NewsPacblog

Inside his office, instructor Scott McAleer displayed the results of his slow exposure camera. When his class talks about photographs as historical documents, he says, he has the class pose. The period style recreation takes seven minutes or more and produces pictures that are “creepy and old-timey looking.” He details some of the trade-offs of technology and we discuss the differing perspectives between journalists, who look constantly at what is happening now and next, and the historian’s world, immersed hundreds of years into the past. “I just don't think of modern events in the same way that I think about the discipline of history. To me, they're separate.” McAleer showed interest in my background and future, though I have no training in history or experience in any of his classes. He also was pleased and eager to share the success story of his former student Sean Kinsey, a graduate, a history major and member of his history co-curricular. Kinsey, he explained, completed a ...

  While the album might not slap, Will Smith certainly does. At real risk of detailing something, straight away, I would sincerely recommend against wasting your time with, as well as giving more undeserving attention to someone who is thirsty for it, here’s a quick rundown:  “Based on a True Story” is actually a misleading distraction from Smith’s real life assault on comedian Chris Rock at the Oscars award show. After the violence, Smith claimed on live TV that he was called on by God to be “a vessel for love” and called Jada his wife.   This, not the slap, is what surprised Jada– they had been living “completely separate lives” for years. Will Smith described this scenario as a “bad marriage for life,” according to the New York Times. Meanwhile the Washington Post writes Jada had been in a multi year relationship with her son's close friend, which she rebranded an "entanglement" and Will Smith is adamant was a “relationship.” Even Jada’s mom reported about the slap, “...

I’m sweating and it’s only 8 in the morning. The cold beer helps.  It’s winter, but the weather has the effect of donning a wetsuit in a hot car with the windows up. It’s turned my underarms into their own kind of swampland. I am far from alone. In fact, there hangs in the humid air the feeling of a peculiar far-flung family assemblage, or I should say – rendezvous. It's like being surrounded by cousins who are friendly, but so distant as to be unplaceable.  Perhaps they are amenable because there is a vague bond, but no actual shared history, and so no ancient percolating feuds to revisit. Tante Sue, to be sure, will cotton to no mess.  We are strangers, from around the world, snug, swaying, spinning and stomping with some local regulars and for the next few hours we will share something that one would struggle to recreate anywhere else on the globe.  It’s Mamou, Louisiana. North of New Orleans.  This is Fred’s Lounge, only open for a few hours on Saturday morn...