as long as we're talking about academia again

Those of you who have recently completed (one hopes) your grading, watch this.

Those of you who are curious about why professors bitch so much might also find it interesting.

Those of you who want to complain that OBVIOUSLY it's a good thing I'm no longer teaching, because CLEARLY I hate students and have no respect for them should watch this instead.

Auld Lang Syne

Those of you who are in academia and online, especially if you're in the humanities, have probably already heard about the big news at this year's MLA. Which, it turns out, isn't that it's the last year of having it right between Christmas and New Year's (thank god), or that jobs are even harder to come by, or that Michael Bérubé is the new president (and a better one, at this time, I cannot imagine--although I don't envy him any more than I envied Obama's position when he took office).

Instead, this year's big news is a paper by Brian Croxall. Never heard of him? That's kind of the point. Professor Croxall is, if I may, a virtual nobody. The kind of person who, if he were at the MLA, you'd scan his name tag and immediately forget this name you've never heard before, even if you were polite enough to talk to him anyway.

Does that sound harsh? Probably so, but keep in mind that yours truly--and this eponymous blog--are *all about* virtual nobodies; one of the delicious ironies of being a Famous Academic Blog(ger) is that the only reason I'm in a position to offer collegial compliments to the president of the MLA is as a Famous Pseudonymous Academic. And total academic nobody, since I'm so far out of academia that I'm not even a member of the MLA any more and therefore didn't vote for him (though I totally would have!). With all due respect to Michael, of whom I am genuinely fond and who is one of the most generous Famous Academics in the world, especially when it comes to treating unfamous academics (or even non-MLA members) as equals--after all, he's a blogger too--the only way to Be Someone in academia is to tap into the network, to Be(come) Known.

Which is part of the delicious irony of Croxall's paper. Brian's, actually, if I may, though I've never met him. Because one of the weird little dances we do in academia is that formally, in writing or in citations, we talk about one another by surname, as if doing so rendered us all equals: Bérubé, Croxall. But informally--in blogs, or in talks at the MLA (if we're interesting speakers, by which I mean partly that we're informal enough to talk, rather than simply read, which is also by the way part of the performance of Being Important)--we refer to each other by first names. If we know one another, that is. Which gets folded back into identifying ourselves: I get to refer to the president of the MLA as "Michael," because, you know, we're buds. But this Croxall guy, who the hell is he? (But of course, if I referred to Brian as Brian and Bérubé as Bérubé--or worse yet, "Professor" or "Doctor" Bérubé, like a student--in regular speech, then I'm marking myself as Nobody.)

Which Brian is, both by virtue of being virtually jobless (he teaches at Clemson University, actually, but it's not a real, that is, a tenure-track job) and, in a stroke of brilliance, because he didn't read his paper himself at the MLA. Because, see, what with not being a "real" professor, he couldn't afford to go--and, since he's a nobody, he didn't have any reason to go, what with not having a job interview. I mean, there was this paper he was supposed to deliver, but let's not be dumb. The only real reason Nobodies go to the MLA is to try to get Real Jobs and become Somebodies who have Good Reasons to go to the MLA, like interviewing Nobodies who want to become Somebodies, or delivering Invited Talks, or being on panels with Other Somebodies--you know, the panels scheduled in the Big Rooms, where many of the people in the room know each other, and most of the seats are filled even *if* it's 8:30 in the morning.

So Brian was going to back out of giving his talk (or, as we Nobodies often and revealingly say, reading his paper--see the parenthentical on the talking/reading distinction two paragraphs up), but his panel chair was a smartie and offered to read it for him in absentia. Which is what happened, so that the real paper is the one linked up there in the first paragraph, the one we're talking about now. And don't be naive: the only reason that happened, or at least the only reason it matters that it happened, is because Brian was on a panel called “Today’s Students, Today’s Teachers: Economics." Geddit?

So it's all meta- and performative and shit. Suddenly Brian isn't just some Nobody who couldn't even afford to travel to the MLA to read his own goddamn paper, the poor bastard; he's a Clever Scholar and Potential Somebody who's doing clever things that we can talk about using important buzzwords like "performative" and "meta" and "praxis reflecting theory." Or is it "theory reflecting praxis"? Or is "reflecting" the wrong verb altogether? Sorry, I'm not really in academia any more and I was kind of a nobody even when I was, and I'm not great with precise jargon.

Seriously, though: if anything gets Brian Croxall a job, it'll be this paper. If nothing else, it's getting him noticed. I'd be very very surprised if he doesn't get some attention from the president of the MLA pretty soon.

How Shall I send Thee?

At Christmas be Merry

And Thankful Withal

And Feast thy poor Neighbors

The Great

And the Small

That was my Pop's toast at Christmas. That's what he said. And that's what I say.

Its been a long year. Next year promises to be even longer.

Still, we've made it through this year and there's no reason to believe we won't make it through the next. The good thing about bad times is knowing that things can't get much worse.

Well, I'm off to hang the stockings by the chimney with care. Should be back this weekend and we can pick up where we left off. I wish I could have you all over for a drink or something. We should make some plans for next year.

Cause I plan to be right here.

Till then, Merry Christmas my friends.

God Bless us Every One!

Wild Geese

This is not a plug for Wild Goose Winter Ale, although it is a very fine product and I could have one every winter morning for breakfast if it didn't soggify the granola and render the French Roast null and void.

But hey, if Flying Dog brewery would send me a check, I would enjoy to endorse. The check, the porter, the granola, whatever. Cause I am all about the cash, baby.

Ma'am.

Officer.

That is not the subject for today's sermon, however. Well, checks are the topic. Checks from the gummint, though, not checks from the brewery.

Today's topic is the price of duty to the fatherland. Or homeland. Or la patria.

Fatherland, homeland, la patria; I don't want to get into an argument about nomenclature. Lets keep our focus on the vital importance of the main point which is the size and frequency of the checks sent to taddyporter for past service to the state.

From the first moment I was diagnosed with cancer, Moya has been on with the state Dept of Vets Affairs, via the San Patricio Vets club, to review my veteran's disability status. She is a suspicious sort and suspicioned that the cancer could add a little sumpin-sumpin to the monthly envelope from the Dept of Defense.

Upon discharge, some umpty years ago, I was classified as 10% dibbity-dibbity-dibbity from PTSD. Moya has long contended that the extent of my goo-goo-ga-ga-ness was severely undervalued by the Dept of the Navy but like I say, she is the suspicious sort and prone to ascribing the lowest of motives to others.

I have always looked on the bright side, pointing out that, officially, I am only ten percent goofy. Moya counters that, no, I am, like, eighty per cent goofy but I'm only getting paid for ten percent. She feels that my goofiness is an unrealized asset for which I should be receiving a much greater return. I've always felt that goofiness is its own reward.

As usual in these matters, Moya is right.

First, the cancer. It turns out that there is a statistical link between bladder cancer and exposure to Agent Orange. The manufacturers of Agent Orange do not admit of any guilt in this connection. They have, however, due to love of country, made compensation with a pot of money administered by the US Dept of Defense.

Second, the PTSD. It turns out that I am, officially, 20 per cent goofy; twice as goofy as originally thought but not as goofy as Moya thinks. So, you know, win-win.

As a result, the monthly envelope will be fatter from now on and that's not counting the back pay due me for the years my total dippiness was overlooked and ignored and unpaid.

The money comes right on time, too. Between the Great Recession and the cancer treatments, my wages have pretty much gone to hell. It was going to be a rather austere Christmas but, thanks to the chemical companies, the fatted calf will be brought forth and slain and the nog will be egged like you wouldn't believe.

I used to think there was no amount of money that could make up for the many nights spent sleeping in the mud and sheltering from a storm of jaggedy metal in the service of my country. But there is. And that amount has been jerked upwards handsomely. And patriotically.

God Bless America. And God Bless her chemical companies. And God Bless my checks.

People I hate

Joe Lieberman

Ben Nelson

This disgusting woman

The person I saw the other day driving a big truck, the back window of which said:

ONE NATION UNDER GOD
IN GOD WE TRUST
TO HELL WITH THE ACLU

Quick Hit: Victim of Domestic Violence Granted Asylum

Today, there was an important shift in immigration policy, or at least a new precedent was set. Rody Alvarado fled Guatemala in 1995 and was finally granted her petition, fourteen years later. The abuse was so bad that she left her children behind. Her husband would track her down and threaten to kill her every time she fled. Granting her petition demonstrates the first recognition that domestic violence is more than just domestic. In a lot of places, violence against women is tolerated and ever encouraged. It is not just a matter of your husband beating you. It is a matter of your husband beating you, your relatives saying that you must have deserved it, the police failing to protect you, and the political environment supporting a culture where violence and abuse is the just reward for a woman who dares to displease her husband with acts of perceived or actual insufficient subservience.

As much as I feel a sense of relief on behalf of all the women who are currently in immigration detention awaiting reviews of their petitions, and who have faced horrific abuse and torture, I can't help feeling it's a bit ironic.

The United States has extremely high rates of partner abuse and domestic violence. While we agree to accept asylees who have faced violence at home, perhaps we should take a tough look at the abuse women face here? It is not just a "personal" problem, it is a structural problem.

ETA: Here's some background on US policy regarding DV asylum-seekers and Rody Alvarado's struggle.

Talk about missing the point

Matthew Ygesias directs me to this post by Michael Wolff in which he defends Sen. Chuck Schumer's calling a flight attendant a "bitch" for no apparent reason except she asked him to turn off his cell phone. Wolff is shockingly clueless. As Yglesias points out, it's not just that it's an insult, but it's a "a pure contentless gender-slur. It’s like you’re saying “I disagree with what you’re doing and also you’re a woman which is a bad thing to be!!!!!!!!"".

Yglesias focuses on Wolff's cluelessness about the word "bitch" and what it indicates, but the rest of his article is a train wreck, too. In trying to make the case that upper-middle-class people complaining about service employees are not displaying entitlement, he displays a shocking level of entitlement, and laughingly claims that he's speaking for all people. He says:

Everybody knows modern life is a pitched battle between the server and the served

What? We do? Wolff is demonstrating a lot more about his own neurosis than he is making any kind of sensible commentary about the world we live in. I actually have no generalized problem with people serving me. Sometimes service employees are unfriendly, sometimes they are incompetent, very occasionally they are both. But it's only a raging asshole that thinks that bad service has anything to do with them, or takes it as personally as Wolff seems to. He also says:

Rather, more to the point, [Schumer]’s expressing the frustration which everybody on an airplane pretty much always feels—so, logically, he should be cheered.

Again, Wolff is not speaking for me here. I feel frustration on an airplane, but mostly because the seats are too damn small. I have never, really, never had even a fleeting problem with the behavior of a flight attendant, and I've flown 3 or more round-trips per year since I was basically an infant.

Just a few days ago I was flying from LA back to Washington. I had a layover in Minneapolis, and I guess the airport screwed up fairly bad. We arrived on time, but our gate was occupied, and they took their sweet time reassigning us to another gate, and then we had to sit there for 15 mins while we waited for the ground crew to show up. All in all, we were about 30 minutes late, which was just enough for me to miss my flight. I was shocked at how agitated people were, and how rude to the flight attendants. I did an informal poll of the people around me, and none of them seemed to have a legitimate reason for being pissed off, beyond "I want to catch my flight." But why? Important meeting you need to be at? Kid's piano recital? Catching a once-a-day flight to Beijing? Nope. No one had a reason. The flight attendant was very apologetic when I told her that I was going to miss my flight. I was like "eh." So, I waited another two hours.

Anyway, the last part of Wolff's defense is the most ridiculous: "I believe talking back makes everybody feel better..." Ha! Actually, no, talking back makes other people uncomfortable, and makes us wish guys like you weren't such entitled, whiny jerks.

There are three things that are disturbing about this Schumer episode. First, that despite having lived a public life of incredible privilege, that he hasn't developed a sense of grace or humility, like I think a lot of other politicians have. Second, doesn't he fly on an airplane, like, multiple times per week? Doesn't he know that you have to turn off your cell phone when then plane leaves the gate? I mean, come on. Third, the fact that he used the word "Bitch."

The ladies of this blog know something about the word "Bitch." I was reading one of my high school journals last week, and was surprised to find that I referred to myself as a bitch all the time. It wasn't a form of personal pride, or bragging. I was ragging on myself for being too confident, not nice enough, too demanding, too critical. Every time I would express an opinion about someone that wasn't positive, I would write something like "God, I'm such a bitch." My fifteen-year-old self had apparently already thoroughly internalized the notion that being anything less than perfectly sweet and accommodating was not acceptable.

And that's what's really going on here. Someone in comments at Yglesias' place said "If it had been a man, he probably would have said “jerk” or “asshole” or “dick” or somesuch."

No. That's the point of the insult, and in fact is the point a lot of the time when men call women "bitch." "Bitch" is a term that's specifically used to take down women who assert authority that men determine is beyond their perceived station of woman-ness. That is, subservience. I'm certain that if the flight attendant had come over, leaned down towards Schumer, smiled, and said "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but can you please put away your phone because the flight is taking off." With that apologetic face, you know? But walk by and say "The whole plane is waiting for you to turn your phone off"? No, that makes you a bitch. And so if a man had done it, he wouldn't have been a jerk or an asshole. No, he would have just been a man, exercising his authority. Maybe worthy of an eyeroll.

What's funny is that the person Schumer said it to was fellow New York senator Kirsten Gillibrand, who I'm sure has had the pleasure of being called a bitch many times for exercising more than woman-appropriate authority. I'm guessing he forgot who he was talking to.

The Blues Don't Burn They Just Smoke

[Humans] make their own history,
but they do not make it as they please.
-18th Brumaire of Louis Napoleon


We're like family here, right? So whatever I say stays here, right.?

Cause I have to say that if it wasn't for the GOOP, I would have fucking quit the fucking Democratic Party this week. I mean it.

I'm disgusted, entirely, at how the Democratic Senate leadership has let itself be pushed around on this health insurance legislation.

I know the Senate is not only undemocratic but antidemocratic and something is going to have to be done about that. I thought the defeat of the armies of the House of Hanover at Yorktown settled the question of whether we would be ruled by the House of Lords.
And I know Barack has been missing in action, entirely, for leadership on this issue. So he needs to pull himself together, for sure.

But, dag, Senate Democrats. How about kicking some butts and taking some names?

Don't tell me you can't deal with that droopy little pissant Smokin Joe Lieberman. Don't even try to tell me that. Here's how its done. Its easy. See how easy that was?

And if you're worried about his boyfriend, John McCain, don't even trip.

And Ben Nelson? Another fucking sad sack. Don't tell me you can't handle him either. Damn.

Expose these corrupt bastards. Put the hammer down. Damn.

Don't make me come up there, Democrats. Cause I will tell you what I tell the little kids in my house when they keep giggling and jabbering and pissing me off after they've been put to bed for the night. If I have to come up there, I'm going to whip all you all's butts.
Cause you all are making me sick. And that's not good for anybody's health care.

Hanging With the Raisin Girls

We had two birthday parties this weekend. Two all girl 4 yr old birthday parties. Holy shit was that awesome. Awesome like a Kaye Jewelers ad.

My kid is socially energetic, she loves these things. I don't know much about how only kids work, not really knowing any myself, but mine is super stoked to get around big bunches of other kids. She bounces off them. And she takes the things they say and have *very* seriously. We always leave this events ready for an inventory listing of all the things Sloan has in her room or the things Emma said about dress up or the things Mia calls her vagina [memo to moms of kids who hang around my kid: could we PLEASE stop with the bullshit names? Vajayjay? Are you fucking kidding me?].

Mr. V and I, on the other hand, leave these things with raging headaches from trying to talk with the other moms (always moms. Never dads at these deals. Partly geography, I think). We've actually faked quietly heated arguments a couple of times so no one will come over and talk to us. I am not tolerant y'all.

Two examples of things that were said to me by moms of 4 yr olds this weekend:

1) When discussing my daughter's new uniform of choice (a Santa outfit) and how se won't take it off, a mom says, "Well at least it's cute! Olivia's uniform these days is her favorite pair of blue jeans." Me: "That's awesome. A practical uniform is fantastic, she can do whatever in it." Her: "Uggh, I really wish she was obsessed with something impractical but cute."

2) Talking to another mom about upcoming school Christmas program, her daughter runs by. I say, "Oh, Little V has that same dress, it's so cute." Her: "Oh I was so glad to find it! I have to be very careful about what colors I put on Kate. Anything brown or yellow or green really just washes her out, so we really have to be particular about things."

Blink.

You guys, what the fucking fuck? How do you talk to these people? I mean, I just sort of nod and change the subject, because who has the energy. But the bigger thing I wonder is what do you do about the daughters of these people, the daughters tat my kid is so obsessed with emulating? I know you don't actually do anything except aggressively push a friendship with the kid of the next cool coupe you meet, but I mostly just want some sympathy. Because hell is so much less other people or other people's children than it is other people's parents.

I couldn't find a good Lexus ad to embed

We are leaving for our 2 weeks with family at the end of this week, so I figure I better just throw shit up as it occurs to me. That last post got me thinking about ads, so I thought I would share with you my 3 least favorite holiday ads (although, it really is a toss-up, they are all so goddamn heinous):

3)


Naturally, jewelery ads have the advantage for heinousness, hence two being represented in this short list. My favorite thing about this one is the way the wife says to him, "It's 2am, why are you up?" How about because that's your baby too, dick? Maybe a better Christmas gift would be taking over nighttime rocking once in a while.

2)


This one is lame in the way all jewelry commericals are lame (e.g. pairing with lyrics like "How can I tell you that I love you?" - how about via words? Or physical affection? Or perhaps cooperative goal-setting?), but my favorite thing about it is the way it should be called, "I Almost Gave You a Pearl Necklace in Your Sleep But Went With This Diamond Thing Instead."

1)


I hate this one the most, which is counter-intuitive perhaps since it's not aggressively heteronormative like the others. And yet it is more loathesome. This commerical should be subtitled, "Recession Christmas," insistent as it is on reminding you that a Hallmark card is "the biggest little thing you can do." And so the message of the thing is that Christmas is a time to tell your loved ones how much you appreciate them, that is the important part of the season (cue the music with lyrics, "Say what you need to sa-ay-ay!"). And yet the commerical is urging you not to "say what you need to say," but rather to buy some pre-fab bullshit card that has a generic and non-specific message on it. In other words, this Christmas, don't worry about buying gifts, just communicate your love within all your unique relationships. And do that by buying a sentiment some stranger wrote instead of actually communciating. Say what you need to say, as long as what you need to say is "I have very non-specific, unoriginal, but positive feelings about you, feelings that are better understood by a card-writer than myself."

But listen. Let's put that all out of our head and take a minute with the greatest holiday commercial (and flip-book spin-off) of my life:



Peace and joy and smiley cookies.

Under Pressure

Have I mentioned that I have been finished grading since Friday afternoon? And that I have revised and resubmitted an article from last year? And that my syllabi are all done for next semester? Hell yea, bitches. Which pretty much means I am spicing pecans full fucking time this week.

While I shell and spice pecans, I like to watch some teevee programs on the computer. On the Hulu, in fact. (Unless I am watching an episode of Star Trek the Original Series on CBS Classics. What an EPIC WIN that find was!) Yesterday, I was pulling up an episode of 30 Rock, and Hulu thoughtfully asked me if I would like for my pre-viewing commercial experience to be "For Him" or "For Her." I snorted into the pecans. Hulu, do you think I want to be reminded about the extent to which my gendered identity is a commodity? No, Hulu. I do not.

If the gendered demographic representative chooses "For Him," she watches this ad (or something vaguely like it that I can't find the precise version of available for embedding):



Raucous behavior! Dudeliness! Bad behavior prior to the bonds of marriage! MALE BONDING! Comedy! Funny bawdy things are FOR HIM.

If the gendered demographic representative chooses "For Her," she watches this ad. [I can't find an embed-able version. Please go watch for the post to make sense.]


Dove commercial [beauty product - OBVIOUSLY for her]. Little girls, bombardment of glossy model images, text reminding me that Girls are Under Pressure. And that Dove is hosting Self-Esteem Workshops. Seriousness. Somberness. Concern with Emotional Vulnerability.
Listen, Dove, props for the idea behind this campaign and all, as well as the ideas behind the Real Beauty campaign, but yea. Girls are under pressure. Mostly because they are ALWAYS being told they are different. They get special ads about their issues (which are not human issues but women's issues), they get chick flick movies, they have beauty product manufacturers telling them to feel good about themselves just the way they are With Dove. The reason girls are "under pressure" is that they are reminded to gender filter their experience at every possible moment. Jesus, I mean sometimes you just want to watch 30 Rock. Please do not try to sell me difference, vulnerability, and vanity under the guise of self-esteem and empowerment. It pisses me off.

Mostly I Love this Blog

Today it's on my last nerve.

Here is a photo of the hair slowly returning to my head.

If I could post the ringing in my head, I would.

Happy Hanukkah!

Just between you and me, my uncle, the Red Jack, is driving me mad. I know I should keep this sort of thing in the family and I don't mean to disrespect him but I just can't help it. He really is making me nuts.

He used to be a nearly stereotypical jolly Irishman, always ready for a bit of craich, always ready with a jar and a cigar and a bagful of hilarious stories.

Lately, he's become a cranky old fart. I'm sorry to have to say that but there is no other way to put it.

In the last couple years he's fastened on the notion that Mexico is a threat to the USA. He's convinced himself that every problem in the country can be traced to Mexicans and their American descendants.

This in spite of the fact that half his nephews have married Chicanas and raised up enough Mexican-Americans to launch their own Reconquista.

This in spite of the fact that the Porter family, itself, avoided the authorities in three countries to enter this one.

This in spite of the fact that only starting with my generation have we raised up native born Porters in this Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

But this is a running argument between he and I, one in which I have made very little headway over the last couple years.

This morning, he broadened our dispute by introducing the fraud of the Ancient Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Bwaahahahahaha!

My family sends a lot of emails back and forth each day. My cousins and my brothers and my Uncles and Aunties send their various overnight thoughts on the pressing issues. We gossip. We exchange photos. That's my nephew, somewhere in Iraq, at the top of this page.

We send the latest darling sayings of our darling little kids.

And jokes. A lot of jokes.

An example from this morning's post:

The undertaker comes home from work with a black eye.

"How'd you get the black eye?", says his wife.

"Oh, jayzuz, what a day", says himself. "I had to pick up a guy at a hotel. He'd died in his sleep. The manager said they couldn't fit him in a body bag because he had a massive huge erection."

"When I got there, I found a naked guy on the bed and, sure enough, he had a big stiffy. So, I grabbed it and tried to break it in two."

"And how'd you get the black eye?", repeats the wife.

"Wrong room.", says himself.

OK, so its not the Round Table at the Algonquin.

This being the eve of Hanukkah, I opened my messages this morning with a Happy Hanukkah!

An hour or so later, I received a reply from the Red Jack. It was the most vile anti-Semitism you can imagine. I won't even repeat the least part of it. He sounded like a fucking SS Grupenfuhrer.

It was unbelievable. I couldn't believe it. I mean, this man enlisted in the Merchant Marine a full year before the USA went to war with Germany because he couldn't wait to fight the Nazis.

I fired off a reply telling him the same; that I couldn't believe a man who joined the Merchant Marine at sixteen to fight the Nazis would spout such obscenity.

An hour or so after that, I get a second reply, telling me to put myself in check. He reminded me that he had joined the Merchant Marine at sixteen to fight the Nazis and was twice torpedoed in the fight.

Needling him, I emailed back that I was glad to hear he repudiated his foolishness and that his reply recalled a joke about Alzheimer's:

I may have Alzheimer's but at least I don't have Alzheimer's.

That may have crossed the line. I haven't heard from him since.

Why do I embarass myself by telling you about this?

It could be to raise myself in your estimation. I show that I have overcome a family background of racism and intolerance to break through with my own hard won personal attitudes of democratic fairness.

Except that would be bullshit. The elders of my family have never promoted any kind of hate or ideology of superiority. Quite the opposite. If the old ones had any theme in the way they reared us it was Get over Yourself.

And I'm riddled with prejudices and stereotypes and hostilities not grounded in actual fact or experience. Its just that they have nothing to do with race or gender or national origin.

No, I tell you this because I think I know why my Uncle has become so bitter and nutsy.

He's an old man and he's been alone for some time. That is, he's had no wife, no girlfriend, no woman, for a long time. I think that a man at his time of life without an intimate companion is subject to seizure by all kinds of nonsensical theories and fears and bizarre beliefs.

I sometimes worry that I'm heading down the same road. I mean, I like intimate companionship as much as the next fellow. I miss it.

Catching the cancer makes me worry about it even more. I'm going to have surgery. There's going to be slicing and chopping between belt buckle and kneecap. In spite of many assurances, I worry about the consequences for companionship. Will everything continue to operate in a satisfactory manner? Will I continue to give satisfaction? I don't want to end up bitter and lonely and ranting about the Jews and the Mexicans.

I don't know what to do about it, exactly. I can't change the path I'm on. I have a lot to do to put this cancer down and I just can't be sure how its going to turn out. Hell, its possible I might not, well, you know...

Anyway, I have got to find myself a steady girlfriend. Its the least I can do for anti-Semitism.

Better late than never

Apparently I once misspelled Ta-Nehisi Coates's name. My bad; as someone whose name gets misspelled all the time (I mean, bee-yatch? Come on!), I should know better.

That said, Ann, honey, you need to get. A. Grip. What Ta-Nehisi said is hardly objectionable to anyone sane; if anything, "fuckin' so-and-so" communicates a sigh, not a shout, and often even an affectionate one. Don't be so fucking stupid. (Now, see, with the "g" it's a little less gentle. Intentionally so.)

And you don't get to distance yourself from racist bullshit if you leave it up in your comments section, especially if you haven't bothered to respond to it at all. Ann can't use the excuse that she doesn't comment in her own threads, either. If you link to someone and then your commenters start talking shit about them, you bear some responsibility for what's said. And if you're going to take umbrage at TWO WORDS and then write what, 500? calling the man a "brutish" "jerk" (really, Ann? "Brutish"?!?) and demanding an apology without looking like a complete ass. (Not to mention her irritating "who me?" false disingenuousness about the racist crap, and the fact that her original post "was meant to imply that Coates probably wouldn't call out a liberal for sexism" with no actual evidence whatsoever that that's the case.

God, Ann, you're such a bitch. And yes, I know that my saying so is sexist.

Little Boxes on the Hillside

One of the things I like about me is my finely tuned sense of wonder. I try to remember the usually small simple things that make me wide-eyed, turn them over in my head frequently enough to stave off the doldrums of normal life. For example, the pods, carpeting my backyard, that fall from the sky and crack open to reveal pecans. Wonder! Suspension and drawbridges, both of which I get to see regularly - wonder! Broadcast TV and terrestrial radio - total wonder (sometimes you don't know where the wonders are til you have to explain to your kid how something works). I've ben reading about gravity in my "spare time" lately - WONDER.

Occasionally, one has to know how to preserve/protect a sense of wonder. You don't want to know how everything works, where's the magic in that? Which brings me to one of my favorite seasonal wonders - spreadsheets. I'm not one of the liberal arts types who knows nothing about math or science or computers; I'm good at math, I love trigonometry, I do leisure reading on gravity, and I know how to use a computer in an above-average way. But I don't have a clue about Excel. Not that its hard, I doubt it is. But for years, Mr. V has created my final grade spreadsheets for me and I never watch or try to do it myself. I just what and then - voila! Wonder. I put in the numbers and they calculate themselves up. It pleases me so much that I refuse to use the Blackboard et al grading function; I like my wonder-filled spreadsheets.

Which brings me to my actual point, which has nothing to do with wonder. I watch a lot of TV/movies when I am data-entering my spreadsheets. This week I've been re-watching old seasons of Weeds via my Netflix watch instantly queue, which is finally Mac friendly. The thing I like about that show is that despite the pot-culture and the life-of-crime satire and the snark about suburbs, the show is really about being a working mom. Nearly every episode is about or partially about balancing the demands of work and kids. And while Nancy Botwin is probably not an especially fantastic mom, the show never ask you to indulge in judging her parenting. Instead, I think it pretty explicitly asks you to sympathize with the impossibility of balancing a career and kid-raising, and to cheer on Nancy when she manages to squeeze in a minute to awkwardly encourage her son not to flush his jerk-off socks down the toilet. And I do sympathize with her. And working mom as drug dealer seems the perfect metaphor for a show about working moms (I know it doesn't have to be metaphor; I know there are plenty of moms who are drug dealers) - yea, I'm going to teach, not to sell weed, and I have an office not a grow house. But when I can't come to a special event at school or I can't be there to get my kid when the place dismisses early or when I can't play with her in the morning because I ned to finish prepping, I *feel* like I'm dealing in contraband. And when Nancy clearly enjoys her illegal drug-dealing job, even though she thinks she's not supposed to, well, that resonates with how I imagine a lot of working moms feel during especially successful or hectic weeks. The metaphorical illegality/danger of being a working mom.

So anyway. That's what I was thinking about last night.

Please, think of the children

Most of you probably know about Scarleteen, the absolutely fabulous online sex education site for young people. I've recommended it to my teenage niece, I plan on giving PK the link in a couple of years, and I can't too highly recommend doing the same for any adult who wants to be a cool aunt or a supportive uncle or a responsible parent and give their kid a source for healthy, feminist, LGBT-friendly sex and relationship education. With all the cultural anxiety about kids, sex and the internet--pedophiles, porn, sexting--I like being able to tell the young people in my life that the internet can also be a healthy medium for sex education and exploration, and to be able to give them a specific link that'll help them learn how to tell the difference.

All of which is to say, please, please, if you care about young people, consider supporting Scarleteen's fundraising goal. The site is trying to expand its reach with a dedicated interface for browsing by cell phone (which all the kids are doing these days), building a Find A (non-judgmental) Doctor database, giving wee stipends to their volunteers (mostly young people), and increasing their coverage of resources for readers around the world. They've just added a "text your question" feature, too.

Until Thursday, they have a special giveaway for folks who donate $75 or more (see the sidebar on this page, below the "support-o-meter")--and as I write this, they have had ZERO* $75 donations. Which means (1) if you can swing it, you're almost guaranteed to get one of the giveaways; and (2) that Scarleteen is not supported by big, deep-pocket donors. This is really a cause where every little bit--$5, $10--helps provide a really fabulous resource to young people everywhere. There are directions at the bottom of the linked page for ensuring your donation is tax-deductible, too.

*You will gather from my saying that that I have not yet myself made a donation. This is true. I plan to do so as soon as we get paid on Friday, though--which means I won't be in the running for the freebies. So I really hope some of you go and grab them.

Taddy the Conqueroo

The first time I ran away from home was in 1966.

My best friend, Dee, and I hitchhiked to Green Bay and caught the train to Chicago to see Muddy Waters at the Arie Crown Theatre.

Now, we didn't run away because we had a terrible home life or because of adolescent existential anxiety or because we were cruelly exploited or some shit like that.

We wanted to see the Blues Show in Chicago. We knew our parents would never permit it. So, we decided to skip all the whining and wailing and gnashing of teeth and just go. The way we looked at it, we were actually being quite considerate.

Also, the very idea of asking for permission offended our emerging sense of manhood. Men came and went as they pleased. If our coming and going displeased others, well, the best thing to do was avoid them and their unpleasantness.

We knew there would be hell to pay on our return but that would be, you know, later. On the seventh hour of the seventh day or something like that. And later, when you're 16, is almost the same as never.

So, off we went.

We had a ball.

That Blues show changed my life, it really did. I caught the Blues and never got over them.

I got hold of a sensibility that, for the first time in my life, was entirely outside of my home and my family and school and church and everything that had been familiar and safe and routine.

Like any 16 year old kid, I had a formless wish for adventure. After seeing Muddy, I felt like that desire had a shape and a flavor and a weight. I didn't just have a longing to do something, I had an appetite for it.

Not a gluttonous appetite. A healthy appetite. It was still grounded in the virtues I'd been brought up on; modesty, cooperation, work, respect. Its just that it seemed to me those virtues could also be expressed as confidence, assertiveness, pride, achievement, leadership.

All this I explained to my Dad. Much to my surprise, he did not whup me to within an inch. He listened to me, thoughtfully. When I recall the incident now, I think he was seeing me, maybe for the first time, as a man.

Well, not a man, entirely, but an incipient man. A potential man.

He did jab me in the chest over and over and over while making some point about the difference between being a man and being a mannish boy. I don't remember what it was he said exactly but I do remember that finger hammering my chest like a pneumatic jack.

The only thing that really pissed him off about the whole affair was the worry and dread I had caused my Mom. He gave me hell for that and made me feel pretty small. He told me I needed to apologize to my mother and do whatever was needed to do to make it up to her. And he never said another word about it.

A little over a year later, I was in the USN and on my way to Vietnam. My parents' worries for me were orders of magnitude over what they had ever been before. When I came home on my first furlough, my Pop treated me like a full grown man, respecting me as an equal and even showing me a certain deference.

Funny thing was, I just wanted to be his little boy for a while.

But that's the Blues for you. You got to pay the cost to be the boss.

"The basic problem with my love relationships with women is that my standards are so high"

If y'all haven't yet seen Scott McLemee's review of Cornel West's latest book, you really should treat yourself. As the critic in Ratatouille says, reviews like this are "fun to write and to read." And yet I ignored the first few mentions I saw of it because, like McLemee,

I would much prefer to think that all of this is a matter of his life being in turmoil throughout this decadei [academic envy and/or anti-pop culture snobbery] , rather than Larry Summers being right about anything.

But that's probably just because, again quoting McLemee, I myself have harbored fantasies of "popping a cap in a fellow faculty member’s ass."

In any case, you should pour yourself another cup of coffee and read the thing.

(early) December state of mind

Things that I cannot say to the intended audiences but that need to be said to someone in some way:

Students:
- Do not come to my office to discuss your absences at this point. Do not. I am not, in fact, surprised that you have 10 absences. Do you know why? Because I don't have 10 absences. When you ask me if there is a way for you to "make up" the absences, I hate you.
- The first time you turned in your assignment in one of those plastic sleeves with the slide off spine that I used for my 6th grade report on Neptune I thought it was endearing. Now, at the 4th time, I am just annoyed. That thing does not work like a staple.
- MLA-style citations are just about the easiest thing in the universe to not fuck up, and when you keep fucking them up, I hate you.

Really important guy coming to give a talk at school this Friday at 8:
- Seriously, guy? The last day of class, a Friday, at 8pm?

Mom:
- Please stop sending me personalized musical e-cards.

CAT:
- I only can't say this to you because you do not speak English, but want you to know that the flea bites I am suffering fucking suck.

Dude in the office next to me:
- I can hear your farts. All day.

Daughter:
- When I leave your room at night and you tell me to come back and check on you, and I say I will, and you say "if I'm sleeping, do you promise to wake me so I know?" and then I say yes, I am lying. But damn if it isn't one of the most amazing things anyone ever says to me.

Headquarters in his Hindquarters

I sacrificed to make you happy
Left nothin for myself
Now you want to leave me
For the love of someone else
-Marvin Gaye, Baby Don't You Do It

There's a story, probably apocryphal, if that means what I think it means, of a communique from President Lincoln to General Joseph Hooker, Commander of the Army of the Potomac.

Word had reached the President, so the story goes, that General Hooker had been talking smack about how the country needed a military dictatorship to put it to rights. The implication, of course, was that Fightin Joe, was the man for the job of dictator.

Lincoln sent a cable to the General reminding him that military dictators only ascended to supreme state power in the wake of military success. Bring me a victory, said the President, and I'll risk the dictatorship. Or words to that effect. Like I said, its only a story but that's the way I heard it.

Tonight President Obama speaks to the nation from the U.S. Army Academy. First reports from the barking media are that the President will announce the dispatch of some thousands of U.S. troops to Afghanistan for the defense of the Karzai regime.

I console myself with the knowledge that, just as they've gotten everything else wrong, the media have gotten this wrong. I tell myself that its just as likely the President will announce plans for the rapid withdrawal of U.S. troops under the slogan, Afghanistan for the Afghanistanians!

It could happen.

Probably not, though.

Now, I don't know if the Generals have buffaloed the President into this strategy of reinforcing failure but it sure looks that way. The righties have been hounding the President to give in to the Generals for months but they can hardly be taken seriously.

I mean, the GOOP abandoned genuine debate of public policy of all types some years ago. And the chickenhawk right is totally enamored of the military episcopacy; the uniforms, the shiny weapons, the rod and the staff, the imagined simplicity of the centurion who tells this one to go and he goeth and who tells this one to come and he cometh. Why the President feels any need to appease their opinion is beyond me.

Maybe he feels the need to appease the opinion of the Generals. They've already subverted his leadership with the disgraceful leaking of McChrystal's memorandum. Perhaps the President thinks they are a real threat to his authority.

This opinion is also inexplicable to me. American generals and admirals have proven themselves to be almost no threat to anyone except the American taxpayer. My God, since 1945, have American flag officers accomplished the military defeat of a single enemy of the United States? Anyone? Hello?

We've been chasing conscript farm boys around Afghanistan for eight years without effect. We've been chasing gangsters and religious militias around Iraq for almost as long and with similar results. We've lavished trillions on weapons that proved utterly useless in defending the country from attack on September 11. American flag officers couldn't detect an enemy of the United States if it camped out in their driveway.

So, President Obama, don't worry about the American generals. Whatever they're reccommending, I'm pretty sure its wrong. We got your back, Mr President.