Laff In: Wife-Swapping Sadism Now Overground!

Music: Nellie McKay: Get Away From Me I have recently discovered last season's "reality television" novelty, a cheeky, family-friendly version of that swinging 70s rage: wife swapping. I suppose I've yet to catch whatever-the-new-thing is this season (I surmise a family-friendly take on bondage or auto-erotic death-tempting). But I'm always a step behind, and I'm simply fascinated by Trading Spouses and it's softer, kinder twin, Wife Swap. When I first tuned in I was ready for lurid bedroom details a la the 1992 film, Consenting Adults, but instead I was treated to moms lording over the children of others and having awkward conversations with their new daddies about whether Suzie could get a temporary tattoo. The moms are always pared dialectically so as to produce the utmost friction: last week a Minnesota housewife with an affinity for the vacuum and fascism redolent of "a certain anal character" was swapped with a laid-back Tennessee country girl with a little yappy dog that shits indiscriminately in the house. This evening one of the swapped mom's called in Ghostbusters because her host family's house was haunted.

Television can occasionally delight; but I must admit I was longing for Lou Reed to pop in with a set of random keys (and the exploding ticket: ". . . and don't forget to bring your wife") this evening. By next week I'll be bored with it.

Speaking of getting bored and spouses, Mirko passed along this linkby an ex-professor who got tenure and up and quit the academy because he was miserable. It goes without saying he was in an English department (after all, MLA is . . . well, let's just say there's a hilarious novel written about it titled Murder At the MLA).

What bothered me about the article was the author's argument at the end about love, that unlike other careers, romance is really strained for the young or "junior" academic. I do worry about that . . . a lot in recent years (a major reason for leaving Baton Rouge, frankly). But then when watching these shows I'm confronted with the horror of a more mainstream life and career . . . if my partner felt the need to vacuum three times a day, or hired psychics to "investigate" my home, or . . . well, all these possible futures. In the immortal words of one frequently swapped during the heyday of swingin' . . . "sock it to me."