We still have yet to confirm if "Znutz" is the presenter's actual name, but, stylistics aside, he makes a great point: in order to remove oneself from the semiotics of hegemonic power, one must first thumb one's nose at the whole, sordid affair. |
Cockrin shows definitively how the low-speed chase O.J. made famous was, really, the first reality TV show: a sort of collapsing of the amateur and professional, the private and the public, into an impromptu, yet casually-scripted work of low-grade performance art, the loose sort of narrative paralleled in the eponymous, long-running animated series and characteristic of an era still extant. |
Kricfalusi's genius can be seen in the way this "paper" constructed itself before our eyes via the programming of a few parameters and the structure of the desired design outcome—oddly reminiscent of the analytical acumen of Northrup Fyre's Anatomy of Criticism, but in reverse. We insisted on printouts for our cubicle walls. |
O'Shoulders considers the era of exaggerated rock six ways from Sunday in this tour-de-power-ballad of a paper. From Bud's corporate sponsorships of major bands to the way teased locks turned to self-caricature, she at the very least allows us to laugh at the seriousness with which we once took our overly hairsprayed selves. |
Kibbon-Woz was the Was (Not Was) of the entire conference, dino-dancing his way across the Twittersphere in a live analysis of the consumptive qualities of all that we rely on for gaming, texting, telephonics, and other forms of distraction, charting the decimation of non-renewables 140 characters at a time. Never before has the entirely virtual kept it so, so real. |
Hillary Hardcore swears Green Bux is the best new rapper to come out of Detroit since Dej Loaf—and also swears we've never heard of him. She's right. After seeing house after house on his block foreclosed, Green Bux has been instrumental in revitalizing his square block with a community garden and fledgling arboretum, including the Eastern white pine that was starting to grow through the porch of his grandmama's house after the bank took it from her. That house now serves as a thrift store on the main level; he lives up in the attic. Yet he refuses to have a proper recording career because of the carbon footprint: all that touring, the manufacture of single-use CDs, etc. As per his dictums, all recordings of his are either digital or reused cassette/VHS tape. All concerts take place from the balcony of his attic window. You may never hear of him, but the trees in his block are his true legacy. |
You're-a-Peein'!: The EU, Power Politics, and the Grexit as Juvenile Humor, an Extended Sass
The O.J. Simpsons: Homer, Lisa, and the Dancing Itos, or How the '90s Never Left Us
The Wren and Simply Show: Architecture as Text Writ Large from Sir Christopher to Mr. Mies and Beyond, a Blueprint in CAD/CAM
The Hair Beers: a Continuum of Camp, or the '80s Reconsidered 
iClone Ate: Apple and Geophagy, or How High Tech is Literally Eating the World, a Lament in 1,000 Tweets 
Killa Tree: Hardcore Rap with an Eco-Conscience, a Reclamation of Inner City Forestry