dance party countdown! . . . t-minus four days!

austin halloweeny costume par-tay 6.0!

Music: Various Artists: Sex-Rated Blues: Grown Folks Only (2008)

The International Journal of Hauntology
Barry A. Live, PhD, Editor

October 24, 2010

Dear Friend Fiend,

I have now received and read the external reviews of your submitted manuscript, “Thr(ill)er: The Influence of Inadequate Costuming on Halloween Party Guest Satisfaction and Retention.” One reviewer has suggested acceptance, and the other has suggested reconsideration pending revision. Based on these reviews, as well as my own reading of the work, I am extending to you the opportunity to revise and resubmit the manuscript for publication in The International Journal of Hauntology. Although revision does not necessarily guarantee publication, adhering to the following specific suggestions will maximize your chances:

1. In your calendar, reserve October 29, 2010 from 7pm – 2am. Members of your departmental community are hosting their annual Halloween party during this time, and I believe that attending will provide you with a rich source of new data for your study. The theme of the party is Revise and Resubmit, which means that guests are encouraged to come in a costume that somehow “transforms” into another costume during the evening. Because this themed component will be a prerequisite for entrance into the costume contest, you can be sure that there will be a significant number of costumes on display for you to analyze.

2. Of course, be sure that you arrive in a transforming costume as well. Effectively blending in with your subjects will help strengthen the ethnographic component of your manuscript.

3. Note: The location of the party is Rob, Ashley, and Mike's House.

4. A wide assortment of snacks, beer, wine and spirits—alcoholic and otherwise—will be provided, but bringing a donation of $5 is appreciated if you plan to partake. Of course, you should also feel free to bring whatever you find personally effective for the gathering of data.

Please email my editorial assistants Rob, Ashley, Mike, or Josh if you have any questions about the party. Have fun, and I look forward to your revisions.

Cordially,

Barry A. Live, Editor

Professor of Paranormal Communication
University of Transylvania, West Campus

dance party countdown . . . t-minus five days

it's synth-goth friday!

I really, really like these guys. Their debut album drops on Tuesday.

let's go to school: an epic blogarrhea

Music: Junip: Fields (2010)

Carole Blair, a trusted mentor and friend since I was a graduate student, alerted me earlier this week [Sept. 27th] that someone was trying to take us both out front to the shed---the one festooned with spotlights and a little manger and glowing, plastic wise men---for a public spanking. She was speaking of a publication in which our scholarly personae are punished for doing harmful and misguided work under the aegis of rhetorical studies. I use the tired metaphor of "spanking" deliberately, because this "attack" is unquestionably personal in tone and implication: it's not about our work; it's about us, about picking a "fight" and hoping that we'll respond in a public way.

After discussing how and if we should respond to this author's attempt to publicly shame us, we concluded it's probably not worth the effort---and may needlessly draw attention to an essay which, frankly, isn't very good. In fact, it's sorta awful---the kind of thing that, if it were turned in as a seminar paper in a graduate class, would probably suffer pools of red ink. It's the kind of thing that I usually smack down---if it happens---in my own seminars. The allure of responding to this "attack" is, in some sense, the ease of doing so. But---and here's the rub---responding to this essay in print also means that we would end up producing what the author apparently wants: a reaction. And with a reaction, of course, comes attention.

There is an academic disease that we might term "dissin' publicity syndrome." It's not new---it's actually centuries-old. The syndrome is an outgrowth of the ideology of publicity: getting noticed is more important than being right or doing good work. (Peacocks know this, yes?) The syndrome is premised on this logic: by attacking others, you'll get noticed. That's certainly true, and most of us can count any number of folks for whom this has worked in recent memory. In the "entertainment news" industry, Perez Hilton comes to mind immediately. As a new grad student observed last week, unknown hip-hop artists will often "diss" a well known one to get noticed, and this gesture has become part of the craft itself (thanks for the insight, Tyler). In high school, a "geek or freak" could sometimes improve his or her social standing by picking a fight with one of the more popular kids (or worse, the lesser popular kids [cue bad memory]). And don't get me started with "political attack ads."

Academics often engage in "fights" in print, but there is a difference between these melees and doin' the (hip-hop) dozens or deploying a political attack ad. Barry Brummett and Rick Cherwitz, two of my colleagues here at the University of Texas, often joke they gave each other tenure by arguing with one another in print about "epistemic rhetoric." These are scholars who regularly dine together at lunch. They argued heatedly in print, but the arguments were never personal or of the "dissin'" kind. The field of philosophy is pretty much a history of such bickering, however buried the target of critique might be (Levinas' digs come to mind). But these "fights," while often heated, are usually about the idea or concept, not the person.

For me, "dissin' publicity syndrome" (DPS) refers to the pathological conviction that you can just sadistically attack someone to make a name for yourself, like an aspiring hip-hopper or unknown politician. DPS is not the familiar academic game of taking someone's argument or work to task. This must be done, and has to be done, for work in the humanities to remain vibrant. By "DPS," I mean ad-hominem pot-shots lacking any purchase, a stylistic approach divorced of substantive engagement.

The peer review process, in part, was set-up to stop DPS from happening, but when that process fails, DPS scholarship---like shit---happens.

So, I blog about my reaction to this recent attack essay with some hesitation, because I think it's very far from a genuine academic engagement. My work and thinking has been critiqued many times before---and often justifiably so. But in the wake of most of these critiques, I ended up with new friends with whom I have had a drink or dinner (and one of whom is now a friend and co-author). If you are someone prone to grandiloquent declaration---which, I confess, I enjoy---you do open yourself up to public critique. But when is critique fair or in good humor, and when does it constitute DPS scholarship?

Let's just say it: critique is most productive when the assumption on both sides is that either party is "equal" in some way, usually intellectual. Critique works best when parties on either side of a question are assumed to be relatively intelligent human beings. Critique gets ill when one party states the other is stupid or inferior in some way or manner, and the critique hinges, not on the worthiness or value of ideas or arguments, but the status or the character of the individual making them. There are exceptions, of course (Heidegger comes to mind---but even then, it's hard to escape his insights). Although I didn't always enjoy it, the three previous critiques of my work in print always assumed my sincerity and intelligence. This most recent "hit job" on Carole and me is a great example of DPS scholarship because it begins from a place of superiority; the critique does not come from a place of assumed equality. Assumed equality is, with nods to Labermas, a professional courtesy.

A relevant aside: Even if you believe you are smarter than those whom you wish to critique, it is professionally (and morally) a very, very bad idea to suggest as much in print. Aside from the fact you are probably wrong, being an academic means you must also navigate social reality; and social reality admits of a plurality of intelligences. Some of us are brilliant at thinking through ideas along a cold plane of logic. Some of us are brilliant at insights that come through metaphorical juxtaposition. Some of us are brilliant at stating things in such a way that they resonate with an emotional color that another person cannot quite capture. This is to say that intellectual competence is multiple, not singular (it's one of the reasons why I value my poet friends; they make may jaw drop consistently). The biggest mistake I have seen younger academics make is that they fall into thinking that intellectual intelligence is measured by one variable---that what it means to be "smart" can be gauged by this or that criterion or thing (the worst example of this: the dolt who faults you for not having read such-and-so a scholar's work). The fact is that being a member of a community means that you are among a multiplicity---a large, complicated, throbbing community of active minds. DPS scholarship attempts to isolate one set of criteria as the "measure" of smartness or value. DPS says, "my way is the only way, and you don't measure up."

How is this different from beating one's chest?

But I digress . . . . Is DPS scholarship all that bad, however? From the standpoint of its own logic, getting attacked in print is something like getting a parental advisory sticker put on your new album: it's an advertisement, and it may encourage folks to read your work. But then, like the political attack ad, the double-sided dull edges of this publicity razor can also discourage others from reading your work. In the recent attack essay I soon address, the work of five scholars is so radically decontextualized that alerting readers to the attack-piece risks "contaminating" new audiences (much like book reviews can function, unfortunately). So, the question I've been dithering over for the blog is this: do I respond or leave it be?

In the end, I'm comforted by two facts. First, people are often smarter than we tend to suppose. Part of the reason we think others are not smart enough to think for themselves has something to do with driving automobiles on a road and our experiences with others doing the same. Driving on I-35 comes to mind. That's a flip example, but the point is made: it's just our human habit to assume anyone who does not occupy the same body can't understand the same way I do. [cue Sartre].

But, I'm also constantly reminded as a teacher that young people are not the stupid dupes this or that television poll or alarmed Parents-Against-Texting group would have us believe.

Second, I also realize that most of RoseChron's readers are known to me by name and face, and I consider most of y'all "friends" (and not in a Facebook sort-of way). Lately readership has dropped to about 50 discrete viewers a day. I suspect I am friendly with most of you.

So, I reasoned, an informal response to this DPS essay, in this space, would be Old Kinderhook. A password-protected response would be especially ok, since I could limit who reads it. That said: if I gave you the password to this post, it's my hope that you will not distribute it to others whom you don't know. I don't want to give this publicity seeker any more attention than he deserves. At the same time, I am pissed this thing was published. I don't want to be "public" about being pissed---but I do want to talk about it and work through it. So, I reckoned, a password protected post might do the trick.

I also thought I might actually have a little fun in responding to the attack essay in this venue: I have no length constraints. I have no editorial limitations. I am, in fact, the editor---much like the author of the piece in question. Unlike my attacker, however, I am not constrained by word limits. What if I blogged a response as an endurance performance, as a kind of bloggish marathon? Insofar as the attack on my work concerned it's stylistic and argumentative excesses, what if I responded in excess? What if, for the sake of pleasure and form, I protested way, way too much? Could I respond in such a way that the excessiveness of my response took on a kind of formal grotesqueness?

I resolved that the exercise of response-in-excess would not only be fun, but potentially insightful. At this moment (Friday, October first, nearing midnight) I am uncertain what this insight will be. Perhaps it is the depths of my own narcissism and insecurity---or perhaps it is the limit of academic stupidity? Nevertheless, I have decided that this experiment in blogging tomfoolery could be achieved if I did it jolts and starts---not all at once, but over a series of days (or weeks). Here follows, then, the rules I have set for myself for this blog post:

1. I will respond to the attack essay as faithfully as possible to the argument set-forth.

2. I will engage the author in a spirit more charitable than he engages my or my colleagues' work.

3. I will back up my response with evidence.

4. I will give myself as much time as I give my own students to write answers to comprehensive exam questions (this rule was supplied by Matt Morris---thanks dude). This means I must be finished with this blog post in two weeks, by October 15th. [Later edit: Sorry Matt, I failed!]

5. I can work on the this blog entry no more an hour at a time (basically, the time it takes, more or less, to smoke a cigar---which I'll probably be doing anyway).

With these ground rules set, I now commence my response to the DPS essay attacking my persona. I begin by contextualizing the essay. Then, I will summarize the argument the author advances in general terms. Finally, I will move to a close reading of the attack essay. A line-by-line analysis would be ideal, but not even Buddha has the patience for such an endeavor (indeed, Buddha would forgo the whole exercise---duh!). But I promise to be close when such nose-to-the-page sniffage is warranted. Finally, as for my conclusion: I have no idea at the moment how I will conclude. If you want a preview of that, you'll need to do some serious scrolling.

I'm lighting a stogie now. It's an Oliva V, Robusto.

THE CONTEXT OF THE ATTACK ESSAY

With that elaborate, "anxious" wind-up, here's the story: Mark J. Porrovecchio, a 2006 Ph.D. in rhetorical studies from Pitt, now an assistant professor at Oregon State, had a great idea. In the early 70s a number of heavy-hitting scholars in our field formed "The National Developmental Project on Rhetoric," under the auspices of the Speech Communication Association (now the National Communication Association) and the National Endowment for the Humanities. These scholars held two conferences in order to "outline and amplify a theory of rhetoric suitable to twentieth century concepts and needs." A number of the position papers at these conferences were edited and published in a widely-read and referenced collection titled, The Prospect of Rhetoric in 1971. As a graduate student, Porrovecchio wondered why the "issues" discussed in this volume were still discussed today (although what he means by "issues" is unclear). He spearheaded a new edited collection, Reengaging the Prospect of Rhetoric, recently published by Routledge (2010), in which contemporary rhetorical scholars take-up and respond to one of the original 1971 essays. The papers from the Wingspread conference and its follow-up in St. Charles, Illinois, are foundational to what my colleagues and me do today. The idea of thinking about where we are today in "rhetorical studies" in relation to these formative essays is timely. The National Communication Association (NCA) is nearing its 100th anniversary, and a number of books on the history of this organization and the "field" associated with it have recently appeared. The timing is of this volume is perfect.

From what I've read of the book so far, most of the authors "riff" on an essay from the 1971 collection to produce something new (Beseecher's contribution is especially insightful and provocative). As is the case with most edited collections, Porrovecchio also contributes a chapter, which is titled "'The Cult of Unintelligibility': Continued Queries about the Nature of Our Discourse(s) / A Response to Barnet Baskerville's 'Responses, Queries, and a Few Caveats'" (I've uploaded a PDF copy here). This is the chapter that critiques my scholarly persona, as well as that of many others.

PORROVECCHIO'S ARGUMENT IN GENERAL

In the broadest strokes, Porrovecchio argues that the original essays of The Prospect of Rhetoric were concerned with discerning the confines or boundaries of the field of rhetorical studies. He suggests these formative thinkers were animated by an "anxiety" about what is and is not "rhetoric," and worried about carving out a "tradition" that was distinctive from other fields of study. Barnet Baskerville's essay in that collection, "Responses, Queries, and a Few Caveats," is advanced as a kind of jeremiad: from Porrovecchio's reading, Baskerville was concerned that his colleagues were obsessed with finding respect among academics in the wider academy, and this was causing them to borrow too much from other disciplines at the expense of establishing their own distinctiveness (temping a "cult of unintelligibility"). Having reread the essay, I think Baskerville is less of a Chicken Little than he is characterized, but we'll go with it for now.

Porrovecchio suggests that Baskerville's warning still needs to be heeded almost forty years later, but the areas of thought rhetoricians are borrowing from are no longer those of Baskerville's concern---philosophy, social psychology, and literary criticism---but rather cultural studies and postmodernism. As he sees it, what has been distinctive about rhetorical studies in "[speech] communication" are the "historical (perhaps a better word would be traditional) dictates of the spoken and the written" (153).

What Porrovechio means by "historical," "traditional," "spoken," and "written" is not defined for the reader. He seems to assume these terms are commonly understood (when, in fact, I've been arguing that such an assumption about "speech" was the reason for its demise as a titular term). He also seems focused on situating a proper object of rhetorical studies as concerning "the podium and the page" (153). Regardless, rather than explaining what he means by "traditional," "historical," "written," and "spoken," he proceeds by defining these terms negatively, largely in respect to what they are not (or should not be).

A clearly stated thesis is decidedly elusive.

Nevertheless, in the mode of charity, I think the argument can be described as advancing two major claims: (1) The brand of rhetorical studies situated in the speech tradition has so diversified its "object" that the field is presently incoherent; and (2) to make ourselves coherent and academically respectable, we need to limit our objects of study to spoken and written texts. We have a claim of fact, followed by a claim of policy: the situation is X; to improve X, we should do Y.

As one might imagine, however, both claims of fact and policy are shot-through with claims of value, and it is those claims with which I shall take issue below. By way of preview, however, I do not necessarily disagree with the claims of policy Porrovecchio advances at the end of his essay (many of which I have also made in print). I mention this only to point out that X does not demand Y.

As for the factual claim (let us term this "claim X"), Porrovecchio has two sub-claims: (a) what "counts" as "spoken and written" discourse has exploded beyond all coherence; and (b) the (or "our") object of study has been eclipsed by "tools and tricks of other areas of inquiry." In other words, the incoherence of rhetorical studies is a consequence of expanding what counts as a written and spoken object, as well as the result of borrowing too heavily from perspectives and approaches to humanistic inquiry that are not our own.

To this end, Porrovecchio makes two moves: first, he identifies three scholars as "opening the door," so to speak, to the proliferation of objects and the importation of foreign perspectives: Karlyn Kohrs Campbell, Celeste Condit, and David Zarefsky. Then, Porrovecchio identifies two scholars of rhetorical studies whose work represents the explosion of the object and the importation of foreign perspectives respectively: Carole Blair and Joshua Gunn. Blair and Gunn's work, he argues, are conspicuous representatives of how rhetorical studies has been led astray, taken away from a center in history and tradition. To restore disciplinary order, Porrovecchio argues that we should: (1) teach the history of the field in our classes; (2) emphasize the continued relevance of spoken and written discourse; and (3) investigate the ways in which contemporary communication technologies provide a continued role for spoken and written discourse.

In short, Porrovecchio argues that rhetorical studies was, and remains, an incoherent discipline because we cannot buckle down and study the "traditional" object of speech and writing, and we have scholars like Blair and Gunn to blame.

At the general level, I would object immediately to the founding premise of Porrovecchio's argument, that rhetorical studies is incoherent. Presumably, coherence is achieved by either a consistency of method or object or both (dictates, of course, of scientism). Having just taught a doctoral seminar on this subject ("The Object"), I would say that no academic field has been made coherent by an object or method in the humanities. Even a cursory examination of what a given field considers its object of study will show widespread disagreement---and it is this disagreement that is constitutive of a discipline. Fields are made coherent only in reference to institutional history, which is why I agree with Porrovecchio that it needs to be taught. I would suggest the solution (the Y) Porrovecchio offers to the condition (the X) is right. The problem, of course, is that he grossly misunderstands---if not willfully mischaracterizes---the condition. Claim X is mistaken. And grossly so.

PORROVECCHIO'S ESSAY: UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL

Now that the broad-strokes have been painted (at least, as best as I can reconstruct them), let's engage Porrovecchio's essay more closely. In the interest of clarity, I shall quote the original essay in italics, so that my commentary is easier to distinguish from that of the essay. Insofar as I think his essay is a product of diss publicity syndrome, what interests me in is not so much the words on the page, but the performance of his argument in relation to those words. The opening epigraphs of the essay get at it quickly:

. . . the questions run too deep for such a simple man./Won't you please, please tell me what you've learned?---"The Logical Song," Supertramp (1979)

See chameleon, lying there in the sun, all things to everyone . . . ---"Run Runaway," Slade (1983)

True, some people will publish just about anything if it is mystifying enough, if it deploys the right theorist, politics, or disciplinary agenda. ---"ShitText," Joshua Gunn (2006).

Epigraphs are dependent on enthymematic logic: the reader supplies the punch-line, so to speak. Here, Roger Hodgson's brilliant pop ditty about having the wonder of life beat out of him by the British educational system is referenced (penned when he was a teen, but later recorded with Supertramp), followed by a warning by glam rock royalty Slade (their catalog revamped/recycled for most readers of RoseChron by Quiet Riot), which is then followed by a quote from a letter to an editor written by someone I think I know quite well. Taken collectively, the overriding suggestion is that the author is about to take something to task---and that something is critical/cultural scholarship in rhetorical studies. So the message, of course, is that critical/cultural scholarship is a chimera, a smokescreen, something that kills the wonder of the natural world. The critical/cultural bent in rhetorical studies profanes something more "natural" or "genuine." The glam-rock message is that we need to "run runway" from this.

As much as I adore pop music references, the first two songs credited here are cynical in sentiment---one about education, the other, about certain lovers, and contrast sharply with the quotation from my piece. Presumably the epigraph penned by me is cynical as well, however, that's not "in the original." Here's a fuller context of my epigraph:

You know, scholarly constipation produces pristine scholarship but sometimes lacks a sense of humanity. True, some people will publish just about anything if it is mystifying enough, if it deploys the right theorist, politics, or disciplinary agenda. But as dangerous as taking scholarly risks may sometimes be, communication studies scholars need to be taking them more often, and the disciplined sphincters of our scholarly conversations (editors and reviewers) need to stop pinching-off creative or unusual work as ‘‘shit.’’

In the theme of "gotcha," I might note the phrase "will publish just about anything" is italicized in the original and not in Porrovecchio's epigraph, but we all make mistakes I reckon. Nevertheless, in the actual context of the essay, my remark is far from cynical. The epigraph isolated by Porrovecchio is actually not in the spirit of the song lyrics he cites (apparently approvingly): despite the fact that scholarship is often a theoretical "fashion show," we must nevertheless persist in doing creative scholarship!

The article I penned that Porrovecchio references here is titled "ShitText: Toward and New Coporphilic Style," which was published in the 26th volume of Text and Performance Quarterly in 2006. The essay was not written in the key of rhetorical studies, but rather, performance studies, and more specifically, for a special issue on the topic of the seven deadly sins. The sin explored by the essay was "pride" (and to a lesser extent, "gluttony"). The citation, however, is not from the essay I actually penned, but from a heavily edited cover letter to the editors, which they wanted to publish with my essay (actually, they were more interested in my deliberately indecorous cover letter than the essay itself). Nevertheless, the context stripped from the epigraph is my adoption of a playful persona for an audience that expects and enjoys playfulness. To align this statement with cynicism certainly "misses the boat" or spirit of the piece, and to suggest it is a commentary on rhetorical studies is certainly misguided (it's about scholarship in the humanities in general). The "spirit" is precisely what Porrovecchio is intentionally missing.

These epigraphs set-up the opening section of Porrovecchio's essay, which is titled Caveat Emptor, "Let the Buyer Beware." The "subtle" message of the entitle and epigraphs, of course, is that the forthcoming essay is a warning about the "goods" some folks are "selling" (again, critical/cultural studies). Porrovecchio begins:

There is something unseemly about beginning an argument by admitting defeat. Yet that is what I am forced to do. For you see, my basic position is simple: rhetoric, at its best, conforms to the historical (perhaps a better word would be traditional) dictates of the spoken and written. I realize that position puts me in a bind from which I cannot escape. The last forty years have clearly demonstrated that, contrary to my position, theorists and critics of rhetoric have: (1) expanded the notions of what is spoken and written, and also (2) moved beyond the spoken and written. The details are too obvious. The podium and the page still exert influence on the scholarship of rhetoric in [speech] communication. They do so, however, amidst a crowded field of theorists and critics who would rather turn their attention---indeed their careers and passions---to rhetoric of other varied sorts. So my argument ends where it begins.

Reading this first paragraph, I am reminded of Lysias' speech in Plato's famed dialogue, The Phaedrus. It begins:

Listen. You know how matters stand with me; and how, as I conceive, this affair may be arranged for the advantage of both of us. And I maintain that I ought not to fail in my suit, because I am not your lover: for lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown when their passion ceases, but to the non-lovers who are free and not under any compulsion, no time of repentance ever comes; for they confer their benefits according to the measure of their ability, in the way which is most conducive to their own interest.

Socrates criticizes Lysias for a bad introduction: it fails to contextualize the argument or define its key terms, leaping right into an argument with the assumption that the hearer knows what is at stake. Porrovecchio begins by assuming that the reader shares his frame of reference, that we know what is meant by "the spoken and written"---or that the reader might agree rhetorical studies is a "crowded field of theorists and critics" who have abandoned "the written and spoken." At the very least, this address assumes a readership that is not new to rhetorical studies; it implies one that is familiar with some unspoken sentiment. Opening as Porrovecchio has signals an allegiance, perhaps a certain choir. The shared sentiment he assumes is, of course, that rhetorical studies is no longer concerned with "spoken and written discourse." It is only on the basis of this sentiment that Porrovecchio can begin in a defeatist mood: if it is the case that rhetorical studies has abandoned spoken and written discourse, only then can Porrovecchio begin by suggesting his argument will fall on deaf eyes. His concluding statement, "So my argument ends where it begins" implies a inevitable conclusion---which is odd, since none of the sentences mounted here point logically to such a conclusion.

Let us take stock of the titles of current essays featured in the leading journal of rhetorical studies from the speech tradition, The Quarterly Journal of Speech:

Stephen Obeys Gencarella, "Purifying Rhetoric: Empedocles and the Myth of Rhetorical Theory."

Martin J. Medhurst, "George W. Bush at Goree Island: American Slavery and the Rhetoric of Redemption."

Kathleen F. McConnell, "In Appreciation of the Kind of Rhetoric We Learn in School: An Institutional Perspective on the Rhetorical Situation and on Education"

Christa J. Olson, "Performing Embodiable Topoi: Strategic Indigeneity and the Incorporation of Ecuadorian Identity."

Hmm. The first essay concerns Empedocles' possible contribution to the study of rhetoric (oratory); the second concerns a presidential speech; the third takes-up the "rhetorical situation" as developed by Bitzer from an institutional standpoint; and the forth addresses public address in the history of Ecuador. All of these essays seem concerned with history and spoken or written discourse. If these four essays are any measure of rhetorical studies in the speech tradition (and I would wager they are), then Porrovecchio's defeatist attitude seems hastily adopted, or at least hyperbolic. Most charitably, the author begins in the key of polemic.

Porrovecchio continues:

My only hope, then, is to shore up some ground by highlighting "at its best" [the historical/traditional dictates of the spoken and written] and doing so from within the specific parameters of [speech] communication. Even then, that is a curiously antiquated retreat. What acclaim is to be gained by moving back while others move forward?

Aligning himself with a "lost cause" (which has not really been established as "lost"), Porrovecchio announces his "hope": to court acclaim. The author begins by trumpeting what he is about to argue is unpopular and perhaps "antiquarian," but he hopes to recover something that has been neglected. He looks to Barnet Baskerville as his beacon:

Perhaps my pragmatic sympathies are at play when I turn to Barnet Baskerville's 'Responses, Queries, and a Few Caveats' for support. His essay highlights what are, to me, some of the best arguments in support of my case. Baskerville points, first of all, to the odd way in which some have decided to act as if the matter of redefining rhetoric has been settled once and for all. The issue is what necessitated such a shift, and whether or not that shift has placed us in good stead with our interdisciplinary cohorts.

Here we have the announcement of a piety---"my pragmatic sympathies," "my case," and so forth. Allegiance to a particular perspective or way of thinking is fore grounded as more important to a secondary observation, that "some have decided to act as if the matter of redefining rhetoric" is a done deal. I see no evidence of anyone "acting" this way in The Prospect of Rhetoric, if only because the charge of the two conferences was to define the scope or rhetoric for the times.

Porrovecchio continues:

Baskerville posits that this desire to redefine is based on the anxieties (his term) of those who do their work in [speech] communication. In the place of quaint suggestions about adjusting ideas to people (and vice versa), or adapting discourse to its end (with a fair amount of latitude), scholars and critics have instead turned to an unwieldy assortment of, at times contradictory and occasional opaque, definitions. Baskerville also hints at some of the ways in which our accumulated history might resolve our anxieties. These suggestions would, I admit, re(s)train our focus in [speech] communication. Again, I realize I am not going to win. So I only ask to be given a fair hearing.

In short, what Baskerville said in 1971 is still relevant to us today, as we are still goaded by anxiety to appropriate an "unwieldy assortment" of definitions of rhetorical stuff from other fields. What is curious in this introduction, however, is Porrovecchio's repeated admission of "defeat"---casting his argument in war metaphors and, more specifically, in the rhetoric of the lost cause.

Porrovecchio seems to be staging a civil war.

Now, how the embrace of a "lost cause" thematic escapes "anxiety" is unclear to me (anxiety, by definition, is about a lost cause---or at least an elusive one). And again, I would disagree with the fundamental assumptions of this opening gambit: that stabilizing an "object" would somehow stabilize rhetorical studies---or that somewhere back in disciplinary history we "had it" and "lost it" (whatever "it" is). Such an introduction reminds me of Kanye West at the MTV Video Music Awards in 2009: "Now Taylor, I'm, I'm really happy for you, I'm let you finish, but Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time . . . . "

After this strangely defeatist introduction, Porrovecchio launches into his "set-up," with an occasional reference to Barnet Baskerville's writing: "Case Closed and Wide Open." Here he notes that Baskerville diagnoses his colleagues in 1971 with an inferiority complex, and then observes:

It seems to me that our anxiety [in rhetorical studies] has not decreased as we have moved further into the profitable realms of interdisciplinarity. Every so often, learned members of our guild pick up their sabers and do battle over whether or not it is to be big or small rhetoric, rhetoric as uniquely practiced within [speech] communication or rhetoric as a variegated bloom of multidiscipline hybridity. The arguments often devolve into pettiness and then, as if on cue, into silence. The work continues to be done.

Notably, such assertions go without references. Nevertheless, the assumptions made in these statements are worth underscoring: discussions about the scope and place of rhetorical studies are "wars" or "battles"; interdisciplinary work is conducted for "profit" or "gain" (as opposed to, say, intellectual pursuit, curiosity, insight, and so forth); and discussions about the place of rhetoric in the academy or in respect to the public "at large" are pointless. It's a rather Hobbesian view of the discipline---and one that does not resonate with my experience at conferences, nor with what I read on the pages of "our" journals. Much effort is made by the author to stage a fight, both in his choice of metaphor and in his sweeping generalizations that---to modify Sly Stone's response to Marvin Gaye---"a war is goin' on."

Although I would very much agree that academic dispute is often "petty," at the same time, I suggest that arguments about a field's scope and object are constitutive of all academic disciplines. That is to say, disagreements and discussions about "what is it that we do?" constitute a given field. This blogged response to Porrovecchio is part of this kind of discourse. Porrovecchio seems to suggest rhetorical studies is unique in its disagreements about object and limit, but such a suggestion really betrays an ignorance of the history of higher education in the United States, as well as that of other academic disciplines---hell, even of Plato.

Having supposedly established, via Baskerville, that rhetorical scholars were (and are) anxious, Porrovecchio moves on to suggest the dominant response to this anxiety has been a celebration of "unity" in "diversity or vigor" (155). He isolates a special symposium on "Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Rhetorical Criticism" in a 2006 issue of Rhetoric Review as the contemporary exemplar.

Edited by Richard Enos, for Porrovecchio the special issue seems to celebrate diversity of object and method as evidence of a strong and robust discipline. Whereas he cites Enos' introduction and Richard Jensen's essay on social movement rhetoric approvingly for wanting to preserve the best insights of the past, Porrovecchio takes issue with the perspectives of Karlyn Kohrs Campbell, Celeste Condit, and David Zarefsky. He believes they betray our forebears by celebrating interdisciplinary approaches and defining rhetoric too broadly. For example,

Karlyn Campbell . . . seems conflicted in setting forth her three principles [of what? Porrovecchio never explains]. She sagely notes that rhetoric is a contextual thing, as varied as the cultures in which it is found. She also, and this seems in keeping with Enos's introduction, explains that "the study of rhetoric is the study of language, how language shapes perception, recognition, interpretation, and response." Again, this is a valuable truth. But how then to read these principles against her first one: "Rhetoric is ubiquitous. Never ask if there is rhetoric; where there is culture and language, there is rhetoric. The challenge is to discover its cultural forms and functions." The claim of ubiquity is, I fear, a hangover from the confusion that animated the conferences leading up to The Prospect, a desire---contra Baskerville and others---to do away with boundaries in favor of open and enveloping fields ripe with academic purchase and promise.

The implication here is that one of the most venerated---and I can say without question, most intelligent and insightful---theorists and critics of rhetorical studies was somehow befogged when she wrote her essay. The charge here is that Campbell is confused and contradicts herself. Let us examine the claims of Campbell that Porrovecchio suggests are contradictory:

1. Rhetoric is contextual and best defined in culturally dependent terms.

2. Rhetoric concerns the way in which language influences thinking and responding.

3. Rhetoric is ubiquitous because it can be found wherever language and culture exist.

Now, Porrovecchio is suggesting number three contradicts one and two. I cannot, however, discern how these three claims are incompatible. To say that rhetoric can be discerned anywhere language is used is not inconsistent with saying rhetoric is better understood in its cultural context, or that rhetoric involves how people perceive and respond to the world. Porrovecchio claims these statements are "confused," presumably at the level of definition, implying an error in reasoning. His conclusion, however, implicates his problem is actually one of value: Campbell would "do away with boundaries in favor of open and enveloping symbolic fields ripe with academic purchase and promise." Campbell's confusion, in other words, is that she would sell-out the home team for the insights of other disciplines because they are more profitable. To whom it is not clear, nor is the meaning of "profit."

I confess I'm not sure what "open and enveloping symbolic fields" are; they sound maternally lysergic (sign me up!).

To call Karlyn Kohrs Campbell on the carpet for abandoning "tradition" or "history" is not simply baffling, it's downright stupid. I mean "stupid" here both in the "what?" and in the traditional sense: "lacking intelligence or common sense." Professor Campbell is primarily known for her work analyzing the public speaking of historically prominent women and presidents. Perhaps Porrovecchio means to indict her (almost single-handed) introduction of the ripe field of feminism and women's studies to rhetorical studies? His penchant for the pugnacious and "conservative" suggests this might indeed be the case, but we don't know for sure. It's never made clear.

Porrovecchio continues by arguing Celeste Condit bests Campbell's preference for "wide open spaces" in rhetoric because she argues for an expansion of what counts as "language." The Mac-Daddy of disciplinary betrayal, however, is none other than David Zarefsky, who "represents the post-symbolic, posttexual push that makes rhetoric disappear into the ether . . . " (157). Porrovecchio cites a passage from Zarefsky in which the respected scholar suggests that the stability of "the text" is dubious and that "rhetorical criticism" denotes a particular approach to "anything resembling a text." Porrovecchio objects that such liberal interpretations of what does and does not count as "rhetoric" are "too charitable" and are born of a herd mentality, of wanting to play nice:

If anything is subject to rhetorical criticism, then it begs the question as to what can and cannot be considered a rhetorical conceptual foundation. This open-endedness is, I augur, the result of reading too much into too many things. But it is also a result of being too charitable---in print, if not in person or private---regarding our peers' work. (157)

Porrovecchio "augurs," but alas the verb is misused; usually an inhuman object or event "augurs" a future outcome (that is, "portends"---here, Porrovecchio uses the term to diagnose, not predict). Nevertheless, Porrovecchio seems to be saying that the liberal interpretations of what "counts" as rhetoric or rhetorical criticism are really motivated by social mandates: Campbell, Condit, and Zarefsky are willing to go "big tent" with rhetoric because they want to "play nice." These scholars are not thoughtful or wise; they are, rather, playing an academic game for the sake of academic respectability and "profit." "Championing our diversity as a sign that we are healthy is fraught with problems," augurs Porrovecchio (I think he means the term "avers"). "If each and every practitioner can claim to be doing just fine while engaging in projects that contradict one another, then the term rhetoric is simply code for doing whatever makes you feel good."

Of course, Porrovecchio sneaks in an unsupported claim here in this "if/then" logic: that rhetorical scholars engage "in projects that contradict one another." What projects does he have in mind? And how do they "contradict?" What is the nature of this contradiction? There are no answers to such questions, just assertions in the abstract. I suppose we might imagine that Campbell's work with Stanton, Condit's research on the rhetoric of inquiry/science, and Zarfesky's interests in the oratory of LBJ and Lincoln, are what Porrovecchio has in mind---but even so, he never makes the case. One wonders if professor Porrovecchio has read the work in our shared field; but even if he has, his set-up for the next section---"High Ground and Low Art"---indicates that having a working understanding of widely read scholarship rhetorical studies is beside the point, because he admits he is deliberately hasty in his generalizing:

I recognized these sorts of generalizations will not stand. But it does pay to recall Baskerville's observation that "'traditional' has become an opprobrious term. The old ways will no longer do." While I hesitate to suggest that the authors about to be discussed mean to be abusive or scornful of traditional approaches to the theory and criticism of rhetoric, especially as it relates to [speech] communication, there are nonetheless, explicit signs of dismissal.

The "contradictory" work Porrovecchio has in mind, of course, is that of yours truly and Carole Blair. Campbell, Condit, and Zarefsky are held out as the diplomats that made my and Carole's work possible, and our work is---by virtue of its existence---an affront to "the old ways" or "tradition." To this point in the essay, however, the reader has yet to be told what "the old ways" of which Baskerville spoke consist. Nor has Porrovecchio devoted as much as a sentence to defining what he considers "tradition" to be. So far, we have been told the "old ways" concern spoken and written discourse (although, I should note, Baskerville---like Hunt---were particularly wedded to oratory; how the "written" gets written into the tradition by Porrovecchio is dubious, if not a contradiction itself). Porrovecchio assumes the reader "gets" where he is coming from, which is less of an intellectual position and more of a disposition or affective conviction. In popular parlance, we would describe this disposition as "conservative." What seems to be at stake is less an intellectually rigorous set of principled observations about what rhetoric is, and more an emotion-centered conviction about what rhetoric is not. The homology between his argument from conviction and the contemporary Tea Party movement is obvious: referencing a coherent past that never was, Porrovecchio wants to argue for "taking back our discipline" (from whom? David Zarefsky?).

Again, Porrovecchio notes that in my and Carole's work there are "explicit signs of dismissal" [of tradition]. He continues:

This points, of course, to the fact that there are at least two schools of fetish:

What a minute. "This" is not a clear referent. Presumably, by "this" Porrovecchio means my and Carole's "explicit signs" of dismissing "tradition." Notwithstanding that such a claim has not been established, nor that what is meant by "tradition" is clear, he continues that our dismissals "of course" (that is, obviously) index a "fact" that there are "two schools of fetish." Let us pause and marvel at his logical prowess: a yet-to-be-established observation makes obvious a "fact." Huh. So what is this fact?

. . . there are at least two schools of fetish: the old and the new. While I will freely admit of a dalliance (or two) with the former, I wonder if the authors below will admit to the same with the latter. What specific reasons do they offer for moving beyond a more traditional orientation to what is meant by spoken and written discourse?

What does Porrovecchio mean here by "fetish?" Traditionally understood, a fetish concerns the attribution of magical powers to objects that do not, in or of themselves, have magical powers. So, to what "old" and "new" does he refer? And do we agree that scholars of rhetoric attribute magical powers to these? Such a statement, while poorly written, seems to stage a "battle": Porrovecchio aligns himself with a "traditional orientation," which he "fetishizes," while Blair and Gunn are . . . what? Fetishists of the "new"?

It is probably obvious to most readers that what we have here is bad writing and fallacious argumentation, a Fox News brand of scholarship. Before a case is made, Porrovecchio is offering conclusions---which I suspect makes reading his essay, even for those who are not invested, something of a cringe-fest. The reasoning here is fodder for teaching fallacious argument, too: without evidence, Porrovecchio claims Blair and Gunn make statements that are explicitly dismissive of "tradition," however, what "tradition" is has not yet been defined or discussed. Then, presuming we are against "tradition," he asks rhetorically, "what reasons do they offer for moving beyond a more traditional orientation . . . . ?" One wonders how such writing made it through a peer review process. The reasoning here reads like a dialogue in the author's head with cardboard figures . . . .

Oh, wait a minute. Porrovecchio was the editor of the volume in which his essay appears. Presumably, then, the press had blind reviewers. One wonders who they were.

Just before launching into his (personal) attacks, Porrovecchio stages the set-up:

[Blair and Gunn] do offer reasons, often complex ones, for their orientations. Yet I would posit they have nothing to do with the limits of traditional approaches. They have to do with anxiety. Limitations can lead to refinement. They can also lead to rebellion. Some scholars within [speech] communication, anxious to shed our inhibitions, first reached out to nondiscursive artifacts, modifying the traditional by way of novel interpretations. More recently, scholars have decided to jump back and forth amidst the porous interdisciplinary boundaries of rhetoric, claiming [speech] communication as their base while trafficking in the tools and tricks of other areas of inquiry. That first tendency blurs the line between what is rhetorical and what is rhetoric. The second runs the risk of turning rhetoric into a Trojan horse whereby different interests (and, yes, agendas) gain traction under an established educational awning. It is best to now deal with both of these tendencies in some detail.

This is a straw-person argument based on an "if/then" logic for which the "if" is radically unstable. The condition of "if" is that Blair and I find "traditional" approaches to rhetoric "limiting." Both Carole and I see ourselves as working within a certain "[speech] communication" tradition, so it doesn't make sense that we would find our tradition limiting, but rather, encouraging what it is we do and argue. I suppose Porrovecchio would argue that my and Carole's understanding of the speech tradition is "revisionist" and inaccurate, so the "if" would stand with him on the right side of historical understanding. While I cannot speak to Carole's position on "tradition," I do think we come at our critical work from a similar perspective: like our forebears, we're interested in explaining how objects of culture have persuasive effects on people. What is "different" in our work from that of, say, the speech tradition in the early-to-mid twentieth century is a focus on embodied experience (affect)---but even then, there was a very strong interest in precisely this dimension of persuasion in the early field ("speech," first and foremost, was understood as bodily). It would seem, then, that Porrovecchio really understands the "traditional" focus of rhetorical studies to be on written texts---texts that absent the body-in-feeling. If that is the case (and there's no way to tell from the essay), then Porrovecchio's understanding of "tradition" is rather revisionist itself.

The next section of the essay is a critique of Carole Blair's scholarship titled "Grin and Blair It," which rather smugly suggests her work is a test of one's endurance. After summarizing Blair's essay with Marsha S. Jeppson and Enrico Pucci, Jr. on the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington DC, Porroveechio charges them with advancing a "self-excepting fallacy." Why? Well, it's never quite clear. Porrovecchio launches his criticism by noting Blair et al's contrast between modern and postmodern architecture, the latter championing "function" over style in an effort to provide those experiencing it with a variety of interpretive perspectives and choices.

the contention that modernist architecture stressed function seems to support a relative, socially constructed choice: the goals of style and form are merely made secondary in this instance. If we are to honor the diversity of critical (and, one could add, architectural choices), what good is there in an absolute and paradoxical stance on relativism?"

Now, this quotation would seem to be missing a context---it assumes a lot. But it is just poorly written. The rhetorical question implies another "if/then" argument: if postmodern monumentalism disavows or undermines clarity of intention, then what point is there in taking an "absolutist" stance on this? Porrovecchio seems to be suggesting that, by arguing postmodern public monuments invite a variety of interpretations from those experiencing them, Blair, Jeppson, and Pucci undermine their authority as critics insofar as their mandate as critics is to judge---to say that postmodern monuments offer a variety of interpretive choices. Again, this is a "gotcha" criticism that seems to be making no other point than "gotcha"---except, of course, Blair et al aren't really "got."

Porrovecchio continues by arguing that the "postmodern" critique of a "authorship" is also problematic:

. . . although the authors/creators [of monuments] hold no sway as legitimate sources of judgment, the text comes to embody the self-same powers that the authors dismissed earlier. The authors argue that 'conflicting claims are legitimized by the symbolic gestures of the Memorial.' But note the localized function of the disorder the authors discuss: it occurs within the shifting scope of the text. As such, theory folds in on itself and comes to contain all the necessary ingredients for discussion . . . .

What "self-same powers" the author claims Blair et al. "dismissed earlier" is not clear, and his summary of the arguments he critiques is much more vague and abstract than in the original. Regardless, I think Porrovecchio misses the boat because he rejects the starting premise of their essay: there is no "transcendental signified" here; it's not that judgments or choices are not made about these monuments, but rather, that the "ground" for both is contingent, changing, and particular to each person experiencing the monument. What Blair and her colleagues are describing is that the way in which the veterans memorial works "rhetorically" cannot be explained by an author-centered model; it has suasive effects, but those effects are created by an ever-shifting constellation of agency that displaces the "actor" to an apparatus or complex of people and symbolism. Porrovecchio desperately wants to locate some sort of stability in a person, which of course is what Blair and her co-authors are arguing the monument challenges (that is, the postmodern inversion is that symbolicity is more in control of us then we are of it). Porrovecchio's difficulty with this essay is rather simple: he has never read---or refuses to think about--- poststructural arguments. His real problem comes out in what appears to be a throw-away comment about "the nightmare":

Those important elements [forms of discursive influence not discernable with "traditional criticism"] seem to be the suggestive, if tentative, observations of critics wiling to commit to a judgment based on their discretion. Those very same elements provide no safeguard---really, a nightmare world of rationality and autonomy that some critics seem bent on bashing---against error in matters of theory and criticism. But they also don't suggest that the power of rhetoric extends beyond the frail control of human hands" (161)

The accusation here is that Blair, Jeppson, and Pucci get to argue anything they wish because they have done away with a referential basis of truth---as well as reason and the transcendental subject. The problem with these authors for Porrovecchio is that they no longer subscribe to an understanding of rhetoric as centered in a rational man crafting an intended message. He snidely suggests that the "world of rationality and autonomy" is characterized by "some critics" as a "nightmare," but there's no basis for saying so. Blair, Jeppson, and Pucci never say that that there is no "autonomy" or "rationality," nor that either concept is outmoded. Rather, they argue that the rational man speaking well just doesn’t help to make sense of the memorial, and that certain poststructural theories do. Porrovecchio suggests that Zarefsky and others are guilty of "reading too much into too many things," however, such a diagnosis seems to be his own critical protocol.

So, for example, he next turns to Blair and Michel's reading of Mount Rushmore. "I make no claim to Borglum's (the creator) rationality . . . . But I do question, yet again, the suggestion that a pile of finely crafted rocks can create rhetoric" (162). After a paragraph summary of this rather long essay, Porrovecchio concludes it results in "an engaging literature review-cum-cultural study to further establish that rhetorical entities are themselves capable of producing rhetoric." Now, the critique doesn't extend beyond such observations; apparently the unspoken upshot is supposed to be a kind of incredulity: "What? Do they really argue rocks make rhetoric? Ridiculous!" Of course, Blair and Michel do not argue this; rather, they only point out that the symbolic is alive (like, oh, Frankenstein's monster, in a sense)---that Mount Rushmore is a complicated rhetorical site that no one person (or group of people) can control. To suggest that this rather complicated analysis reduces to "rocks make rhetoric" is not only a misreading; it's rather nasty.

Porro-what's-his-name (I tire of typing it, with a hat-tip to Mirko) then cleverly moves to his attack of "Gunn" (not "Gunn's work") under the entitle, "I Don't Need a Gunn." Yes, I remember fifth grade taunts on the playground, and fifth grade humor is fun, but really? Even "Shooting Blanks" or some play on Gatlin would have been a better fun-poking. He begins:

My point regarding Gunn is different from my point with Blair's and her coauthors' positions [Note: Gunn is not afforded a position; Gunn the persona is the target]. Gunn favors readers with a wealth of wonder: humor, irony, a certain ease of exposition when discussing complex ideas related to psychoanalytical theory. [Note: why the extra syllable? The word is "psychoanalytic," not "psychoanalytical; someone has not done his reading.] I don't suspect Gunn to be trafficking in rhetoric all the while suggesting a discussion that is rhetorical. What I question is the tone of his discourse and the necessity of using rhetoric to animate it. He can conjure with the bset of them, so why add extraneous notions to his positions?

Argumentatively, we have the Lysias syndrome again: before the case is set-out, it's already made. Gunn claims rhetoric, but he is not doing rhetorical studies. But for such a claim to make any sense, the reader must be familiar with who Gunn is and the character of his work. I suppose, since, uh, I'm the Gunn of which he speaks, this should be flattering. But really, it's just sort of sad because it's so badly written---if only because this is the kind of conclusion that requires at least a couple of examples (some evidence). The examples will come, but one should note that none of them ever address this claim ( that Gunn does not "do rhetoric").

The introductory paragraph does not end here, however, because it gets nastier. So, why does Gunn evoke the term "rhetoric" when what he does is not really rhetorical studies?

My suspicion is that he has found, after much toil and trouble, a safe harbor in [speech] communication. As such, Gunn engages in the time-tested and near universal strategy of theoretical alignment. [Note: LOL projection phrase . . . is this tongue-in-cheek or earnest? I worry the latter.] By advancing an accepted argument promulgated by accepted scholars, one can then extend the range of their reach by adding a personal touch or two. This enables Gunn to play more and more the provocateur in discussions where his thesis is less and less risqué. If the reach of his theorizing is acceptable enough (leaving aside Baskerville's question about the need for more rhetorical critics), then the critical extensions are less prone to change. A captive audience is, after all, bound to listen.

First, what does this last line mean? "A captive audience is, after all, bound to listen. I can't make sense of it semantically at all, but if I turn to the affective gesture of the phrase, Porro-what's-his-name seems to be suggesting that Gunn's derivative style is somehow spellbinding. (righteous!) Usually, however, when you accuse someone of being derivative or of merely hocking someone else's wares you don't mean to suggest she is mesmerizing---unless you mean to suggest she is deceitful. Porro-what's-his-name immediately moves to a discussion of my "self-effacingly" confessional essay on publication in 2003, which suggests that deception is the subtextual charge here.

So, reading the subtext, let's summarize Porrovecchio's introduction to his critique: Gunn is a charlatan for two reasons: (1) he claims to be doing rhetoric, but he only does so because "[speech] communication" tolerates his presence; and (2) his presence is tolerated because he advances the widely accepted arguments of respected others dressed up in "humor, irony, and a certain ease of exposition." Blair and her coauthors are misguided because they expand the object domain of rhetoric too far; Gunn, however, is an outright fraud.

It takes a little of my "ease of exposition" skill here to clean up the muddy writing in order to see the mud that is actually thrown. There are two observations to be made about Porrovecchio's style of argument. First, such a series of claims demand evidence; if my work is the status quo, then as a debate guy Porrovecchio should know he has the burden of proof. Now, for the first claim, Porro-what's-his-name needs to demonstrate a place in which I make a claim about rhetoric, and then show how the term "rhetoric" is unnecessary. If I'm "not doing rhetoric," then the reader needs to be shown where the slight of hand occurs. The second claim is that my work reduces to riding on an accepted argument of someone else, then adding a "personal touch or too." This, I think, isn't a difficult task with a number of my essays (it is, after all, a "near universal strategy"). Lets see, however, if evidence for either claim is ever offered (to play like he does, I'll let the cat out of the bag: he doesn't).

The second observation about styles of argument, however, has to do with professional responsibility. Targeting someone's work or position as problematic is one thing (this is what we do for a living in scholarship much of the time). Targeting someone's person, "the emperor has no clothing!" is quite another. In some academic circles, calling someone a fraud is a rather serious charge (Zizek has been attacked this way repeatedly, but has usually been invited to respond when it is done). I think Porrovecchio's muddled word-work is designed to mask the ad hominem character of what he's actually saying. Here's my point: this kind of essay would never make it through peer review. Were this an essay published in a journal, he would have been directed to focus the ire on the work. That this essay appeared in a book edited by its author should be underscored.

Lest y'all think I'm just overly sensitive here, let's now look at what he actually proceeds to "argue." Again, we have the Lysias problem of assuming the general reader is familiar with the work he is critiquing:

In 2003, Gunn self-effacingly described himself as a "scholarly adolescent" so as to introduce a sort of confessional discussion. That he chose to speak of what is, I know, a common experience is not strange. Nor is his choice to publish a particularly wicked rejection letter, amongst [among?] several lesser ones, to bolster his case particularly novel. Yet his willingness to apologize for misdirecting his ire (he thought it was Associate Editor Lauren Alleyne of the journal Telos who penned the poison, but came to find out it was Senior Editor Paul Piccone) in print and on his blog speaks to his willingness to engage in dialogue.

Ok, I know what Porro-what's-his-name is writing about---but do you? Does the general reader of his book? I chose to wrote about the politics of peer review---but Porrovecchio never explains this is the topic. Worse, does this paragraph make a point or claim? Presumably, the claim is that I am willing to engage in dialogue. Buried in here, however, is a dig that I was "trigger happy" in my essay---that I made a gaff (he makes these little digs routinely). Still, it's not clear how this aside about my willingness to "dialogue" and misfire supports the argument that I don't do rhetorical studies and captivate readers by dressing up the widely accepted positions of other, more respected scholars.

Perro-what's-his-name is referring to an essay I was invited to write for a special issue of Communication Studies in answer to the question, "what constitutes publishable rhetorical scholarship?" I was asked to contribute an essay from the position or perspective of a graduate student or early assistant professor (the rest of the contributors were established scholars). So, from the onset, Porrovecchio provides no context. He also gives the reader no sense of what he's actually referring to with my "apology." In my essay, I publish parts of a very nasty rejection letter sent to me by a Telos editor, and it was signed "Lauren Alleyne." Years later, Lauren emailed me to report that she didn't actually write the letter, that Paul Piccone actually wrote the letter---and she never saw it. After Paul died, she discovered he had maliciously wrote the letter and put her name on it, and only in retrospect did she remember that he said one day, "you just wrote a nasty letter" . . . She emailed to apologize to me, but also to explain she didn't do it. I asked the editor of CS to print my apology to Lauren (who agreed it was a good idea). The lawyers of the publisher requested that we not mention Paul or explain the situation, so . . . we couldn't, and didn't.

What's my point? My point is that Perro-what's-his-name is suggesting I was somehow disingenuous in print, when the fact of the matter is that Lauren and I were "played"---and maliciously---by Piccone (as graduate students, mind you). What's even more telling is that Porrovecchio mentions having read my blog about the incident. Here it is. Porrovecchio knows the "whole story," but omits the details supplied in my blog on the incident in order to suggest "misdirecting [my] ire" is a moral or scholarly shortcoming. Again, I can't decide if this is playing "dirty" or just plain stupid.

Porro-what's-his-name continues his critique by riffing on a comment I make in the CS essay: to be playful in one's writing makes you a target.

For while Gunn can recognize the existence of coding which [sic] would label him 'postmodern' only to do injustice to his aims, he is also able to adopt the countercoding which [sic: apparently we're British] would describe those who aren't particularly playful or liberal in orientation as outside what would constitute productive theoretical and critical practice. This isn't to suggest an error or even a problem per se. [er, so why linger?] The issue I wish to focus on is how Gunn's blending of the confessional and personal---his experience is symptomatic of recognized experiences within the discipline---with the theoretical and critical---these tendencies which I have experienced entail dispositions that we should avoid---creates quite a jumble. [no less a jumble than this last sentence!] Is Gunn right to question the boundaries of our disciplinary commitments? Of course he is. Is he to be praised for exposing some of the less agreeable approaches to academic practice? No less the same. But to what extent can we take his lived experience as sufficient grounds for mounting a wholesale refutation?

This last series of questions is problematic, since they sneak-in a series of claims that have been neither established nor argued: (a) Gunn questions the boundaries of disciplinary commitment; and (b) Gunn uses his lived experience to mount a "wholesale refutation" of [what? the discipline?].

Of course, the essay about rhetorical criticism that I published was in response to an editor who asked me (at a conference bar) to reflect on my experience as a beginning scholar to help make sense of publishing in rhetorical studies! As the editor details in his introduction to the special issue, he is a social scientist and found himself befuddled by the "blind reviews" he was getting for rhetorical articles in the journal. So he asked a series of folks to help him make sense of it. In fact, all of the essays in this special issue were "confessional" in tone. Admittedly, my contribution was more bold in taking the charge at its word, and mine was the only one to publish parts of rejection letters. Nevertheless, Porrovecchio's suggestion that combining personal reflection (or "confession") and theoretical argument should be avoided overlooks that this was the charge from the editor and the character of the special issue (indeed, the editor's introduction begins with the confession his fingers are nervously poised on the keyboard). And I suppose I should point out Baskerville's essay, presumably the inspiration of Porro-what's-his-name's critique, is written in a personal-reflective mode.

Regardless of the gotcha, the claims in Porrovecchio's rhetorical questions also presume the reader knows the argument that I advance in the essay. Curiously, he never sketches the argument. So, let me: My argument was that "what makes for publishable rhetorical scholarship" is not written down, but embodied and dispositional. One learns how to publish in our field by "feeling it out," so to speak, and "feeling it out" is done by working-through peer reviewer letters. I make recourse to Bordieu's notion of the habitus, and show how each blind reviewer often reviews from a habitus that cannot be explained with words alone---feelings guide the process. If pointing this out is challenging the "boundaries of disciplinary commitment," ok. Even so, my arguing that the standards of worthy scholarship are embodied and dispositional hardly constitutes a "wholesale refutation" of rhetorical studies.

So, in these first three paragraphs that critique an early essay I wrote, here's the argumentative flow: Gunn is a charlatan because he claims to do rhetoric when he does not, and because he advances already accepted positions by respected others, which he dresses up. This spellbinds readers into taking him seriously. Then, non sequitur one: He misdirected anger in print to a person who didn't deserve it, but his he is willing to engage in dialogue. Next, non sequitur two: He blends confessional with "the theoretical and critical" to mount a "wholesale refutation" of [lets go with this] the rhetorical tradition.

Is this an argument?

Porro-what's-his-name continues by answering his last question: "But to what extent can we take [Gunn's] lived experience as sufficient grounds for mounting a wholesale refutation?" He answers:

It is a refutation by way of historical revision/reclamation. Central to this retelling is demonstrating that disciplinary practice has rested on an unstable humanist foundation. As Gunn notes later in the same year, "the imagination connotes a lack of control or the absence of individual agency, which has been a fundamental concept in U.S. rhetorical theory." The path has already been detailed by other scholars. His telling is no less intricate. He traces out three paradigms in the theoretical development of imagination, noting how they coincide with developments within the disciplinary approach to rhetoric.

The movement here is rather convenient, and weird. I wish my scholarship was as programmatic here as Porrovecchio suggests. The logic of the transition is that my "confessional" evidence of the peer review experience is linked somehow to my critique of humanism. I reckon that is true, at some level, but how that is so is not clear. My problem with his writing is not so much that he is "wrong," but rather that he doesn't take the space to explain to those readers unfamiliar with my work how this is the case. My beef is that this attack has no interest in---or respect for---"the audience."

To explain: presumably, Porrovecchio is suggesting that my observations about how the peer review process is "embodied" are directly related to my arguments about how concept of "imagination" in rhetorical studies unseats a commitment to individual autonomy. With about five contorted moves I can explain how this is the case, and I confess it's an interesting point from a navel-gazing perspective, but Porrovecchio doesn't even bother to elaborate. And why? Because what Porro-what's-his-name is really intent on saying is that I'm derivative: that I piggy-back Richard Kearney is his point. Yup, I do, and say so: in my essay I use Kearney's history of the concept of the imagination and show how this history helps to make sense of rhetorical studies' grappling with he concept of "the imagination." Kearney is brilliant, and he helps us (me) make sense of some of the impasses in our own theory. I reckon the critique here is that I bring this Irish-American philosopher into rhetorical studies? Is his problem that Kearney's critical observations about philosophers are improperly applied to rhetorical theorists? That Kearney's observations should have been arrived independently by my own noggin?

The charge is rather silly. I draw on Kearney's conceptual history of the concept of the imagination to show how the notion of the imagination in rhetorical studies by-passes the category of the unconscious (a point that I don't take from Kearney---I cannot imagine the dude has ever read work in our field). My argument is simply that rhetorical studies' anxiety about the unconscious caused us to overlook the intimate relationship between "fantasy" and "ideology"; if the unconscious had been taken seriously in the 1970s, ideological criticism would have arrived much earlier than it did in "our field." Yet Porrovecchio is lodged at the level of disciplinary integrity, not the concept. He seems obsessed less with intellectual development and more with the fact that I (and others) consult thinkers "outside of the field." "The tone is, for the most part, cordial," he says. This throw-away is telling, however, because it indicates that Porro-what's-his-name is concerned with the style of argument, not so much with what I am arguing. "Gunn does not want to reduce criticism to ether interior or exterior concerns; rather, he wants to productively engage both," continues Porrovecchio. Of course, he doesn't explain what is meant by "interior" or "exterior," here---assuming that the reader of his essay is familiar with my reference and discussion of a sadly, little read essay by my friend Thomas Frentz.

At this moment Porrovecchio passes over, rather quickly, a rather massive theoretical impasse in the material in question, and the principal issue of the theoretical humanities today: what is the relationship between the individual and the collective, between the individual and structure. Cast alternately as the problem of "mediation" or the place of "articulation," this reference to the "interior" and "exterior" is a pretty big deal. That, however, is not the concern of Porrovecchio. Rather, his concern is to how my "program" to dismantle the humanist subject is somehow a betrayal of "the tradition":

The resulting program is . . . always and everywhere tied to 'the critique of the humanist subject.' That his has become a sort of Straw Man is not my point. [Again, so why mention that it is a Straw Man in passing? So that you do not have to prove it, of course.] In trying to apply Gunn's observations, however, we quickly run up against problems. If those who are criticized admit of the contingent and provisional nature of rhetoric, it would seem much of the heft in Gunn's observations disappears. If those who are criticized question the ends and aims to which Gunn's theorizing is being directed, they are then likely to be labeled as traditional (the counterpart to being called, I guess, a postmodernist). For a theoretical approach predicated on being more open and inclusive, it seems to suffer from some of the same defects it hopes to dismantle: a suspicion of (an)other viewpoint, a willingness to break down the world into rigid binaries, and language which [sic] creates divides of the sort that make merging theory and practice difficult.

Again, we are faced with some sloppy argumentation here. What "observations" of Gunn's are we to "apply?" I have many observations (e.g., I observe that people don't use their turn signals in Texas)---which does Porrovecchio have in mind? The basic argument that I advance in this essay is that the concept of the "imaginary" may be a middle concept, the place where collectivity and structure and the individual meet-up. I still believe the "imaginary," whether that of Lacan, Castoriadis, or Taylor, is a conception of social being that has a lot to offer us. But, of course, Porrovecchio is not interested in my actual argument. He wants to suggest that I dismiss "the tradition" in favor of "the postmodern." Strangely, in this essay that's precisely what I argue we should not do---and I needn't count the litany of times I've argued "postmodern" is too much used when "posthumanist" is meant.

Let's look at, again, the argument offered in Porrovecchio's summation: (1) "If those who are criticized" say that rhetoric is "contingent," then (2) the "heft" of "Gunn's observations" disappears. Ok, but: who are those criticized? And what are the observations in question? That the concept of the "imaginary" can articulate the individual and the collective? The claims ooze about on the surface, but when you go to pick them up ya can't get no traction. The second if-then follows: (1) "If those who are criticized question the ends and aims" of my thinking, then (2) "they are likely to be labeled as traditional." That is, if you do not agree with my argument, then you are a traditional fuddy-duddy. But where, exactly, do I say this? I confess my primary theoretical habit has been to show how the assumed "tradition" actually recommends poststructural observations---how the two can work together---so it's difficult for me to agree that I am othering "those who are criticized." I wish I knew who these folks were---Baskerville and Porrovecchio? The arguments are rather vague and at the level of insinuation, but when one presses for the specifics, there's nothing to pick-up.

The staggered flow of Porrovecchio's attack then jerks another way:

Gunn's more recent theoretical discussion is no more helpful. But what does it add to his project of dismantling the humanist subject? He opens his "ShitText" with a jest: "I defected from rhetoric to announce I am now a performance scholar/practitioner." Surely this is an audience specific joke . . . .

Um, it is. The essay was published in Text and Performance Quarterly. The audience of that journal often has a suspicion of the r-word---they are suspicious of rhetoricians. It's a joke making light of that fact. Yet what Porrovecchio decides to deliberately do is cite a couple of places in which I compare "shit" to "risk-taking" in scholarship and then say:

Some will posit that this is just "argument by quotation," with his comments taken out of context and bent to suit my own present needs. I must object and extend this analysis.

Is citing a series of quotations "analysis?" Or is objecting to what he is doing---citing out of context---a snide smokescreen? He tries to explain:

For a pattern of repetition, itself a stylistic category associated with a more traditional approach to rhetoric, is of value. It indicates the points which one wishes to emphasize. Granted, if this was just an isolated diversion, akin to Edwin Black's "rhetoric of flatulence" episode some years ago, I would be making more out of this than is warranted.

It isn't. [Unclear referents abound; is "it" the ShitText essay? the repetition of something? If the latter, what is that something? A theme? An argument?] Gunn puts his considerable insights---into our history as a discipline, into the nuances of psychoanalytical [sic] theory---to work in a way that suggests this sort of discussion merits considered consideration.

Ah-ha! "This sort of discussion" appears to be the "it" in question. Earlier Porrovecchio referenced tone, and so, it would appear that, again, the issue here is one of style. Porrovecchio objects less to my argument, and more to the way I like to argue. This is fine, but we have strayed from what I thought was the original argument, that I am a charlatan, and by extension, that my critique of the humanist subject is misguided. Now, it appears, it's the way I make my critique that is at issue. If we understand that Porrovecchio is conflating argumentative style and substance, his critique is easier to follow:

So I will do him the courtesy of continuing to highlight his approach [my emphasis] by way of a piece of his criticism. Most recently, Gunn seeks to "engage rhetoric" as a form of love or deceit; nothing amiss here. From Plato to Richard Weaver to Scott, scholars of rhetoric have engaged in similar discussions. He also wants to examine the substantial cheese that is Kenny Rodgers's [sic: sloppy! it's Rogers] and Dolly Parton's "Islands in the Stream." Odd. But so what? If Blair can talk/for to walls, Gunn is more than able to dissect a song . . . ."

After spending some pages on Blair's work to highlight its sophistication, here Porrovecchio collapses on to a rather flip dismissal (she talks to and speaks for walls and rocks). One would think such a crass statement is enough to sink a reputation. But perhaps this aspiring star's gamble is smarter than my horizon of optimum complexity? Nevertheless, what's is point here? Porro-what's-his-name is simply saying, "can you believe this guy is taking a pop song by Kenny and Dolly seriously?" Like, OMG!

That Porrovecchio's point is none other than "can you believe it!" is made plain by the next bit:

So it goes for several pages, a hip merger of less than revelatory observations and cutting edge theorizing. [Note: there's no attempt to explain what my argument actually is] Then what I will politely call "the downturn" occurs. Gunn boldly states that "one can argue that love is shit, or more succinctly, that love is shit. I am less concerned that this would seemingly translate into a depreciation of rhetoric and those traditionalists who ply its wares.

Of course, that's exactly what Porrovecchio is concerned with. His habit is to say he is "not" arguing something that he is arguing. This is classic Nancy Boy humor, although something tells me Porrovecchio is not that clever (or queer). Case in point:

For you see, I pause and ask myself what an undergraduate, parent, or member of the public is to make of this extension: "Shit is a reminder that there is a horrible, unsymbolizeable excess or gap in our symbolic reality---that something always eludes us." I even pause to consider what I am to make of this observation. In perhaps the most charitable reading I can provide, Gunn has argued against his own argument and done so masterfully.

Ok, so: what's my argument, Nancy? And how does my "style" contradict my argument?

If, as Gunn urges, "rhetoric traditionally conceived is fundamentally a false promise," I wonder what gains are to be had on this side of the dichotomy. If the true merit of a nontraditional approach is to be found in plumbing the depths of ourselves, in adopting "irony and the coming frame," then I simply have to ask: is he seriously kidding?!

Such a series of statements comprise a classic equivocation fallacy. In the context of the essay, by "traditionally conceived" I am referring to rhetoric as an appeal to identification. Here, however, Porrovecchio means "tradition" as that specific to "[speech] communication," two very different "traditions." And while the "rhetorical tradition" is quite clear and punctuated historically (Plato and Aristotle to Burke), what Porro-what's-his-name means by "tradition" in "the field" has still yet to be defined, described, or argued for anything other than a focus on texts, "spoken and written." Is my comment about the conception of rhetoric as identification concerned with critiquing a focus on spoken and written discourse? Of course not. The logic here is fallacious. The classic example: (1) all men are rational; (2) women are not men; (3) therefore, women are not rational. What is meant by "men" here slides between the generic and the sexed; similarly, Porrovecchio switches-out two "traditions." Is it deliberate, or sloppy? I worry the former, but hope so for his sake.

Of course, what is meant by "this side of the dichotomy" is woefully unclear: what dichotomy, exactly?

It is clear upon close reading, however, that Porrovecchio is really concerned with style---with my choice of examples, with my finding "rhetoric" in the popular, and with . . . my (scholarly) persona:

It is clear that this approach [to rhetoric? to scholarship? to what?] has resulted in a certain degree of cachet in [speech] communication. It is also clear, and this speaks to Gunn's anxieties as much as it does the general anxieties I am discussing in this essay, that he has run up against the edges of a project which attempts to merge theoretical and personal insights in novel and engaging ways. As a scholar who has "been trained to think about differences between audiences and how to adapt one's messages to address those differences," Gunn has succeeded and failed to make his case to interested and various audiences. [LOL: what does this sentence actually say?] He has dealt with both distortions and attacks regarding his own positions. Gunn has, as all scholars and critics have, contradicted his own positions, in his case reinforcing "the same liberal-humanist politics of toleration that a lot of queer theory tries to challenge and dismantle."

What are the claims of such a paragraph? (1) Gunn's approach to scholarship is "fashionable"; (2) Gunn has "run up against the edges" of merging the autobiographical and theoretical; (3) Gunn succeeds and fails; (4) Gunn is contradictory. None of these claims are supported, and two of them are meaningless (2 and 3). In the last line he cites my confession that what I argue in scholarship and what I teach in the classroom are often at odds, but that's a point I'm careful to make and discuss all sorts of places. The ends of each are (and should be) very different, depending on the purpose. The last point is especially juicy and important to probe, but Porro-what's-his name has proved time and time again is that his concern is not the issue, but rather, how the issue is deployed.

Porrovecchio concludes his attack by expressing optimism that I will "grow up":

Surely Gunn has pondered these and other issues, attempting, it would seem, to restate and revise his positions as he continues to grow as a scholar and shed his "scholarly adolescence." The reactions his work as accrued are in reference to his words, as spoken and written. At their best, both push [speech] communication forward. At their worst, they suggest the limits operative in both traditional and newer approaches to rhetoric: they are often judged by what the discourse suggests and not by what was intended.

Here, of course, Porrovecchio reveals his reading protocol: surface feeding and superficial reading. Gunn and Blair's work are to be "judged by what the discourse suggests and not by what was intended." We might alter that last bit to "what was actually written," as I hope is made clear in this epic post. The truth will out---and out it does. This is the DPS confession on a stick: "I'm gonna get choo by what your style suggests, not by what choo mean!"

Porro-what's-his-name decides at this moment to issue a warning: "Theories that try to explain too much often end up doing too little." A platitude, to be sure, followed by the observation that writing provocatively encourages "misinterpretation." His final flourish:

If the most obvious result of an attempt to dismantle the rational-autonomous humanist superstructure is a discussion of pop ditties and fecal matter, Gunn has surely proved that theory and criticism can be personally, if but that, therapeutic.

Such an "if/then" gets to pass without comment; it's nonsensical. But I feel his gist.

The final two pages of Porrovecchio are something of a tack-on, almost a throw away. It's not really worth the time to read closely, because the moves are fairly commonplace. He argues that we need to teach the history of our field and that this history should not be dismissed. His second recommendation is that we need to remember "spoken and written rhetoric" is important. He begins:

Some, myself included, are occasionally guilty of too stridently dismissing the novelties of critical and cultural studies, of postmodernism, of psychoanalytical theory.

Hmm. Who are these "some?" I think he probably has Jim Aune in mind, whom Porrovecchio thanks in the endnotes (note 55), and who wrote of my work:

I and others have remarked, perhaps too intemperately, on the conflict between rhetorical and cultural studies in communication, which has often manifested itself as a dialogue of the deaf.

But rather than join Aune in the gesture of bridging a perceived divide, Porro-what's-his-name argues:

But the same can be said of those in the other camps who would label us antiquated and out of touch. [us?] If it is a cheap shot to simply dismiss some theory as "jargon-y," then it is equally dismissive to suggest that speech is a dead term of art when it comes to rhetoric. The world is not comprised of cultural relativists on one side and autonomous rationality coveters on the other. Speaking for the side I prefer, I often find it amazing how easily a call for fluid discussion and ironic qualification is more accurately a chance to browbeat persons whose passions tilt toward the traditional.

"Browbeat?" That's a rather strong claim, but no examples are offered of such scholarly violence. Uh, um. And, yeah: what does it mean, then, when a poststructual fanboy named Josh publishes relentlessly about the import of "speech" over the past six years? It means, I fear, that a certain Mark J. Porrovecchio has not done his homework---most especially when his last point is that "Technology Has, Contrary to Popular Tales, Increased the Need for Theorists and Critics Attentive to Spoken and Written Dimensions of Rhetoric." Alas, Mr. Porrovechio apparently did not read my review essay, "Speech is Dead, Long Live Speech," in which I make a similar claim, with a little help from Walter Ong.

So, how to conclude? I'm not sure. I've spent some weeks---an hour here, an hour there---working through my response to this "attack." I'm pretty certain I'm the only person who has "read" this post in its entirety, and with good reason. The exercise in some sense is a waste of time (except for the fact that Van Morrison is on the radio now, and . . . I love to write to music that I love). The exercise is an indulgence. And this is the reason why Carole and I decided not to respond to this guy: to what end? Does a response to such an attack forward thinking? Does a response to this kind of thing really contribute to our field or our thinking about it? What "good" is to be made from responding to a poorly argued DPS?

I suppose the only "good" would be to publish a response that exposed this "binary" between "tradition" and contemporary scholarship to be a false one. Yet, this can be done by writing criticism that does just that. In other words, the best response to Porrovecchio's charges is the work he critiques itself. What good would a published response do, other than point-up that this guy is a bad arguer? And how is that worthwhile to anyone other than academics who make scholarship out of arguing what academics is or should be?

We should be in the business of critiquing the culture around us, not each other. That's what I like about rhetorical studies in communication---we're constantly directed outside. Does it really matter that we draw on whatever theoretical resources that help us to make sense of the "outside?" I suppose for some folks it matters quite a bit (we have to justify what we do to deans, after all), but . . . I think those who have endured this post would likely agree my time is better spent making sense of the world than of Porrovecchio's bad writing.

I won't do this again. Porro-what's-his-name's beef really comes down to a yearning for a cocoon, a home base, a "tradition" to call our own. Outside of institutional history, we ain't got one. Get over it. What rhetoricians do well is "read" and explain how things influence, broadly construed. From monuments to movies, we're about making sense of what escapes consciousness. I think we are pretty good at doing that. What "gang" or "club" we belong to may be important, but it's secondary to the mission. We think critically and teach others how to do this. That's our job. That's our mission.

it's synth-pop friday!

annual review letters

Music: Joe Ely: Best of (1977)

The faculty here at UT Comm Studies received our annual review letters today from our chair, Barry Brummett. Because his computer crashed, he said he was sending us a "generic" letter. Here it is:

Dear [insert your name here]

The Budget Council has met to review your file and wishes to tell you that we think you are ugly. Your mother is ugly also. We wish you would publish on more important topics, and do more of that as well. Go get some grants, doesn’t matter for what, since the Tower doesn’t really give a rip about anything but money any more. Remember that the occasional publication in the finest psych journal, or your new three book set, compareth not to placing something in the Oklahoma Panhandle Review of Communication, which after all is in the discipline. Your teaching, Oy! It could lay people out asleep at Starbucks. Your service is OK but to be frank, nobody wants to be on a committee with you. Let me know if you wish to discuss any of these matters.

I intend to file a protest. One shouldn't let these things go in her file without a response.

another textbook teaser

Music: Coil: Horse Rotovator (1986)

I have spent most of the weekend writing letters of recommendation and trying to squeak out more of the public speaking textbook. I wish I had more hours in the day to get work accomplished; my pace has slowed significantly in the last couple of years on my scholarship. I blame the various administrative speed bumps that start appearing in one's path approaching and passing through associate-hood. Anyhoo, how does one make the exciting topic of "selecting a topic" more excited? Well, you do the hokey pokey, of course!

Don't Be Cruel: Selecting a Speech Topic

Word experts tell us that the term “hokey pokey” (or “hokey cokey”) is derived from that famed magician’s incantation, “hocus pocus.” “Hokey pokey” was also slang for wax ice cream wrappers before the invention of the ice cream cone. Today, however, the hokey pokey refers primarily to a participation dance song most of us grew up with. The famed Denton, Texas polka-rock band, the Brave Combo, have made their unusual, “go-go” arrangement of the “Hokey Pokey” as staple in their live shows. The moment the dapper lead singer Carl Finch sings the first line, “you put your left foot in,” audiences go absolutely nuts, sticking their arms and legs and heads “in-and-out” as they groove to the funky beat and surrender to the imperative: “Let’s do the hokey pokey!”

At first blush, choosing a topic for a public (or semi-public) speech seems as simple as doing the hokey pokey or pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat: you just yank! Now, the truth is that choosing a topic is as simple as doing the hokey pokey on most occasions in which you are asked to speak because, like the song, you’re told pretty much what to do--and not necessarily by a person. The venue, the audience, and the purpose of your speaking often suggest, like the imperatives to “turn yourself around,” “stick you head in,” and so forth, what topic you should speak about. For example, if you were asked to speak at the funeral of a beloved friend who passed away, the situation would demand that you talk about your friend and the life she led, not what you had for breakfast that morning (even if the visage of Jesus was burned into your morning toast).

If you’re reading this chapter, however, you’ve probably been asked to determine a speech topic for the classroom situation. The hokey pokey then takes on a whole different meaning, perhaps inspiring something of an existential crisis. As Jimmy Buffet sings, what if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about? (That funeral speech of yours would certainly be different, that’s for sure.) Still, the anxiety produced by reducing the meaning of life to a children’s song is, perhaps, second only to the fear of public speaking and the anxiety of choosing topics. Unless your instructor limits your speech topic selection in some way, you’re probably wondering what to put out there or yank in. Read on, anxious speaker!

Picking a topic is not difficult as long as you are able to answer two basic questions: (1) what is the speaking situation? and (2) what topics are interesting and relevant to you? How you answer the first question will constrain and limit the answers you provide to the second. We’ve already mentioned how a funeral constrains what is appropriate to say. Similarly, if your supervisor at your job asked you to make a speech at the company picnic, your topic would need to be more light-hearted and community-minded than it would, say, if you were asked to present an annual report in a board room. Just remember this fundamental observation when choosing topics: context constrains!

____

That's all you get for this chapter!

witchypoo

Music: The Cranes: [self-titled](2008)

Responding to allegations concerning the Watergate scandal, in a live, televised question and answer session with journalists on November 17, 1973, Richard Nixon acknowledged that "People have got to know whether or not their President is a crook," and insisted, "Well, I'm not a crook. I've earned everything I've got." In the political popular imaginary, Nixon's "I am not a crook" ranks right up there with, "It's the economy stupid" and "Read my lips: no new taxes!" While I am doubtful the topic of today's blog post will endure in the political imaginary, it ranks as second only to Nixon's as the most ludicrous statement from a politician. The unlikely Tea Party-backed senatorial candidate from Delaware, Christine O'Donnell, released her first political advertisement of her bid today:

In its proper context, O'Donnell is referring to video released by Bill Maher of his famed Politically Incorrect talk show, which features her saying:

Oh boy, this makes me so giddy I can hardly contain myself. The apparently inane comments made in front of the disbelieving have now come back to challenge O'Donnell's base---the tea baggers. Let's texualize her speech for closer scrutiny:

I'm not a witch. I'm nothing you've heard. I'm you. None of us are perfect, but none of us can be happy with what we see around us. Politicians who think spending, trading favors, and back-room deals are the ways to stay in office. I'll go to Washington, and do what you'd do. I'm Christine O'Donnell, and I approve this message. I'm you.

There's much to analyze in the video itself about O'Donnell's delivery, initially dismissive, then smug (and the choice of the dark background seems odd, but it does enhance the signifier of the pearl necklace---respectability, conservatism, and so on). But what a statement to lead off your television campaign, "I'm not a witch." Initially we could suppose the intention with such as statement is twofold: (1) O'Donnell is riding the coattails of this recent video in the publicity of humor; and/or (2) her handlers are genuinely worried some voters would believe that O'Donnell could be a witch (after all, some believe Obama is from Kenya).

I would think the first intention was sound, except for the sentence that follows: "I'm nothing you’ve heard." This clearly implicates an attempt at rumor control, which negates any "fun." This means that her campaign is worried about what her core constituency, folks who identify with the "Tea Party" movement, think about Maher's leaked clip.

Let us think about this for just a minute: O'Donnell's handlers are worried that her constituency may possibly believe she is secretly a Satanist.

Last night---before I knew this "I'm not a witch" ad was about to debut---I read with great interest Matt Taibbi's Rolling Stone article, "Tea and Crackers," a scathing, hilarious, and historical look at how the Rebublichristians made this monster. It's obvious Taibbi is not from the region he criticizes (Kentucky, the "anus" of the deep south he says), and I think he is way off the mark many times. Nevertheless, his point about the contradictory stances of Tea baggers (their exceptionalism) is well taken. So, too, are the psychological theories of how this movement functions (which I've already blogged about here).

With O'Donnell's ad today, however, we can add some Adorno to the mix. In the edited collection The Stars Down to Earth, Adorno describes those attracted to newspaper horoscopes as living in a “climate of semi-erudition," which "is the fertile breeding ground for astrology. . . . The semi-erudite vaguely wants to understand and is also driven by the narcissistic wish to prove superior to the plain people but he is not in a position to carry through complicated and detached intellectual operations.” As with most conspiracy theories, appeals to one's specialness (as having a secret map to the territory, or that one is part of a select) succeed---especially when such appeals are accompanied with something to do our thinking for us. "I'm not a witch. I'm nothing you've heard. I'm you."

The rhetorical appeal is especially interesting, because O'Donnell is saying that her opponents would have her be the exotic "Other"---a term connoted by "witch," or any other manner of labels "you've heard." But then saying "I'm you" attempts to make a direct substitution: I am you, that is, I am your sense of right and wrong. O'Donnell does not say, "I represent you," or even ask the adorable question Robert Smith whined so famously, "Why can't I be you?" Nope. O'Donnell says she is you.

Frankly, from what I know about Wicca, I had much rather her be a witch. Witches are respectful of individual autonomy. To have a politician assert she is "me" is much more akin to demonic possession---and a much more troubling assertion for those of us who respect and recognize difference. To me, the assertion "I am not a witch" is quite funny from a politician. But followed by the phrase, "I am you" is the depth of terror. Happy early Halloween, Delaware peeps.

it's where's-my-shrooms? friday!

the "incident" at UT

I recognize a lot of folks are checking this blog for commentary on the events that took place here on Tuesday. A young man here at the university fired an assault rifle into the air, then entered the library, and took his own life. I have a lot to say---but things have been so crazy here I've had little time to say it. I hope to reflect on these events soon---I just have to find the time to do so. This week has been, in a word, "crazy."

Until I have a moment to really take time to reflect, I will report that I'm currently prepping my class discussion for tomorrow. I have decided to scrap what I woud have talked about on Tuesday or tomorrow in class, instead opting for an open discussion about the "incident" (as it has come to be referenced). I want to provide my students (and myself) a forum to "work-through" this in class---I'm just not sure, even at this late hour, how to do so in a responsible and ethical way. I have been reading-up on the events here in 1966 (the tower shootings) and revisiting the work done on Columbine, VA Tech, and Northern Illinois University. I sense there is an imperative to talk about what happened, and to provide a space and forum to "work through" the issues---I'm just very confused about how to frame this productively. There are so many issues that this incident of violence raises, and these issues are so far out of bounds---of my training, of the norm, of what we know how to talk about.

I'm posting this as a placeholder, then. There is a pedagological imperative here. I'm not sure what it is. We have to think hard and critically about issues of violence, of depression, of media coverage, and of existential questions that college should really be the place to address. And there is this nagging voice that we should not overreact to "the incident"---that at some remove the drama of trauma plays into a machine of spectacle that organizes affect for this or that political end. How does one provide a space for critical thinking and reflection that does not collapse onto melancholic scripts of enjoyment? I worry that even my desire to have the class engage it participates in a maudlin cultural repertoire of collective injury. Gosh, I don't know. I have to figure this out by 12:30 tomorrow. I will. I'm going to revisit the report produced by the Northern Illinois University for help. If the classroom is not THE place to discuss this with students, I don't know where it is. (Well, it's not cable news). From a historical vantage, this sort of thing is not "new"---violence erupts. But how to engage the complexity of the drama in a way that does not reduce it to a video-game, in a way that recognizes the rupture as a symptom, that is the challenge? My leaning is just to say exactly this---that I don't know exactly how to adress it, and let that be the starting point for discussion.

Crap. I have to figure out how to get to sleep; and then, I have to figure out how to teach. I recognize walking into class and teaching as I normally would is not an option--is not responsible. Oh, but how to respond?

it's synth-pop friday!

(american home shield blues) x (infinity)

Music: A Sunny Day in Glasgow: Ashes Grammar (2009)

Last I left off on my air-conditioner repair drama, Dave from Dave's Heating and Air finally---after weeks upon weeks of stalling---came by to inspect the air-handler his folks installed in June (the one leaking water into my ceiling). He hawed and hemmed, initially saying that he wanted to install another drip pan to catch the condensation. When I pointed out this really wasn't the "right" fix and that I would hire a carpenter to patch up the ceiling if he did it right, he agreed that installing a new air handler was the proper course. It was something of a Yogi Berra moment: the diagnosis and solution was the exact same thing Dave said back in June.

Meanwhile, American Home Shield's "Customer Relations Research Department" had been assigned my case.

1. Wednesday, August 25 (2:54 p.m): Evelyn called and left me a couple of messages, but school had just started and I was not home very much to return her call. Here is her message.

2. Thursday, September 9 (3:12 p.m.): For many days I tried to contact Evelyn. I left her three messages every other day beginning the next week. I never managed to catch Evelyn. Nor did she ever return my calls. I know she's playing hard to get. Here's the first message I left her.

3. Thursday, September 9 (3:20 p.m.): After failing to connect with Evelyn, I decided to check with Dave's Heating and Air to see if they had some news for me. Kim took my call, and noted she would call me back in fifteen minutes. Hard to get, yes, but with promise. Presumably, she needed to check-in with Dave for permission. Here's the call.

4. Thursday, September 9 (4:17 p.m.): Kim phones back---in her soothing tones of seduction---to report that Dave is yet to contact the AHS representative, and that I need to give him another week. You can tell she's very pleased I didn't give her a hard time; just listen to that ecstatic "ok" at the end. Here's her call.

5. Monday, September 13 (10:00 a.m.): I was having dreams of Evelyn at AHS. Her seductive voice, her recorded blessings, I just know if we made a Jesus connection I could get my air cooled, without drippage. I couldn't resist trying to catch her again. But alas, I missed her yet again. She's definitely playing hard to get. Here's the message I left her.

6. Tuesday, September 14 (8:50 a.m.): Evelyn Whittaker's voice keeps wafting through my mind's ear. She haunts me, with her promise, with her tones of comfort. I had to try her one last time. But I'm growing tired of games. Why can't folks just be honest? I decided to give her up. I know I said I'd try to catch her again, but that was a lie. I knew better. She just won't have me. Here's the message. Goodbye, dear, sweet Evelyn. We had such promise. God bless.

7. Tuesday, September 14th (9:06 p.m.): It happens on Monday I received yet another bill from AHS noting a past-due service charge $60 for Sheldon's Pride's visit way back when. Sheldon's Pride, however, was called out to "reassess" what Dave messed up, and there was not supposed to be a service charge. I called once before about this, and I was told my account was "up to date" and the bill came in error. Yet I got another bill. Knowing, in my heart of hearts, that Dave would stall as long as possible and that Evelyn was really a playa, I decided I would call about this bill and use it as an opportunity to inquire about the status of my case. After an eleven-minute wait (which was supposed to be "less than five minutes") Jill took my call. The lovely, southern-tongued Jill deduced that there was a data-entry error on my account. When she asked if there was something else she could do for me, I filled her in on my case, Evelyn, and the delay with Dave. Trying to save Jill some reading, I explained what had happened to date, adding that Dave said AHS was the one who ordered the wrong size. According to her records, however, Jill reported that Dave actually put in an order for the 1.5 air handler (not the 2.0 ton, which is the correct one). "Let me see what I can do," Jill says, "and let me get back with you." Here's the call.

8. Tuesday, September 14th (9:33 p.m.): Well, Jill must be the shit. In less than a half-hour after we spoke guess who called? That's right, Kim from Dave's Heating and Air. She phoned to set up an appointment to have my air handler replaced. It looks like my new, correct-size air handler will be installed on Friday, September 24th. That's a big day for me, because I'm seeing the Drive-By Truckers that night---if disaster strikes I'm gonna be one unhappy puppy. Here's the call.

Will Josh's five month air-conditioner drama finally end? Will Dave's Heating and Air finally do what they said they would do from the beginning? Will American Home Shield honor their contract? Stay tuned for the next, exciting episode of Thirty-Something Academic Has Domestic Dramas!

it's synth-pop friday!

the job market (for grads)

Music: Rufus Wainwright: All the Days are Nights: Songs for Lulu (2010)

The smell of anxious grads on the job market is thick in the hallways of CMA. Today my colleagues and I dispatched the first wave of what will be many recommendation letters fanning their way out across the land. I sense the mood is more hopeful among us than last year, since the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse---a.k.a. Recession---was unleashed by the Great Satan Finance Capital. This year the other horses didn't follow, and it appears many schools now have a sense of what their budgets are (except, er, here in Texas). That there seems to be a little more out there is encouraging, although I know this doesn't make any of our good folks less anxious. Ya'll hang in there.

Barry and I were comparing notes about trends we have been noticing in the job ads. As I predicted last year, the calls for generalist positions are up. A number of ads feature a pairing of unusual specialties---usually combos of qualitative and quantitative methodological approaches (e.g., "to teach courses in rhetorical and argumentation theory, was well as interpersonal communication and interviewing). This is a signature of needing one person to cover two or three specific needs because of a strapped budget. Barry pointed out that letters are no longer going to specific folks as much as they are committees, or an EEOC department, or the dean's office, and so on. We're not sure what this means. One might speculate this represents a decrease in a department's autonomy to select their faculty---that when financial times are not so good, higher ups are asserting "quality control." Don't know for sure, though.

Anyhoo, my first Rockin' Ph.D. advisee is hitting it hard this fall and has been asking me very good questions about the process. I thought I would share a bit of what we discussed in the event someone out in the hot blue yonder finds it helpful.

WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS AD MEAN? SHOULD I APPLY?

Ads are written in code, and this in large part because every word in a job ad costs the department money. That is, the codes are less devious than, well, cheap. The problem is that these "codes" differ depending who is writing the job ad. First, there are field-specific codes. In my discipline of communication studies, for example, here are some common ones: "Human Communication" often means more social scientific in orientation, while variations of "speech" signify more of a humanities orientation. "Political Communication" has come to mean something closer to political science; when you see that term, it frequently does not mean "rhetoric"---unless it's mentioned in the same breath with "social movements." It's always good to check the faculty on the department's website, which can help to pin it down. If the term "critical" is in the job ad, that signifies more a theory savvy humanities desire. If the ad mentions "film," careful if you primarily identify as "rhetoric." If the ad says "new" or "social media," that means "studies what is sexy now, and if you're dissertating about Wikipedia or Facebook, please apply." If the ad says "Communication Theory," that means social science (sorry rhetoric folks), same goes for "Interpersonal Communication." I could go on, but the best way to know if a job is something you may have a shot at, ask a faculty member who has been in the field for a while.

Second, there are administration and dean codes. The job ad that results from these folks is often mystifying, especially if the dean or person who wrote the ad is from a different field. The ad may say something like, "Such and So Department seeks a humanities scholar to teach courses in communication processes." There's just no tellin'; it's always cool to email the chair of a search or a department head to ask, "I'm writing for a more information about your position. Can you tell me what the department's vision is for this new hire?" That word, "vision," can evoke more detail. And, after all, it doesn't cost much money for someone to clarify a position in email.

Third, there are the codes to be wary of: these are "we don't know what we want" codes or "we have so many holes in our curriculum, we want a genii!" codes. For example, a colleague passed on this ad, which I promise is a real ad and not something Shaun or I made up for Spectre:

State University---Satellite City (Deadline, Oct. 30)
Assistant Professor, Communication

[Address removed for anonymity]

Ability to teach at both the undergraduate and graduate levels: new media and media convergence; journalism; public relations; research methods; communication theory; interpersonal communication; small group communication; and corporate communication.

Ok, one thing I can tell you is that all of these different specialties have a quantitative side, so this is not a rhetorician friendly ad. But even then, I could not imagine how to advise, say, a social scientist how in the world to apply (much less interview) for such a position. As the colleague said who sent this to me, "and the kitchen sink." Wow. Just wow.

Finally, there are institutional codes for religious conviction or the desired race or gender of a candidate, and these are more conspicuous. Sometimes an ad may say the position is for someone who studies African American rhetoric, or American Indian rhetoric, or queer theory, and so on. I know of stories in which someone who actually studies such things and was invited for an interview, but then was treated strangely because such areas of study really reflected a desire for a person who identified as African American or American Indian or queer. That's wrong, frankly, but it happens (this thorny issue demands a post in itself). And if an ad says "Holy Roller University is a religious institution; all faculty must make a proclamation of faith and handle a snake before employment," then you probably shouldn't apply if you are not of this faith. However, many religious institutions (e.g. Jesuit) do hire faculty without an expectation of faith (or snake handling, unless it's Hogwarts). Depends on the faith.

WHAT'S THE BEST WAY TO REQUEST LETTERS?

My Rockin' advisee asked this before he started. Everyone you ask is different in terms of what s/he expects, so asking ahead is a good policy. You know, "so, how would you like it?" Don't say it in a dirty way, though. Well . . . a-hem. In general, you want to make it as easy and "fool proof" for your letter writer as possible. Once you secure a "yes" (getting on one knee, bringing cake, or just asking nicely), I recommend the following:

• Make requests in batches of five jobs or more. Try to space the batches out in terms of deadlines. So, for example, ask for letters for the five jobs whose deadlines are in September in late August or early September; those due in October later September, and so on. In general, the daily emails of "oh, and another one" can be very difficult to keep up with for a letter writer (they are probably writing for many people, often for the same positions, so batching keeps YOU together for THEM).
• Send your letter writer two kinds of batches: a hard copy, on which all the job positions and addresses are listed, and then a follow-up electronic copy (for vice versa). On your list, write a sentence or two with the ad text explaining how you see yourself fitting the job---most especially if it's a stretch. Include any backchannel information you might know, too. For example, the ad may say nothing about the debate team, but if you know they would love the applicant to work with debate (but perhaps they were not allowed to put it in the ad), tell your letter writer.
• Provide pre-addressed envelopes to your letter writer. This step is moot if the letter writer is in another place (so don't worry about that), but if you're asking faculty at your university, go ahead and given them an addressed envelope. It saves them time. You might also stamp it too. Many universities and colleges don't pay for postage on these kinds of things---don't assume your letter writer will, either.
• Don't apply to positions for which you have no expertise. If you are a qualitative person, it would not be a good idea to apply to a job that asks for teaching the graduate level statistics class. If I am asked to write a letter for such a situation, my second sentence is usually something like, "although Dashland has no training in quantitative methods, he is a quick study and resourceful." I say that because I also have a reputation to hold up, and folks looking at applications may not respect me if I paint you too much like a round peg for their square hole.

Of course, these are general guidelines and not rules. Job ads are always coming out late with quick deadlines---and often for reasons that were beyond the control of the department (usually bureaucracy). Letter writers, in general, understand this (especially if you explain it). If possible, though, try to give letter writers many weeks before a deadline.

There's much more to say, but I see it's past my bedtime and I've a few chores to accomplish before I woo the Sandman. As the job applying season moves along, I hope to blog some more on these issues.

Before I go: there is a Communication and Media Studies Job Wiki here. Anyone can come on and update the status of hires, gossip about who is interviewing where, and so forth. I'm ambivalent about its use for many reasons, but some of you may find it helpful. The potential for misinformation, however, is medium.

Good luck, job seekers!

"his name is allen. guess where i found him?"

the anniversary

Music: Marconi Union: 13 (2009)

It's difficult to let this day pass without acknowledging the life-changing events of this day nine years ago. After a fitful night (I had trouble sleeping) I awoke today to a long-list of to-dos, most of which involved sitting in front of a computer writing, or reading. I hit "send" on the last bit of work about ten minutes ago. Yes, I realize it is Saturday night and I have been working, but when you are naughty on one night you have to "make up for it." As I was working today, however, the anniversary of the events of September 11, 2001 did come to mind frequently. Since that time I've come to refer to the totality as, simply, "Nine-eleven." That day changed my life---frankly, all of our lives.

I don’t have anything particularly poignant to say, just the nagging guilt I should say something. I went over my vita briefly just now to see how much of my scholarship concerns the events of that fateful day. Five articles. I've written five things since Nine-eleven that reference the events of that day explicitly. And while I want to hold fast to the notion that my life is not reducible to my scholarship, I also know that my thinking-aloud-in-print is one of the many ways in which I process the world around me. All of us have "moved on" and mourned whatever it is that Nine-Eleven represents, but still: for my generation, Nine-eleven is a defining moment.

Much of my formative adult life has been spent in the wake of Nine-eleven. It's a strange dividing point. I remember what traveling was like before it. I was on the job market right after it happened; 22 airplane flights right after that fateful day. Turbulence in flight before the WTC fell was something of an amusement, like a roller coaster ride. After they fell, turbulence was a terror and reason for nightmares. I used to love flying; today I loathe it.

Like life defining moments of older generations---wars, JFK's assassination---I remember exactly where I was when the news broke. Prior to Nine-eleven, the life defining public event was OJ's car chase with the police. I was home for the summer during college, and my friend Jennifer called me and we watched a split screen television broadcast: on the right was president Clinton delivering an address to the country; on the left was an aerial shot of Simpson's black Bronco.

But Nine-eleven sticks even more vividly. I was writing my dissertation. My routine was to proofread what I had written the day before while swilling coffee and watching NBC's The Today Show. I remember Matt Lauer and Katie Couric reporting the confusion above them; initially the reports were that a small hobby aircraft had crashed into one of the towers. Then things become more ominous. When the second plane hit, my friend (and frequent commentator on this blog) David Beard phoned me. We had an essay in review about "real time" news coverage, and we were talking about how everything we had said in that essay was happening on television. We watched the television, on the phone together, and . . . just watched. At times silent. Slack-jawed, to be sure.

Nine-eleven has changed so much of what is "important" and affected our lives in so many ways, and much of that is ugly. In some sense, there's no way to disarticulate Obama's election to a collective need to mourn and move on. It seems like so much of the Bush regime was tied to milking that crisis and sense of anomie for this-or-that political end. While I'm critical of the Obama presidency, at the same time, I'm very thankful for the page-turning his election represented. The recession surely sucks, the cultural political stuff could certainly be better. Upon reflection, however, today (now September 12, 2010) I'm grateful that our collective obsession has shifted from warmongering to jobs. I'm grateful that it's possible to be reflective.

I'm grateful it is permissible to be critical again.

it's synth-pop friday!

accounting for teachers

Music: Fields of the Nephilim: Revelations (1997)

To be an educator in these times requires one to navigate a certain apocalyptic mood. I don’t care who you talk to---primary, secondary, or post-secondary teachers---these days the good folks who decided to make education a career choice have had to weather waves of dire news and tidings of doom. Much of this mood can be traced to the spooks of finance capital, of course, and the way these deceitful shadows have poltergeiszed state governance. Because education is a component of the commonweal, and because the weal is not well (financially), cuts in public education funding are now widespread. This has resulted in all sorts of "bad news" for educators, from public high schools to universities.

Most of us in education know that there is a tacit understanding about teaching: because it is bodily and interpersonal, because so much of teaching occurs in that strange, ineffable space between bodies and minds and feelings, it cannot be reduced to a science. Teaching is often compared to magic, as so many "inspirational" Hollywood films attest. The labor of teaching is often invisible. The tacit, cultural agreement about teaching has thus been "measured" in terms of results: let me alone with your student and, if all goes well, she will be educated. Of course, that's not how education actually happens, but the cultural fantasy of education is nevertheless akin to magic (a very, very bad movie starring Michelle Pfeiffer comes to mind, as well as a good but troublesome one titled Precious). This fantasy flies until the economy goes south---then accountability measures come into play, and these come, almost always, from those who are not teachers. When the world is uncertain, we retreat to the solidity or certainty of the number.

To preview: doing politics means that one must intone the motto, "never waste a crisis."

Back when Adam Smith was contemplating The Wealth of Nations, and long before this well-meaning (and by most accounts a decent) chap could have ever witnessed what Marx did, "political economy" was considered a bad thing. The notion meant that civil society had been infiltrated by the political (understood as state regulation) and thus had been sullied. Today, of course, "political economy" refers to a perspective on media and culture that examines the way in which the economic, broadly construed, participates in the production of culture (or superstructure). "Political economy," in other words, no longer has a negative connotation. All of us start from the premise that economic matters are shot-through with the political---that questions of power are unavoidable. Today, political economy represents a particular perspective on cultural production keyed to economic influence (quite the 180, I reckon). We have yet to come to terms with the fact that education is similarly political.

Education has never not been "political," however, in recent times one might say the meaning of "political education" has been in negotiation. Most teachers would take the notion of "political education" as a given---that politics, broadly construed, is deeply embedded in educational policy. A cursory review of educational policy from the nineteenth century in this country reveals that politics and education are something like an Oreo cookie: the act passed in congress that established land grant institutions in the 1860s was unabashedly political and tied directly to the Civil War (it was part of an economic recovery strategy, to be sure!). Somewhere along the way both educators and the "public" alike came to position that education is an apolitical pursuit, that teachers would somehow be "transmitting" pure knowledge devoid of power. This notion is absurd, of course, but there is no denying that the ideology of "objectivity" dominates our educational fantasy in the United States; all of us who teach, from Kindergarten to the college classroom, labor under the ideal that what we present to students is in some way, fashion, or form a version of the truth.

Of course, anyone who has spent time in the classroom knows that "the truth" is not what we're teaching. We're teaching thinking, or styles of thought. We're teaching skills. Most teachers subscribe to a certain ideology of "independent thought," meaning that we are concerned with teaching students to think for themselves. Educators come from across the political spectrum, but in my experience all of us are generally concerned with the well-being of students and their ability to adopt and use the tools human beings have developed to navigate daily problems. For example: in a fifth grade classroom, a teacher is probably much more interested in having a student solve a mathematical calculation than identify what president passed a progressive reform. This is a political interest, undoubtedly: it's about empowering someone regardless of class affiliation or racial or gender affiliation. There's no doubt in my mind that teachers inflect their own cultural politics in the classroom; teachers are human beings---that's gonna happen. You cannot "hide" that---people, especially young people, are very perceptive and they'll smell out your cultural politics no matter what you do. But regardless of a given teacher's cultural politics, at the end of the day, we all aim toward engendering thinking. If Jack and Jill are reading, we've done our job.

This is to say, I think most folks who want to pursue teaching as a career are idealists. Teachers are not rewarded with money. Period. Everyone knows this. And most who teach know this (and those who don't are quickly weeded out). We see ourselves as doing an important kind of cultural work that isn't measured in terms of number or degree or money. There is a certain romanticism to teaching that entices new teachers. That romanticism involves, I think, precisely this ineffable "magic" that is not reducible to the number, to "the account."

With these assumptions in mind, I'm troubled by two trends. First, I'm troubled by the ascent of the "for-profit" university in the United States, like the University of Phoenix. The educational model of for-profit universities is that one can "purchase" an education---that you pay money and endure an online series of courses and emerge with a degree. Notwithstanding the fact that for-profit universities are actually more expensive than traditional universities (or community colleges), there is simply no way one can equate an in person, classroom experience with a virtual class or words on a screen. Learning is bodily; so much of what is "taught" in a classroom in not reducible to words (on a screen). The assumption underwriting for-profit education is that feeling, something experienced by bodies in space, is not part of the educational experience. Call me sentimental, but love, broadly construed, is part of teaching. When I think about the most transformational classroom experiences in my education, it had something to do with love, the kind of feeling of care a teacher imparts to a student that is not possible in an email message. Hell, you can blame my conviction on Ruth Bailey, my third grade teacher. She's the teacher who taught me multiplication tables in third grade, and who made me want to come to class after recess because she was going to read James and the Giant Peach aloud.

Second, I'm troubled by the ways in which politicians believe teachers should be made "accountable" economically. The inspiration of this post is a new policy that has apparently went into effect at Texas A&M University this fall. Goaded by a "conservative" group in Texas politics---and apparently with ties to state Governor Rick Perry---faculty at my neighboring university will now be judged on the basis of their economic viability. As this story details, professors at A&M will now have a "bottom line" assessment: monies professors have brought it from grants will be added to the amount of tuition revenue their teaching brings in. Their salary will be subtracted from this sum, yielding their value for the university as a corporation.

When I first read about this new measure of "accountability," I thought it was some sort of satire from The Onion. That it is true is, well, astonishing and simply hard to believe. Yet, that it is true is also cause for deep concern among those of us who have chosen education as a profession: when teaching is reduced to the number, when the idealism of teaching is evaporated into degrees, when what we do is reduced to the dollar, who will want to teach? Or rather, when "accountability" is reduced to the account, what does teaching become? In primary and secondary education, "no child left behind" has transformed education into teaching for the test. Is higher education going to become teaching for the dollar? I don't mean to be alarmist, but, such a measure of a teacher's worth at the university level seems to me, in a word, absurd.

I don't disagree with the notion of accountability, in general. But to use the measure of the dollar seems antithetical to the reason teachers become teachers in the first place.

it's synth-pop friday!