Excerpt from Still Life

“Your call is extremely important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be…”

The computer voice offers false hope. It’s not quite as discouraging as a six-year-old discovering tube sox under the Christmas tree, but nearly as disappointing as a nineteen-year-old woman discovering that her boyfriend had bought her an action figure on the cusp of her 20^th year. Upon Brenda’s less-than-delighted reaction, her nebbish fellow had proffered that it was: “a vintage Greedo, mint-in-box! With Star Wars action figures’ current market appreciation, this little guy could easily pay for our firstborn’s college education in 20 years!” Right then and there, she’d decided that they would never have a firstborn. She’d given the action figure to her sister’s son on his third birthday.

Kenny Loggin’s computerized rocking overwhelms the line again. She imagines a shiny, cylindrical android with overwrought, metallic 80s hair – possibly flock of seagulls-style – and a skinny tie embellished with a keyboard. It drones on about “kicking off Sunday shoes and getting Footloose,” before experiencing a cocaine-based malfunction. Yes, she decides, the robot is cocaine-powered – much like the 80s – and its owners had forsaken it in favor of their own needs.

The Post Woman sashays down the street in her officious blue shorts, stuffing various parcels into mailboxes. A sassy urban goth, her dread-laden head nods furiously along with her headphones, which lead into thin air for all Brenda can tell. Hence she assumes its source is something which plays MP3s. Shaking the dust from 20 years of memory, she watches as her older sister shuffles and weaves to her father’s Motown records; clasped by giant plastic earmuffs. A vast pig’s tail coils from her headgear into her parents chrome and wood stereo receiver. They were so proud when they brought it home from the electronics store.

Miniaturization is clearly a holdover from last century’s recent downsized tendencies. Her laptop computer contains many times the computational power of the slate gray multistory buildings full of wheezing, whirring computing power; those of her parents’ era. She assumes her next cell phone will handily overpower her laptop. It undoubtedly will make her old flip-phone jealous: likely coming standard with fully voice-activated functions, and perhaps dangling from her like an earring. Perhaps one day some mad genius will invent a phone which can be directly implanted into a person’s skull. She reconsiders, assuming it’s already in beta testing somewhere. The new owner of the cell-plant can operate it directly by thought – dialing and answering calls from their mother, sister or significant other with their mind. That’s all I need, she thinks, my mother genuinely inside my head; with rapid access to her thoughts, nagging and wheedling at her from within. Wonderful! She pictures her mother fused to a keyboard, eyes burning from monitor glare as she hacks into the central processing unit (i.e. her brain!); desperately seeking access to her innermost secrets. That train of thought also leads to images of burbling tissues around phone implant; irradiated from within and beginning their carcinogenic overhaul of her cranium. Shuddering, she’s uncertain which implication sounds more horrific – her mother inside her head or the cancer.

In the meantime, a charcoal shelf has slid underneath the sun. A moist, gloomy afternoon breeze flutters through the blinds.

“Thank you for your continued patience. Your call will be answered by the next available customer service representative…”

Mapping the Culture

The Atlantic Magazine began life as the brainchild of cognoscenti. Its illustrious founders sought a forum with which to voice progressive thought as well as to cultivate literary talent. Establishing itself rapidly, The Atlantic became one of the rare magazines which actually increased in popularity to the present day, bucking the downtrend in print-format literature. In its present layout – as a general format magazine – it strives to balance journalistic integrity, literary variety and meld popular culture into a stew of intellectual discourse.

Born from an enlightened repast in 1857 between the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - amongst others - the Atlantic deemed itself a “journal of literature, politics, science, and the arts” (Murphy, 2001). It ascended to prominence as its varied topics, as well as a host of emerging literary talents sparked the imagination of the public from its pages. While espousing an essentially progressive stance, it encouraged discourse on various subjects from civil rights to terrorism, maintaining politics as a backdrop and rarely shying from controversial issues. It has published articles from Martin Luther King, Jr., Albert Einstein, John Muir and Theodore Roosevelt, in addition to articles about Sacco and Vanzetti, Vietnam and women’s issues (Murphy, 2001).

The Atlantic has also printed poems, stories and essays from some of the quintessential authors of the last hundred and fifty years, winning numerous awards for fiction and journalism. Authors running the gamut from Mark Twain to Robert Frost to Emily Dickinson wove their craft across its pages. Atlantic Monthly even published Earnest Hemingway's first short story in 1927.

Naturally, with authorial and editorial pedigrees such as these, and a fiercely intellectual focus, The Atlantic opened itself up to accusations of pretentiousness – a perception the magazine in fact embraced for much of its existence. “Atlantic Monthly…defensively tried to promote the values of a by-gone elitist literary and cultural tradition” (Boyd, 2010). Pompous or not, by the late ‘90s, the magazine was hemorrhaging money, losing four million dollars a year, according to Kinsman (2008). Dwindling readership forced its editors and publishers to reevaluate the magazine’s outlook in the rapidly shrink periodical world.

With newsstand sales now accounting for roughly 13 percent of magazine revenue (Campbell, Martin & Fabos, 2010, p.306), The Atlantic focused its marketing efforts on circulation. This new approach garnered an increasing circulation for the magazine, lifting its rotation to nearly four hundred thousand. The magazine also sought a wider range of advertisers (Kinsman, 2008) to bolster itself in the changing times. Although potentially diluting the magazine’s content, this move pushed it towards format changes favoring a broader focus.

Editor James Bennet and higher-ups at Atlantic Media Publishing Group expanded the magazine’s scope: “The magazine redesign will focus on making the book more accessible, including more points of access and more shorter pieces upfront as well as traditional features” (Kinsman, 2008). The magazine now blends features on popular culture, such as video game preservation, with current issues like the economy, in addition to highlighting taboo subjects like child molesterion and assisted suicide in Switzerland. Online content from Atlantic.com is now linked to magazine articles, transitioning readers from digital media to print and vice-versa. Yet despite its broader content the Atlantic has retained its commitment to providing high-quality long-form print.

By building diversity into its intellectual foundation, it captures that special mix required to cover an expanding cultural map. In doing so, it maintains itself as a vital and expansive source of information and entertaiment.

-------------

References

Boyd, A. Atlantic (2010) Monthly. St. James Encyclopedia of Pop Culture. FindArticles.com. 28 Feb, 2010. Retrieved from: http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_g1epc/is_tov/ai_2419100069/

Campbell, R., Martin, C., & Fabos, B. (2010) Media and Culture: An Introduction to Mass Communication, Seventh Edition. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s.

Kinsman, M. (2008). Atlantic Rising. Folio: The Magazine for Magazine Management, 37(6), 28. Retrieved from Associates Programs Source Plus database.

Murphy, C. (2001). A History of The Atlantic Monthly. The Atlantic Online. Retrieved from: http://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/about/atlhistf.htm

National Geographic Taboo: Tattoo

Tattooing represents an ancient yet still taboo art form. Tattoos have served many purposes throughout history. They act as non-verbal identifiers of demarcation, as well as signifying (along with other body modifications) important events in an individual’s life. As they creep into mainstream society, they now also serve as symbols of individuality and subcultural exclusivity.

Historically, tattoos often bore culturally significant information beyond the requirements of spoken communication. Amongst the Iban of Borneo tattoos denoted tribal status as well as affiliation. During periods of inter-tribal warfare, tattoos functioned as rapid indicators – friend or foe. In the heat of battle, misidentification could mean death. A specific tattoo on the hand also heralded a chilling victory – the mark of a successful head hunter. During times of peace, tattoos became a road map. When an individual journeyed across Borneo, each tribe often emblazoned their design on the visitor as a sign of friendship.

In many countries, tattoos or scarification act as rites of passage. In Benin, a young Bétamarribé child’s face is striated with intricate cuts to signify his weaning from his mother. As a child transitions into adulthood, their chest and stomach are laced with small scars as well. These rituals signify courage in the face of life’s trials and tribulations. In societies such as the Bétamarribé, individuals without these marks are often ridiculed and even ostracized from society.

A tattoo convention in generally conservative Oslo, Norway bears witness to tattooing’s convergence with modern aesthetics. Still regarded as taboo by many, even in US culture, tattoos signify a yearning for artistic iconoclasm amongst some individuals. They also characterize a voluntary rite of passage for those who chose the role of a minor outcast. Yet conversely, tattoos also indicate a sense of belonging within the “tattooed” subculture.

Taboo or otherwise, tattoos play a significant role in many cultures. They allow tribal units to identify themselves with one another. They denote a youth’s passage into adulthood. They also serve to separate artistically rebellious individuals from one culture, yet bind them to a different one.

Locust Summer

busy eyes bashful

aquamarine

so long ago I fell

for that swirling watery vortex inside

the salutation of tears

misting, fog pierced by

darting impish light.

across that trampled field

we danced on wheat chaff

tried to cry but oil spurted out

your hand so cold

talking in symphonies of

cicadas, leaping everywhere until

some hidden current dragged you into the swaying grass beyond

too tall for me to reach

out of

sight,

in its fury.

Excerpt from Deja You (short fiction)

The second I saw him, a feeling in the air convinced me of our prior encounter. Clearly not someone I’d actually met before, much less someone I’d normally associate with, he acted with utter naïveté regarding any past association. Now, I’m well aware that some people are poor representatives of cognitive recollection; being that they poorly retain names, faces, dates and images. This represents a vast swath of the populace, so as to be an entirely moot point. But sometimes, a lack of recognition owes itself, apparently, to an individuals lack of memorable qualities or features. This happens, especially often when one meets another under lax social circumstances. Often times, a party environment leads to casual acquaintances which, even when reminded of an individuals name, draw total blanks from either individual. Yet a familiarity remains. While this is a genuine condition - often owing to society’s yearning for nondescript features and lack of standoutishness (if you will indulge my verbio-genesis). Yet this condition is precluded by the supposed idea which states that each human being, while perhaps near-identical on a genetic level, is unique. This also flies in the face of identical twins, who are often perceptibly and even distinctively different, which also chafes with the notion that some people have familiars - even doppelgangers - in both near and far vicinities. Another common circumstance is dissociation through the suppressive power of the mind. Being that sometimes our minds choose to forget an associate for various reasons, though typically because of unpleasant circumstances.

None the less, I’m a fairly distinctive individual, and this has nothing to do with egomania. As a younger man, I fancied myself a serious shit-kicker. Associating with a raucous crowd, I frequented seedy establishments (and still do on occasion) and often wound up on opposite ends of indistinct and distinct aggression. This left me with a distinguishing scar the left side of my face, along my jaw. As such, I find it difficult to believe that I blend entirely into the bulk of humanity.

Why the hell is that guy gawking over at our booth? Is he checking out my wife? Is he checking me out? He doesn’t seem like he the homosexual type, what with that hardcore wannabe ex-cholo look - minus the dew rag - and that nasty-ass scar along his chin. But you can practically bandana tan lines along his face, the ten year old ring of matted-down his hair. He looks like some of those old metal-heads that went to high school with me. Shit. He isn’t some old classmate who I never liked and never associated with is he? I hate it when people just assume that because we went to high school together, we’re now best friends. He keeps glancing over at me every ten goddamn seconds, like some hyperactive gecko or something. The only way he could be any creepier is if he was staring, continually, at my wife’s tits with those glazed airport-Moonie (religious cult?) eyes. But no, he’s staring at me. Why the hell does everybody always stare at me; think they know me? I mean, do I look that completely commonplace? I mean, sure, I’ve got a friendly face; my eyes are that cool, welcoming blue which most of the pleasant people of Scandinavian descent have; my nose might be a bit schnozzy - also owing to my Norse descent, but I don’t look like some everyday, average Joe. I have a lot of interesting facial characteristics. At least I think I do.

But still, there is something eerily familiar about that rubberneck. Maybe he went to college with me. Of course, my graduating class at University of New Mexico had nearly ten thousand people in it, so that really narrows down the field.

Grand Guignol and the Art of Canned Ham (Theater of Blood)

"Can you imagine it?"
"Imagine what?" she said looking coy.
"Ok, you like a good horror flick, right?" I raised my eyebrows.
"Does the pope wear a stupid hat?"
"Depends on your perspective, I suppose. But if I were to grossly generalize your average horror film - emphasis on average - tends to be a touch underdone, right?"
"And that's a bad thing?" she shrugged.
"Also perspective dependent."
"Touche."
"And depending on what you consider low-brow, if you consider it to be bad, per se -"
"Quit being so goddamn middle of the road."
"Ok. But for the sake or argument, let's take your average viewer. Movies with a gore quotient (say on the Gore Score levels) above five, tend to be shafted in favor of psychological or "scary" films.
"I suppose your average Jane Six-pack (sic), when faced with a double feature option of Evil Dead and The Haunting would prefer The Haunting, probably."
"What if there were movies that had both high art and solid sanguinary spills?"
"I'd say it was made in the seventies in all likelihood."
"Correct you are. It's called Theater of Blood. It's a movie that takes a solid list of ingredients - a good cast (Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, Ian Hendry, etc.), an amusing script and clever direction - plus a tongue well tucked into cheek.
"Spill it," she winked.
"Well, everyone knows the dichotomy of artist and critic; it's a love-hate sort of thing. Of course, the people who hate critics more than any other are the artists, writers, directors, etc. who find their work constantly defiled by wretched reviews.
"In seventies England, no one suffers the wrath of the critics more than Edward Lionheart. His Shakespearean company is drug over hot coals and razor wire by the entire Critics Circle - the poshest of the posh critics. When he loses their coveted Critics Choice award to a 'neophyte,' he can no longer bear it, and lavishes the critics with a hammy rendition of Hamlet before plunging off their penthouse balcony to his death."
"Brutal."
"Indeed. Sometime later, members of the Circle begin to die in horrible fashions. Their deaths are inspired by the gory demises fashioned by Shakespeare himself. Of course, everyone would suspect Lionheart, save the buffering factor of his own corporeal end."
"So did you just pull spoiler on me, or is it a punch-less who-done-it?"
"Oh, it's no mystery. Now I admit, this film does have a few flaws - such as the fact that no one bothered to look into Lionheart's demise more thoroughly. Also, his ability to escape from dramatic assaults takes some suspension of disbelief. Although they do manage to eschew much of it to his mad brilliance. Of course, the biggest curiosity - not a technical one anyhow - is how a man of such charismatic intelligence manages not to realize that he's a corny, scene-chewer of epic proportions."
"You know men and their egotistical pride."
"So there are some flaws, a couple of plot holes, but -"
"But..."
"Put it this way, the film's pluses distinctly outweigh its negatives."
"Such as?"
"Well, I already mentioned the stellar acting. Diana Rigg (Emma Peel from the Avengers) is ravishing and her acting is subtle, yet lush - at times. Handry and a cast of veteran thesps. also provide solid and fascinating characters, between the haute couture Circle and the befuddled police.
"But the true feast is our consummate chiller actor Mr. Price. Its a perfect role for a man of his ability and he takes the ham-sandwich and transforms it into gourmet fare. Of course all ready known for chewing the occasional scene (brilliantly!) he becomes the maw of a black hole - enveloping our attention.
"In addition to thespic glory, it has superb set design and the set pieces abound with sublime Shakespearean menace. And does the stage ever run red. We have surgically severed heads, impalings and the odd electrocution - all wickedly executed.
"Director Douglas Hickcox knows how to pace a film as well. The veteran auteur sets up solid camera angles and framing to create proper menace and spectacle. Writer Anthony Greville-Bell's gallows humor plays well off the pomposity of the major characters and also the suspenseful under- and overtones. They really pull off a genuinely entertaining story on top of everything else.
"Plus, I'll never forget the disgusted looks Lionheart shoots his assistant during the bedroom surgery. Classic!"
She looked at me with piqued interest.
"If I didn't know any better, I would have thought you were reviewing it."
"Yeah I suppose so."
"Sounds like a hell of a horror-comedy, though. And I don't use that combination lightly. Where can I find it?"
"It's out on DVD (MGM's Midnight Movies imprint - some impressive films, thoroughly unimpressive features). Shouldn't be to hard to find. But, since you're my friend, I'll lend you my copy."
"Thank you kindly, I look forward to the massacre."
"As well you ought to."

Can Gonzo Surf?

Can Gonzo Surf?

Radiation seeps from the computer screen, shooting veins across my eyes. Bullet-sweat lands in great inverted craters on the keyboard as I divine the future of Gonzo from a glorified television – this Literary Journalism which clings like gum to the sole of my soul. What becomes of this, bastion of high-energy prosodic reportage – this heritage which lurks around history’s corner, flecking good old Washoe newsman Samuel Clemens on the lapel as to say Thank you? This narrative investigation was embraced by Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, and now spirals haphazardly into the future on the backs of Eric Schlosser, David Foster Wallace and Adrian LeBlanc. The cursor slaps at my bilious eyes – where does New Journalism go from here? To a vast, figurative spider web, whose silky electronic strands caress our shimmering blue orb; to citizens who hunch – much like me – over their keyboard; to reporters clutching for a life-preserver of historical relevance in an oceanic deluge of information – these places may well be Gonzo’s new home.

Now, now, I see your question mark-emblazoned retinas – mostly “what in the hell is he yammering on about?” From any pair of lips – Literary Journalism, New Journalism, New New Journalism, Gonzo, etc. – all sound relatively homophonic. It’s all about stuffing news through a literary meat grinder – “mixing the content of reporting …with the ‘objective reality of journalism’ and the ‘subjective reality of the novel’” (Campbell, Martin & Fabos, 2010, p. 259). Like they say, New Journalism takes the naked truth of the “news” and wraps it in a stylish narrative ensemble – making sure to pull its sociopolitical underwear on first. You see, standard journalistic procedure doesn’t much cotton to invectives such as this. While many correspondents craft sparkling, stripped-down reports in a daily paper variety – they get fenced in “by a rigorous information imperative… which…leaves other levels of meaning unexplored. [Literary Journalism] call[s] on more complex language and forms” (Abrahamson, 1991). This kind of limit – prescribed by the VIPs of journalistic integrity – sometimes leaves a reader huddled for warmth under a threadbare tarp of impersonal data. Literary Journalism combats this by dismantling that stubborn-old inverted pyramid, and rebuilding it as a shimmering landscape.

So how did this boulder begin its downhill rampage? Literary Journalism was first coddled in the prescient brain-pans of Augustus Baldwin, Henry David Thoreau and Steven Crane (Hartsock, 1951). With the US audience lusting for adventure, it was Samuel Clemens, via one Mark Twain, who really set literary journalism on fire. “Clemens sought to move his reader [away] from decadent romanticism to realism” (Steinbrink, n.d.). Much like today, his audience sopped up “rough and tumble” adventures from an untamed country. Mr. Clemens felt that more pressing issues attended denizens of these young states, but knew all too well that a writer sans audience is better known as a hobo. Splicing his literate wit to his journalistic moxy and creating one Mark Twain – a roving southern reporter at large, he sought to satirize the ever-living hell out of relevant issues. “Twain confronted the problems of slavery, war and deadbeat parenting without ever preaching to his devoted readers” (Hart, 2006). He understood that by dazzling your average peruser with romantic situations and littering symbolism, metaphor and irony throughout his articles – by the time they realized they were questioning the status quo they were far too amused to care. Between Twain, Dickens and Upton Sinclair – the whole world feasted on Literary Journalism for a time. But like any popular style, periods of disinterest plagued the form.

The turbulence of the 60s instigated Literary Journalism’s come-back du jour. It hadn’t exactly vanished like a poltergeist into history’s ether, but it looked a little vacant around the eyes. Hemingway and others tossed accelerants into creative journalism’s fire from time to time. But it took the 60s bursting through the 50s repressive chains to stoke it properly. The creatively named New Journalists popped up in droves –the likes of Truman Capote, Jane Didion and Tom Wolfe – wrote stylish nonfiction in inky torrents. From these New Journalists (christened from an anthology of the same name, edited by Tom Wolfe) arose a kinetic style – a “hyper reality where exaggeration serves to underscore rather than obscure the terms by which we live” (Steinbrink, n.d.). Hunter S. Thompson’s Gonzo reportage overran the lethargic media sheepdogs, as they bayed pastorally at history’s passing cars, while supposedly tending flock. Gonzo Journalism’s hyperbole and exuberant excess characterizes Thompson’s headfirst dive into the murky recesses of American culture. “[Gonzo Journalism] carries the tenets of New Journalism to – and then beyond their logical limits. It’s aggressively subjective, intensely imaginative, determinedly iconoclastic…unremittingly ‘literary’” (Steinbrink, n.d.). It flouts customary journalism’s ideas of objective truth and constraints of ‘who, what, where, when, and why’ – firing erratically into our society’s broadside for the ‘how come’ angle. Gonzo’s context is life – it eats, sleeps and breathes the news.

This brings us back to my chair, my desk and my increasingly furrowed brow – as I hunch over my computer, wishing I could wipe that smug look from my monitor’s sparkling interface. What time is it? Where was I going with all this hogwash? Ah, yes – the next phase. Surging ahead on time’s unyielding river, we moor our stalwart vessel in the early 90s, the dawn of the (also imaginatively nicknamed) New New Journalists. New² draws a whisper-thin line between New Journalists and themselves, the ‘Whose afraid of Thomas Wolfe’ school – lauded by acolytes of John McPhree and Robert Boynton. Their journalism is based on osmosis. . For her book “Random Family” Adrian LeBlanc immersed herself in the lives of a convicted drug lord and his extended family from the South Bronx. “She [LeBlanc] was present for prison visits, welfare appointments, and parent teacher conferences. She attended a master’s program in law at Yale…to understand her subject’s trials and sentencing” (Cohen, 2003). She didn’t just write the story, she became it – to help us flesh-bags better understand one another. New² Journalism eschews Gonzo’s more grandiose elements in favor of a realistic approach. They may not tear ass around Nevada in a red convertible, but they certainly sacrifice themselves to the intense deity of highly detail-oriented reporting. “The New New Journalists draw on their predecessors’ literary innovations but tend more toward…stories of the ‘disenfranchised’ and chronicle ‘ordinary experience’ instead of chasing ‘outlandish scenarios’” (Jack, 2005). They sift through the details, shaking out iniquitous fool’s gold for overriding truths. Right on brothers and sisters!

But you know what? That already happened, and is happening right now. We need premonition here – a glimpse down the dusky road of Literary Journalism and I’m not calling some jabbering psychic hotline. All we need for foreshadowing is the screen in front of us. New Journalism’s future is strewn across cyberspace (does anyone call it cyberspace anymore?) – a writhing Jackson Pollack canvas with citizens and writers for paint spatters. One unique challenge confronting Literary Journalists is subjectivity. Sometimes you want to scream: ‘don’t take my word for it. If you don’t trust me there are other sources.’ The internet offers a trail of links as further, more objective breadcrumbs.

Links to biographical information or other works by the author can show a pattern of concern or bias toward a certain issue and can enlighten on the expertise of the writer. The Web offers…access to information that can allow…an informed decision as to that vision. (Royal, 2000)

Crosschecking via similar articles, we the loyal reader gain context – essentially meaning that an author doesn’t erroneously entitle us to the Golden Gate Bridge – literarily speaking. The nature of this marvelous, binary spider web allows us to refute Jane Nonfiction’s work instantaneously – thrusting the reader into the very subtext of journalism. As the web spreads its glittering tendrils, users across the globe are free to wriggle creatively, giving data-thirsty spiders the ability to absorb communal nutrients. “The Weblog community adds depth, analysis, alternative perspectives, foreign views, and occasionally first-person accounts that contravene reports in the mainstream press.” (Lasica, 2003, p. 74). Free blog sites let anyone from a hobo in a public library to a cellphone-clad Malay upload an irate exploration of public restroom shortages or footage of a tornado ousting an apartment complex. Sure, some of these reports might lack on the journalistic, or the vocabulary side – but let’s face it, free sites offer no paychecks. It’s a labor of love. Gonzo seethes forth, its words bleeding from life itself. What better creative landscape is there than the vibrant, thrumming backyard of several billion neighbors? There’s room for everything from an hourly tweet to a colossal manifesto the blissful summer rolls at the restaurant down the street. The best part is that we can ingest any or all of these stories whenever we choose – with no cost to arboreal life. But Gonzo, as life, is not transfixed inside a computer. We must combine our flesh and blood lives with data in the proper order – life to computer to life – to evolve Literary Journalism.

So listen up: My eyes burn from all this supposition – ogling a computer screen all day doesn’t help either. As the codger down the street says ‘you dig?’ New Journalism examines the news further and deeper than your average claptrap newspapers have wiggle room for. Its pedigree belongs with literary greatness – Twain, Crane, Bierce and the lot of them. Norman Mailer and his ilk held the door open, essentially writing novels about news. Hunter S Thompson’s tore the hinges clean off reporting – blending life and fiction into his Gonzo stew. Those crazy New News followed, spending years of their lives, supping on every conceivable angle – regurgitating the important aspects of our lives. And now, in our digital era we globetrot through cerebra, making our lives accessible through tendrils of internet; melding news with our expressions and impressions of this big ball of blue-green wonder. Don’t that just beat all!

References

Abrahamson, D. (1991). Teaching Journalism as Literature and Possibilities of Artistic Growth. Journalism Educator, 46(2), 54-60. Retrieved from Education Research Complete database.

Campbell, R., Martin, C., & Fabos, B. (2010) Media and Culture: An Introduction to Mass Communication. Boston, MA: Bedford/St. Martin’s.

Cohen, S. (2003). Bronx Story. Atlantic Unbound. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/past/unbound/interviews/int2003-04-24.htm

Hart, M. (2006). Make 'em laugh. Writer, 119(3), 48-50. Retrieved from Humanities International Complete database.

Hartsock, J. (1951). The History of American Literary Journalism: The Emergence of a Modern Narrative Form. Sheridan Books. Chelsea, MI.

Jack, S. (2005). Gonzos for the 21st Century. New York Times Book Review, 22. Retrieved from Academic Search Complete database.

Lasica, J.D. (2003). Blogs and Journalism Need Each Other. Nieman Reports. Retrieved from http://socialmediaclub.pbworks.com/f/blog_and_journalism.pdf

Royal, C. (2000). The Future of Literary Journalism on the Internet. Retrieved from http://cindyroyal.com/litjour_croyal.doc

Steinbrink, J (n.d.). Mark Twain and Hunter Thompson: Countinuity and Change in American “Outlaw Journalism.” Retrieved from http://www.compedit.com/mark_twain_and_hunter_thompson.htm