June 2008 Archives

An English professor writes a treatise on why english departments are such snakepits.  It's actually an entertaining piece.  I'm hoping that this piece isn't subscription only; if it is, here are a couple of pertinent excerpts:

"Perhaps we initiate and perpetuate interdepartmental fights in order to keep boredom at bay. Not that we do that consciously or calculatingly, but at some unrecognized level, aren't we itching for intensity? Tenured for life, we perhaps need the drama of conflict to inject the thrill of spontaneous emotion and extreme passion into our stable and predictable existences. Conflict might be our unacknowledged antidote for ennui.

"It might also be a cure for inconsequentiality. As a humanist, I am regularly asked to justify my seemingly arcane pursuits. And here's where conflict comes in handy. If academics as a group are fundamentally uncertain about the value of their activities, then fighting tooth and nail over the specifics of those activities implicitly attests to their value. Anger offers us a palpable form of validation. If we can get so worked up about our policies and practices that we are willing to scream at one another, then those policies and practices must be important and world altering, right?"

It continues in this vein.  Again, an entertaining article, partly because of the unintentional humor provided by an english professor taking 20 paragraphs to say "the battles are so fierce because the stakes are so low."  Hee.

Or, things I learned while spending 3 days with Hublet, The Boy, a gaggle of teenage girls (and one poor teenage boy).

• Never let a six-year-old apply your sunscreen.
• Teenagers have no concept of "refills of anything other than iced tea aren't free."  Yeah, that'll be $10.  Hope the 4 glasses of cranberry juice you just had to have were really tasty!
• Teenagers have no concept of how much a nice dinner should actually cost, unless they are excessively wealthy teenagers, in which case they have no concept of the kind of financial burden a $30 entree' for one dinner can be for some of their friends.
• Pursuant to the above, teenagers don't understand how completely inappropriate it is to go to a restaurant with $30 entrees--a restaurant which you selected and begged to go to, btw--and order off the children's menu.  (Sorry, waiter-dude!  At least the little twits tipped appropriately!  You're welcome.)
• Pursuant to pursuant to the above, when dining out with 15 people, the majority of whom are adolescents, Pizza Inn is a totally awesome option, and one that we will take advantage of in the future.
• The only thing more annoying than clique-y teenage girls is clique-y teenage girls who deny that they're being clique-y.
• Also?  I don't have a lot of patience with the pudgy outcast goth wannabes who marginalize themselves.  Repeatedly. On purpose.  And then sulk about it. (You know, I tried to be sympathetic - I remember what it was like to be self-conscious when you were stuck in the middle of a clique you didn't belong to, and I know all about the sort of aggressive overcompensation that can occur in that situation.  And no, it's not fun to be stuck chatting with the totally uncool grownups instead of the other girls.  BUT.  With the exception of one stupid little girl (see next bullet point), the girls in this group were totally willing to be social and try to get along with each other--and not in that irritating faux way that they think adults can't see through.  If Miss Thang, Goth Edition, doesn't learn how to meet these folks halfway, it's gonna be a long damn year.  For her, anyway. Here endeth the sermon.)
• Nor do I have a lot of patience with mean girl wannabes who try to spar verbally with Hublet.  That means you, blondie.
• It's called an ITINERARY.  And next year, if I am forced on this trip, there will BY GOD BE ONE.
• By the same token, they're called ROOM ASSIGNMENTS.  And RIDE ASSIGNMENTS.  And only an Act of God will change either one.
• I am so happy to be turning 40 this year you have no idea.
• The chance of a six-year-old coming down with some random illness is directly proportional to how much he's looking forward to a particular trip.

Well, that about covers it.  Except to say that after I arrived home yesterday I made a brief jaunt to the ABC store, where I procured a large bottle of Gray Goose vodka.  I may even mix it with other liquids!

UPDATE:  Want Hublet's take on the trip? It's here, and I'll bet you can guess which quote is mine pretty easily...

The Happening, by M. Night Shamalamadingdong.  Described here as "Maximum Overdrive with hydrangeas."  Classic.

The Love Guru, which apparently is responsible for the death of hope in America.  Seriously.  I've read pans before, but never have I seen this much vitriol. Which review to quote?  The one that describes it as "anti-funny," which is mild, or the one  accusing Mike Meyers of "putting a shotgun into the mouth of comedy and killing it?"  Or maybe the podcast, wherein the reviewer seriously ponders whether or not Mike Meyers may be slightly retarded?

I was curious about Get Smart, which is one of my favorite shows ever, but it's looking like Netflix material.  I am bummed out by this.

So I'm holding out for Wall-E.  C'mon Pixar, save my summer!

This is a refreshing change from the usual "gold toilet and private islands" school of "how to use up cash when you've got more money than God."

Seriously, how cool would it be to grow up in a home with adventure puzzles built in? 

Check out the slideshow.

We're back from Boston, which was a lot of fun and involved more excellent Italian food than Giada DeLaurentis can shake her stick-like arms at.

Plus we survived a canceled flight, the almost-loss of one Knuffle Bunny on a rainswept tarmac, and a metric ton of baby vomit (and its attendant aroma) while trapped inside the plane on the flight back.

I am still tired, and next week Hublet, The Boy and I will be accompanying 16 15-year-old girls to the beach for three days.

Anyone got some good "girly drink" recipes to share?  Red wine will not be strong enough to aid my recovery from these trips...

Ugh.  The smoke from the massive wildfires in the eastern part of the state has made its smelly, hazy, oppressive, sinus-and-lung-aggravating way to Raleigh.  And it's 90 degrees, and the ozone level seems permanently set to HIGH, so the air is stagnant, and everything smells like burnt popcorn--I think.  My olfactory sense is still kinda on the fritz.  I am not in a pleasant mood.

However, I did not allow myself to go out in public looking as though I had put on a dress made from neon seatbelts, so life isn't all bad.

This article on the "last professors" and the coming "death of tenure" vis a vis the adjunct situation in the humanities from Inside Higher Ed is worth a look.  The comments are interesting for the most part as well--only one bizarre comparison of higher education to global warming and one random invocation of the Spectre Of Horowitz (GASP!) among the lot thus far.

Of course, the day is young.

The article resonated with me because I saw the writing on the wall back in '98 or so when I declined to pursue the Ph.D.  I mean, why would I want to incur more debt and waste more years of my earning potential, merely to enter a ridiculously competitive job market where, even if I did secure a tenure-track position, I would spend the first decade merely trying to catch up financially? And that wasn't even considering tossing a family into the mix.   

Incidentally, a fair number of my friends who went to law school came to this same conclusion, too late.

Since I've been hanging more on the science side of a research university lately, I've been able to see firsthand how badly the humanities are hurt by their inability to tap into the big grant dollars.  I can't see a solution for them, though.  And the financial realities of state-supported and land grant universities are also driving the adjunct train. The sciences can compensate with research money--the humanities can't. 

And I don't think that state legislatures are going to stop and say, "Wait!  We need to give a bunch of english professors eternal job security!  Let's fund higher salaries!"  It's more likely that they'll point to the Ward Churchills and the tenured former members of the Weather Underground in humanities departments--fairly or not--and say something like, "Why do these losers get a free ride?"

Of the old-school, Bill Bixby variety, that is.

Yesterday was The Boy's end of year awards ceremony, so I took the day off.  My parents drove up from visiting friends in Charleston--yes, a 250 mile drive that started at the crack o' dawn:  do not thwart my mother in her quest to be present for every significant moment in The Boy's life, for you will be defeated--and Hublet took half a day as well, all so that we could have the honor of videotaping the back of my child's head as he received his awards.

Afterward, we all came back to the house and took a power nap--except for The Boy, who alternated between playing Indiana Jones Adventrues on the Wii and watching the all-day Incredible Hulk marathon on the sci-fi channel.

God, I loved that show as a kid, and after watching about 6 episodes yesterday, I still kinda love it, for the reasons enumerated below:

1. The plaintive plinky piano of "David Banner must move on, lest Mr. McGee catch him!"
2. The opening sequence and voiceover, which I could still recite word-for-word.  The only other TV show I can do that for is The A-Team, btw.
3. Lou Ferrigno in denim capri pants!  And a tattered shirt!  Which he inexplicably leaves on!  I wonder if Bill Bixby was uncomfortable with all that bare-chested hoo-ha, and asked for more covering...
4. And speaking of more covering, the non-toned, kinda flabby 70's bodies!
5. David Banner must be second only to Little Joe from Bonanza in the number of women killed by his love.  Seriously.  If he falls in love with you, you'll die horribly--car wreck, exploding lab, random brain tumor in a hurricane...the list goes on.
6. The sheer number of "menacing Hulk is menacing" shots, which basically involve Lou Ferrigno grimacing and flexing directly into the camera for about 5 minutes before he actually kicks anyone's ass.
7. "Ass-kicking" comprised primarily of picking up stuntmen and flinging them into convenient piles of dirt or moss or sand or mattresses.
8. The "hard-nosed reporter" demonstrating his hard-nosed-ness primarily by smoking a lot.
9. Bell-bottoms!
10. The "high-tech" transformation sequences, which consist of an image of Bill Bixby in contact lenses transposed over an image of Lou Ferrigno in a fright wig combined with a green tint and lights flashing in a seizure-inducing pattern.

Yep, I heart the Incredible Hulk.  Wonder if it's available on Netflix?

Strolling down the avenue....

I've complained previously and at length about my damn stupid sinuses and their odd tendency to freak out for no reason and condemn me to an endless cycle of snot, and Sudafed, and probably an eventual appearance on Cops for the over-purchase of said Sudafed in my attempt to gain appropriately sinus-quelling quantities.

And while the Sudafed Diet Plan is an effective one--i.e., if you're on speed and can't taste anything, you tend not to eat much and the extra twitchiness burns more calories--the dreams that come out of the Sudafed haze are not exactly restful.

Take last night as an example.  Apparently, the university had decided to send me to England to cover a policy speech by some wonky minister of the economy.  No, I have no experience in this field, nor do I have even a passing interest.  Such are the wages of Sudafed.

Anyhoo, off I went to England, to this brick building that seemed part renovated theatre, part classroom building, and part Jane Austen townhome.  I had my trusty digital recorder, but I had no "proper media credentials."  Also, I had no pants.

So there I was, clad only in underpants and my Davidson Elite 8 commemmorative t-shirt, trying desperately to "blend" with the Business Casual crowd by sitting demurely in a flowered wingback chair.  No, I don't know either.  Then I realized I had lost my digital recorder outside, whereupon a truly epic Battle Against Architecture ensued as I clambered down ladders to nowhere and navigated strange metal railings in an attempt to get outside.  I finally made it outdoors, and spent a lot of time squishing barefooted across the soggy lawn in the quest to find my recorder.  Finally, Posh Spice showed up and pointed it out to me.  Again, I have no idea.

Recorder in hand, I attempted to regain entry, only to be forced into the equivalent of a green room where I could only sit, soggy and pantsless, and watch the wonky economic minister's announcement on TV. 

Then I woke up.  I hate my sinuses.

And home of way too many stupid plays on the word.  What am I talking about, you ask? 

Freegans.

And Freemales.

Okay, technically the freemale thing is in a UK newspaper, but I am totally ignoring that because otherwise my clever headline doesn't work.  Play along, people.

What I've managed to glean from these two articles is that "free" is just another prefix for "stupid ginned up non-trend."

And also, freemales?  Seriously? 

So the lesson for today, kiddies, is that if you want to be a part of the zeitgeist of the free, you need to eat your meals from dumpsters and refuse to have a relationship.

Interestingly enough, one could argue that part one of that equation will definitely lead directly to the second part, with very little input from you.