"this is college. everyone cheats."

Music: Brian Eno: Small Craft on a Milk Sea (2010)

From the moment of my second cup of coffee until about an hour and half ago I have been reading papers penned by students. I've been through about fifty-five today, five graduate papers and the rest reflection journals written by undergraduate students. The graduate students did excellent, of course, but they are in the academy for different reasons than the undergraduates, and their papers reflect those reasons.

All but one of the undergraduates turned in average to excellent projects. I am noticing, the longer I teach, the worse grammar and spelling are getting. The key problems I'm noticing in my undergraduates' writing: lack of proper punctuation, especially with the comma; not knowing that the titles of books, films, and television shows should be italicized or underlined; and plagiarism.

I've blogged quite a bit about plagiarism over the years. Plagiarism is representing the writing and ideas of others as one's own. Today, this is usually achieved by copying or cutting and pasting something from the Internet into a paper (Wikipedia is a usual culprit, as is the Internet Movie Data Base), but not indicating that one did so with a citation.

In the last few years, I've come around to the realization that a lot of plagiarism is born of ignorance. It's hard to believe, but many students do not know that cutting and pasting prose from the Internet is cheating. The rationale is aesthetic, if not epistemic. In our time, highly successful music artists, such as P-Diddy (or whatever he is calling himself these days), lift bars or whole refrains from other popular songs, slaps on a (usually inferior) lyric, and calls it an original. Girl Talk is pretty damn creative and arguably very original; Diddy signing over the Police is not. Regardless, my point is that our popular, mediated world is swirling in copying and borrowing---usually for entertainment---and I can understand why a student would struggle with issues of authorship and authenticity. The iPhone is a Droid is a Blackberry. The pressures and pleasures of Copy Culture are everywhere. And, heck, I'm dying for a new Cut Copy album too.

I've been working in recent years to address the ignorance by explicitly discussing plagiarism in my classes. I devote more than a page of my syllabus to the issue as well. The problem is simply that plagiarism has gotten pretty darn complicated---and not necessarily that students are devious. I have not resorted to teaching citational practices because, after all, I teach upper division courses and I should be able to assume students have been introduced to the issue. I am coming close to devoting an entire lecture to the issue early in my classes, however, because I'm finding, increasingly, students have not had to think through the basic, academic gesture of citation.

Although I think the growing problem (well, I want to think the growing problem) is really about ignorance, there is the nagging suspicion that the moral compass of younger generations is shifting. Recently, a scandal broke at the University of Central Florida about a 600 student, upper-division business class over cheating. As I understand it, a number of the students got a copy of an exam before it was given. Apparently, the professor was taking his exam questions from the textbook publisher, and a student accessed "stock" questions from the publisher's website and distributed them to the class. Two issues were raised regarding this scandal: (1) insofar as the teacher was claiming he wrote the exam, are the students to be faulted for thinking the practice exam they were sent, cobbled together from the publisher's website, was just a garden variety exam? They didn't speak out when the exam was distributed, so the teacher reasoned it was cheating; and (2) the current generation of students does not think cheating is immoral.

Reading about this scandal, I confess I sort-of agree with the students' arguments of self-defense. Insofar as the teacher indicated he was writing the exam, cobbling together a test from a test bank is kinda like the pot calling the kettle black. Writing good exams is hard. Writing good questions for exams is difficult business---and that's one of the reasons I don't give them often myself. I understand why many teachers look to test-writing experts to craft exam questions---but I also confess it's akin to "farming out" your teaching. To blame the students here---many of whom were probably earnest in not knowing they were getting a preview of their exam---is wrong-headed. Test-bank teaching is corporatized teaching; it's capitalism clobbering craft. That students would "game" the system is not surprising. Gaming the system is the message we're clobbered with in the mass media on a daily basis. The obvious solution here is for teachers to write their own tests. I know, the issue is more complicated than I'm representing it here, but seriously: if you are a teacher, shouldn't you write exams based on your actual lectures, not what a textbook company decides should be tested? Call me a Marxist, but I think this teacher was a bit dishonest. And dishonesty begs dishonesty, too. Had he said the textbook publisher was providing the questions for the exam, I would think differently.

The real issue here is one of cheating: are younger generations of the opinion that "this is college; everyone cheats?" One young person apparently went on record---on television---with such a statement. If this is a common sentiment, then I can say there has been a radical shift in thinking between generations. I'm not sure what to say about this attitude. It exists among some, I know, but many?

I really should have been a priest or nun (both outfits are fetching to me). I can only remember cheating once in an academic setting. I did so, along with eight others, while taking the standardized Iowa Test of Basic Skills. My AP English class was herded into the high school cafeteria to take the exam over some hours, with hundreds of other students. I remember whispering, under my breath, that I did not know the largest moon of Jupiter. Another student blurted out the answer, Ganymede (also a synth-pop band name), and all of us marked the answer. We giggled about this after the test. The test had no impact on our lives---it was diagnostic.

I don’t regret that kind of "cheating"---we were high school kids, the stakes were pretty low, and it didn't affect us one way or another. But I never cheated on an assignment. I've never plagiarized. I've never stolen candy, even. I just grew up knowing deception was, in general, wrong. Lying if a friend asks, "do I look fat in these jeans?" is one thing. Passing off someone else's idea as my own is quite another.

The digital "revolution" is making cheating easier and easier. Is it truly the case that the generation currently in college believes that cheating is "ok" to get by? I cannot believe that is the case; everyone still knows that cheating is wrong. I reckon the question is whether or not, despite knowing it's wrong, folks are starting to think it's ok to do it anyway . . . that the ends justify the means?

I worry that some students think the ends justify the means. I realize such a statement sounds silly---that it's not cynical enough. But I also have much evidence that a majority of students do NOT think this way---at least those who take my classes. Even so, if that is truly the case with students in the future, then the issue is not only one of morality and ethics, but self-conception. Subjectivity is altering, the psyche is shifting, what it is to be a "self" is changing. It may be that younger generations are no longer afflicted by "cognitive dissonance" as older generations. It may be that contradiction is the default postmodern condition, a default hastened by the multi-modal, attention-dividing channels of our mediated environment. It may be the self is fragmenting—psychoticizing, to coin a term. And if that's true, the way we teach will need to change---dramatically.

it's synth-what? friday

No embedded links today, kiddos. This one is NSFW. Knock yourself out, but, you have been warned.

homophobitik

Music: Gillian Welch: Time (The Revelator) (2001)

Reading the paper today and watching the news this evening, I am reminded of the fact that my place of employment insulates me from a lot of real world ugliness. As an academic, I'm confronted with "diversity" on a daily basis (that somewhat odious term for "folks who are different than me"). I am surrounded by the straight, folks of different genders, and even a republican or two---all of whom are supportive of one another. I do confront students regularly whose views and values are different from my own, however, the "atmosphere" of the academy---the sanctuary of school---creates a place where it is safe to disagree. I don't mean to idealize the academy or the university setting---there are problems, to be sure. I just mean to point out that I'm often befuddled by U.S. politics because, comparatively speaking, where I work on a daily basis is much more . . . rational. Things seem more sane at work. And then, I turn on the television. I found myself screaming at the television tonight.

Why? Today the Senate Armed Services Committee held hearings to discuss the Pentagon's study on repealing the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy (basically, a ban on queers serving in the military), which was released on Tuesday. The report---ordered by the White House and researched for months---concluded a repeal of the policy would have relatively "low impact" on the U.S. armed forces. The gist is simply that when folks are in war, they really don't care about the sexual orientation of the person next to them firing a weapon.

Today at the hearings top military brass pleaded with senators to act now and repeal the policy. Importantly, however, arguments from the Pentagon were strategic. Although I applaud Robert Gates and Join Chiefs PooBah Mike Mullen for calling for an end to the policy, they did not hammer home the lessons of history (viz., that this is a civil rights issue). While you and I know very well this has to do with civil rights and identity, the argument Gates and Mullen pushed forward was rather shrewd: we need to repeal DADT through congress, as this will allow the armed forces to plan and prepare for the cultural shift. If congress does not act, then the courts will. And if the courts continue to rule the way they have, the policy change will be abrupt. They argued, basically, that abrupt is bad. The argument today ultimately came down to the fact that gays are gonna serve, in the end, and it's a pragmatic matter of having congress repeal the policy and build-in time to make an adjustment (create training, etc.), or have the military abruptly have culture change over night.

I do appreciate this strategy, and no matter where a politician stands on the issue, you have to admire the technical savvy of the appeal. And by "technical savvy," I don't mean to suggest disingenuousness either: I honestly think our military leaders are worried about the transition and believe it's in the best interest of the military to transition at their own pace. Makes sense to me.

But a number of GOP senators are holding out. Today McCain made the biggest sound bites for questioning the legitimacy of the study (only 28% of those polled responded) and even questioned Mullen's legitimacy (seriously), as he did not personally talk to troops about their feelings. Although not part of the hearings today, representatives Buck McKeon (CA) and Joe "You Lie" Wilson (SC) issued a joint statement on Wednesday arguing that congress needs sufficient time to vet the Pentagon report to study its findings. They argue that ramming through the repeal during a "lame duck" session is "irresponsible."

So, the Pentagon spends almost a year studying the issue, concludes they prefer the DADT law should be lifted (and for pragmatic reasons, not identitarian ones), and certain republican politicians are making this an issue? Our top military folks were basically pleading with congress to get this over with, but McCain, McKeon, and Wilson want to draw it out?

Why?

McCain never answers the question; presumably, he is concerned that openly queer soldiers will cause undue harm to the military. And why? This is where my academic environment gets in the way; I just don't "get it"---I don't understand how certain politicians are able to make the "no brainer" into a brainer. And for what?

For what I term "spectacle politics." Often political issues are quite complicated, however, this one is not. Those GOP folks who oppose lifting the ban are signaling to certain constituencies "we oppose fags in the military." From a formal perspective, we all know this is no different than "we oppose nig**rs in the military." Who you admire or love is about as important as your skin color when bullets are flying. I'm pleased to know those most qualified to understand military operations agree with me. And I'm just flummoxed that McCain and his ilk can get away with hate politics, however indirect.

on discipleship

Music: Blonde Redhead: Penny Sparkle (2010)

I am thankful for Robert L. Scott. I am thankful that he mentored and modeled for me what it is to be a scholar as a graduate student. I am thankful he continues to advise over these years. And I'm thankful he came to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in Austin!

Thursday we had a nice, homosocial feast at my place: turkey slowly cooked in a mole-poblano; four cheese macaroni and cheese; homemade bread; fresh garden green salad; cranberries cooked in port; lemon meringue and pecan pie with cardamom ice cream. The wine and beer and bourbon flowed, and verily, we ate until we hurt. (A gallery of our Thanksgiving feast is here).

Last night Barry Brummett (also a Scott advisee) had me and a number of friends over for dinner. At some point in the evening Rod Hart asked those at the table why we were thankful for R.L. Scott. Dana said it was his showing her Cecret Lake in Alta, Utah. Barry said it was the way in which Scott modeled goodness. I said I was grateful for Scott's mentoring, and when pressed, I gave a couple of examples from my graduate school days. For example, I vividly recall an independent study together in which I worked on my first-ever publication. After a series of rejections Scott concluded that, throughout my career, I would be navigating "divided reviews" because of the things I like to study. (He was right).

At one point in the evening R.L. said that we was "proud" of his advisees because they were not his disciples. He said this, slowly, with a voice that Alan Greenspan has worked hard to copy and with a visage reminiscent of Freud. R.L. described the end of the first part of Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra, which I looked up today. It reads:

When Zarathustra had said these words he became silent, like one who has not yet said his last word; long he weighed his staff in his hand, doubtfully. At last he spoke thus, and the tone of his voice changed.

Now I go alone, my disciples. You too go now, alone. Thus I want it. Verily, I counsel you: go away from me and resist Zarathustra! And even better: be ashamed of him! Perhaps he deceived you.

The man of knowledge must not only love his enemies, he must also be able to hate his friends.

One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil. And why do you not want to pluck at my wreath?

You revere me; but what if your reverence tumbles one day? Beware lest a statue slay you.

You say you believe in Zarathustra? But what matters Zarathustra? You are my believers—but what matter all believers? You had not yet sought yourselves: and you found me. Thus do all believers; therefore all faith amounts to so little.

Now I bid you lose me and find yourselves; and only when you have all denied me will I return to you.

Verily, my brothers, with different eyes shall I then seek my lost ones; with a different love shall I then love you.

And once again you shall become my friends and the children of a single hope—and then shall I be with you the third time, that I may celebrate the great noon with you.

A gallery of our trip to the LBJ museum and Black's BBQ in Lockhart today is here.

it's dildo-pop friday!

reflections on nca

Music: Engineers: self-titled (2005)

I returned from the National Communication Association conference last Thursday morning with red eyes and bronchitis. Obligations kept me busy through the weekend (including the therapy of playing DJ), and only now have I had a chance to sit down and reflect on the conference. My thinking, in retrospect, is that I wish I wasn't sick. If I wasn't feeling under the weather, I would have been more conscientious about seeing people---but I usually felt so lousy I didn't want to leave my hotel (Parc 55).

My visit was much too brief, and I missed out on seeing my far-flung loved ones.

The conference itself seemed to run smoothly, even though I did not enter the Hilton. It was easy to fulfill my professional obligations without a program or name tag.

I have never met panhandlers more aggressive than those in San Francisco. If one went outside to wait for a shuttle, smoke, or just chat, it would be mere minutes before someone asked you for money. A politice "no" would not, however, dissuade them---they would keep on asking, or curse you out. Toward the end of my stay, when I spied a sauntering panhandler edging close, I would turn, look him or her in the eye, and say "NO!" in an aggressive manner. This seemed to work, but inside I felt guilty.

As for the conference itself, I would say it went off successfully despite the boycott. My department's party was, apparently, a real smash---as we were the only school with free booze (courtesy of a number of our full professors who paid for it out of their pockets!). My panel seemed to go well, and from what I gather, our students had a number of successful meetings and interviews with possible employers.

While not satisfied, I was very glad that NCA allowed any panel to move to an alternative location to avoid the boycotted Hilton. Folks whom I spoke with that had their panels moved said that it went "fine."

I have not heard as of yet about Legislative Assembly outcomes. I hope someone can fill us in, here.

My only complaint has to do with professional indulgence, which I suppose we could term responsibility. Let me detail them in order of disturbance:

First, if you are a leader in your department, do not appear to be drunk at professional events in which your job is to recruit people. If you want to get sloppy at the hotel bar late at night, or on the town, there's no problem with that. Just note that I heard from many people on the job that they were turned off by having to talk to drunk department representatives. I suspect this is the same for graduate students checking out programs. One would think this is common sense; I had a drink in my hand the whole evening at my department party. It was, effectively, a prop until I left the hotel with friends for a night on the town.

Did I get sloppy at NCA? Yes, yes I did. But it was with my roommate in our hotel room where we laughed and laughed until 4:00 a.m. Not a prospective job candidate or grad student within earshot.

Second, if you commit to be on a panel, it is not cool to bail out at the last minute. It is ok to bail out during the preliminary programming, I think. Many of us did not know, at the time we submitted our panels and papers, that the Hilton would be boycotted. It seems reasonable to me to pull out months before the conference. But, just not showing up at a panel when an audience is there expecting to see you is just plain tacky.

Third, if you are a "big name" scholar, that does not mean you get to speak for however long as you wish to. Ten to fifteen minutes is the average speaking time and everyone knows this. Before you go to the conference, you should read your paper aloud and time yourself. I did. I discovered my paper was two minutes too long. Guess what I did? I cut two paragraphs and read my paper again. Still too long. I made some smaller edits and tried again until I got my paper to ten minutes. Sure, it took three hours to cut and prune and practice, but when it was my turn to speak on my panel, I took my allotted time an no more. It seems to me very professional rude to speak for double your allotted time, or triple (as one of my panelists did).

These issues aside, though, and even with a cold, I did have a lovely time. My most favorite moments are those when I meet someone new who captivates me, or when I have an opportunity to finally sit down and visit with someone after months of being apart. I had meals with best friends; I got to see lots of friendly faces at the hotel bar milling about. And more than anything, I am reminded of a feeling of belonging, that I like my field and (most of) the people in it, and that we are taking care of each other.

Going to NCA reminds me of why I like being a communication studies person, and not, say, English literature scholar. A brief gallery of my NCA experience is here.

Next up: Western States. Who's goin'? Looks like I will be.

joshcast: crush

Music: The Besnard Lakes: The Besnard Lakes are the Roaring Night (2010)

Back when we were teens
the dark nights for days
and secret cigarettes
pause, record, re--
subtle seduction
hard stone, crushing to find
a nerve
a life better lit in a blooming ashtray or C90
(i never) gave it

Tracklisting:

1. yeasayer: i remember
2. boards of canada: opening the mouth
3. m83: you appearing
4. laura viers: secret someones
5. neko case: this tornado loves you
6. for against: love you
7. charlatans: and if i fall
8. not drowning, waving: willow tree
9. the besnard lakes: light up the night
10. james: five-o
11. phaser: can’t get you out of my mind
12. slowdive: crazy for you
13. hope sandoval: sets the blaze
14. mark hollis: inside looking out

You can download the cover here. As with all joshcasts, this mix is offered for preview purposes only. If you enjoy an artist, you are encouraged to purchase his, her, or their music for yourself. The joshcast is here.

on perishing

Music: Shearwater: Palo Alto (2006)

From: Joshua Gunn [mailto:slewfoot@mail.utexas.edu]
Sent: Thursday, November 18, 2010 12:49 PM
To: Production Editor
Subject: Corrections

Dear Production Editor,

I am responding to your latest query regarding my and professor _______'s essay, "Blah blah blah Colon Blah Blah," as I wrote the sentence you question us about.

You say:

I have one final, lingering question that I would like you to answer for me. In your corrections that you submitted to me for your article “"Blah blah blah Colon Blah Blah,” you made the following remark: “That is a Pink Floyd lyric, not a Jodi Dean one.” This remark was made in reference to the following sentence in the text: “As Jodi Dean (2009) suggested, in fantasies of conspiratorial surveillance like the Pink Floyd song, “Something Important is Always Hidden,” there is some “secret that must be revealed” (p.49). Could you please clarify what you would like me to change here? My copyeditor and I are both unsure as to what you are referring to. The last phrase, “secret that must be revealed,” is—according to our brief internet research—a phrase pulled from page 49 of Dean’s text which you’ve cited in your References list.  Is “Something Important is Always Hidden” the title of a Pink Floyd song? Is it a lyric from a song?

What we have here is a basic failure to understand grammar and punctuation; this failure was a consequence of someone in your office altering the original text---an over eager copyeditor, I suspect.

Here is how the sentence should read, properly punctuated and referenced:

As Jodi Dean suggests, in fantasies of conspiratorial surveillance like the Pink Floyd song, "something important is always hidden," there is some "secret that must be revealed" (Dean, 2002, 49). 

This sentence is properly written and was in the original manuscript that you received. Let me explain why this is so.

First, the phrase "As Jodi Dean suggests" indicates that the authors are about to reference something Jodi Dean suggests. Combined with the citation at the end of the sentence, the indication is actually quite overdetermined.

So, what does Dean suggest? Well, she suggests that in or within fantasies of conspiratorial surveillance hiding something important is central. Actually, we cite Dean's words directly from her book. Her words are, "something important is always hidden," and "secret that must be revealed." These phrases are taken from her book. From p. 49 in fact. We reference Dean at the end of the sentence because the quoted material is from her book. Not Roger Waters.

Now, in the previous paragraph John and I discussed a Pink Floyd song. That song is "Welcome to the Machine." In fact, we have lyrics from the song as an epigraph. 

In the sentence in question, then, the phrase "like the Pink Floyd song" references "Welcome to the Machine." And why wouldn't it? After all, the essay opens with a discussion of the Pink Floyd song titled "Welcome to the Machine."

So, when you ask what we would like you to change, it is the sentence that you question us about. We would like the sentence to appear this way:

As Jodi Dean suggests, in fantasies of conspiratorial surveillance like the Pink Floyd song, "something important is always hidden," there is some "secret that must be revealed" (Dean, 2002, 49). 

If you are uncomfortable with this sentence as originally written and submitted, you could delete the comma between "song" and "'something." Alternately, you might substitute this option, which has the same meaning:

As Jodi Dean has argued, "something important is always hidden" in fantasies of conspiratorial surveillance, some "secret . . . must be revealed," which the Pink Floyd song helps to illustrate (Dean, 2002, 49).

Someone in your office assumed "Something Important is Always Hidden" is a song title, but that assumption was and remains VERY wrong.

Frankly, the typeset manuscript you sent us was so full of errors and mistakes like this that I confess I'm very frightened about what might appear in print. 

I formally request to see the final typeset copy to save John, the editor, and me any future embarrassment. Please feel free to call me at home for further clarification: 512-666-1966.

Cordially,

Josh Gunn

it's synth-pop friday!

traveling

Music: The Orb and David Gilmour: Metallic Spheres (2010) I am a nervous traveler. I always have been, since the first time I flew to South Carolina and back in an hour-long trip as a Cub Scout (I remember a giddy childlike fascination overcoming the fantasy of crashing). Frequent flying over the past decade has produced countless magazine subscriptions but rarely a ticket worth the trouble.

I was on my first job hunt in the fall of 2001. After September 11th I flew 27 times over the following four months. That is when my nervous traveling became an aversion, the beginning of my drink-to-fly policy, and also the year when I started romancing the train. (My romance with the train is over, by the way.)

Any romance I had left since Nine-eleven in regard to flying died today (as did, perhaps, some hopes and at least one fear). E! and I arrived at the airport together, somewhat fiendishly early, and happily our flights on two different airlines were leaving from the same terminal. We vowed to meet-up after security for a little visiting before we would fly to our different destinations.

I arrive at the kiosk at American Airlines, banged in my destination city and received an odd message: "Unable to process your request at this time. Take this information ticket to an agent." There was an agent close by, so I showed her my ticket. "Are you going to Austin?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am."

"I think your flight it delayed." The zipper on the side of her red skirt was busted and held together from behind with a safety pen.

"That's not good, since I have a tight connection at LAX."

The agent led me to stand in line at ticketing. There were two people ahead of me. There was one agent at ticketing, a woman in her late sixties or early seventies with heavily dyed, short-cropped hair and glasses from the 90s with neck-chain. She was speaking with a very tall, thin African man who was not happy. There was a problem.

A ten minute problem.

When the problem became a twenty-minute problem, I decided to call AA customer service. Meanwhile, the women in front of me in line gave up and left. The man next in line said actually it was a 45 minute problem, that he had been waiting quite a while. "I can't believe there is only one agent!" I said, but with an f-word in there somewhere.

The line behind us grew to fifteen people (I counted).

I finally got to a human on customer service, who could not find my reservation. Then, she found my reservation, but noted everything appeared to be on time. She would transfer me to someone who could help.

The 20-minute/40 minute problem became a 30-minute/50-minute problem. The man experiencing the 50-minute problem was called up next. The tired women agent smiled and processed him rather quickly. On the phone, I learned the person I was transferred to could only assist with web based issues, and because I was actually at the airport she could not help me. She was sorry.

"Can you transfer me back to the first person?"

"I'm sorry, I cannot. You'll need to call reservations again, or wait for an agent at the airport. I'm so sorry Mr. Gunn. I know it's got to be frustrating."

E! has been calling and texting. "Are you coming this way? Where are you?" I call her back to say she may have to kiss the for me, as I may be delayed.

Finally, the man is in front of me is processed and it is my turn.

I move to approach the counter. The aged agent looks up briefly at me with a scowl and steely stare. Her lips are pursed and wrinkled, like opening of a brown paper bag twisted about the neck of a mediocre pinot noir Boone's Farm. She extends her index finger in front of her nose to halt my approach, and then shakes her head from side to side, as if to say "no you don't!" My jaw dropped. I have been reduced to something inhuman and unworthy of human speech, any explanation. The woman behind me in a hot pink shirt laughed as I stared at her incredulously.

The agent grabbed her purse and, without as much as a grunt, promptly left.

My flight was about to board, I had yet to go through security, I had no boarding pass, I had waited 45 minutes, there were fifteen people behind me in line, and the agent just simply left.

Hot-pink-shirted lady exclaimed in a think Austrailian accent, "unbelieveable!"

"That really did just happen," I said. "Maybe we're on a television gotcha show, like Candid Camera?

"No. fucking. way." said an Asian man at the end of the line (others in the line didn't seem to be noticing the drama unfolding).

I throw up my hands and give the Grand Hailing Sign of Distress in the direction of the check-in kiosks, hoping someone will notice me. Ok, well, really, a modified version---not the real thing. Actually, the GHSD I gave looked something like my best impression of an Italian mobster doing an upper-body interpretive dance of the phrase, "what the fuck is going on here?" An agent noticed me and began speaking to a short luggage handler, who shook her head. The noticing agent then approached a blonde-headed woman who similarly expressed negative feelings about assisting with the growing line in ticketing.

Finally, a third behind-the-counter person gestured to help me down at the self-service area. "Hmm." Clickity-click-click-clack he went with hands that had been badly burned in a former life.

"Interesting." A cherub faced co-worked leaned over his shoulder as they booth peered at a screen shielded from the customer's view. "You have been flagged and locked out of the system. Someone has a name very close to yours, it's off by one letter. The system thought you were trying to check in twice. We'll take care of it."

"Thank you," I said. "But I don't think I've ever been treated quite as rudely as your colleague did---she just left us all there, after I had been waiting 45 minutes."

I waited for the apology. It never came.

I had about seven minutes with E! before I shot down a bourbon and boarded the plane.

Now, I await the rest of my adventuresome life in the soulful, green-walled embrace of the Los Angeles airport Chili's, where I have forgone my baby-back ribs for a Cobb salad with grilled---as opposed to fried---chicken. My flight, of course, has been delayed. It smells of dried beer and Clorox; if the electricity was suddenly stolen by the Hamburgler, we would all survive the the glow of our smart phones.

And I have bronchitis.

battling the boycott blues

Music: David Gilmour and The Orb: Metallic Spheres (2010)

My professional organization, the National Communication Association, is having its annual meeting in San Francisco. It begins tomorrow. As I’ve detailed on Rosechron previously (here and here and here and here), I’m ambivalent about going. I have decided to go, as one of my rockin’ advisees is on the market and I am on a friend’s panel that I would hate to miss.

Unfortunately, however, the main conference hotel is currently under a boycott spearheaded by the city’s service worker union, Unite Here. For over a year the city’s service workers have gone without a contract (which means a settled benefits package), and so they have called for boycotting a number of hotels in San Francisco (presumably the most managerially abusive). Because they cannot picket all of these hotels at once, they are staging moving pickets.

There will be a picketing of the Hilton Union Square on Tuesday, November 16th at 4:30 p.m. with a press conference. They have invited all NCA members who wish to stand with them in solidarity to join.

Many months ago I signed a petition and pledged I would not patronize the Hilton Union Square, and I intended to keep my pledge. Of course, I have also never crossed a picket, nor do I ever intend to. My professional obligations are less important than a service worker’s right to health care and a living wage.

I have spoke with a number of colleagues and friends about the boycott. Many are troubled by the thought of going into the Hilton; they have professional obligations, but they would also like to honor the union’s request to not patronize the Hilton. What to do?

One way you can battle the boycott blues is simply to honor the boycott. Don’t go into the Hilton. Half the conference is in another hotel across the street. Conduct your business there. You’ll sleep better at night, still have a good conference, and a clear conscience.

The best way to battle the boycott blues is to avoid the Hilton.

Of course, my solution sounds rather easy. And, I confess, it is: I hold no leadership positions; none of my panels are in the Hilton; I can do without my conference program; I don’t have to see the keynote lecture. The one thing I really, really would like to see is Karlyn Kohrs Campbell receive a lifetime teaching award, which she justly deserves. I hope to see her and tell her in person how happy I am to see her honored, and to apologize for not being there “in person.”

The ease with which I can honor the boycott---and with which I can call for others to do so---is likely irritating to those who have professional obligations and feel ethically conflicted. It is easy to make arguments in the abstract, but I recognize being an ethical person may mean one has to go into the hotel. For example, members of the Legislative Assembly are meeting in the Hilton to pass policy, by-laws, and so forth. Perhaps the L.A. will take up policies that dictate what NCA should do in the event of a boycott or picket of a conference hotel? I can see how it would make sense to enter the hotel to help avoid this problem in the future.

Indeed, I can think of lots of scenarios in which folks need to enter the Hilton hotel to be ethical. Those of us who are honoring the boycott and who are calling for others to do so should not issue any summary judgments. If you must enter the Hilton, here are a number of modest things that you can do which will make a difference:

• Think critically about why you must go into the Hilton. (I’m surprised, frankly, by those who profess they just don’t give a shit.)
• Do not buy anything while in the Hilton
• Talk to others in the Hilton about how uncomfortable you are to be there.

The absolute worst thing that can happen is that no one discusses the issue. Silence is the most ethically suspect political stance one can take.

All this said, I still think it is a shame that the leaders of the National Communication Association have put its membership---for the second time in recent memory---into this rather unfortunate situation. They argued that it was too costly to move the conference elsewhere, however, I think tunnel vision (or a trained incapacity in the organizational culture) may be to blame. It seems the American Political Science Association managed to move their conference without financial hardship. So why couldn’t we? The national office admitted to knowing of the APSA story, but had ho comment. Hmm.

One of the luxuries of having tenure is that the national conference is now “optional” for me---not a requirement. I go because we have students on the market and because I would like to see my friends, most of whom are strewn widely across the United States. It’s good to see so many of them in one place---and it’s kind of like a battery recharge. I also very much like national conferences because they remind me that my academic world is not reducible to my department; I get confirmation (or disconfirmation) that my judgments about “where the field” is correct.

Still, for junior folks and graduate students, the national conference is a must. This is the contingent that the national office, I think, routinely forgets when it decides “the show must go on” because it would be too costly to change the stage. But what does it cost our younger members, in addition to the service workers who labor without guarantees?

___

ADDENDUM: The Department of Communication Studies of the University of Texas at Austin is having its annual reception in the Parc 55 "Market Room" (note: not the boycotted hotel!) from 7:00 - 9:00 p.m. on Tuesday, November 16th. Y'all come: we usually have free beer and food.

it's headed-to-san-fran friday!

hit me with those laser beams

Music: And Also the Trees: The Klaxon ()

Leah Piepgras is an intriguing artist whose paintings attempt to capture moments of ecstasy or a reckoning with such moments after-the-fact. Evocative, in some ways, of another favorite of mine---Cliff McReynolds---Piepgras is particularly good at capturing "that face," the blissed-out-slack-jaw that is both alluring and slightly funny. Most of her work is a visual reckoning with jouissance, or as Bruce Fink puts it, a snapshot in oil of getting off by any means necessary, "however clean or dirty."

I discovered Piepgras' work by accident when a friend posted a story about one of her more controversial pieces on Facebook. The accident was quite serendipitous: although I've been focused almost exclusively on the textbook, this semester I have been trying to work on my "ejaculate essay," which I decided to put on the back burner until after promotion and tenure. You see, as a new assistant professor way back when, inspired by Burke's "demonic trinity," I decided over my career I should compose three essays on human excreta: one on shit, one on piss, and one on you-know-what. The current essay takes up the latter in film, and more specifically, in non-pornographic film. Shit has been done; piss remains.

For purposes of blind review (if I can even pretend that reviewers have gone blind), I don't want to say too much about the essay here. I can discuss one of my major claims: the so-called "cum shot" is simply all over the place in mainstream film. We recognize it most readily in action film explosions, but I argue its formal function is the same: periodization of plot. In a film, the story is the basic narrative, but the plot refers to how that narrative is deployed. Periodization refers to temporality in film, and specifically how temporality is sequenced. The cum shot was not primarily introduced to show the sex and pleasure on screen were "authentic." The "meat shot" from stag film was the innovation for that signature (a close-up of penetration). Rather, the cum shot arrived at precisely the same moment when porn went narrative and feature length: the early 1970s. What was distinctive about 1972s Deep Throat, for example, was that it had (gasp) a story and it had cum shots. The cum shots helped to signify the end of a scene. In short, I argue the cum shot is a plot device; it's about the timing of plot (even if the story is absurd or practically non-existent, things at least seem to be "moving along").

What are the basics of this most peculiar "shot?" A male ejaculates on a person. Fancy stuff, I know. Over the years the "target" of the shot in the shot has varied: at first a back or stomach, then the face, and so on. Formally, what is key is that someone is symbolically effaced, hence, the well-known feminist critique of pornography (as symbolic violence). To make the argument that this plot device has traveled, I'll need to show how, for example, explosions in non-porn action films emerged over the course of the 1970s to periodize the story (violence in horror film, and so on). It's very commonplace today (every summer blockbuster works this way---story, explosion, new scene), but periodization via "money shot" was not always there. So, I've been slogging through a lot of film theory to make sure I'm not completely off base here. And I'll be sharing my idea with my film studies colleagues in December, so I'm sure they'll help me get my facts straight.

All that said, Piepgras' art really concerns a minor claim in the essay that I extend from Linda Williams' classic (one might say seminal) porn study, Hard Core (1989). Williams is careful to note that the cum shot represents a peculiar filming decision: that those who experience pleasure would want you to see it. Now, as anyone who has a penis or clitoris would know, exchanging tactile pleasure for visual pleasure is not as much fun; it is much more pleasurable to continue bodily contact until the orgasm is over or you get sore, whichever comes first. In pornography, however, men usually “pull out” of an orifice to expend ejaculate---a sacrifice of the spectacle and, unquestionably, a limit to jouissance---a little self-restraint.

Of course, it’s even worse for the sex partner who bottoms, the one who must pretend---often moaning or exclaiming "shoot your load all over me" or something similarly funny---that he or she is deriving great pleasure from having semen on his or her face; of course, if the come shot is after a doggy style coupling, the bottom doesn’t even get to see the money---he or she only gets to feel the momentary warmth followed by a quick chill in the small of his or her back.

Something, however, is changing in popular culture (and here is where I'm departing from my essay-in-progress): the "frenzy of the visible," as Williams terms it, is also to be desired. No longer a contrivance of pornography---that is, to pretend one derives physical pleasure from being the target of ejaculate---it would seem the cum shot has not only traveled to non-porn, but to the real-life sexual experiences of non-actors. Leah Piepgras' Pearl Necklace is a testament to the arrival of this new sexual verity.

Piepgras explains that this worn art (you can purchase your own for $420) "is a visual marker of chaos turned perfection through an act of beauty and lust. Pearl Necklace is a physical reminder of a fleeting moment of pleasure."

At first blush, the art could be read as a feminist critique---but for the fact that this is Piepgras' best-selling and most talked about piece. In a series of email exchanges with Leah, I asked whether the website and promotion was part of the art, or separate. Although she acknowledged the photograph of the woman wearing the art was deliberate (marking an extension of her work in the "ecstasy" paintings), it is not part of the art piece. After sharing with her the background on my project, she said:

I see the necklace as having several cultural reads competing simultaneously and want the piece to morph back and forth between beautiful object, an artifact from an intensely personal and intimate moment, a pornographic money shot. For me it is a cultural signifier (like a wedding ring) that shows mutual possession. It is a choice to wear it and to mark your-self in that way, to completely give yourself over. I am not sorry that as a woman I choose to enjoy my body and have intense shared experiences. For me making an object is an act of empowerment. It is a choice to bring something fleeting into being. This piece is my "Big Bang" on a cosmic level.

As someone who identifies with the "pro-porn" feminists that emerged from the Sex Wars of the 1980s, I can respect Piepgras' statements here, as well as her intentions. As a critic, of course, I also read most forms of artistic expression as a symptom of cultural expression---of mania in that old-skool sense that links poetics and prophecy. Historically, the cum shot is a filmic innovation designed primarily as a plot device (a sense of an ending, with nods to Frank Kermode) and secondarily as a spectacle of authenticity. In Piepgras' art, however, this innovation has become the signifier of "possession" and "surrender," giving the phrase "I wear your ring" a whole new meaning---or more accurately, the historically accurate meaning.

Perhaps the ultimate irony of this art (which, let me just confess, I appreciate as a critique) is that it bespeaks an imperative to public intimacy that Lauren Berlant has persuasively argued got its political traction with conservative agendas in the 70s and 80s. If the "sexual revolution" of the late 1960s pushed for public expressions of sexual being, we can thank the New Right for making such public pubics political (abortion, sodomy laws, and other forms of publicized privates). In one sense, Pearl Necklace announces what the wedding ring signifies in DOMA: the right of a man to his woman's body as an object, what Carole Pateman refers to as The Sexual Contract.

Of course, the artist does not intend this critique; she intends the piece to be a bold, public expression of private ecstasy. On that score, there is still much to say. For one, the necklace does herald the "sex tape" era, the new, bold exhibitionism the Intertubes have made possible. The art signifies the way in which the "home movie" has taken up a "private" filmic innovation as stylistic expression. It also is an apt condensation symbol for the way in which daily life is experienced episodically; how one's day is periodized in "scenes," and how we experience life as a "series" or "movie." In the novel, life is measured by sleep: when one takes to it, when one wakes up. We no longer reflect on living like Proust.

Well, I could go on. But I have to bring this post to an end. I need to go to bed..

it's synth-pop friday!

let's put an end to these robo-calls and attack ads!

effective political affect?

Music: David Sylvian: Dead Bees on a Cake (1999)

Tomorrow I shall vote. After all, Matt from The National called just moments ago telling me I should do so.

I'm basing most of my voting choices on a special insert the local paper ran a couple of weeks ago. There are a dizzying number of candidates, and gosh knows I will not remember them all, however, most of those I'm voting for are predictably democrats (and some independents). A straight party vote is not wise, in my opinion, because a large number of democrats in Texas might as well be republicans. Increasingly, it seems, party affiliation doesn't reflect sentiment or disposition. Except the republications. The republication party seems to be where you go if you think something you or we never had has been or is being taken away from you. The Grand Ol' Party is the party of the Stolen or Lost Object (SLO; thankfully the "W" has left the building).

Anyhoo, that I consulted the paper says something about the type of voter I am (an academic one). Even then, I sometimes feel guilty resorting to the newspaper's reduction of positions---it's a bullet-pointed approach to voting. I suspect, however, I'm not alone in this---I ain't got the time to research in any depth the positions of candidates, especially when there are so dang many of them.

Like most of you reading this, I try to avoid paying any attention to the political attack ads that fill almost all of the commercial time on local networks. Just like 2008, the spots are relentless and nasty: they tend to feature ominous drone music (or piano tinkles reminiscent of Carpenter's soundtrack for Halloween) with snide voice-overs about how such-and-so candidate would advocate burning newborns and euthanizing your grandmother. And most of these political attack ads are just plain insulting to the average voter.

I suspect most viewers know the spots are deceitful. Every election season it is reported that most viewers find the political attack ads annoying and would prefer not to see them (certainly no one I've talked to says, "yeah! the attack ads rock!"). Unfortunately, research time and time again shows that the negative ads have a powerful impact on political attitudes---otherwise, millions of dollars would not go into creating them. The reason you and I see them is because they do something, however much we doth protest.

So, we know these ads are deceitful, and yet, they influence political disposition. What gives? This post could be sung in the key of "cynical reason": we know the ads are deceitful, but they influence us anyway. How do we make sense of this? Y'all know I'm gonna say "feelings . . . whoa whoa whoa feelings . . . ." Feelings work; feelings labor. Mood motivates. And the argument is predictable: only the category of the unconscious can explain how and why these ads are effective; we don't think they are affecting us, but they are and do.

For decades political analysts and rhetorical critics have obsessed on "good reasons" and a computational model (rational choice theory) to explain the way in which electoral politics (should) function. Recently, my colleagues in the social sciences have been moving toward a consideration of affect and its influence in the political process (the emergence of the rather inexplicable "Tea Party Movement" demands it). We all know political emotion is at the center of the political process; the problem is that this stuff is very, very hard to operationalize or square with dominant approaches. Perhaps those trained in the rhetorical-critical tradition have something to offer, and I think that something is a reading of feeling---something that is difficult to reduce to the number.

Ever since George W. Bush got into office for round two, I have become increasingly interested in political rhetoric. Most of my efforts have focused on explaining the persuasion of leaders in terms of powerful emotional appeals (love and hate) rooted in desperation, fear, and a profound need. I've reductively described the basic emotional appeals of the right in terms of the motto, "they're taking your happenis away," and the left in terms of Jesuspseak, "love your neighbor." Attack ads seem to model this formula over and over. Both sides claim to "make us whole" again. Right candidates stress the invasion of the racial other (illegals) and shipping jobs to China. Left candidates have been downplaying their "love your neighbor" appeals (since that was the basic appeal of health care reform), which doesn't leave them much to work with. They can't make the castration appeal plausibly; so, from what I can tell, they're going for the character attack (such and so is in bed with special interests and so forth). No news here, really.

But there's another form of political affect at work that bypasses the emotional appeal in its very monotony. Taking cues from my buddy Thomas Rickert, I want to suggest the political attack ad works at a kind of ambient level. These ads pretty much say the same thing over and over in different ways (hell, they even use the same stock footage and actors to portray evil Hispanic gangbangers). The snide tones of voice used in the ads communicate the same emotion: hate. It's a tonal rhetoric, a kind of rhetoric of mood that depends less on claims and more on associating images with these angry or snide tones of voice.

Even if we look at a straightforward ad that makes a direct and sustained appeal (as opposed to a series of snarky one-liners), the "argument" melts away into the absurd if one thinks about it too long. For example, last week Texas governor Rick Perry unleashed one of these ads, and it has been hard to ignore. It's pretty ridiculous from a "rational choice" perspective, but it has influence:

Bill White---Perry's democratic competition, and sadly an unlikely successor---responded by saying "professional politicians like Rick Perry in the last stages of a campaign will do anything to push emotional buttons to stay in office." White is right: this is an emotional appeal if you ignore what the widow said and listen to the piano soundtrack, a mournful and sentimental melody that signifies loss. If one focuses on the claim, that Bill White's failure to veto a "sanctuary bill" was responsible for the murder of her husband, you have to sort-of scratch your head. From the ad alone the claim just doesn't make sense: White killed her husband because he supported a bill that let illegal aliens stay in Texas? The implication, of course, is that them aliens are violent . . . it evokes the whole Arizona thing. It's painfully obvious, and I don't want to insult your intelligence by saying so, but the persuasive labor here is affective and racial.

So: these ads do not work at the level of claim. They're laboring on us in some other way---at the liminal locus of mood.

Enter John Protevi. My former colleague at LSU has recently published a book titled Political Affect, which I think helps to clear some ground for thinking about the political in the academy. His argument is complex, but the gist is that the subject is a middle-place between the biological and the cultural---a knot, if you will. He is doing very exciting work that links cognitive neurobiology and continental philosophy in a way that breaks ranks and that makes a lot of sense of things in our political life. Drawing from "real life" examples, Protevi argues that our bodies respond to messages in ways that are largely unconscious. John is one of the few folks who work with and from Deleuze's thinking in a way that doesn't collapse onto a posture (like Massumi, he extends or riffs from Deleuze, he doesn't slap the theory on to something and then say, "there!"). Or rather, he's trying to think through something we might term a tonal political posture: human bodies and brains have evolved into a sort-of open code that can be structured by the symbolic; we cannot explain the federal government's response to Katrina in terms of good reasons or rational arguments. We have to explain the sluggish response in terms of fear, in bodily dispositions that gravitate toward ready-made, social scripts that predispose behavior. Human nature has evolved to be so radically open to tinkering from the symbolic that this tinkering happens to us often unawares. It's Althusser meets Damasio, I reckon.

Political attack ads have nothing to do with rational choice or argument; this is a fact seemingly known by everyone, but pundits still talk about them as if this is where they operate, or should be operating. Texas dems have "cried foul" over Perry's ad, saying it's outrageous, but the premise of their outrage is that political ads must adhere to reasoned argument (ironically, journalists take this outrage seriously). In attack ads, the rhetorical work is done in tone, and the effect is mood. The rhetorical news, which is not really news (cue Aristotle), is that contemporary politics is about evoking mood and then supplying the words to name the mood. Therein is the persuasive labor. As Stuart Hall observed decades ago, all politics is a game of signification: evoke the feeling, then supply the name for that feeling.

Preachers, of course, have been doing this for centuries (and Kierkregaard explains in The Sickness Unto Death). The altar call or "come to Jesus" moment is the one in which the preacher identifies the pain in your heart as the absence of deity. The pain we all feel as human beings---that sense of loss we all feel as a consequence of the human condition---usually inchoate, is given a label. In this sense, religious conversion is the "caption point" at which a fantasy ("Jesus saves") attaches to a feeling and one experiences a certain sense of relief. Such is politics, especially as it has become more and more Hebraic in recent years (at the expense, of course, of Hellenic modes of deliberation). Obama is a deliberative Helene, to be sure. And in this election cycle, it's not good to be Greek.

The trick of postmodern politics is that it relies on a common assumption, that there are convictions, but convictions are not really at stake. The common assumption is that folks have a position and belief, and the politicians figure out what that belief is, and then feed it back to voters. We call this "pandering." What I'm suggesting, and what Hall termed the "politics of signification," is that an otherwise inchoate feeling is given a label, and the pleasure of having someone come up with a label for it creates assent. Feelings of losing something (or having something taken from you, which is literally the case for the jobless) are given focus by blaming the illegal immigrant. But this politics is not conscious; it works subterfuge, at a level that feels but does not necessarily make it's way to, "oh, yeah, Bill White killed this woman's husband." Ambiently, the ominous tones cue ancient hatreds as we fold the laundry or make dinner.

I recognize what I am saying is probably painfully obvious. After all, I'm just taking the arguments of others, which are more-or-less accepted, and putting on a personal touch or two. Same as it ever was, I guess. But I'm also reminded of Joyce's introduction of Bloom in Ulysses. He's taking a shit in an outhouse and reading the newspaper (given Ireland's harmonious political history, one can imagine the kinds of headlines Leo-Pee was reading). Joyce was commenting upon the literary process as one of recycling and digesting, another way of saying there's nothing new . . . . But feelings are different. Each affective tinge is experienced anew, with a sense of presence and the present. This is why each election seems novel. Voting, as Zizek has observed, is one of those true moments of contingency and radical possibility, too. Which is why, when there is political change, it is felt first. The words and names come after as we "work-through."

overdoing it (with a smile)

Music: KUT's "Twine Time" with Paul Ray

This year's Halloween costume party may be the best ever. Mike and Ashley and Rob Mack (no relation) hosted this year in their new rental, which I think has to have one of the best layouts for a party: a massive backyard deck, a formal living room (perfect for the dance floor), and lots of mingling places scattered between.

The Mack Attack dreamed up the party theme ("Revise and Resubmit") and the decoration theme ("haunted academic conference"), and let me just say that "creative" is an understatement. These two staged the best party décor I have ever seen. I think they should do party consulting or something and make some money!

The party theme, "revise and resubmit," was announced in a funny letter from an editor outlining the details. Basically, participation in the costume contest required one's costume to "change" over the course of the evening. Now, Austin pollution includes some "creativity" toxins, so I expected folks to go nuts with this---and many did. For example, Ashlyn arrived as "West 6th," which I didn't get. But over the course of the evening she became "Dirty 6th," and then her costume made sense: she arrived at the party as someone who hangs out on West 6th street---which is more upscale, older, and where you go to avoid undergraduates vomiting in the street. East 6th (apparently known as "Dirty Sixth"), is our equivalent to Bourbon street and most of us avoid it. It was pretty hilarious. Hester Prynne to Demi Moore, Village Person sailor to Village Person construction worker, Karen to Sonya Foss, ideal ego to ego ideal, water to wine, Donnie Darko to the Unibomber, this costume party had just about all the double-your-pleasure costuming you could handle without an adult beverage.

As one approached the front door, she was greeted with a poster adverting the "96th Annual Haunted Conference" and the registration table. There partygoers were to pick up a lanyard name-tag, writing the before and after costumes on front and back. As you entered the house, you moved through the dance floor area to the "poster session" area, where one could read up on "The Influence of Lunar Cycles on Competition in Werewolf Packs." Just beyond it was a deadly panel session that had apparently been going on forever; one of the living dead panelists was giving a PowerPoint presentation on "Graveyard Talk." The kitchen on the right had been transformed into a black-light lit tomb of rejected manuscript letters. The back den was transformed into a "Grad Fair," festooned with the "heads" of chairs (literal heads belonging to, for example, "Dr. Dusty N. Krumblin"). Next to that was the "conference bar," which was oddly beautiful in a "Kubrick-film sort of way," as Bryan remarked.

The back and deck area was transformed into a "camp" environment with film screenings. On continual rotation throughout the evening the Macks screened Sleepaway Camp (and sequels). There was a campfire and fixins for smores!

The shear genius of the transformation of the house into the kind of party environment one only sees in Hollywood films needs to be documented, which is what I've tried to do! I cannot really do the party "scene" justice in this space; ya just had to be there. This is going to be the party to beat for years to come. With a debut like this, the Macks are going to have to really work hard to top it next year. Fortunately, they have a year to scheme!

I managed to capture almost all of the costumes this year. In fact, I managed to capture a little more than I had expected---and I've deleted those to protect the wicked. Here's the gallery!.

it's halloweeny-costume-dance-party friday!

ooooh . . . dance party tomorrow!

Miami Horror - Moon Theory from AMVI on Vimeo.

treat's in da house . . . an' dance party is a-comin'