortar.  Local legend has it that they are prayers from the damned—so damned as to be irredeemable in God's eyes—to the Black Madonna.

   Alty dared me to shout at the wall, any old thing would do.  The place just had that kind of creepy vibe, the kind where you're not sure if what brushed against your leg was a piece of seaweed or some eldritch elder god from beyond time and space.  So you stood against the fear, to show it who's the real corporeal threat 'round these parts.  Ptui.

   "I AINT SCURRED!"  I whisper-shouted.  I hesitated for a minute, then took a deep breath and hollered, "IF YOU'RE GOING TO EAT THAT CHEESEBURGER, EAT THE GODDAMNED HELL OUT OF IT!"

LMNO


Vaud

Fantastic and hilarious!

But now I am :sad:.  I've never been sunroofing. 
"Gee. He was just here a minute ago." -GC

Freeky


Salty

It's great!

Are we going sunroofing?
Will I need health insurance?
The world is a car and you're the crash test dummy.

Sister Fracture

We're all out of bullets, thanks to TGRR's binge.  He took the Bisleys too, on his quest for Curly, damn him. 

I would never suggest against health insurance when it comes to Tucson. 
Roaring Berserkery Bunny of the North End™

A Tucsonite is like a Christian in several important ways.  For one thing, they believe what they say about their god in the most literal, straightfaced way possible.  For another, they both know their god can hear them.  The difference between the two, however, is quite vast in terms of their relationship with their god; Christians believe in His benevolence, but Tucsonites KNOW of The City's spite and hate.

Doktor Howl

Quote from: Sister Fracture on February 23, 2012, 09:40:06 PM
We're all out of bullets, thanks to TGRR's binge.  He took the Bisleys too, on his quest for Curly, damn him. 

I would never suggest against health insurance when it comes to Tucson.
HIS binge?
Molon Lube

Doktor Howl

Quote from: Alty on February 23, 2012, 09:23:25 PM
It's great!

Are we going sunroofing?
Will I need health insurance?

Guns are wrecked, van is dead, Jeep ain't looking too good.

Naw, I think we'll satisify ourselves with dragging you around the legal district & central filth by the ankles.
Molon Lube

Sister Fracture

Quote from: Doktor Howl on February 23, 2012, 09:41:45 PM
Quote from: Sister Fracture on February 23, 2012, 09:40:06 PM
We're all out of bullets, thanks to TGRR's binge.  He took the Bisleys too, on his quest for Curly, damn him. 

I would never suggest against health insurance when it comes to Tucson.
HIS binge?

:lol:  So Enabler and I helped.  Big deal.
Roaring Berserkery Bunny of the North End™

A Tucsonite is like a Christian in several important ways.  For one thing, they believe what they say about their god in the most literal, straightfaced way possible.  For another, they both know their god can hear them.  The difference between the two, however, is quite vast in terms of their relationship with their god; Christians believe in His benevolence, but Tucsonites KNOW of The City's spite and hate.

Triple Zero

Hey I only just got around to reading this one.

If you want feedback, well frankly I was too caught up in the story to find anything to improve, so that's good :)

In the first version, there was something that "hiccupped", but on re-reading I can't find the bit again, so it was probably me (I'm just looking for parts to criticism, here, since that's what you want, right?) Maybe, you could clear up the part where you shoot things a bit, you're on someone's private property and shooting the signs? But that's probably just me, I like to know what's going on before it's described and that you're not doing that is a literary technique that maybe it's just me that finds it confusing but you see it everywhere so, yeah.

I forgot that Alty came to visit you btw, when was this?

Also TCC = Tucson Convention Center? :lulz:

About the second version:

The bit about tater tots + cheese is kind of "insular", it's just there but doesn't quite connect to the rest of the story. Maybe you can link it better somehow, or perhaps bring up tater tots (as a metaphor or simile or whatever) a bit later up. Just cause you could leave it out and it wouldn't change anything. Another way to glue it into the story would maybe be if you'd use it to set the scene or something. I dunno.

The other bit about Alty's rant kind of seems to fall out of nowhere in this version. The "Alty's face began to fall" part sort of leads it in, but maybe you can make it more .. ominous? I mean, there is a silence already (which can be described more portentiously or such), and then his face falls (off?? hihi ;) like a mask) and then the background all sorts of fades away and gets dark, a spotlight turns on Alty and his voice has this, like, vicar quality to it, not quite booming, but it would have been as he spoke from the pulpit: "... [BOYS! ETC!]"

The Shayne scene could use some sort of closure, an ending, but then you'd have to make up stuff that didn't happen.

Remember, I'm really looking hard to find critiques here, scraping the barrel kinda, cause I know you want feedback. I enjoyed the story!!
Ex-Soviet Bloc Sexual Attack Swede of Tomorrow™
e-prime disclaimer: let it seem fairly unclear I understand the apparent subjectivity of the above statements. maybe.

INFORMATION SO POWERFUL, YOU ACTUALLY NEED LESS.

Salty

The trip hasn't happened yet, Trip.

I leave Tuesday. :noodledance:

ETA: Not that that means anything, what with the time/space bending.
The world is a car and you're the crash test dummy.