Several Such Buildings

scotographs

2011-07-11T12:04:00.001-06:00

Please check out my other new photo blog: http://www.scotographs.com

New Blog

2011-05-23T17:20:00.004-06:00

Please read my new blog for deep insights into my soul.

It won't take long, I promise.

http://www.thewordofscott.com

It's never too late--in fiction or in life--to revise.

2011-05-20T00:15:00.001-06:00

We could've had it all.

2011-05-11T16:22:00.000-06:00

Big lights will inspire you...

2011-05-06T22:15:00.001-06:00

These streets will make you feel brand new...

2011-05-05T21:39:00.002-06:00

...let's hear it for New York.

On the benefits of pursuing a PhD in English Literature from Rice University

2011-04-26T15:39:00.002-06:00

As many of these as you can handle.

"Warmth"

2011-04-23T23:50:00.001-06:00

Don't Fear The Chaos

2011-04-19T21:12:00.005-06:00

The problem:

I have been in graduate school for four years, I was an English major for another three years before that. That's a lot of paper-writing, you think it'd come easier and easier. Nope, it only gets harder. The more professors I have, the more I read, the more I have to say, the more I get these voices in my head (not literal voices, thank goodness) which give me contradictory advice about how to write, what to write, why to write. These voices get so loud (again, not literal voices) and produce a formidable force of anxiety that crushes my enthusiasm and fills me with dread. Writing becomes a self-performed lobotomy. A sentence is written, a sentence is erased. The stakes of my argument are unclear, or uninteresting, or am I too harsh on myself? Not harsh enough? What is to be done?

The advice I wish someone would give me:

Yes, you are writing for a grade. Yes, you should try to write things that appeal to at least a critical (if not general audience). But before you do either of those things, you have to write and you have to care about what you're writing. Think about the critics who you respect most, they wrote what they wanted and didn't apologize for it. They just did it so well that no apology was needed. But this isn't really the problem, is it? The problem is that you're a perfectionist and if the first draft isn't gold you begin to think that there's something wrong with you. Remember, all writing is re-writing. Get something on the page. And that anxiety? Yes, you do need to impress these professors. Take a deep breath, take another. And, yes, you might not be the sharpest tool in the shed of graduate student. But that's ok. Just do what you want and say what you want to say. Go ahead, say those outlandish things, indulge in close readings, don't worry about if it's good enough for someone else. Do the work you want to do and the work that makes you happy. Do the work you would want to read. God created the Earth out of chaos, don't expect your ideas to be anything less than chaotic, the organization will come but only after you allow the chaos to fill your mind and spill onto the page. Now that's good advice, don't you think? You especially like that bit about chaos, huh? Now get writing, and don't fear the chaos.

Words of support/affirmation would be kindly appreciated.

Disneyland: Gunthered

2011-03-12T02:05:00.001-07:00

Please excuse the poor quality of the video. It was shot and edited on my iPhone. And, yes, I am a nerdy Apple fanatic.

2011-03-09T10:03:00.001-07:00

"Come, sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger."

Set Them Free

2011-03-04T11:35:00.003-07:00

It's a Zoolander kind of day...

"Sting would be another person who's a hero. The music he's created over the years, I don't really listen to it, but the fact that he's making it, I respect that."

I don't love Sting, I don't love this song, but this has been stuck in my head for a few days now.

The future is now.

2011-03-02T08:06:00.001-07:00

The 12 Month Prelude

2011-02-21T16:05:00.004-07:00

It's been a long time since I've had anything to say. So long, in fact, that I'm doubtful anyone checks my blog anymore. But I'm feeling nostalgic for the glory days of my blogging. The posts where I would unabashedly share my poetry, video, and watercolors with the world. These days I am much too worried about impressing my professors (who I need to impress and leave it at that--no arguments here, please) and improving my writing that the idea of sharing something that might not cast me in the best light seems exposing to say the least. But I miss it, I miss feeling exposed. Feeling vulnerable. And not just vulnerable to my friends and family, but vulnerable to the world. Saying, this is who I am--it might not be who you think I am or should be, but what of it? I miss being silly.

This year has been huge for me. It seems like all of last year was a prelude for the month of January 2011. Here's four reasons why:

1) I changed my academic interests from Modernism and Science Fiction to Shakespeare and Renaissance drama. Even as I typed that last sentence a profound feeling of peace and excitement crept into my chest. It just feels right. It feels like I've come home--to a home I never knew I had. The closest feeling I can compare this to is when I got my mission call to the Armenia Yerevan Mission. Before I opened that envelope I had never even heard of Armenia--but as soon as I read it I knew that it was meant for me. And I've felt that way everyday since my mission. This isn't to say, however, that the decision was an easy one. It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made. Because for the last... oh I don't know... seven years of my life I have defined myself as a scholar interested in modernism and science fiction. But try as I might, the project and the field just didn't sit well with me. I found the criticism and theories overwrought and the stakes either too low or simply irrelevant and uninteresting. Not to mention the biggest problem, I had no professor to work with. There was no one on my team, no one who believed in me, no one in the field at Rice who I found interesting or inspiring. But that's not entirely true on all accounts, there were two professors who who I found inspiring, who (I think) believe in me... but they were both Shakepeareans. As a thought experiment I imagined myself switching fields, and that thought experiment has never stopped. After I took a leap of faith, it just felt right. It felt like home.

2)

3) Ryan, my roommate and best Houston friend, is getting married on March 8th to another of my best Houston friends, Ann. This is a significant wedding for me, it marks the end (or transformation) of a group of friends that defined my first year and a half of my time in Houston. Once this goes through I will be living alone--which is something I am ambivalent about.

4) I started shaving my head.

Happy Holidays

2010-12-18T00:05:00.001-07:00

For you.

The Death of the Blogger

2010-12-14T19:42:00.002-07:00

I think the internet will get along just fine without me.

My watercolor of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill

2010-06-22T02:26:00.003-06:00

*in the tradition of Bob Ross

Some Odds and Ends

2010-05-16T21:57:00.006-06:00

Time travel is funny. It gets a bad rep because it's so often employed as a deus ex machina in science ficiton-- just a magic way to solve problems. But really, how do you go about telling a story where in the middle of it someone goes back to the beginning and that becomes the end? What does this tell us about narrating strategies if a conceivable story--time travel is theoretically possible while magic is not--is unnarratable? The Time Ships, if you ignore the awful title, is a very fun book. It's a sequel to H.G. Wells' 1894 The Time Machine but with some Gödel and quantum mechanics mixed with some classic sci-fi-pulp-fiction-style suspense.

I'm being played. Why should it cost me $638 to change my itinerary get on a flight that I know has 50 empty seats?

I made a tetherball pole out of the derelict basketball hoop by our garage. The nieces and nephews loved it until it started attacking them. After one bloody encounter with the tetherball Jackson asked, "when are you going to take down the thing that hurts people?"

The Figure of the Child in Late 20th Century Television and Film

2010-03-24T21:54:00.003-06:00

Doogie Howser, M.D. just made it into my symposium paper... along with Blank Check. Looks like I might have to specialize in the figure of the child in late 20th century television and film. Think there's an endowed chair in that anywhere?

What would I look like with a shaved head?

2010-03-14T19:38:00.003-06:00

Ever wonder what you would look like with a shaved head? One day I googled that question, it led me to several people who would photoshop me hairless--for a fee. Being thrifty, I figured out my own--much cheaper--way to answer that question: a razor.

I Feel So Young

2010-03-04T01:14:00.000-07:00

Variations on a Theme

2010-02-17T12:36:00.008-07:00

I want to try an experiment where I wear the same thing everyday for some length of time. I am debating between these:

Black Suits

Dickies Jumpsuits

Tracksuits

Shortsleeves w/ Bow Tie

Your input would be appreciated.

Night Owl

2010-02-15T16:49:00.003-07:00

I have fought it for years. But this week I decided to give in and to admit it to myself and to the world. Here it is:

I am a night owl.

Of course, I've always known this about myself. I am more productive at night, I love the solitude, the darkness, and the artificial light. I love sleeping in--even if I get as much sleep as I would otherwise, just knowing that I don't have to get up and get work done before I go to class allows me to sleep more soundly. When I wake up, I don't fe

el the panic of a new day and all the work I have to do--because I did it all the night before. I can leisurely shower, read the news, maybe even make breakfast (aka lunch) and then run errands or go to class or whatever. Then in the evening I can see my friends, make dinner, and then at 10 or 11 (depending on how much I have to do) I can get to work until 3 or 4. Sleep until noon. Rinse and repeat.

I have repressed my inner night owl for sometime because there is something in our culture that looks down on it--all that early to bed/early to rise stuff. But my body just doesn't work the way Benjamin Franklin thinks it ought to--and I refuse to feel guilty if my body is happier getting work done after everyone else goes to bed.

Spring 2010 Essay Signing Tour

2010-02-12T14:11:00.002-07:00

I will be in Utah February 27 through March 6. I will be on hand to sign copies of any of these my latest essays:

Speculative Innocence: Violence, Sexuality, and the Figure of the Child in Science Fiction

“Ugly Bags of Mostly Water;” or, the Alien Self: Humanism’s Assimilation of the Alien in Star Trek: The Next Generation

“Poetry is Passion:” The Ontology of Words in Wordsworth

Or to just hang out.

Kindling

2010-02-10T12:33:00.006-07:00

Christmas 2009

I couldn't remember the last time I was surprised on Christmas morning, until Christmas 2009. At some point during each of the last few holiday seasons I overheard my mom talking to someone on the phone saying something like, "this year I decided to just give the kids money." Which is fine, I suppose. While part of me wished I could be surprised on Christmas morning, most of me was just amused that each year she would act like this was some new thing; the fact of the matter is overhearing this conversation had become somewhat of a holiday tradition for me. But this year I was surprised. There were no conversations to overhear and my mom was surprisingly tightlipped about the gifts. She even refused to let me in when she was wrapping gifts. Needless to say, I was excited... and nervous. What if she thought she picked out the perfect gift but got me one of these?

Instead, she--with the help of my sister--got me a Kindle DX.

E-Readers

I have been thinking about E-Readers for sometime. My objections to them were the same as everyone else's and ran something like this:

"But I love the experience of holding a book!"

"I love the smell of the pages!"

"I love having a personal interaction with printed page!"

"Books are just more genuine, more real!"

"I love to underline and write in my book!"

I got over the first four objections pretty easily. Sure I like books as objects, I collect old science fiction books and I would not want to get rid of them. But I also like vinyl records. And I also like printed photographs. The point is that having a kindle doesn't mean I can't still collect books, actually it means I can focus on only collecting the books I actually want to own.

But the last objection was a serious one because I read for a living, I need to be able to mark and highlight. The kindle does that. And does it better than a book. And it allows me to search my notes and the book.

So this semester I have been reading as many of my school books as I can on my kindle, and I've loved it.

But the greatest thing about the kindle is its screen. It is not backlit, so it looks like paper and it doesn't strain your eyes like a computer screen does.

I like to make things

So I made my kindle a cover out of a book I found at a thrift store.

A microfiber cloth acts as a screen protector/cleaner. It still needs to be hemmed along the bottom edge.

Securing the kindle to the cover was the tricky part. I debated different options such as elastic straps, but those proved both too tricky and too unreliable. I settled on these. "These" are picture hanging strips. They keep the kindle firmly in place but they come off rather easily without leaving a residue if I ever decide I don't want them.

(Get Thee) To A Cannery

2010-02-08T14:29:00.005-07:00

Where are you going, little can?
Can I come with you?
Free from keeping
From preserving all but my restlessness.

You, can, halt.
Now, what keeps you, little can,
From your wind-blown path,

From preserving all but my restlessness?

Back to School

2010-01-13T12:25:00.002-07:00

Resolutions inspired by recent photos:

2010-01-01T19:01:00.017-07:00

1. Play squash at least once a week.

2. Take more pictures.

3. Play guitar every day.

4. Cook more.

5. Submit two articles for publication.

6. Take more road trips and place more emphasis on the road and less on the destination.

7. Live music at least once a month.

8. Learn to appreciate Houston and Texas.

9. Enjoy every day.

10. Here's a picture of the Salt Lake Temple.

200 Years to Christmas

2009-12-11T15:54:00.003-07:00

You know you're stressed and have been reading too many books about aliens when even Christmas seems like Science Fiction. But this is exactly how I feel:

A Happy Moment

2009-12-08T19:37:00.010-07:00

A few weeks ago, in a presentation I was giving on humanism and the alien, I was obliged to summarize the plot of Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.

Not as a joke.

Not as a loose metaphor.

Not as an entertaining aside.

But as a central part of my larger argument.

Sometimes I really like what I do.

Because scarves are in fashion

2009-12-06T19:56:00.001-07:00

NEWS FLASH!

2009-12-04T11:06:00.001-07:00

It's snowing in Houston.

"A Sonnet on a broken Squash Racket written in the Romantic Tradition"

2009-11-28T11:18:00.005-07:00

Thou, racket, gleeful in dividing air,
Did serve me well as I delivered serves
Which missed their marks by my, and not thy, err.
A Prince by name; thou rightly Prince deserved
A better fate than that which thou hath seen,
By me to whom through sweat and blood were bound.
For in that moment I allowed a mean
Intention to o’ercome my mind, my hand;
Against the ground thy head I swung, I crack.
I broke thee racket—only me to blame.
Oh, guilty act which fills my soul with black,
What in thy shame calls forth a better game?
Where past serves erred, now guilty serves do score,
With thy cracked head, I play like ne’er before.

Please Stand Up to the Lyrical Ballads

2009-11-18T19:45:00.002-07:00

Women in Afghan Prisons

2009-11-12T22:59:00.001-07:00

Video Courtesy of KSL.com

*my sister is amazing

My Bike (and the Berlin Wall)

2009-11-10T12:39:00.001-07:00

(Post) Vacation Blues

2009-11-10T12:34:00.002-07:00

The Peppermint House, or Living On Solared Time

2009-09-23T21:47:00.008-06:00

I've been going to school for a long, long time. Ever since I was four years old, that makes it 23 years. So I've had a lot of first days at school. But this year I had a first day at a NEW school. I've only had 7 of those: preschool #1 taught by Mrs. Rhodes, preschool #2 the Peppermint House preschool, Shelley Elementary, American Fork Junior High, American Fork High School, the University of Utah, the University of Illinois at Chicago, and now #8: Rice University. It seems somewhat surreal to me that from here on out I will be primarily identified with Rice, why not the Peppermint Place? Maybe I should insist that they list Peppermint in my bio on english.rice.edu.

Also, I got a new wristwatch. And it's really quite strange how much I love it.

Thanks for your votes...

2009-09-19T00:32:00.003-06:00

...3 it is.

What do you think? Check out my profile on the Rice English Department webpage by clicking this sentence.

Are you a bad person if...

2009-09-17T14:52:00.003-06:00

...you use the phrase, "point of order"?

Just checking.

Votes, please...

2009-09-17T09:17:00.002-06:00

I need to submit a photo for the department webpage. So, of course, I've spent the morning taking pictures of myself. Which one should I use?

As I look through these I notice that I'm not smiling with my teeth in any of them. That's probably for the best: baring the teeth is a sign of aggression in English departments.

Summer Song

2009-09-16T08:39:00.003-06:00

by William Carlos Williams

Wanderer moon
smiling a
faintly ironical smile
at this
brilliant, dew-moistened
summer morning,—
a detached
sleepily indifferent
smile, a
wanderer's smile,—
if I should
buy a shirt
your color and
put on a necktie
sky-blue
where would they carry me?

Nuff Said

2009-08-27T10:18:00.002-06:00

"Obsession"

2009-08-25T11:45:00.005-06:00

There Is No Spoon

2009-08-11T13:31:00.005-06:00

I am writing from the beautiful island of St. Maarten right now.

I have little to report, except that the sun's rays down here have somehow found a way to turn. I spent the morning on the beach cowering underneath an umbrella which completely covered every inch of my skin. When I came inside, despite my best efforts, my shoulders and left arm, for some reason, were a bright, rosy pink, which is even now settling into an unabashed red.

Congratulations, my old foe, you have bested me yet again.

My New Digs

2009-08-07T18:26:00.004-06:00

Ah. Let's begin out back:

I love the REI lounger... perfect for looking directly into my neighbor's house.
And now to the library:

The sitting place:

The bedroom: Note the Chicago skyline...

Dining room:

Blogger slams, blasts slamming, blasting

2009-07-04T18:29:00.007-06:00

In 12th grade my journalism teacher taught us to use "power verbs." But are some power verbs being overused by journalists?

Take a look at the rampant international trend of "slamming:"

Donovan slams Beckham as bad teammate (Austin American-Statesman)

Govt slams N Korea missile tests (ABC)

White House slams GOP document search on Sotomayor (AP)

Investigator slams school management for being bad employer (New Zealand Herald).

Helen Thomas Slams Obama Administration for Controlling Media (Associated Content).

GOP 'survey' slams Obama (CNN).

'Transformers' director Michael Bay slams Megan Fox (The Examiner).

And now, "blasting:"

Donovan blasts Beckham (New Straits Times).

Murkowksi Blasts Palin: You Abandoned Our State (Huffington Post).

Cotler blasts Germany's economic support for Iran (Jerusalem Post).

Nelson blasts Legislature on taxes (East Oregonian).

Porritt blasts Treasury 'arrogance' (UK Guardian).

Jon Stewart Blasts Beck for Bin Laden Bull (The Nation).

Cooley blasts Schwarzenegger plan to change sentencing guidelines (Los Angeles Times).

These examples are easy to find. Too easy. Trust me, you will never read the news again.

The thing is in that all of these examples the "blasting" or "slamming" is actually far from what any of us would refer to as a slam or blast. It is usually a slight innuendo that is blown out of proportion. In fact, in many instances you can tell that the person doing the slamming or blasting is actually being cornered by a journalist.

Example:

JOURNALIST: Scott, do you like your mom's new haircut?

SCOTT: I really liked my mom's last haircut, but this one is nice too.

HEADLINE: Scott blasts Mom's haircut: last one was better.

More Of My New Pad

2009-06-20T17:10:00.003-06:00

My New Pad

2009-06-19T20:28:00.000-06:00

"A Case Of Ice And Snow" (twenty-seven things from the last two years):

2009-06-12T01:37:00.011-06:00

1. I'm up too late.

2. I was up too late last night too.

3. I am maybe going to buy a condominium in Houston.

4. I feel like I am not able to articulate my academic interests as well as I'd like.

5. I had a >>perfect<< vacation to St. George, Zion, and Vegas.

6. I am being slowly eaten alive by all the spiders that live in my parents' basement.

7. I'm afraid that Paula is right.

8. When I visited Rice in March I met some of the other prospective students, they were 21-23 years old; I'll be 27 in a month.

9. Should I start using Rogaine, get a prescription for Propecia, or let my hair go gently into that good night?

10. We all have some ambivalence in us, don't you think? But how much is too much?

11. If I move my bed so it is six inches away from any walls will that keep the spiders from eating me?

12. Houston will be a big change, am I ready for it? Do I have the energy for it? I think I'd rather relive the last two years one more time. They were good, bad, full of mistakes and shining moments. They were the best two years. Can Houston top it?

13. How do I feel about eBooks and eReaders? On the one hand they could kill bookstores, libraries, and the "experience" of holding a book, smelling it, and paper cuts. But on the other hand I wouldn't have to deal with boxes and boxes of books and I could search through my electronic library for phrases and words and such.

14. It's been raining a lot the past few weeks. I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow. I want to go miniature golfing.

15. I remember speeding down the Kennedy at 2 am and then tip-toeing past Jared's air mattress even though his snoring would have drowned out a marching band.

16. I remember meeting my cohort for the first time at writing day. And now I have to do something similar all over again.

17. It was odd to walk down lower Wacker in person; it brought back memories I didn't have.

18. "I usually don't drink, but when I do I drink cases of King Cobra Premium Malt Liquor."

19. The boy scouts became man scouts that day in the subway: there's nothing in the hand book to prepare them for THAT.

20. It was raining the night they took the El to the laundromat, why didn't I drive them?

21. It was cold on Northerly Island, the ice sheets forced themselves over the breaker and piled white and high like pages and pages and drafts and drafts of Thesis.

22. New friends became old friends.

23. Ate at Burger King on the night of the Apocalypse; it was all good.

24. I read the Time Machine nine too many times.

25. I get my friends married, they get me dinner sometimes.

26. Got a new pair of the same shoes I wore out. The new pair just doesn't cut it. They squeak and jumble about.

27. I didn't get sick from the water in the subway at Zion, that made me so happy that I can't even word this sentence well.

2009-06-07T23:44:00.000-06:00

I haven't felt like blogging lately.

Putting My Life Into Boxes

2009-05-21T12:27:00.000-06:00

Paging All Gilmore Girls Fans

2009-05-18T23:02:00.003-06:00

I have been told I look like David Sutcliffe who plays Rory's dad, aka "Christopher," on Gilmore Girls.

What do you think?

David Sutcliffe:

Me (with my niece Caroline):

Seriously.

2009-05-13T14:21:00.001-06:00

Applied Conversational Rhetoric

2009-05-08T14:34:00.012-06:00

English majors become English majors for a variety of reasons. Some love stories, some love the act of reading, some love to write, and some simply love beautiful language. While I kind of like most of those things, none of them made me want to become an English major. I became an English major because I love thinking about how language accomplishes things.

Early in my undergraduate career I took an amazing course in literary theory from a professor I loved. In that course we focused heavily on impossibility of language to perfectly transmit the speaker's intents to the listener's ears. In other words, the words we speak don’t’ contain meaning; rather, meaning is inferred from a system of socially constructed rules. For example, speakers of English all agree that the word "tree" refers to a class of plants with bark, leaves, and branches--but nothing in the word "tree" gives that away. In fact, when I say "tree" I might be thinking of a sequoia, but you might be thinking of a bonsai. And that difference could make a world of difference: "watch out, the tree is falling!" If I thought you meant the bonsai I would be less alarmed than if I thought you meant the redwood. That is a simple example, but more complex examples are easily found in our daily conversations. The following story is a good example.

Once gave a friend an old computer of mine with a broken screen. She fixed the screen and used it for a long time, several years. Then she decided to get a new computer, and so I asked for it back. But when she was shopping for a new computer she had included money she thought she could gain from selling it into her budget. This much of the story illustrates how various socially constructed conceptions of "gift" can be interpreted differently and can lead to potential squabbles. In this situation, however, my friend and I already came to the situation with the preconceived notion that the other person had good motives. (Assuming good motives on the part of the other always the best move.) What could have been a falling-out turned into nothing at all.

The story continues with a text message conversation (the fact that we were texting increased the potential for misunderstanding, but that is a complicated and digressive subject). In that texting conversation I said something I shouldn't have, "Maybe I do want it back... am I an indian giver?"

Her response: "your racist".

I felt sick. I'm supposed to know better, I have a master's degree in English, for crying out loud! I felt guilty. But as people often do, I covered my guilt with indignation. How dare she call me a racist! And how dare she call me a racist with improper grammar! I wasn't livid, but I was a little worked up and embarrassed... especially because this is a person whose opinion means a lot to me. So I brainstormed, edited, and re-edited several responses:

"my racist what?" Intended to mock her poor grammar. Mean, I know!

"did you see that seinfeld episode?" Referring to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry dates an American Indian and can't avoid calling her an "indian giver." This response would have been meant to imply that I was joking in my response and that she clearly missed the joke. This was, of course, a lie and so my OCD wouldn't let me go through with it.

"guess I'm not perfect" A martyr's route intended to make her feel bad for my mistake.

"sorry to offend" Too short, sounds mocking.

"I'm sorry to have offended you, but I hope you know me well enough that a slip of my tongue doesn't betray a racist heart." So close. But let's change the word betray:

result from? indicate? connote? denote? bespeak? symptomatic of? reflect? Yes, reflect. And while we're at it, let's change the word "heart," sounds too cheesy. And and in a "to know." The result:

"I'm sorry to have offended you, but I hope you know me well enough to know that a slip of my tongue doesn't reflect a racist attitude."

Did I obsess?

Yes.

Absolutely.

But I'm glad I did because her response was priceless: "i was totally joking." Was I relieved I took the time to craft a well-worded response! (The irony of the situation is, of course, that I just prided myself on assuming good motives but I failed to in this situation.)

The moral of the story: the complexities language cause real problems, but the careful use of language can minimize those problems.

In that undergraduate class, years ago, we focused on the problems of language: but I soon grew tired of this. Because the more I thought about language, the more I was convinced that the vast majority of the time language works. People fall in love. Bridges are built. Airplane tickets are bought. People's eyes are cut open, sewed back together and then they can see again even better than before... and all this because of the fact that language accomplishes something most of the time.

Killing Literature and Loving It

2009-05-05T16:41:00.004-06:00

In the spirit of Seth Grahame-Smith's ingenious travesty Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I give you "Night of the Living Lady of Shalott," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Michael Scott Henriksen....

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

But a hunger stirred within her still,
Endowing her corpse with undead will;
And though the knights repaired to kill,
They knew not how her blood to spill,
This plague on Camelot.
She stumbled forward, their flesh to eat,
And a wave of panic swept the street.
Lancelot’s brains were warm and sweet
For the Lady of Shalott.

***

Can you guess which parts he wrote and which parts I wrote? I dare you to try.

worth sharing

2009-05-05T16:15:00.001-06:00

cnn's freudian slip

2009-05-02T15:57:00.006-06:00

I'm a news addict, I check the cnn.com hourly. Look what I found on cnn just a few minutes ago:

Look closer:

Something look funny to you?

Cnn quickly fixed it:

But the damage is done. From this Freudian slip we now know that cnn misses Bush. I guess all that "liberal bias" was just a front to keep people from guessing about the true nature of cnn and Bush's relationship. Don't be surprised if the paparazzi catches a picture of cnn and Bush sneaking around a beach or something.

Fleetwood Mac Will Get You Through This

2009-04-27T00:29:00.010-06:00

All weekend I've been responding to student emails concerning the paper that's due at the beginning of class on Monday (today, I guess). I encourage all of my students to email me one paragraph from their papers at a time, which I will read, comment on, and then send back to them.

As a result of this policy, I often have students send me, eventually, over the course of the weekend--though often just over the course of a Sunday--, their entire paper, one paragraph at a time. Other than the fact that I often feel like an editor during this process, rather than a writing instructor, by the end of it (which is now, I hope), I also feel as though I have written 40 shitty "argument papers."

all.ball

2009-04-21T15:25:00.002-06:00

All.ball is going to write a song for me. The contents of which are secret, but I will keep you posted!

@vastcontinent

2009-04-15T22:50:00.000-06:00

My Big Tow

2009-04-14T15:33:00.002-06:00

Illinois Commerce Commission Police
477 South River Road
Des Plaines, Illinois 60016-4743

To Whom It May Concern:

Please consider the following:

Picture #1 shows store “Home Goods” at which I was a customer and that store’s parking lot at 2701 N Elston, Chicago, IL 60647 from which I was towed for allegedly being “illegally parked on private property” due to the allegation that I “went across street.” The official towing service invoice records that my car was towed at 15:18:49 on 4/13/09. But notice picture #2 which clearly shows that I was a customer at “Home Goods” at 15:01:05 on the same date establishing that I was a clearly a paying customer 17 minutes BEFORE the towing service alleges that I “went across street.” The sign outside the parking lot does clearly warn that “unauthorized vehicles will be towed” but the aforementioned receipt in Picture #2 clearly indicates that as a paying customer I was authorized to park in the “Home Goods” parking lot. Hence, I accuse the towing service of illegally towing my car as I was clearly authorized as a paying customer to park in the lot.

Furthermore, upon recovery of my vehicle I immediately noticed and photographed new damage to the front of my vehicle from the illegal tow. Notice the arrow in picture #5 that points to the hanging scrap of paint, a smoking gun indicating that the damage was new.

Therefore, I ask for two reparations from Lincoln Towing Service:
• Reparation #1 consisting of: a refund of the $170 tow fee and $30 in cab fees for a total of $200.
• Reparation #2 consisting of: compensation for the repainting of the vehicle’s front bumper for a total of $300.

I seek a total of $500 from Lincoln Towing Service in refund for their illegal removal and in compensation of the damage caused by said illegal removal of my vehicle.

Sincerely,

Scott Gunther

encl: complaint report form, invoice, proof of parking authorization, copy of invoice, three evidence photos

threshold

2009-04-13T22:03:00.000-06:00

Fun With House Shopping

2009-04-10T18:52:00.005-06:00

Look at this picture I snapped of my desktop while I was house-hunting. I smell a Mormon:

Top shelf: two sets of LDS bound scriptures.
Second shelf: See the big book on the right with the blue stripe? A Hugh Nibley book, my guess:

The red book on the same shelf, my guess: Christ and the New Covenant: The Messianic Message of the Book of Mormon

Third shelf: Jesus the Christ

Should I buy their house?

Several Such Pre-Fab Steel Buildings

2009-04-03T00:37:00.003-06:00

So I had all this empty space on my blog, what better than to fill it with ads? I always find google's targeted ads amusing. For example, in my gmail I always get ads encouraging me to "buy" my degree online... apparently it only takes a few minutes! That sounds much easier than what Rice is offering me...

But look at these ads... I mean are any of you actually in the market for pre-fab steel buildings?

Rice, Rice Baby

2009-04-01T16:19:00.003-06:00

Many have asked, it's time I tell you.

I got into Rice.

So... it looks like I may be beginning a PhD in English this fall in Houston, TX.

Sparkling Poo

2009-03-26T23:42:00.003-06:00

So I'm casually looking at apartments in Houston. This ad on craigslist caught my eye. How can they make this claim?

My Imaginary Depository

2009-03-23T12:52:00.003-06:00

I hesitate to share this with the world, but I have kept it secret for long enough:

I own a bank.

Well, not "own" really--more accurately I imagined a bank. In August 2006 I imagined a bank and created a Wikipedia page for it as an experiment to see how long it would take for it to get deleted. Three years later, still not deleted. In fact, rather than being deleted it has actually been edited by other wikipedia users. No joke.

Questions for discussion:

Could I go to prison for this?

Could the federal government bail me out?

2009-03-13T23:25:00.002-06:00

vanity glasses

2009-03-12T20:55:00.001-06:00

Visiting Rice tomorrow.

Wish me luck.

Let Us Now Laugh At Infamous Freshmen

2009-03-10T11:09:00.005-06:00

The following is the actual text from an email conversation with a student we'll call Machiavelli. Note: the first email was received at 4:53 pm on Monday, the day before the paper was due in class at 12:30. This was the student's first attempt to reach me.

----------

Hey, Scott

I wanted to ask u if u can meet me Tuesday before class at 9:00 am, and by
the way where is your office?

-Machiavelli

----------

Machiavelli-

9 am is not good for me. I can meet you after class.

-Scott

----------

Scott-

well its for the paper so, after class would be pointless. Since the paper
is due at the beginning of class.

-Machiavelli

----------

Machiavelli-

I'm sorry you couldn't make office hours on Thursday, Friday, or today. I will not be available tomorrow morning.

Best,

Scott

----------

*10 points if you can name the literary reference in the title.

all you need is chocolate

2009-03-08T18:24:00.002-06:00

What's the best word to describe this video...

explosion?

fusion?

Why I will miss lunches at Artopolis:

2009-03-04T01:28:00.003-07:00

Left to right: Ash, Scott, Toni Morrison, Tim

Spring Rolls / Two and a Half Men

2009-03-01T23:30:00.002-07:00

I love my city. Too bad I can't stay.

Two and a half months.

Just enough time to watch Spring roll in and to watch a few episodes of Two and a Half Men while eating spring rolls.

Thinking About Music: Andrew Bird Live

2009-02-27T17:21:00.004-07:00

[William Butler Yeats by John Singer Sargent, 1908.]

Sooner or later, it becomes almost embarrassingly apparent that half of your favorite bands can’t play their instruments half as well as that guy you sat next to in AP calculus in the eleventh grade. This observation doesn’t compromise my enjoyment of their music; I’ve always erred on the side of punk, anyway. It does pose interesting questions, though. Like, should my friends from high school be the guys on stage right now? Or, is rock really just about cool, like Chuck Klosterman argues in his essay “Every Dog Must Have His Day, Every Drunk Must Have His Drink,” and my high school friends will just never be as cool as Meg and Jack White, or Mike D and MCA and Ad-Rock, or—perish the thought—Kenny Loggins? (Incidentally, whether you agree with Klosterman’s premise or not—and I think I do—, he is right about Billy Joel: the man is not cool, but he is great.)

Regardless of my aesthetic leanings, however (Pavement is one of the top-five greatest bands, ever—end of discussion), every once in a while questions like those I posed above get turned around. This is what happened to me last night. What if Andrew Bird was the guy I sat next to in high school? I don’t know if Bird is cool or just weird. Really weird. (Is his frantic gesturing on stage indicative of mental aberration, or is it just affected? Is mental aberration a prerequisite for such affectation in the first place?) But he’s easily the most talented guy in the room—no matter which room you stick him in—and somehow, I can’t imagine, even in high school, how this guy was not obviously destined for greatness.

To see Andrew Bird live is to experience genius in action. His records are great. On occasion, the less-astute can be fooled into thinking that they’re dull, but the truth is that his records are so layered that each successive listen repays the effort ad infinitum. Thus, each record gradually expands, revealing a space in which the excitement is limited only by the scope of the listener’s expectations. Live, however, Bird seems intent on exploring all of the possible permutations of his music hinted at on the records right there in front of you. He’s like a guide, teasing out the details you might have missed on your own and embellishing the familiar with unique twists. If the record erects a mountain, then you’d better watch out for a valley, live. And I’m not talking about improvisation, here. This isn’t a Phish concert. Bird rewrites the songs for the stage, though nothing is lost in the translation.

Among the highlights of Bird’s show at In the Venue (worst name ever?) last night in Salt Lake City, I was particularly impressed by two numbers, played successively (to great effect): “Armchairs” and “Anonanimal” (from Armchair Apocrypha and Noble Beast, respectively). Both are stand-out tracks on record, and, perhaps consequently, Bird didn’t do a lot to change the dynamics or arrangements of the songs. “Armchairs” remains a waltzing, dramatic powerhouse. “Anonamimal” felt more hectic, live, but still retained the anxious playfulness that its segmented structure delivers on the record. What occurred to me during these songs, however, and what continues to resonate with me even now, a full 24 hours after the show, is that Bird’s best work offers glimpses of an artist in crisis.

“Armchairs” begins as a stately march, perfectly suiting some of the greatest opening lines ever written: “I dreamed you were a cosmonaut / Of the space between our chairs / And I was a cartographer / Of the tangles in your hair.” The ideas of exploration and possibility and discovery are almost immediately bracketed, however, by the “song that silence brings.” In the silence, “looms that weave apocryphal” are “hanging from a strand” and “dark and empty rooms [are] full / Of incandescent hands,” replacing the subdued wonder of the first lines with a mysterious, potentially hidden, horror. Instead of the romance he’d prepared us for, Bird takes us into a melancholy realization that one “[needs] to learn to love / The ebb just like the flow.”

The song is not merely a resigned recognition of loss, however. As I said before, it is the window he opens on crisis that renders the music so compelling. Bird’s confession that he may “lack the proper chemicals to know / The way [he] felt the last time [he] let [himself] / Fall this low” is framed by the haunting refrain that “time [is] a crooked bow,” recalling, for me, William Butler Yeats’s “The Second Coming”: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.” Bird’s devastation is underscored by the sense that reality itself is somehow wrong—“crooked.” Although it’s tempting to believe that the only option left to him is surrender—sitting in an armchair at the “bottom of this gigantic crater”—Bird conspiratorially reveals that the armchair is in fact calling to him, complicit in a kind of revenge scheme: “Some day,” it says, “We’ll get back at them all / With epoxy and a pair of pliers.” The brutality implicit in the armchair’s words indicates a fierce rebellion: Bird is down, but he’s not out. We’re seeing him at the bottom, but that’s not where he’ll stay. It may take time, but he’ll be back, and with a vengeance, having had time to dwell on the fact that “you [whoever that may be] didn’t write you didn’t call / It didn’t cross your mind at all.” There is no sense of willing surrender or weary resignation. Bird is bitter, and he isn’t letting go. And that’s where the song leaves us, unrequited and anxious.

“Anonanimal” indicates what Bird’s next move might be, after the wreckage of “Armchairs.” The scene of the song opens on Bird’s anxiety as he beholds the sea anemone—“the enemy”—that will be “the end of [him].” The next lines narrate the destruction of a “vicious fish … caught unawares”; however, with the exception of a single pronoun—her—the action of the scene is rendered almost impenetrably nonspecific, and it is not at all clear whether Bird is the “vicious fish” who has been caught, presumably by “her” “tenderest of tendrils,” or if he is the agent catching her “underneath her tender gills” with his own tendrils. The ambiguous language reiterates the tenuousness of reality alluded to in “Armchairs,” indicating that, once again, we are observing a crisis—a situation in which control is simply not an option.

For the sake of argument, however, I am inclined to believe that it is, in fact, Bird who has been caught, and, presumably, consumed by the enemy sea anemone. As a consequence of this consumption, Bird finds himself assimilated—incorporated into the enemy as “anomalous appendages.” Curiously, it is the tragedy itself that suggests an escape from crisis. Bird declares that “[he] will become this animal…. A non-animal.” After the initial declaration that the sea anemone is his enemy and that he has been “caught,” there is no indication that Bird is resisting in any way. He is willing to become the non-animal.

The advantage to his new status appears to be that he is now “perfectly adapted to the music halls.” It is difficult not to read this song as some kind of response to Bird’s steadily increasing popularity. It is as though Bird has been forced to become something he once considered inimical in order to cope with the attention. Perhaps this would explain the increasing complexity of his music and especially the lyrics—which were already notoriously opaque. Regardless, Bird’s music continues to astound, and I can only hope that he never quite makes it out of that crater—but also that he never quits trying.

Another Such Building

2009-02-24T21:03:00.007-07:00

Several Such Buildings has a new addition: Henpenney. Just to be clear, Henpenney is not Scott Gunther, he is Michael Scott Henriksen.

Here is Michael Scott Henriksen (aka Henpenney) beardless:

Here is Scott Gunther (aka [sbg]) with a beard:

We both (as these pictures show) like music.

Thinking About Cooking: Brownies

2009-02-24T16:45:00.007-07:00

Why I decided to start cooking I’m not sure I’ll ever understand completely. Eric has been cooking for a while, now. Pies and brownies, mostly. Vanessa’s a good cook. And it seems like, for a while, that’s all we did; we were together and we cooked. And so, there I was, freshly home from NorCar, and that’s what I wanted to do.

My mother is a good person. She was kind enough to supervise my efforts. A lot of people will tell you that her presence compromises the project. To these people I have one question: who’s going to hold the camera? And, anyway, she only watched; she was not allowed to participate in any capacity except as a voice of reason, warning, or both.

I took my recipe from a tattered, self-published, spiral-bound book called the Butler Hill Cookbook. I live in the Butler area of Cottonwood Heights and recognize several of the names associated with the recipes in the book. LeCheminant. Whitney. Ballard. The names suggest a peculiar list of ingredients. Pearson. Winward. Garavatti. Mix, bake, cool and, presto!—: Butlerville.

“Yummy Brownies.” After determining that brownies were the place to begin, my mother suggested that I start with “Yummy Brownies.” I almost rejected the recipe based on the name alone. “Yummy” is not the kind of word I wanted associated with my brownies. I was looking for something more along the lines of “Earth-shattering,” “Proof-of-the-Divine,” or “Mike-licious.” It occurred to me, however, that the woman who had donated the recipe for the book had probably stolen it from another book and changed the name to something bland and unassuming in an effort to escape suspicion, and so, intrigued, I conceded to make the “Yummy Brownies” my project.

Butter, sugar, eggs, flour, salt, cocoa, and vanilla. What was it that possessed me to cook “from scratch,” as they say? Part of it, surely, was my suspicion that Eric cooked from scratch, and an irrepressible urge to compete in this new, domestic venue. Part of it was having seen Vanessa do it again and again. But mostly, I was obsessed with the idea of knowing the origin of my ingredients. There is something elemental about butter. I am half-inclined, against all reason and experience, to believe that butter is squeezed directly from a cow, like toothpaste from its tube. Sugar and salt might as well be atoms. Flour, cocoa, and vanilla are always already in my cupboard. And eggs. If they didn’t come first, then they came second, and that’s still pretty damn authentic.

Indeed, “authenticity” is the name of the game. These brownies had to be mine—not the creation of a box.

Now, I understand the structure of a sign. I get the infinite regress. Différance is my bitch. Nevertheless, by the time I was finished with these brownies, they weren’t just mine, they were me. They represented nothing. They signaled nothing. They alluded to nothing. They framed nothing. They were framed by nothing. Rather, the brownies were extensions of my being—my persona—my identity. They were truly Mike-licious.

Which is why I ate them. And which is why, in the end, we eat anything at all. Don’t believe that hogwash about sustenance and urges and survival for one minute. We eat because we are taking back what’s ours—and it’s all ours, because it’s all us. It’s not that we are what we eat—what we eat is what we are.

All this, of course, is to explain why I changed the recipe. I added chocolate chips. And I didn’t do the frosting. Frosting is always too much. Instead, I lightly sprinkled my brownies with powdered sugar. Then, at the insistence of my mother, who wrongly assumed my brownies would thus be too dry, I did do some frosting, but only drizzled a little bit, here and there.

And they were perfect, because they were mine/me.

Cook, but cook yourself (even if your mother is watching).

Wondering Bread Line

2009-02-23T20:41:00.001-07:00

[pun]

2009-02-23T20:40:00.003-07:00

Pogo for Pyros

2009-02-23T10:48:00.008-07:00

[Henpenney is a contributor to Several Such Buildings, he lives in Salt Lake City, UT, with his beard. You can read his blog at Too Cool By Half.]

A fashionable male knows and recognizes the fact that the only benefit of a long-distance relationship is that you don’t have to shave. I haven’t shaved since I left my girlfriend in North Carolina in January, and though I’d happily trade my beard for 15 minutes with her, I’d have to think about it.

A lot of people scorn the beard. Many revere it. Few there are, however, who have truly taken the time to ponder the ideas that, over the ages, have become associated with it.

I turn to the Oxford English Dictionary.

The first known usage of “beard” reflects the same signified notion that we conventionally associate with it today. Around 825 AD, the word “beard” indicated “the hair that grows upon the chin, lips, and adjacent parts of an adult man's face” (OED). It is humbling to realize that, at least in English, the “beard” has adorned our language like some kind of heavenly star atop a wintery Christmas fur—a simile chosen, I assure you, not least because of its beard-like image.

Since at least 1330, the OED tells us, “beard” has been a part of common phrases such as

in spite of or maugre any one's beard: in defiance of or direct opposition to his purpose.

to one's beard: to one's face, openly.
to be, meet, or run in any one's beard: to oppose him openly and resolutely, to beard.
to take by the beard: to attack resolutely (cf. 1 Sam. xvii. 35).
to make a man's beard: (lit.) to dress his beard, (fig.) to outwit or delude him.
to make a man's beard without a razor: (in later sense) to behead him.
to put something against a man's beard: to taunt him with it.

Clearly, judging from the wide array of situations that these phrases cover, beards have been worn by men from all walks of life, but especially the brave, the honest, the bold, the strong, the stylish, the clever, the patriotic, and the magnificent.

In 1591, “beard” was first recorded in reference to “age, experience, [and] virility” (OED). My only reaction to this bit of trivia is to wonder what on earth was the delay? Of course a man with a beard is of age. Of course a man with a beard is experienced. And, of course a man with a beard is virile. In the case of the latter, one is practically synonymous with the other: I have a beard, therefore I am virile. When a bearded man walks into a room, he is, for all intents and purposes, declaring his intention to sire a child.

Perhaps the most intriguing uses of the word “beard,” however, have already been hinted at above: to beard, the verb, paints a vivid picture throughout the ages.

“Beard” has meant “to become bearded” or “to furnish with a beard,” but also to become unbearded or “to cut or strip off” a beard (OED). It is, in fact, one of those versatile words which supplies its own antonym, like “cleave.” It is no coincidence that both “beard” and “cleave” connote power and action. Indeed, in 1525, the OED reports, “to beard” was first recorded as indicating the act of “[opposing] openly and resolutely, with daring or with effrontery; to set at defiance, thwart, affront .”

More recent developments in the idea of the beard that evolved in the last century indicate “to act for or serve another as a beard” (OED). This covers a variety of activities, all of which imply the concealment of another’s identity: a beard may bet or secure transactions for another, a beard may escort another in public in order to subdue suspicion of infidelity, or a beard may pretend to be involved with another heterosexually in order to mask the other’s homosexuality.

This contemporary trend reveals the ontological status of the beard: beard as identity. Although the three preceding examples indicate the concealment of identity, the fact that these acts are perpetrated by agents colloquially known as “beards” indicates the conventionally held association of “beard” with identity in the first place.

One does not merely wear a beard—one is a beard.

It is almost impossible to avoid gendering in this subject; however, although I have displayed an obvious association of maleness with beards, I do not mean to foreclose on the idea of the feminine beard (nor do I necessarily intend to imply that men who cannot grow beards are, essentially, women). Nevertheless, be it a case of victimization or what-have-you, I am a slave to convention and find the idea of chicks with beards repellant. I am not blind to the notion that this, then, implies a model of identity conditioned on maleness, and that the logical extension of this idea relegates women (and beardless men) to a kind of negative identity defined by the absence of a beard.

But, I digress.

Beards are pretty fucking sweet. And, when you’ve been skiing on a really cold day and they freeze, contrary to popular belief, it actually insulates your face from the cold, protecting, rather than compromising, your comfort.

Work Cited:

“beard, n.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2009.
OED Online. 19 February 2009

“beard, v.” Oxford English Dictionary. 2009.
OED Online. 19 February 2009

I Am The New Andy Warhol

2009-02-22T18:25:00.001-07:00

Please, try this at home:

Meditations On A Photograph

2009-02-15T14:45:00.005-07:00

How many of these do I have to take?

Double Your Fun Re: Chris Brown

2009-02-09T00:30:00.003-07:00

Some say Chris Brown sold out when he wrote this song for Doublemint, but it's a good thing he did. Facing felony charges for domestic assault Brown posted a $50,000 bond.

Double your pleasure, double your fun...

Has ABC cancelled "Castle" yet?

2009-02-08T22:02:00.008-07:00

ABC is busy promoting their new dramedy Castle which will air in March. Did you catch the preview?

How bad is that? Here are two reasons why the American public and I won't be watching (this section will be expanded):

The casting is awful. Nathan Fillion? The only good work he has ever done was when he plated Captain Hammer in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog during the writer's strike.

The premise is awful. How many odd-couple comedies can television audiences stomach? It's Murder She Wrote + Bones. Or maybe just Bones but with a novelist instead of a paleontologist.

Moustache Envy

2009-01-29T22:48:00.005-07:00

Brad Pitt sporting a mustache while promoting Benjamin Button in Japan, Italy, or some other ex-Axis country.

The question is:

Can I pull this off?

Anti-Italianism and Verizon Wireless

2009-01-22T20:01:00.008-07:00

Maybe they're Greek.

Either way, it would be too easy to simply say this perpetuates Italian and/or Greek racial stereotypes. Let's try something else entirely:

First of all, a good question to ask is, "what is Verizon trying to do?" The commercial comes clean at the end as it tells us that, "Verizon is America's largest mobile to mobile family." Whatever that means. Supposedly it means, to us as consumers, that we can call anybody we think of as family for less--even if they aren’t family by the traditional definition of the word.

Who better to illustrate this point than a stereotypical Italian family?

Granted, this isn't necessarily a negative stereotype that Verizon insists upon, in fact the commercial seems to suggest the opposite, that all of us have a stereotypical Little Italy inside of us that yearns for a more elastic definition of the word "family." Verizon seems to be saying that this is a good thing. But actually, that's not entirely true. Verizon isn't so much saying a more malleable definition of family is a good thing, rather Verizon is playing to a belief its ad agency has located in the moral ideology of the targeted consumer subset. That is to say, Verizon wanted to say, "hey, we let you can call anyone you want at a special rate but other companies will only let you call your immediate family; we'll let you define for yourself what ‘family’ means to you.” But even though Verizon is praising the stereotype it is exploiting for profit, it is still a stereotype and thus Verizon is enforcing racial demarcations in the popular imagination. The problem with racial stereotypes was never that they perpetuated negative racial perceptions, but the fact that they perpetuated racial perceptions at all. And to do this for a profit? Borderline evil.

But all of this isn’t to say that the commercial isn’t good. The way I see it, a commercial’s greatness should be judged solely by its effectiveness. Does the commercial effectively persuade the targeted consumer in a memorable and entertaining way to buy Verizon? I think so And the fact that it does so by linking itself to a popular myth only increases the chances the ad will stick. Oh, and doing all of this within the framework of their yuppy spokesman only serves to further their ad recognition in a fresh way.

Scott’s verdict: Genius.

Bratz World Tour 2009

2009-01-19T12:50:00.006-07:00

About a year and a half ago I wrote the post All These Bratz Wanna Do Is Rock in response to the post Casio and Bratz on another blog. Since then that post has been by far the most popular page on my blog.

No joke.

According to my traffic reports, visitors from all around the world have rocked out with my Bratz. Via my blog, in 2009 alone, my Bratz rockers have toured South Africa, Australia, India, Kuwait, and have rocked Lebanon, Brazil, Peru, and many other countries (my use of the word "country" here does not convey my endorsement of the nation-state as a system of governance) . Above all other geographical locales, however, eastern Europe has been a particular hotbed of Bratz rocker fanfare: Kosovo, Serbia, Romania... you name it and the Bratz have rocked it. For some reason beyond my comprehension, eastern Europeans, like my Bratz, just wanna rock.

But so far, to my disappointment, Algeria is one of the few countries my Bratz have yet to visit--this means that I can't yet say that may Bratz have rocked the Casbah.

Professor-in-Chief

2009-01-19T10:53:00.001-07:00

Look Around You

2009-01-18T23:10:00.001-07:00

This program is the new meaning of life.

Discuss.

In A Good Way

2009-01-17T22:17:00.003-07:00

And I should be reading the Jew of Malta, but I got distracted. By you. In a good way.

My apartment is a cell. In a good way. I have free heat, and it is way too warm in here. In a way.

Living alone is quite the experience, especially as a graduate student in English. Here's why:

Technically I only have to be on campus on Tuesdays and Thursdays as this semester I am only teaching one course and taking one course as I finish up my Masters thesis. So this means lots of time for me to (ehem) "work" and read. So today, for example, I decided to sleep in. I deserved it. And then I thought for a while, a good long while, about what I should eat for breakfast/lunch. The golden arches down my street sang like a siren through the frigid dawn of noon. And so, of course, I heeded their call: the video prior this post is of that trip. But here's the point: that was the only time I went outside today. Now granted, outside it is a frigid death zone, but still... should I have places to go? It turns out the only place that I had to go was into the mind of Christopher Marlowe via his play The Jew of Malta.

Here's the thing: I like to read, and I am very much enjoying the play... but I am also a social person, so I tend to feel cooped up in here. Even talking to people on the phone isn't quite the same as having some place to go. The problem isn't that I am lonely, I don't feel lonely, I have friends here and places to go. The problem is that my brain thinks that in order to be "doing something" that I have to be physically moving from one place to another or speaking with someone face to face. Maybe this is why I like road trips.

But really, this semester is awesome. I mean, I get to teach a class on celebrity culture, how cool is that? This week they will have read Vanna White's autobiography Vanna Speaks and Book X from Plato's Republic--how cool is that? And, AND I told them all that they have to watch TMZ for homework... I know that if I had a professor assign those things together I would love it.

Mickey D's on Sawyer

2009-01-17T13:17:00.001-07:00

Backflip Into Asphault

2009-01-11T22:30:00.006-07:00

I'm fine with fantastic commercials, in fact, I'm all in favor of them. But forgetting the fact that if anyone tried this they would most likely snap their neck, what's wrong with this?

I am perfectly fine with imagining a world where cement turns into liquid at the sip of sprite zero. And I have no problem imagining that said liquid could possess some magical and/or super-technological power that keeps the painted court lines from dissipating as people jump in. And I am even okay imagining that in that world where stone miraculously turns to liquid that athletic 20-somethings actually drink sprite zero, even though that one's a stretch. But here's what I am not okay with: supposedly, we are to assume that the guys are hanging out to play basketball (note their shoes and the basketball) but why would they wear their swimming suits to a basketball game? And why would they then proceed to swim with their shoes on, I mean they had time to take off their shirts...

My theory is that the first guy to jump in didn't know it was a liquid, but that he was trying to kill himself to get the sprite zero taste out of his mouth. But even that doesn't explain why after a suicide attempt the guys would continue swimming with their shoes on or explain why they were wearing swimming suits to a basketball game to begin with. I mean, I'm a guy, I play basketball, I've worn swimsuits. Trust me, boardshorts do not offer enough support.

I sent PhD applications to:

2008-12-24T10:55:00.001-07:00

University of Washington
University of Utah
Rice University
University of Illinois at Chicago
University of Chicago
University of Michigan
Boston University
Boston College
New York University

spin-off

2008-12-13T11:41:00.001-07:00

Several Such Buildings is under renovation, and Ryan over at Vast Continent and Ryan Browning is helping. He has created a sandbox over at Several Such Testing to play with some settings and such. Check it out. Besides, there's a great story about Spock and his older half-brother Sybok as well as a picture of a busted-up tree. We think that busted-up trees are going to be the next lolcats.

And: Coming 2009 - new writers will be joining Several Such Buildings.

why I love Stanley Fish

2008-12-07T21:54:00.002-07:00

click this line of text: it is a hyperlink

more wallace stevens

2008-12-06T10:28:00.003-07:00

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Does the word "stupid" mean anything to you?

2008-12-04T12:57:00.001-07:00

another video from my life

2008-11-30T21:21:00.002-07:00

One helluva thanksgiving...

notes on an email I received today

2008-11-30T20:00:00.002-07:00

Scott just wasted his time.

Yes, Scott.

Yes, just.

Yes, wasted.

Yes, his.

Yes, time.

Any questions?

another video from my life

2008-11-23T21:26:00.003-07:00

I had a few friends over to my house for a holiday party this weekend, this is just a little video of me and my friends being ourselves in Chicago.