Batfort

Style reveals substance

Tag: storyvember

$300 gym visit

The muscles lay, relaxed and warm, nestled between fluffy covers and a firm mattress. (They were, of course, firmly housed in a pair of legs.) It was early, so they tensed lengthened as their owner flexed her toes, slowly waking up.

Little did they know it was leg day.

Soon enough those muscles found themselves pressing down the gas pedal in the car. It was cold, made even colder by the chilly air that was blowing through the vent in a slow attempt to warm up. Maybe the muscles wished they could have been enclosed in full-length leggings instead of cropped leggings, but we’ll never know. Hey, they’re muscles—no brain needed.

After ripping out an impressive 57 mph on the highway, the muscles kicked into gear with an uphill walk from the parking lot to the gym. They trip-trapped down three flights of stairs to the locker room, and stood patiently while a gym bag was stowed in a locker.

Then, it was off to the weight room. The muscles still had no idea what was in store for them. They blissfully warmed up slowly during some time on the rowing machine, clenching just enough to get the feet in and out of the toe-holds. But what did they care, most of the work was being done by the back.

Then, it started. Goblet squats. With a newfound range of motion built up over a summer of calisthenics, the muscled tensed and flexed in perfect form. With weights, rather than with pure bodyweight, the muscles felt a different tension. It was urgent. This was serious.

During the next exercise—dumbbell-assist forward lunges—pain entered into the muscles. They were used to sticking together, one for all, but these new exercises were pushing them in new and different directions. They actually had to adapt to perform the movement they were asked to do.

After a relatively straightforward leg press and some situps (in which they were blissfully uninvolved), the muscles were rewarded with a nice warm shower back in the locker room.

As they walked the legs back down the hill from the gym, the muscles groaned and complained. They hadn’t been asked to do that much work in quite some time—it was unfair.

They couldn’t walk out or go on strike, so they decided to put up as much of a fuss as possible, starting that afternoon. They weren’t asked about going to the gym, but the sure could get their revenge.

That, my friends, is the story of why I’ve been walking like an old lady since Monday.

I got back in the gym this week. It’s been good, muscle complaints aside. This particular gym offered a 1-year package at a lump sum of $300. Each time I go, I’ll recalculate the price-per-visit. But that means my first visit was $300 per visit.

Now I’ve gone twice, so the price has dropped to $150 per visit.

What a bargain.

Virtue-Signal Voting

The story begins as it always begins. A girl—with a social media account, of course—wakes. She showers, puts on her makeup, and selects an outfit of the day. Perhaps today’s is a little more thematic than most. There’s somewhere special to go, something special to do.

Today is, of course, election day.

“tell me something I don’t know”

Next comes, a perfectly photographed spread of fruit or a food-styled smoothie bowl. Maybe she drinks a smoothie with a scoop of matcha and some kale. A celebratory brunch with friends. Whatever.

Now is today’s big event: a trip to the polls, where she can vote—but more importantly, beg the attendant to give her a couple extra “I voted stickers” just in case her first one ruins the shot.

She has planned this moment for days. The outfit, the styling, how to set off that sticker in just the right way. The vibe must fit with the rest of her feed. Aesthetics first, anything else second. After all, we vote because it’s the cause du jour, not because we genuinely want to.

The caption must be non-partisan, as to not alienate her followers, but with enough of an undertone that everyone knows who she voted for anyway. A blue heart emoji will do.

A check on the social media account to match the check on her ballot. Just like every other instagirl, she has voted and told the world about it.

I used a story generator to cheat at #storyvember

Call it Mad Libs ™. Call it a story generator. Whatever you call it, I got a laff.

Sometimes you just got no stories in you, and that’s okay, even though you’ve committed to posting every day on a blog and don’t want to let yourself down after so many posts in a row. That’s when you call upon the internet to help you cheat. (Thanks, internet!)

For the record, I chose a “financial” plot that ended “violently.” I like fill-in-the-blank stories like these because they reveal the word salad that fiction writing so often is.

Without further ado, friends, I give you….

The Ephemeral Bass Guitar

Frankie Gideon looked at the ephemeral bass guitar in her hands and felt shy.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her old surroundings. She had always loved creaky Miss Trumpet’s Earworm Academy with its colossal, clear creaky old practice room. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel shy.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Violet Beauchamp. Violet was a disciplined grifter with dark eyes and muscular toes.

Frankie gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a stoic, honest, coffee drinker with tall eyes and lanky toes. Her friends saw her as a wild, wooden wrecking ball. Once, she had even helped a huge stock market cross the road.

But not even a stoic person who had once helped a huge stock market cross the road, was prepared for what Violet had in store today.

The sleet rained like rocking out kittens, making Frankie bored.

As Frankie stepped outside and Violet came closer, she could see the depressed glint in her eye.

“Look Frankie,” growled Violet, with a flighty glare that reminded Frankie of disciplined hyenas. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want respect. You owe me 6934 dollars.”

Frankie looked back, even more bored and still fingering the ephemeral bass guitar. “Violet, go away, you little punk,” she replied.

They looked at each other with downtrodden feelings, like two prickly, perfect pandas thrashing at a very low-key study hall, which had punk rock music playing in the background and two imaginative uncles swinging to the beat.

Suddenly, Violet lunged forward and tried to punch Frankie in the face. Quickly, Frankie grabbed the ephemeral bass guitar and brought it down on Violet’s skull.

Violet’s dark eyes trembled and her muscular toes wobbled. She looked elated, her wallet raw like a colossal, concerned checkbook.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Violet Beauchamp was dead.

Frankie Gideon went back inside and made herself a nice cup of coffee.

THE END

The Reader: Media Smears, Social Skills, and GaryVee

When I came up with the idea of #storyvember, I didn’t think about this series that I’ve started to feature on the weekends. Because this format doesn’t lend itself well to story, I’m not going to worry about smashing it into the “story” format just yet. I’ll chew on it for a while, and maybe by the end of the month I’ll modulate this list into a story of its own.

» IRB doesn’t apply in research online by social media companies, and now it’s starting to fail in real life. I don’t know if this is a win for dismantling outdated institutions, or a loss for humanity. Please be alert and aware in any medical setting.

» They did it to Mike Cernovich and co earlier this week. Now they’re coming for Julian Assange. Caitlin Johnstone is always worth a read.

The point is to create public revulsion for Julian Assange, thereby killing sympathy for his unconscionable persecution and dampening the impact of any future WikiLeaks releases. The point is to marry Assange’s name with the idea of bad smells, so that the public will begin to find themselves increasingly disgusted by him and everything he stands for without quite remembering exactly why they feel such disdain for him.

» Socialite Magazine is an interesting read, for those of us who struggle with social skills. I find that for myself, it’s not the actual skills involved (I can get along with anybody if I have to), rather it’s the realization that I need to deploy those social skills and that I could, in fact, make a new friend at any given point in time. Perhaps that’s the difference between Extraverted Feeling (me, even though it’s weak) and Introverted Feeling (the ISTJ who writes Socialite Mag)

» A little birdie told me that Colourpop’s Boss Brow Gel is a dupe for Glossier’s Boy Brow. Ordering some now, I’ll report back when I have an opinion.

» Hawaiian Libertarian has graced us with a new post. Look past the gloss of “tinhat conspiracy theorist” and look for the big picture—Keoni knows what he’s talking about. Read and learn.

» K-pop has avante garde music, too

» In honor of #storyvember: What is a Story?

» Watch out for the goo-roos slipping blood into your taco (read this if you’re trying to launch a business or sell a product)

» Intro to Visual Culture (warning: lots of academicese)

  • “Visual Culture” studies recognizes the predominance of visual forms of media, communication, and information in the postmodern world.
  • Has there been a social and cultural shift to the visual, over against the verbal and textual, in the past 50 years, and has it been accelerating in the past 10 or 20 years?
    • Or are our written, textual, and visual systems continuing an ongoing reconfiguration in a new (recognizable) phase?
  • Study of visual culture merges popular and “low” cultural forms, media and communications, and the study of “high” cultural forms or fine art, design, and architecture.

 

The Divide

When I was 23, I moved to a very liberal city. It’s not the most liberal city on the West Coast, but it’s famous for its, shall we say, really enthusiastic prayer rallies.

At the time, I was fresh out of undergrad—bright eyed and hella libertarian. I hadn’t yet discovered the difference between a state and a nation, and thought that borders were stupid since as far as I knew they were basically arbitrary.

In my new city, I settled into my new life. I walked to the grocery store and cooked myself dinners. I hung out with my roommate and watched the Westminster dog show on TV as I studied. Eventually, I went through the requisite mental breakdown as a graduate student, and spent too much money on coffee (because I was flat broke).

Amidst this backdrop of normalcy, a steady drip-drip-drip of leftism dropped against my forehead. You can’t escape it in this city—in most cities. It’s everywhere, softly emanating from the newsstands and whispered by the rustle of umbrellas (which are mostly wielded by out-of-staters). It’s implicit in nearly every conversation and behind every knowing glance over a glib reference to capitalism or the patriarchy.

Many people would go along with this—and I didn’t appear to resist on the outside. But inside my head I started to notice, to wonder. I had questions.

Eventually I searched the internet for answers to some of my questions, and found that other people were asking them too. I read their answers. I read everything I could find. I was offended—some of the mental scars are still with me to this day.

Still, I was intrigued. There was Truth here. And gradually I found myself drifting farther and farther to the right, even as I was surrounded in a softly smothering sea of leftism.

Now as an older, hopefully-wiser woman, I see graphics like “Moving to the Extreme,” and I understand. It’s terrifying to think about, but I myself am one of those tiny red dots that has moved away from the center toward one of the opposing poles.

Even though (or maybe especially because) many of our differences are fake, entirely-engineered scams cooked up by a media that is incentivized by an unholy combination of money, clicks, and hidden special interests, the divide is very real and very much growing.

Just ask my 23-year-old self.

Storyvember

Once upon a time, there was a blog.

It was just a little slip of a blog, but it was growing. Slowly but surely, it grew bigger with new posts ever day. People found the blog, from search results and social media links. Traffic grew from a tiny trickle to a steady, if small, stream.

Like most blogs, this blog had a writer. She had challenged herself to put time and effort into the blog, to see what might happen. Emboldened by the steady, small stream of success, she began to think of ways to make the blog even better. She wanted to make it a digital space where people wanted to spend their time, where they could learn new things and think about the world in new ways.

One day in October, as she saw an email about NaNoWriMo—National Novel-Writing Month—the blog writer thought to herself “Boy, I don’t want to write a novel during the month of November, but I sure do want to become a better storyteller.”

In that moment, #storyvember was born.

During the month of November, the blog writer decided, every single blog post would be in the form of a story. Some might be true, others might be fiction. Some might be parables, and others might be weird or practical. There were no rules, other than she had to write a blog post every day, and it had to be in the form of a story.

She knew this would be a difficult challenge—something that she had never done before. All her best writing had been non-fiction, something that was story-tinged but not story-focused.

Still, she was ready. It was time for a new challenge, one that would force her to grow and change and learn.

On the first day of November, our blog writer took a deep breath and wrote a story. You’re reading it now. It’s not particularly polished or insightful, and it certainly isn’t a thing of great beauty, but it conveyed the message of #storyvember and that’s what counts.

 

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