Girl Talk's literary equivalent, or, Berlin condones a charlatan.

In academia, regardless of department, plagiarism is not only frowned upon, but results in heavy penalties. Likewise, the same standards apply to the creative world that exists beyond the tediousness of academia. Authors are not free to roam and reproduce another author's work, disguising it as their own. Unless you live in Berlin, apparently.

What a fucking fraud looks like

To be blunt, a fraud by the name of Helene Hegemann "wrote" a novel, which after its publication, was found to have many similarities to a lesser known novel, named "Strobo." To This charlatan, I say, piss off. The revelation of her theft aside, Hegemann has found solace in her smugness, daring to proclaim her act not as plagiarism, but as, preposterously, "mixing."

You can't mash up novels, you hack. It just doesn't work that way. The writing community at least attempts to self-police, as opposed to the community propping up that fraud combing Enya with Blackstreet. But, even they don't accept awards like you have, or hide behind the fact that the idiots of your great nation have stood behind you, even after knowing that you have PLAGIARIZED ENTIRE PAGES FROM ANOTHER NOVEL.

The musical equivalent of Helen Hegemann

This phony and the asshats bank-rolling her should apologize for theft. Yes, the German imbeciles are condoning thievery of the laziest sort. I mean, did she actually think she could prevail unscathed? And who will hold her accountable? This fraud's recycled income depends on someone else's legitimacy, which saddens me.

Hopefully, with the New York Times expose on this charlatan, she gets put in her place. Which, quite frankly, should be far, far away from any books. Well, let her read Ayn Rand or something. No one cares about that.

Big ups to the Live blog for exposing this thief. (http://airen.wordpress.com)

What do Diabeetis, Human Tetris, and public transportation have in common?

Absolutely nothing. Well, unless you examine closely my hour commute to college today (Yes, that's my finger in the frame. I could barely raise my right arm because some obnoxious Pitt student was breathing stale oxygen directly into my mouth):

I always avoid carping about public transportation, although, occasionally, one must vent about the frustrations of proper public etiquette, and the lack there of. If you have no other choice than to stand directly in front of me, at least face the front of the bus. She either enjoyed staring at the top of my head, or had a sucking-complete-stranger's-hot-air fetish.

Another trait these jaded, bus-riding veterans all share is the fuck it, how does my coat's zipper feel whipping across your face? syndrome. Seriously, button up your fucking outerwear. I don't need brush-burn and/or welts on the side of my face because you decided it "fashionable" to leave your dead animal/coat undone. The last thing I need on my way to class is a lashing in the face from your mothball flavored mink scarf.

One of the underrated perks of utilizing public transportation is having the opportunity to enjoy its quirky sense of humor. Actually, I lied. I almost vomited in my mouth a little from having no other choice than to stare at this poster for a half-hour:

Fuck them. Don't visit that website. It's a conspiracy designed by Wilford Brimley to get you to read about his Diabeetis testing supplies. I think.

On a more subtle side note; stop calling this fucking snowstorm "Snopocalypse" and "Snowmageddon." Visions of Y2K flash through my brain every time I hear this dribble. At least they're not demanding we stock up on gallons of water and cans of Franco-American ravioli.

One more thing on winterhellbabyslaughter 2010; sure, leaving the roads un-plowed was slightly asinine. Refusing to salt a major fucking road (S. Braddock Ave.) is absurd. I felt like I was in a Jack London novel while trudging my way through ice and snow/mud to the bus stop. It was literally up to my knees in mountainous terrain and all I could think was "Damn, I wish I had my snowshoes. Where the fuck is White-Fang?"

Pitt students and Diabeetis aside, I did happen to have a brief encounter with a pleasant CMU student who plopped down next to me somewhere in Squirrel Hill. Look! There she is on the right!

Hope she made it to class on time. I sure didn't:

I go to college, or, George Bush doesn't care about black people.

I don't know if most of you have sat through political science 101, but if you ever are given the luxury of skipping over this 15 week study of tripe you can pull from Wikipedia (perhaps that's an insult to tripe), I highly suggest taking macroeconomics, or some crap. On second thought, take some history. The majority of halfwits in my class can't locate Iraq on a map. Wait, no, take economics. The hippies in my class can't tell capitalism from cannabis. 

I understand that politics is a shit-storm of irrational ideologies and staunch opinion, but just because you have a P.h.D. and occasionally have Esq. attached to the ass of your already long, contrived name title (my professor), doesn't equate to you having the ability to preach to me what anarchism is atop your perch. Plus, you're like, a lawyer, man. Basically, in generic, loaded, political terms, she was a 1%'r telling a dude that ate Olive Garden breadsticks out of dumpsters and hung out at squats on the train tracks what anarchism was. Or something.

Just when the embarrassment and pain had ceased, some idiot who just read a Chomsky book for the first time raised his hand and blurted some dribble about riots, the G20, and hegemony. Fuck off. You didn't even pronounce hegemony correctly.

This instructor then proceeded to spout innuendos about the follies of capitalism, and how socialism may help our financial crises. I'm not surprised however; these are the same people who believe in "Hope" and "Change." I do agree with these people, though. They're just cringe worthy.

Some other schmuck then blamed the electoral college for "EIGHT YEARS OF BUSH, blarrrrghhhh." Then I made him cranky by reminding him that there were actually two Dubya terms, and he gained the popular vote his second election, which makes your point of the electoral college doubly moot (at least in that election). I hate Bush too, but seriously, get your basic facts in order. This class is like a 15 week re-run of that Kanye West Video (see above). What an asshat.

One fact I actually did gain from that class was that you shouldn't throw out blatant facts. Especially ones about Hugo Chavez's coup attempt in 1992 and the attempt made on him in 2002. After I explained the Venezuelan President's decade-apart predicaments, I almost threw up in my mouth when I realized my teacher was completely naive to everything I had just said. Did I really just school the school teacher? Something tells me that a political science instructor should have at least heard of this. She claimed she would "have to look that up." There is no God.

Where was this going? I don't know. Fuck college? Probably. Can't believe I got tricked into paying for this.

Yes I can.

Ever feel like you murdered your own father?

Damn, sometimes I get completely lost in a sea of books, technology, research, or Netflix, only in the end to ask myself, "Where the fuck am I?" But when it comes to literature, I never stray far from my own beaten, familiar path. Like a dog that travels thousands of miles to find its owner (not Homeward Bound, I swear) at the end of the day, I always find myself coming back to my copy of this:

I'm not one to feel implicated from the behavioral disturbances or subconscious ramblings of others. But I tend to agree with Nietzsche and Einstein when describing world's greatest writer. Yes I said it.

Perhaps it is mere familiarity with several themes or motifs in the novel, but thinking this way would be devaluing it. I think that one could feel the same way about this masterpiece if there was no familiarity to the plot whatsoever.

Lately, I've been branching out into Updike, Yates, and Salinger, but I always come back to The Brothers Karamazov. It's home. It's what I know. More folks need to put down The Da Vinci Code, Twilight, or whatever Tom Clancy bullshit novel they're reading and feel Dostoevsky's raw emotion.

I realized I didn't get very far in this post, perhaps only reminding myself that I always need that "safe place." Well, fuck it. I'm just glad mine happens to be the greatest novel ever written.