Baron Tyrone
I began writing the thesis today. The goal is a round 100 pages. I have some 20 and it's still the introductory chapter. I'll keep hope alive. The sad fact is that I wasn't really thinking, so on occasion, the words simply run over each other in a hectic tumble-orgy to complete an idea that sounded good in my head. I have all these awesome chapter names like "The Specter of Class" and "The Web They Weave" and "My Wife, The Tramp." I also noticed that I had allowed a few popular culture references to slip in. One of the most interesting to me is this:
"Still largely an unrepresented minority, they have not yet surfaced in popular culture or public hearings as prevalently as other immigrant pools. But make no mistake; though the public may not hear them, and their voices, when used, may fall upon deaf ears, their muffled sounds are not silence. They could work as a domestic servant in Boston, yet already have earned a high school degree, or they could be a student trying to take advantage of the American system in Los Angeles, or they could be a New York taxi driver with a Ph.D. in Engineering. They are not only invisible, but if one were to ask them, they are fleeting, as they arrive and intend to stay no longer than necessary to improve their financial standing."
Can you guess that orator? Here's a hint:
At this rate, I might as well offer all my friends citations. You give me a quote or an inside joke, make it at least marginally relevant to sociology, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and a citation in an paper that adheres to the strict guidelines of the American Association of Anthropology. I only ask you possess a Ph.D. and/or a strong willingness to learn. Kickbacks would be appreciated as well, if you happen to be a baron of any railroads, refineries or steel mills.
I went to McDonald's a few days ago. I don't know the set-up or the reason why, but it's not important to the story. The issue is that I've always faced an uphill battle while dealing with any McDonald's in Brazil. On this particular occasion, it all began when I asked the lady at the register for a milk shake. And asked again. And again, up to the fourth time. I don't know why she didn't understand me; I even pronounced it like a Brazilian would the first three times. She told me to hold on while I was still talking and motioned to the manager, and, in a supreme moment of ignorance, called me a gringo. So I get pissed and tell her I don't need him or his charity, and he's not my real dad.
He waddles over anyway, fresh after a lunch that was likely heavy on krill and various saltwater fish. He begins to stutter off the names of various menu items that he learned in English 101, and I keep talking to him in Portuguese, telling him that I just want a God damned chocolate milk shake (um maldito MILQUI SHAKEE!) So he gets confused, somehow not hearing the Portuguese and various curses upon his house, and he turns to the cashier and asks her whether I speak Portuguese or English. She shrugs and makes the "I don't know" face, and then I turn back to him just in time to hear his rant about their selection of chicken McNuggets.
Fucking chicken McNuggets.
I politely interrupt him so that I could scream in his face, telling him not to speak English. There was this young couple beside me, and I could feel that they were staring at me, but in hindsight I recognize that they were probably more interested in getting their apple pies in a timely fashion--something else which is impossible at McDonald's. It was about this time that the entire staff had gathered behind him and the cashier, as if it were some fight in middle school. I don't really tend to yell at people anyway, much less over milk shakes, but I guess that's what happens when you're roaring with the fury of a thousand mishandled orders, a thousand orphaned pickles. He slowly began to assume that I speak Portuguese and don't understand his English. He turned back to the cashier and complained to her about not attempting to understand customers or something; I don't know, I wasn't able to follow it because I don't speak Portuguese. But anyway, I pointed at the drawing twice, knowing that even dogs know how to follow fingers. After everything had been settled, and everyone had gone back to studying, I told her that I wanted a grande. It was only to be expected that I received a small in the end.
And so it was, a thousand and one orphaned pickles.
"Still largely an unrepresented minority, they have not yet surfaced in popular culture or public hearings as prevalently as other immigrant pools. But make no mistake; though the public may not hear them, and their voices, when used, may fall upon deaf ears, their muffled sounds are not silence. They could work as a domestic servant in Boston, yet already have earned a high school degree, or they could be a student trying to take advantage of the American system in Los Angeles, or they could be a New York taxi driver with a Ph.D. in Engineering. They are not only invisible, but if one were to ask them, they are fleeting, as they arrive and intend to stay no longer than necessary to improve their financial standing."
Can you guess that orator? Here's a hint:
At this rate, I might as well offer all my friends citations. You give me a quote or an inside joke, make it at least marginally relevant to sociology, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and a citation in an paper that adheres to the strict guidelines of the American Association of Anthropology. I only ask you possess a Ph.D. and/or a strong willingness to learn. Kickbacks would be appreciated as well, if you happen to be a baron of any railroads, refineries or steel mills.
I went to McDonald's a few days ago. I don't know the set-up or the reason why, but it's not important to the story. The issue is that I've always faced an uphill battle while dealing with any McDonald's in Brazil. On this particular occasion, it all began when I asked the lady at the register for a milk shake. And asked again. And again, up to the fourth time. I don't know why she didn't understand me; I even pronounced it like a Brazilian would the first three times. She told me to hold on while I was still talking and motioned to the manager, and, in a supreme moment of ignorance, called me a gringo. So I get pissed and tell her I don't need him or his charity, and he's not my real dad.
He waddles over anyway, fresh after a lunch that was likely heavy on krill and various saltwater fish. He begins to stutter off the names of various menu items that he learned in English 101, and I keep talking to him in Portuguese, telling him that I just want a God damned chocolate milk shake (um maldito MILQUI SHAKEE!) So he gets confused, somehow not hearing the Portuguese and various curses upon his house, and he turns to the cashier and asks her whether I speak Portuguese or English. She shrugs and makes the "I don't know" face, and then I turn back to him just in time to hear his rant about their selection of chicken McNuggets.
Fucking chicken McNuggets.
I politely interrupt him so that I could scream in his face, telling him not to speak English. There was this young couple beside me, and I could feel that they were staring at me, but in hindsight I recognize that they were probably more interested in getting their apple pies in a timely fashion--something else which is impossible at McDonald's. It was about this time that the entire staff had gathered behind him and the cashier, as if it were some fight in middle school. I don't really tend to yell at people anyway, much less over milk shakes, but I guess that's what happens when you're roaring with the fury of a thousand mishandled orders, a thousand orphaned pickles. He slowly began to assume that I speak Portuguese and don't understand his English. He turned back to the cashier and complained to her about not attempting to understand customers or something; I don't know, I wasn't able to follow it because I don't speak Portuguese. But anyway, I pointed at the drawing twice, knowing that even dogs know how to follow fingers. After everything had been settled, and everyone had gone back to studying, I told her that I wanted a grande. It was only to be expected that I received a small in the end.
And so it was, a thousand and one orphaned pickles.