Language Is An Innate Function Of Human Nature - 1955 Words

There is much discrepancy among linguists regarding the origins of language. Most linguists argue that only specific influences gave rise to the language system that exists today. Some linguists, like Noam Chomsky, argue that language is an innate function of human nature while others, like Daniel Everett, posit that language is solely a cultural product. As a result of this debate, the question arises: What are the true origins of language? The human need to communicate and to express ideas is a true instinct that leads to the development of language. Therefore, rather to say that language has a single origin, it is more probable to say that language is a synergistic product of established human neurological and biological processes that†¦show more content†¦They also state that Lucy, the earliest human ancestor who dates back three million years ago, possessed a hyoid bone underneath the tongue which is essential for speech (Lull, 52). In addition to the physical anatomica l evidence, there is neurological evidence that substantiates the human instinct to vocalize and to communicate. The FOXP2 gene is genetic evidence of the innate function of language (Everett, 70). Although this gene is not solely responsible for speech and language, the FOXP2 gene â€Å"influences the capacity to learn and use language by orchestrating the functionality of a network of genes† (Lull, 52). Furthermore, research has been done on Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area, parts of the brain in which Pierre Paul Broca, a French physician, and Carl Wernicke, a German physician, have done extensive studies in regards to brain function and language. Both physicians discovered that certain sectors of the brain such as the frontal lobe and posterior are involved with the development of language. Absence of the FOXP2 gene or damage to areas of the brain directly affects the ability to speak and may result in aphasia, a language disorder that detrimentally affects the ability to use language

Zias Profile Personal Interview Essay - 1610 Words

Many people are become and are shaped by their country, beliefs, and values. Zia is an international student from Pakistan who is studying to be able to join the civil service in Pakistan. His ultimate goal is to teach political philosophy. Because he is from Pakistan he has certain different beliefs and values, from Americans, that model his behavior and interactions with others, but I won’t be talking about the person he is in Pakistan. No, I will be writing about the person Zia is here at Concordia College-Moorhead and the impact he has had on those around him. Each person interviewed has known him from at least the second week he has been here at Concordia, and to truly show you Zia’s character here at Concordia I will show you what†¦show more content†¦What stuck out to me though was how modest he was (refer to the interviews). If I had to describe Zia in one word it would be modest. Although Taswar and Tenzin Nosong do not have a definitive first impression on Zia, Alex Cyusa and I do. When he first got here one would say he was very reserved (Cyusa). Alex Cyusa goes on to say that Zia was not shy but he could tell he was reserved. In every interview that I did, the interviewers all said that Zia is an outgoing person. From my first meeting with him, I can definitely say he was somewhat reserved. I actually think he was upset with me because I said I was not a fan of the â€Å"Kite Runner,† which he really enjoys. Although he was upset he did not give me horrible looks or did he try to belittle me. It should me how much maturity he has. When Alex Cyusa mentioned Zia’s maturity, it made me realize how much maturity he does have. Alex even goes on to say that Zia is someone he would be able to go to for advice on an issue or to help answer a question. While being at Concordia he has had an impact on his friends (the people interviewed), including me. All his friends, in one way or another said that Zia had helped them. Taswar said Zia helped him with money sometime. That Zia also helped increase his social life. Alex never stated that Zia helped him, but, from what he said,

Perception And Perception Of Perception - 882 Words

Perception has a few definitions; the most frequently used definition is what we become aware of through our senses. However, perception is not just what our senses tell us, it is our reaction to the feelings we sense. Perception just happens; it is something we cannot control. The mind tells us how we feel before we even realize what is happening. When people say they are good judges of character, they base their decisions on what they initially see. Appearance plays a huge role in how we perceive someone to be. For instance, a long, shaggy haired man, who wears dirty clothes, brings our mind to think that this man is lazy, or even homeless. Maybe this man is homeless because of his laziness, the specifics do not hold much value but the point speaks volumes about how we judge, or ‘perceive’ something. The judgments are not reserved just for people; we judge objects and other people’s thoughts as well. When walking down the street, the eyes wander, and many things draw their attention, and the objects they see are immediately deemed safe, unsafe, fun, not fun, etc. Thoughts are similar, we do not believe someone’s thoughts are the same as our own, we think differently. Perception is unique to each individual. People do not perceive things the same as their neighbors, and vice versa. The truth is, perception is something that develops over a lifespan. Perception is our reaction to instances based on our past experiences. The notion that perception is a reaction toShow MoreRelatedPerception And Perception Of Perception1727 Words   |  7 Pagesbetween people cause many problems which is relevant to a concept called perception. In this essay, the concept of perception will be described through academic definitions and knowledge also with practical examples. The main objective is to provide readers with a better on what perception is, why it is important to the study of Organization Behaviour (OB) and the effects and implications of it onto managers’ job. Perception is defined as the process in which perceivers give meaning to the thingsRead MorePerception And Perception Of Perception848 Words   |  4 Pagesbackgrounds, and traits of the self. However, before we get to know a person, we use perception to categorize them into a certain role. It often causes us to assume that the other party is superior or inferior to us. We do this more often than not without even realizing we’ve engaged in perception. Perception played a very large part in the first meeting of my best friend, Cinda, and I. In Chapter 4: Interpersonal Perception (Floyd, 2011), there are many examples of the ways in which people instantlyRead MorePerception And Perception Of Perception1053 Words   |  5 Pagescaptivates you. Since the very moment that this tree captured your attention, perception has been at work. Perception has allowed for you to interpret this one particular occurrence and, in turn, experience life. The process of perception helps us to experience the world at large. It is our perceptions that make up our conscious experience and make it possible for us to interact with the people and objects that surround us. Perception, in psychological terms, can be defined as the process of organizing,Read MorePerception And Perception Of Perception Essay1959 Words   |  8 PagesPerception serves more than one purpose to the human experience. Wikipedia defines Perception as - the organization, identification, and interpretation of sensory information in order to represent and understand the environment. This definition unfortunately describes only one of the services perception provides. I would like to offer instead the definition - Perception is a collection of data filters, some natural but most created by education and experience, which serve to shape and enforce limitsRead MorePerception And Perception Of Perception1154 Words   |  5 PagesTo know how perception interacts with the brain to create reality we first have to better understand perception. Perception is the active process of selecting, organizing, and interpreting the information brought to the brain by the senses. Perception is an important part of creating reality because, your reality is determined by your memories, beliefs, culture, life experiences, as well as your senses and perception. Although sensation and perception work together to help create our reality theyRead MorePerception And Perception Of Perception1782 Words   |  8 Pages Perception has played an immense role in shaping what it means to be human. Our ability to perceive has given humans the ability to cognate at a higher level than any other animal and has given us the evolutionary advantage needed to progress our species. However, as technology has advanced and caught up to humans in the ability to think, it presses us to think of another dividing line that makes us into humans and leaves technology behind as just robots. This line is our ability to react emotionallyRead MorePerception And Perception Of Perception Checking942 Words   |  4 PagesPerception Checking Perception checking is a cooperative approach to communication that provides accuracy instead of assuming our first interpretation is correct. It minimizes defensiveness through face saving and requires both nonverbal and verbal elements to match. The benefits of perception checking is to help us have a better understanding of a message, so both persons can mutually relate and to reduce conflict so we don t jump to conclusions. In the perception process reality is constructedRead MorePerception And Perception Of Interpersonal Perception973 Words   |  4 PagesI really enjoyed reading the chapter about interpersonal perception. I didn’t realize until after reading chapter four there were so many different aspects to the interpersonal perception process. It was really interesting figuring out some of these interpersonal perception aspects that apply to my life. The three terms I would like to discuss in this paper are overattributing positively bias and negativity bias. The first concept I would like to address is overattributing. The book defines overRead MoreEssay on The Perception of the Perception953 Words   |  4 PagesThe Perception of the Perception The subjective nature of perception is an inborn characteristic humanity. However, humans found the ability to still classify knowledge under two categories, objective and subjective. Knowledge in the subjective sense, or subjective knowledge for short, is the individual knowledge that each person gains through personal experiences. Artists often try to portray a scene that has an emotional and psychological effect on the viewer, by drawingRead MorePerception And Perception Of Color1360 Words   |  6 PagesPerception of Color What if I told you that my red was different from your red? The first thing you might wonder is how I could possibly know this or you may even want to see evidence to support my claim. However, experts have shown several different ways to convey that we do, in fact, perceive colors differently. Few things have been proven in distinguishing perception, but there are copious amounts of evidence suggesting that we perceive color differently because of our brains, past experiences

Essay on Odgen v Gibbons (1824) - 1527 Words

During the eighteen hundreds how did the simple transportation device of steamboats affect the political makeup in the United States government? Throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries the use of steamboats grew heavily throughout the nation of the United States, as well as world wide. During this time the United States was in desperate need of a new sufficient source of transportation, the steamboat allowed a large expansion of the growing nation, through its many natural waterways, as well as man made canals that were soon constructed. Serving as a great tool for businesses and the development of the United States economically and socially, these vessels also contributed to the evolution of the government and its†¦show more content†¦It is believed by many people that Robert Fulton was the first to invent the steamboat, although he was truly the one to create the first competent vessel, designed and created well enough to make decent voyages, including figh ting currents. In the oncoming future, there were still plenty of modifications to be made, but Fulton along with Robert R. Livingston brought their new steam ship plans to the United States from France; after Livingston obtained a New York state steam boat monopoly, in hope to control the water ways of one of the largest ports of the time. In 1798 Livingston received this monopoly allowing him the exclusive ability of navigating all boats that might be propelled by steam, on all waters within the territory, or jurisdiction of the State, for the term of twenty years. Not only did this act give Fulton and Livingston the complete control of navigating the waters of New York State but the ability to also seize any other vessel operated by others with out the license that only these two men could distribute as well as the collecting of a fine for the penalty of operating a vessel against the law. The partnership and monopolistic control of Livingston and Fulton began on the maiden voyag e of their one hundred and fifty foot steamship known as the Clermont on August 18, 1807. It was an immediate success as the partners were not only able to meet their expectations of completingShow MoreRelatedPolitics And Action : Aiding Disaster Victims1601 Words   |  7 Pagesthe national government in anyway. †¢ There are four major issues that have occurred which have come to define the way the national and state government work together: o Implied powers- The earliest issue in this matter was very early. ï‚ § McCulloch v. Maryland- An 1819 Supreme Court decision that established the supremacy of the national government over state governments; the court, led by Chief Justice John Marshall, held that Congress had certain implied powers in addition to the powers enumeratedRead MoreFederal Power Vs. Federal Government1206 Words   |  5 Pagesof McCulloch v. Maryland in 1819, stated that Congress could make laws that are necessary and proper; this fed Congress’s powers. Marshall’s court also didn’t allow the states to interpret the Constitution differently than the Supreme Court during this era. He did not believe that it was the courts’ obligation to protect the states but to instead protect national power against states overreach (Dautrich Yalof, 2013). During this period, the Supreme Court case Gibbons v. Odgen (1824), further limited

Black House Chapter Eleven Free Essays

11 BEEZER’S JOURNEY BEGAN with Myrtle Harrington, the loving wife of Michael Harrington, whispering down the telephone line to Richie Bumstead, on whom she has an industrial-strength crush in spite of his having been married to her second-best friend, Glad, who dropped down dead in her kitchen at the amazing age of thirty-one. For his part, Richie Bumstead has had enough macaroni-tuna casseroles and whisper-voiced phone calls from Myrtle to last him through two more lifetimes, but this is one set of whispers he’s glad, even oddly relieved, to listen to, because he drives a truck for the Kingsland Brewing Company and has come to know Beezer St. Pierre and the rest of the boys, at least a little bit. We will write a custom essay sample on Black House Chapter Eleven or any similar topic only for you Order Now At first, Richie thought the Thunder Five was a bunch of hoodlums, those big guys with scraggly shoulder-length hair and foaming beards roaring through town on their Harleys, but one Friday he happened to be standing alongside the one called Mouse in the pay-window line, and Mouse looked down at him and said something funny about how working for love never made the paycheck look bigger, and they got into a conversation that made Richie Bumstead’s head spin. Two nights later he saw Beezer St. Pierre and the one called Doc shooting the breeze in the yard when he came off-shift, and after he got his rig locked down for the night he went over and got into another conversation that made him feel like he’d walked into a combination of a raunchy blues bar and a Jeopardy! championship. These guys Beezer, Mouse, Doc, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill looked like rockin’, stompin’, red-eyed violence, but they were smart. Beezer, it turned out, was head brewmaster in Kingslan d Ale’s special-projects division, and the other guys were just under him. They had all gone to college. They were interested in making great beer and having a good time, and Richie sort of wished he could get a bike and let it all hang out like them, but a long Saturday afternoon and evening at the Sand Bar proved that the line between a high old time and utter abandon was too fine for him. He didn’t have the stamina to put away two pitchers of Kingsland, play a decent game of pool, drink two more pitchers while talking about the influences of Sherwood An-derson and Gertrude Stein on the young Hemingway, get into some serious head-butting, put down another couple of pitchers, emerge clearheaded enough to go barrel-assing through the countryside, pick up a couple of experimental Madison girls, smoke a lot of high-grade shit, and romp until dawn. You have to respect people who can do that and still hold down good jobs. As far as Richie is concerned, he has a duty to tell Beezer that the police have finally learned the whereabouts of Irma Freneau’s body. That busybody Myrtle said it was a secret Richie has to keep to himself, but he’s pretty sure that right after Myrtle gave him the news, she called four or five other people. Those people will call their best friends, and in no time at all half of French Landing is going to be heading over on 35 to be in on the action. Beezer has a better right to be there than most, doesn’t he? Less than thirty seconds after getting rid of Myrtle Harrington, Richie Bumstead looks up Beezer St. Pierre in the directory and dials the number. â€Å"Richie, I sure hope you aren’t shitting me,† Beezer says. â€Å"He called in, yeah?† Beezer wants Richie to repeat it. â€Å"That worthless piece of shit in the DARE car, the Mad Hungarian? . . . And he said the girl was where?† â€Å"Fuck, the whole town is gonna be out there,† Beezer says. â€Å"But thanks, man, thanks a lot. I owe you.† In the instant before the receiver slams down, Richie thinks he hears Beezer start to say something else that gets dissolved in a scalding rush of emotion. And in the little house on Nailhouse Row, Beezer St. Pierre swipes tears into his beard, gently moves the telephone a few inches back on the table, and turns to face Bear Girl, his common-law spouse, his old lady, Amy’s mother, whose real name is Susan Osgood, and who is staring up at him from beneath her thick blond bangs, one finger holding her place in a book. â€Å"It’s the Freneau girl,† he says. â€Å"I gotta go.† â€Å"Go,† Bear Girl tells him. â€Å"Take the cell phone and call me as soon as you can.† â€Å"Yeah,† he says, and plucks the cell phone from its charger and rams it into a front pocket of his jeans. Instead of moving to the door, he thrusts a hand into the huge red-brown tangle of his beard and absent-mindedly combs it with his fingers. His feet are rooted to the floor; his eyes have lost focus. â€Å"The Fisherman called 911,† he says. â€Å"Can you believe this shit? They couldn’t find the Freneau girl by themselves, they needed him to tell them where to find her body.† â€Å"Listen to me,† Bear Girl says, and gets up and travels the space between them far more quickly than she seems to. She snuggles her compact little body into his massive bulk, and Beezer inhales a chestful of her clean, soothing scent, a combination of soap and fresh bread. â€Å"When you and the boys get out there, it’s going to be up to you to keep them in line. So you have to keep yourself in line, Beezer. No matter how angry you are, you can’t go nuts and start beating on people. Cops especially.† â€Å"I suppose you think I shouldn’t go.† â€Å"You have to. I just don’t want you to wind up in jail.† â€Å"Hey,† he says, â€Å"I’m a brewer, not a brawler.† â€Å"Don’t forget it,† she says, and pats him on the back. â€Å"Are you going to call them?† â€Å"Street telephone.† Beezer walks to the door, bends down to pick up his helmet, and marches out. Sweat slides down his forehead and crawls through his beard. Two strides bring him to his motorcycle. He puts one hand on the saddle, wipes his forehead, and bellows, â€Å"THE FUCKING FISHERMAN TOLD THAT FUCKING HUNGARIAN COP WHERE TO FIND IRMA FRENEAU’S BODY. WHO’S COMING WITH ME?† On both sides of Nailhouse Row, bearded heads pop out of windows and loud voices shout â€Å"Wait Up!† â€Å"Holy Shit!† and â€Å"Yo!† Four vast men in leather jackets, jeans, and boots come barreling out of four front doors. Beezer almost has to smile he loves these guys, but sometimes they remind him of cartoon characters. Even before they reach him, he starts explaining about Richie Bumstead and the 911 call, and by the time he finishes, Mouse, Doc, Sonny, and Kaiser Bill are on their bikes and waiting for the signal. â€Å"But this here’s the deal,† Beezer says. â€Å"Two things. We’re going out there for Amy and Irma Freneau and Johnny Irkenham, not for ourselves. We want to make sure everything gets done the right way, and we’re not gonna bust anybody’s head open, not unless they ask for it. You got that?† The others rumble, mumble, and grumble, apparently in assent. Four tangled beards wag up and down. â€Å"And number two, when we do bust open somebody’s head, it’s gonna be the Fisherman’s. Because we have put up with enough crap around here, and now I am pretty damn sure it’s our turn to hunt down the fucking bastard who killed my little girl † Beezer’s voice catches in his throat, and he raises his fist before continuing. â€Å"And dumped this other little girl in that fucking shack out on 35. Because I am going to get my hands on that fucking fuckhead, and when I do, I am gonna get RIGHTEOUS on his ass!† His boys, his crew, his posse shake their fists in the air and bellow. Five motorcycles surge noisily into life. â€Å"We’ll take a look at the place from the highway and double back to the road behind Goltz’s,† Beezer shouts, and charges down the road and uphill on Chase Street with the others in his slipstream. Through the middle of town they roll, Beezer in the lead, Mouse and Sonny practically on his tailpipe, Doc and the Kaiser right behind, their beards flowing in the wind. The thunder of their bikes rattles the windows in Schmitt’s Allsorts and sends starlings flapping up from the marquee of the Agincourt Theater. Hanging over the bars of his Harley, Beezer looks a little bit like King Kong getting set to rip apart a jungle gym. Once they get past the 7-Eleven, Kaiser and Doc move up alongside Sonny and Mouse and take up the entire width of the highway. People driving west on 35 look at the figures charging toward them and swerve onto the shoulder; drivers who see them in their rearview mirrors drift to the side of the road, stick their arms out of their windows, and wave them on. As they near Centralia, Beezer passes about twice as many cars as really ought to be traveling down a country highway on a weekend morning. The situation is even worse than he figured it would be: Dale Gilbertson is bound to have a couple of cops blocking traffic turning in from 35, but two cops couldn’t handle more than ten or twelve ghouls dead set on seeing, really seeing, the Fisherman’s handiwork. French Landing doesn’t have enough cops to keep a lid on all the screwballs homing in on Ed’s Eats. Beezer curses, picturing himself losing control, turning a bunch of twisted Fisherman geeks into tent pegs. Losing control is exactly what he cannot afford to do, not if he expects any cooperation from Dale Gilbertson and his flunkies. Beezer leads his companions around a crapped-out old red Toyota and is visited by an idea so perfect that he forgets to strike unreasoning terror into the beater’s driver by looking him in the eye and snarling, â€Å"I make Kingsland Ale, the best beer in the world, you dimwit cur.† He has done this to two drivers this morning, and neither one let him down. The people who earn this treatment by either lousy driving or the possession of a truly ugly vehicle imagine that he is threatening them with some grotesque form of sexual assault, and they freeze like rabbits, they stiffen right up. Jolly good fun, as the citizens of Emerald City sang in The Wizard of Oz. The idea that has distracted Beezer from his harmless pleasures possesses the simplicity of most valid inspirations. The best way to get cooperation is to give it. He knows exactly how to soften up Dale Gilbertson: the answer is putting on a baseball cap, grabbing its car keys, and heading out the door the answer lies all around him. One small part of that answer sits behind the wheel of the red Toyota just being overtaken by Beezer and his jolly crew. Wendell Green earned the mock rebuke he failed to receive on both of the conventional grounds. His little car may not have been ugly to begin with, but by now it is so disfigured by multiple dents and scrapes that it resembles a rolling sneer; and Green drives with an unyielding arrogance he thinks of as â€Å"dash.† He zooms through yellow lights, changes lanes recklessly, and tailgates as a means of intimidation. Of course, he blasts his horn at the slightest provocation. Wendell is a menace. The way he handles his car perfectly expresses his character, being inconsiderate, thoughtless, and riddled with grandiosity. At the moment, he is driving even worse than usual, because as he tries to overtake every other vehicle on the road, most of his concentration is focused on the pocket tape recorder he holds up to his mouth and the golden words his equally gold en voice pours into the precious machine. (Wendell often regrets the shortsightedness of the local radio stations in devoting so much air time to fools like George Rathbun and Henry Shake, when they could move up to a new level simply by letting him give an ongoing commentary on the news for an hour or so every day.) Ah, the delicious combination of Wendell’s words and Wendell’s voice Edward R. Murrow in his heyday never sounded so eloquent, so resonant. Here is what he is saying: This morning I joined a virtual caravan of the shocked, the grieving, and the merely curious in a mournful pilgrimage winding eastward along bucolic Highway 35. Not for the first time, this journalist was struck, and struck deeply, by the immense contrast between the loveliness and peace of the Coulee Country’s landscape and the ugliness and savagery one deranged human being has wrought in its unsuspecting bosom. New paragraph. The news had spread like wildfire. Neighbor called neighbor, friend called friend. According to a morning 911 call to the French Landing police station, the mutilated body of little Irma Freneau lies within the ruins of a former ice-cream parlor and caf? ¦ called Ed’s Eats and Dawgs. And who had placed the call? Surely, some dutiful citizen. Not at all, ladies and gentlemen, not at all . . . Ladies and gentlemen, this is frontline reportage, this is the news being written while it happens, a concept that cannot but murmur â€Å"Pulitzer Prize† to an experienced journalist. The scoop had come to Wendell Green by way of his barber, Roy Royal, who heard it from his wife, Tillie Royal, who had been clued in by Myrtle Harrington herself, and Wendell Green has done his duty to his readers: he grabbed his tape recorder and his camera and ran out to his nasty little vehicle without pausing to telephone his editors at the Herald. He doesn’t need a photographer; he can take all the photographs he needs with that dependable old Nikon F2A on the passenger seat. A seamless blend of words and pictures a penetrating examination of the new century’s most hideous crime a thoughtful exploration into the nature of evil a compassionate portrayal of one community’s suffering an unsparing expos? ¦ of one police department’s ineptitude With all this going on in his mind as his mellifluous words drip one by one into the microphone of his upheld cassette recorder, is it any wonder that Wendell Green fails to hear the sound of motorcycles, or to take in the presence of the Thunder Five in any way, until he happens to glance sideways in search of the perfect phrase? Glance sideways he does, and with a spurt of panic observes, no more than two feet to his left, Beezer St. Pierre astride his roaring Harley, apparently singing, to judge from his own moving lips singing huh? Can’t be, nope. In Wendell’s experience, Beezer St. Pierre is far more likely to be cursing like a navvy in a waterfront brawl. When, after the death of Amy St. Pierre, Wendell, who was merely obeying the ancient rules of his trade, dropped in at 1 Nailhouse Row, and inquired of the grieving father how it felt to know that his daughter had been slaughtered like a pig and partially eaten by a monster in human form, Beezer had gripped the innocent newshound by the throat, unleashed a torrent of obscenities, and concluded by bellowing that if he should ever see Mr. Green again, he would tear off his head and use the stump as a sexual orifice. It is this threat that causes Wendell’s moment of panic. He glances into his rearview mirror and sees Beezer’s cohorts strung out across the road like an invading army of Goths. In his imagination, they are waving skulls on ropes made of human skin and yelling about what they are going to do to his neck after they rip his head off. Whatever he was about to dictate into the invaluable machine instantly evaporates, along with his daydreams of winning the Pulitzer Prize. His stomach clenches, and sweat bursts from every pore on his broad, ruddy face. His left hand trembles on the wheel, his right shakes the cassette recorder like a castanet. Wendell lifts his foot from the accelerator and slides down on the car seat, turning his head as far to the right as he dares. His basic desire is to curl up in the well beneath the dashboard and pretend to be a fetus. The huge roar of sound behind him grows louder, and his heart leaps in his chest like a fish. Wendell whimpers. A rank of kettledrums batters the air beyond the fragile skin of the car door. Then the motorcycles swoop past him and race off up the highway. Wendell Green wipes his face. Slowly, he persuades his body to sit up straight. His heart ceases its attempt to escape his chest. The world on the other side of his windshield, which had contracted to the size of a housefly, expands back to its normal size. It occurs to Wendell that he was no more afraid than any normal human being would be, under the circumstances. Self-regard fills him like helium fills a balloon. Most guys he knows would have driven right off the road, he thinks; most guys would have crapped in their pants. What did Wendell Green do? He slowed down a little, that’s all. He acted like a gentleman and let the ass-holes of the Thunder Five drive past him. When it comes to Beezer and his apes, Wendell thinks, being a gentleman is the better part of valor. He picks up speed, watching the bikers race on ahead. In his hand, the cassette recorder is still running. Wendell raises it to his mouth, licks his lips, and discovers that he has forgotten what he was going to say. Blank tape whirls from spool to spool. â€Å"Damn,† he says, and pushes the OFF button. An inspired phrase, a melodious cadence, has vanished into the ether, perhaps for good. But the situation is far more frustrating than that. It seems to Wendell that a whole series of logical connections has vanished with the lost phrase: he can remember seeing the shape of a vast outline for at least half a dozen penetrating articles that would go beyond the Fisherman to . . . do what? Win him the Pulitzer, for sure, but how? The area in his mind that had given him the immense outline still holds its shape, but the shape is empty. Beezer St. Pierre and his goons murdered what now seems the greatest idea Wendell Green ever had, and Wendell has no certainty that he can bring it back to life. What are these biker freaks doing out here, anyhow? The question answers itself: some creepy do-gooder thought Beezer ought to know about the Fisherman’s 911 call, and now the biker freaks are headed to the ruins of Ed’s, just like him. Fortunately, so many other people are going to the same place that Wendell figures he can steer clear of his nemesis. Taking no chances, he drops a couple of cars behind the bikers. The traffic thickens and slows down; up ahead, the bikers form a single line and zoom up alongside the line crawling toward the dusty old lane to Ed’s place. From seventy or eighty yards back, Wendell can see two cops, a man and a woman, trying to wave the rubberneckers along. Every time a fresh car pulls up in front of them, they have to go through the same pantomine of turning its occupants away and pointing down the road. To reinforce the message, a police car is parked sideways across the lane, blocking anyone who should try to get fancy. This spectacle troubles Wendell not at all, for the press has automatic access to such scenes. Journalists are the medium, the aperture, through which otherwise prohibited places and events reach the general public. Wen-dell Green is the people’s representative here, and the most distinguished journalist in western Wisconsin besides. After he has inched along another thirty feet, he sees that the cops riding herd on the traffic are Danny Tcheda and Pam Stevens, and his complacency wavers. A couple of days ago, both Tcheda and Stevens had responded to his request for information by telling him to go to hell. Pam Stevens is a know-it-all bitch anyhow, a professional ball-breaker. Why else would a reasonably okay-looking dame want to be a cop? Stevens would turn him away from the scene for the sheer hell of it she’d enjoy it! Probably, Wendell realizes, he will have to sneak in somehow. He pictures himself crawling through the fields on his belly and shivers with distaste. At least he can have the pleasure of watching the cops giving the finger to Beezer and crew. The bikers roar past another half-dozen cars without slowing down, so Wendell supposes they plan on going into a flashy, skidding turn, dodging right by those two dumbbells in blue, and zooming around the patrol car as if it didn’t exist. What will the cops do then, Wendell wonders drag out their guns and try to look fierce? Fire warning shots and hit each other in the foot? Astonishingly, Beezer and his train of fellow bikers pay no attention to the cars attempting to move into the lane, to Tcheda and Stevens, or to anything else up there. They do not even turn their heads to gape up at the ruined shack, the chief’s car, the pickup truck which Wendell instantly recognizes and the men standing on the beaten grass, two of whom are Dale Gilbertson and the pickup’s owner, Hollywood Jack Sawyer, that snooty L.A. prick. (The third guy, who is wearing an ice-cream hat, sunglasses, and a spiffy vest, makes no sense at all, at least not to Wendell. He looks like he dropped in from some old Humphrey Bogart movie.) No, they blast on by the whole messy scene with their helmets pointed straight ahead, as if all they have in mind is cruising into Centralia and busting up the fixtures in the Sand Bar. On they go, all five of the bastards, indifferent as a pack of wild dogs. As soon as they hit open road again, the other four move into parallel formatio n behind Beezer and fan out across the highway. Then, as one, they veer off to the left, send up five great plumes of dust and gravel, and spin into five U-turns. Without breaking stride without even appearing to slow down they separate into their one-two-two pattern and come streaking back westward toward the crime scene and French Landing. I’ll be damned, Wendell thinks. Beezer turned tail and gave up. What a wimp. The knot of bikers grows larger and larger as it swoops toward him, and soon the amazed Wendell Green makes out Beezer St. Pierre’s grim face, which beneath its helmet also gets larger and larger as it approaches. â€Å"I never figured you for a quitter,† Wendell says, watching Beezer loom ever nearer. The wind has parted his beard into two equal sections that flare out behind him on both sides of his head. Behind his goggles, Beezer’s eyes look as if he is aiming down the barrel of a rifle. The thought that Beezer might turn those hunter’s eyes on him makes Wendell’s bowels feel dangerously loose. â€Å"Loser,† he says, not very loudly. With an ear-pounding roar, Beezer flashes past the dented Toyota. The rest of the Thunder Five hammer the air, then streak down the road. This evidence of Beezer’s cowardice brightens Wendell’s heart as he watches the bikers diminish in his rearview mirror, but a thought he cannot ignore begins to worm its way upward through the synapses of his brain. Wendell may not be the Edward R. Murrow of the present day, but he has been a reporter for nearly thirty years, and he has developed a few instincts. The thought winding through his mental channels sets off a series of wavelike alarms that at last push it into consciousness. Wendell gets it he sees the hidden design; he understands what’s going down. â€Å"Well, hot doggy,† he says, and with a wide grin blasts his horn, cranks his wheel to the left, and jolts into a turn with only minimal damage to his fender and that of the car in front of him. â€Å"You sneaky bastard,† he says, nearly chuckling with delight. The Toyota squeezes out of the line of vehicles pointed eastward and drifts over into the westbound lanes. Clanking and farting, it shoots away in pursuit of the crafty bikers. There will be no crawling through cornfields for Wendell Green: that sneaky bastard Beezer St. Pierre knows a back way to Ed’s Eats! All our star reporter has to do is hang back far enough to stay out of sight and he gets a free pass into the scene. Beautiful. Ah, the irony: Beezer gives the press a helpful hand many thanks, you arrogant thug. Wendell hardly supposes that Dale Gilbertson will give him the run of the place, but it will be harder to throw him out than to turn him away. In the time he has, he can ask a few probing questions, snap a few telling photos, and above all! soak up enough atmosphere to produce one of his legendary â€Å"color† pieces. With a cheerful heart, Wendell poodles down the highway at fifty miles per hour, letting the bikers race far ahead of him without ever letting them pass out of sight. The number of cars coming toward him thins out to widely spaced groups of two and three, then to a few single cars, then to nothing. As if they have been waiting to be unobserved, Beezer and his friends swerve across the highway and go blasting up the driveway to Goltz’s space-age dome. Wendell feels an unwelcome trickle of self-doubt, but he is not about to assume that Beezer and his louts have a sudden yearning for tractor hitches and riding lawn mowers. He speeds up, wondering if they have spotted him and are trying to throw him off their trail. As far as he knows, there is nothing up on that rise except the showroom, the maintenance garage, and the parking lot. Damn place looks like a wasteland. Beyond the parking lot . . . what? On one side, he remembers a scrubby field stretching away to the horizon, on the other a bunch of trees, like a forest, only not as thick. He can see the trees from where he is now, running downhill like a windbreak. Without bothering to signal, he speeds across the oncoming lanes and into Goltz’s driveway. The sound of the motorcycles is still audible but growing softer, and Wendell experiences a jolt of fear that they have somehow tricked him and are getting away, jeering at him! At the top of the rise, he zooms around the front of the showroom and drives into the big lot. Two huge yellow tractors stand in front of the equipment garage, but his is the only car in sight. At the far end of the empty lot, a low concrete wall rises to bumper height between the asphalt and the meadow bordered by trees. On the other side of the tree line, the wall ends at the swoop of asphalt drive coming around from the back of the showroom. Wendell cranks the wheel and speeds toward the far end of the wall. He can still hear the motorcycles, but they sound like a distant swarm of bees. They must be about a half mile away, Wendell thinks, and jumps out of the Toyota. He jams the cassette recorder in a jacket pocket, slings the Nikon on its strap around his neck, and runs around the low wall and into the meadow. Even before he reaches the tree line, he can see the remains of an old macadam road, broken and overgrown, cutting downhill between the trees. Wendell imagines, overestimating, that Ed’s old place is about a mile distant, and he wonders if his car could go the distance on this rough, uneven surface. In some places, the macadam has fissured into tectonic plates; in others, it has crumbled away to black gravel. Sinkholes and weedy rills radiate out from the thick, snaking roots of the trees. A biker could jounce over this mess reasonably well, but Wendell sees that his legs will manage the journey better than his Toyota, so he sets off down the old track through the trees. From what he took in while he was on the highway, he still has plenty of time before the medical examiner and the evidence wagon show up. Even with the help of the famous Hollywood Sawyer, the local cops are mooning around in a daze. The sound of motorcycles grows louder as Wendell picks his way along, as if the boys stopped moving in order to talk things over when they came to the far end of the old back road. That’s perfect. Wendell hopes they will keep jawing until he has nearly caught up with them; he hopes they are shouting at one another and waving their fists in the air. He wants to see them cranked to the gills on rage and adrenaline, plus God knows what else those savages might have in their saddlebags. Wendell would love to get a photograph of Beezer St. Pierre knocking out Dale Gilbertson’s front teeth with a well-aimed right, or putting the choke hold on his buddy Sawyer. The photograph Wendell wants most, however, and for the sake of which he is prepared to bribe every cop, county functionary, state official, or innocent bystander capable of holding out his hand, is a good, clean, dramatic picture of Irma Freneau’s naked corpse. Preferably one that leaves no doubt about the Fishe rman’s depredations, whatever they were. Two would be ideal one of her face for poignancy, the other a full-body shot for the perverts but he will settle for the body shot if he has to. An image like that would go around the world, generating millions as it went. The National Enquirer alone would fork over, what two hundred thousand, three? for a photo of poor little Irma sprawled out in death, mutilations clearly visible. Talk about your gold mines, talk about your Big Kahunas! When Wendell has covered about a tenth of a mile of the miserable old road, his concentration divided between gloating over all the money little Irma is going to siphon into his pockets and his fears of falling down and twisting his ankle, the uproar caused by the Thunder Five’s Harleys abruptly ceases. The resulting silence seems immense, then immediately fills with other, quieter sounds. Wendell can hear his breath struggling in and out, and also some other noise, a combined rattle and thud, from behind him. He whirls around and beholds, far up the ruined road, an ancient pickup lurching toward him. It’s almost funny, the way the truck rocks from side to side as one tire, then another, sinks into an invisible depression or rolls up a tilting section of road surface. That is, it would be funny if these people were not horning in on his private access route to Irma Freneau’s body. Whenever the pickup climbs over a particularly muscular-looking length of tree root, the four dark heads in the cab bob like marionettes. Wendell takes a step forward, intending to send these yokels back where they came from. The truck’s suspension scrapes against a flat rock, and sparks leap from the undercarriage. That thing must be thirty years old, at least, Wendell thinks it’s one of the few vehicles on the road that looks even worse than his car. When the truck jolts closer to him, he sees that it is an International Harvester. Weeds and twigs decorate the rusty bumper. Does I.H. even make pickups anymore? Wendell holds up his hand like a juror taking the oath, and the truck jounces and dips over another few rutted feet before coming to a halt. Its left side sits noticeably higher than the right. In the darkness cast by the trees, Wendell cannot quite make out the faces peering at him through the windshield, but he has the feeling that at least two of them are familiar. The man behind the wheel pokes his head out of the driver’s window and says, â€Å"Hidey-ho, Mr. Bigshot Reporter. They slam the front door in your face, too?† It is Teddy Runkleman, who regularly comes to Wendell’s attention while he is going over the day’s police reports. The other three people in the cab bray like mules at Teddy’s wit. Wendell knows two of them Freddy Saknessum, part of a low-life clan that oozes in and out of various run-down shacks along the river, and Toots Billinger, a scrawny kid who somehow supports himself by scavenging scrap metal in La Riviere and French Landing. Like Runkleman, Toots has been arrested for a number of third-rate crimes but never convicted of anything. The hard-worn, scruffy woman between Freddy and Toots rings a bell too dim to identify. â€Å"Hello, Teddy,† Wendell says. â€Å"And you, Freddy and Toots. No, after I got a look at the mess out front, I decided to come in the back way.† â€Å"Hey, Wen-dell, doncha ‘member me?† the woman says, a touch pathetically. â€Å"Doodles Sanger, in case your memory’s all shot to hell. I started out with a whole buncha guys in Freddy’s Bel Air, and Teddy was with a whole ‘nother bunch, but after we got run off by Miss Bitch, the rest of ’em wanted to go back to their barstools.† Of course he does remember her, although the hardened face before him now only faintly resembles that of the bawdy party girl named Doodles Sanger who served up drinks at the Nelson Hotel a decade ago. Wendell thinks she got fired more for drinking too much on the job than for stealing, but God knows she did both. Back then, Wendell threw a lot of money across the bar at the Nelson Hotel. He tries to remember if he ever hopped in the sack with Doodles. He plays it safe and says, â€Å"Cripes, Doodles, how the hell could I forget a pretty little thing like you?† The boys get a big yuck out of this sally. Doodles jabs her elbow into Toots Billinger’s vaporous ribs, gives Wendell a pouty little smile, and says, â€Å"Well thank-ee, kind sir.† Yep, he boffed her, all right. This would be the perfect time to order these morons back to their ratholes, but Wendell is visited by grade-A inspiration. â€Å"How would you charming people like to assist a gentleman of the press and earn fifty bucks in the process?† â€Å"Fifty each, or all together?† asks Teddy Runkleman. â€Å"Come on, all together,† Wendell says. Doodles leans forward and says, â€Å"Twenty each, all right, big-timer? If we agree to do what you want.† â€Å"Aw, you’re breakin’ my heart,† Wendell says, and extracts his wallet from his back pocket and removes four twenties, leaving only a ten and three singles to see him through the day. They accept their payment and, in a flash, tuck it away. â€Å"Now this is what I want you to do,† Wendell says, and leans toward the window and the four jack-o’-lantern faces in the cab. How to cite Black House Chapter Eleven, Essay examples

Enough About You free essay sample

In this article narcissism is being discussed. Narcissism fuels drive and ambition, it is a desire to be recognized for ones accomplishments. Unfortunately narcissism takes over someones personality. This will impair individuals ability to form normal relationships. A lot of problems in the world today come from people wanting to be in charge. Some dont know how to work well with others and get a big head thinking they know it all.Having the most power is the main goal for many people in the world today. It seems like nobody wants to work together anymore, its always about who can outdo the other. This would be a good article for people with big egos. Certain people should know it isnt all about them and other people notice the things they do. When someone acts this way it makes them a difficult person to work with, which results in problems with the media, other employees, etc. We will write a custom essay sample on Enough About You or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page This article would be good for those wanting to be in hare in certain Jobs.This article could show those how they should act and not to let their Job go to their heads. I believe there is some emotion behind this article. Therefore this would be a pathos article. I feel the author has had to deal with a certain situation like this and she is emotional about it. She has either witnessed it first hand or seen things In the media about narcissists. There is also some logical appeal In this article since she talks about the states budget and the economy.

Cross Cultural Negotiation Between the India and Australia

Question: Write an essay about the "cross cultural negotiation between the India and Australia". Answer: Introduction The following essay relates to the cross cultural negotiation between the India and Australia. According to Thomas and Peterson (2014), India and Australia have significant cultural and background differences. Thus, there are different perceptions in terms of the trade and commerce carried out in the two different countries. This study evaluates the barriers as well as the attributes involved in the cross cultural negotiations between India and Australia. Brief Overview India The country has thriving business opportunities. There is presence of reputed corporate and business houses. The country has achieved economic stability and is expected to achieve further growth in the coming days. As such, there is a suitable business environment to offer to established business entities as well as start-ups. Australia Australia has substantial financial as well as non-financial resources to facilitate trade and commerce activities. Its financial position has been strengthened by the presence of people coming from different backgrounds which have brings newer skills and perspectives to the workplace (Cavusgil et al.2014). Cultural Differences The following are the cultural differences that may have an influence on the negotiations between the two countries. Cultural protocols - The protocols adopted in the business enterprise have certain dissimilarities. (Moran et al. 2014). Therefore, characteristics such as dress code, formality, giving of gifts as well as meeting and greeting have a substantial effect on the business negotiation process.. Business relationships In Australia, an informal approach is adopted in the case of forming business relationships (McFarlin and Sweeney 2014). However, this is not the case in India where a formal structure is essential in executing daily business functionalities. Risk Taking propensity - Thee are different perceptions in the two countries in the manner of taking risk. Therefore, it is essential that this factor is emphasized upon to have a successful cross cultural negotiation between India and Australia. Cultural gap The cultural gap can be reduced by encouraging cultural diversity. Necessary training schemes can also be implemented in the organization to increase the level of tolerance and acceptability in the work environment (Cavusgil et al.2014). In this regard, it can be said that pertinent efforts can be made to learn about the intrinsic details about the two cultures. This shall bring trust as well as transparency in the case of cross cultural negotiations between the two countries. Recommendations Relocating executives and managers to work in both countries can help negate cross cultural barriers. As such, it becomes essential that the workforce is groomed to handle responsibilities as well as crisis business situations irrespective of the place can assist to enhance cross cultural business deals. Conclusion It can be stated that overcoming cultural barriers shall be key to the success of any business enterprise in the global market. India and Australia have distinctive cultures that lead to a different business approach and outlook in handling the operational as well as the marketing opportunities of a business enterprise. Therefore, it is essential that this cultural gap is reduced to facilitate effective deals between businesses enterprises present in both countries. Besides this, another pertinent issue is the level of trust when executing a business deal between two regions having a distinctive culture. References Cavusgil, S.T., Knight, G., Riesenberger, J.R., Rammal, H.G. and Rose, E.L., 2014. International business. Pearson Australia. McFarlin, D. and Sweeney, P.D., 2014. International Management: Strategic Opportunities Cultural Challenges. Routledge. Moran, R.T., Abramson, N.R. and Moran, S.V., 2014. Managing cultural differences. Routledge. Thomas, D.C. and Peterson, M.F., 2014. Cross-cultural management: Essential concepts. Sage Publications.