To be completely honest, Jonah Lehrer’s article, “Don’t,” is born into some very cold water. The unsubstantiated anecdotal lede is golden, intriguing, and full of potential until the second paragraph hits and it’s revealed that the subject, Carolyn Weisz, in fact “has no direct memory of the experiment.” Though as the reader I am only marginally committed at this point, I still felt somewhat betrayed by the flimsy foundation on which the opening story is told—I had already bought in to this tale.
Regardless, the dreamy narration is enough to propel me forward; Lehrer goes on to say “she [Carolyn] strongly suspects that she was able to delay gratification,” a statement to which I respond, “hearsay.” It is not until Lehrer makes it clear that Carolyn is not the subject of this article that the shaky details earn the right to stay; they’re not perfect, but they’re there to craft a story, not provide testimony.
The article warms up when it is realized that the narrator is actually telling the story of Walter Mischel’s lifework; further, he is telling it with a commitment to complete transparency. Lehrer sacrifices clean corners for story, striking an endearing balance between hard facts as a base, and anecdotes to fill in the white space. Once beyond the slightly misleading and unfounded lede, Lehrer’s article features expert tone, structure, and a creative voice that elicits vivid imagery with every turn.
The tone in “Don’t” is a combination between that of a scientific research study and a scientist’s personal journey toward and through revelation. Lehrer mimics in his own writing the emotional arc that Mischel and the other scientists undoubtedly endured. He writes, “Mischel argues that intelligence is largely at the mercy of self-control,” and then goes on to quote the scientist: “’What we’re really measuring with the marshmallows isn’t willpower or self-control…We can’t control the world, but we can control how we think about it.’” Not only is this completely stellar quote wrapped in juicy hypothesized wonder, the very sentiment is one that has been widely popular in the last several years (think Freakonomics, Blink, The Tipping Point, and Outliers). Lehrer employs the quote in order to appeal to an audience that is already known to exist.
Additionally, the narrator’s heightened consciousness supplies confidence to the piece, and further, the way Lehrer uses his breadth of knowledge to zoom in and zoom out, relating bigger picture with smaller, creates credibility. With the exception of his aside about not being surprised that the low delayers took longer to return the laptops, the narrator endears himself by remaining comfortably removed from the subject.
Though this is a piece about scientific study, more specifically about what it is that “governs self-control,” Lehrer very carefully avoids weighing “Don’t” down with technical garble. Perhaps the cleverest example in “Don’t,” is that of the “Go/No Go task,” in which the variables are simple and the project is clearly, easily explained. By allowing the reader to share in the experiment, Lehrer forces active reading.
Further, his descriptions are organic and fresh. At no point do they grow stale or bog down the article. Lehrer writes first, “he takes on the body language of an impatient four-year old,” and second, describing Mischel’s discovery of a new learning process, says that he “ found a shortcut.” Particularly in the latter example, the language is unconventional but works to keep the reader participating in and thinking about the subject.
“Don’t,” concludes with a bang; at its last punctuation mark the water is scalding. As one who snacks before dinner, spends her allowance before she sees it, and can’t help but peak under the Christmas tree on the way to the bathroom, I very clearly identify as a low delayer. However, the evenhanded context in which Lehrer provides these highly relatable examples lends itself to identification whether the reader is a high or a low delayer.
Reading “Don’t” is a more involved experience than most television shows or movies can provide; it offers give and take, and truly relates the article’s specific scientific subjects with readers’ universalizable experiences.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
MUNCH THiS!
Munch This: A Sober Look at Everyone’s Favorite Convenience Store
The hike to Munchie Mart can be a challenge, be it from a Vampire-themed Valentine’s Day Party on Forbes Street, a Zombie Bride Festival on Davis, or even from as close as one of Kalamazoo College’s dorms.
The walk often requires intense focus, chanting the grocery list, or just a single word—cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes—to ensure one’s quest is successful.
“You focus on walking in a straight line, deciding which homeless people to avoid (the answer is all of them), and remembering which light means walk,” says Colin King K’11.
“Drunk people are very focused on their tobacco,” he goes on. In the three minutes Colin, and most other Munchie patrons spend in the store, the mission is easily fulfilled. “You know what you’re going to get when you finally get there,” he says.
But door opened and door closed, that’s just one side of Munchie Mart.
Stepping behind the shop’s tall, forest green counters, Paul, 23, and Will, 26, are vested with the authority and responsibility to dispense two of America’s few legal drugs: cigarettes and alcohol. Both men work two jobs and attend Western Michigan University full time; they’re busy, and on Friday night, five hours into their shifts, they’re peppy.
Sounds from the east side of the state, more specifically Comerica Park, spill through the store’s cobwebbed overhead speakers, and though loud, perhaps unnecessarily so, patrons are rung up and shuffled in and out with great efficiency and order.
Once through Munchie’s Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age and proudly announcing that the store accepts food stamps, a whole new world of sugary sweets, beer, beer, beer, and liquor appears.
Ask any of the many men and women who walk out with a thirty pack of chilled PBR, Red Dog, or Keystone, Munchie’s pièce de résistance is its walk-in fridge.
With its low ceiling and crowded shelves, its heavily postered walls and windows, stepping inside the fridge is an experience. It’s getting out, according to Paul and Will, that proves a challenge for many of Munchie’s already-inebriated customers.
For help out of the fridge, officially dubbed the “Beer Tank” by a Miller Lite banner, the room’s single door sports a user-friendly, eye-level sticker reading: “PUSH.” As if not conspicuous enough, the message is hammered home by a white handprint beneath it, ensuring that non-English speakers and those with blurred vision are not discriminated against, or worse, trapped.
“It’s called the Beer Cave,” Paul scoffs, offering an insider’s perspective. “Miller Lite needs to get it right.”
Whether a fridge, a closet, a tank, or a cave, its door, like those on the ice cooler, is often left open by distracted patrons rushing back to their porch, living room, or dorm.
When two unnaturally orange, spandex-clad women in their early twenties, stumbling and giggly, approach Munchie’s register, they ask for a fifth of bottom shelf booze. Generic College Girl A hands over a shiny plastic ID, and trying to trip her up, Will asks what her zip code is. “49003”—she’s a local and she knows the answer.
Will laughs. “And what state do you live in?” he asks, but before she can answer, his counterpart, Paul, chimes in, “Insanity! I live in a state of insanity!”
And he’s right, but it’s working for them.
Shortly thereafter, just around 10:30, there’s a rush at Munchie Mart. It’s raining outside, and many patrons arrive soaked, but like Colin, they’re on a high-stakes expedition and feeling no pain.
A middle-aged man with intensely unfocused pupils teeters in, leaning forward, his body at a seventy-degree angle with the tiled floor. He’s dressed in a cut-off sleeve tee shirt, wearing a brown vest, and looking utterly removed from reality. Gazing toward a rainbow of beer bottles, he misses the green rugs rolled out for the weather, and he trips, rolls the rug up, and continues on. If he so much as noticed the misstep, he shows no sign of it—but, would you? He buys his booze and leaves.
Another pair of college women arrive and purchase their 6-pack of Coors, but not without Paul first asking if they’re driving; he’s concerned, and with good reason.
The store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” hangs in the background, appearing on indistinct poster board and looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child. Still, its message rings true.
“We’re not driving, but we are drunk,” replies the more rambunctious of the two. With brown paper bag in hand, they give a little cheer on the way out the door: “Beer pong here we come!”
But keeping the shelves stocked and ringing up purchases are only part of the job. After encountering enough drunken patrons who drive to Munchie only to try to buy more alcohol, Paul and Will see their responsibility to look out for the customer as a big part of the job too.
Around 11, a scraggly-haired twenty-two year old, a regular, swings open the door and beelines toward the forties.
“This guy buys for minors,” Paul declares shamelessly. The kid laughs, shakes his head nervously, and continues on his way. “And he knows every time he comes him here I’m going to try to get him to admit it,” Paul goes on.
With no serious response from the accused, Will takes a turn; “He buys about ten forties, and he drops bottles,” he says.
With faux indignation, he kid denies the accusations and approaches the register braced with a single 22-ounce Miller Lite—innocent at least for tonight.
Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has taken an active stance against underage drinking by rewarding his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated. The homemade IDs then make their way into Munchie’s box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners.
Just before midnight, an older man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio. “You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over his eyes. The man laughs—he’s been caught. He pays for his malt liquor, and he leaves.
Paul and Will know some of the regulars by name, but Paul says he remembers faces better. Handing over a fifth of Smirnoff, Will warns its new owner to “drink slowly.” He’s seen her at her worst.
If the guys had alter egos, they say they might be Rocky and Bullwinkle (Will’s got dibs on the former), Simon and Garfunkel, or Adolf and Mussolini. Though they do strive to keep the customer satisfied, ruling with an iron fist takes top priority.
Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but “we’d want to use it too much,” he says with a laugh.
With closing time growing nearer, Paul and Will throw on the heavy metal music. Loud. The genre has been statistically proven to get customers out of the store quicker. Sure, every once in a while the plan backfires, but largely, it’s successful.
In between the monotony of fulfilling work responsibilities, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips play second string to the metal), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window and ill-coordinated college students looking for more, more.
For Paul and Will, the Munchie Mart experience is way more than three minutes.
The hike to Munchie Mart can be a challenge, be it from a Vampire-themed Valentine’s Day Party on Forbes Street, a Zombie Bride Festival on Davis, or even from as close as one of Kalamazoo College’s dorms.
The walk often requires intense focus, chanting the grocery list, or just a single word—cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes—to ensure one’s quest is successful.
“You focus on walking in a straight line, deciding which homeless people to avoid (the answer is all of them), and remembering which light means walk,” says Colin King K’11.
“Drunk people are very focused on their tobacco,” he goes on. In the three minutes Colin, and most other Munchie patrons spend in the store, the mission is easily fulfilled. “You know what you’re going to get when you finally get there,” he says.
But door opened and door closed, that’s just one side of Munchie Mart.
Stepping behind the shop’s tall, forest green counters, Paul, 23, and Will, 26, are vested with the authority and responsibility to dispense two of America’s few legal drugs: cigarettes and alcohol. Both men work two jobs and attend Western Michigan University full time; they’re busy, and on Friday night, five hours into their shifts, they’re peppy.
Sounds from the east side of the state, more specifically Comerica Park, spill through the store’s cobwebbed overhead speakers, and though loud, perhaps unnecessarily so, patrons are rung up and shuffled in and out with great efficiency and order.
Once through Munchie’s Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age and proudly announcing that the store accepts food stamps, a whole new world of sugary sweets, beer, beer, beer, and liquor appears.
Ask any of the many men and women who walk out with a thirty pack of chilled PBR, Red Dog, or Keystone, Munchie’s pièce de résistance is its walk-in fridge.
With its low ceiling and crowded shelves, its heavily postered walls and windows, stepping inside the fridge is an experience. It’s getting out, according to Paul and Will, that proves a challenge for many of Munchie’s already-inebriated customers.
For help out of the fridge, officially dubbed the “Beer Tank” by a Miller Lite banner, the room’s single door sports a user-friendly, eye-level sticker reading: “PUSH.” As if not conspicuous enough, the message is hammered home by a white handprint beneath it, ensuring that non-English speakers and those with blurred vision are not discriminated against, or worse, trapped.
“It’s called the Beer Cave,” Paul scoffs, offering an insider’s perspective. “Miller Lite needs to get it right.”
Whether a fridge, a closet, a tank, or a cave, its door, like those on the ice cooler, is often left open by distracted patrons rushing back to their porch, living room, or dorm.
When two unnaturally orange, spandex-clad women in their early twenties, stumbling and giggly, approach Munchie’s register, they ask for a fifth of bottom shelf booze. Generic College Girl A hands over a shiny plastic ID, and trying to trip her up, Will asks what her zip code is. “49003”—she’s a local and she knows the answer.
Will laughs. “And what state do you live in?” he asks, but before she can answer, his counterpart, Paul, chimes in, “Insanity! I live in a state of insanity!”
And he’s right, but it’s working for them.
Shortly thereafter, just around 10:30, there’s a rush at Munchie Mart. It’s raining outside, and many patrons arrive soaked, but like Colin, they’re on a high-stakes expedition and feeling no pain.
A middle-aged man with intensely unfocused pupils teeters in, leaning forward, his body at a seventy-degree angle with the tiled floor. He’s dressed in a cut-off sleeve tee shirt, wearing a brown vest, and looking utterly removed from reality. Gazing toward a rainbow of beer bottles, he misses the green rugs rolled out for the weather, and he trips, rolls the rug up, and continues on. If he so much as noticed the misstep, he shows no sign of it—but, would you? He buys his booze and leaves.
Another pair of college women arrive and purchase their 6-pack of Coors, but not without Paul first asking if they’re driving; he’s concerned, and with good reason.
The store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” hangs in the background, appearing on indistinct poster board and looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child. Still, its message rings true.
“We’re not driving, but we are drunk,” replies the more rambunctious of the two. With brown paper bag in hand, they give a little cheer on the way out the door: “Beer pong here we come!”
But keeping the shelves stocked and ringing up purchases are only part of the job. After encountering enough drunken patrons who drive to Munchie only to try to buy more alcohol, Paul and Will see their responsibility to look out for the customer as a big part of the job too.
Around 11, a scraggly-haired twenty-two year old, a regular, swings open the door and beelines toward the forties.
“This guy buys for minors,” Paul declares shamelessly. The kid laughs, shakes his head nervously, and continues on his way. “And he knows every time he comes him here I’m going to try to get him to admit it,” Paul goes on.
With no serious response from the accused, Will takes a turn; “He buys about ten forties, and he drops bottles,” he says.
With faux indignation, he kid denies the accusations and approaches the register braced with a single 22-ounce Miller Lite—innocent at least for tonight.
Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has taken an active stance against underage drinking by rewarding his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated. The homemade IDs then make their way into Munchie’s box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners.
Just before midnight, an older man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio. “You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over his eyes. The man laughs—he’s been caught. He pays for his malt liquor, and he leaves.
Paul and Will know some of the regulars by name, but Paul says he remembers faces better. Handing over a fifth of Smirnoff, Will warns its new owner to “drink slowly.” He’s seen her at her worst.
If the guys had alter egos, they say they might be Rocky and Bullwinkle (Will’s got dibs on the former), Simon and Garfunkel, or Adolf and Mussolini. Though they do strive to keep the customer satisfied, ruling with an iron fist takes top priority.
Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but “we’d want to use it too much,” he says with a laugh.
With closing time growing nearer, Paul and Will throw on the heavy metal music. Loud. The genre has been statistically proven to get customers out of the store quicker. Sure, every once in a while the plan backfires, but largely, it’s successful.
In between the monotony of fulfilling work responsibilities, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips play second string to the metal), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window and ill-coordinated college students looking for more, more.
For Paul and Will, the Munchie Mart experience is way more than three minutes.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Round Dos
Okay, so I got you last time, but here's my piece for real.
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/05/18/090518fa_fact_lehrer
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/05/18/090518fa_fact_lehrer
Monday, May 11, 2009
David Sedaris. The Man.
So, our last talk about David Sedaris has made me all the more eager to share my absolute favorite essay of his. It appeared in the New Yorker last May, but has in no way faded. Hope y'all enjoy.
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/05/05/080505fa_fact_sedaris
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/05/05/080505fa_fact_sedaris
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
After Much Mulling...
Camilo, this campus is just filled with truly interesting people, isn’t it? Next time I’m in the library I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for Linda—I want to see for myself what she’s all about, and maybe ask her a question or two about what sounds to be a very exciting life.
I particularly liked the juxtaposition between her two jobs, helping raise six children while also helping six others die. The detail about the real estate agent’s advice also nicely foreshadows and builds tension, reminding the reader that this is a story about Linda’s abandoning her home and what she knows, in order to try a new lifestyle in Casablanca.
While it is very good, at times I forgot the article’s purpose and I feel like I want to know more about her reasons for joining the Peace Corps. The idea is riveting in the beginning, but then disappears until the very end. I think I would have been more invested if it had been consistent. Also, more emotional cues would make the narration more appealing to me. I want to know about this lady and all the busy thoughts that absolutely must be running through her head all day.
This was great to read!
Emily, I so enjoyed reading your piece. It is really a story. I love how you craft these scenes, set the pace so deliberately, and also characterize strangers in such a way that they are intimately familiar. Some of the language, like where you describe Fitzpatrick as having “fallen in” just sounds so perfect. It fits beautifully and feels totally authentic—I believed you as the narrator, like you have the inside scoop and are cool enough to just be at home in this clearly bizarre environment.
There were a couple sentences that were a little long. I felt myself getting lost in the paragraph beginning with “Currently, though…” but I think it’s just a matter of some strategically placed punctuation. Also, something Aaron told me is that quotes should stand alone as their own paragraphs. Of course it doesn’t make a difference when we’re blogging, but it really does look so much better in print. I’ve also found it makes it easier for me to read my own writing that way. My only other question is if there’s a way you can focus totally on Fitzpatrick, without confusing the profile subject for being the space. I flip-flopped back and forth while reading, and it could have just been my own interpretation, but I wasn’t entirely sure at all times who/what I was learning about
Looking forward to discussing tomorrow!
Maureen, let’s take these girls out on the town. They sound totally miserable. I’m interested in the story here, though, and I want to know more about what makes Jane have such strong convictions. Like, is it the fact that during so much of her life she’s been in this geographic limbo that she feels she doesn’t want to make friends for fear of losing them again? What does she consider her roommates to be? What is her GPA and what does she want to do with all this acquired knowledge?
The dialogue you included is what really ropes me in—that bit about friends just being a waste practically had me scribbling questions for me to ask her! I like how the piece ends with Jane going to bed; it is very fitting for the piece and I totally envision the article, Jane, and all her books being tucked in under the covers.
Looking forward to hearing more about Jane and what drew you to her.
Lindsey, I am so thrilled you decided to profile The Strutt. It is such a funky little place, and Darren is an absolute character. I also learned a lot! Your imagery sold me on the piece—I love your description of the place as being “freckled with fliers,” and also the mini-turn in the sentence “But don’t get the wrong impression, this classy joint is the furthest thing from a pizza place.” There is such authority in your voice! I wanted to hear more and more and more. Also, the mention of the herb garden is so graceful; not too forceful, just functional and just right.
I also like how you characterize the entire establishment as being enthusiastic, hopeful, and most of all, ambitious, by describing the many different avenues for development (ie. the record company, the brewing, etc) that is taking.
There were just a couple points where the sentences got a little bit long. I’m sure reading it aloud would fix them.
On a separate note, Emily actually did a really wonderful profile on The Strutt last quarter for the Index—if you want to take a look at it, I would be happy to get you a copy.
Lots of fun to read!
Schafer, Johnny sounds like he would be a blast to hang out with. Now I know why you were so excited about profiling him! He really is the pied piper of 2009, and what could be better than that?
Oh, balloons.
The image of him touching his lips and then remembering he no longer smokes is truly priceless. It’s clear that you’re inside his head and relate to him on a level that cannot be explored in simple conversation. You bring it to the page very clearly! I heard his voice, “thick and full of rubble,” and adore the fact that he paraphrases Leonard Cohen—now that is a man.
Your very casual description of the “sleeping, possibly dead, homeless man,” is so tragically you I smiled and laughed. It’s brilliant. The whole paragraph beginning “The Sunday before that…” is completely and utterly radical. Loved it from start to finish.
I did, however, have some questions. The sentence “Rather he, and his lyrics, seem toughened by the very act of life, still kicking, but weary,” is beautiful but the image doesn’t totally come across to me. I read it a couple times and got the gist, but was more slowed down than anything else.
Also, when the freak does the drummer arrive? Happy ending? Pashaw.
Marni, this sounds like it’s going to be a really great piece on a very overachieving international student. I can’t wait to read more! The detail about cultural differences clashing, confusing Akiko, and causing feelings of doubt and guilt gave me a glimpse of the person. She sounds great. Also, the exchange she shared with Amel is truly priceless. I would love to know how that conversation went.
Colin, first of all I think we need to make everyone play patty-cake tomorrow while we set up dinner. Deal? Okay, great.
Second, having spent many an hour in that godforsaken waiting room, I especially appreciated your descriptions and insight. There were several points where you brought to life the unquestionably unliving; like, for example, when you describe the door's handicap assistance taking over, "mechanizing your entry." The familiarity of the place, paired with a machine-like coldness, is so true and in your face it’s startling.
The image of the mirror's image repeating into infinity: awesome. There really is no way out of that place, and you show it in a bunch of innovative ways. The details about all sorts of people traversing the tracks is another good example. I would like to hear more dialogue though, and perhaps say a bit more about the police officers--I remember them being quite stringent.
When you introduce the problem, the murder, you do so with such a startling calm that it is eerie, and only further enhances the tone.
Oh, and finally, or wherever I am at this stage, I SO enjoyed reading this! I look forward to hearing more juicy descriptions tomorrow…err, later.
I particularly liked the juxtaposition between her two jobs, helping raise six children while also helping six others die. The detail about the real estate agent’s advice also nicely foreshadows and builds tension, reminding the reader that this is a story about Linda’s abandoning her home and what she knows, in order to try a new lifestyle in Casablanca.
While it is very good, at times I forgot the article’s purpose and I feel like I want to know more about her reasons for joining the Peace Corps. The idea is riveting in the beginning, but then disappears until the very end. I think I would have been more invested if it had been consistent. Also, more emotional cues would make the narration more appealing to me. I want to know about this lady and all the busy thoughts that absolutely must be running through her head all day.
This was great to read!
Emily, I so enjoyed reading your piece. It is really a story. I love how you craft these scenes, set the pace so deliberately, and also characterize strangers in such a way that they are intimately familiar. Some of the language, like where you describe Fitzpatrick as having “fallen in” just sounds so perfect. It fits beautifully and feels totally authentic—I believed you as the narrator, like you have the inside scoop and are cool enough to just be at home in this clearly bizarre environment.
There were a couple sentences that were a little long. I felt myself getting lost in the paragraph beginning with “Currently, though…” but I think it’s just a matter of some strategically placed punctuation. Also, something Aaron told me is that quotes should stand alone as their own paragraphs. Of course it doesn’t make a difference when we’re blogging, but it really does look so much better in print. I’ve also found it makes it easier for me to read my own writing that way. My only other question is if there’s a way you can focus totally on Fitzpatrick, without confusing the profile subject for being the space. I flip-flopped back and forth while reading, and it could have just been my own interpretation, but I wasn’t entirely sure at all times who/what I was learning about
Looking forward to discussing tomorrow!
Maureen, let’s take these girls out on the town. They sound totally miserable. I’m interested in the story here, though, and I want to know more about what makes Jane have such strong convictions. Like, is it the fact that during so much of her life she’s been in this geographic limbo that she feels she doesn’t want to make friends for fear of losing them again? What does she consider her roommates to be? What is her GPA and what does she want to do with all this acquired knowledge?
The dialogue you included is what really ropes me in—that bit about friends just being a waste practically had me scribbling questions for me to ask her! I like how the piece ends with Jane going to bed; it is very fitting for the piece and I totally envision the article, Jane, and all her books being tucked in under the covers.
Looking forward to hearing more about Jane and what drew you to her.
Lindsey, I am so thrilled you decided to profile The Strutt. It is such a funky little place, and Darren is an absolute character. I also learned a lot! Your imagery sold me on the piece—I love your description of the place as being “freckled with fliers,” and also the mini-turn in the sentence “But don’t get the wrong impression, this classy joint is the furthest thing from a pizza place.” There is such authority in your voice! I wanted to hear more and more and more. Also, the mention of the herb garden is so graceful; not too forceful, just functional and just right.
I also like how you characterize the entire establishment as being enthusiastic, hopeful, and most of all, ambitious, by describing the many different avenues for development (ie. the record company, the brewing, etc) that is taking.
There were just a couple points where the sentences got a little bit long. I’m sure reading it aloud would fix them.
On a separate note, Emily actually did a really wonderful profile on The Strutt last quarter for the Index—if you want to take a look at it, I would be happy to get you a copy.
Lots of fun to read!
Schafer, Johnny sounds like he would be a blast to hang out with. Now I know why you were so excited about profiling him! He really is the pied piper of 2009, and what could be better than that?
Oh, balloons.
The image of him touching his lips and then remembering he no longer smokes is truly priceless. It’s clear that you’re inside his head and relate to him on a level that cannot be explored in simple conversation. You bring it to the page very clearly! I heard his voice, “thick and full of rubble,” and adore the fact that he paraphrases Leonard Cohen—now that is a man.
Your very casual description of the “sleeping, possibly dead, homeless man,” is so tragically you I smiled and laughed. It’s brilliant. The whole paragraph beginning “The Sunday before that…” is completely and utterly radical. Loved it from start to finish.
I did, however, have some questions. The sentence “Rather he, and his lyrics, seem toughened by the very act of life, still kicking, but weary,” is beautiful but the image doesn’t totally come across to me. I read it a couple times and got the gist, but was more slowed down than anything else.
Also, when the freak does the drummer arrive? Happy ending? Pashaw.
Marni, this sounds like it’s going to be a really great piece on a very overachieving international student. I can’t wait to read more! The detail about cultural differences clashing, confusing Akiko, and causing feelings of doubt and guilt gave me a glimpse of the person. She sounds great. Also, the exchange she shared with Amel is truly priceless. I would love to know how that conversation went.
Colin, first of all I think we need to make everyone play patty-cake tomorrow while we set up dinner. Deal? Okay, great.
Second, having spent many an hour in that godforsaken waiting room, I especially appreciated your descriptions and insight. There were several points where you brought to life the unquestionably unliving; like, for example, when you describe the door's handicap assistance taking over, "mechanizing your entry." The familiarity of the place, paired with a machine-like coldness, is so true and in your face it’s startling.
The image of the mirror's image repeating into infinity: awesome. There really is no way out of that place, and you show it in a bunch of innovative ways. The details about all sorts of people traversing the tracks is another good example. I would like to hear more dialogue though, and perhaps say a bit more about the police officers--I remember them being quite stringent.
When you introduce the problem, the murder, you do so with such a startling calm that it is eerie, and only further enhances the tone.
Oh, and finally, or wherever I am at this stage, I SO enjoyed reading this! I look forward to hearing more juicy descriptions tomorrow…err, later.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Munch On This
At the busy intersection of Stadium and Lovell, the locally iconic convenience store, Munchie Mart, epitomizes every stoner’s drug-induced dream: the promise of Reese’s, SlimJim, Doritos’s and more concealed inside a creamy white exterior topped with green lettering.
And that’s not to forget the thriving alkie community. To the left of Munchie’s center, targeting passersby on foot and four-wheeled alike, are understated advertisements for deals on beer.
Stepping inside the Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age, a whole new array of sensory stimulants are revealed. Where metal siding has not invaded—undoubtedly the work of modern “improvements”—wood paneling coats the walls and extends to the ceilings where aged, saloon-style fans hang unmoving. Security cameras peek from the corners and an odd support post.
There is one refrigerated closet dedicated entirely to brews. There are 21 coolers: nine for beer, the rest for juices, energy drinks, and finally, milk. Though not their priority, it’s bound to be breakfast eventually.
Tonight, heavy metal blares through massive speakers, scaring the spiders away from their carefully crafted webs. Paul explains that their music choice is quite deliberate; studies have shown that playing the genre, one largely regarded as abrasive, is proven to reduce the time customers spend in the store. This tactic comes in especially handy toward the end of the night.
Munchie’s walls are scarred with placards for Pete’s, Wicked Brews, Coors, Becks, Corona, Budweiser, Labatt’s Blue, Michelob, and finally, the Detroit Tigers and Red Wings. Some hang upside down, most are mirrored, and all appear to have been there for years. Flags for both local colleges hang above the door, and the southern wall is divided equally between support of the Broncos and Hornets.
Twice, the store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” finds its way into the mix, appearing on indistinct poster board, looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child.
Rulers of the playground, the boys of Munchie Mart like to give their patrons a hard time. In fact, they’re told to do just that when they’re hired in.
At Munchie, there isn’t much turnover behind the counter, and that being said, the two newest assets, Paul and Will, get to work prime time. Being stuck with a Friday night shift is comparable to working a Friday night shift for law enforcement, or in the emergency room, or at a fast food chain—without the perks and at least some of the gore, that is.
In between restocking the shelves, checking IDs, and handing over two of America’s few legal drugs—alcohol and tobacco, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips dominate when the metal simply becomes too much), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window, and ill-balanced college students looking for more, more. It’s closing time and it’s a long time coming.
Between six and midnight, Munchie Mart is hopping. After that, it quiets down until 1:30, when a mad rush of people leaving bars and frats stop in to stock up. The statewide last call is at 2. Paul and Will are bombarded, without fail, by hangers-on looking to make the most—or drink the most, anyway—out of their night.
On the average Friday, Munchie pulls in an average of $6,000 in cash alone, most of which is made from liquor, beer, and cigarette sales. Considering the majority of bottles are pulled from waist-level and down, that’s a lot of selling.
Munchie’s top-shelf houses Absolut 100, Grey Goose; their bottom, Seagram’s and Popov.
“You can tell right away who’s gonna buy what,” Will says.
“Poor people buy cheap stuff,” adds Paul.
Shortly before midnight, a middle-aged man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio.
He plays the gender card, tries to get me in on it—“You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks with a drunken smile. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over Paul’s eyes. Paul just waits, unamused. The man laughs. He’s been caught. He pays full price for his malt liquor and he leaves.
Refusing to be racist, Paul says he can only classify Munchie’s patrons into bums, regulars, kids from K College (exchange students, or foreigners, comprise their own group), Western sorority girls, frat boys, and wanna-be gangsters.
Paul and Steve are paid to deal with drunks. They deal with teenagers and twenty-somethings without ID. They deal with giggly stoners who can’t decide between Fritos and Lays.
When the rush subsides and the store settles down, Paul slides out of nowhere into the center-stage between registers, yells, “Hey Will,” and splays open his arms like a young kid ready for his close-up. I ask if that’s a code. They seem to say a lot without words.
“No,” he replies, “I’m just trying to make Will smile. He looks so sad.” At that stage we’re all smiling, Will refuting his melancholy. Both guys work two jobs and are paying their way through school. Seven hours into a shift, it’s about getting through the day.
Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but the temptation was too strong: “We’d want to use it too much.”
Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has put other incentives in place by taking an active stance against underage drinking. He rewards his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated.
The confiscated IDs make their way into Munchie’s own box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners. Steve told a story of someone breaking into the store and crawling behind the counter to look for his ID the night after it had been seized. Not only did his search fail, the kid was captured on surveillance cameras and ended up paying his weight in damages.
Berry is willing to pay for the foolishness of others, Will explains, saying the owner, who also owns Portage Wine Cellar and another Munchie franchise, “doesn’t approve of underage selling, and it motivates us to catch them.”
“People are stupid,” Paul says matter-of-factly, encountering yet another impaired customer. It seems patrons often put entire cases of beer in the space between the two counters.
“This is not a counter. It’s a glass display case,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s fragile.”
The case protects treasures like Black & Milds and Munchie Mart tee shirts available in one size: XL (they read “Munch On This”). To the case’s right, displayed prominently with the cigarettes, is a pair of “Love Cuffs,” marketed for “Intimate Lovers Only.” But for some reason, they don’t sell so well.
Raunchy or not, a popular question asked at Munchie, second only to “Where’s the bathroom?” is “How do you get The Voo from here?” The Voo, for those of you not in the know, is a local strip club.
Each of the brown bags Paul and Will pack with alcohol is something of a Pandora’s box, the glint in patrons’ eyes turning its key as the exchange is made: cash for freedom and inhibition.
It’s strong and it’s cheap, and Munchie’s selling.
And that’s not to forget the thriving alkie community. To the left of Munchie’s center, targeting passersby on foot and four-wheeled alike, are understated advertisements for deals on beer.
Stepping inside the Plexiglas door, the one donned in stickers reminding patrons of the legal age, a whole new array of sensory stimulants are revealed. Where metal siding has not invaded—undoubtedly the work of modern “improvements”—wood paneling coats the walls and extends to the ceilings where aged, saloon-style fans hang unmoving. Security cameras peek from the corners and an odd support post.
There is one refrigerated closet dedicated entirely to brews. There are 21 coolers: nine for beer, the rest for juices, energy drinks, and finally, milk. Though not their priority, it’s bound to be breakfast eventually.
Tonight, heavy metal blares through massive speakers, scaring the spiders away from their carefully crafted webs. Paul explains that their music choice is quite deliberate; studies have shown that playing the genre, one largely regarded as abrasive, is proven to reduce the time customers spend in the store. This tactic comes in especially handy toward the end of the night.
Munchie’s walls are scarred with placards for Pete’s, Wicked Brews, Coors, Becks, Corona, Budweiser, Labatt’s Blue, Michelob, and finally, the Detroit Tigers and Red Wings. Some hang upside down, most are mirrored, and all appear to have been there for years. Flags for both local colleges hang above the door, and the southern wall is divided equally between support of the Broncos and Hornets.
Twice, the store’s motto, “BIG enough to serve you, SMALL enough to care,” finds its way into the mix, appearing on indistinct poster board, looking to be the product of an unmotivated elementary school child.
Rulers of the playground, the boys of Munchie Mart like to give their patrons a hard time. In fact, they’re told to do just that when they’re hired in.
At Munchie, there isn’t much turnover behind the counter, and that being said, the two newest assets, Paul and Will, get to work prime time. Being stuck with a Friday night shift is comparable to working a Friday night shift for law enforcement, or in the emergency room, or at a fast food chain—without the perks and at least some of the gore, that is.
In between restocking the shelves, checking IDs, and handing over two of America’s few legal drugs—alcohol and tobacco, the guys like to laugh, control the radio (CCR and The Flaming Lips dominate when the metal simply becomes too much), prank call the other Munchie, and to see the clock strike 1:45am—the time they finally get to lock the door, cash out the registers, and ignore lingering sass from old drunks banging on the window, and ill-balanced college students looking for more, more. It’s closing time and it’s a long time coming.
Between six and midnight, Munchie Mart is hopping. After that, it quiets down until 1:30, when a mad rush of people leaving bars and frats stop in to stock up. The statewide last call is at 2. Paul and Will are bombarded, without fail, by hangers-on looking to make the most—or drink the most, anyway—out of their night.
On the average Friday, Munchie pulls in an average of $6,000 in cash alone, most of which is made from liquor, beer, and cigarette sales. Considering the majority of bottles are pulled from waist-level and down, that’s a lot of selling.
Munchie’s top-shelf houses Absolut 100, Grey Goose; their bottom, Seagram’s and Popov.
“You can tell right away who’s gonna buy what,” Will says.
“Poor people buy cheap stuff,” adds Paul.
Shortly before midnight, a middle-aged man comes in, walks to the counter with two forties, and slurs something about a deal he heard on the radio.
He plays the gender card, tries to get me in on it—“You heard it, didn’t ya?,” he asks with a drunken smile. But Paul’s heard it all before. No one, especially not this guy, is going to pull the wool over Paul’s eyes. Paul just waits, unamused. The man laughs. He’s been caught. He pays full price for his malt liquor and he leaves.
Refusing to be racist, Paul says he can only classify Munchie’s patrons into bums, regulars, kids from K College (exchange students, or foreigners, comprise their own group), Western sorority girls, frat boys, and wanna-be gangsters.
Paul and Steve are paid to deal with drunks. They deal with teenagers and twenty-somethings without ID. They deal with giggly stoners who can’t decide between Fritos and Lays.
When the rush subsides and the store settles down, Paul slides out of nowhere into the center-stage between registers, yells, “Hey Will,” and splays open his arms like a young kid ready for his close-up. I ask if that’s a code. They seem to say a lot without words.
“No,” he replies, “I’m just trying to make Will smile. He looks so sad.” At that stage we’re all smiling, Will refuting his melancholy. Both guys work two jobs and are paying their way through school. Seven hours into a shift, it’s about getting through the day.
Rumor has it there’s a baseball bat behind the counter, but rumor has it wrong. There used to be, according to Will, but the temptation was too strong: “We’d want to use it too much.”
Munchie Mart owner, Tom Berry, has put other incentives in place by taking an active stance against underage drinking. He rewards his employees with $10 for every fake ID confiscated.
The confiscated IDs make their way into Munchie’s own box of shame, but often not without tears and protest from former owners. Steve told a story of someone breaking into the store and crawling behind the counter to look for his ID the night after it had been seized. Not only did his search fail, the kid was captured on surveillance cameras and ended up paying his weight in damages.
Berry is willing to pay for the foolishness of others, Will explains, saying the owner, who also owns Portage Wine Cellar and another Munchie franchise, “doesn’t approve of underage selling, and it motivates us to catch them.”
“People are stupid,” Paul says matter-of-factly, encountering yet another impaired customer. It seems patrons often put entire cases of beer in the space between the two counters.
“This is not a counter. It’s a glass display case,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s fragile.”
The case protects treasures like Black & Milds and Munchie Mart tee shirts available in one size: XL (they read “Munch On This”). To the case’s right, displayed prominently with the cigarettes, is a pair of “Love Cuffs,” marketed for “Intimate Lovers Only.” But for some reason, they don’t sell so well.
Raunchy or not, a popular question asked at Munchie, second only to “Where’s the bathroom?” is “How do you get The Voo from here?” The Voo, for those of you not in the know, is a local strip club.
Each of the brown bags Paul and Will pack with alcohol is something of a Pandora’s box, the glint in patrons’ eyes turning its key as the exchange is made: cash for freedom and inhibition.
It’s strong and it’s cheap, and Munchie’s selling.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Addddderall
Adderall is a word that fades in and out of popularity as the quarter dips and dives along. It seems that during the first few weeks, talk of the drug lurks in the shadows, and then, come Week 5 or 6 (and then Weeks 9 and 10), it takes center stage, dominating 2am, 3am, 4am conversations in the library and lounges everywhere.
In this week's New Yorker, Margaret Talbot takes a look at what she describes as "the underground world of 'neuroenhancing' drugs." Check out her article, "Brain Gang."
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/04/27/090427fa_fact_talbot?currentPage=1
In this week's New Yorker, Margaret Talbot takes a look at what she describes as "the underground world of 'neuroenhancing' drugs." Check out her article, "Brain Gang."
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/04/27/090427fa_fact_talbot?currentPage=1
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
