1) Why have I just spent an hour reading a year-old, statistics-heavy article in The New Yorker about the state of health care in McAllen, Texas, which I'm pretty sure I've read before?
2) Why can I never get more than three of five toes through the leg-hole in my jocks on any given morning?
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
That reminds me of the time ....
A while ago Audrey tagged me in a meme that asked you to think of ten things that you hate about people. Not being a particularly hateful person, I found it reasonably difficult and petered out after five.
Well, I've thought of a new one:
6. Bad storytellers.
I'm pretty tired, so I'll probably regret writing this, but there it is. My secret shame. And it's not getting better with age. I thought I could hold this one in and prevent causing awkwardness among pretty much everyone who knows me who might have a story to tell me in the future (don't worry - I've got some soothing words for you folks later), but I've just read a published young adult novel that I am to review that was literally the worst book I have ever read. Laughably, hysterically awful. And that got me angry about storytelling in general. There are a few things that steam my hams* about bad storytelling, and here they are:
The Number One bad story telling sin is when the punchline is "And it was so funny!" If you told the story, minus that last bit, and your audience isn't laughing, it wasn't funny and you're a liar. You know when you tell a joke, and then have to explain it? Same principle. I used to go out with this girl, most of whose stories ended with: "And it was just fantastic," followed by a reassuring nod. Rest assured that the just-related experience founded none of my dumbness.
Number Two is when stories are too fucking long. When the story turns into a biography, just finish the page you're on and pass the conversation stick to the next person.
Number Three is best illustrated by the surprisingly-lacklustre-of-late Toothpaste for Dinner.
I think this little cartoon shows a story-telling situation that is almost on par with possibly the worst story telling crime out there: recounting your dreams. At least with drug stories, there is the possibility that the person you're talking to will remember the happier times they've had on drugs and will be able to recall them while you explain in great detail how you thought the bean bag was hugging you with ants. Telling someone your dreams, however, is just as useful to everybody's further meaningful existence as stopping a complete stranger in the street and reciting a random string of letters at them.
Number Four on Franzy's Whining List of Storytelling Sins are the words "He/She/They then proceeded to..." followed by some vaguely foolish activity. This is a technique usually employed by people not used to public speaking, but who have been forced to recount an episode that was whimsical at the time and to people who were present or familiar with those present in front of a large gathering of people of varying dispositions and tolerances for the words 'penis', 'urinate' and 'raunchy'. It's actually not a bad thing, but it gets up my toff nose.
I am guilty of all of the above offences. I've encouraged people to react in appropriate ways when I've finished telling a story that didn't gain a reaction. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I carry on stories until the last person has fallen asleep. I've told meaningful, heart-felt, hilarious, life-changing drug stories and, being a dreamer of epic dreams, I've recounted entire hallucinatory journeys to whoever was around. I have then proceeded to stand up in front of a large crowd of people I only half know and attempt to win them over with pseudo-courtroom-speak.
Cue soothing words: And you should as well. Tell your stories. Don't be afraid. If it's interesting to you, it'll be interesting to someone, eventually. The point is to practise. Tell them over again, in different ways to different people. Emphasise the bits that people like and skip the bits where they start sending "Get me outta here" texts to their friends in front of you.
Maybe ease up on the dream reports, though.
*reference?
***
GTH - The points to the last entry go to Deadly Trently who correctly identified the place, the various timbers, the world's coolest shirt brand, its place of purchase and the settings of the watch. Well done, Hop-a-long.
New competition on this post's GTH: The winner is whoever guesses the most book titles in the picture.
Well, I've thought of a new one:
6. Bad storytellers.
I'm pretty tired, so I'll probably regret writing this, but there it is. My secret shame. And it's not getting better with age. I thought I could hold this one in and prevent causing awkwardness among pretty much everyone who knows me who might have a story to tell me in the future (don't worry - I've got some soothing words for you folks later), but I've just read a published young adult novel that I am to review that was literally the worst book I have ever read. Laughably, hysterically awful. And that got me angry about storytelling in general. There are a few things that steam my hams* about bad storytelling, and here they are:
The Number One bad story telling sin is when the punchline is "And it was so funny!" If you told the story, minus that last bit, and your audience isn't laughing, it wasn't funny and you're a liar. You know when you tell a joke, and then have to explain it? Same principle. I used to go out with this girl, most of whose stories ended with: "And it was just fantastic," followed by a reassuring nod. Rest assured that the just-related experience founded none of my dumbness.
Number Two is when stories are too fucking long. When the story turns into a biography, just finish the page you're on and pass the conversation stick to the next person.
Number Three is best illustrated by the surprisingly-lacklustre-of-late Toothpaste for Dinner.
I think this little cartoon shows a story-telling situation that is almost on par with possibly the worst story telling crime out there: recounting your dreams. At least with drug stories, there is the possibility that the person you're talking to will remember the happier times they've had on drugs and will be able to recall them while you explain in great detail how you thought the bean bag was hugging you with ants. Telling someone your dreams, however, is just as useful to everybody's further meaningful existence as stopping a complete stranger in the street and reciting a random string of letters at them.Number Four on Franzy's Whining List of Storytelling Sins are the words "He/She/They then proceeded to..." followed by some vaguely foolish activity. This is a technique usually employed by people not used to public speaking, but who have been forced to recount an episode that was whimsical at the time and to people who were present or familiar with those present in front of a large gathering of people of varying dispositions and tolerances for the words 'penis', 'urinate' and 'raunchy'. It's actually not a bad thing, but it gets up my toff nose.
I am guilty of all of the above offences. I've encouraged people to react in appropriate ways when I've finished telling a story that didn't gain a reaction. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I carry on stories until the last person has fallen asleep. I've told meaningful, heart-felt, hilarious, life-changing drug stories and, being a dreamer of epic dreams, I've recounted entire hallucinatory journeys to whoever was around. I have then proceeded to stand up in front of a large crowd of people I only half know and attempt to win them over with pseudo-courtroom-speak.
Cue soothing words: And you should as well. Tell your stories. Don't be afraid. If it's interesting to you, it'll be interesting to someone, eventually. The point is to practise. Tell them over again, in different ways to different people. Emphasise the bits that people like and skip the bits where they start sending "Get me outta here" texts to their friends in front of you.
Maybe ease up on the dream reports, though.
*reference?
***
GTH - The points to the last entry go to Deadly Trently who correctly identified the place, the various timbers, the world's coolest shirt brand, its place of purchase and the settings of the watch. Well done, Hop-a-long.
New competition on this post's GTH: The winner is whoever guesses the most book titles in the picture.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Don't make me hurt you
**There are NO HP SPOILERS to be found within this blog. I have not yet read the book.**
I have only just now sent off the third draft of my seldom-discussed, often-worried-about thesis proposal that I have been slaving over for quite some time now.
But that's not the reason I haven't been posting lately.
The real reason is because ... I'm scared of the internet. You see, I was out at 327's salsa themed birthday party on Friday and discussion turned to the release of a certain popular children's book due the following day. People were looking forward to it, people were curious, everyone was at least interested in how the saga would come to a close. Speculation began about how JK would finish off what has so far been an excellently-designed series. I conjectured that Harry's fate would mirror that of Voldemort's - that he would attempt to destroy the love child of Hermione and Ron. Mele was positive that he would suddenly fall victim to puberty, thus ending the 'magic'. Before anyone could stop her, one of the woman who I hadn't met before piped up:
"Oh, the ending was leaked on the internet a few days ago! Hermione dies at the end."
Never has a jumping salsa club been so quiet.
Some cried out in pain. Others fainted. People found themselves reaching for her years-of-patience spoiling neck.
She let us hang for about five seconds and then eased the pain with a "Gotchya!"
Well played, you have to admit.
But still, that night I was plagued by a series of nightmares during which the ending was spoilt time and again by individuals careless and callous. Mele and I have been ploughing through The Sopranos recently, starting at Episode 1, Season 1 and working our way towards the final episode ever at the end of season 6. We obviously don't want to find out what happens before time and Mele in particular was being very careful in her perusal of entertainment media. The situation that kept repeating in my dreams was the one where Mele was reading an article speculating about the ultimate HP which, as a casual example, cited The Sopranos and blew the entire ending for her. This careless journalism cost her years of waiting for the final Sopranos season to come out on DVD so she could watch it properly, instead of the two and a half episodes that Channel Nine screened at 10:30pm on Tuesday night and 8:30am on a Sunday morning three weeks later before deciding to go with more shows about celebrities.
Everywhere I look there are spoilers waiting waiting waiting. We have the book, but I'm still waiting for Mele to finish it so that I can get back to reading Audrey, Read Alert and all the other internet-based media outlets brimming with earthy discussions of how Harry's tumescent Final Spell saved Wizardkind. Or something.
Anyone posting ANYTHING about the book in the comments will be DELETED.
***
Guess The Header
This was a close one. River and Neil eschewed all forms of competition and combined forces to engage in such healthy speculation that I am really going to try much harder in future.
Neil gets a point for geographic location - Thailand was the closest guess to the location of the bridge in question.
River gets a point for using the word "flow" in a menstrual context - very poetic.
And I'm awarding an extra point each for such creative thinking, especially regarding River's shot about "puberty bridging the gap between childhood and adulthood" and Neil's triple-pronged attack using STDs, unaBRIDGEd comments and the punalicious "blackboard JUNGLE".
The actual answer was a lot less creative than I am being given credit for: The photo is of a bridge in the tropical rainforest near Port Douglas. On the bridge are some dear friends of mine (all women who have indeed crossed the bridge from puberty to adulthood). That no men are in the photo is supposed to be some kind of image of what we young lads saw as we entered that classroom full of mature girls on our way over the bridge towards adulthood. Suspension was what we faced. You can more metaphorical than that, but I'm afraid this competition has come to a close, the Champions Board (bottom of this page) has been updated accordingly and a new Guess The Header challenge awaits. (I will try to make it either easier or more difficult - I haven't yet decided which).
I have only just now sent off the third draft of my seldom-discussed, often-worried-about thesis proposal that I have been slaving over for quite some time now.
But that's not the reason I haven't been posting lately.
The real reason is because ... I'm scared of the internet. You see, I was out at 327's salsa themed birthday party on Friday and discussion turned to the release of a certain popular children's book due the following day. People were looking forward to it, people were curious, everyone was at least interested in how the saga would come to a close. Speculation began about how JK would finish off what has so far been an excellently-designed series. I conjectured that Harry's fate would mirror that of Voldemort's - that he would attempt to destroy the love child of Hermione and Ron. Mele was positive that he would suddenly fall victim to puberty, thus ending the 'magic'. Before anyone could stop her, one of the woman who I hadn't met before piped up:
"Oh, the ending was leaked on the internet a few days ago! Hermione dies at the end."
Never has a jumping salsa club been so quiet.
Some cried out in pain. Others fainted. People found themselves reaching for her years-of-patience spoiling neck.
She let us hang for about five seconds and then eased the pain with a "Gotchya!"
Well played, you have to admit.
But still, that night I was plagued by a series of nightmares during which the ending was spoilt time and again by individuals careless and callous. Mele and I have been ploughing through The Sopranos recently, starting at Episode 1, Season 1 and working our way towards the final episode ever at the end of season 6. We obviously don't want to find out what happens before time and Mele in particular was being very careful in her perusal of entertainment media. The situation that kept repeating in my dreams was the one where Mele was reading an article speculating about the ultimate HP which, as a casual example, cited The Sopranos and blew the entire ending for her. This careless journalism cost her years of waiting for the final Sopranos season to come out on DVD so she could watch it properly, instead of the two and a half episodes that Channel Nine screened at 10:30pm on Tuesday night and 8:30am on a Sunday morning three weeks later before deciding to go with more shows about celebrities.
Everywhere I look there are spoilers waiting waiting waiting. We have the book, but I'm still waiting for Mele to finish it so that I can get back to reading Audrey, Read Alert and all the other internet-based media outlets brimming with earthy discussions of how Harry's tumescent Final Spell saved Wizardkind. Or something.
Anyone posting ANYTHING about the book in the comments will be DELETED.
***
Guess The Header
This was a close one. River and Neil eschewed all forms of competition and combined forces to engage in such healthy speculation that I am really going to try much harder in future.
Neil gets a point for geographic location - Thailand was the closest guess to the location of the bridge in question.
River gets a point for using the word "flow" in a menstrual context - very poetic.
And I'm awarding an extra point each for such creative thinking, especially regarding River's shot about "puberty bridging the gap between childhood and adulthood" and Neil's triple-pronged attack using STDs, unaBRIDGEd comments and the punalicious "blackboard JUNGLE".
The actual answer was a lot less creative than I am being given credit for: The photo is of a bridge in the tropical rainforest near Port Douglas. On the bridge are some dear friends of mine (all women who have indeed crossed the bridge from puberty to adulthood). That no men are in the photo is supposed to be some kind of image of what we young lads saw as we entered that classroom full of mature girls on our way over the bridge towards adulthood. Suspension was what we faced. You can more metaphorical than that, but I'm afraid this competition has come to a close, the Champions Board (bottom of this page) has been updated accordingly and a new Guess The Header challenge awaits. (I will try to make it either easier or more difficult - I haven't yet decided which).
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An explanation of The Joy Division Litmus Test
Although it may now be lost in the mysts of thyme, the poll below is still relevant to this blog. In the winter of 2008, Mele and I went to live in Queensland. In order to survive, I bluffed my way into a job at a Coffee Club.
It was quite a reasonable place to work: the hours were regular, the staff were quite nice, it wasn't particularly taxing on my brain.
There were a few downsides: In the six weeks or so that I worked there, there was about a 90% staff turnover (contributed to by my leaving). This wasn't seen as a result of the low pay, the laughability of staff prices or the practice of not distributing tips to staff, rather it was blamed on the lack of work ethic among Bribie Island's youth.
However, one of the stranger aspects of the cultural isolation that touched our lives during our time "up there" was the fact that nobody at my work had heard of the band Joy Division.
The full explanation is available here.
But please, interact a little further and vote in my ongoing poll. The results are slowly mounting up, proving one thing: people read this blog are more well-informed about Joy Division than anyone who works at the Coffee Club on Bribie Island.
It was quite a reasonable place to work: the hours were regular, the staff were quite nice, it wasn't particularly taxing on my brain.
There were a few downsides: In the six weeks or so that I worked there, there was about a 90% staff turnover (contributed to by my leaving). This wasn't seen as a result of the low pay, the laughability of staff prices or the practice of not distributing tips to staff, rather it was blamed on the lack of work ethic among Bribie Island's youth.
However, one of the stranger aspects of the cultural isolation that touched our lives during our time "up there" was the fact that nobody at my work had heard of the band Joy Division.
The full explanation is available here.
But please, interact a little further and vote in my ongoing poll. The results are slowly mounting up, proving one thing: people read this blog are more well-informed about Joy Division than anyone who works at the Coffee Club on Bribie Island.
