Getting it

After high school, I decided to major in the thing I was best at.  Something involving language and words.  My first impulse was journalism, so I chose that although I didn't really understand what I was getting into.  I was 18 and didn't know what the hell I was doing in many aspects of life.  After a few months of being told by my professors from the mass communications department how bleak the future of print media is (they predicted the demise of print as if to jinx its arrival) I decided to pursue the writing track in the English program.  The BFA in creative and professional writing.  I had never done any fiction writing in high school; just a lot of reading.  Since my freshman year, I've started to get it.  And in a typically writerly sort of way, I've gotten it on my own.

The biggest thing I've learned is that most fiction springs from reality, at least mine does.  Thinking back on something that I've witnessed and fictionalizing it -- adding a person here, changing an action there, taking myself out of the picture and throwing a character into the fire -- has become a great springboard for me.  If something bizarre happens, I'll be sure to remember it so I can write it.  And that has changed my way of thinking as well.  Over the past few years I have started to write scenes in my head while observing people.  This happens most often at work, which is a great place for it to happen, since I work with the public.  I work at a grocery store in the summer.  Is the following snippet fiction or non-fiction?

***

I noticed the man walk into the store and I knew right away that something about him was off.  He had an unsettled look on his face, as if he could break into loud shrieks at any moment, or burst into flames. Maybe both.  He pulled a cart from one of the four rows that stuffed the cart room and staggered past the produce section.  I watched him from a secluded area near the potatoes.

He continued past the produce -- I didn't have him pinned as a fruit-and-vegetable guy.  No, this man likes his frozen dinners.  His greasy black baseball cap and loose blue Dickies seemed to pull him toward aisle three and the rest of the obese members of this corner of society.  One dollar meals in a microwavable plastic container were this guy's only source of calories.

Near the deli, not 10 feet in front of me, he let out a yell.  A yell that you would expect to hear from the monkeys at the zoo, while you're watching the sleeping lions.  Is this guy for real?  I half expected a camera crew to come through the door, some stoner punks that are still obsessed with Jackass.  But there was no camera crew, and this man didn't seem to want -- or expect -- any fanfare.

After the animalistic yell, his pants fell down.  He had a white knuckle grip on his shopping cart with both hands, whereas one hand should have been holding up his Dickies.  He took a few steps before bending down to pull them up, re-concealing his yellow briefs that had once been white.

Store management was on him like ants on sugar.  Like police, their walkie talkies became their most useful tool in their apprehension of this mumbling, shrieking lunatic.  Two men followed him, keeping their distance in anticipation of his next wild move.  Two more small groups of employees gathered on the fringes of the situation.  I remained alone, watching and listening, hoping for something drastic.

I decided to get my buddy involved.  In the back room, he was stoned and oblivious to the situation -- the free show that was unfolding before our eyes.  He joined me by the potatoes.  All I had to tell him was, "Dude, this dude's pants just fell down!  Come check this out."

He looked at the savage man through squinted eyes and said, "Oh, that guy?  I love it when he comes in.  You've never seen him before?"

Gert at the Grocery Store (fictionalizing a real scene)

Gert walked into the grocery store clutching her cane, as though it were the one object that kept her stapled to the earth.  A magnet that, if released, would plunge to the core of the earth and fling Gert the opposite direction, into orbit.  She stood in the air-conditioned buzz of the store and made her way to the motorized cart area.  Typically there is a row of at least two or three along the store’s front wall, but that day there were none.

            Bewildered, and feeling a bit lost, Gert canvassed the narrow glimpses of customers.  In doing so, she spotted a middle-aged woman on a cell phone, riding around with ease in a motorized cart.  With no obvious handicap, other than grotesque obesity, the woman looked greedy for driving the cart.  No cast, no crutches, just a basket full of frozen pizza and boxed junk food.  Gert felt slighted at the sight of the woman.

            “Excuse me, young man?” Gert asked a male employee no older than 17 with shaggy hair flopping against his face as he sped along the polished floor.  No response.  Gert noticed a slight turn of the head as he walked by, as if he had heard himself addressed and decided he’d rather continue walking.  He pushed his way through a door marked, “Employees Only.”

            Moments later, from the same door, emerged a trio of older men.  As they split, presumably from their lunch break, one of them wearing a blue dress shirt and tie walked in Gert’s direction.  His dress shirt showed people that he was in charge of at least a portion of the store’s operation, but the name tag around his neck – identical in style to all store employees – made him seem more approachable.  This man approached her rather than her reaching out to him.  “Can I help you find something, ma’am?” the man asked her with a practiced look on his face.  It was then that Gert realized that she must have looked silly standing where she was, in the middle of a high traffic area of the store.  People had been steering their carts around her since she entered the store.

            “Yes.  Haven’t you got any of those battery powered carts around?”

            The man’s head turned automatically to the empty place where they are usually parked.  He then looked in a second direction, likely a secondary location where they seem to end up sometimes.  “You know, I don’t see any around.  Sometimes people leave them outside when they get in their cars; I’ll go check.  I’ll be right back.”

            “Oh, thank you so much,” Gert was pleased with the man’s effort, and a full-dentured smile appeared on her face.  He had a kind way of speaking, like he’d been handling dilemmas similar to this one for decades.  Gert backed out of the flow of grocery cart traffic to wait.

            When the man walked back inside she could tell he hadn’t had any luck.  His lips were pursed until he opened them, shook his head and said, “Well there aren’t any outside either, ma’am.”  He left the end of the sentence in a way that said so Gert, “Don’t know what to tell ya,” without being so blunt.

            “Oh, well, that’s fine.  I’m sure they’re expensive machines.  Can’t expect you to have a dozen of them!”

            The man nodded with his hands on his hips and said simply, “Yeah,” elongating the end of the word, suggesting regret for the inconvenience.

            “I’ll just sit and wait for one to be returned.  Thanks for your help,” and she looked at his chest for his name tag, adding, “Gary.”

            “Not a problem, ma’am.  Sorry again,” and he walked away.

Surgery (The beginning of something longer?)

The two preliminary visits had gone smoothly. I had a good vibe with the doctor, and I felt confident in his ability. The walls of his office were lined with awards from the American Medical Association, and his stark white hair was reassuring. Coupled with a youthful way of speaking and moving around, the man radiated confidence and experience.

He told me he’d have my gallbladder out in an hour and a half, and I would be home in my living room watching baseball that night. The aforementioned good vibe allowed me to say, “Hey, baseball and a little something for the pain? Doesn’t get much better than that, does it, Dr. Nelson?”

“Trust me, you’ll be feeling no pain.” And he winked, closing his leather-bound folder and thus closing out our final meeting before the next day’s surgery.

***

I walked through the sliding glass doors of the white stucco building with the feeling that only a person headed for surgery has. I fluctuated seamlessly between dread and optimism. I couldn’t help but think about the anesthesia not working, or Dr. Nelson hitting an artery and killing me on accident. A stream of blood, squirting garden hose style out of my wound and onto the doctor’s perfectly tanned face, reddening his white hair. But the next moment I thought of life without the splitting pain I’d been living with. In the elevator I settled on the thought that I was on my way up to have the thing done, and I wasn’t going to stop myself now. What happens, happens.

When I walked through the heavy wooden door into the waiting room of Dr. Nelson’s office, the receptionist was different from the one I had seen in my previous two visits. She was much prettier than the dumpy forty-year-old who must have had the day off.

“Hello, you must be Shawn,” the new receptionist said as the heavy door closed behind me.

“That’s right, Sarah,” I replied, looking at the name badge on her chest.

“Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Dr. Nelson is just finishing up with another patient.”

“Um, no thanks.”

“Good answer, Shawn. That was a test, just making sure you’ve been following through with your end of the pre-surgery routine,” she chuckled lightly. I guessed she pulled that joke on every patient that walked through the door.

After a short wait, during which I stared at a page of Sports Illustrated without reading a single word, a nurse opened a door next to the reception desk and called my name, looking around the room, presumably out of habit, although I was its only occupant. I stood up, dropping the magazine on the round table in front of me, and followed her down a narrow hall, into the operating room.
The nurse pulled a curtain, behind which I was instructed to change into a gown. Then she had me lie down on the bed, after which she flipped some switches, moving it into the position that best suited my particular surgery.

“I’m going to administer the anesthesia now, okay Shawn?”

I nodded. She produced a mask and fitted it over my head.

“Now, this will take a few minutes to completely take effect, and Dr. Nelson will be with you in just a moment.”

I nodded again, feeling the drugs already. The nurse left the room and closed the door. There was a thump against the wall, out in the hallway. I thought she must have tripped, moved against the wall while someone passed. Then I heard a quiet shriek, and I was a little unsettled. But the heaven that I was breathing took that feeling away as quickly as it had come.

My eyes were heavy and I was wondering where I could buy some of this wonderful gas when I heard the door open behind me. Dr. Nelson. Time to have my gallbladder removed. A funny word, gallbladder, I thought to myself while the doctor’s footsteps grew near.

“Hello Shawn,” a man with black hair and a pale face said.

I shook my head, unable to produce words. My hands felt cemented to the bed, stitched down to the blanket underneath me. The man was wearing a pair of jeans and a white dress shirt, the top few buttons undone.

“Shawn, don’t panic, Dr. Nelson is, well, preoccupied. But I’ll get you all fixed up.” He looked around the room and started pulling open drawers, shutting them, and opening others. He turned toward me with a scalpel in his hand and and no gloves on, and sat down next to the bed where Dr. Nelson had performed thousands of successful surgeries.

My eyes closed and the world went black.

Twitter and Me (Blogs and Wikis Reflection)

The most important thing that Weblogs and Wikis did for me?  It got me really into Twitter, and I've realized how useful it can be if used correctly.

Critics create an account with a Facebook frame of mind, look at Twitter and think, "Hm, status updates and that's it?  What's the big deal?"  That's what I thought when I first made an account in the summer of 2010.  I searched for me friends and discovered that only a few had a Twitter account, and if they did there was a good chance it was abandoned.  So, I basically abandoned my own account for a couple of months.  I hadn't discovered my use for it yet.

Along came Weblogs and Wikis, and I was forced to become a real member of the Twitter world.  I logged into my account after having to press the "forgot password?" button and saw that I had only tweeted once.  It read, "Test tweet."  After a few days I discovered a use for Twitter, and it is still my primary use: News.  Following the right people and organizations on Twitter has become my favorite way to follow the news.  I can turn on CNN or go to the Strib's website and get the latest headlines.  But that's according to what that organization is covering -- very limiting.  With Twitter, I can get constant updates from any person or news source I decide to follow and, to me, that is the best way to stay informed.

On the other hand, I also produce tweets; I don't just consume.  For example, in the context of the classroom, I have put out a call or two about class meeting times and assignments.  Instead of searching through my phone's contacts to find someone in class to text, I can just compose a tweet, use #en3177, and everyone in class can see it and help me out.  I've also had a little bit of fun tweeting.  For example, last weekend I used my phone to tweet, "Wally the beer man sells beer at Sneaky Pete's AFTER Twins games now.  Oh how the mighty have fallen..."  As you may decipher from the context of the tweet, I had been at the Twins game, went to Sneaky Pete's afterward, and decided to tell my Twitter followers who I had discovered there.  I walked in, saw Wally, and tweeted my bit in well under a minute.  Isn't Twitter fun?

I see definite (possible) professional benefits with Twitter, even though my attempts at it have been fruitless.  When I was applying for summer internships, I made contact with an employer via Twitter.  I followed both the company and the editor in charge of reviewing applications.  I tweeted the following at one point: "Putting together an internship application for @Coffee_House_."  It was a way to make contact with them and let them know I'm here and interested.  I got a mention that said something along the lines of, "Yay, applications coming our way!"  Since Twitter is so new, and I am so new to it, I can't really place what exactly it means to get a mention.  But hey, if you cast out your line to a prospective employer in any medium and get a reply, it can't hurt.

Twitter isn't the only thing that will last for me from en3177, but it is definitely the biggest.  I created this blog, and I see myself using it to self publish over the summer.  Diigo can also come in handy, but since I do almost all of my browsing on this one machine, I have no real need for it.  But Twitter, well Twitter and me will be together for a long time.

Flash Mobs

I heard about flash mobs a few years ago, but I never did any research on them until now.  What I found was incredible.

Obviously, flash mobs are a product of advanced communication tools (txt, email, FB) that allow mass-messages to be sent in seconds.  It is hard to imagine a flash mob being organized by telegraph or over the phone.  I picture someone sitting down with a rotary phone and a list of a hundred people -- not gonna happen.  But now someone can create a Facebook group and invite the people they want in on the prank, or type up a txt message and send it to dozens of contacts.

I suppose I should define "flash mob."  It is a mob that comes seemingly out of nowhere, in a public place, and does something (usually) harmless and completely random.  The bystanders usually catch a good show, especially when the mob performs a dance, which seems to be the most popular type of flash mob.  Flash mobs can also pull off hilarious pranks, like this one that I found on Youtube:

Flash mobs are a great example of how the digital world can help us interact with the analog world.  People have been texting and emailing each other to make plans for years, and flash mobs are an extreme version of that act.

Reading up on these things makes me hope that some day soon I get a text message that invites me to be a part of one.

Technology and Language

Is modern technology (texting, twitter, the internet in general) changing language?  The answer is yes, within those forms.  Many people don't use complete sentences when composing a text message.  Character limits are one reason for this.  A Twitter post is confined to 140 characters, and to fit a particular message into that, without spilling into a second post, people make sacrifices.  For example, people use shorthand techniques like w/ for the word "with" and the abbreviations made popular by text messaging, like OMG and WTF.

Comment fields on Youtube and other sites are a great place to look if you want to believe that the English language is deteriorating, as well as civility.  These comment fields are basically a mixture of personal attacks written with poor grammar.  An inevitably, at some point, someone will point out another's poor grammar and be called a "Grammar Nazi."  The comments field on Youtube for the video entitled "Slash Solo Godfather Theme" is a perfect example.  The first page is filled with personal attacks such as "Dumb bitch."  And almost nobody capitalized the first letter of a sentence.  But hey, it's the comment field under a guitar solo video, so...

One more interesting thing I found was This page from PBS about language changes over time, mainly verbal.  There is some very interesting stuff in there, like where language changes originate, and what television's role is in language changes.  

Privacy Manifesto

There is a lot of debate regarding online privacy.  Should everything online be private?  Should it all be wide open, with everyone's information everywhere?  Well, I would say there is a medium to those two extremes.

People need to choose what they want others to see online, and implement their own privacy plan accordingly.  If we make everything private, across the board for everyone, then all internet users will be anonymous.  Many people don't want to be anonymous, and the ones who are tend to be a nuisance in comment fields.

What we do to solve this problem is let everyone control their own privacy.  Something along the lines of what Facebook did with their privacy policy.  Whether or not those privacy settings are being properly implemented by the folks at Facebook is one thing, but the concept is what I'm interested in.  And you don't need buttons to click that say "make this private," you can just do it on your own by deciding what to put online.  For example, I deleted my Facebook.  When I do a general name search for myself on Google, the results are not me.  That's mainly because I don't have a Facebook page.  Same goes for image searches.  I untagged all of the photos I was in on Facebook and dragged them into a folder on my computer.  That's privacy.  I can look at them at my leisure, and people I don't know aren't gazing at them.

The example I just gave basically sums up my Privacy Manifesto.  Take your life into your own hands, and consider who's reading your information and clicking through your photos before you click "post." Maybe you just don't care who knows everything about you, and if you're that care-free then more power to ya.