Object story · Spatula City Annex
The Dissertation at Spatula City.
A doctoral dissertation, a Weird Al signature, and a small argument for taking absurdity seriously.
Why this object
The joke, the degree, and the thing that only exists once.
This was my third time seeing Weird Al in concert, and my third time splurging on the VIP package. Getting to one of his concerts had once been a childhood dream; meeting him more than once still feels faintly unreasonable in the best possible way.
The 2025 show was in Toronto. I was nervous enough to shake, so I made sure I was last in line. That meant standing in the rain for what felt like hours and was probably close to two. The rain was oddly useful: cold, grounding, and much easier than trying to look casual while carrying a bound dissertation to a Weird Al autograph table.
I chose the dissertation because it was mine in a way no poster, album, or tour object could be. I already had other signed Al treasures. This one was the only copy of Let’s Play with Trauma that could become this object: the dissertation I wrote, held and signed by Weird Al.
Context note
A small unfinished sentence from an earlier line.
At the previous VIP signing, during The Unfortunate Return of the Ridiculously Self-Indulgent, Ill-Advised Vanity Tour, I had recently finished the PhD. Graduation had happened during COVID, which made the whole achievement feel strangely anticlimactic. I tried to speak to him while he signed my poster, but mostly mumbled through my mask.
When he wrote my first name, I suddenly managed to speak loudly enough to ask, “Can that say Dr. Sonja?” He looked at me a little oddly, but obliged. I do not think he gave it another thought. I did.
Toronto became a chance to finish the sentence. I wrote him a note explaining some of what I had wanted to say in earlier meetings: that his music, movie, and old MTV appearances had helped me find joy in a traumatic childhood, and that his work helped me fight for, and eventually embrace, my own weirdness.
The signing
Some artifacts happen because the right strange thing is carried to the right table.
When it was finally my turn, I handed him the dissertation and the note. He read the note and asked if he could keep it. Of course, I said yes.
Then he flipped through the dissertation and commented, more or less, “you wrote all of this?” He asked where to sign it. And there it was: scholarship, fandom, nervousness, grief, joy, absurdity, and proof of survival all briefly arranged on the same table.
The object now belongs to several shelves at once. It is an academic trace, a signed artifact, a fan object, and a reminder that seriousness and silliness were never opposites here. They were both part of getting through.
Provenance
Evidence, traces, and the kindness of a staff member.
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