What About Theft of Stolen Intellectual Property?

If, by chance, I drop dead from an aneurysm today, don't be fooled. It won't really be by chance. It will be because I read this troubling op/ed piece in my university's student paper: "Intellectual Property is Theft." To be fair, the column is reasonably well written. In fact, at times, it's impressive. But the author fails to include intelligence, talent, skill, originality, and time in the category of "finite resources." In other words, if I write a book (and I have), then the paper and the ink are mine (well, my publisher's) in this columnist's view, but the words aren't mine anymore. If someone else copies my book and commits my sentences to ink and paper, then she gets to profit from selling that physical property. It's not my paper, after all. It's not my ink. And if she were to share my words online for a fee or for a fee, she could. It's all fine. No crime. I'm not a victim of theft.

No dice.

More interesting to me, perhaps, is this: if I'm in favor of intellectual property rights, then what exactly constitutes "theft"? That's where I run into trouble. Take the photo of a brain on a plate in the upper-right corner of this post, for instance. I did.

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On an unrelated note, Cindy Lee Berryhill is a genius. 

Everything Counts in Large Amounts

But some youtube videos count way more than others.

I'm not usually impressed by cover versions of my favorite songs, but this one is perfect and inspiring. I need to step up my dad game.

For the unenlightened, here's the (dare I say it--inferior) original:

Congratulations, America!

It's official: Stephen Colbert's Super PAC has raised more than one million dollars. Take that, terrorists!

Poetry Slam in Norman, Oklahoma

In lieu of a featured reader at the end of our regular open mic night at Café Plaid, Write Club will host our first-ever poetry slam next Thursday, February 2nd, at 7:00 p.m. We will need a minimum of four poets (of any level of experience!), and we've settled on a cap of sixteen. We'll have three rounds with three minutes for each poet (plus a ten-second grace period, after which points will be deducted). Three poets making it to the final round. Five judges will be chosen more or less at random from the audience. I will host. It will be raucous. It will be good fun. And then some. So come out! Come out! Come even if you're not going to compete. The greater the density of the crowd, the greater the intensity of the competition. (Not that we're going for intensity. Nah, in that case I was just going for a rhyme.) But seriously, whoever you are--an experienced slam poet, a curious onlooker, or anyone in between--help us make the evening great.

In case you're unfamiliar with the nationwide phenomenon and in-your-face style of slam poetry, here are five examples from a few luminaries in the field:

Daniel Beaty, "Knock Knock"

Andrea Gibson, "Blue Blanket"

Taylor Mali, "What Teachers Make"

Suheir Hammad, "What I Will"

Katie Makkai, "Pretty"

Yeah. I know. That might be a bit intimidating. But chances are microscopic that one of these poets will show up next week in Norman, Oklahoma. And, you know, just in case one does, you'll want to be there.

Get your poem on. Come on down!

Free Advice, Worth Every Penny

I probably shouldn't link to my own blog, but I had completely forgotten this post from a couple years ago. It's hilarious. And, strangely, since launching that column, I have received no further requests for relationship advice. 

My Mother Received a Wound

I think I forgot to mention here that Prick of the Spindle is featuring my four-minute short film, "My Mother Received a Wound." I made it in 2000, largely with the help and support of the more experienced (and, to be fair, more talented) Andrew Mudge--who also plays the film's central character. Enjoy.

Oh, by the way, I suppose you could say this film is  based on a true story--or inspired by one, at any rate. For years, in Colorado Springs, there was a man who stood on the median at the intersection of Cascade and Uintah holding a sign that read "MY MOTHER RECEIVED A WOUND AT PENROSE HOSPITAL." I went with "Corpus Christi" for the sign in my film, to avoid any hint of legal complication, and found out a year or two later that Penrose actually used to be called Corpus Christi a few decades ago.

Decades schmecades. Time sure flies when you're wishing you were having fun.

Parachute Man

Watch this. Just...watch this.

Kathy Fish is kind.



And Quick Fiction is dead. Long live Quick Fiction.

Sorry if I'm the one who killed it.

My New Blog

As I enter a busy semester crammed with two sections of a new course, an extra course on top of my normal load, a travel-writing course to develop for the summer, and a novel to write, it seems perfectly sensible that I should launch a new blog today. So here you go, laddies and gentlewomen--I now present to you...

Cinephile in Exile

It's where I'll do most of my film-related blogging--which, if I hold true to form, means you can expect new posts two to six times a year. I begin with this rather long list of Forty Great Films Streaming on Netflix. Enjoy!

I Am the Weak Link

Dear Packer Nation:

I owe you an apology. I let you down.

As you know, the Green Bay Packers lost their playoff matchup with the New York Giants yesterday. The fault is entirely mine.

On Sunday morning, when I chose my shirt for the day, I didn't put on my Packers T-shirt. I've gained a bit of weight, you see, and that shirt is a medium. It's not quite as comfortable as it used to be. So I decided to go against my custom for important games, and I opted for a large shirt instead. But not just any shirt. I went with my Morrissey T-shirt, purchased on the night his recent North American tour rolled through Dallas. It was a fatal mistake.

And it's clear now, in hindsight, that blame for this loss falls on me and me alone. I'm sorry. Next year, I'll get it right. I'll order a large Packers shirt, and an extra-large one, too, just to be safe.

Oh, and, in case you're wondering, the Moz concert was excellent. Really top notch.

In shame,
Eric Bosse

The Re-Education of Eric Bosse

It's strange, I suppose, for a heterosexual, cisgendered man entering his mid forties to realize that if given the opportunity to suspend his career, go back to school, and study anything at all, right now, at this point in his life, he would choose gender studies. But that's what I'd do, if I could. My fairy godmother would have to provide for my family, of course, or I'd have to stumble upon the world's most generous financial aid package. But, for the past few years, I have been increasingly drawn to study gender. Perhaps this is my version of a midlife crisis.

But don't mind me. I'm just putting together the reading schedule and course packet for a new course. No doubt this phase will pass and I'll go back to wishing I could study filmmaking. 

If you have a moment...

...and feel up for something unusual, something well beyond the usual, something that could very well crack open your mind and expand your world at least a little bit--or, if nothing else, fill in a few of that world's blurry details--check out this wild, beautiful blog: A Wild Slim Alien. Every time I visit, I come away feeling richer for it.

It's a blog about trees. And it's a book about nothing less than life. Memory. About roots and reaching into the air. Here's an excerpt from the most recent post:

The trees along the wayside begin to stretch out now.  And they are closer to me; perhaps they are less easily defined because of that.   So we have to jump forward in time, through a decade which was far from treeless – among others London is full of its namesake trees, the planes, after all – but in which I formed no strong emotional attachments to any particular tree; or rather, can project no strong emotional story onto a sufficiently representative tree.  Of course, if I put my mind to it, there might be buried deep in me trees which had some passing significance, a Japanese maple here, an oak there.  But for a long time I lived without the special trees that seemed to dot my childhood and teenage years.

Read more here.  Or miss out.