Insert Witty Title Here

OK, this is the third time that I am attempting to post this, so I hope it works this time. Stick around, and you may hear me rant about why I hate my computer.

I talked in a previous post about the differences between implicit arguments and explicit arguments. If you hated that post, then you're going to hate this one, too.

My assignment is to talk about the cartoon on Page 1 and the advertisement on Page 24. I'm assuming that you don't have the same book that I do, but if you really really really want to know what I'm talking about, there is a link to the book here. So, because you don't actually have the book I have sitting in front of you, I will do my best to make this post readable by anyone. After all, my point is about how it is beneficial to take into account your audience when crafting and editing an argument. Not about how I'm an A+ student (I'm not).

The cartoon on Page 1 is just that. A cartoon. Nothing more than a small frame of black and white animation that is intended for brief comical effect. Sure, there are small differences, like how Doonesbury is considerably more political than Garfield, but Doonesbury is only for entertainment purposes.

Conversely, the Advertisement on Page 24 is not for comic effect. It's designed for education. The education of the reader/viewer. Obviously it's not a forty page scholarly white paper, but it is intended to be a bit more educational than the comic.

The important thing about writing arguments is to realize that when it comes to audience, it's NOT one-size-fits-all. It's more like hand-crafted shoes: there is no mold, just a new argument for every audience. The comic reaches much more people, has a much shorter amount of time to communicate it's point, has different requirements (like it should probably be funny–that's why it's called a "comic"). The full-page ad was run in a health magazine, where the audience was a much more concerned, educated, select few who are already committed to making a change in the way that America deals with food.

By now, I'm sure I've bored the boots off of you. Let me give you a little more exciting example of why the two are different. Keep on reading, it gets better.

I am a movie maker. A triple threat, as they're called. Some even call us "slashes", because I am usually the writer / director / producer / editor / hair stylist /… well, you get the idea. And I can tell you that from experience that writing… oh, say a short, five minute documentary about the dark side of the fast food industry is vastly different from writing an hour and a half romantic comedy about conjoined twins who fall in love with their math professor's niece. Oh yes. Very different.ﾠ

I hope that by now you get the idea. Here's hoping that this post makes it, and doesn't crash and burn like the first two did.

Implicit VS Explicit Arguments

Keep track of these numbers:

(1)

Growing up, one of my fondest memories was of Shabbat dinners. Some weeks, it was the only night when the entire family could have a nice dinner together. I always enjoyed the methodical, orderly form that it had. First came the blessings over the candles, then the wine, then the bread. Of course, I especially liked the blessing over the wine, because I would get to take a sip of that mystery drink that only old people get to enjoy.

Looking back, that wine was some of the worst I've ever had. Living in the bay area in California, my parents would take frequent trips up to Napa and Sonoma Valley. The wine they came back with was always exponentially higher in quality, as well as in price. Every now and then I would get a tiny sip or two when my parents had a nice dinner and opened up a fancy wine.

Now, with an almost embarrassing snobbery, I look down on two-buck chuck wines and other lower forms of alcohol. When I do turn 21, I have absolutely no intentions of going to the nearest bar and drinking my brains out on whatever costs the least.

(2)

I believe that the US drinking age should be lowered to eighteen because it promotes better drinking habits. Drinking at the age of 21 promotes alcohol as a forbidden luxury to minors, and encourages them to binge once they hit the age of 21. For more information, I highly suggest that you read this article, published by Professor Ruth C. Engs, a teacher at Indiana University.

OK, now that I've held you as a captive audience without telling you what I'm doing for long enough, I'll go ahead and tell you why you just sat through 265 irrelevant words. I'd like you to pause for a minute and think about which piece, (1) or (2), you liked better.

Number two? Not so much? It's OK, I wouldn't enjoy reading it either. But this post isn't about good writing styles. Nope. It's about good arguing styles. You see, according to A Lovely Book, perhaps you've heard of it, "Writing Arguments", there are two types of arguments. Implicit and Explicit.

Number One was an example of implicit arguing. Implicit Writing is almost like acting. It involves playing with the reader's mind, making him/her believe that their thoughts and emotions are original. It paints a picture in the mind of the reader, showing him or her what the author is trying to convey.

Number Two was explicit. I don't think I need to explain this quite as much. Explicit arguing is where you state your opinion and make a good case around it.

Sorry, everyone. I don't have a good ending for this post like most of the other ones. So I'll end with a joke.

This joke comes from our fantastic friends at All Too Flat.com

A man takes his cross-eyed rottweiler to the veterinarian. The vet calls him in and asks what's wrong.
"My dog's cross-eyed," replies the man.

So the vet picks up the dog, shines a torch into his eyes, checks his teeth and so on. After a couple of minutes, the vet lets out a sigh and says, "I have to put your dog down."

"Why?" exclaims the man, to which the vet replies, "Because he's bloody heavy!"

Driving Me Crazy

Drivers Ed was painful for me. I think I've already posted a short anecdote about it, but here comes another lovely vignette.

I like to think of myself as a moderately good driver. None of my driving skills came from John, my teacher. In fact, all I think I actually learned from him was that really short haircuts look really bad on elder people. I was overjoyed to walk out for the last time of the red brick building that housed both A Auto Drivers Ed and the head sales office of the Church of Somethingorother. Sadly, I had to return a few months later to take my "practical" driving lessons. These were almost as bad as I pictured them to be. Forty minutes jammed in a smelly car that had no visibility with a crotchety old man who ranted about whatever was on his mind. I remember being lectured about the dangers of heat exhaustion, the importance of being on time for dinner, how Jesus saved me, my soul, and my car, and how the post office had ruined the teacher's son's birthday. Wahoo.

On this particular day, I had lucked out, and gotten the yellow car. The yellow car was a piece of junk, but it had a rearview mirror that actually moved, and the seat didn't stick to your back when you got out. This was to be the last of my lessons before the "test", a trip with a nightmarish mystique around it, but turned out to be nothing more than a trip around the block. This final lesson took me downtown and back. I was paired up with John, the creepy, religious, old guy who taught German at the school across the street. We were about half way to downtown when John gave me a disturbing instruction.

"Aladdin, I want you to close your eyes." "What!?!" "Don't worry, I'll grab the wheel if we're about to run into anything."

Not wanting to upset my teacher, I closed my eyes, and experienced about fifteen seconds of driving blind. I could feel John making slight adjustments in the steering, but it was still absolutely terrifying. Fifteen seconds might not sound like a lot, but close your eyes and count to fifteen. It's a long time.

After I had opened my eyes and regained my composure, John asked me if I wanted to take a short break. "Sure,"  I said. I thought we were going to pull over and take a five minute break in Starbucks. Boy, was I wrong. John had me pull over into a decrepit parking lot next to what appeared to be an abandoned car repair shop. We got out, and walked to a side door, just to the right of the main garage.

"A few of my buddies work here, I think you'll like to meet them," He said.

We went through the door, and I felt as if I had entered a 1920s poker room. I couldn't even see to the walls through all of the smoke. Four or five red cigarette tips peered at me through the gloom, and I made out the tubby shape of a magnificently huge man. He was wearing overalls that didn't quite fit him, and his eyes seemed to not really care what the other one was doing. He offered me a giant soda, and out of politeness, I took it and sipped quietly for a few seconds.

"Listen, kid" he said. His voice was the perfect 'Well, there's your problem!' car mechanic voice, and it was so low that you could feel your lunch vibrate in your stomach when he talked.

"Let me tell you a few things about cars. One: Don't ever let your engine overheat. Y'all don't know how many cars I've fixed with busted radiators. Two: Keep your tire pressure at a good level. And Three: Don't let your friends drive your car. Not your girlfriend, not your best friend, no one. They'll reck it, second they take it out." The other cigarette tips grunted and nodded through the haze.

After about ten minutes of awkward holding of my breath, we left. I felt like I'd never be able to breathe clearly again. We got back to the red brick building OK, and I slept with a smile on that night thinking that I'd never have to do that again.

Freedom of Speech?

Is it true? I get to write about anything having to do with AP Language? Awesome.

What have I learned from class? I dunno. Its often very hard to quantify a learning experience. That's probably why I struggle so much with the stupid "What do you want to learn in this class?" or "What did you learn this year in lit class?" writing prompts. I'm not sure what I've learned so far. I guess I'll just pick a topic and run with it.

We've talked a lot in this class about how many people are loosing the ability to make their own way in life, and are living under the dictatorship of society. F. Scott Fitzgerald had no say in his own life, not until his "crack up". Gatsby molded his entire world after Dan Cody. We are loosing the power to think.

Let's do a little experiment. Let's see if I've lost the ability to think. We'll follow me around for a day, and keep track of what I do.

6:25 Mom wakes me up

6:30 Dad tells me to take shower, but "don't use up all the hot water"

6:55 Get dressed: what ever is clean

7:00 Breakfast "Awww, cold cereal again?"

7:25 Leave for school

7:45 - 3:10 School

3:30 - 5:30 Homework

5:30 - 6:00 Check eMail, clean room, review new software

6:00+ Dinner

8:00 Forgot US History homework, better do it now

9:10 Watch TV

10:00 Bedtime

I lead a pretty boring life. I bet you could take a survey of teenagers, and something around 75% of them would have a schedule very close to mine, if not identical. Almost everything I do is dictated by some higher power. I have almost no say in my life.

But that didn't really answer my original question. Have I lost the ability to think? I don't know.

I have the same political persuasions as my parents and more than half of my friends, but I also have very strong ideas about what's wrong with the US, and those are my ideas, no one else's. I dress in what most people would call "boring" clothes, but I happen to really enjoy solid color tees and beige cargos. I think the Jonas Brothers are great, but not because I have a crush on Nick (I don't) but because I actually like their music. I would say that I think. I take charge in my life.

You Speak Weird

When I was in fourth grade, I heard my first swear word. I had probably heard some before fourth grade, but I never really registered what they were. But in fourth grade, one day, I heard a new word. A group of girls were giggling at lunch, talking about some sort of new Chinese restaurant they had went to over the weekend. They told me the name of the restaurant (I believe it was phuk), and, of course, I repeated it. Then I got in trouble with the teacher.

When you think about it, the concept of swear words is really quite strange. We all know them, we can all spell them and pronounce them, but in polite conversation, you should never use them. In fact, in theory, there's no need for them at all, and most are only used when something doesn't work according to plan. I don't get it.

I once read in a science magazine that some group of scientists with a bit too much time on their hands had calculated that applause follows similar patterns to a dying electromagnetic field. If this is true, then words and phrases must follow similar patterns to a hurricane. 

Let's take the phrase "like so". When I first heard this phrase, it was late 90s, and I was watching Emeril Lagasse on the food network. He was preparing some sort of salmon dish, and he wanted me to add the basil "like so". I remember distinctly being confused by that statement. Like what? Like so that the basil covers the entire fillet? Like so that there's a little left over? Like so delicious? It must have been a typo in the script, I figured. I didn't hear "like so" again until a few weeks later, and Alton Brown (I was a hungry kid) was working on some sort of french toast thing. He had been kind enough to prepare a loaf of already stale bread – like so! Now I was totally bamboozled. He hadn't actually done anything, short of uncovering a plate of stale sourdough. Now things really started picking up. The mythbusters were welding pieces of metal together like so. My teacher wanted me to complete the homework like so. It was ridiculous.

I don't hear "like so" that much any more. But about two or three times a year, I will hear a new phrase, like "kicking around" or "a case of point" or "onto it" pop up, spent a year or two wreaking havoc on my normal speech patterns, then die down and leave nothing but a dependent clause hanging on the end of a student's B- homework assignment.

It's very hard to define what constitutes a "language". English is a language, but it resembles nothing of what it was half a century ago. Today I might use words from German, French, Spanish, and Italian all in the same sentence. The word Muggle is now a legal English word. English is an ever changing language, and it never stops.

User's Guide

I don't know how many people actually read this. The internet is a compromise: Anyone can post whatever they want, but they have a much smaller audience. To be totally honest, this blog is probably not for you. I began this blog, and continue to maintain it as a school project run amuck. Some posts on here are going to be strictly school work. I didn't like the book "Walk Two Moons" because I felt it traded quality for perception of intelligence. My goal for 2009 is to be more organized. Blah blah blah. For the one or two people who happened upon this blog and are not following it for my shallow insights into american literature, please note how I post. If the post is of academic relevance, it will be in a fixed width font, much like this one. If the post is  just me ranting about whatever, it will be in a more readable font, like the one used in this post. If you have issues with that, leave a comment, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks! Bye. 

Don't Steal This Post

I am not what most people would call a normal person. I say things out loud that most people wouldn't whimper in a dark closet. I will dance to a beat, even in the middle of a crowded intersection. I once took off my shirt at the dinner table to help someone clean their glasses.

I have come to the realization that I have very little, if any, inhibition. Imagine how most internet search engines have a search filter that keeps inappropriate sites from popping up. I don't have one of those on my mouth. If I think it, then I will probably say it. Why am I telling you this? you ask. Well, I'll tell you in the next paragraph.

First of all, some history. Since, hopefully, one can't find out my true identity from my blog (unless [1] my name really is Aladdin, or [2] you already know me), I feel no shame in telling you this. Midway through 2006(ish) I discovered that I am gay. If that bothers you, get off this site. Anyways, I took Drivers Ed over the summer, and I ran into a few of my old middle school friends there. One of them was not named Wayne Carleson, but for now, we'll call him Wayne. I hadn't seen Wayne since I graduated from a school not called Valleyvale Middle School. (If you're wondering about the pseudonyms, I really don't want to get other people incriminated for this). At lunch, we talked about what we'd done after we graduated from Valleyvale, and how we hated John, our Drivers Ed teacher, and the parties we went to over the summer. Surprisingly, all of the parties I went to were invitation only parties, whereas his were parties you had to pay to get into.

Pause for a second. There are a few things I have to tell you about before we keep going. First of all is a topic that is near and dear to my heart: assumptions. No, I don't like making assumptions about people, but I'm always fascinated by how people make assumptions. For example, you think if you click here (IMDB.com) you'll get whisked away to another website. Go ahead. Click it. Another thing that people assume is that…

…A new paragraph signifies a new subject. It didn't in this case. I bring this up because this story is about someone making assumptions about me. You also have to know about this one dude, named Kumar. I went to school with Kumar, and I didn't like him. No one really liked him. He was annoying, rude, and offensive. He once walked all the way across school to brag about his loose tooth to me. That was Kumar.

Anyways, back to drivers ed. Me and Wayne are talking, along with a few other old classmates. The conversation turns to personal discoveries. I mention my newfound sexual orientation. Of course I didn't think at the time that it was something that most people don't want to hear about. Immediately, Wayne says, "Oh, so you dated Kumar, didn't you?"

This question has rung in my ears for quite a while since. Because someone is annoying or strange or different, they are assumed to be gay. Because someone is gay, they are assumed to have dated every other gay person. I spent that night laying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how this assumption came up. I came upon the realization that in general, society likes people better if they fit into a certain stereotype. One of my friend's uncle is a psychologist, and he can't stand me because I don't fit into any of his medical terms. I'm not ADD, I'm not ADHD, I'm not obsessive compulsive, but I still act "not normal". I don't fit. And it drives him crazy.

A therapist would ask "What have you learned from this?" I'm  not sure what I've learned. But I think that I now have an understanding of why people have a filter on their mouth. There are some things that you just can't say around other people. Especially people who have been brainwashed by society. 

THE END.