SLANG ACTIVITY

3/30/2012

This is what Gatsby's car might have looked like. Except with more "triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes" and maybe "terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns." You know.

Slang Activity Directions

1. Finish your creative piece, with 1920's slang. (Handout available on Weekly Assignments page if you didn't get it in class.)

2. Post your story in the comments section by Sunday at midnight.

3. Reply to at least one of your classmate's stories.

Important:

Story must be appropriate for consumption on a public, educational blog.

But you knew that.

I look forward to reading!

21 Comments

Laura

3/31/2012 02:32:59 am

This is the letter Myrtle leaves before she runs out into the street and gets smashed dead.

Dear Wilson,
I am writing to inform you that I will never be coming home again and you can go west or to the Bible belt or wherever you are headed in God’s creation all by yourself. So when you don’t find me locked up her like some pathetic animal or dumb dora, don’t bother searching. Well the truth is, I ain’t no dumb dora and you ain’t nothing more than a flat tire. So there. In fact, you’re all wet; I never loved you anyways. Our entire marriage is complete applesauce. And just as a slap in the face, I’ve been going out with a big cheese for quite some time now. He’s quite a darb. Our affair has been beyond hotsy-totsy. He buys me everything I ever could want, which is way more than you were ever good for. You’re just a lousy pushover. Call me a gold digger or whatever, but that just goes to show I’ve got more sense than you could ever pray for. Besides, he thinks I’m peppy. So here I scram, because everything is NOT jake in this stupid smelly garage. I am leaving and getting away from you and your lousy life as fast as my dogs can take me. You just make me want to upchuck. There, I said it. I’m gonna find my cake-eater tonight, because he’s the bee’s knees and I’m stuck on him, not you.
-Your Sheba.

Ms. Draper

4/1/2012 03:57:05 am

Wow, I almost felt sympathy for Myrtle when reading this letter :) Nice work.

Destiny Desroche

4/1/2012 05:29:26 am

SNAP! First of all, I enjoy your little introduction: "...smashed dead." Anyway, this was both amusing an accurate. Even though I know you wrote it, I can see Myrtle saying some of these things, especially the bit about the affair. She obviously enjoys getting whatever she wants, and because Tom is wealthy, she has no reason to deny her attraction. You know, when I was reading this, I didn't know who wrote it and my mind supplied your name. I can tell you had a blast with this assignment.

Nate

3/31/2012 04:44:08 am

This is a letter Tom wrote to Gatsby when he found out Gatsby and Daisy were having an affair.

Dear Mr. Gatsby,
I’ve heard you are quite the cake-eater, being the bee’s knees and all. Throwing parties late at night with your flappers and sheiks without any regard for gatecrashers, in fact I would say you even welcome them. Trying your best to reach the top so that my swanky dumb dora will take notice of you and fall into your arms. You’re so swell, so spiffy in your bright wonderful suits…it really makes me WANT TO UPCHUCK. I’m gagging right now like I’m spifflicated after drinking four glasses of giggle water. It gives me the heebie-jeebies that you honestly thought you had any chance of ever getting my sheba, she may be a pushover but even she would never have a crush on a goofy, flat tire such as yourself. She may have loved you once, but that was then and this is now. Stop dragging your dogs against the wind in the main drag and let the past go. Daisy already did and it is about time you did too. This whole thing is just applesauce.
Sincerely, Tom

Ms. Draper

4/1/2012 03:55:31 am

"Stop dragging your dogs against the wind in the main drag" !!!!

Love it.

Destiny Desroche link

4/1/2012 05:25:26 am

A letter that George Wilson left to Michaelis just before he left in search of Gatsby

Dear Michaelis,
My dear neighbor, this past evening you spent hours in my garage watching me mourn, and yet the only comfort you could offer me was that my lady’s death was “an accident.” I know the truth! I know what happened! Nothing you can say will stop me or make me think any less of my decision. I spoke with her concerning my suspicions, and I must admit that for a moment, I considered her to be a gold digger. She was peppy which made her keen and hotsy-totsy to many a man. However, I quickly realized my mistake in yelling at her. My darling Myrtle was a victim in this cruel world—a pushover and easily seduced by the swanky glamour and riches of a wealthier man. I tried to provide for her and to give her everything she ever wanted, but I wasn’t enough for her. Her vitality and desires were stronger than her understanding of money. For these reasons, I will exact revenge. She was a naïve woman. She didn’t understand. Under the eyes of God, I will deliver justice! You claim that the good Lord, those all-seeing Eyes that watch over the Valley, are mere cheaters. You’re all wet! As I told my dear wife, you can’t hide the truth from God; you can’t fool him! The Eyes see everything and they will help me bump off the lousy monster that killed my gorgeous sheba! While Myrtle was quick to scram and confront the man who lured her into sin, I am confident that her thoughts were pure and that she planned to end their affair. She was innocent! In closing, I have discovered the identity of the murderer. He’s some spiffy man from West Egg and apparently the big cheese of the neighborhood. He deserves what’s coming to him. I’ll destroy this lounge lizard, and then I’ll end all my suffering with a single shot. I thank you again, my friend, for your compassion and attempts to calm me, but my anger cannot die out like a fire on a cool winter’s eve. I pray that I may see you in Heaven someday. Watch your words and don’t lie, obey the Lord’s laws and don’t steal another man’s woman. Remember, the Eyes of God are always watching.

Sincerely,
George Wilson

Ms. Draper

4/1/2012 06:31:59 am

Wow, you really capture the angst of George Wilson! I also think you really captured the importance of Michaelis as a character. I also can't believe I just used the word "capture" twice, but it's been a long weekend so I'm not changing it...

Jenny

4/1/2012 07:12:33 am

SCREECHING

Destiny, this is so lovely; you shouldn't even be allowed to do things like this. I really feel like I understand the character better. And while we're all using "capture," you captured the madness so well that it's easy to see how this (let's get some slang up in here) former pushover could be driven to locking Myrtle away and murdering Gatsby. The excuses you have him make for her...yes, yes, as soon as she died that's how he was thinking. As for "like a fire on a cool winter's eve," STOP. YOU STOP RIGHT THERE. SLOW DOWN, SON.

Destiny Desroche

4/1/2012 07:20:22 am

Um...thanks? I thought this was a mediocre piece of junk, but okay. I'm glad you get where I was going. "Capture" is the word of the day.

Jenny

4/1/2012 07:24:58 am

"I tried to provide for her and to give her everything she ever wanted, but I wasn’t enough for her. Her vitality and desires were stronger than her understanding of money. For these reasons, I will exact revenge. She was a naïve woman. She didn’t understand. Under the eyes of God, I will deliver justice!"

Right there! That is fine literature, my friend. That's how you capture character development. Don't say it was a fluke.

Destiny Desroche

4/1/2012 07:40:03 am

No way. That WAS the biggest fluke. The only reason I was able to capture anything was my undying love for Michaelis. He's my favorite person. I don't know why. That scene killed me.

Jenny

4/1/2012 07:44:28 am

Harboring love for minor characters never, ever ends well.

Casey Rosenberg

4/1/2012 11:04:22 am

WELP.
Stop making me have FEELINGS.
God, you make Wilson sound so freaking psycho in this letter. It's awesome. I love all the references you make to the Eyes of God.
Way to use that symbolism, mate. Well done.

Jenny Jeffrey

4/1/2012 07:04:23 am

((OOPS, I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE SOMETHING EMOTIONAL. I was going to take the Daisy-and-Myrtle prompt and have fun, but no. Would you like some feelings with those emotions?))

((This is pre-novel, and I totally wrote a little background scenery because this is fanfic and I have that kind of power.))

He doesn’t have the words to begin, isn’t sure what to say after “Daisy,” so Gatsby starts penning in the middle of his thought.

“It kills me to think of you across the water, to know when I’m searching for lights that you could be doing the same—that our eyes could meet, and we would never know. You must look out sometimes. I confess that I rather planned on it. When this house is overflowing with rich bootleggers and their dumb doras, I don’t think of them, sated so easily by swanky entertainment and ample giggle juice. I order loud music and stage lightshows and hope you can see it from the corner of your eye, maybe hear about it and feel just slightly tempted to find out which big cheese is getting gypped out of his money for fleeting recreation. I picture you gate-crashing with grace, every eye turning to you, some lounge lizard trying to feed you a line—and then our eyes will meet for real.

“I’m not such a pushover that I’ve been fooling myself about your life. I know you’re married, and I know it won’t matter, Daisy, not between us. I have to say that it bothers me, because it does: some drugstore cowboy carrying a torch for you, you entering a loveless marriage like a common gold-digger—which you aren’t. You thought you had to move on, and I understand. You couldn’t have known that I’d change for you.

“I have, you know—have changed. I’ve done what must be done to move up, and I’ve done it for you. I have the status, the money, whatever you need. It hasn’t been smooth, and I worry some days that I’m barely a step above shifty deals in dim speak-easies, but you can forgive me, I’m sure, for getting involved, bumping off the ceaseless series of fall guys who were destined to that sort of ending even without my participation. These things are inevitable, so why not try to make some good out of what’s already screwy? I’m doing what I can. I’m doing everything I can.”

Gatsby lifts the page, holds it unshaken in two upraised palms as one might raise a sacrificial offering, then brings the hands together and crumples it. He had gotten too desperate in those last lines. He doesn’t want that, so another letter is left unsent to the flame on the other Egg.

Destiny Desroche

4/1/2012 07:14:20 am

Well...thanks for all the emotions. I love this. It's deep and it delves into the mind of the characters without going out of character. It works with the plot, it's well-written (did we have any doubts?), and it works as a pre-novel piece. Once again, thanks for making my letter look miserable. XD
By the way, I'm never getting over "ample giggle juice."

Jenny

4/1/2012 07:22:14 am

"Ample giggle juice" as a phrase is like "ample bosom" with alcohol instead of--WHAT AM I SAYING? This is not appropriate for consumption by high school seniors; they might get ideas.

Self-deluded Gatsby is my favorite Gatsby.

Casey Rosenberg

4/1/2012 11:06:17 am

Actual crying, actual feelings.
You need to STOP.
If I didn't have feelings about Daisy and Gatsby before, I do NOW. Especially given certain events that happen in the END OF THE BOOK.
Gatsby just sounds SO SAD IN THIS.
The switch between the writing in the letter and the narrative causes me physical pain, not because it's bad because it isn't no matter what you say, but because it makes me FEEL FEELINGS. And those hurt.
Why do we have them again?

Casey Rosenberg

4/1/2012 09:30:20 am

[[Am I the only one who didn't write a letter? Oh well. I loved writing this. Here's hoping I have enough of the words. Enjoy.]]

The Old Metropole was a small, shady establishment in the in-between part of New York; far enough from the main drag to be called far: on one side was the cosmopolitan city full of glitz and glamor, but it also bordered a dark back alley. I saw two dogs in the gloom, fighting over a bone they fished from the garbage. It may as well have been human for all my knowledge.

The Metropole acted as a sort of middle ground, a border, a sign telling me it was my last chance to turn in and have a drink with my back to the valley of ashes--pretend as though I belonged to the ritzy society I have been watching from afar.

Throwing caution to the wind, I straightened the collar of my pale suit and entered the Metropole.

I scanned the dimly-lit bar, on the slim chance I might glimpse Jordan through the haze of cigarette smoke. I wasn't keen on the whole atmosphere; it was reminiscent of one of Gatsby's parties, but without even an attempt at the illusion of class. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and the whispered lust of flappers.

The last person I expected to see here was Wolfsheim.

I stopped dead in my tracks. He must have smelled my fear, for his large, bulbous nose suddenly twitched and he looked up from his drink. "Hey, you there," he muttered. "You look awful familiar."

"Oh, did you mean me?" I said, waving my hands, trying for a look of innocent surprise. "No. You don't know me. You must have me confused with someone else--"

But it was too late. Wolfsheim's beady eyes flashed with recognition. "Come over here."

Reluctantly, I crossed the polished parquet floor and took a seat beside Gatsby's colleague.

Wolfsheim raised his hand. "One for my friend here." The barman nodded silently, throwing a rag over his shoulder.

"I told you I knew a better bar, Nick."

I was surprised he remembered my name. Our exchange over lunch had been so brief. It felt like weeks ago.

"Lotta memories in this place, Carraway. I remember when I first met Gatsby. This place was a dump before we started workin' together. A lousy, burned-out warehouse it was, an' now look at it." He waved his arms. "It's the cat's meow! We're rakin' it in. Gatsby and I, we got it made wi' this scheme."

I stared uncomfortably into my highball, watched the glass perspire in my hand. Wolfsheim was laughing now.

"Simple, really," he sniffed. "We supply the hooch, sell it here and in other such gin mills, water it down a bit, sell it at exorbitant prices. An' these goofy gatecrashers don't know the difference. Couldn't tell pure whiskey if it came up and bit them on the--" A particularly-ossified lounge lizard stumbled into Wolfshiem. "Watch where you're goin', 'fore I bump you off, you lousy..." he yelled, shaking his fist as the man scampered away. "Where was I?"

"Uh..."

"I remember. Her name was Sukey Tawdry. This worthless hoofer tried to gyp me out of half a shipment of the giggle-water. Good stuff, too. Tried goin' to the police. Musta forgot we own tha police," Wolsheim laughed with a crooked smile and drained his glass. "It worked out alright. We found a place to settle our differences, once and for all. Kept it copacetic an' buried the whole bloody thing under the caraway."

I listened in abject horror.

"No one even went looking."

"I-I don't..." I was flustered, I admit, shaking in my shoes. The man was terrifyingly sly.

I hadn't touched the highball.

"I really should be going."

"You should really have a seat."

"No, really. I need to get back. Thanks for the drink." I got up as though to leave, but Wolfsheim snapped his fingers and I found my path suddenly blocked by two men, sharply dressed, their eyes hidden in shadows cast by the brims of their caps. I stood out like a ghost against their dark suits as they shoved me roughly back onto the barstool.

"Don't be rude. I ain't done talkin' yet," Wolfsheim said, setting his glass down with an almost uncharacteristic grace. Wolfshiem's jovial manner had changed to one of carefully-controlled hostility as he glowered up at me behind flaring nostrils.

"Listen, kiddo. You be careful who you talk to. If you were to let somethin' slip, I might come around someday and oh, I dunno..." he opened his suit jacket, revealing a small, dark pistol, its ornately-detailed barrel smiling in the dim glow of the bar lights. "My hand might slip as well." Wolfshiem cleared his throat. "Gatsby's my partner. I don't need you to be spreading no rumors, least of all ones that are true. I think you get my point."

I nodded. Had I been holding the highball, I would have dropped it.

"Finish your drink. I paid good money for it."

Jenny Jeffrey

4/1/2012 09:50:56 am

YOU

STOP

Nick in a white suit? That's not a reference to anything. -cough-

((Okay, so this is definitely not the comment for credit.))

Destiny Desroche

4/1/2012 09:54:46 am

Forget what Jenny said about my letter; this is literature. Amazing. I loved the mystery and shadiness of the bar, whoops, I mean, the Metropole. I don’t even know where to begin. We don’t know a lot about Wolfsheim, so you were able to develop his character as sinister and dark. You created a setting that was realistic, accurate to the period, and capable of being a part of the plot of this book. I could see Nick walking into a shady bar and meeting Shady McShades (Wolfsheim). I think you have enough words, but I wasn’t really counting, so meh. Either way, you integrated the words into the story in such a way that I almost didn’t notice them. Well done!

Casey Rosenberg

4/1/2012 11:03:20 am

D'awww! Thank you! I was a bit worried. But this was so much fun it should have been illegal. I'm so glad you liked it!
(totally not the comment for credit--I'mma comment on like a million other things too)

SLANG ACTIVITY

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