Monday, 12 December 2005

How to Contact Mr. Famous Me

To the thems who have searched for me by name a couple hundred times this week . . . I have an email address.  You can send messages to me through it at your convenience.  If truncating ".typepad.com/" from "acephalous.typepad.com/" and adding an "@gmail.com" to the untruncated part confounds you, well, better you don't email me, since my general state of confusion will only confound you further.  (Really, if y'all ain't smarter than me, don't bother talking to me.  I'm here for learning but ain't too quick with the listening and what it entrails.)  If that ain't the devil's own asshole and you think you know me, there's always contact option hombre dos: squash my names together and paste an "@gmail.com" to it.  That'll reach me.  (Yes I speak Spanish fluently . . . so long as I'm not alone and without my "dictionary.")

So it has been a strange week around here.  I have a full schedule of off-quarter blogging planned, including but not limited to 1) periodic updates on the dissertation chapters you all click click click to read more about and 2) SUPREMELY AWESOME ALL-CAPS COVERAGE OF THE MLA IN HDTV!  (Less than half of that speaks Truth to Power . . . mostly it whispers Rumors to Giant Egregious Lies.  But "seriously," I have three buckets of Krazy Glue and I fully intend on still staying stuck to everyone I meet who has a Kareer.  Krikey!  It ain't like I have a choice in the matter.)

Dec 12, 2005 1:18:00 AM | Academia, Literary Theory, Literature

1 Comment

serial catowner

Uh, in the post above this one, you ask our opinion, but Comments aren't enabled....

Posted by: serial catowner | Wednesday, 14 December 2005 at 06:56 PM

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My Morning: The Final Chapter On Thursday, two students somehow feel entitled to have relations in your office. You interrupt their passionate paroxysms. He cries sexual harassment. And wolf. And for his mother. She cries. And cries. And cries. Come Monday, the Sexual Harassment Police call you to "talk" about "the incident." You are asked to participate in a "fact-finding interview." You ask the investigator what this about and are informed that its purpose can be discussed it in detail on Friday. An hour later, you send the investigator an email asking for more information and the response contains nothing but a link to your employer's sexual harassment policy. On Wednesday you call the Sexual Harassment Police to confirm the time of your "fact-finding interview." The person who answers the phone informs you that your "hearing" will occur on Friday at 10:00 AM. "My hearing?!?" you interrobang. Only polite-like because you're from the South and in the South one interrobangs politely. Given this sequence of events, would you suppose that the student had followed through with his threat to file a sexual harassment complaint against you? The patently spoiled student swore a blood oath. The investigator stonewalled you. The secretary sprung a hearing on you. Things had spun out of control. So you don't sleep well . . . and when you muster some winks you dream about tar and torn down-pillows. You imagine yourself covered in the first feathering of countless young birds and everyone (denuded fowl included) points and laughs at you. You wake from these dreams dripping sweat and craving chicken. (You are determined to give those stripped striplings the what-for they so richly deserve.) So you wouldn't sleep that much. You would occupy the couch and watch terrible movies while your wife slept soundly in the bedroom. You would fear the hounds this indulged undergraduate loosed upon you. You would fear the investigator who refused to divulge details. You would fear your shadow and inadvertently damn New England to another six bitter winter weeks. Don't deny it. You would . . . . . . and in doing so you would involve yourself in the monumental misunderstanding that has been my life for the more than a week now. Today I have been thoroughly detenebrated. (Not defenestrated. In this house only cats are defenestrated. And only by other cats. And in good fun. Except for the defenestrated feline. Who was fine.) I have seen the errors of my cynical ways because today I learned that sometimes people are not out to destroy all I hold dear with hot tar and serious plumage. Turns out no one filed a complaint. Turns out the Sexual Harassment Police wondered whether I wanted to file one. Why couldn't the investigator have told me this over the phone last week? Why all the cryptic comments about coming in to discuss it? Apparently that's protocol in sexual harassment cases. The investigator prefers to question faces over voices. The investigator also cannot fathom how I would think a...

Scott Eric Kaufman

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