i'm a nervous traveler
Music: Not Drowning, Waving: Cold and the Crackle (1987)
After the Rhetoric and Language Area "after party" at the Shoal Creek Saloon on Sunday night, I made my way to yet another after party for a poetry reading that, regretfully, I couldn't make. A certain favorite publisher and I discussed the joys of drugs, namely narcotics, and how they come in handy for traveling. I said the problem for me is that (a) I avoid drugs because of my addictive personality; and (b) I cannot take, oh, valium and stuff like that because it makes me stumble and slur my words. I mean, I slur sober often, so you can only imagine what narcotics do.
Some years ago, right after Nine-eleven, when I was TRAVELING A LOT in search of my first job (did I mention this was right after Nine-eleven?) a doctor prescribed valium to me for my flying anxiety, but I never filled it. I was afraid I'd get off the plane and collapse or something, embarrass myself in front of a potential employer. Instead I just have a couple of drinks before I board. By the time I de-plane, I'm sober.
Except for one problem: I've discovered one flies out of Austin best at 6:30 and 7:00 a.m., not the best time to be having bourbon. So far living here I've managed ok by taking a Dramamine or benedryl—these drugs calm me just enough to deal with the stress of traveling. But if there is turbulence on the plane, I'll be a complete wreck! After Nine-eleven and the ever-tightening and ridiculous restrictions, it's no longer safe to bring a flask. Fortunately, I'm flying north and away from the churney ocean, and the forecast is pretty happy, so I think flying up and back to Minnesota won't be too bad.
I leave very early in the morning for Minneapolis, where I will join my advisor for lunch and, later, one of my favorite people in the world who is also coming into town, Angela Ray. We'll then be driving up to Duluth Minnesota to visit with our grad school buddy, David Beard---another one of my favorite people in the world, not to mention his better half Kate---and at some point share some research. David scored a grant for academicish jibber-jab, so he's invited us to come and share our work. It's exciting, and not a bad gig: a reunion of good friends "as work." This is what I love about being an academic: work and play sometimes are hard to distinguish.
I've worked all weekend on my talk. I worry about it: is it too crude (for you can rest assured there are poop and sex jokes)? Will folks be able to follow it? Or is it too obvious and "duh?" This is my fourth invited talk, and I'm starting to get a better sense of what's required---although each gig is different. What I've learned thus far is that invited talks are very different from "job talks." In job talks you wanna appear with-it, smart, and so forth, and so you may say things that are, well, for specialists. Job talks are high stakes, and so you aim for something like . . . something like a qualifying exam or something. For the invited talks, however, one is better advised to pitch one's work to a "generalist" audience and not get too high-fahlootin' with the theory. The first invited talk I did was too theory-heavy. The second got better, and the third, even better. As a rhetorician, I think I have a pretty good sense now how to do this, and I hope my judgment is right for this next presentation. Audience analysis: gotta do it, or else you're going to have folks in the audience wishing they had taken some valium. I'm talking about Lacan, so . . . .
Well, there's not much to say, just wanted to chime in and register a better mood. I'm on an airplane tomorrow. Maybe I'll have a Bob Segar moment and want to write about the weariness of traveling . . . "here I go again . . . turn the page." What a friggin cheesy song. I think about how self-important those rock musicians are with their "on the road" songs, and then I remember: "Oh, yeah, I have a blog and am writing in my blog about how self-important Bob Segar is." But if my plane should crash, my music collection goes to David, my dog, to Kristin and B-lo, my cats to Brooke, my books to Smokehouse, my gnomes to whoever would love them (Barry?), my major assets to the folks . . . you know.