Friday, 09 December 2005

My Morning: The Legend Continues

I can't write or talk about "my morning" anymore.  I can't say why . . . but don't let that stop you from speculating wildly.  Have wheelchair-bound clowns sporting Hitler costumes kidnapped me?  Did I awake this morning from uneasy dreams to find myself transformed into a gigantic insect who can no longer type or speak?  I'm not at liberty to say.

That said, I can thank you all for your support and encouragement.  I haven't had a stretch this rough in a long time and y'all have helped me through me it.

UPDATE: Click here for the conclusion.

Dec 9, 2005 2:32:48 PM | Weblogs

8 Comments

Anthony

I wish I could say that I can't imagine how you could possibly be made out to have comported yourself at all inappropriately in this situation, but I have spent some time in the university environment and thus, unfortunately, can imagine it. I hope you can take solace in the fact that many of us have encountered the same logic that I imagine you faced--well intentioned but wrong-headed. Then again, I don't know the specifics and don't wish to malign your university's administration unfairly. But I can imagine...

Posted by: Anthony | Friday, 09 December 2005 at 03:05 PM

Anthony

P.S. Well, if you didn't awake from uneasy dreams to find yourself metamorphosed, you may well have been traduced. Either way, you'd have quite a day ahead of you.

Posted by: Anthony | Friday, 09 December 2005 at 03:10 PM

springboard


Do you need a lawyer?

Posted by: springboard | Friday, 09 December 2005 at 03:17 PM

Jon McGee

As much as it pains me to make a Philip Roth reference, but this seems like something straight out of 'Human Stain.'

Posted by: Jon McGee | Friday, 09 December 2005 at 06:13 PM

B.J.

What an unfortunate situation. I don't believe you acted inappropriately, and I hope that the university's administration realize that as well.

Posted by: B.J. | Saturday, 10 December 2005 at 04:41 AM

Dr. Virago

Oh Scott, this all sound ominous. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for you!

Posted by: Dr. Virago | Saturday, 10 December 2005 at 01:05 PM

Adam Roberts

Aha. None dare call it censorship, I'm sure. (I mean, it's not as if you identified the individuals concerned, or gave enough information for such identification to be made ...)

What you guys in the States need is some sort of, I don't know, Bill of Rights or something. Something that, like, guarantees freedom of speech. If I were you I'd get right on that.

Posted by: Adam Roberts | Monday, 12 December 2005 at 05:37 AM

Kane

Great story.
Every bit as good as what I used to do to my roommate hehe

Posted by: Kane | Thursday, 22 December 2005 at 11:21 AM

The comments to this entry are closed.

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Miriam's Hrair Limit; or, How to Shelve Intelligently to Feel More Intelligent Miriam J. shared her edifying despair with Valve readers yesterday. I have had enough despair of late (and face the possibility of more tomorrow). So tonight I offer hope. But first a pinch of despair: I read on average 50 pages per hour. That’s around a book a day (life will intervene), 365 a year. If I squeeze out another 40 years, that’s a mere 14,600 books, which simply will not do. For every classic you haven’t read and should, there are at least five new books you’ll want to read as well. So says LA Times staff writer Susan Salter Reynolds. To which Miriam responds: My mortality is never closer than when I make the mistake of thinking too clearly about the ratio of the ever-burgeoning number of books in the world, to the sliver of books I have read or am yet likely to read. Miriam has a problem. She is unable to imagine how large a number 14,600 is. That's not surprising. Not because I think Miriam deficient, mind you, but because we all have our hrair limits . If following the link clarified little, "hrair" comes from Richard Adams' Watership Down and it means "a number too large to count." In Adams' novel, the rabbits have a hrair of four. According George Miller's famous essay "The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two," humans have a hrair of seven . . . plus or minus two. After you hit your hrair limit, not only can you will you be overwhelmed by any novel information, you will also lose the ability to understand the information you were already juggling. That's a damn fine metaphor: Some people can juggle five balls but not six. When someone tosses him a sixth, they all inevitably hit the floor. Other people can juggle six but not seven . . . you see where this is headed. Now consider Miriam's desperation. She will only read 14,600 hundred more books in her life. That statement is approximately 2085 times her hrair limit. She would need 2085 other brains to be able to wrap her mind around her absurd fear of not reading enough. Doesn't everyone feel better already? To strike a more serious note: this anxiety can be overcome by dispensing with the "to read" shelf and creating a "have read" shelf in its place. You will be amazed daily by how much you have read instead of despairing over how much you haven't. The sense of self-satisfaction such a shelf creates positively intoxicates.
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Tension? You Want Tension? I first drafted this entry early Wednesday evening. I often draft posts days before I publish them. I had no reason to be nervous. (Suggested routine? Check. Irrelevent emotional detail? Check.) I sat in my study, unprepared for this. (Ominous pronoun? Check. Withheld information? Check.) It would be some time before I ate solid food again. (Solemn futural perspective? Check. Red herring? Check.) I placed the Afrin on my desk next to the handset I should have charged. (Intimate detail? Check. Intimated communication crisis? Check.) This sort of thing happens all the time. But not me. (Implied hubris? Check. Insinuated invincibility? Check.) I heard the phone ring but I let the machine answer. The man on the machine said he wanted to know some simple techniques for creating cheap tension. I told him I couldn't help him. He insisted I could. My phone was dying. I told him he should try overstating the obvious and he thanked me for my time. I didn't expect to hear back from him. Random phone calls never lead to anything. Certainly not this. Then I sneezed. I knew this week would not end well. If only I had known.

Scott Eric Kaufman

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