in medias res

This, kids, is an example of one of the finest pieces I have ever seen, though I have yet to have the pleasure of seeing it in person. That’s because by the time he began teaching the Intellectual Properties class I was in–two years after the book to which this page is the glowing epilogue was published–his hair had mysteriously vanished! I’ll give him props though, since I’m assuming he noticed the off-the-scale ridiculousness only AFTER the book was unfortunately published. The name in the title was changed to protect the innocent–namely myself, in case he ever decides to Google himself.

I’ve often has such neurotic tendencies, but then I realized my name is so generic that the Belmont mail center frequently redirects my mail to the other Kevin Smiths. The other week I’d ordered a Bluetooth adapter from Half.com, and it seemed to be taking forever to arrive. Finally I get a call from one of the others, and he says that Belmont marked out my address and redirected the mail to another apartment complex. Thanks Belmont! It’s good to know someone’s looking out for me when I get my address completely wrong… never mind that the address on the envelope happened to be fully valid.

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Listen up, kids. If you’d rather not have kids, here’s a suggestion.

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I’m doing this for you. That’s right, it’s really a service. It’s for all of you that just don’t know what to get little ole Kev for Christmas. I’m just trying to help is all…

My Wish List

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“You shaved.”

I smiled and explained: “Well, yes, it was No Shave November.” I’d had this exchange several times over the last two days, but here is where it took a turn.

“Oh, ’cause I was wondering what happened, but I didn’t want to ask.”

What happened? Like it was an unfortunate accident? As if I’d gotten in over my head with my Bruin Hills mortgage?

“Because I had noticed your hair getting long and you stopped shaving and all.”

So this was it, huh? Everyone thought I was a hobo, but she’s the first with the cahones to let me know. And listen, I’ll be the first to admit that my hair is currently barreling down the tracks to Mullettown, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I cannot trust anyone in Nashville with something so simple as a haircut. ‘Just a trim, please,‘ must come out sounding like ‘Gimme the bangs of a fourth grader.‘

This week has been extraordinarily unbusy for me. I mean, each of my Economics class meetings this week were only 15 minutes long, the final draft of the History paper keeps getting pushed back, and Stats today looked a whole lot like 20 Questions with the professor, whom we have taken to calling J.Rowe. I really don’t know why, normally around this time I’ve killed a few people in my stressing out. It’s not that I just don’t care anymore; no, I’ve had those reactions to finals as well (which is also a great way to approach them). Who knows, maybe I’ve moved gently from being neurotic to being senile.

By the way, be looking for the latest Vision, which comes out today. Apparently they’re putting that letter in this one. And kids, don’t you worry. If you missed out on No Shave November this time around, you needn’t wait an agonizing 11 months to join in on the festivities. Not that I will be taking part, but Janu-Hairy and Febru-Hairy are only a short time away.

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I sit here reading from yet another verbose history textbook. In these books, there are many differences. Just as well, there are many similarities. But one overriding theme I’ve noticed throughout the whole of them is this: they are all superior.

There is an elitism, a superiority complex in a tenacious weave pervading every chapter. The authors are very unaware, I’m sure, else they would make an attempt at removing it. But it is not so easily done, you see, because it is not merely the tone of the writing, as if the author were looking down his nose at you. An author will take special care to point out the apex of contemporary thinking for a particular time-period in that distant past, with the next line smashing that ideology to pieces. Can this author not see it? Does he not understand that he himself is writing from his own contemporary way of thinking? That those from the past whom he is quoting with such indignation were doing the very same as he, using their wealth of knowledge to the best of their ability? They obviously did not understand the mysteries which we have heretofore uncovered, so don’t judge them anachronistically; don’t assume they thought about things in the same way that we do now. The whole thing is just a bad case of Monday morning Quarterbacking on a monumental scale.

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It’s as if I were thinking, If you squint like this, I almost look like James Hetfield.

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