Sorry, folks, the Scattering’s shutting its doors. I think we all saw this coming. It was fun. But if you keep writing super cheap indie science fiction, I’ll keep reading it! I just won’t review it… and hey, that’s probably a good thing.
A college acquaintance of mine who falls into the social category of “I don’t know him extraordinarily well but it’s okay to comment on his fb posts if you can reasonably assume that he is posting something outrageous for the explicit reason that he wants people to comment ” (laugh, but I know you know what I mean) recently shared a link to a very strange music video. And for this … thing (I’m not sure I’m comfortable calling it music again — the first time was iffy enough), outrageous might not be a strong enough adjective.
Take a watch. And unless you can by some incredible feat of mental strength survive 4 minutes of inanity — in which case, my wide-brimmed Palm Springs summer hat is off to you, sir or madam, because I am not one of those people — I imagine that 30 seconds is about enough.
This is Blood on the Dance Floor’s “Bewitched.”
I think this merits our friend Liz Lemon saying, for all of us:
The strangest thing about this video (how do you disturb me? let me count the ways…) may be that these Blood on the Dance Floor, Lady Nogrady (no comment), and director Patrick Fogarty really tried. I mean, they really tried. They just threw in so many clichéd lyrics and such overwhelmingly hackneyed special effects that the end result was anything but bewitching. More like a curse.
Unconnected as this may seem at first, the “Bewitched” video reminds me of nothing less than some of the academic articles I’ve been reading this summer to prepare for grad school in T-minus 8 days. These authors (oh Saint Cassion of Imola! pray that I become not one of them in future days!), like Blood on the Dance Floor, are too concerned with being a part of “the scene” than producing quality work (the buzzwords, oh gods, the buzzwords!)
Which leads me to my latest project — Operation: Make Everything Pretentious!
What would happen if some scenester academic wrote a review of “Bewitched”? Let’s take a whack at it!
From the Journal of New Media Academese
Beyond Heaven and Hormones: Romantic Attraction Reconsidered as Diabolical Eroticism
… thus, clearly, [the singer’s] repeated allusions to the supernatural are a challenge to modern scientific understandings of “love” as, in part, biologically determined, as well as rejecting the current culturally euphoric attitude surrounding romance by appealing to the more ambivalent connotations of sex in relation to the occult.
Notably, the female sex partner–described by the male singer as a “witch” holding him in thrall–holds the dominant position of power within the relationship, by means of her (albeit allegorical) allegorical theurgy, a descriptive characterization that serves to engender (pardon the pun) an incisive challenge to societal assumptions of heteronormativity, a not uncommon theme within the hermeneutics of artistic discourse. And so in summation–
It’s totes obv.
Save this video for Valentine’s Day, folks. Or maybe Halloween.
To inherit the estate of a dead business tycoon, an underdog and his eccentric group of friends must work together to beat a fiendishly difficult video game rife with 80s pop culture references and all the while try to keep a step ahead of an evil corporate cheater.
SF fans might recognize this as the plot of Ernest Cline’s novel Ready Player One. But substitute “80s pop culture references” with “the racist stereotypes of a moist towelette magnate” and “evil corporate cheater” with “evil corporate Gus from Breaking Bad” and you’ve got the plot of “Digital Estate Planning,” the third-to-last episode of our favorite, increasingly-nerdy comedy Community in this, its third and darkest season.
I love Community. I wrote a lukewarm review of its second-ever episode years ago for another blog, which I heartily repent. Not that I was wrong about Britta being self-righteous and super annoying in the first season, because I totally wasn’t wrong. Now that Annie seems to be established as the new female lead (as Jeff says to Britta in Course Listing Unavailable, “You seemed smarter to me when I met you”), I have no complaints.
How could I, when Dan Harmon and Co. delight in proving their nerd credentials every Thursdays? Like the red and blue universes at Annie’s Model UN UN-off (Fringe), or the evil Glee club Christmas episode (I completely believe that Will Schuester could secretly be a serial killer. Sweater vests really are weird).
NBC seems to have a thing for pop culture cross-pollination. And I don’t just mean Abed talking about tv shows, because that’s just what he does. (As an aside–I think I remember criticizing Community for being too “postmodern” with the whole Abed-being-constantly-self-referential thing, but maybe postmodern grows on you.) Anyone else notice that, on 30 Rock last night, the POW Avery communicating on camera through finger-twitching code sub-plot was pulled straight out of Homeland?
Anyway, “Digital Estate Planning” continues that tradition by taking a page (literally) out of Ernest Cline’s book Ready Player One, which itself still strikes me as a gamer’s version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
Of course, even for those of you who haven’t read Cline’s debut novel, released last summer to great fanfare from nerds everywhere, Community ep 3.20 is still as entertaining as ever, along with the two others that followed it last night. Just thought someone should point this out, in the interest of introducing Cline’s fans to Community’s fans, and vice versa (though I imagine the respective fandoms have quite a bit of overlap).
Not much else to say, except, as always:
* * *
I learned something yesterday: If you’re going to write a blog about as contentious and controversial a topic as the characterization of classic characters in American fiction (and do it with alliteration), you’ve really got to grow a thick skin. Everyone has the right to disagree. And that is something I will defend unto my last keystroke. I, Isabela Morales, the Scattering’s sole author, do so swear.
See what I did there? I used my name. I did that because I personally believe that if I’m ashamed to put my John Hancock to something I publish, then it isn’t really worth publishing. But hey, we can’t expect everyone to follow that rule.
Anonymity is a valuable and important part of our online experience. Why then do we, as a culture, tend to despise, denigrate, deride, and disdain people who post more-than-moderately critical comments without revealing their names? I am here to say that I believe every would-be Internet troll has the right to write unnecessarily aggressive things about academic blog posts without inspiring offense on the part of the author. Which is why I want to post this not-at-all-spiteful public letter of apology for forcing my objectionable prose on last night’s anonymous commenter. You see–
In spring 2009 I was taking a course on American humor and satire at my now-alma mater the University of Alabama. Every week, our professor assigned us brief writing assignments—analyzing either a chapter or character from the book we were reading as a class. The essays from those classes that I’ve posted on the Scattering have consistently been some of my most popular for years now (maybe because they’re possibly the only useful things I’ve published here), and if anyone can explain why my paper on Mark Twain and religious satire has been translated into Spanish more than it’s been read in English, that would be kind of cool to know.
In any case—the last book we discussed that semester was Catch-22, the bleakly funny (anti-)war novel by Joseph Heller. The short essay I posted from class was my comparison of leading man Yossarian and his glum number two, Dunbar. I flatter myself that I provided a few good pieces of evidence to support my claim that Dunbar is Yossarian’s foil; and of course, like a good little college student, I used in-line parenthetical citations for all my quotes (this was before the history department converted me to CMOS).
This all seems like a very long time ago to me, but how easily we forget that the Internet is eternal: once on Google, always on Google. And it would seem that someone found my little essay today and didn’t find it useful at all. In fact, he/she seems kind of pissed off that it exists. I hope, with this letter, written as a public post for completely non-self-indulgent reasons, I can assuage some of Anonymous’s worries.
I just wanted to let you know how very appreciative I am that you took the time to peruse my “ancient” blog posts until you found one worthy, or perhaps unworthy, as you would have it, of comment—and this especially because reading my character analysis of Dunbar in Catch-22 so clearly caused you great mental agitation and psychic pain.
As an avid reader myself, how acutely do I know the distress that comes when one is thrown into collision with unpalatable prose! Please know that I extend to you my greatest admiration and, indeed, perhaps even awe, for setting yourself at the vanguard of the Internet’s blog writing style soldiery! I don’t think that anyone who read the remarks you left on my post of 17 March 2009 could possibly imagine you as anything other but a white knight of wordpress—charging down the RSS feeds of book reviewers with the same courage and conviction that the chevaliers of old (dare I say, of olde?) charged down the jousting lists.
But because I fear that the weight of public opinion might come down against someone who hands down breathtaking accusations and criticism under the name “Anonymous,” I have decided to publish your comments more broadly—for the sake of showing every one of my readers just how much I care what they think about my writing style.
Despite this article being ancient, the following bothers me and so i’ll comment here. I hope you have relaxed your prose by now, but I’m not going to put myself out verifying.
“second only to Yossarian as a character introduced in the book” – this is annoying. Stop trying to sound pretentious when you simply mean “the second character introduced in the book.”
It doesn’t work and is appalling. Had several complaints leading up to this point, but after this sentence I stopped reading.
That being said, it’s your prerogative to write as you will. You simply come off brutish in your faux intellectualism.
Anonymous, I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to put yourself out verifying whether or not I have relaxed my prose by reading any more recent posts, considering how dreadfully my writing style irks you. In fact, I must now regretfully inform you that my prose, if anything, has only grown more contrived, affected, and overblown in the last two years. And now that I will be entering a doctoral program in history next fall, I can only sigh and resign myself to the fact that I will doubtless be swept away by the currents of stilted academic prose by the time I’m through.
Alas! Alack! I should probably leave it at that, to spare you any more agony, but there’s just one thing–
I wonder how you found this post to begin with? Were you searching for essays about Catch-22 online? Because if that’s the case, I would trouble you just one more time to ask whether the actual substance of the essay had any bearing on your research. I hate to think that my grandiloquent diction is getting in the way of my ideas.
Oh, and if I can keep your attention for another moment (and I only make this extended reply because your browser history certainly does not include the search “cliffnotes catch 22”), I’d like to say something about that particular line that you quoted:
Educated people like you and me have probably come across the literary technique of “parallelism” before—you know, constructing your writing in such a way that the grammar of one phrase, say, echoes an earlier sentence. That’s what I was going for what I started my sentence with “Second only to Yossarian in alleged insanity, Dunbar…” and ended it with “… is also second only to Yossarian as a character introduced in the book.”
Clearly, I failed in that. Oh well, we all try these things when we’re young, don’t we?
And last of all—hopefully I haven’t taken up too much more of your time or left the taste of poor diction in your mouth, giving you that fuzzy feeling on your tongue that comes when you go to sleep without brushing—I’d like to say a few words about your word choice.
You are indeed a master wit! I don’t think I’d ever be clever enough to call a complete stranger “pretentious” while myself using terms like brutish and faux intellectualism. I can only surmise that you wanted to use satire to comment on an analysis of satire.
Which is why I love you, Anonymous. And how I do love you for this.
* If you can make it through my stilted prose and pretensions to some modicum of literacy, this, Dear Anonymous, is what we faux intellectuals like to call “satire.” Or perhaps it’s just what my mom likes to call “passive aggressive.” Why don’t you let me know.
Today I was introduced to a wonderful blog via twitter (apparently it is good for something) — 50 Watts, succinctly described in 140 characters as:
Books / illustration / design. Mostly related to collections and blogs of bibliomaniac Will Schofield.
I’m supposed to be studying for finals (ha. ha. ha.), but for the last hour I’ve been scrolling through 50 Watts’s staggering collection of bookplates and other bizarre illustrations. It’s certainly a blog that, as the About page will tell you, caters to “that hyper-literate relative you plan to have committed.”
I am that relative. I suppose most of you are too.
Here are some of my favorites:
Someone who (at age 21 and a half) has read the Harry Potter books innumerable times and been to every midnight showing since Order of the Phoenix is, probably, a little old to be signing up for a kids’ literary enrichment website. Most of my peer group are the same way–I can walk into almost any classroom on campus and make a comment about the Muggle civil liberties infringements brought about by the International Statute of Secrecy to general agreement and outrage (seriously, don’t Obliviate spells strike you as incredible invasions of privacy?).
So why did we all sign up for Pottermore?
Two words: Sorting Hat.
For over a decade now, almost an entire generation of readers have been wondering what house they would be placed in, should they have been the lucky recipients of a Hogwarts letter to save them from the trials and tribulations of fifth grade and its mixed fraction computations. Putting on a magical old hat that reads your mind and tells you about the deepest parts of your personality would be super creepy when you think about it, but way cool. The closest thing we Muggles have to that sort of insight is psychotherapy, and, I assure you, that may be creepy and unnerving, but it’s definitely not fun.
As the series unrolled, I began to resign myself to the fact that I probably wouldn’t have been a Gryffindor. Or if I were, I’d be like Neville in the early books (before he got super badass and faced down Voldemort and friggin decapitated Nagini).
Of course, I had the consolation of relative surety that I wouldn’t be a Hufflepuff either. I mean, no one has ever accused me of being “warm” or “kind.” Whatever that means.
I expected Ravenclaw. Because you see, friends, academic elitists aren’t made, they’re born. And I’ve been correcting people’s grammar since I learned how to read.*
But as you may have guessed from the title, I’m not an eccentric, quirky, non-conforming Ravenclaw. I’m not a noble, self-sacrificing Gryffindor. I’m not a cheery, loyal Hufflepuff whose badger mascot is a little less lame now that the honey badger no longer has to give a you-know-what.
I’m in the house of You-Know-Who. The house of magical racists and dungeons and snakes that turn people to stone. I’m a Slytherin. And as good ol’ J.K. says in her video intro to the sorting process–the decision is final.
The thing is, after a moment of stunned silence as I sat in front of my computer, I realized that it makes absolutely perfect sense. For more than ten years I’ve avoided seeing it because, despite J.K. Rowling’s insistence that Slytherins aren’t all bad, we’ve never actually seen a good one. Pottermore tells us Merlin was a Slytherin, which is cool, but as an historian, I’ve got to say that it’s doubtful King Arthur, Camelot, and Merlin ever existed. It’s probably a myth some woebegone Slytherin made up so her housemates would feel better about themselves.
I should have seen the warning signs long ago, but I refused to look the basilisk in the eye. It’s done now, and my metaphorical magical heart has turned to stone. Some of you, dear readers, might be like me: fearing to know your true self. Maybe you’ve been designated a Slytherin; maybe you’re afraid to put on that hat. The following is for you.
A Guide to Accepting Your Serpentine Heritage
1. Would you describe yourself as cunning?
The first time Harry and Co. hear the Sorting Hat sing its sinister, sibilant song, the part about Slytherin goes like this:
Or perhaps in Slytherin/ You’ll make your true friends,/ Those cunning folks use any means/ To achieve their ends.
You, like me, may prefer to imagine yourself as a frank, open, straightforward person. Certainly not deceitful in any inherent sense. But think back to your past: at any point in your academic or workplace life did you do something like this?
A girl I know–I’m not going to give any names, but she writes some second-tier sci-fi/whatever else blog on wordpress–went to a Catholic high school. She was diligent, hard-working, and hid her contempt for certain classmates with impressive grace and aplomb. She had almost all of her classes with the same 20 or so girls, all of them smart, all of them hard-working. But one in particular annoyed this friend of mine. That girl was pathologically hard-working. Like, obnoxiously diligent. And my friend didn’t like being shown up. One week near the end of their senior year, my friend’s teacher told the class that there were some extra assignments for those who wanted some points to shore up their grades. Both my friend and the other girl had better-than-perfect grades in the class. But that other girl said that she’d do the assignments anyway.
My friend, as I said, didn’t like being shown up. She knew that the other girl, let’s call her Mary, because she was freakin’ perfect, would get all sorts of brownie points for being pathologically diligent. My friend tried to explain to Mary that there was no reason to do the additional essay or whatever but no, friggin’ Mary was going to do it anyway. My friend considered doing the extra work too, simply to keep pace. But then she realized something: this new assignment wasn’t extra credit. It didn’t go on top of the grade; it just got averaged in. Which meant that someone whose grade was already an A+ could actually suffer a net loss in points by doing an extra essay that could only get her an A.
My friend encouraged Mary to write the paper. My friend didn’t. And my friend got the highest grade in the class.
Oh, and did I mention? This was religion class.
I realize that that sounds kind of horrible. But don’t judge my friend too harshly for her “cunning.” What she did can be seen negatively, but that’s the easy answer. If you really think about it, while her motives were hardly pure, her reasoning was perfectly sound. My friend wasn’t going to waste her time with something that couldn’t benefit her. Mary was so caught up in her single-minded work-work-work attitude that she didn’t actually stop to think about what was in her interest (I’m going to guess that Mary’s a Hufflepuff). So you see–cunning isn’t evil: it’s about achieving your goals.
And speaking of goals…
2. Do you have any plans to take over the world?
Or at least, your little piece of the world? You don’t need to build a giant laser on the moon and try to blow up the earth to be ambitious. And besides, that’s horribly cliché.
From the Sorting Hat’s next song:
And power-hungry Slytherin/ loved those of great ambition.
There’s nothing wrong with a little ambition, you know. It’s not all throwing money around and waving silver-headed canes in people’s faces like the Malfoys would have us believe. Ambition takes determination, hard work, intelligence, and long-term planning. You have to imagine what you want to be in five, or ten, or twenty years and have the discipline to make those dreams come true. And you know why Slytherins are good at that? I’ll tell you why: because, unlike the namby-pamby other Houses, we don’t call them “dreams.”
We call them plans.
3. Do you care about people’s bloodlines? In its final appearance in the books, the Sorting Hat gives us this even less flattering portrait of the serpent House:
Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those/ Whose ancestry is purest.”
Okay… not going to bother with that part. “Pure-blood” talk gives me the creeps. Let’s just admit that, as a House, we’ve turned out an unfortunate number of seriously nasty characters and be done with it.
The point is, brother and sister Slytherins, that while we may get a bad rap, we just need to own it. Not the Death Eater stuff, obviously, but the cunning and ambition. That’s not a bad thing. It’s more effective than the abstract intellectualism of the Ravenclaws, and do I really need to insult the Hufflepuffs again? I mean, their House ghost is the Fat Friar and they live in a cellar next to the kitchens. What else is there to say? As for the Gryffindors, well, I’ll just quote a badger friend of mine:
“Gryffindors are like Hufflepuffs, except bro-y.”
Well said, friend. Well said.
*As a side note, and further evidence that I would make an awesome Ravenclaw, I can still distinctly remember at least two years before I learned how to read and write. My older sister, 2 years above me, was making my mother cry with her staged readings of “The Giving Tree” (friggin communist altruist hippies).** Meanwhile, I got my hands on a little pink-and-white notebook wherein I would make scribbles and try, to no great avail, to inscribe them with meaning. I was so jealous I wanted to papercut my sister with her precious book.***
** I apologize. I worked a summer at the Ayn Rand Institute. Sometimes this stuff just comes out.
*** Oh god … I totally am a Slytherin.
I’m so going to embarrass myself right now.
You know how the other day I wrote a long rambling post about various historical figures who–if they weren’t–at least should have been vampires? Top of my list was the 19th-century Romantic poet William Cullen Bryant. I cited his obsession with death and creepy face, but I realize that I have even more damning (pun intended) evidence for his vampirism.
He’s totally the historical doppelganger for Klaus from The Vampire Diaries. I’m not saying I watch the show, but–oh, what the hell. I watch the show, and as I was watching it last night I suddenly remembered Bryant’s creepy (but handsome) face and matched it with creepy-but-handsome Klaus. Clearly, this is who the character was modeled on. Look, just look: a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Hey folks, just wanted to check in and let everyone (all 4 or 5 of you) know that I haven’t died, or worse, given up the Internet because I got religion in a really big, really Luddite way. I have, in fact, been writing my senior thesis here at the good old University of Alabama, and applying to graduate programs, and generally stressing out about both. BUT! I have good news:
1. Good news for me: I’m going to grad school. Can’t say where yet, but it’s happened, and soon I’ll be saying things like “why, that calls for a mention of reductio ad absurdum…” or “it’s Dr. Morales to you.” In any case, nobody cares.
2. Good news for the blog: I haven’t stopped reading or reviewing, and while grad school might put me out of commission again, I have a few months of grace period between now and then, so I may have some more regular updates.
In any case, I have been writing more conventional (ie. not indie) reviews for the campus paper. I’m including the link to my byline and such right here: http://cw.ua.edu/author/isabela-morales/
I’ll be re-posting those as well, and they include such titles as:
The Marriage Plot, by Jeffrey Eugenides (they made me write it for Valentine’s Day)
Wolf Hall, by Hilary Mantel (I made them let me do Thomas Cromwell)
The Hunger Games, by Suzanne Collins (read it before the movie comes out, you hipsters, or you never will out of pride, I know it!)
Oh, and also look for more television reviews coming up. I watch so much tv, you see, so so much.
Whatever SF stands for these days, nothing beats good old-fashioned sci-fi. Not that there’s anything old-fashioned about Chris Wimpress’s #winning debut novel Joe is Online. It’s just plain good.
Wimpress submitted his book for review one month and one day ago, with a brief blurb and this to say: ‘Joe is Online’ spans continents and decades. Its setting is the boundary where the online and offline worlds meet. I was immediately intrigued. And I have a confession to make: while I really am “booked” up into 2012, I pushed Joe is Online to the front of the queue for a number of reasons. One, I’m an entirely unethical, dishonest reviewer (see review calendar disclaimer); two, I can’t resist the words “cyber-terrorism” in a book description; and three, I just wanted to read it. Shell out the $0.99 for an ebook copy and you won’t only not blame me–you’ll thank me.
the Scattering’s been live for 2 years and 2 days now (wish me happy birthday), and in the time I’ve been blogging I have had the good fortune to read (for free, which makes it especially good fortune) around 25 novels and short story collections by indie authors of the web, all of which were interesting, most of which were as good as anything selling from traditional publishers, and some of which were far above. Joe is Online is in the stratosphere.
Wimpress’s novel is a patchwork of plot, people, and an innovative writing style that, under the author’s guiding hand, coheres into a fully believable, thoroughly chilling image of the near future. Chris Wimpress wrote that Joe is Online takes place where the offline and online worlds meet, and he’s exactly right. We’re living in a time when our physical existence is getting more and more entangled in the virtual web of the World Wide Web–and, for better or worse, would have a pretty damn hard time getting along without it. The world of Joe is Online is a speculative one, sure, where timid academics join up with radical tele-atheists to fight a growing cyber-terrorist cult (for more information on how to get involved, contact email@example.com). But it’s our world too, and even more unnerving for that fact.
Joe is Online is about 5,000 Kindle locations–average novel length, but epic in scope. We start way back in the dark ages (the late 1990s), following an angry young boy named (guess who?) Joe, who might not have grown up to be a computer-hacking terrorist leader if he’d had more adults like the encouraging elementary school art teacher in his life. In a secret .doc diary, Joe lets us know that he’s playing what his history teacher calls “the long game” (and what LOST fans call “the long con”). And he means it. Joe grows up fast online, and becomes a cyber-cult leader so persuasive that, seriously, even I started getting sucked into his propagandistic emails. Maybe I’ve been reading too much Philip K. Dick, but what if the culture war is a set of competing constructs designed to pit people against each other so the powerful elites can gain ever more power, and social networking sites are just tools of our intelligence-gathering enslavers, and the only way to stop it is by spreading the “parcel” virus to every corner of the internet and purge the Web of the false idols so that… so that…
You get the picture. You get halfway through the book and these things start to sound… logical (and it’s friggin’ creepy, believe me).
It’s a testament to the author’s brilliant writing. Chris Wimpress’s skill in creating a compelling story from these emails and chat log snippets is nothing less than masterful. Without an omniscient narrator telling us what our villains and heroines are thinking, a less adept author might end up with flat characters and a jagged narrative flow. Luckily for the reader, Joe is Online gives us depth in characters such as the love-torn professor Penelope, and veiled mystery in our titular antagonist Joe (part of the fun is trying to figure out if our Dear Leader really believes what he’s saying, or is just as cynical as the middle-school hacker we first meet).
*** Final Verdict
Recommendation: Yes. Yes yes yes. Joe is Online gets five stars, two thumbs, and the Scattering’s Shindig Award, in honor of the fantastic book reviewed two days after the baby blog’s 2nd birthday. This is a novel to satisfy fans of Hard Sci-Fi (it has hackers!), Soft Sci-Fi (it has culture wars!), and Speculative Fiction (it’s in the future!) alike. From middle school art rooms, to the hallowed halls of academia, to every creepy chat room on the Net, Chris Wimpress knows exactly what he’s writing about, and takes us there is glorious technical. Or HD. Whatever.
Reading Time: 2-3 weeks, in the midst of studying for the GRE.
Availability: Find Joe is Online for $0.99 right here, as an ebook on Amazon.
Similar to… Robert J. Sawyer (FlashForward), Walter Jon Williams (This Is Not A Game), David Louis Edelman (Infoquake)