C&F Writing Competition. Can you freaking believe it?
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Nanohedron
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FJohnSharp
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- Location: Kent, Ohio
Oh, ya want upbeat.
ENTRY
Tartan Paint
“Have you seen the ’Tartan Paint’ sketch?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Where the guy goes into the hardware store and asks the clerk for tartan paint?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“And the clerk, who’s dumb as a wrench, takes him back to the paint section and they look at every can—“
“I said, I’ve seen it. shut up already about the ‘Tartan Paint’ sketch.
“It’s a funny sketch.”
“It was funny when I saw it on TV.”
“And it’s still funny.”
“Not after hearing you tell it for the dozenth time.”
“’Dozenth?’ What the hell kind of word is ‘dozenth?’”
“It’s a perfect word.”
“You’re just jealous of me.”
“That must be it.”
“You are. Admit it.”
“Yes, I’m jealous of your ability to bore people to tears with your re-telling skills.”
“I’m funny, and you’re not.”
“You’re funny?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not?”
“No.”
“Tell me something funny.”
“Well…I can’t just now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because, I’m not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?”
“Not in the mood.”
“That proves it then.”
“Proves what?”
“That you’re not funny. Funny people can be funny on command.”
“Not always. What about the tears of a clown theory?”
“What?”
“The tears of a clown theory. It states that a clown can only be funny if there is no one around.”
“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Plus, you’re stealing from Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. I can’t let you do that with impunity.”
“You can’t?”
‘No.”
“But I was being funny. That theory thing was supposed to be humorous.”
“It wasn’t”
“It was off-the-cuff. It was funny. It was humor based on absurdity.”
“You’re reaching. Admit it”
“I am not.”
“If absurdity is funny, you’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be funny and serious at the same time?”
“Umm…”
“See?”
<end?
ENTRY
Tartan Paint
“Have you seen the ’Tartan Paint’ sketch?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“Where the guy goes into the hardware store and asks the clerk for tartan paint?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“And the clerk, who’s dumb as a wrench, takes him back to the paint section and they look at every can—“
“I said, I’ve seen it. shut up already about the ‘Tartan Paint’ sketch.
“It’s a funny sketch.”
“It was funny when I saw it on TV.”
“And it’s still funny.”
“Not after hearing you tell it for the dozenth time.”
“’Dozenth?’ What the hell kind of word is ‘dozenth?’”
“It’s a perfect word.”
“You’re just jealous of me.”
“That must be it.”
“You are. Admit it.”
“Yes, I’m jealous of your ability to bore people to tears with your re-telling skills.”
“I’m funny, and you’re not.”
“You’re funny?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not?”
“No.”
“Tell me something funny.”
“Well…I can’t just now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because, I’m not in the mood.”
“Not in the mood?”
“Not in the mood.”
“That proves it then.”
“Proves what?”
“That you’re not funny. Funny people can be funny on command.”
“Not always. What about the tears of a clown theory?”
“What?”
“The tears of a clown theory. It states that a clown can only be funny if there is no one around.”
“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Plus, you’re stealing from Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. I can’t let you do that with impunity.”
“You can’t?”
‘No.”
“But I was being funny. That theory thing was supposed to be humorous.”
“It wasn’t”
“It was off-the-cuff. It was funny. It was humor based on absurdity.”
“You’re reaching. Admit it”
“I am not.”
“If absurdity is funny, you’re hilarious.”
“I’m serious.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be funny and serious at the same time?”
“Umm…”
“See?”
<end?
Last edited by FJohnSharp on Wed Jul 28, 2004 11:35 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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Nanohedron
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Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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FJohnSharp
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- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
Actually, the dumb guy is based on me. 
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
Carol, I stand before you with head bowed. I completely missed the political implications as my area of expertise is confined to the study of hokey sitcoms.cskinner wrote:Normally I make it a point not to talk about my work, but your comment raises the obvious question: what on earth are the youth being taught today in their literature courses? Yes, of course the whole That Girl theme is there (with its delicious echo of "That Boy" of course). But Rando7, how can you pick up on this and miss the more obvious and far more significant political commentary? Surely you must realize there was a reason the high school was named Roosevelt? And can anyone really read the word vacuum without thinking of Hoover? If ever there were an allusion to the heated political confrontation between Roosevelt and Hoover in the presidential campaign of 1932, this is it, my friend. I will leave it to you to draw any similarities to our current presidential race: but honestly, were trade and labor issues EVER more at the center of the political debate than they are now?Rando7 wrote:OK, this is cool because Ann Marie was the lead character in That Girl. So there's like a whole underlying subtext here. But what of Donald Hollinger?cskinner wrote:Sometimes when I’m putting on my eyeliner I look hard in the mirror for what “a Beatle” saw and try to get that girl to come out. But all I see is Ann Marie.
Sometimes you just have to put aside your artistic caution and set the record straight.
Carol
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emmline
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Before I disappear for another week...(going to Nags Head, where computers die waiting for the next signal from an ISP)
Another Entry! (written before I noticed another reference to a name that appears herein...)
The Collar
It was one of those cases, those once-in-a-lifetimes, that sneak into your consciousness edgewise until it dominates your soul. Gunther was ready for this collar...so ready. He’d bust a gut--maybe more than a gut--if something went wrong.
“Lieutenant,” hissed Murphy, Gunther’s almost too eager young protégé. “Lieutenant...whenever you’re ready. I’ve got your back!”
Gunther scanned the room, gave Murph a nod, and slipped into place. His place. His personal Holy Grail. St. Clair’s practice room at the Conservatory.
This was a helluva time to let his mind drift, but there it went again. Back to “team-building” day at the station. The day the chief made the entire squad stand in tree pose while St. Clair stood centrally, in a saffron robe chanting “become like a palm tree...bend and sway with the wind.”
Gunther couldn’t bend or sway, but at that moment, in the drone of St. Clair’s voice, one thing became crystal clear. The stolen artifact--the Hope Diamond of fipple flutes--the Spillane...was in the clutches of St. Clair himself.
And here he was, nothing between him and his prey but a hollow-core door. Collaring St. Clair would be easy enough, but there was one thing Gunther knew, one thought that possessed him--the Spillane would never be Exhibit A. If he pulled this off, Murphy wouldn’t even know the Spillane was there. It would be his, Gunther’s...and his toolbox would never be the same.
Gunther’s foot connected with door and it splintered. He sprang into the room, confused. The haunting strains of “Autumn Solstice Moonglow #6” didn’t stop as he’d anticipated. In fact, the room was empty save for the small cd player in the corner. Damn! A Bose! Gunther’s blood boiled at the realization he’d been fooled by a recording.
A disrespectful chuckle turned his boiling blood to ice.
“Sorry Lieutenant,” said Murphy with a smirk. “But that Spillane’s a fine whistle. Did you really think I’d let you turn it into Exhibit A?”
“St. Clair bought you,” Gunther choked out.
“No, Lieutenant,” Murphy whispered. “Not St. Clair. The Spillane. The Spillane owns me, as it does him.”
“Murphy,” called the eerily soothing voice of St. Clair. “Are you ready Grasshopper?”
“Ready Master,” replied Murphy.
Gunther staggered to the fractured door-frame and watched them fade into the blackness, his heart lodged somewhere between agony and relief.
Another Entry! (written before I noticed another reference to a name that appears herein...)
The Collar
It was one of those cases, those once-in-a-lifetimes, that sneak into your consciousness edgewise until it dominates your soul. Gunther was ready for this collar...so ready. He’d bust a gut--maybe more than a gut--if something went wrong.
“Lieutenant,” hissed Murphy, Gunther’s almost too eager young protégé. “Lieutenant...whenever you’re ready. I’ve got your back!”
Gunther scanned the room, gave Murph a nod, and slipped into place. His place. His personal Holy Grail. St. Clair’s practice room at the Conservatory.
This was a helluva time to let his mind drift, but there it went again. Back to “team-building” day at the station. The day the chief made the entire squad stand in tree pose while St. Clair stood centrally, in a saffron robe chanting “become like a palm tree...bend and sway with the wind.”
Gunther couldn’t bend or sway, but at that moment, in the drone of St. Clair’s voice, one thing became crystal clear. The stolen artifact--the Hope Diamond of fipple flutes--the Spillane...was in the clutches of St. Clair himself.
And here he was, nothing between him and his prey but a hollow-core door. Collaring St. Clair would be easy enough, but there was one thing Gunther knew, one thought that possessed him--the Spillane would never be Exhibit A. If he pulled this off, Murphy wouldn’t even know the Spillane was there. It would be his, Gunther’s...and his toolbox would never be the same.
Gunther’s foot connected with door and it splintered. He sprang into the room, confused. The haunting strains of “Autumn Solstice Moonglow #6” didn’t stop as he’d anticipated. In fact, the room was empty save for the small cd player in the corner. Damn! A Bose! Gunther’s blood boiled at the realization he’d been fooled by a recording.
A disrespectful chuckle turned his boiling blood to ice.
“Sorry Lieutenant,” said Murphy with a smirk. “But that Spillane’s a fine whistle. Did you really think I’d let you turn it into Exhibit A?”
“St. Clair bought you,” Gunther choked out.
“No, Lieutenant,” Murphy whispered. “Not St. Clair. The Spillane. The Spillane owns me, as it does him.”
“Murphy,” called the eerily soothing voice of St. Clair. “Are you ready Grasshopper?”
“Ready Master,” replied Murphy.
Gunther staggered to the fractured door-frame and watched them fade into the blackness, his heart lodged somewhere between agony and relief.
Last edited by emmline on Thu Jul 29, 2004 8:25 am, edited 1 time in total.
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littlejohngael
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lyrick
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A humble attempt to stand on the shoulders of the literary giants who have posted before me. Y'all can write, dang it!
Entry:
He hated decisions. Detested them. Especially the biggies. And this was a biggie. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe. He inhaled deeply, and relaxed as he exhaled. He'd always gotten anxious like this at the moment of choice, when he had to make the final call. But it was never this bad, not the kind of heart-palpitating anxiety he was feeling now. Was it because this one was so final? He knew there'd be no turning back.
Someone was watching him. He felt it on the back of his neck. He looked furtively to the side, turning his head just enough to see out of the corner of his eye, so no one could tell what he was doing. Yes, there was some one back there. God, the pressure, he felt like his head was going to explode. The lights were flickering. Or was it his vision? He was holding his breath again.
Breathe, he told himself. Relax. It's all right, once you've made the choice, everything will be okay.
He chose. Boldly reached out and picked up the six pack of Coke, his eyes glancing nervously at the Pepsi display as he placed the Coke in his shopping cart. He could feel the relief of the other shopper, who'd frozen in the middle of reaching for her Evian water.
Feeling euphoric, he jauntily made his way to aisle 7, humming as he wove his cart through the store. Aisle 7. Potato chips. Ruffles or Lay's?
God, he hated decisions. Detested them. Especially the biggies. And this was a biggie. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe...
Entry:
He hated decisions. Detested them. Especially the biggies. And this was a biggie. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe. He inhaled deeply, and relaxed as he exhaled. He'd always gotten anxious like this at the moment of choice, when he had to make the final call. But it was never this bad, not the kind of heart-palpitating anxiety he was feeling now. Was it because this one was so final? He knew there'd be no turning back.
Someone was watching him. He felt it on the back of his neck. He looked furtively to the side, turning his head just enough to see out of the corner of his eye, so no one could tell what he was doing. Yes, there was some one back there. God, the pressure, he felt like his head was going to explode. The lights were flickering. Or was it his vision? He was holding his breath again.
Breathe, he told himself. Relax. It's all right, once you've made the choice, everything will be okay.
He chose. Boldly reached out and picked up the six pack of Coke, his eyes glancing nervously at the Pepsi display as he placed the Coke in his shopping cart. He could feel the relief of the other shopper, who'd frozen in the middle of reaching for her Evian water.
Feeling euphoric, he jauntily made his way to aisle 7, humming as he wove his cart through the store. Aisle 7. Potato chips. Ruffles or Lay's?
God, he hated decisions. Detested them. Especially the biggies. And this was a biggie. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe...
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Bloomfield
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A nonfiction, educational entry:
I am so often asked, “What does a textbook editor do exactly?” that I thought I would write up a brief explanation of what has been my life’s work, and a rewarding career it’s been, too. I work mainly in language arts and social studies, but I can safely say that the tricks of the trade cross all disciplines, guaranteeing that students in every class and at every grade level will reap the benefits of the same high quality instructional materials.
Perhaps I should begin with readability. Textbook editors spend a good portion of their time and effort on lowering the readability level of an author’s manuscript. Don’t let the technical terms put you off. The concept is simple: you take a well-written, highly readable manuscript and edit it in such a way that it becomes much less readable, thereby lowering the readability level. This mandate stems from the seminal work of Lev Vygotzky: students must be working in their zone of proximal development, not their zone of actual development. In short, if you give students materials they can already read fluently, how are they ever going to improve? Artificial, super-condensed, and choppy prose is the only medicine: if students can struggle their way through textbooks, there will be nothing they cannot read as adults, including business memos and tax-filing instructions. Our goal, after all, is to nurture lifelong readers.
Nearly as important as lowering readability is stripping away all traces of individuality and personality from the people presented in the books. This standard is especially important in history. Do we really want our children to know that Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton were two different men? Or that Betsy Ross and Rosa Parks were two different women? Of course not. Experience has taught us that children learn better when they learn thematically: presidents are presidents (with the occasional Secretary of the Treasury or General thrown in), and women are women. Students have all the rest of their lives to learn the fine points, but without this firm foundation, how will they ever develop the self-esteem to know that they belong in this great nation of ours, that there is a place for them?
Finally, there’s the all important task of copy fitting. Publishing is unforgiving in its line and word counts. By the time a well-edited manuscript goes into production, it has been precisely honed and calculated to f
~~
I am so often asked, “What does a textbook editor do exactly?” that I thought I would write up a brief explanation of what has been my life’s work, and a rewarding career it’s been, too. I work mainly in language arts and social studies, but I can safely say that the tricks of the trade cross all disciplines, guaranteeing that students in every class and at every grade level will reap the benefits of the same high quality instructional materials.
Perhaps I should begin with readability. Textbook editors spend a good portion of their time and effort on lowering the readability level of an author’s manuscript. Don’t let the technical terms put you off. The concept is simple: you take a well-written, highly readable manuscript and edit it in such a way that it becomes much less readable, thereby lowering the readability level. This mandate stems from the seminal work of Lev Vygotzky: students must be working in their zone of proximal development, not their zone of actual development. In short, if you give students materials they can already read fluently, how are they ever going to improve? Artificial, super-condensed, and choppy prose is the only medicine: if students can struggle their way through textbooks, there will be nothing they cannot read as adults, including business memos and tax-filing instructions. Our goal, after all, is to nurture lifelong readers.
Nearly as important as lowering readability is stripping away all traces of individuality and personality from the people presented in the books. This standard is especially important in history. Do we really want our children to know that Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton were two different men? Or that Betsy Ross and Rosa Parks were two different women? Of course not. Experience has taught us that children learn better when they learn thematically: presidents are presidents (with the occasional Secretary of the Treasury or General thrown in), and women are women. Students have all the rest of their lives to learn the fine points, but without this firm foundation, how will they ever develop the self-esteem to know that they belong in this great nation of ours, that there is a place for them?
Finally, there’s the all important task of copy fitting. Publishing is unforgiving in its line and word counts. By the time a well-edited manuscript goes into production, it has been precisely honed and calculated to f
~~
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Nanohedron
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Oh, yeah: also a mod here, not a spammer. A matter of opinion, perhaps. - Location: Lefse country
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FJohnSharp
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- Tell us something.: I used to be a regular then I took up the bassoon. Bassoons don't have a lot of chiff. Not really, I have always been a drummer, and my C&F years were when I was a little tired of the drums. Now I'm back playing drums. I mist the C&F years, though.
- Location: Kent, Ohio
Dredging the hard drive for 400 word stories. At least this one is musical.
ENTRY
Sparks couldn’t play today, his hand was killing him. Damn vise. The clarinet is a two handed instrument.
He called the leader of their little cocktail band, who told him tough luck, find a replacement. He called all three of the players he knew. One was sick, one had an anniversary, one had smashed his hand in a vise too.
“No way!,” Sparks said. “Where?”
“In the basement, my workshop.”
“I did mine at work. Machine shop.”
“So yours was a metal vise then?”
“Yup.”
“Mine was a woodworking vice.”
They paused.
“Not the same thing, really,” said Sparks.
“Nope.”
So Sparks called the musician’s union who found a young man fresh out of college who was looking for work. It would cost Sparks a hundred but he was desperate. The player met him at the gig, where Sparks introduced him around, then showed him the music. The player waved him off, “I can sight-read it.” Sparks found a seat.
The player was good, too good to Sparks’ way of thinking. The leader smiled at all the players’ solos, and even changed the set list to include a piece he never let Sparks play anymore. Sparks’ applause, such that it was with an injured hand, dwindled with each piece. On the finale, he only waved his fingers joylessly in the direction of the band.
The player was packing and Sparks folded a stack of five twenties in half, and tossed it in the case. The player reached in to take it and Sparks ‘accidentally’ tripped, slamming the lid on his fingers.
“Hey!” the player screamed, massaging his injured fingers.
“Sorry,” said Sparks, in a way that sounded pre-meditated. “I slipped.”
“Right,” said the player, glaring as he quickly took apart his instrument with his good hand and his armpit. “I’m playing Vivaldi tomorrow.”
Sparks held up his hand. all bandaged and painful. “We’re playing a wedding Saturday.”
The player clicked shut his case and smirked. “Not the same thing, is it?” he said, leaving.
Sparks stood for a moment. The director came over. “Where’s the other guy?”
“He had to go.”
The leader nodded thoughtfully. “Is he playing Saturday?”
Sparks detected hopefulness in his voice. “No, I’ll be ready to go.”
The leader nodded again, slower, sadder, and walked away. Sparks wiggled his hurting fingers in the motion of an arpeggio, winced, and did it again. Then again. Then again.
<end>
edited for tweaking
ENTRY
Sparks couldn’t play today, his hand was killing him. Damn vise. The clarinet is a two handed instrument.
He called the leader of their little cocktail band, who told him tough luck, find a replacement. He called all three of the players he knew. One was sick, one had an anniversary, one had smashed his hand in a vise too.
“No way!,” Sparks said. “Where?”
“In the basement, my workshop.”
“I did mine at work. Machine shop.”
“So yours was a metal vise then?”
“Yup.”
“Mine was a woodworking vice.”
They paused.
“Not the same thing, really,” said Sparks.
“Nope.”
So Sparks called the musician’s union who found a young man fresh out of college who was looking for work. It would cost Sparks a hundred but he was desperate. The player met him at the gig, where Sparks introduced him around, then showed him the music. The player waved him off, “I can sight-read it.” Sparks found a seat.
The player was good, too good to Sparks’ way of thinking. The leader smiled at all the players’ solos, and even changed the set list to include a piece he never let Sparks play anymore. Sparks’ applause, such that it was with an injured hand, dwindled with each piece. On the finale, he only waved his fingers joylessly in the direction of the band.
The player was packing and Sparks folded a stack of five twenties in half, and tossed it in the case. The player reached in to take it and Sparks ‘accidentally’ tripped, slamming the lid on his fingers.
“Hey!” the player screamed, massaging his injured fingers.
“Sorry,” said Sparks, in a way that sounded pre-meditated. “I slipped.”
“Right,” said the player, glaring as he quickly took apart his instrument with his good hand and his armpit. “I’m playing Vivaldi tomorrow.”
Sparks held up his hand. all bandaged and painful. “We’re playing a wedding Saturday.”
The player clicked shut his case and smirked. “Not the same thing, is it?” he said, leaving.
Sparks stood for a moment. The director came over. “Where’s the other guy?”
“He had to go.”
The leader nodded thoughtfully. “Is he playing Saturday?”
Sparks detected hopefulness in his voice. “No, I’ll be ready to go.”
The leader nodded again, slower, sadder, and walked away. Sparks wiggled his hurting fingers in the motion of an arpeggio, winced, and did it again. Then again. Then again.
<end>
edited for tweaking
Last edited by FJohnSharp on Sat Jul 31, 2004 9:10 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Meon an phobail a thogail trid an chultur"
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
(The people’s spirit is raised through culture)
Suburban Symphony
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Bloomfield
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Self-RegulationNanohedron wrote:Good Lord, Carol! Are you sleeping with the enemy, after all? And who's this knob, Vygotzky? He's not listed in Webster so he HAS to be a hack.
Vygotzky (1978) places the origins of cognition in social interaction. He argues that the acquisition of cognitive skills occurs when children solve problems as they interact with adults or more knowledgeable peers. First as they observe adults and more advanced peers and then as they actively participate in increasingly complex tasks, children become adept at independent problem solving. This process is the transition from other-regulation to self-regulation. According to Vygotzky, talk is the most important mediator in cognitive development. In the transition from the expert giving instructions and providing guidance to final self-regulation, through a stage of inner speech, the child achieves competent functioning. Inner speech decreases over time as the child internalizes the social message and turns it into thought.
Successful self-regulation is contingent upon the existence of a zone of proximal development. Vygotzky created this concept to account for the distance between the child's ability to problem solve individually and his or her potential ability to problem solve with adult or expert guidance.
From this point of view, the optimal learning situation includes the novice, still unable to solve problems independently, and the more advanced peer or adult. The latter uses problem-solving behaviors, experiments with new approaches, and, by assigning responsibility for certain aspects of the task to the novice, encourages him or her to develop cognitive skills. When an adult or a more advanced peer facilitates the functioning of the novice so that his or her functioning is at a higher level than that achieved individually, the process is called "scaffolding." Scaffolding alleviates some of the cognitive burden experienced by the novice and occurs in two ways: First, the adult or the more capable expert assumes responsibility for parts of the problem; second, by supervising the novice's behaviors to see if they fit the task, the expert exerts metacognitive control. Through such metacognitive control, the novice becomes increasingly aware of the mental processes required by the task, thereby activating and practicing them as necessary (Vygotzky, 1962). As the novice develops more and more advanced problem-solving skills, he or she needs less help and is able to solve problems independently (Newman, Griffin, & Cole, 1989).
Vygotzky argues that higher-order, psychological functions develop through social interaction. Adults and more knowledgeable peers broker and foster the novice's development. They manage the environment and demonstrate how to interact with it, explain and give meaning to actions and experiences, call attention to the relevant dimensions of behavior, and illustrate problem-solving strategies. The acquisition of a new skill is not only added knowledge and improved functioning, but also a passage from a dialectic on the outside to an internal world. In other words, new skills help the individual handle the environment.
/Bloomfield