it's soft pop friday.

sugarloafing

Music: Gillian Welch: The Harrow & the Harvest (2011)

Many months ago a couple of colleagues in my field invited me to join them, and a few others, for a week-long "writing retreat" in Maine. I had always wanted to do something like a writing retreat, threatening for some years to hole-up in Montana for a couple of weeks for bouts of hiking and writing; I leapt at the opportunity, which included super-cheap lodging in a house at the foot of Sugarloaf Mountain. Many summers ago I spent a week in Maine with my friend Eric (I went for a wedding, but stayed for the glorious company and weather). I've always wanted to get back to Maine. When I make my millions, I will either buy a summer home in Maine or Colorado. I've not quite yet decided, but, I have some time.

Initially I was somewhat worried because I was not super-intimate with the assembled Sugarloafers, most of whom were Iowa grads and shared a certain, distinguished advisor. I knew three of them mostly by their published scholarship, except for L., whom I've hung out with more frequently since moving to Texas. But this worry was unfounded; the leaders assembled a group that worked very well together (and even better, who cooked well together!) I think it's fair to say everyone had a marvelous time, and managed to be quite productive as well. I managed to bang out a new article, which I sent off this morning for blind review. Others worked through publications; one of us sent a manuscript while we were still there; and another completed an invited essay.

Most of us arrived a week ago Friday, and we departed last Friday (and as I've detailed, getting home was quite a challenge). On the second day we discovered a local business titled the "Antigravity Complex," apparently an indoor skate park and trampoline center. We decided to dub ourselves the "Antigravity Complex Kids" (every working group needs a band name) for fun; the name stuck. We didn't have Internet access, but my iPhone worked, and so I had fun "checking in" at our camp and posting random photos of our working adventures.

Within the first day a working pattern just sort of emerged. Most folks awoke at nine or ten in the morning. We ate breakfast (bagels or cereal) and talked, drank coffee. By 10:30 or 11 folks scattered around the rented house with their articles, books, and laptops. We would work, and then around noon or one someone would start to make lunch, and everyone would come to a stop, and we'd eat and talk. Work would then commence again in the early afternoon until around three or four. Some of us would break for a walk; others would take to the deck to smoke. Some afternoons we went for a group walk, or to a beach at a local lake, or the store to score some cooking provisions.

Overall, it was a very relaxed environment. In the evenings, we would gather on the couches to talk. Some of us shared our work in progress; others talked through the challenges of the arguments we were making. I know that on at least two evenings talking with the group I had "breakthroughs" and stole more than a few good ideas from my colleagues for my writing the next day. We also played some board games, played some pool, even got a bit goofy on a night or two.

What I especially liked about this "working" environment was, well, was that we got to play. But also I every much appreciated the sense of intellectual equality. All of us were at different stages of our careers (I was the oldest and the only tenured one there), but it never felt like intellectually we were not all on the same plane. The discussions we had were smart, but collaborative. It's one of the few academic-related environments in which I wasn't made to feel like I had to perform (or like I was stupid---something those intense boutique preconferences and so on sometimes inspires). You know, like at a conference or even a week-long, sponsored workshop, one could feel like she is put on the spot, or had to "be smart," or whatever. But in this environment, hand-selected, it was just comfortable just to say what came to mind aloud, however half-baked. I couldn't have asked for a more collaborative and collegial environment for thinking about scholarship. And hiking.

As an academic, one often has to face a disheartening reality: you work all the time. Even with a family, while the baby is sleeping in the next room, a scholar is often in the study with her nose in a book or at the keyboard. This is the life we've chosen. So why not "the working vacation?" Really, the writing retreat idea is among the best I think I've come across. And I would recommend it, highly: assemble a group of people you think you would work well with---or a bunch of friends from grad school, or both---rent a house somewhere comfortable, and spend a week or two banging out a project or two. Sure, it costs money. But I can tell you nothing is more satisfying than hiking the Appalachian Trail on the last day before you go home, knowing you've written a good dozen pages or two of pretty decent material.

Listen to me colleagues: you really need to do this, for your sanity and productivity. I'm already scheming about next summer: I want to make good on that Montana getaway I've been thinking of for a few years. If I can financially swing it (which means I need to work a summer class), this should be an annual affair. A gallery of our amazing writing retreat is here. I only wish everyone I adore in "the field" could have come with us. My sincere gratitude to Leslie and Erin for roping me in this summer!

people are people, or, turning it off

Music: Ascii.Disko: Black Orchid: From Airlines to Lifelines (2011)

Much of what I know about humanity I learned living clichés like clothes and reading Sartre. Which is to say, much of what I have learned about people I have learned passing time in airports.

Returning from a relaxing and productive writing retreat with friends at the foot of Sugarloaf Mountain last Friday proved challenging. I want to write about that week soon, about how working in the woods away from home was a welcome release, about how group living is a refreshing respite, about the challenge of a mannered non-bachelordom and shared laundry. But the memories of Friday have screened that pleasant sun, and I want to return to the glare and forget Friday, and the only way to clarity is through, to speak of the clouds. Over the course of twenty-four hours, in the fragile framing of physical exhaustion, one may be deluded enough to think he has insights---self-important insights, perhaps, but glimpses into the failures of composure and human dignity.

As a victim of flight cancellation, I'm one of millions. That plight is not important and downright mundane. But when you're stranded in an airport, your senses of vulnerability are amplified; you notice things you would otherwise not notice.

As I was traveling, the senseless massacre in Oslo was reported on soundless television screens in the airport; I could only piece together what was happening by reading status updates on my Facebook iPhone application. What postmodern plight is this, that a cancelled flight would distress when something much more grave challenged the stability of what we knew as a momentary human decency?

In the thick and humid dark of early morning, after ten hours of anticipatory waiting, my friend L. thought to give our hotel room to a couple with a child. In that gesture, one that cut-through my weary selfishness, I stifled an impulse to cry, both from the guilt of my self-importance and in awe of the sacrificial gesture.

My friend L., who invited me to join the retreat, drove us back to the Portland airport from the Carrabassett Valley to catch a 2:20 p.m. flight into Dulles International Airport last Friday. We arrived at 3:30 p.m., and had a connecting flight to Austin at 7:30 p.m. We shared stories over the delights of airport food as L. texted humorous jabs with her husband in Waco, anxious to reunite with him after a week away in the boonies.

Large, LCD screens reported that our flight had been delayed to 7:40 p.m. Then 8:00 p.m. Later, finally seated in white faux-leather seats yellowed and browned by innumerable butts over decades, an attendant with thick, long grey-once-black hair announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry to report there is a mechanical failure and flight [whatever-it-was] will be delayed. The pilot has refused to fly the plane."

L. and looked at each other startled. Others murmured. "I've never heard of a pilot refusing a plane," said a visibly retired and wealthy businessman.

Minutes later the attendant clarified that the airplane's air-conditioner had failed, and that the pilot was concerned for the comfort of the passengers. The District of Columbia was experiencing one of the worst heatwaves in decades. The airport was sweltering and (disgustingly) humid from the perspiration of traveling bodies; the dated airport air conditioners simply couldn't keep pace with the pace of the postmodern traveler. "United will make a decision whether to cancel the flight at 9:00 p.m.," reported the attendant. "That's all I know at the moment."

Nine came and went; at fifteen minutes past the hour, in a sea of nervous faces, the attendant answered a telephone call at the gate podium. She was visibly nervous; she seemed to be thinking about what to say, as if the news she was about to report was unscripted. "Ladies and gentleman," she said, "the service crew is still working on the air-conditioner. United has decided to push-back any decision on this flight until 9:30." There were audible groans of disappointment. Wearied travelers jostled. A ten-year-old ginger-boy played his Nintendo DS unphased; his nearly identically freckled father, twenty years his senior, looked forward stone-faced. A 37-year old woman who had been traveling through Prague offered her "plug" to help recharge my iPhone, which was dying (I took advantage). A middle-aged man with a bright orange UVA t-shirt offered to get his two, pre-teen daughters sandwiches from Starbucks. My friend L. talked to a businessman; she revealed she and I were professors of communication, and he inquired further about what that meant, exactly (I ignored the trial of definition and ensuing discussion). And there we sat.

"Ladies and gentleman," said the attendant over the loudspeaker at 9:40 p.m., "I have good news and I have bad news. The bad news is that the air-conditioner is irreparable at this time. The good news is that United has secured another plane for this flight." Travelers were both visibly annoyed and encouraged. "Unfortunately, the new plane for this flight doesn't get in until 11:30 p.m.," she said. There were more groans. "At your convenience, please move one gate over, to D8. We should be boarding around 11:45 p.m. The new time of arrival in Austin is 1:40 a.m."

I urged L. to the "pub" down the concourse for a drink. To my chagrin, the pub closed at 10:00 p.m., but I managed to get an order in before it closed. L. was a good girl and didn't have a drink. She had purchased a Cosmopolitan magazine, portions of which we read to each other, in dramatic style, to entertain ourselves. The shear stupidity of the magazine's "tips" and "confessions" was beyond what I ever imagined "pulp" to consist of these days: one "don't" of bedroom etiquette is that you should not bite the head of your man's penis during fellatio, although it is perfectly acceptable to play with his nipples. Also, a young man confessed he didn't "get any" on a date because he rolled off of a bed during foreplay. Hrm.

The masses tried to assemble at D8, but the gate was small for the number of passengers on the plane, and L. and I ended up across the concourse, at another gate, next to an ever-growing line at a United customer service post. L. and I were sitting on the floor. "Are you in line?" asked a man. "No," I said, "I'm just waiting for my flight." After two more people asked me this question, I moved further down the concourse. The line at the customer service post kept growing, the questions as to my sitting intentions kept coming, and eventually I abandoned my post to standing so as not to be bothered.

Sitting on the floor across from our gate, L. helped another woman working on a word-puzzle in a magazine. I heard the attendant making an announcement at the gate, so walked over to hear, leaving my backpack with L., weaving through the huddled masses.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have some bad news," she said. I noticed her face. It was visibly unnerved. She paused with a knowing dread, like a character in a Lovecraft short story, only with a scarf around her neck instead of starched, frilly collar. "United has cancelled this flight." It was midnight. A man screamed loudly, "What the hell??!!"

"I'm sorry. When I went down to the plane, everything was still a go. This news is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you," she pleaded. She looked visibly pained. "What kind of customer service is this?" screamed a man. "Dammit!" yelped another man. "I'm sorry, but I don't know why this has happened," said the attendant. "I'm just as surprised as you. United will issue you all a voucher for a hotel," she said. "But you need to go to customer service at C20. They will have your information there. Do not go the service post across from this gate."

I watched the attendant. I won't say that her face registered fear, but it did appear she was pained to report the news. She was weary, her long gray hair now frizzy with a swatch sticking to her forehead, glued by sweat. And in that moment, seeing her face, I felt a smidgeon of compassion. There was just nothing that she could do, and she wanted to do something, but there she was, in an impossible situation, and she knew it, and she wanted to avoid what could become---one could feel it---what could become a riot. I knew, like she did, that a riot was not likely, but we could feel the anger in the air. I felt a bit like I was it a situation comedy; I would have laughed if I had a second change of clothes in my backpack (I only had one change, and I already took advantage). The assembled slowly got up and ambled south on the concourse, toward C20, past the long row of glass brinks that refracted series of neon stripes in the color of a rainbow. "If you go to the customer service here, you'll just be turned away. Please go to C20."

Without any sense of haste I moved back to L. across the way, still working with a woman on her word puzzle, sitting on the floor. "United has cancelled our flight," I said. "We're supposed to go to the customer service at C20." L. and the now friend-stranger were nonplussed. "What?" L. exclaimed. "Yeah, it's cancelled. We gotta go," I said.

We made our way to C-20; the line at customer service stretched down the concourse for at least two football fields. The shear length of the line was surreal; at least fifty-feet of the line consisted of a youth sports-team wearing yellow uniforms. Three customer service representatives were perched at computers, and there were at least two-hundred people waiting in the line before our plane-load joined the circus. "Look," I said to L. "The line back at D8 is a fraction, I'm going there." We decided we would each wait at both lines, pretending to be a couple. After I returned back down the concourse to the other customer service line, L. phoned me and we exchanged our confirmation numbers. While we waited, armed with my booking confirmation number L. managed to rebook both of us on a flight out the next day (or rather, that morning) at 9:00 a.m. on the phone. The only task, now nearing 1:00 a.m., was to secure someplace to sleep that night. The only way was a "voucher" for a hotel, and that required an interface with a United representative. "If you get to a person before I do," said L., "be sure to get us two separate rooms." The fact is that L. and I are friends and not a couple; we are both light sleepers, and I snore like a banshee. Strategically, however, we needed to pretend we were a couple to get through this.

An hour and a half passes, and I finally reach the customer service counter. United agents were pulling people from the customer service lines to gates in close proximity, and issuing vouchers there. I was pulled across the concourse to a gate by a middle-aged woman of Asian descent. Her English was poor, and we had some difficulty communicating. After a few minutes she issued me a voucher for a hotel room. I stated I needed two, another for my partner.

"Why you need two?" she asked.

"Because I snore," I said. The actual reason was because L. was waiting in a different line way down the concourse. But I did have her confirmation number.

After some minutes, the woman said, "she was not on your flight." She insinuated I was trying to get a free room voucher.

"No, she was on the flight," I said. I supplied the confirmation number again.

What happened next was astonishing. The representative went "blank"---she just shut off. It's almost as if I could see a switch flip in her head: she was no longer concerned with helping, she just wanted to be rid of me and, apparently, my deceit. It was 1:15 a.m. "I'm sorry, your partner is not in the system. There's nothing I can do," she said. "Maybe they can pull her up at customer service."

"But you pulled me out of that line," I said. "At least you can put me back in the front of the line you pulled me from?"

"No, I can't," she said curtly.

"M'am. I waited in that line for an hour and a half, and now you're telling me you cannot pull up my partner's information on the computer. I don't think it is fair to make me go through another hour in the line again. Can't you direct me to the front of the line?"

Angrily, with a huff, she grabbed my arm and escorted me across the concourse to the front of the line. Within ten minutes I had a new agent, and within five minutes from that L. was by my side, with her boarding pass. The agent was entertained by the confusion, it seemed, and I won't go into details as I've blogged enough. Basically we had to tell the amused agent that we wanted to go, since we would miss the hotel shuttle if she didn't let us go. Apparently when we were rebooked for a new flight we were erased from the system in a way that prevented our getting a voucher for the hotel. The short story is that I was issued the very last hotel voucher (at least seventy people behind us stranded and resigned to sleeping in the airport). We arrived at our room at 3:00 a.m., I slept on the couch and L. in the bed (if you can call it sleeping---neither of us did anything more than shut our eyes for couple of restless hours). On our way L. wanted to give our voucher to a couple with an infant who were stranded. That didn’t work out.

Obviously, we managed to make it back to Texas on Saturday.

What I cannot forget about this (all too common) ordeal was the way in which the first woman to help me shut down, and how this compared with the attendant that announced the flight cancellation. The woman who announced the flight cancellation was visibly pained; you could hear it in her voice, you could see it in her face. She felt terrible. But the woman who helped me, she felt nothing like empathy. She was cold. She had managed to find that place of indifference and shot up a wall of steely fortitude. I remember saying, in response to this perceived way, "M'am, I'll hug you if you help me, and I give great hugs." I laughed at saying it, but she was not amused. She was like stone.

In retrospect, I recognize my feelings were exacerbated by exhaustion; it's pretty incredible how existential a dramatic reading of Cosmo in an airport pub can feel when you are going on very little sleep. Still, it's also amazing how some United customer service representatives can become so callous and unyielding . . . one can only imagine it is a defense borne of years of mismanagement, of terrible service, of ugly and angry travelers. Since dedicating myself to the academic lifestyle, I've traveled frequently; never have I had such an unpleasant experience, nor met airline representatives so unyielding and rude. Last Friday/Saturday was, unquestionably, the worst travel experience of my life.

But as L. pointed out, on many occasions, there is cause for hope. Despite the ugliness of some travelers and airline representatives, we came across some amazingly good natured people. Rog, a medical student, was down right giddy about his two-hour stay in a five star hotel, which he gushed about at breakfast. The people in line with L. were friendly and helped her pass the time. A woman from Nigeria, who now worked with the VFA in Indianapolis, told me stories about unbearable turbulence on the descent into DC. A man waiting in line with us from the National Guard told us stories about training exercises in triple-digit heat. To be sure, being stranded in Dulles was a miserable experience; but L. pressed me to think about the good of people in all of this, that they pressed through optimistically, that given the choice between anger and resigned slap-happy, most people chose the latter.

I want to think that when given the choice of tragedy or comedy, most of us choose the latter. I want to, at least, no matter how I feel.

it's train-wreck monday!

it's synth-pop friday!

dog story

Music: Peter Gabriel: self-titled (1977)

On difficult days like these, I look forward to coming home to my dog. His name is Jesús. When I rescued him from death row, his name was Paco. That name just wasn't right. Jesús suits him much better, and he answers to it.

Jesús is a twelve pound toy Xoloitzcuintli or "Xolo" (pronounced "show-low"), a native breed of Mexico. The breed is dubbed "primitive," which is just dog-world speak for "older than most." Folks here find him unique, however, his breed is not that rare the further south in the Americas you go. (Most sightings of the chupacabra are actually of Xolos.) How I ended up with him, like many strange and novel things in life, orbits a "break-up."

Of course.

Until three years ago, I didn't understand the human-dog bond; I didn't know how it worked. I've grown up with dogs, most of whom bit me (little, yappy dogs); I still have a scar on my face from a Scottish Terrier, and I remember a Doodle bite, and a dashound named Luke getting run-over when I was five (he also bit me). I liked the dogs my folks had when I was a kid, but I was always allergic to them. Whenever I played with the dogs, I was overcome with allergies. This reaction probably stood in the way of the true bond.

But then came Jesús.

I've been doing purebred rescue for Devonshire Rexes and Sphynx cats for almost ten years---the supposedly "hypoallergenic cats." I adopted one of each when I was in graduate school because they didn't set off my allergies and writing a dissertation is lonely business. I eventually got involved with rescue (at the request of a friend/breeder), and so . . . there you are. When I was in a relationship with someone I loved very much, we were having troubles, and I was asked by a rescue agency if I could foster this hairless dog, and I did, and the girlfriend fell in love with the dog, and . . . the story sort of tells itself. (I mean, at least we didn't make a baby, right?) We broke up a few months after I adopted Jesús. Of course we did. And she was really the primary caretaker or at least the main lover of the beast, and now here I was, single with this "teenager" dog whom had been abused and was not housebroken. (To this day, if you take off a belt he cowers and shakes.)

Our first seven months together---the man and the dog---were rough. Jesús had a number issues. He had a back-door accident on the couch, which led to a $400 cushion replacement. He really liked to chew up my night guards (I'm a grinder), and we went through three (also $400 a piece). He barked incessantly. One night when playing on the bed, he literally peed in my face. I bought a $200 package of dog obedience training sessions, so that I could teach him not to jump up on people. After the third session---the one in which the trainers said, "small dogs are harder"---the one in which I came home almost in tears, I gave up on the training (it's my fault---my not having the patience to train and doing things wrong, but all the other dogs were responding to training; I had the punk one.) The point is, having Jesús was becoming something of a full time job, in addition to my own, er, full time job.

A love affair with this dog I did not have. In fact, I started to think about adopting him out to someone with more patience and skill. I spent thousands of dollars repairing what he had destroyed. And he seemed constantly frightened of me.

But as he aged, he mellowed. So did I.

The bond happened on February 14th, 2008. I had a very bad day at the office. My boss had just relayed the news that, for a third year in a row, I was going to be passed over for a promotion for reasons political and not in our control. I was, to say the least, heartbroken and confused and upset. It's one of those days in which you don't remember how you got home---I'm sure I drove, I'm sure I was responsible, I just don’t remember the moments between leaving work and arriving at my house. I'm sure I poured a stiff one when I entered the door, and I don't remember the dog greeting me. My self-pitying was singular in its determination.

I plopped on the couch and just laid myself out. I remember letting out an angry howl, and then starting to cry. Not a Hollywood cry, not some operatic expression of over-the-top grief, just a trickle of natural emotion, all the while recognizing that I needed to do it, that crying was a good thing, that the catharsis was the very thing called for, in that moment. Let it out; recover. Move-on. But let it out I must.

So I'm there on the couch (new cushion and all), my head resting on the arm. Here comes Jesús. He hopped up and walked on me, and I remember for an instant thinking this little guy was the last thing I needed (I'm sure he has a pile of poop in the house waiting for me to pick up). He crawled on my chest; I was on my back. He rested himself on my chest and put his paws around my neck, and just sat there. Staring. He was looking into my eyes, no doubt watery, with his little, black-beady eyes.

He got it. He didn't know what "it" was about, but he felt it. And he was trying to console me in his own doggy way.

This dog, this dog whom I had struggled with for seven months, who had been an expensive force of destruction, was there spread-eagle on my chest, his arms around my neck, and then he laid his little snoot on my chest and sighed, his dark watery eyes mirroring my own, as if to sigh in return.

It was a moment. I will always remember this moment as the one in which I finally understood why people love their dogs.

it's dark-pop friday!

on teaching film and sweating

Music: Sharon Van Etten: Because I Was In Love (2008)

Sometimes it is permissible to sweat the "small stuff," especially that stuff that registers the insignificant scenic snips in the field that Benjamin termed the "optical unconscious"---the inconspicuous steps of lighting a cigarette---or the speech that says more than what it says. Sweating these things---a metaphor here about not of getting overly worried, but of working-through minor perceptions---takes a certain kind of patience. I've been working these last few years to develop this kind of patience, both in critical work and in (inter)personal encounter. I'm noticing both kinds of attention, or attending (because I like the labor implied by the latter term), require a kind of slowing: of pace, of measured reflection, of withholding.

Withholding judgment. I was a teenage policy debater. Learning to undo those habits of judgment has taken some decades. Not that I am discounting debate, or the idea of quick thinking, or the pedagogy of argument. It's just at this stage of my thinking, of my public scholarship and my personal life, I'm wanting to be more reflective. More speculative. More contemplative.

In my younger years I was the guy who would interrupt you when you were speaking. I was the guy who couldn't listen because I was thinking too hard about how I would respond. I'm learning to look and listen better. I think, actually, I'm getting better at it.

Buddhism may be in my future. I don't know, however, if I have that kind of discipline, or if I can extract the ego in a way that is likely required. I don't want to detach, just think---or reflect---better.

Perhaps age has something to do with it, perhaps the security of a career that seems to be working alright does too. Perhaps a changing body chemistry plays a role (there are changes, in your thirties, a tired cliché but an observation that truly is only reckoned in the body). Maturity is certainly one name for it (whatever that means, exactly).

I'm noticing the small stuff more and more, the work of the eyes of others, their gestures and ticks. The overcompensation of "glitz" and "blitz," of speed and novelty, seem to mask the slow labors of subtly and the pregnancy of that misplaced period or malapropism. The watery eyes of my dog (which means the mold count is up). The tiny, yellowing leaves of thyme on my patio table that tell me no amount of water can overcome triple-digit temperatures. The cockroach on the lattice jerking about (it doesn't bother me). A toad croaks. There is a pleasant whatever here, even in the sweltering heat.

I'm no longer as concerned with clean feet when I climb into bed. I never used to go barefoot. Ever. Then I moved to Texas; somehow I became Fred Flintstone. I was Woody Allen in Annie Hall. What happened? Was it the heat?

I went to the US Post Office this morning. I can remember when a visit to this place condemned one to waiting in line for a half-hour. But no one was there today---or rather, only another group of people. The two attendants looked pleased to see someone at the counter. A middle-aged woman who did not speak English was just before me, her preteen daughter translated the transaction from Spanish (they were pursuing a passport). There were two smaller children, about six and eight, around them, clasping about bare, shaved legs. They all wore pastel-colored tank-tops and baby-t's. And flip-flops. The woman who processed my business was very nice, looked me in the eyes, and wished me a nice day. And I knew from her smile and hand-pat on the counter she meant it. "You too," I said, and I made sure to smile. I quick connection, but one that wasn't a mere projection. I sipped my portable coffee mug on the way out. It is a pleasant thing when you can be with others and see them as people, with stories of their own, and lives, and not interact with them as objects. It's easier to do in a Post Office. It's much more of a challenge to do that on the highway.

As a teacher, I can tell you this is often the biggest challenge of teaching: seeing your students as people, not objects. You might say the ideological battle in education today is about precisely this. Teachers want to connect to students as human beings, not customers (which is a form of objectification). And this is the ruse of for-profit education: we treat you like human beings, when actually you're "just a number." But I digress. And I'm letting digression drive this, so . . . .

Today I screened Fritz Lang's M in my film theory class, and a student confessed (somewhat sheepishly) he was indifferent. He didn't understand, he said, why the film was held up as a classic, why it was so influential in the history of film. I explained the juxtaposition of areal shots of policemen meeting and mobsters plotting was a filmic innovation. I explained the murderer's incessant whistling of "Hall of the Mountain King"---often off screen---was the first known leitmotif in narrative cinema. Small details often convey a lot of information, most of it affectively, I said. (I wanted to talk about the cigar smoke, which floods the film, but I decided that would be a diversion.) Cinema has been mining this language of affect for over a century now, I said. Today Hollywood is more like opera than it was in the Golden Age of cinema. Watching a film from the 1930s takes a different sort of patience; the pace is slow. The dialogue is fast. The cues are often very conspicuous, but sometimes very subtle. M is full of this subtly, I said. David Lynch and other filmmakers continue the tradition, but often in ways that only an expansive knowledge of the history of film can prepare you for (and I don't have that either, which is why I like to teach film). Good filmmakers seem to sweat the small stuff. Many of us don't have the patience for it.

I'm getting better.

I'm especially enamored of film sound studies. Attending to film sound takes a special attention. For the final two weeks of my film class, we focus exclusively on this. I think it teaches one a kind of respect for cinematic aesthetics that a focus on the image does not. Chion be praised.

I enjoy the films of Andrei Tarkovsky for these reasons. His films teach me a kind of gentile patience. His soundtracks are sparse and quiet. Shots of grass flowing in creek beds, in both Stalker and Solaris, can appear pretentious and needlessly long. Or, they can say something about "sculpting in time," as Tarkovsky clearly means to do.

But, you know, an attention to the small stuff for it's own sake---too much sweating---can go awry: for example, Malik's Tree of Life. Perhaps that film is a little like this blog at times (certainly this entry). But rest assured, I will not give you 22 paragraphs about evolution that ends in a dinosaur smashing the head of another dinosaur into a creek bed (with flowing grass).

Some dear friends who happen to be talented poets are moving soon. They have taught me, in some ways, to sweat the small stuff. I remember a poetry workshop with Hoa, some years ago, in which she shared a poem she wrote in ten minutes. I don't think it is published yet, but she was recounting the drudgery of daily life, and one of the lines was about "garlicky fingers." That image and smell and truth has stuck with me, and the attention she gave it made an impression. We were reading Ted Berrigan for the summer.

Ted Berrigan ultimately killed himself by taking too many diet pills and amphetamines. How could someone so observant of the slow and minute detail, with the unconscious optics of life, how could someone so keen and insightful die so fast? I have trouble reconciling the insight of slow motion with the compulsions and addictions of the body on autopilot and routine.

I notice at the moment Psappho (my cat) is on the patio bench, transfixed on a bug of some sort slowly ambling across the concrete. Jesús, my dog, is settled behind me on a couch cushion I've moved to the bench I'm sitting on. I'm smoking a cigar, and I know I shouldn't be doing that if I want to ensure a long life. But here we are. Patio life. I'm trying to grow into the slow. To sweat the small stuff. It seems to me that's the right thing to do.

Film, good film, film that plumbs the human condition and makes us think, film that's not just about turning a buck, but rather about exploiting the medium to contemplate, teaches us something about ourselves. I would not consider myself a film scholar. But every time I teach this class I am reminded of why I am drawn to good filmmaking and thinking about the art-form. It's not just entertainment. It's not.

a toad kitty in the garden

Music: Fritz Lang's M soundtrack (1931) Most of us in central Texas are suffering in this oppressive heat, with triple digit days now the tiresome norm. The drought is so severe that "extreme wildfire danger" signs are popping up everywhere; not one but two friend's homes have been threatened by wildfires in the last month.

One individual, however, is taking the triple-digit heat in stride: Psappho, my hairless (and last remaining) cat. She has always been an indoor cat and never allowed to go outside, but recently I've been making an exception. She meows her little head off to go outside, so I gave in about a month ago. Fortunately, she is well behaved: she just sits on the bench and wallows in the heat. I've even left her out there alone for over an hour, and she doesn't stray. She's just content to bench it and chill.

I decided to let her spend some time outside if she wants because she is getting old. Psappho is thirteen, pretty aged for her breed (a Sphynx), a breed whose recessive genetic cocktail make them more prone than other cats for various illnesses (especially related to the teeth). Having put down three cats in as many years, and given Psappho's age, I reasoned letting her enjoy herself in her old age is alright. She seems so happy outside on that bench, even if it's too hot for me to sit with her.

Oh, Psappho: your meows are incessantly deafening; you won't use the litter box and I tire of picking up your poop out of the bathtub; most people think you look like a rat; and you often smell bad. But . . . I still love you, and you're still here, and so at least the Texas heat is good for something: putty patio happiness.

it's train-wreck monday!

One of my best buds started this feature on Crackbook. I couldn't resist trying this out too . . . .

on gay marriage (again)

Music: Suede: Head Music (1999)

Last night I was at a wonderful "Queeraoke" event and birthday party for a friend organized by the incomparable Katie Feyh. Shortly after the gay marriage bill passed in New York last night, I got to break the news to a queer bar full of tipsy people; they erupted in applause and hoots and hollers. Before I announced the news, I thought I might preface it with something like: "I know some of you are ambivalent about this, but very soon if you're queer you can . . . ."

I didn't add the preface, given the vibe at the moment. Folks wanted to celebrate, and another state recognizing same-sex unions is, in the end, perceived as a civil rights issue. And perhaps I didn't add the preface because a former student was at the bar, one of the brightest I've had at UT. I remember some years ago she came to my office very upset one day after lecture, and primarily because in class I had challenged the idea of gay marriage and suggested it was a "conservative" move. As a lesbian woman, she took umbrage to the fact that I claim to be an advocate for LGBT rights and recognition, and yet I waver on and question the issue of same sex marriage. It took me some time to explain my position (and even then she was not happy), as I suspect it does many folks who are ambivalent on the issue. In the wake of the historic decision by our friends in New York, I thought this might be a good time and place to reiterate the reason to be in favor of gay marriage, while nevertheless, also wary of the larger, ideological move a state-sanctioned recognition represents.

Here's the reason to support gay marriage: fairness, equality, protection, choice. I'm especially hung-up on the latter. If two people are in love and wish for the state to recognize their love in law, I believe they should have that right. As it stands, marriage is a discriminatory institution. By participating in marriage, I do not mean to suggest you are part of the problem---just that not everyone gets that right, and, well, that's not right. I will celebrate every state decision to make it legal. It is a civil rights issue, period.

That said, as I've written previously, same-sex marriage makes me uneasy because, at some level, it is a norming institution. That is to say, gay marriage is in some sense a kind of suburbanization of queerness, a "mainstream" sanction that may be dulling to the radical edge of queer politics. What do I mean?

Professor Katherine Franke had a plain- and well-spoken editorial a couple of days ago in the New York Times about the mixed blessing of legal same sex marriage. She does a great job explaining why same-sex marriage could become constraining (e.g., to get health care benefits, and so on): it forces loving relationships into a box. For decades, Franke explains, queer people have been defining their relationships outside of the watchful gaze of the state, relationships that challenge mainstream values and norms. Gay marriage threatens to "mainstream," and thereby constrain, these self-defined relationships.

I think Franke's slippery slope argument---that gay marriage may lead to requiring marriage for all couples---is a bit far-fetched. But I understand her point: there is an undercurrent of compulsion here, a yearning for normalcy that would trade in a radical potentiality for security.

Worse, as Judith Butler has argued, marriage discriminates against those for whom the plot of "the couple" chafes. Not all loving relationships are monogamous. Although I am personally, fiendishly monogamous (it's certainly a form of selfishness)---which is to say, I confess I don't "get it"---I have a number of friends who are "polyamorous" or are in "open relationships" and this, of course, is a plotline that deviates from the mental image of marriage proper. One of the vectors of queer politics concerns the plot of the couple, that the only route to happiness is to be paired up with someone until death do you part. This plot, of course, along with others (e.g., having children) comprise the very coordinates of American happiness (insofar is the couple is a plot that inheres in the symbolic itself, it is nigh impossible to disarticulate one's identity from this compulsory telos) for most people raised in U.S. culture. Gay marriage, in other words, reinscribes the cultural logic of the couple, a logic that has been used to oppress queer people since the nineteenth century (often in tandem with arguments to biological necessity).

These worries, however, are just worries. It's important to have worries, however. It's important that we think about our politics carefully so that we don't completely give into the conservative impulse that underwrites gay marriage. At the same time, I celebrate New York for aligning itself with the enlightened. Neither sexual orientation nor gender should be a barrier to someone's desire to have his or her love recognized and sanctioned by the state. Neither sexual orientation nor gender should be an impediment for legal protections and rights (e.g., visitation rights at the hospital). Neither sexual orientation nor gender should stand in the way of love, however you chose to define it.

it's synth-pop friday!

on academibashing

Music: Peeping Tom soundtrack (1960)

Yesterday I was joking on The Blogora about the predictability of essays that attack academics: they have a pattern that reduces to (a) a confessional; and (b) an accusation. "I used to be an academic, and I can tell you, my colleagues were bloated, money grubbing lazies . . . ." It's starting to become more comical than disheartening because one seems to appear, almost every other day, with almost the same passive-aggressive cadence. Nevertheless, at the moment the "professor doesn't work" essay in the popular press remains demoralizing for many of us.

My friend and colleague Randy Lewis (American Studies) penned a nice response to the Academibash essay over on the Inside Higher Ed website. It's a nice read, and expresses how I often feel when I read these attack essays. It's also a little astonishing how quickly the "comments" section after Randy's essay got nasty. Of course, it's always difficult to gauge tone, whether or not someone is earnest, and so forth in many online contexts. Still, the "haters gonna hate" comments give one some sense of why folks like me (and many of you) can get a little blue about what we've chosen to do.

And let's face it: even the most steely of the professoriate can be worn down after she's told, time and time again, that she does not work hard enough. The mantra against "bad teachers" in public schools has all but destroyed primary and secondary education in the Great Republic of Texas. I have dated a number of schoolteachers (well, most of the ex-schoolteachers), and a retired principal lives two doors down. The stories they tell of the amount of work they are asked to do, not to mention the ever-increasing size of their courses and the behavioral problems they have to manage, are disheartening and demoralizing. Why? Because in addition to a demanding workload, they also have to contend with school board politics! I'm not sure about the numbers today, but studies from the 2006/2007 academic year show that attrition at charter schools was a whopping 43%, and roughly 16-19% at public schools. Of course, hundreds of those who didn't want to quit were laid off a couple of months ago because of the recession . . . .

The so-called crisis of the academy is a crisis of teaching, and it's not about money (although it is, in the end). Well, the cause is about the money, but the crisis is about valuation. What's really happening is that there is a budget shortfall, and education needs to be slashed, and it's easier to argue for cuts by retreating to a metric that can show how something's falling short. But the crisis is really one of morale: we are asked to do less with more, and we do. In addition to doing less with more, however, we're told we're bad teachers and don't work hard enough. Now, that's a double-whammy, and if it continues in any sustained way you're going to have a teacher shortage in the university just like you have in the public school system.

[sigh] And even in the same breath, I have to admit I like what I do and am privileged to do what I do. I appreciate the freedoms the life of the mind (if we can call it that any more) affords, such as studying what I think is important instead of studying what my supervisor thinks is important. I appreciate being able to teach course that I think are important for young people to have. Like my friend Randy, I just get bummed out hearing, for example, that my colleagues and I teach "fluff" (overheard and administrator said this of my department) by someone who has never sat in my class or read anything I've written.

it's synth-pop friday!

weinerama-lama ding dong (on perversion)

Music: Nordkapp: Gran Tiempo (2011)

Warning: This blog post is rated "R."

Today's blog subject might equally apply to the impending news Governor Good Hair is apparently poised to run for the presidency, as well as increasingly embattled New York representative Anthony Weiner, whom everyone is urging to resign. As tempted as I am to detail all the reasons why "prick" is slang for a stubborn, self-righteous Texan ("you're either with him, or against him"---sound familiar?), the photographs that leaked yesterday of Mr. Weiner in women's lingerie at a college Christmas party forces my hand.

HOLY SCHAUDENDFRUEDE, SCATMAN!

To extend my observations from last week: this morning it was reported a number of high profile democrats are meeting to consult about the Weiner Affair ---I'd say WeinerGate, but let's face it: the lack of sentry is part of the problem---which many are on record as saying is a "distraction." Privately, we can only imagine, these leaders are infuriated by Weiner's stubborn refusal to tender his resignation. That stubborn refusal is a hallmark of something, a peculiar psychical structure that Lacan (following Freud) terms "disavowal." About which more shortly.

For the moment, let's do be clear about the reasons for the resignation: technically, the man has not done anything wrong nor violated any known laws. His ouster is based only on moral grounds, the key among them not-so-much the dirty sexting as it seems to be Weiner's initial categorical denial and his attempts to deceive "the public" and his colleagues. What the ethics committee is charged with doing is finding something wrong---that is, looking for evidence so that Weiner can be forced out of office. The repeated suggestions by Obama, Pelosi, and others to the media that Weiner should resign can be easily read as an "or else." The politically prudent thing to do at this point would be to (a) resign; and (b) make public one's attempt to "get psychiatric help." You cannot do the latter only and expect to rehabilitate a public image. The damage cannot be undone.

From a colloquial standpoint, the pressure for Weiner to resign has to do with perversion, which generally refers to something (often a sex act) that is outside what is deemed "normal." Sending lewd photographs of yourself to random women---especially if one is married---is generally understood as a perversion of what is "normal" behavior. Of course, as I noted last week, this is quite hypocritical, for our watching the news about the perversion, as well as the apparent glee with which the MSM is reporting and circulating the story, participates in the perversion too. The whole thing is a jouissance salad of sexual perversity. Wheeeeeee!!!!!

And that brings me, in a round-about way, to the less colloquial but nevertheless insightful observations about perversion originally made by Freud: human sexuality, by definition, is perverse. What Freud means by this is not that we are drawn to extreme, abnormal acts of sexual non-conformity, but rather, that anything humans do other than copulate to perpetuate the species is counter to biological normalcy. So, neither my getting turned on by the sound of your voice, nor your little fascination with small nipples, are "normal" in some sort of genetico-biological sense. Freud observed humans are unique in their ability to derive (sexual) enjoyment from things that are, prima facie, not sexual at all. Cue discussion of the "fetish" here (and/or Foucault's discussion of "the norm").

So, the tie that binds all of us to the Weiner scandal is a tacit recognition of our own, ubiquitous, undeniable perversions as self-conscious human beings. The question is: what, if anything, makes Weiner different than the rest of us? If "peversion" is normal, then what can make perversion abnormal? When does perversion veer into pathology? I don't think Weiner's sexting or lewd photos or cross dressing count as pathological. I think the answer really comes down to his categorical denial of his sexual proclivities, the deliberate lying---a lying with such conviction one wonders if he actually believed his denial.

From a Lacanian perspective, Weiner's categorical denials could be read, at some level, as the operation central to all clinical perverts: a refusal to accept that lack is the cause of desire (or "disavowal"). Allegorically speaking, most of us are "neurotic" in the sense we know "lack" (after the event of castration) causes desire, and we repress this knowledge. In other words, symbolic limit is accepted at some level. The pervert is different because the pervert both recognizes the event of castration yet refuses to admit it has happened.

What may distinguish Weiner as a pervert, then, is not what he did online, but rather, what he did coupled with the denial. Moreover, what he did is, more or less, a casebook example of perversion (albeit very mild). The clinical pervert does not pursue the object of his desire; rather, the pervert needs to become or embody the fantasy of the other itself, becoming an agent of its exposure or traversal.

Politically, Size (damn autocorrect) Zizek often gives the example of the fascist as a pervert: The fascist comes to embody the law, executing the larger political fantasy for the "good of the people." The Nazi, for example, may physically weep as he terminates innocent human lives, however, Zizek's point is that he goes-through with the atrocity because his own sense of self---or "locus of control"--- is emptied out; it's like a narcissism except there is no "I" at the center---something Other comes to occupy that place. This is why the pervert evokes fear or astonishment: he unflinchingly exposes the perverse core of social phantasy.

It is in this sense, then, that we can engage Weiner's "sexting," in which he becomes (albeit temporarily) the agent of hetero-female fantasy; his enjoyment is not so much physical as it is psychical, deriving a sense of psychical release from becoming the agent of a well-worm pornographic fantasy: becoming a giant phallic object doing injury. In other words, rape (NSFW, folks!):

All the signifiers of a larger rape fantasy are here ("crawing for the door," his cock will "hurt" her, etc.), and the "female" apparently goads him on----but also note she stops short of validating the rape fantasy. She never invites symbolic violence, but he keeps persisting.

But . . . I don't think Weiner is a clinical pervert, in the end. Based on what's part of the public record thus far, he's too much of an obsessional neurotic and, regardless of his sexual conspicuousness, there is an element of "holding back," despite his compulsions. Now, he's apparently in "treatment," but most suspect that's for sexual addiction, insofar as sexting and related activities stimulate that part of the brain that is involved with addiction. Certainly if he is a clinical pervert he needs treatment (but good luck with that; many psychotherapists believe perverts are not treatable with therapeutic methods; also, extreme cases of perversion have been linked to brain tumors . . . . ).

Ultimately, what's characteristic about the pervert is that he usually goes all the way, that is, the pervert delivers the unvarnished fantasy so nakedly that the other person is fearful or disgusted. Enjoyment for the pervert is precisely in the surprised or disgusted or astonished reaction of the person for whom the fantasy is channeled or embodied by the pervert. In my mind, the best portrayal of clinical perversion is Dennis Hopper's character in Blue Velvet, Frank Booth ("Let's fuck! I'll fuck anything that moves," he screams, and then proceeds to make good on such a declaration). Antony Weiner is no Frank Booth. It's curious, however, that the MSM would like him to be.

I've been saying for years our socius is becoming increasingly psychotic. I have not considered that may be a misreading. Perhaps we are becoming increasingly perverse, which is to say, increasingly self-righteous . . . or cause-righteous, and not in a good way?

on brotherly love

Suede: Dog Man Star (1994) I have been working today on a speech I am giving this evening at my Masonic lodge for our annual "Festive Board." The Festive Board is a ritualized dinner that consists of a series of toasts or "healths," a nice, usually catered meal, and a educational speech of some sort. For the third year in a row I've been asked to deliver the speech, which is for me a great honor. The first year I spoke I talked about he necessity of secrecy. Last year I talked about the square, one half of the universally recognized symbol of Masonry. Tonight I'll talk about the compasses, which are the other part of that symbol. (The "G" was added sometime in the nineteenth century and is not an official part of the symbol, however, there are arguments about this; I side with those who say it is not official. If you're a Mason, you'll realize the "G" is redundant.)

Specifically, I'll discuss the compass in relationship to "brotherly love," which is something Masons tout as central to the fraternity. I can't share here what I am going to say, as I will discuss some things that are only known to Masons. But I do want to share some of the things I've been thinking about these past couple of days.

I always find Aristotle a fascinating go-to guy for wisdom about people and ethical matters. In the Nichomachean Ethics, Aristotle denotes three types of friendship, but the one that is most important concerns equality:

Now there are three kinds of friendship . . . and as in respect of each of them the friends may be on a footing of equality, or may be in a position of relative superiority and inferiority---for two men who are equally good may become friends, or a better man may become friends with one less good; and this same holds good with respect to those who are friends because they are agreeable to one another . . . . The general rule should be that equals should love one another equally, and make equal returns in all other respects, but that unequals should give and receive affection in amounts proportionate to their relative superiority and inferiority.

Of course, Aristotle is speaking about class here. But I think it's interesting that Aristotle says there are "rights" and "rules" of friendship, and that he goes on further to discuss friendship as contractual, in a sense. We tend today to think about friendships (or romantic relationships) in terms of equity, the indirect consequence of economics coming to dominate every part of our lives. Aristotle's rules of friendship should not be understood in this sense; he means to refer to giving and receiving one's attention and time to others.

Aristotle is also careful to distinguish "brotherly love" (philia) with erotic love. These should not be confused, a warning that many Greeks have issued. What I'm speaking about tonight, however, is how in our time all the different kinds of love have been confused or squished together, such that people can often mistake one type for another. Indeed, the mainstream media often encourage this confusion, or play the same plot over and over. For example, ever since the film When Harry Met Sally came out, its thesis has almost become common sense: men and women cannot be friends, or else, you know what.

The effect of rolling different types of love into the same ineffable thing is that it circumscribes our abilities to express emotion and share our affections. In the 19th century, male friends were much more intimate with each other physically than is permitted today. I don't want to step on anyone's toes here, but, the current interest among some queer historians to expose this or that public figure as gay overlooks how homosocial male cultures were in the 19th century, and that what may appear queer to us today was quite "normal" in the nineteenth century: men sleeping in the same bed, as Lincoln and Speed did, for example.

Anyhoo, what I mean to say is that contemporary norms of masculinity constrain male affection in friendships. One of my best friends always tells me, "I love you," when we say goodbye on the phone, and this is a norm for us. But if someone overhead this, he or she might think it is unusual. It shouldn't be, because we do love each other, and no, we do not want to sleep together. And we don't need a few drinks to get to a place where we can say it, either.

My main argument tonight will be the Freemasonry is a practice that cultivates friendship in the Greek sense, of basing one's relationship to others "on the level" or equally, recognizing the goodness internal to each brother. Aristotle warns that "unequals" can be friends, but there is a risk of exploitation. Masons get around this problem by staying that you strip your identity once you walk into the door; no class, no race, no religion, no sexual identity. There are few practices left in American culture in which men can express feelings of love and appreciation for one another unhindered by inequities (or confusion). Masonic ritual and custom also provides a way for men to express affection in a larger culture that, for the most part, discourages this (Boehner, anyone?). Freemasonry freely practices brotherly love in a way that, I think, Aristotle would admire.

it's synth-pop/ebm friday!

weinerlicious

Music: Hope Sandoval & the Warm Inventions: Through the Devil Softly (2009)

Tuesday morning Pelosi formally requested a Weiner (ethics) probe [snicker] to determine if the democratic representative from New York had violated any rules or regulations by sending lewd images of himself over the past three years to an ever-increasing parade of young women. Republicans are especially rabid, since Weiner is a fierce (and smart) political attack dog for the Democrats. Insofar as Reid has disavowed Weiner and few on the "left" are standing up to support him, this doesn't look very good. I predict Weiner shall be a boner goner.

What fascinates me, of course, is the sexual character of the controversy and how that character is discussed. This morning, a commentator on CNN cited narciscissm and an overabundance of testosterone. Clearly he has a very high sex drive because of his receding hairline and political tenacity, she argued, both signs of gonadal gravitas. I laughed aloud at this "analysis." What public figure isn't at some level a narcicist? It takes a little self-love to believe you can serve publically. Self-loathers are often bad politicians (e.g., Nixon).

The real issue, seems to me, is the way in which our contemporary media environments have collapsed intimacy and publicity. John Sloop and I recently published an essay that spells this all out, but briefly, part of our argument is that social and network media encourage an almost compulsory intimacy. Social media like Facebook work by surveillance, which cannot be achieved if you are "private"; there can be no consumer data to mine unless there is data to begin with. So, the interface creates an environment that is intimate and private, and that intimacy is paradoxically cultivated through the thrills of publicity (collecting friends, having people follow you on Twitter, and so on). We call it "newdity," the advent of a new form of sort-of coming out that subjects one to discipline. New social media confuse the boundary of public/private, such that the only true doors we have left are, quite literally, our orifices.

There are all sorts of reasons why Weiner shared his weiner; the more important question to ask is not whether he has too much testosterone, but rather, what are the conditions that make anyone feel comfortable sharing their privates in public? One answer is that the public masquarades as a private, intimate space. Sexting among teens seems like harmless fun among friends, but the fact is that the only way to keep a secret is mouth to ear. One you send an image of your junk into the cellular ether: it goes.

I was talking to a friend last night about this, who reminded me I jokingly asked her for an intimate photo while texting. I stressed to her again that it was a joke, that I didn't really request such a thing and would never really put someone in that position. We then had an interesting conversation in which we both recalled being asked by someone during "chat" or while "texting." (I didn't comply then, nor will I ever.)

Regardless, I think one thing is certain: Weiner is no different than many folks in his, my, or younger generations. Social media technologies are fundamentally libidinal because they are, well, because they are social (best line of the film The Social Network is when the protagonist observes the first thing someone wants to know about someone on "The Facebook" is if she is "single" or not). Trading naughty photos on the Internet or on phones is probably way more common that many older generations think. That's why, to me, the news reporting is not simply comical (too much testosterone, really?) but somewhat hypocritical. Doesn't this or that athlete or politician get punished sharing or texting images of their junk at least twice a year?

I think if folks want to trade images of their bidness, that is, well, their bidness and there is nothing, prima facie, immoral about enjoying one's sexuality in that way. I'm not, of course, justifying Weiner's weiner sharing. Where Weiner crosses the line morally, to me, is by cheating on his wife.

Clinton was impeached but still kept his job for getting a job from an intern in the Oval Office. I see no reason why Weiner should lose his. If the voters don’t wanna elect this guy again that's one thing, but forcing him out of office early because he cheated on his wife or sent naughty pics of himself is quite another, especially when you consider the likely fact that (almost) "everyone's doing it." Well, I exaggerate, of course, but given the parade of sex-and-technology scandals these days, one wonders if sexting and such will be as ubiquitous as Coca-Cola in five years?

it's ebm friday!

recollected conversation #72

Music: Mark Hollis: Mark Hollis (1998)

J: "I'm getting close to forty. I've decided to go back to school for one more degree."

H: "What? So when do you break even?"

J2: "Crazy."

H: "You profs have got it good. You can't get fired with tenure, right? I mean, I know five guys who got laid off today."

J: "We profs work all the time. I mean, the luxuary of this job is that when we work is pretty flexible. I think this is an ideal job for raising a family, but still, we do work---"

H: "Whatever [tone of indignation]. In my world you can get laid off on the drop of a hat. We don't got tenure. I mean, job security—"

J: "It's not what you think. You can get fired, even with tenure, it just takes about five years. And besides, none of us will ever make six figures like you---"

H: "Wait a minute. I know a number of profs—"

J: "From two generations ago. Things have changed. You cannot compare what I do and get to what my senior---"

H: "I still say, you have it good. The professor's life is the life. I know of three guys who got laid off today."

J2: "What is it? School loans?"

J: "About 80 grand, but I owe about 50 now."

J2: "So, how long?"

H: "Yeah, when do you break-even? If you go back to school you'd be, what, 55? And then?"