One assignment left, huh? How exciting! My brain has all but completely signed off for the semester, so I might as well squeeze out whatever creative juices might still be lingering in there. I'm not sure how much longer it'll last. I should get going while the going is still good.
I've thought it over, and I've decided to revise my very first paper. What better way to round out the semester than to revisit my least polished work? I want to see how well I've improved my craft since this course first began. I loved writing this piece the first time, as I do with all creative writing, so this will be fun to rewrite. I've learned a few tricks of the trade since I wrote that paper, and I think that I can make it a lot better. This is the perfect way to show how I've grown as a writer throughout this course. Besides, it's my lowest grade out of my four papers. It only makes sense that I'd go back and fix this one up a bit.
I know for sure that I'll tweak the ending. I didn't really know how to end it before. I might add some more scenes, or at least some more details. I was afraid of going over the page limit before (why, I don't know), but now I know that I don't need to worry about that. I want to do a better job of describing Ozzie, and according to Mej's commentary, I need to thread in there the reason why everyone else should love Ozzie and what they can learn from him. Aside from that, I don't see too many structural changes happening. Most of this content will end up being cosmetic changes. The bulk of the essay is there. It just needs some touching up. There were a few oddly-phrased places that I should revisit, and I might reword a few things. Overall, this assignment feels pretty approachable. Everything I need is right in front of me. All that's left is to play around a little with what I've learned. This should be fun, actually. I look forward to reworking this essay and really giving my encounter with Ozzie some justice.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Argumentative Paper Topic
Chris Osgood: legendary goaltender, or the benefactor of one the most successful franchises in professional sports? Hockey fans have debated this question throughout Osgood's career. Now that he has hung up his pads, the hockey world has once again opened this debate. Fans and players alike argue over whether Osgood belongs in the Hall of Fame or owes his success to the Detroit Red Wings' reigning "dynasty." Osgood could never once shake the critics from his back, yet he continued to produce stellar numbers and won three Stanley Cups in his seventeen seasons in the National Hockey League. Many people in the hockey community attribute these feats to Osgood's legendary teammates. Others disagree and claim that without Osgood's talent and experience, Detroit might not have the same incredible track record. He can boast a historic number of career wins and shutouts. His rare skills in offensive plays and puck possession place him among an elite group of netminders. The formidable records he owns stand tall next to those of his fellow goaltenders already in the Hall of Fame. These numbers alone point to Osgood's candidacy on future ballots, but his involvement with the team over the years gives him an extra edge over the naysayers. His influence touches far more than the frustrated forwards who could never bury the puck behind the NHL's smallest goalie. With Osgood's constant support, guidance, and mentoring, the Red Wings' young first-string goaltender, Jimmy Howard, has quickly carved a place for himself as one of the league's rising stars. Additionally, from Osgood's new position as the team's goaltending development coach, Detroit's hopeful prospects can draw from his experience and grow in an encouraging environment. Osgood embodies both the winning machine who spits out compelling numbers and the team player who places his teammates before himself. This mixture of success and devotion makes him a well-rounded player, and this well-rounded legacy has earned him a spot in the hockey Hall of Fame.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Close Reading of the Imagery in "Everybody's Fool"
Evanescence's song, "Everybody's Fool," paints a vivid picture of how some celebrities manipulate their images in such a manner as to fabricate others’ perceptions of them. In the second verse, the singer observes the entrance of the iconic figure with the opening line, “Look, here she comes now.” She then sarcastically demands that the entire crowd “bow down and stare in wonder” as the celebrity passes by. This bold statement evokes the image of a crowd of subjects bowing before an exalted monarch or a mass of worshippers honoring a deity. The celebrated figure draws the attention of all of the onlookers, who seem to have pledged their blind allegiance to this entrancing woman. They regard her with awe and admiration, and they believe her fake image in its entirety. Only the singer remains unaffected, declaring at the end of the chorus, “You know you’ve got everybody fooled.” This assertion reveals the celebrity’s deceitful and manipulative intentions. Her feigned perfection dazzles her followers, thus producing her flawless image. She dominates the crowd’s thoughts, which allows her total control over how they perceive her. Because of this, she can successfully regulate her image in any way that she sees fit, as long as she doctors her physical appearance accordingly.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Twenty-nine Saves for Number Twenty-nine
"What a game, Conks! And at this crazy altitude, too! Way to start the season!" Jimmy exclaims as he and his comrade in white exit through the door to the locker room. They waddle along the bench after gliding so seamlessly across the ice. After years of practice, they've grown accustomed to the awkward strides of their bulky leg pads, a goalie's last line of defense against pucks sailing towards him in excess of ninety miles per hour. The mood has changed considerably since the start of the game.
Conks could hardly hear his teammates' excited praise over the sound of the blaring siren. Jumping triumphantly from the bench, they lined up neatly before him. The five line mates who had served their on-ice shift in those final seconds had clamored to keep the puck from ruining their goalie's perfect performance. Sweat fell like rain through the grates of his mask as Conks heaved a heavy and exhausted breath. He groaned at the thought of standing after throwing himself on the twenty-ninth shot fired at him that night. That last shot had caught him by surprise. His teammates had finally adjusted to the strain of playing in the Mile-High City by the outset of the second period, and their game had improved two-fold as a result. "Why now?" he had lamented when the defense lost control of the puck. "There's only a minute left, guys. Why now?" The opposing skaters had rushed towards him, feverishly hoping to close the three-goal gap which the Red Wings had firmly held after Zetterberg and Datsyuk's beautifully executed play in the third period. Conks didn't dare to leave his net then. He felt exactly as he did when he first skated out onto the ice: out of breath and under pressure.
While his teammates were regaining their composure and sense of direction, the high altitude had finally started to wear him down. He put on an impressive display of wild acrobatics, with flailing limbs and frenzied dives across the goal line. This contrasted sharply with his appearance in the first period. He had danced so gracefully in the crease during the first twenty minutes. Always in position and deeply focused, he made artful kicks and dazzling catches. He alone stood between the Colorado Avalanche's eager young team and victory when his own veteran team skated in messy formations and missed pass after pass, discombobulated in the thin atmosphere.
Conks didn't mind this, though. He felt at home again. Two seasons had passed since he last wore the Winged Wheel for Detroit. His two years in St. Louis left him unsatisfied with his less-than-stellar numbers. They couldn't compare to his admirable season in Detroit, and he hoped to reproduce those results this year. He had a lot to prove to his coach, a man well-known for his tendency to play only whichever goalie is on a hot streak. Conks' partner and starting goaltender, Jimmy, who could boast the best win record of any net minder in the league for the last two years, had set the precedent for Conks' role long before he rejoined Detroit's ranks. As the back-up to this legend-in-the-making, Conks could not expect to play more than twenty-five games. This came as no surprise, as Jimmy had even managed to oust his old partner, Ozzie, whose four hundred one career wins had prompted discussions about his Hall of Fame candidacy, to the role of back-up goalie. Despite all of these thoughts racing through his head, number twenty-nine in white trudged down the runway in his clunky pads and led his team onto the ice, poised for his first battle of the new season.
Conks could hardly hear his teammates' excited praise over the sound of the blaring siren. Jumping triumphantly from the bench, they lined up neatly before him. The five line mates who had served their on-ice shift in those final seconds had clamored to keep the puck from ruining their goalie's perfect performance. Sweat fell like rain through the grates of his mask as Conks heaved a heavy and exhausted breath. He groaned at the thought of standing after throwing himself on the twenty-ninth shot fired at him that night. That last shot had caught him by surprise. His teammates had finally adjusted to the strain of playing in the Mile-High City by the outset of the second period, and their game had improved two-fold as a result. "Why now?" he had lamented when the defense lost control of the puck. "There's only a minute left, guys. Why now?" The opposing skaters had rushed towards him, feverishly hoping to close the three-goal gap which the Red Wings had firmly held after Zetterberg and Datsyuk's beautifully executed play in the third period. Conks didn't dare to leave his net then. He felt exactly as he did when he first skated out onto the ice: out of breath and under pressure.
While his teammates were regaining their composure and sense of direction, the high altitude had finally started to wear him down. He put on an impressive display of wild acrobatics, with flailing limbs and frenzied dives across the goal line. This contrasted sharply with his appearance in the first period. He had danced so gracefully in the crease during the first twenty minutes. Always in position and deeply focused, he made artful kicks and dazzling catches. He alone stood between the Colorado Avalanche's eager young team and victory when his own veteran team skated in messy formations and missed pass after pass, discombobulated in the thin atmosphere.
Conks didn't mind this, though. He felt at home again. Two seasons had passed since he last wore the Winged Wheel for Detroit. His two years in St. Louis left him unsatisfied with his less-than-stellar numbers. They couldn't compare to his admirable season in Detroit, and he hoped to reproduce those results this year. He had a lot to prove to his coach, a man well-known for his tendency to play only whichever goalie is on a hot streak. Conks' partner and starting goaltender, Jimmy, who could boast the best win record of any net minder in the league for the last two years, had set the precedent for Conks' role long before he rejoined Detroit's ranks. As the back-up to this legend-in-the-making, Conks could not expect to play more than twenty-five games. This came as no surprise, as Jimmy had even managed to oust his old partner, Ozzie, whose four hundred one career wins had prompted discussions about his Hall of Fame candidacy, to the role of back-up goalie. Despite all of these thoughts racing through his head, number twenty-nine in white trudged down the runway in his clunky pads and led his team onto the ice, poised for his first battle of the new season.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Harmless Addiction
Crack. Fizz. Chug.
No, that isn't beer. Contrary to popular belief, not all college students chug beer. We do, however, have something to chug. For me, nothing beats a can of Diet Coke fresh from the fridge. My body needs fuel, more specifically caffeine. It adores it. It craves it. It needs it. I can say without an ounce of shame that I have a less-than-healthy dependence on caffeine. I barely survive the morning before I hear the tempting call of my favorite pop.When I lay eyes on the rows of shiny silver cans lining the door of the fridge, my sluggish brain begs me to grab a can. It already aches with the strain of withdrawal, and it whines with a pounding insistence until I comply. I reach in hastily and snatch the first can in sight. I scramble to break the seal and to crack open a brand new can. The sweet smell of the sticky, fizzy drink invites me to take a sip. But I don't take just a sip. I guzzle a quarter of the can while the door of the fridge hangs wide open. What a relief! My brain is suddenly abuzz with focus. My chipper mood comes flooding back to me. The rush of endorphins quickly erases any trace of that old, heavy headache, which only bolsters my already powerful addiction.
That unhealthy concoction isn't just a mess of tasty, addictive chemicals to me. With each drink, I find a moment of peace, and no one can strip me of that peace. My brain alone has the power to cling so tightly to that silly little drink. It gives me a simple pleasure to look forward to during a long day of dull classes and a rainy funk. I treasure that aspect most of all. It calms my nerves and puts my mind to rest. Now, every time I see a can within reach, I rush to it with a grin of anticipation stretched widely across my face.
No, that isn't beer. Contrary to popular belief, not all college students chug beer. We do, however, have something to chug. For me, nothing beats a can of Diet Coke fresh from the fridge. My body needs fuel, more specifically caffeine. It adores it. It craves it. It needs it. I can say without an ounce of shame that I have a less-than-healthy dependence on caffeine. I barely survive the morning before I hear the tempting call of my favorite pop.When I lay eyes on the rows of shiny silver cans lining the door of the fridge, my sluggish brain begs me to grab a can. It already aches with the strain of withdrawal, and it whines with a pounding insistence until I comply. I reach in hastily and snatch the first can in sight. I scramble to break the seal and to crack open a brand new can. The sweet smell of the sticky, fizzy drink invites me to take a sip. But I don't take just a sip. I guzzle a quarter of the can while the door of the fridge hangs wide open. What a relief! My brain is suddenly abuzz with focus. My chipper mood comes flooding back to me. The rush of endorphins quickly erases any trace of that old, heavy headache, which only bolsters my already powerful addiction.
That unhealthy concoction isn't just a mess of tasty, addictive chemicals to me. With each drink, I find a moment of peace, and no one can strip me of that peace. My brain alone has the power to cling so tightly to that silly little drink. It gives me a simple pleasure to look forward to during a long day of dull classes and a rainy funk. I treasure that aspect most of all. It calms my nerves and puts my mind to rest. Now, every time I see a can within reach, I rush to it with a grin of anticipation stretched widely across my face.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Rambunctious Radio
On my way to visit the seamstress before class, I turned on the radio and found it on 97.1 FM. My dad had driven the Trailblazer earlier that day, which explains the absence of music in the car. He usually listens to sports talk radio. I've taken to this station, too. The show, called The Ticket, discusses not only Detroit sports, but it also focuses on daily chores, like long commutes and family matters. I had just tuned into the afternoon show, with hosts Karsch and Gator already deep in conversation about the Detroit Tigers and their twelve-game winning streak. Karsch made mention of the Tigers' head coach, Jim Leyland, and his very charged remarks to the media. To Leyland's surprise, many interviewers claimed that the Tiger's long string of victories came only in the defeat of sub-par teams. These claims prompted a furious response from Leyland.
Mischievous laughter echoed through the recording studio as Karsch fished out a copy of Leyland's statements. He eagerly informed his co-host that he planned to make a game out of the coach's rant. Before the show, Karsch explained, he had taken the liberty of removing every last trace of profanity from Leyland's press conference. He left those portions blank, and with a tinge of excitement in his voice, he asked Gator to join in his fun. "What do you have there?" asked Gator suspiciously. Karsch chuckled devilishly and told Gator that he had turned Leyland's responses into an ad-lib. "Will you help me with this?" Karsch implored of his co-host. "Sure, I'll give it a shot," Gator replied, his suspicion now morphing into anticipation.
Thoroughly pleased, as he made evident in his upbeat voice, Karsch laid out his instructions before Gator. "First, I need a noun." Puzzled, Gator debated a response for a moment. "Umm... sausage," he suggested cautiously, almost as if asking permission to use that word. Karsch scribbled down Gator's first choice and promptly asked for the next piece of the ad-lib. "Okay, now I need another noun." Gator struggled more with this word than with the first one. He needed a few seconds to think this one over. Spouting nouns and adjectives at random proved harder than he had anticipated. After another few seconds of silence, Gator produced his second noun. "Let's go with 'pipe.'" At this, Karsch couldn't help but to laugh. "Easy, now, Gator. I'm trying to make this thing appropriate to read. Your answers are getting a bit too suggestive for that to happen." Wise to his plan, Gator gained some resolve and answered Karsch's questions more quickly and with more thought. "Okay, give me a verb," Karsch insisted. I could hear the distinct sound of Gator's fingers running across the stubble on his chin. "Let's see, here. How about... jump?"
This steady line of questioning went on for several minutes. I had hoped that Karsch had nearly exhausted his supply of blank spaces. Loose stone crunched beneath my wheels, a clear indication that I had just turned off of the main road. I had only a few more minutes before I would reach the seamstress's house. Just when the glistening lake came into view on my right, Karsch said at last, "Okay, Gator, I need one last noun that's used three times." Gator replied confidently, "Spatula." After noting this final bit, Karsch leafed through the pages until he found the beginning of Leyland's speech. Hardly able to contain his laughter, Karsch giggled the first few sentences to his listeners. I giggled along with him, and Gator chuckled triumphantly at his work. Their playful teasing kept me occupied as I searched for the right address. At long last, I pulled into the seamstress's driveway. Just as I parked my car, Karsch concluded his ad-lib. "Cleveland was lantern before we had played them, but now you're saying they're spatula? So they're spatula now that we beat them. Go ahead and print that. That's spatula." I smiled with satisfaction to have heard the final product of Karsch and Gator's teamwork. With that smile, I grabbed my dress from the back seat and walked up to the door. As I waited for the seamstress to greet me, I remembered that I must fill the gas tank before I left for school. I had just filled the tank two days ago. "That's spatula," I grumbled to myself.
Mischievous laughter echoed through the recording studio as Karsch fished out a copy of Leyland's statements. He eagerly informed his co-host that he planned to make a game out of the coach's rant. Before the show, Karsch explained, he had taken the liberty of removing every last trace of profanity from Leyland's press conference. He left those portions blank, and with a tinge of excitement in his voice, he asked Gator to join in his fun. "What do you have there?" asked Gator suspiciously. Karsch chuckled devilishly and told Gator that he had turned Leyland's responses into an ad-lib. "Will you help me with this?" Karsch implored of his co-host. "Sure, I'll give it a shot," Gator replied, his suspicion now morphing into anticipation.
Thoroughly pleased, as he made evident in his upbeat voice, Karsch laid out his instructions before Gator. "First, I need a noun." Puzzled, Gator debated a response for a moment. "Umm... sausage," he suggested cautiously, almost as if asking permission to use that word. Karsch scribbled down Gator's first choice and promptly asked for the next piece of the ad-lib. "Okay, now I need another noun." Gator struggled more with this word than with the first one. He needed a few seconds to think this one over. Spouting nouns and adjectives at random proved harder than he had anticipated. After another few seconds of silence, Gator produced his second noun. "Let's go with 'pipe.'" At this, Karsch couldn't help but to laugh. "Easy, now, Gator. I'm trying to make this thing appropriate to read. Your answers are getting a bit too suggestive for that to happen." Wise to his plan, Gator gained some resolve and answered Karsch's questions more quickly and with more thought. "Okay, give me a verb," Karsch insisted. I could hear the distinct sound of Gator's fingers running across the stubble on his chin. "Let's see, here. How about... jump?"
This steady line of questioning went on for several minutes. I had hoped that Karsch had nearly exhausted his supply of blank spaces. Loose stone crunched beneath my wheels, a clear indication that I had just turned off of the main road. I had only a few more minutes before I would reach the seamstress's house. Just when the glistening lake came into view on my right, Karsch said at last, "Okay, Gator, I need one last noun that's used three times." Gator replied confidently, "Spatula." After noting this final bit, Karsch leafed through the pages until he found the beginning of Leyland's speech. Hardly able to contain his laughter, Karsch giggled the first few sentences to his listeners. I giggled along with him, and Gator chuckled triumphantly at his work. Their playful teasing kept me occupied as I searched for the right address. At long last, I pulled into the seamstress's driveway. Just as I parked my car, Karsch concluded his ad-lib. "Cleveland was lantern before we had played them, but now you're saying they're spatula? So they're spatula now that we beat them. Go ahead and print that. That's spatula." I smiled with satisfaction to have heard the final product of Karsch and Gator's teamwork. With that smile, I grabbed my dress from the back seat and walked up to the door. As I waited for the seamstress to greet me, I remembered that I must fill the gas tank before I left for school. I had just filled the tank two days ago. "That's spatula," I grumbled to myself.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Highway to Hell
That's what rush hour traffic seems like, doesn't it? I can certainly attest to that. And if driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule doesn't sound torturous enough, then think for a moment about driving through rush hour traffic on a busy schedule with a migraine.
I left the student commuter lot at 4:30, assuming that a three-mile drive to the expressway would in no way monopolize my time so much as to keep me from reaching US-23 before 5:00. My twisted, backwoods, rural logic failed me that afternoon. I know very little about city commuting, aside from the common knowledge that rush hour lurks over all unfortunate drivers like a cruel, dark mass, waiting to drive its next victims to the brink of insanity. In my flimsy assumption, I happened to miss a very striking detail that I regret overlooking to this day: cars take up a considerable amount of space, no matter how tightly they pack themselves together, and with that space comes the consumption of my valuable time.
To a slightly delusional young woman with a migraine that felt much like a professional baseball player took to using her head for batting practice, that endless string of brake lights looked like a row of terrifying, red-eyed monsters. I mustered up what strength I could, and I tried in vain to tune out my nagging GPS, which I swear decided to take an attitude with me when it took too long to reach the entrance ramp half a mile away. I feel no shame in saying that I took an attitude right back, and I said some nasty things to my GPS that I'd prefer not to repeat. Rest assured, my poor GPS did not stand alone as the target of my very vocal aggression. I distributed my road rage quite evenly among the infuriating drivers littering the street, littering my street. Why is it my street? My SUV told me that it was.
Quickly losing my patience and already having lost my sanity, I gripped the steering wheel as though a black hole had appeared above the roof of my car. Once I realized that this painful action would not make the car in front of me move any faster, I quickly released my grip and took instead to tapping the brake. I didn't care what I had to do at that point. Any foolish form of entertainment proved enough for me. If nothing else, I sincerely hope that it confounded the driver behind me. I shouldn't have to suffer alone.
One thing above all startled me the most. Everyone in the neighboring intersection thought it wise to turn right on a red signal when an enormous string of cars was waiting to go through the intersection. Which unfortunate fool sat at the front of the green light? Why, I did, of course. Who else but the confused country girl should have to face a mad traffic frenzy in a bustling city? My migraine made this quite a chore. I had absolutely no idea what to do, and I must admit that I couldn't bring myself to move through the intersection. The other drivers didn't care, and as such, they proceeded to blare their horns at me. I could have done the rational thing and gone through the intersection. Instead, I chose what suited my foul attitude at the moment, and I swore like a sailor. After a few seconds of yelling at the top of my lungs, I quickly grew to hate the sound of my voice. The grating racket of a screeching young woman does not mesh well with a pounding headache. I nearly burst into tears, but I stopped myself when the flow of traffic resumed. Once I reached the expressway, I finally found some peace. And it was at that point that I learned never to drive through the city with a migraine again, a painful lesson that I won't soon forget.
I left the student commuter lot at 4:30, assuming that a three-mile drive to the expressway would in no way monopolize my time so much as to keep me from reaching US-23 before 5:00. My twisted, backwoods, rural logic failed me that afternoon. I know very little about city commuting, aside from the common knowledge that rush hour lurks over all unfortunate drivers like a cruel, dark mass, waiting to drive its next victims to the brink of insanity. In my flimsy assumption, I happened to miss a very striking detail that I regret overlooking to this day: cars take up a considerable amount of space, no matter how tightly they pack themselves together, and with that space comes the consumption of my valuable time.
To a slightly delusional young woman with a migraine that felt much like a professional baseball player took to using her head for batting practice, that endless string of brake lights looked like a row of terrifying, red-eyed monsters. I mustered up what strength I could, and I tried in vain to tune out my nagging GPS, which I swear decided to take an attitude with me when it took too long to reach the entrance ramp half a mile away. I feel no shame in saying that I took an attitude right back, and I said some nasty things to my GPS that I'd prefer not to repeat. Rest assured, my poor GPS did not stand alone as the target of my very vocal aggression. I distributed my road rage quite evenly among the infuriating drivers littering the street, littering my street. Why is it my street? My SUV told me that it was.
Quickly losing my patience and already having lost my sanity, I gripped the steering wheel as though a black hole had appeared above the roof of my car. Once I realized that this painful action would not make the car in front of me move any faster, I quickly released my grip and took instead to tapping the brake. I didn't care what I had to do at that point. Any foolish form of entertainment proved enough for me. If nothing else, I sincerely hope that it confounded the driver behind me. I shouldn't have to suffer alone.
One thing above all startled me the most. Everyone in the neighboring intersection thought it wise to turn right on a red signal when an enormous string of cars was waiting to go through the intersection. Which unfortunate fool sat at the front of the green light? Why, I did, of course. Who else but the confused country girl should have to face a mad traffic frenzy in a bustling city? My migraine made this quite a chore. I had absolutely no idea what to do, and I must admit that I couldn't bring myself to move through the intersection. The other drivers didn't care, and as such, they proceeded to blare their horns at me. I could have done the rational thing and gone through the intersection. Instead, I chose what suited my foul attitude at the moment, and I swore like a sailor. After a few seconds of yelling at the top of my lungs, I quickly grew to hate the sound of my voice. The grating racket of a screeching young woman does not mesh well with a pounding headache. I nearly burst into tears, but I stopped myself when the flow of traffic resumed. Once I reached the expressway, I finally found some peace. And it was at that point that I learned never to drive through the city with a migraine again, a painful lesson that I won't soon forget.
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