Sunday, August 23, 2015

OMG 8 Disney Princesses Re-imagined as Guys Named Steve!!

 8 Disney Princesses Re-imagined as Guys Named Steve

You won't believe #6!!

ZOMG you guys this is so cool! Some guy on the internet re-imagined all your favorite Disney princesses as guys named Steve, and the results are amazing!!! You'll never look at Disney princesses the same way again!


Cinderella was a Disney princess from the Disney movie "Cinderella," in which she is the princess. I've always wanted to know what she'd look like if she was a guy named Steve -- and now we know:


 #2 - BELLE

 Remember Belle? She was a princess in a Disney movie so you love her more than life itself, right? Well prepare to have your MIND BLOW when you see her as a Steve!!


 #3 - ARIEL

Ariel's dream comes true when she becomes part of Steve's world!


#4 - MULAN

 Mulan wasn't literally a princess in the movie "Mulan," I mean she flirts with a general guy at the end but even if she married him she still wouldn't technically be a princess. BUT SHE'S STILL A DISNEY PRINCESS BECAUSE WE SAY SO AND WE LOVE HER.



Now, see, Jasmine actually is a princess, technically, because her dad is the Sultan. But she looks AMAZING as a guy name Steve! Wow!



Daughter of tribal chief totally counts as a Princess - say hello to Princess Steve!!!



Snow White was the first Disney princess so some would say that she is the BEST Disney princess. But that would BE DUMB BECAUSE EVERY DISNEY PRINCESS IS THE BEST DISNEY PRINCESS.




Here she is as a guy named Steve:


Wow, isn't it amazing to see Disney princesses as things that aren't Disney princesses and yet somehow in their essence are still totally Disney princesses. DISNEY PRINCESSES CAN BE ANYTHING AND THEY ARE EVERYWHERE, DISNEY PRINCESSES ARE GOD.

Follow the links below to see Disney princesses as rocks, Disney princesses as forms of government, and Disney princesses as DIFFERENT Disney princesses!

Friday, August 23, 2013

A Midsummer's Horrific Dream

A waking dream that I’ve probably also had while asleep at some point or, if not, that I probably will.

I stand on the banks of the river Styx, which I recognize immediately from the poetry which, for once, proves factually and not just metaphorically accurate. The water of the river is so black that it’s almost not even water at all, but the darkness of space, the void between the stars. There is no motion in that river. It is the end of everything.

I wait for a long time there. That’s fine, its not like I am in a hurry at the moment. It gives me time to think, time I never really gave myself before getting here. On the banks of the river Styx, there are no distractions. All you have is yourself and you know, looking at the infinite blackness of the river, that you might not even have that for very long.

Along comes the boatman, right on cue, looking as grim and gloomy as I expected. He is wearing his long black robe with the quintessential cowl that completely hides his (I imagine) hellish face. I am terrified, exactly as I was told that I would be. It’s rare to meet somebody who entirely lives up to their reputation.

Charon extends his hand with the bored ease of somebody who has done this a billion times.

“Um...” I try to speak, but I’m too afraid.

“Well? You gonna just stand there forever, dude?” He asks, tsking impatiently. “I gotta schedule to keep, ya know. Fuck, bro. It’s my ass handed to me if I’m late, Hades is not a chill dude.”

“Huh?” I ask. A wise and fair question.

“Hades! He’s my boss, and not the good kind. SO micromanaging!” Charon sighs again and pulls back his hood.

Far from the skeletal face I had envisioned, he turns out to be a rather attractive, clean shaven blond with freckles and gelled hair. Around his neck, under the robe, I can now see the popped collar of a polo shirt. Charon, ferryman of the eternal river Styx, is a fratboy.

“Anyway, dude, I’m not waiting forever. Pay up now or you can take the next boat. You won’t like that one.”

“I’m scared,” I admit, “Where will you take me?”

“Well, I’m not supposed to tell. It’s like some kind of metaphor about the mystery of death and all that. But, what the hell? If it gets your butt in gear... So I have you down for delivery to Elysium. Nice, right?”

“Is it?”

“Dude, it’s like totally sweet! That’s where I would spend my weekends, if I ever had a weekend, and I never will cuz of the way Hades rides my ass like I’m his little bitch. But there’s like, a bunch of naked dudes writing poetry and wrestling all day and eating pomengrantes and shit and, like I don’t know, rubbing olive oil on each other. I mean, if you aren’t into that I can just leave you here, no problem.”

“No, no, that sounds fine!” I squeak, relieved, “To be honest, I thought death was going to be a lot scarier than that.”

“Well, yeah, most people do. Not like Hades wants everybody in some kind of big rush to get here, ya know? Anyway, just hand over the coins for your fare and we’ll jet.”

“I don’t have the coins,” I say hurriedly, “We don’t bury people with them anymore.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Do you even speak Latin, bro?”

Ashamed, I shake my head.


I shake my head again.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Have you even read The Aeniad?”

“For a class, I did!”

He stares at me.

“Well, most of it,” I admit.

He keeps staring.

“In English...” I mumble, staring at my feet.

He rolls his eyes. “Dude, no offense. There must have been some mistake. I thought you were somebody else. Oh, here comes my guy.”

A gorgeous man walks up to the shore, wearing a nice red cardigan and handsome spectacles. He’s tall and quite muscular and walks with absolute confidence. He grins a devastatingly charismatic grin, pulls two shiny coins from his pocket, and says, “Dulce et decorum est,” in a deep, masculine voice with what is clearly a posh British accent.

“Dude, about time! I almost took this loser instead of you,” says Charon, “Get in, Elysium awaits.”

“Ah, sounds awesome, bro,” says the British guy, as he climbs into the boat, “Will there be olive oil and Latin poetry and lacrosse?”

“You know it, my man!” They do a fist bump and then Charon starts to push the boat away from the shore.

“I’m excited as I was at my first year of Oxford,” says the Brit, already stripping off his clothes in preparation for the fields of bliss, “Thank goodness for Magdalene college. A classical education really is the only one worth having!”

“Wait,” I shout at the retreating boat, “What about me?”

“The next boat is for you, bro!” Charon calls over his shoulder, “You’ll fit right in, don’t worry.”

I sit and wait in the quiet, the fields of Elysium now closed to me forever. And then I see it, the next boat, which has taken the shape of a Carnival cruise liner, and I know the fate that is before me. I am damned to the Purgatory of the Philistines, where I shall spend eternity surrounded by fat Americans sipping from Big Gulps and watching enormous TV screens that play only reality television and Larry the Cable Guy. Reaching in my pocket, I find to my horror that I have been carrying the fare for this journey all along: a Big Mac, dripping with cheese.

The boat moves very slowly, so I have a long time to wait and consider my fate. There’s a waiting room full of people working frantically on their brilliant novels and ground-breaking academic papers and not paying any attention to me. I sit, not wishing to disturb the quiet of the room, but somehow I knock against a lamp anyway, creating a sound wave that sends every disapproving eye in my direction.  

And that’s the final straw. I stand back up and give everyone in the room the middle finger. “Suck my dick, assholes!” I shout, weeping. Then I run to the bank of the river and throw myself in just to see what happens. The first thing that happens is I die. I have no idea what happens after that.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Open Letter to Russell Tovey

Dear Russell Tovey,

Ok, we need to talk. I think you know why. While it's always nice of you to drop by for a cameo in one of my dreams, I think showing up in every single one of them last night was a little excessive. True, I went to bed feeling quite sick from a migraine and woke up feeling much better, so I suppose you could argue your presence had a salutary effect on my health, but still it's a little creepy, RT. It's like you're obsessed with me or something.

I mean when I was on that random cruise for some reason in the first dream, it was a pleasant surprise to see you. And when you pulled me aside to tell me that story about your father dying (is that even true, Russell??) I totally didn't even see that you were just trying to get me to drop my guard so you could swoop in with that perfect little kiss. Smooth, Tovey, real smooth. And you had to know when you showed up later on selling chocolate bars for a kid's fundraiser (and what's up with that, you are a grown man, RT) that I would have no choice but to buy the whole box, frittering away my imaginary dream money. I feel kind of manipulated!

So here's the deal. I'm super flattered by the attention, but I gave up celebrity crushes in high school, man! Ask Ewan McGregor and he'll tell you all about it. And in the years since then I've been weening myself off of unrequited love in general. So this really can't continue. Either put your money where your mouth is and come hang out with me in the real world like a mature adult, or stay out of my dreams and stop trying to torment me. If you do back off for a bit, I promise to get around to watching that TV show you are in now even though it sounds kind of lame apart from the fact that you are in it. Also, I will still root for you if by some miracle you get picked to be the 12th Doctor.

But we gotta keep this relationship professional, at least until we actually meet. And no, that one time in real life when I was standing 20 feet away from you at the National Theatre in London during a backstage tour doesn't count. You were busy hanging out with the other History Boys and I could hardly have interrupted to introduce myself! And since I can't make it over to London any time soon, you'll have to come here which I hardly think will be too inconvenient for you and is certainly more rational than infiltrating my dreams from half a world away.

I know you'll see reason. Thanks, and much love and respect,


Sunday, May 12, 2013

Overdue Mother's Day Story

It's Mother's Day and once again I find myself in the position of the selfish son who can't think of anything to get mom to show her how much she means to me. True, the whole idea of commercial holidays still irritates me. How is a bunch of over-priced flowers supposed to really show appreciation to somebody to whom I owe literally everything that I am and everything that I have? It's too much. Usually I can't even wrap my head around it so I don't do much of anything. And in another month I'll go through the same experience with Father's Day. And then the rest of the year will go by with me not calling home as much as I should.

These people deserve so much more than a day. I work with teenagers now, and watching them interact with their parents has been horrific. Not just because of the bad attitude, the backtalk, the disdain, and the overwhelming amount of ingratitude on display, but because in their behavior I cannot help but remember myself at their age behaving in exactly the same way. I am ashamed by many of the memories of disrespect and disregard towards Mom and Dad that have come flooding back in recent months. I try not to be too hard on myself. I think maybe we all were like that as teenagers, even my parents themselves. That our parents keep loving us anyway is one of life's most profound miracles.

There's a story from the Bible that makes me cry every time I think about it. Every. Single. Time. It may be one of the most beautiful things ever produced by mankind. It is the story of a young man who figuratively spits in his fathers face and turns away from him. When the world turns out to be a rougher place than he imagined, breaking him down, he is forced to go back home in shame. What happens next is a miracle, but the kind of miracle that happens every single day in every single family:"
"And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry. For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found." 
I'd like to tell a brief story about the lowest, darkest part of my life. Many know that my missionary work in the Philippines ended prematurely due to confusing medical circumstances beyond my control. The ironic twist in that story was that I was sent home at precisely the moment when I had finally and totally accepted my life there. What is less well-known is that after some time at home recovering, I was reassigned to finish my two years in an area near San Diego, a radically different environment than the one I had adjusted to. Despite my many misgivings and apprehension, I went, believing that a task would not be given to me that I could not handle. I was only twenty years old.

One week in this new environment broke me utterly. Each day was a drawn-out torture of one panic attack after another, and I did not sleep one peaceful moment at night. When it became clear that this was not normal and was not going to pass, the decision was quickly made to send me back home. Now, on top of the fear and anxiety that wracked me day and night, I had to contend with the realization that I betrayed everything my family had taught me, everything I had believed in. I could not bear the thought of staying in California one single moment longer, but I also could not bear the thought of going home a failure and telling everybody that I couldn't hack it, that I was too afraid.

I had believed my faith would see me through any trial, and I was wrong. And I was so utterly ashamed of myself that I wanted to shrivel up and disappear. This would not be the last time I felt this way, but this time was the most intense and the most painful. I don't know how I would have survived the burning shame of it all if it had not been for the absolute miracle that happened next.

When she heard the news, my mother did not hesitate for a moment. She jumped on a plane and came straight to California to get me. When she walked in the room, all I could do was apologize again and again through my tears, unable to even look at her. But she took me in her arms and I knew she loved me no matter what. No matter what. And then she all but carried me, a broken boy who had hit rock bottom, back home where my father did the same, where they killed the fatted calf and dressed me in the best robe.

Even as a child I had always felt close to my mother, but that experience changed everything between us, at least in my mind. It has lingered in the back of my head as the prime of example of everything I owe her, everything she has meant to me. I'm terrible at showing it. I don't even know where to begin letting her know how much her support and compassion in that terrible moment means to me. I've come a long way since that broken twenty year old boy, and what few triumphs I've savored and tough decisions I've survived are due to the strength their love has given me. Time and time again I've been forced nervously to put their unconditional love to the test, and they have never failed me.

As an adult, I know my parents aren't perfect and that they never were. I know they made mistakes and fell short, and still do, but to me that makes the things they did right all the more amazing. Like every other parent in the world, they were just two people doing their best for a child they loved more than anything. And while I don't particularly think much of myself, I can't look in the mirror and think anything other than that they did a pretty darn good job.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. You are everything to me, and I'm sorry I didn't get you flowers.

Monday, December 17, 2012

An Inspiring Story

It's been a rough week, with our headlines flooded with tragedies and heartbreak, tales of death and disease. I'm already dealing with all the depression that comes with winter, and so all this was just about to make me fall apart. So in the interest of clinging to positivity, I wanted to share the most inspiring and heart-warming thing I heard this week.

I work with teens now, many of who are already remarkable people with big personalities. One of our high school seniors is a really tall, big guy with a great sense of humor and a easy way with people. He lives and goes to school in one of the rougher areas of the city and is brave enough to both perform on the stage in musicals and attempt to date girls at his school - not always an easy combination, depending on where you live.

A few weeks ago this young man's facebook account was hacked. The prankster posted a fake status in which he announced to everyone he knew that he was gay. This was a complete lie, but the prank would be inappropriate and cruel even if it was the truth. It was clearly and unmistakably an attempt at cyberbullying, done to shame, humiliate, intimidate, and ostracize.

This plan backfired spectacularly.

My young friend's facebook wall was flooded with words of support and love from his friends and family, assuring him of their continued loyalty. And far from being mortified that some people might believe the lie, the young man was so touched by the words of his loved ones that he has decided to leave the status and all its comments up and not delete them.

I asked him if he was worried some people might believe the status if he leaves it up, and he just shrugged.

"The people who know me well will find out its not true," he said, explaining his decision to me, "Besides, how could I delete all those nice things people wrote?"

Times continue to change and it's nice for me to remember how much better some things are already than when I was growing up!

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

No Less Awkward at 31

In the tradition of embarrassing stories I once published regularly on this blog, I submit a recent experience which ultimately proved that I am no less awkward and bumbling now that I have left my 20s. I suppose that I expected 30 would bring with it some greater feeling of adequacy or self-respect, a feeling of being a capable adult. I am happy to report that no such alterations to my personality have materialized as I enter my fourth decade.

Case in point: the other day at work I took my lunch break a local pizza establishment near my office, because New York pizza is one of the best things created by man in his thousands of years of making stuff. I was listening to a comedy podcast on my new iPhone (yes, I know... I KNOW) and thus slightly tuned out to my surroundings, as is often the case, podcast or not. I ordered two slices which, at this particular pizza joint, meant I got a free soda. However, I was so hungry and wrapped up in what I was listening to that I grabbed my pizza and left my soda on the counter.

Sitting down in a back corner of the small dining area, I proceeded happily to enjoy my first slice of pizza while simultaneously snickering at a clever pun or witty retort from the comedians in my podcast. It is important than you picture the scene exactly as I lived it - in my right hand, a folded slice of cheese pizza. In my left, a simple paper napkin for the purposes of keeping my face clean of grease and cheesey bits. My eating process therefore relatively straightforward: take a bite from my right hand, wipe my face with my left hand. Rinse and repeat. This technique was working out fairly well, and before too long I had reduced the slice in my right hand down to just the crust. At this point, the system broke down.

In my defense, the podcast was at that exact moment especially hilarious, causing me to be distracted by fits of silent laughter. Furthermore, the remaining piece of crust in my right hand was now about the same size and close to the same weight as the napkin in my left. This might help to explain why, in a moment of confusion, I went to take a bite from my left hand rather than my right, putting a paper napkin completely in my mouth and starting to chew.

I quickly recognized my mistake and, as smoothly and as calmly as possible, spat the now moist napkin out onto the table. Feeling slightly sheepish, I peeked up at my surroundings, hopeful that nobody had seen my error.

The entire restaurant, including two pizza guys and about ten customers, were staring at me with various expressions on their face. Some looked puzzled. Others seemed to be biting their tongues to keep from laughing. Others showed less restraint and chuckled visibly. It seemed that for the last minute or two, the pizza guy at the counter had been attempting to get my attention in order to inform me that I had forgotten my free soda. Unable to reach me through my podcast-haze, he had enlisted the help of the other patrons. Thus, the entire restaurant was an attentive audience to my napkin-eating debacle.

"Well," I thought, "I'll play this off smoothly, pretending nothing untoward just happened, and I'll quickly slink back into safe anonymity. Claim the soda, and the other people in the store will go back to their own lives and forget all about it!"

I removed my earphones.

"Dude," the pizza guy said, smiling in a sort of shocked way, "Did you just eat your napkin?"

"Um...." I replied, "I thought it was pizza."

General pandemonium and laughter. I devoured my other slice in about 20 seconds, smiled apologetically to everybody, and fled back out onto the street.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Matt's Theory about Storytelling

Let me get one thing clear first off: yes, I have read the Hunger Games. And yes, I got some enjoyment out of reading them too. I would never try to deny that. But with the imminent release of the movies, a lot of people are talking about them and there's a lot of crazy superlative going around. The word “amazing” gets thrown around a lot. Amazing, really? You are AMAZED at the Hunger Games? I struggle not to get upset when I hear things like that. Fun, yes. Engaging, sure. Amazing? Best books ever? People will look back in a hundred years and regard them as a highlight in literary accomplishment? Let’s get some perspective here, people. My initial reaction to these pronouncements is an outpouring of very nerdy and frankly quite hipster-ish indignation. So obviously I had to take a deep breath, stand back, and examine just why it upset me so much.

I started to wonder what exactly these people were seeing in the books that I didn’t, or vice versa, and how each of us defines what exactly make a good book or story. I’ve taken enough literary theory courses to feel uncomfortable asserting that some things are just better than others, inherently – quality is a subjective determination based upon what an individual person (or a group, or all of society) considers important. Well, this is a description of one element I consider to be important in determining a work to “amazing” or not, an element that personally I value quite highly.

Here goes Matt’s opinion: something can be highly entertaining and even provoke emotions, but that doesn’t mean it’s amazing or even good. In the same way, as Tom Stoppard said, a newspaper article can make you cry, “but that does not make the newspaper art.” The difference between the newspaper article and the work of art is the craft of storytelling itself, in the way the story is told.

The Hunger Games is an entertaining story, sure, but first of all it’s a bit difficult to judge it as a book because it’s a story that could just as easily be told through another medium, like film. In fact, I would argue in this case that the story of the Hunger Games is really best suited for the big screen, and was written for an audience of people who prefer that medium and don’t often do a lot of reading. It’s a book for movie people, specifically summer blockbuster people. I’m not trying to look down on that or judge it as less than. Summer blockbuster stories can be really good narratives with compelling plots and characters. But they are told at what I would consider to be the most basic level of “narrative sophistication” – the best phrase I can come up with to describe a quality of literature that I value highly. This involves much more than WHAT the story is – again, it is very concerned with HOW the story is told.

I have currently indentified three levels of sophistication in story-telling, and have also started to clearly see a difference between the preferences of people who prefer some of the levels over others.

The most fundamentally basic level goes something like this:

“A happened, then B happened, then C happened, and finally D happened.”

At this level the story telling is as linear and complete as possible. It’s the level of all the fairy tales you loved as a kid. The reader is given pretty much all the information and context about what is going on and is led step by step through all the important events. The only real textual mystery is “What’s going to happen next?” That can be a very compelling mystery, and leads to page-turners. I read the Hunger Games in about a week because I too wanted to know how Katniss would survive the next dangerous moment. Go, Katniss, go!

The overall fundamental quality of this level of narrative sophistication is that the author isn’t going to assume that the reader is going to figure out anything on their own. Everything will be explained multiple times. One character will say, “We aren’t getting a signal from B Squad!” to which the other character will reply, for our benefit, “That must mean…. They are dead!” and then the first character will further be helpful for us by saying, “That’s right, and with B Squad dead, there’s nobody to blow the shield generator. Our plan is in serious trouble.” Thanks, author! You’ve done all the logical processing work for me! This is exactly what is meant by “spoon-feeding” the audience. The author is constantly saying, “Do you get it? Do you get? Huh? Did you get that? I’ll repeat it again. Got it? You sure? Ok.”

Despite this, there are people who have difficulty following the plot even at this level. They find it somewhat challenging to connect A to B, B to C, and then C to D. When they are able to do so, it’s an intensely rewarding experience. I don’t think this has anything to do with a lack of intelligence, per se. Rather, the ability to comprehend messages, correlate information, and piece together meaning is one of those abilities that is variable from brain-to-brain. Maybe some people take to it more easily than others, and more often some have just practiced and developed it more. But even the people who aren’t so good at doing this are likely really intelligent or adept at other cognitive processes, or at least that has been my observation.

The point is that there are people for whom understanding the plot at the basic level of sophistication is a challenging and therefore genuinely rewarding experience. Thrilling, even. I think this partly why you’ll hear a lot of teenagers (many of whose comprehension level is still in development) saying that the Hunger Games are the most amazing books of all time. This is also the sophistication level of the summer blockbuster, and the level of the books that become wildly popular with people who don’t often read books (Harry Potter, etc.) This doesn’t make the books bad (I mean, Star Wars is working at this same basic level, for crying out loud!) – but it also doesn’t mean that their success with the masses makes them good. It does, however, help to explain the widespread success of these stories amongst non-habitual readers.

The second level is a step up in sophistication and can often be found in the books that more dedicated reading hobbyists tend to favor:

"C happened, then D happened, oh and then F and G happened. I'm going to hint at A and B for a while, and then reveal them fully at a climatic moment. I'll also go back and explain E eventually and then, at the end, everything will fit together."

At this level there are a lot more textual mysteries. The reader is often brought in into the middle of an ongoing story and world without all the context, background, or key information. These details are hinted at, dangled tantalizingly just out of view, and are revealed gradually or in one big moment later on. The reader of this level of sophistication has to have the patience and trust in the author to say, "OK, I don't really understand what is happening right now, there's obviously something I don't know yet. I'll keep going and trust that everything is revealed."

Not everybody can do that. People who are used to the basic level of sophistication automatically tend to assume that either they missed something or that the author is just doing a bad job keeping them informed. Rather than push through, accepting mystery and ambiguity for the moment, they stop reading or watching. For those who prefer this level, though, that big moment at the end when the author tips his hand and brings together all the threads can be very thrilling. There's often an "ah-ha!" moment of realization as the pieces fit together, and that can be exciting. As a reader, listener, or audience member, making the jump from the first level to the second is a big move. It requires an increase in mental participation, demanding you to do some of the math on your own, to remember key information and piece together clues so that the authors eventual tapestry will come into focus for you.

I feel like most mainstream adult novels and series are operating more or less at this level. It's the level of TV dramas, too, who often hold back key information and then slowly reveal it over the course of a season. Slightly more "artsy" movies are often at this level of sophistication, making frequent use of the flashback, or setting up for a big reveal. The fundamental rule of this level is basically, "Things aren't going to be 100% clear, but eventually they will." Writing at this level, and doing it well, its hard! I think most people spend most of their life trying to master this second level of sophistication. I know I still am.

Which is what makes the third and final level so impressive and rare, truly amazing. This level defies my comprehension and leaves me dumbfounded and in awe. Its hard to boil down, but its something like this:

"C happened. And G happened. Oh, and E and F happened. And N happened. I may mention A and B once in passing. I'll never say a word about D."

Where the second level required that the reader trusts the author, at this level the author is placing a tremendous amount of trust in the reader. Nothing is made clear, telegraphed, spoon-fed, or explained. A significant portion of the plot may not even be written in the book, for at this level what is NOT said is just as important as what is. And there's no attempt to piece it all together for you to see the tapestry in some kind of big reveal at the end. You'll finish the story with no greater insight into the missing sections or mysteries than you began.

Which isn't to say the mysteries are unsolvable. A work that's dealing with level of ambiguity just demands to be read more than once. It requires to the reader to pay VERY close attention to every word, to infer and extrapolate meaning from details, and to question the surface level meaning of every section. You stop assuming that what the author or narrator says is happening is what is ACTUALLY happening, which is a HUGE step up in narrative sophistication.

At this level, you can easily read through the book and only get about 1% of what's actually happening. When this happens, people will say, "I don't get it. The book wasn't that good. It was kind of boring, actually. Not much happened." Often, though, through multiple readings the missing sections or unexplained answers begin to reveal themselves. The work starts to operate on multiple levels, and half of what's happening isn't even on the page, but in your own brain as you extrapolate the data.

Most people aren't interested in putting in that much work to understand a book, and the author of this kind of book has to know that. I've found it impossible to approach this level in my own writing. I always give in to the the temptation to make sure everything is clear to the reader. I want them to see exactly what I'm doing and see how clever I am. But the cleverest authors don't talk down to you, don't explain anything more than once, and don't care if you don't get it. That's hard to adapt to. There are books at this level of sophistication that I just can't get in to, whose meanings remain utterly elusive to me. I hope that one day I'll grow into them. And many many times I've leant the books of this level that I DO love and begun to understand to my literarily inclined friends, only to have them returned with a shrug and a baffled look that says, "I didn't get it."

These books are what I would call AMAZING. You can read them for years and continue to discover new elements. I'm afraid you can't say that about the Hunger Games. A second read-through might call the mind the pleasurable experience of the first, but the main driving mystery of the basic narrative level ("What's going to happen next?") will be gone for you. Unless you have amnesia.

This is hardly the only quality that makes a book or story good. Many people may value compelling and believable characters or a strong mood/tone over narrative sophistication. But I think the best books and stories are the ones that require the most of us, that require us to be at our best and cleverest. My favorite author who operates at this level is Gene Wolfe - and I highly advise you to check him out. I once read a fan say that Wolfe isn't interested in showing you how smart and amazing he is through his writing, he's interested in showing YOU how smart and amazing YOU are. And that, I think, is what is truly amazing!