So, the thing is, faculty is supposed to provide some sort portrait to go up on the webpage, next to their CV and all the bragging rights bullshit, but John just can't be assed to actually find a damn picture.
(He thinks he probably has one of his old senior portraits from forever ago, one of the casual pose ones where he's leaning up against a fake brick wall in khakis and a polo shirt and incredibly stupid hair. His mom liked that one, until she realized there was a giant, incriminating lump in the vicinity of his left trouser pocket. It's just his calculator, but John's never bothered to tell anyone that. Made him real popular on yearbook signing day.)
(Additionally, John's not really sure why a picture's necessary. After all, the CV's the important part for prospective students, right?)
(What John doesn't get is that some faculty pages are essentially academic porn. I mean, when a CV is just that good-- and John's is, considering he won the MacArthur Fellowship two years ago-- it's nice to be able to get a look at the person whose brain just made you convulse.)
Anyway. John can't be bothered with the whole picture thing, so on Tuesday one of the dept. secretaries kidnaps him from his office (he was very busy. McKay had just taken his bishop.) and manhandles him into position in front of one of the inspirational posters in the grad student lounge.
(It used to say HONOR in big blue letters underneath the Corinthian columns, but someone took a Sharpie to it, and now it says HORROR, with little stick figures of undergrads being violently disembowled by righteous TAs with red pens. John thinks it's much more inspirational now.)
The secretary (Linda? Leena? Lorna?) tells him to step in front of that mess, shug, and hold still a minute. John really, really wants to cross his eyes or stick out his tongue, but Lisa-- Lisa, right-- would probably use her powers for evil and he'd never get the leftover cookies from lectures and job talks ever again.
(If John had stuck out his tongue for the photo, however, the program would have secured at least two more incoming PhD students next year. Both were frightened by the bowtie and serial-killer-calm expression.)
so this isn't exactly a story, but.
(He thinks he probably has one of his old senior portraits from forever ago, one of the casual pose ones where he's leaning up against a fake brick wall in khakis and a polo shirt and incredibly stupid hair. His mom liked that one, until she realized there was a giant, incriminating lump in the vicinity of his left trouser pocket. It's just his calculator, but John's never bothered to tell anyone that. Made him real popular on yearbook signing day.)
(Additionally, John's not really sure why a picture's necessary. After all, the CV's the important part for prospective students, right?)
(What John doesn't get is that some faculty pages are essentially academic porn. I mean, when a CV is just that good-- and John's is, considering he won the MacArthur Fellowship two years ago-- it's nice to be able to get a look at the person whose brain just made you convulse.)
Anyway. John can't be bothered with the whole picture thing, so on Tuesday one of the dept. secretaries kidnaps him from his office (he was very busy. McKay had just taken his bishop.) and manhandles him into position in front of one of the inspirational posters in the grad student lounge.
(It used to say HONOR in big blue letters underneath the Corinthian columns, but someone took a Sharpie to it, and now it says HORROR, with little stick figures of undergrads being violently disembowled by righteous TAs with red pens. John thinks it's much more inspirational now.)
The secretary (Linda? Leena? Lorna?) tells him to step in front of that mess, shug, and hold still a minute. John really, really wants to cross his eyes or stick out his tongue, but Lisa-- Lisa, right-- would probably use her powers for evil and he'd never get the leftover cookies from lectures and job talks ever again.
(If John had stuck out his tongue for the photo, however, the program would have secured at least two more incoming PhD students next year. Both were frightened by the bowtie and serial-killer-calm expression.)
...this could go on for quite a while.