rest in peace

of hershey homies and p-funk bunnies

Music: Morrissey: Viva Hate Click here to hear the song "Chocolate City"

Jam on it! New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin waged an all out war with the peeps of Washington DC when he proclaimed New Orleans was the official Chocolate City!: "I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be chocolate at the end of the day. This city will be a majority African-American city. It's the way God wants it to be." Today he clarified by saying that "New Orleans was a chocolate city before Katrina. It is going to be a chocolate city after. How is that divisive? It is white and black working together, coming together and making something special." Something special like chocolate! Clearly Nagin's chocolate differs from George Clinton's, a chocolateer who gives a few choice examples of what's in his chocolate box of p-funk whoop-ass:

And when they come to march on ya Tell 'em to make sure they got their James Brown pass And don't be surprised if Ali is in the White House Reverend Ike, Secretary of the Treasure Richard Pryor, Minister of Education Stevie Wonder, Secretary of FINE arts And Miss Aretha Franklin, the First Lady Are you out there, CC? A chocolate city is no dream It's my piece of the rock and I dig you, CC God bless Chocolate City and its (gainin' on ya!) vanilla suburbs Can y'all get to that? Gainin' on ya! Gainin' on ya! Easin' in Gainin' on ya! In yo' stuff Gainin' on ya! Huh, can't get enough Gainin' on ya! Gainin' on ya! Be mo' funk, be mo' funk Gainin' on ya! Can we funk you too Gainin' on ya! Right on, chocolate city!

Now Nagin, his chocolate ain't no Stevie Wonder! No sir. It's Stevie Wonder AND Paul McCartney: "How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk, and it becomes a delicious drink. That is the chocolate I am talking about!" Ebony and ivory! Ray Nagin: the Poster Boy for Miscegenation! Y'all dig?

Our boy shouldda stuck to his chocolate guns . . . what a let down for the P-funk contingent! But we can dream!

ADDENDEDENDEDENDUM: I'm hailing now from a coffee shop called the Spiderhouse, which I'm visiting at the behest of a new acquaintance in Austin. As I check my email from the free wifi, I notice Shappy sends link and story penned by Jess Fender, of Front Porch Action Fame. You go girl! Meanwhile, the scene here is tragically hip; I'm in the small anteroom of a converted bungalow, with pinewood paneling, a creepy old oil painting of an old woman with pearls on. In this room on various couches are four others, two women and two men, all of whom are on laptops. There is a calico kitty curled on the couch beside me. None of us are speaking to one another. Oh Habermas! gone are the days of Freemason meetings and chatty, coffee shop politics!

death to Oprah

Music: Blossom Dearie: Jazz Masters 51 While he was imprisoned for peaceably demonstrating against racism, on April 16, 1963, Martin Luther King Jr. penned a letter from a jail in Birmingham in response to a statement published by eight Alabama religious leaders. The Alabama clergymen publicly stated that although they "recognize the natural impatience of people who feel that their hopes are slow in being realized," they were nevertheless convinced that the peaceful demonstrations led by Dr. King were "unwise and untimely." The clergymen's alternative, "new constructive and realistic approach" to "racial friction" and unrest in Birmingham is unclear from their statement (presumably it consisted of talks with local and state leaders, as well as courtroom challenges), but what was made clear to King was that "outsiders" would only worsen their progress: ". . . we are now confronted by a series of demonstrations by some of our Negro citizens, directed and led in part by outsiders," and these outsiders have no "knowledge and experience of the local situation." As they say in seventh grade surfing clubs, "locals only."

King's response is, of course, masterful and well known. The core can be located in the third and fourth paragraphs, where King stresses the "interrelatedness of all communities and states." He says,

I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial "outsider agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.

King continues by chastising the clergymen for their relative unconcern for the demonstrators. "I am sure that none of you would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes." To wit: racial disharmony is a systemic problem, and cannot be reduced to this or that town or city. The ideological contest here, of course, could be cast as a contest between collectivism and individualism, between those who would stress a systemic cause for racism and those who would urge a "locals only," self-actualization form of individual empowerment.

Jump cut to the recent flap regarding Oprah Winfrey's endorsement of A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, a best-selling drug and alcohol addiction memoir that The Smoking Gun website has unmasked as a lie. Last week, while Frey was defending the "emotional truth" of the book on Larry King Live, Oprah phoned in at the conclusion of the show to defend her endorsement of Frey and his memoir:

I am disappointed by this controversy surrounding A Million Little Pieces, because I rely on the publishers to define the category that a book falls within, and also the authenticity of the work. But the underlying message of redemption in James Frey's memoir still resonates with me, and I know it resonates with millions of other people who have read this book. What is relevant is that he was a drug addict who spent years in turmoil from the time he was 10 years old drinking and tormenting himself and his parents, and stepped out of that history to be the man that he is today and to take that message to save other people and allow them to save themselves. To me, [the controversy] seems to be much ado about nothing.

Obviously Oprah's endorsement of this "redemption" story, whether real or imagined, was not intended as a commentary on racial inequity in this country. The defense does, nevertheless, represent the great con of Whiteness also reflected in Oprah's bromide, "Excellence is the best deterrent to racism or sexism." We should qualify this philosophy with the term "individual," insofar as redemption is code for individual salvation, either through Christ or by singular will.

Today on our celebration of the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr., I would like call for the (symbolic) death of figures like Oprah Winfrey and her self-help "friends." Only the eradication of self-help idiocy will return us to the notion of an "inescapable network of mutuality" that King stressed must be embraced for systemic change. A recent AP-Ipsos poll revealed that perceptions of "significant progress toward Martin Luther King Jr.'s dream of racial equality" has been stymied, but by what is not clear—at least to the pollsters. But we all know why the dream has faded: we live in yet another "post-" era. Like postfeminism, post-civil-rights-ism is the idea that we have already made so much progress in racial equality that it's up to each individual to make it. Aside from herself, Oprah parades one Horatio Alger success story after the next as evidence it can be done! Fuck you Oprah Winfrey. You are the poster girl for the Me-Me-Gimme-Gimme Stupidity of Whiteness, and no other person on this planet--including Der Fuhrer, GWB--represents a greater threat to the dream of MLK than you do.

obligatory best of 2005 music recommendations

Music: Kirlian Camera: Shapes and Colours From the Land of God Just like the year before last, 2005 was a good one for music, especially if you were reared in the 80s. I share the sentiments of many that this was the breakout year for Death Cab (though I still think Transatlanticism is their best album yet; Plans is too cloying and heavy on the intrusive percussion), and I agree that the Franz Ferdinand stuff is catchy, and yes, the Nine Inch Nails album has grown on me. Even so, I found myself listening to certain things over and over, and on the basis of what I was porting the most (as opposed to what I think is most intellectually satisfying), I present my top eleven favorite music albums of 2005:

American Analog Set: Set Free:I've been a fan of the "amanset" for many years, but this newest release stands along side The Golden Band as their best: slow, melodic, and haunting, Set Free achieves the settled "amanset" sound the best, with ample organ and hushed vocals. The stand out track here is the soft send-up to Cher's "Half Breed," the beautiful "She's Half," so sweet (but sincere) that it will bring tears to your eyes. This album is such a relaxed treat that we can forgive them for fleeing Austin for Brooklyn (or wherever the heck they moved, I forget). Still, most Austinites consider these guys a "local" best.

Antony and the Johnsons: I Am a Bird Now: Many of us more intimate with gay club culture have experienced the drag queen diva at the corner gay bar, the plump and proud mistress with eyelashes longer than your arms sauntering about the room with a cordless mike serenading the unsuspecting straight man with a hearty rendition of some love song from Cher's repertoire. While the latest album from Antony manages to capture the drama of that Cher-on-the-edge so central to drag songcraft, but with surprising sincerity and frequently moving honesty. This is a strange album, somewhere between gospel and cabaret, with gothic lyrics and strange vocoder effects. The most moving song is "Hope There's Someone," a melancholic exercise in falsetto and over layered vocalic effects that details the hope born of loneliness better than the last three Morrissey albums combined. A powerful album that is simply hard to peg.

Bloc Party: Silent Alarm: Everyone's doin' that quirky, jangly 80s thing, but the Bloc Party add more soul and British snarl. The Bravery and the Killers suck compared to this 80s throwback guitar-rock goodness. And it has a beat and you can dance to it (especially the extended dance remixes of choice singles that preceded the album). Blows Franz Ferdinand outta the water too.

Kate Bush: Aerial: I go back and forth on this album because as a whole it feels uneven, like Bush has been stockpiling material and then decided to put it all out at once on two albums. As Bush is known for, there is some marvelous songwriting about the mundane here (one song intones the refrain "washing machine, washing machine," but in a way that seems like the death scene of a sad foreign film). Overall the tone is joyfully sad; this two CD set ambles along in hushed tones and crystal clear moans (the production values here are top-notch, akin to the feel of a Peter Gabriel album). On the first CD Bush sings of everyday life, her son, and of missing her mother. By the end of the first CD Aerial is clearly complex meditation on maternity. The second CD coheres almost as a single piece, with laugher and bird chirps weaving together the different songs like parts of a quilt, ending in a sudden crescendo of intense percussion and chanting. Only in this sense does the set work: one CD, a traditional album as a set of songs, the second CD, one long song that builds and builds and builds to a climax. Kate Bush fans will love this CD. Those unfamiliar with Bush will probably liken this to Enya, however, if you listen to Bush's earlier work first, you will appreciate the subtlety of this album (all the winks and nods are not flung in your face like in the early albums). Next to Hounds of Love, I think Aerial is Bush's best. I think it would have been better released as two separate albums . . . but hey, this is not about making money for her (as she's often made very clear).

Depeche Mode: Playing the Angel: I know it's not very fashionable to laud a band whose heyday was 1988, but after two very disappointing albums DM have managed to put out something that is quite good, drawing on their strengths, but not completely abandoning Gore's decade-long obsession with American blues and gospel. "Precious" is the stand-out dance track, haunting, sweet, and subject to endless remixing, while "John the Revelator" is the most clever (and angry) song of the bunch. Probably the best thing Gore and gang have put out since Violator (although Gahan's solo album, Paper Monsters, is quite good).

Fischerspooner: Odyssey: Another band that is unfashionable to praise among new music snobs is the art-school gang Fischerspooner, whose "wake up and smell the artifice" shtick has started to wear on the nerves of some critics. This album received a luke-warm response, which is unfortunate, because it is the sort of subtle electronica that deserves the Eno award for the most-wink-wink-nerdy-shout-outs to 1970s electronica enthusiasts (if you see who all they pulled in to help make this album, you'll also see why). Although the signature fake hand-claps that made #1 so singular have gone the way of the do-do, they've been replaced by [gasp] real instruments, especially the conspicuous addition of guitar, and sweet, calculated harmonies. This is a warmer and smiling album—though at times snide--that nevertheless gives in to the sort of joy banished by their postmodern ethic on their debut. If #1 was a cold, vogue-esque pomo shout-out to the 80s, Odyssey is a warmer, friendly nod to the 70s analog jet set, replete with post-hippie lyrics ("All We Are") and anti-war anthems penned by none other than Susan Sontag ("We Need a War").

The Greencards: Weather and Water: I came out of the closet some months ago to announce I was an "old time" and bluegrass music junkie. Part of my inspiration for coming clean was a good listen to Weather and Water, a fantastic album by Austin's own the Greencards. Though none of the members are native to Texas (or the states, for that matter), they have managed to create one hell of a melancholic, twangy celebration of Kentucky-flavored acoustic songness. This is a sad album, to be sure, with occasional banjo jubilations for a sense of balance. Although it has more of an "adult contemporary" feel than their debut album (think here of Rosanne Cash's accessible country style), it is nevertheless a moving album about love and its loss. The best twang in town, and for my money, of the year.

Iris: Wrath: I admit that I'm biased because the keyboardist is an Austinite and new friend I've made since coming to Austin, but I've been a fan of Iris since the days of "Annie Would I Lie To You?" (that is, the days of the previous keyboardist). This is synth-pop at its most mature, and definitely marks a newer direction for Iris, one that is slowly moving away from the dance-floor and toward the radio. Aside from one of the worst synth-pop lyrics of the year in the bridge of "No One Left to Lose" ("meet me/on your off day/show me where you/cross my lost way"), the lyrics are mature reflections on relationships—pretty standard for synth pop. Reagan's vocals are flawless and fluid, and Andrew's production (and this time around, his guitar) is simply stellar. This is one of those synthpop albums you can listen to at night without a dance-floor around, boarding on straightforward "pop." You can sample a number of the songs here. Andrew reports that Iris has been asked to join De/Vision for their European tour this spring.

Nickel Creek: Why Should the Fire Die?: This is another blue-grass/rock fusion band, but with a difference. Why Should the Fire Die? is a marvelously penned album with swelling melodies and sweet sentiments (except the song "She Can't Complain," which is not very nice, but perhaps true of a lot of two-timin' pigs). "Why Should the Fire Die," for example, is the love song for the year, with male and female voices in harmony to gentle acoustic instrumentation (you can almost hear the fire cracklin').

Archer Prewitt: Wilderness: Prewitt is perhaps most known for his work with the Sea and the Cake, but his solo albums have always received more play in my house. In part, I think I like Prewitt's understated male voice, which is always gentle and never forced, soft, almost like spoken word. I first discovered him, quite by accident, when I bought his first album used thinking it was someone else. I was immediately taken by his hypnotic, modal approach to guitar. His next couple of albums abandoned that approach, but on Wilderness, it creeps back in. This album is marked by sudden, unexpected directions in melody and song structure, and is probably the most cleverly engineered and produced of his catalog. The first track, "Way of the Sun," is a great example of the sort of things he does: the song begins with a gentle acoustic melody, and then without warning, the chorus of "Ave Maria" comes in, blending with the established melody of the song, sort of like a choral sample. It's simply marvelous. The whole album is like this, full of unexpected directions and musical samplings—but continuously gentle throughout. This is a soft album, so don't expect to jam out. Rather, put this on for long, contemplative drives across country, or when you want your lovemaking sessions to take hours instead of minutes.

Martha Wainwright: I have listened to this album over and over and over and over; and this is one of those self-titled CDs that grows on you with repeated listens. It has so grown on me that I have been taking it everywhere and, consequently, already misplaced it! Argh! If any of my peeps finds this disk of mine, please return it immediately. Anyhoo, I first discovered Martha on tour with Rufus, her brother, playing rhythm guitar and supplying back-up vocals. I've seen Rufus three times, and usually he gives Martha few song spots of her own—and every time, she's always stolen the show. Her scratchy but sweet voice is amazing, and having heard the sheer force of it live, one can really appreciate the careful reserve she evinces on her debut album (it's actually not the debut, but her former album and EPs are out of print). Each song is very cleverly penned, and represents a strong woman who has a history of beating herself up . . . and then, of some anger. The way she delivers the songs here reminds me of the voice of Sam Cooke, in a way: she sings softly, her voice cracks, but just beneath the pretty grain there lurks a rage ready to be unleashed. And it is, about three quarters into the album, when Wainwright belts out "You bloody motherfucking asshole" repeatedly (presumably the song is about her father, however, it could just as easily be a lover—or any inconsiderable male chauvinist). Wainwright might be compared fruitfully to Tori Amos, however, her voice is stronger and better, her writing, more urban and less urbane--it is certainly less self-indulgent. Frankly, Wainwright is not pretentious, and her working-class, straightforward way of writing and singing makes this album, above all others, my favorite of 2005.

coming and going, part two: going

Music: Robert Wyatt: Ruth is Stranger Than Fiction I have been knocked out for a few days with a nasty, sneak-attack cold that is just starting dispel, like the clarity of consciousness coming through the parting of a great Snot Green Sea (all hail Zithromax, the Moses of antibiotics!). For a brief moment Wednesday evening, around midnight, I felt the elation of full wellness as the victory of the Longhorns goaded me to barbaric wahoos. I am not a huge sports fan, but my god that game was simply awesome! All the excitement made for a fitful sleep.

My holiday travels have finally come to an end, and although I had fun seeing my peeps, I'm happy to be home. My classes are prepped, and now, there is a little time to relax and play before class begins Monday-week.

I stopped into Baton Rouge for a few days on the drive back from Hotlanta. Last Thursday afternoon I popped by Tracy's to see the little bundle of pooping and sucking, Ms. Sara, with proud papa and starving mama. Dan and Dee were in town, and later that night we supped at the Chimes and got merry. It was good to see them, as well as the ever-growing brood of the LSU mafia.

After napping off a full belly, Jen and Kristine cajoled me into going to "Star 80," the 80s music night the Spanish Moon (that is, "the spoon"). Now, I used to go to 80s night a couple of years ago, but it was sparsely populated and for the most part "dead." This was not the case last Thursday night: I've never seen so many people packed into the Spoon for a dance night! Apparently there is a regular group of "Star 80" stars that danced, sometimes in unison, on the front stage and, toward the end of the night, the Optimus Prime and his cronie transformers made an appearance! It was a lot of fun, and a number of us even got our dance on! It was nice to see a "tradition" had formed around one of my favorite haunts, and I'm proud this tradition involves synthpop.

After a couple of days of power-meals with colleagues and tours of their new homes, I prepared for New Year's eve festivities. Gretchen, Lisa and Hillary hosted a fondue party, with lots of cheeses and oils and dangerous fire-starting sterno that would have made any fire Marshall very nervous. Fireworks were shot (threats by a "concerned mom that she would call the police were made), drinks were had, and in general, things were merry. The evening was capped off by a trip to Thai kitchen for some very hokey karaoke renditions of 80s songs. Overall, it was a good trip, and I look forward to getting back for Mardi Gras in a couple of months.

silly love songs

Music: Death Cab for Cutie: Transatlanticism An indulgent travelogue is forthcoming, but for the moment: I've been reading the blogs of fellow academics reflecting on the past year, and they are often full of melancholy, and sometimes a hint of joy, but mostly they seem to intone we are a miserable lot, and we seem to justify joy by anchoring to the outside. Having no "outside" at the moment, I'm wondering if I am unhappy.

I don't know. Happiness seems to be the antithesis of what I do (that is, get critical and gripe and critique and warn), so I'm still working through what happiness means. I know it does not mean pills, which has caught on among my colleagues more than I ever realized . . . .

But I do know this: the academy is my home for right now, and I think that's going to work—at least for the moment. I've never felt so accepted (nor have I ever felt so attacked, but that comes with the territory I guess). I have not been called "weird" to my face in a decade. I have met more good people and lifelong friends since I started studying to be an academic. My closest friends I met in grad school. I make a difference in the lives of some people (even if it is miniscule). I'm not the dullest tool, but not the brightest (I would say "sharpest," but that would defeat my point), and there seems to be a place for all the tools here.

I suppose the reckoning is that being a scholar means that you have to embrace "boundary trouble." That is, there is no way to forge a divide between the public and private, or what goes on in the classroom, the bar, and the condo. I think I like this. Sometimes I'm not sure, but in general, yeah, I think having done this for almost ten years, the academic label is fine to weather in public. I'm surrounded by weirdos, the socially inept, the geeks in your highschool homeroom, and reformed druggies. I'm at home.

hook 'em

Music: Postgame Chatter

object of fancy, or, tupi or not tupi

Music: Psychedelic Furs: Talk Talk Talk In two weeks Armin Meiwes, a man convicted and sent to prison for eight years for cannibalism, will face retrial in Frankfurt. Back in 2003 Meiwes admitted to eating a man over the course of some months. He placed an ad on a number of Internet websites seeking another man who desired to be eaten. He weeded through "hundreds" of replies to focus on one man who, after writing a will acknowledging that he was dinner that night, went to Meiwes home. They cut off the victim's penis and flambéed it and tried to eat it. " “It was passable, but a little tough," Meiwes said of the dish. "It would have been better braised… and the wine, a Riesling was not at all correct, too sweet, lacking body, next time, perhaps a Pomeral.” Depending on the account, the victim either passed out from blood loss or drank a bottle of cough syrup and passed out, after which Meiwes hacked him up and froze his bits into a number of packages to be eaten over the coming months.

Of course, there's no mistaking where this man took his inspiration: while he claims to have had the fantasy of eating another man for some time, the final push was unquestionably the The Silence of the Lambs and its sequels, which feature a cannibalistic anti-hero who embodies social justice (in the scene of the feminine) by serving up the brains of assholes with a side of fava beans and with a nice Chianti; of course, Hannibal is rabidly heterosexual and, at least in Demme's first of the trilogy, justice rights deviance with the right deviance. In the "real life" version (which is merely an implosion of the scenes of fantasy), the penis is scripted as the organ of delicacy for all those obvious "phallic" reasons, and the men involved are 'mos. Whereas Demme's filmic fantasy is a cleverly nuanced retelling of the so-called Electra Complex, it's hard not to pull out Freud on the totem and incest taboo in order to suggest that the fantasy here is clearly Oedipal, whereupon these men, suffering from the social norms, are feasting on the father. It's like eating Moses, dig?

Now, if you've read this far I know I'm supposed to produce some pithy moral, like how G-dub is serving up Tony Blair, or how Saddamn is not going to eat (his) Western justice, or use this homosocial scene to explain why Melanie Klein was just plain wrong about the material breast in her theory of object relations, but I have to say in this one instance: DUDE! THIS GUY FLAMBAYED THIS OTHER GUY'S PENIS AND ATE IT WITH HIM! OH MY GOD! THAT'S SO FUCKED-UP!!!!

Meanwhile, I'm working on updating and inverting Oswaldo de Andrade's extended argument by analogy, replacing Brazil's colonization with scenes from the U.S. delicatessen.

whack-a-santa, or, displaced oedipal phantasy

Music: Goblin Cock: Bagged and Boarded Look what I gave my parents for Christmas. Look what I made them do to Santa. Look. Witness. Gouge out your eyes in horror.

coming and going, part one: coming

Music: American Analog Set: Set Free Over the past week and in or around three cities, I've been relearning the importance of friendship and brotherly/sisterly love. Emotional memory--yoked to the body and the sensurround of living--isn't as easy to recall for me as it is for actors and artists, but having moved to a new place this kind of memory is much closer to consciousness, and so I've been very grateful for other people. My trip to Minneapolis was refreshing, a kind of recharge of sorts. Mirko and Tim were marvelous hosts. I spent some time with my advisor and his wife, Betty, and we enjoyed a lovely time together eating and talking and catching up. Betty and RL were like my parents--or as they would probably say, like my grandparents--while I was a graduate student at the University of Minnesota.

I next drove to Houston for lunch with my pal and Verizon Goddess Macylicious, then on to Baton Rouge and spent some time with friends and colleagues there. I stayed with my marvelous host Roger Lamar, who provided a clean house and good cheer. I miss my friends very much. I do not, however, miss the traffic that never existed while I lived in Baton Rouge (I mean, it was pretty bad; it took me twenty minutes to get out of a parking lot off of Jefferson Highway, and I was flipped off by a granny who thought I was trying to steal her parking space). I had red beans and rice at my favorite eatery and watering hole, the Chimes. I partied it up at Gary's house for Andy's 35 birthday. I made love to a goat on the roof of a . . . just joshing. No goats.

Someone special reminded me that I get nervous and that it is fun to be nervous (gallery of select images of the visit is here).

I'm now at my parent's home, after a long, nine-hour drive from Louisiana. I'm sitting in the kitchen typing away, while my mother is making breakfast. It's a lovely scene, and cheering, although my feet are cold and the cat just puked a heap of un-chewed food on the rug next to the island in the kitchen (and I'm pretending not to notice; it's not my cat). It's great to be home, although My Father the King has already laid into me about coming home with no one again this year (next year I'm hiring a overweight transsexual heroin fiend to accompany me as my bride).

My drive through Biloxi and lower Mississippi was more moving and difficult than I expected. For more than a hundred miles on I-10, there were thousands of orange bags filled with debris lining the highway; billboards were skeletons of twisted metal; I saw a McDonald's sign, the M of which had become a pretzel; seas of trees were snapped like twigs; and some casino had repaired a series of billboards that read, "we will rebuild" (sign one) "together" (sign two) "we are strong" (sign three) "together" (sign four; and so on). It was unexpectedly moving, and remembering that scene yesterday, I'm reminded of the highlights of my Baton Rouge visit: sitting in the Chimes with my former colleagues and seeing their long, long faces--exhausted, weary, thankful to be done with a semester that never seemed to end; seeing friends at Gary's cheerful, drunk, merry with weariness, and the joy of loving and caring for others when you have nothing more to give. These people love with a vengeance. Is there a way to love with a vengeance without death? I guess not, in the larger scheme of things: it’s the font of literature, if not utterance itself.

Happiness is a worn Gunn, in some sense: driving long distances gives one lots of time to think and recollect. My most pressing concern at the moment is figuring out what to get the parents for the holidays. I've purchased a giant piñata Santa Claus to fill up with small presents. My plan is to make my parents whack him with a miniature Louisville Slugger on Christmas morning to re-engage the Oedipal circuit.

ground zero

Music: Schwefel/Escape with Romeo: German Mystic Sound Sampler Vol. 2 Living in Baton Rouge for three years, I have missed the gothic/industrial music dance scene for some time. In New Orleans my favorite hang, the Kit-Kat club, was closed my first year there, so the Whirling Dervish was the next-best thing, but I didn't get down there frequently enough to make "club friends."

I first started "clubbing" when I was fourteen at the famed Atlanta club Boys and Girls, when I was dragged out by the older and super-hot Cassandra, the sister of my friend David. Anyhoo, back then I started making "club friends," those folks you hang out with usually in the club and nowhere else. It was superficial then, largely a popularity thing. At 32, however, my club friends are older, wiser, much more genuine and fun, and the sorts of people I do end up hanging out with in the absence of a fog machine! (The photo is of Maya and Sasha here; we were in opposite, quasi-rival club cliques back then-- but when you turn 30, club drama is oh-so old! It's like a reunion!)

Friday night Mirko and I went to Ground Zero, a club I used to frequent every week or every other week as a grad student (remember those times, Jenny S-G?). We used to go on Thursdays for "Bondage A-Go-Go." I remember I dated a local Minnesota woman my first year in Minneapolis who was not really exposed to this scene and, after dating six months, I took her to see all the black-clad hotties in fetish gear on "bondage" night. She got nauseous, made me bring her home, and asked me (with sincerity) if I worshipped the devil. "That place is evil," she said. "I hope you don't expect me to dress like that." We broke up two days later--many months before I would have started insisting on the whips, the rubber suits, and viscous fluid wrestling (just joshing!).

Anyhoot, oh, the memories. We went on Friday for "Corrosion," which features a better DJ than the current "Bondage A-Go-Go: Reloaded" on Saturday night. It was a real hoot, although it was not very crowded like it used to be (here's the whole photo gallery. The fun thing about goth nights at clubs is that almost everyone in the club is my age or older. It's the same way at Club Elysium in Austin (and Future in Atlanta, which I went to in October): a lot of us thirty-something kids who wore mascara over a decade ago dancing to drum machines. I wonder what this looks like to someone who never frequented the goth scene: would it inspire the fear and feeling of "evil" my former friend experienced many years ago? Sadly, I doubt it.

Well, it's been a great trip. It has felt a bit like "coming home," especially with the snow and minus ten degree chill last night. I'm heading back home this evening; it will be a long day of traveling. The agenda tomorrow: do laundry, meeting at school, pack car, grab cats, head East.

minnersoter

Music: re-run of a Mad TV xmas spectacular. After two hours of reading about the dueling visions of psychoanalytic object relations theory (the drive people versus the post-Freud Sullivan and Fairburn people), I arrived in Minnesota today and was greeted by 10 inches of fresh snow and a 16 degree slap on the face. Damn! 3.5 years of southern living has thinned my blood, because I found myself telling my host "I'm cold" at the bus stop. Nevertheless, had a good Vietnamese lunch, chilled at the Spy House, met a couple of Mirko's pals, and generally spent the day waiting for buses. Outside. Where it's cold and snowing.

I love it. I miss it.

While Mirko's taking a nap, I thought I would surf and answer email and what not; will be visiting friends tomorrow and Sunday, back to Austin 75 degrees on Monday. It's good to be back in Minneapolis, where I have many fond memories; it seems like it has gentrified so much in four years that it's much more expensive to live here. But they now have light rail from the airport, and the public transportation is still impressive, and I got to revisit the skyways today (some people wear way too much cologne). I'm tired, but tonight, it's gothadustrial dancing (or gawking) at the old haunt, Ground Zero.

that god shaped hole, again

Music: Spectrum: Soul Kiss (Glide Divine) Photos like these help to disclose the abject horror of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." Proof positive that what Althusser called "interpellation" starts young is this year's "Scared of Santa" contest hosted by the Chicago Tribune. Roughly, the idea of interpellation is that the contents of self-consciousness are brought into being by being "hailed" or called or named by "the Man." The Man, of course, is just a figure or an imaginary locus of coercive authority—the very same figuration that Marx and Engels said the Dictatorship of the Proletariat would banish. Seeing these terrified faces (the full gallery is here) serves as an apt reminder that ideological subjectification is never total. Although most individuals accept their subjectification as "natural" and the way of the world, a limited few openly express their hatred of Big Brother in all his forms. These tots should be hailed for their bravery and unwillingness to be a subject of capitalism!

These courageous kiddies understand the true meaning of the Law of the Father: "Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry" is the voice of a senseless, coercive governemntal rationality of self-surveillance (it's like mindlessly turning on your blinker AFTER you've changed lanes on the highway). The only horror worse than succumbing to the red velvet knee in the ecstasy me-me-gimme-gimme is Virginia's realization that there really isn't a Santa Claus in the first place (surely the second Santa displayed here gives lie to that!). Along with Margaret ("are you there God? it's me . . . ."), Virgina represents the willing subject who sees her subjection as "natural," only to realize later that everyone touches themselves and, no, you're not going to hell, and you still have your eyesight! Either you realize the lie of subjection early (Santa is scary!) or later (Santa doesn't exist!).

Revisit, dear reader, the panoptical lyrics of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" against these traumatic photos and you will see just how abusive the Holiday Apparatus truly is! Christmas is not a time of joy, but terror! Oh, the horror! The Horror!

Oh! You better watch out, 
You better not cry, 
You better not pout, 
I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! He's making a list, 
He's checking it twice, 
He's gonna find out 
who's naughty or nice. Santa Claus is coming to town! He sees you when you're sleeping, 
He knows when you're awake. 
He knows when you've been bad or good, 
So be good for goodness sake! So...You better watch out, 
You better not cry 
You better not pout, 
I'm telling you why. Santa Claus is coming to town. Little tin horns, 
Little toy drums. 
Rudy-toot-toot 
and rummy tum tums. Santa Claus is coming to town. Little toy dolls 
that cuddle and coo, 
Elephants, boats 
and Kiddie cars too. Santa Claus is coming to town. The kids in Girl and Boy Land 
will have a jubilee. 
They're gonna build a toyland town 
all around the Christmas tree. Oh....You better watch out, 
You better not cry. 
You better not pout, 
I'm telling you why. Santa Claus is comin' 
Santa Claus is comin' 
Santa Claus is comin' 
To town. . . . . MWWWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!!!

best week ever

Music: The Sea and the Cake: Oui EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY

There was a Homeowner's Association Meeting at the Old Town Condominium Complex Clubhouse at 3:00 p.m. It lasted for almost two hours. I was the youngest person in the room. I've never seen more old people in one place, except at small evangelical churches and at buffet style restaurants. The "board," arrayed behind folding tables in the "front" of the room consisted of a middle-aged man with a lisp, a no-nonsense woman in a suit who was, apparently, "phase 1" representative, a woman in her late thirties with a blue turtle neck sweater (circa 1988), and a short fat man with glasses and cowboy boots with that glaze of stupidity in his eyes. The short fat man, obviously an ex-military type, was the HOA president and brought the meeting to order with a gavel, which he WHACK WHACK WHACK whacked three times so loudly there was an audible gasp from a blue hair and it sounded like gunshots. There was not a quorum, so they "opened the floor" for "discussion," which turned into a glorified bitch session punctuated by the punitive WHACK WHACK WHACK of Der Fuhrer. We broached such important topics as: dog poop and those naughty folks, none of whom were at the meeting, who refused to scoop it; the surprise (for me, at least) $500 insurance bill that will be issued in January; the reason there is no access to the pool restrooms (brown-skinned teens from the "other" complex, of course); and, gee, since its Christmas wouldn't it be nice to have a Jacuzzi for Phase I residents. We kept coming back to the dogs. Said an older African American woman, in her sixties: "look y'all, I never come to these meetings because I like to keep to myself, but more importantly, because there are more things to talk about than dog shit. I left church to come here, can't we talk about something else but dog shit? I mean, me and snauzer, I take care of his business. There's no reason to spend this meeting talking about his business." Another older lady, very thin, balding, stood up to tell us about her roach issues; someone butted in about the raise the HOA was giving to the management company. "If you want to really understand how much Carol Wolf Management does, you should run for the board." "I don't want to run for the board," responded another middle-aged woman (the same woman who wants an exercise room for Phase I residents), "I just want information, and that's why I'm here. Can you tell me what Carol does, because I'm not sure . . . ." Run for the board, they say (everything the board said was either punitive WHACK WHACK WHACK or "run for the board for the answer to your question"). To which someone responded that they have children, and their toddler was tracking in dog shit, which is a legitimate health concern, so let's get back to the dog shit issue. Did I say WHACK WHACK WHACK this lasted for two hours? I would have left, but I felt like I was in the best sitcom ever!

MONDAY, MONDAY

Booked a flight to see Betty in Minneapolis; I leave a week from today, will be back the following Monday, have meetings on Tuesday, then off to Baton Rouge on Wednesday, then Atlanta, then Baton Rouge, then a week and class starts.

But I'm ahead of myself and should be chronicling the behind: Writing, writing, writing. Editing. Finis! Tracy and I finished up our article on the haunting of music in performance. Here's a sample:

In this essay we have argued that, owing to its slippery in-betweeness, music in/as performance is an agent that can "haunt," and we have suggested that performance as such aspires to this condition. We have also suggested that music might be used to negotiate the haunting of difference and the racialized Other. We attempted to illustrate these suggestions with a discussion of Tracy's adaptation of The Secret Life of Bees for the stage. Thinking about the performance as an unending, memorial event—that is, in terms of its many iterations on the stage, on the page, and in the memories of performance audiences and readers—we were led to the conclusion that the music does haunt us, if only in terms of failure. Indeed, failure is a condition of haunting and uncertainty is its ethics. We are increasingly persuaded that letting race continue to haunt as an un-transcendable limit is the route recommended by the false promise of reconciliation often present in popular music. There is no reconciliation, but we try (and should try!) anyway; insofar as music is made, the failure to be made whole—to transcend race or sex—is the starting point that is never realized, to which we can never truly return.

Despite the admittedly frustrating conclusion that we have no conclusion, we can nevertheless identify two important insights: first, as Tracy's use of the music of Motown suggests, music is an agent of its own, even when it fails to perform they way one had hoped it would perform. Music will outwit us, even when we believe we are "in control." Second, and perhaps more importantly, performance aspires to the hauntology of music. We opened this essay with a discussion of Sam Cooke's song "A Change is Gonna Come," which Cooke said "feels like death" to him. We noted that "death" was both a recognition of failure (that the change is not going to come) as well as the hope that this failure could be overcome. Analogously, we advanced a discussion of Tracy's adaptation of The Secret Life of Bees as if it were a song: it is both a moving story that promises transcendence at the same time as it announces its impossibility. In retrospect, then, as with music, the point of the performance was/is not to reconcile Self with maternity or race or even an original violence. The point is to mark out the possibility of joy in the truth of failure. Recognizing or reckoning with the slavery and genocide repressed by Whiteness does not make slavery and genocide go away. The dead should be allowed to haunt, and we should welcome them.

In (false) closing, we would encourage more writing and thinking about and performing with music. As performance studies scholars and practitioners, we have something useful and unique to say about music in/and performance. From our perspective, when we stop looking at music as an object of our study and consider it as an agent in itself, divorced from this or that "persona," new questions begin to emerge. Moreover, by noting that performance aspires to the hauntology of music, we mean to specify music or musicking as the way we approach performance, perhaps even as a term for a new "paradigm" that places hauntology at its center. Musicking is the ghostly center of performance studies, and race and sex are its objects.

TUESDAY'S CHILD

It was movie day in class as we wrapped up a discussion of Hakim Bey's "temporary autonomous zone." I showed clips from Better Living Through Circuitry, a documentary on rave subculture. I tried to have a class discussion, but the students were obviously worn out and ready for a parental recharge.

That night, I started another letter to let the love out; I keep as many secrets as I make. Yes, I still think about you a lot. All the time, actually. And the other You, I think about you too.

WEDNESDAY MORNING, 3 A.M.

I spent the morning trying to decide if Patti Scialfa's newest album, 23rd Street Lullaby was worth the price. I decided it was not. I decided it was too adult contemporary for me, though there are a few tracks that really are good (e.g., "Love (Stand up)"). I decided that Bonnie Raitt still has more heart in her music, even after she made the adult contemporary turn (though, you have to admit: "I Can't Make You Love Me" is a real tear-jerker). Bonnie Raitt is coming to town, and I want tickets. It will be impossible to get tickets. Ministry/Revolting Cocks is coming to town. My dog Roger II said we can get tickets to the latter, no problem.

I cleaned the condo. I read an essay (it wasn't very good). I cooked lunch: an omelet with vegetarian sausage (I live that Morning Star fake sausage; so good). I took a shower. I picked up my allergy meds from Target.

I spent some time talking to my neighbor, M____, whom I love. She was born in 1950, came of age in the 60s, and really, really lived. She said there was a time when it was unfashionable not to have been in an orgy. She married a gay man for residency in a foreign country, and so that he could have it here, and he's an image consultant (the man behind The Human League, she said, and some group called Visage, whom I don't remember). She finished her year-long medication for an illness, and alerted me she can drink again. We're going to get our drink on together, when her husband is back in town (he's working to build up some cash, but is coming home permanently soon), early in the New Year and eat Turducken. Mmm. Turducken.

I didn't get any writing done. Or rather, I blogged.

SNOWDAY!

How does that Garbage song go, I'm only happy when it rains? I agree, I'm only happy when it's complicated, but I'd change the opening chorus to, I'm only happy when it's cold! Hurrah! Last week we suffered more 80 degree days, but for the last three, its been in the 20s and 30s! Freezing rain and drizzled made hell of the roads (there are TONS of elevated highways here, and so . . . ). But the idiots at the university cancelled class, but I didn't know, cause me and Rog were dropping off Blackie (my car) at the dealership for a tune-up and when we got to campus it was a ghost town . . . . Message to students:

Date: Thu, 8 Dec 2005 10:00:40 -0600 (CST) From: slewfoot@mail.utexas.edu To: slewfoot@mail.utexas.edu Subject: [2005_fall_06430_CMS_367] Snow Day!!!!

Dudes and Dudettes,

DJ Joshie Juice here with some directives and what not, hailing from CMA, where it seems like there is a zombie plague 'cause me and Roger are the only cats here . . . (you know, like the beginning of that film, _28 Days Later_).

Okie, so, today's lecture was going to a bang-up funfest about music and value. Because yours truly needs to build a "teaching record" to get tenure (and to make a case for teaching this class as a permanent course) we also were gonna do course evals. Alas! Finally, your last quiz was supposed to be today. We are deprived of all of these wonderful opportunies.

University policy is that our class will be rescheduled for next Tuesday. Now, I realize the last thing y'all wanna do in finals week is come to another lecture. So, I am gonna make you a deal: I will not lecture if you come to class to take your final quiz and do course evals. What I will do is write up my lecture this weekend as an email message, and send it to ya. That way, you can read lecture while you're soaking in a hot bubble bath as the 23 degree winds kill all the plants outside.

So, stay tuned. Unless you hear otherwise, I'm supposing class is the same time and place on Tuesday.

Finally, your group ethnographies are due on Wednesday, at my office in CMA 7.126. If you can get your paper in on Tuesday, you'll get a gold star ;-)

Enjoy your holiday, and if you must drive, PLEASE DRIVE SAFELY. Me and Rog saw, I kid y'all not, over 10 accidents on the way to school. Driving tip: pump your brakes when you are trying to stop (something I learned living in Minnesota).

Yours,

Josh

THE EVE OF DESTRUCTION

Well, I'm at the screen now, obviously. I'm listening to each CD I am inserting into my computer, converting it to my i-Tunes library in mp3 format. Right now it The Sea and the Cake, and we're about to move to Sasha and John Digweed. I've been doing this for the whole semester. I have over 4,000 CDs, so obviously, it's taking some time. But I suspect by the end of January, I'll have them all in my computer. I have a home wifi network, so the idea is basically to turn this machine into a glorified jukebox. It's very cool, I must admit.

Today: lunch at the Campus Club, meeting with prospective student. I'm astonished that so many applicants to our graduate program make it a point to visit and love it up with professors . . . I don't think applications are due until February. I will also admit that putting names to faces probably does make a difference (so if you are one of my peeps applying here or elsewhere for graduate school, try to visit your top choice before the application deadline; and get good GREs, even if you have to take one of those cheating on the GRE classes).

Back to Target. I love Target.

Tonight: dinner with our commencement speaker this year, a former graduate of our program. One thing that is very different about the University of Texas, compared to my stints at the University of Minnesota and Louisiana State University, is that I participate in a lot of wining and dining. This semester, I've been to SIX fancy restaurants on the college's dime; I'm seriously going on a diet January 2, if only to balance the wining and dining that's coming next semester. I mean, I absolutely love the $30 swordfish fillets with fancy mashed potatoes, but one's body cannot sustain that sort of dining with a broken ankle . . . .

Andrew's synthpop band Iris is playing at Club Elysium tonight. He says this is very, very rare. They're gearing up to go on tour with De/Vision in Europe. I love Iris. Tonight is going to be a real (and rare) treat. If you're from Austin, please come to the show tonight. I regret I have yet to meet any "clubbing friends" here, and it's kinda bummin' me out. I mean, Andrew will be behind a keyboard and probably mobbed with fans, so, I'll be standing alone for the show. So come out and tap me on the shoulder and introduce yourself.

10:15 SATURDAY NIGHT

Dunno yet.

measuring up

Music: Psychic TV: Allegory and Self When asked if he would pose nude on a forthcoming album, Enrique Iglesias announced that he would not. "Maybe I have not got the biggest penis in the world," he said to a British tabloid. "Maybe if you had the biggest penis in the world, you would sell records. But I don't. I could actually have the smallest penis in the world out there." Elsewhere apparently he joked that his next product line would not be related to music, but what you do to it: a new product line, perhaps titled "It's the Motion," of extra-small condoms. The interest in such candid admissions prompted Igleisas to reframe the context of his remarks: "It's not true and hurtful to me and my girlfriend." Apparently "it" refers to the claim that Enrique has a small penis, but it's hard to tell. Context, he stresses, is the "out of" he's got himself stuck-into.

From a rhetorical standpoint, Igleisias just destroyed any purchase in (public) masculinity--not when he joked he was small (which, for many of us, is endearing), but when he back-tracked and claimed "regular" status, saying that the tiny-dick snickers were "hurtful" to him and his famously hottie partner, Anna Kournikova (link photo is barely WS: "golly, what's in there?"). The celebrity self-disclosure of insecurity as a form of security only works if you stick to your gun(n)(-s): Shock-Cock-Jock Howard Stern is famous for bemoaning the size of his member, and he never shies away from the disclosure. Over six years ago the lead singer of Sugar Ray, Mark McGrath, got into a "mine's smaller" debate with Stern on the air, creating more media frenzy over "size." The confessional display works only because each man's claim to the phallus is not reduced to the penis; the male sex-right and privilege afforded to those sexed "male" is claimed via the autonomy of success or simply via declaration of independence. For example, McGrath is now a spokesperson and television host, in addition to leading an increasingly INXS-sounding punk/ska troop, proving that it's not the dick that matters; it's the semblance of autonomy that matters. Those readers who followed my "biconic" predictions for Rock Star INXS will recognize--with a yawn--this reading. Similarly, Stern lets it all hang out there--offensive bits and all--while establishing his claim to the phallus. Here is a man who admits to going to psychotherapy four days a week, but who just signed a 5 million dollar contract for a three years on "serious," I mean SIRUS, radio (and just who is he dating?) Stern is like Zizek in reverse, in so many ways.

(As an aside, with winks: the phallus is not a penis; it represents signification itself, complete autonomy, the agency of the signifier or the power to signify as such. Strictly speaking, no one really "has" the phallus—that is the joke, or better, the joke on us. Anything that seems to move on its own accord is "phallic," including cars; for example, they seem to come and go on their own, like in car commercials or in that horrible horror-b, The Car and its cousin, Maximum Overdrive. Newborn babies are also phallic, as are the tummies of expectant moms, and, of course, the penis is too. The joke about the penis having a "mind of its own" is case in point: it moves on its own. So, the parenthetical story here is that in our culture men are associated with the penis because, like their penis, they are supposed to be independent, autonomous, self-sufficient, and so on; the feminine is associated with sensitivity and, therefore, dependency.)

So what do we make of the backsliding Enrique? His comment that the "it" is hurtful is certainly amphibolous. I think the key to the whole mystery is in, as Al Jorgensen has put it, the House of the Mole.

The last time Enrique made page six (or here in the states, now page two) was when he had his "trademark" mole removed in a bloody, five minute operation back in 2003. He reported being astonished that so many people noticed. After weathering the publicity of the mole's removal, he said that it was removed because the doctor warned that could become cancerous (we need to tell Cindy Crawford, I guess, 'cause we don't want her new career as a furniture collection putter-togetherer destroyed by melanoma!).

One is removed because it is too big in public; the other is bemoaned because it is too small in public. None of this has to do with the actual "private," you see: things there are just fine . . . or not, as apparently there is some degree of implosion for Enrique!

Alfred Armstrong points us to an odd book, Moles and their Meaning(1909) by Harry De Windt, which may help us to decipher the secret meaning behind Enrique's public/private protuberances. De Windt claims that " every mole upon the face of man or woman has upon some other portion of the body a corresponding birthmark, the position of which can generally be located with startling accuracy." Based on the position and coloring of Enrique's departed mole, Armstrong points us to the following diagnosis in De Windt: "Denotes misfortune, but only at an advanced age. Youth and middle age shall be peaceful and prosperous. This sign is specially favourable to the knowledge of secret and occult things - a marvellous and intuitive reader of human character." Perhaps his current engagement is the measure of "advanced age," and therefore, the hurtfulness of lack.

What should intrigue us about these popular protuberances--one above, the other, below; one too big, the other, too small-- is that they have come to signify fulfillment of manhood in the popular imaginary. Insofar as the star system functions for us as a screen for projected fantasy, celebrity skin functions to engage us far beyond the register of lust. Enrique is quite a looker, and so the subconscious logic here is that the mole, like the penis, is a measure of prowess (and threat). Like Samson's mane, the removal of the mole threatened to diminish Enrique as a signifier of fully realized manhood at the very moment that what props his status as a bearer of this signifier is the beauty myth, something that has traveled to the male celebrity shortly after the advent of the cinema. In other words: what made Enrique truly a man was that ugly ass mole sitting in the field of a very pretty face; he removed it. That mole signified a lot in culture; now he despairs he cannot find condoms to fit his penis, the "mole that counts." Then he "takes back" his joking desperation. It's that last gesture that undoes him: now he's really a man. No one likes the Real.

mother, choking up

Music: Kate Bush: Aerial There's the feeling and the worry, an inseparable pair: the feeling is that something might burst forth, that thing that lives in a lump in the throat, this sorrowful Self not so much needing to be held as much as needing to express itself as sheer, naked need (alone, not alone); the feeling is that letting this Self issue forth will be maudlin—-the fear is a fear of guilt, of selfishness. This is always the case with death, as countless minds much deeper than mine have made plain (and not so plain): authentic living is a reckoning with one's finitude in a way that is not selfish or self-pitying. Authenticity, in other words, is impossible.

I'm listening to Kate Bush's new double-album, Aerial, which is simply wonderful and at times maudlin but throughout infused with a quiet happiness. The ambivalence is cliché, but obviously truthful, that the underbelly of joy is a secret sadness (and we all have our secret sadness). So hundreds are making a pilgrimage to see the weeping Virgin in Sacramento, to ride the ambivalence and reckon with death and the promise that love is stronger. And my favorite song on Bush's new album is "Bertie," a sad song whose lyrics push up the ambivalence of parenting, the joy and selfishness of the joy another can bring to this sorrowful Self:

Here comes the sunshine Here comes that son of mine Here comes the everything Here's a song and a song for him

Sweet kisses Three wishes Lovely Bertie

The most willful The most beautiful The most truly fantastic smile I've ever seen

Sweet kisses Three wishes Lovely Bertie

You bring me so much joy And then you bring me More joy

I've never really had a problem admitting that I adopt surrogate mothers and fathers when I move to a new place—or that I need them. Thursday I learned that one of my adopted mothers has a voracious, late stage cancer, and that I need to go see her, so I'm going to go see her. I know that everyone has to go through that door, and we have to see people walk through it--usually before we do--and that we share these feelings of ambivalence, and that I'm talking to people as much as I can and crying as much as I can and trying to let that Self come out without letting something like narcissism take over. What can you do when you can only think in circles and feel in waves? You do things, you move, you make the gesture, you make acts of. I can do that, though I perhaps cannot say it very well. And you can give a shit less about things like grading or reading or producing work or blogging or any of the things you normally do to make the secret sadness go away. So I'm going to see her and bring her flowers; I need to help make her joy.

dr. duran, or, dance party three-sixty . . . seven!

Music: Miss Kitten & the Hacker: First Album In CMS 367: Rhetoric and Popular Music, we've been engaging material about the relation between music and space. We've been riffing lately on Henri Lefebvre's distinctions among different types of spaces. For class, a "representation of space" is the idealized space of the status quo, serving those in power. A "space of representation" is a "real" space in which people do stuff, and this doing may or may not cohere with the representation of space (e.g., the representation of space of a music arena is seats, neatly rowed, facing the stage, inclusive of an imaginary scene of people behaving themselves and facing the front, and so on, while in the actual space of representation—especially at, say, a Dead show, few are doing that . . . rather, they're making out, smoking dope, dancing in the aisles, and so on). Last week we discussed "scene" as harboring an odd tension between these two kinds of space. Today, we looked at the "club scene" and the practice of "clubbing" as a "sensual practice" involving atmosphere, tactility, mind-altering substances, beat-submission (as in, dancing to it), and escape via transgression (however illusory).

Anyhoo, so, today was a hoot because we had a CLASSROOM DANCE PARTY to illustrate their reading about the feeling of the beat, but also, how spaces of representation (of "representin'") usually occur within representations of space that were opposed to the practices they harbor. Super-TAs Amber and Roger helped me unload the DJ rig into the classroom. We set the gear up, but didn't turn anything on except for the DJ rig. I began lecture as normal, and worked through a number of musical examples to show how "dance music" evolved from James Brown and Kraftwerk (via Donna Summer). I traced the evolution of the beat from the 70s to the 90s, noting how beats got heavier and heavier as years passed. I demonstrated how all dance music lyrics pulsate around the beat.

I then discoursed on S&M and bondage, and how the practices were similar to dancing, and then dropped the new remix of Madonna's "Hung Up" single. At that moment, as I was talking about the libidinal economy of the dance floor and the politics of submission, Amber and Roger cut the lights and turned on the disco ball and dance globe strobe . . . fog filled the front of the room . . . and students looked truly puzzled. Then, I announced that for their quiz grade today, they would have to dance a little, and they needed to come to the dance floor . . . fog got thicker, the beat got stronger . . . and we danced for the rest of the class period.

Some of the students came down, pretended to dance, and went back to their seats mortified. Others sat and watched, but soon, a goodly throng of gleeful students collected and danced in the front until the end of the period.

It was a total blast. Here is the complete photo-album of the event. I think earning a Ph.D. was worth this little moment of transgression. And, I think, the students will actually remember the reading for today.

We did get busted, however. Here's one of the two complaints we received (I'll note, however, that after I apologized we're all friends now, with no paranoid delusions on either end!):

Dear Professor Gunn, I work in the Dean's Office in the College of Natural Sciences, located in WC Hogg. Unfortunately, we've had several complaints regarding the volume of the music in your T/Th classes. Specifically, one of the Associate Deans, who's office is directly above the auditorium, has reported disruptions. Additionally, the lobby of the Dean's Office is located just on the other side of the auditorium, and we're having problems hearing each other and our callers. Your class sounds like a lot of fun (we all talk about sneaking down there to dance), but we'd really appreciate it if you could lower the volume of the music. Thank you so much. -- S----. Administrative Associate College of Natural Sciences

Next year I'll warn them it's coming, and then maybe, just maybe, they'll join us.

I truly do enjoy teaching, and really appreciate that I get to teach what I want to teach. It is a shame that you can only do that in a college setting (my mind wanders to Ed Youngblood's forced resignation for showing an R-rated movie) . . and it's a shame that, increasingly, we're having to self-censor. Let it be said that every song played in today's sock-hop was the edited, radio-friendly version!

"how are you?"

Music: The Jazz Butcher: Fischotheque . . . is that dreaded phrase from my lady therapist or my mother, but it means differently depending on the mouth of emission, though both are yoked in some strange imaginary I let seep in sleep. The telephone, also dreaded: "how are you?" My grandmother has fallen, again, and two days ago it was more than my mother said she could bear, although apparently it didn't faze the matriarch, who sleeps soundly without pills. Unless she is a therapist, when a mother asks "how are you" she's wanting you to ask. [11/28 edit: Granny is fine; she broke her arm but, as they say, she's "a tough ol' biddie" . . . they are at the doctor as I type.]

I just deleted a journaled rant about a rejection letter from The Quarterly Journal of Speech, because even I tire of my Charlie Brown routine (though I'll gladly email it to you for any "mines bigger" contests). It was a mean letter, and I posted it here in full with my translations, but this morning I thought twice about taking up all that space, and then I decided I would just delete my wound-licking and email the "blind reviewer" directly, so I did to tell him he was a Blue Meanie, and he replied quickly: " I would be honored to talk with you, although I'm not sure what more I can say about my reaction to the essay. My early work often provoked similar reactions . . . . Instead of hunting down the reviewers and chastising them for the 'tone' of their reviews, I learned to take the bad with the good, and perhaps to write with a bit more caution and humility." What word comes to mind? Ah, yes, it is another mouth of emission, the paternal mouth, the womb of the manly-man.

Speaking of wombs, Madonna has hatched another gay-themed album, Confessions on a Dance Floor, although if you see the insert it would have been better titled, Contortions on a Dance Floor, as Madonna's "spread" makes plain she is limber and easily impregnable. The music on the actual album is homologous: it's aural candy that makes you want to, well, dance that sublimation out, if not crawl right back up into the Madonna's womb (it feels, in other words, like a familiar "groove" to get into). The title track, "Hung Up," is the best of the bunch, with a catchy, stand-up-for-yourself dumping song that stresses the futility of waiting for love's severity. I can witness [sound of handclap]. This is supposed to be a "continuous mix" album, but each song is disappointingly discrete and sorta-half-ass moves from one song to another, so, therefore, it will be remixed into a remix album. I am just as anxious to see the photo insert on that one; will Madonna's toned legs sprout from her forehead? Regardless, each beat is an emanation of Ein Soph . . . . ommmmm---ha!

Speaking of remixes and paternity, Nick and Jessica have officially split up. It ruined my Thanksgiving because I was imagining how sad Nick must be to have realized that beauty, like love, is not enough and no matter how strongly you believe that other men (and women) envy you, in the end you are a vicariousness machine. You are a function and you function for us because no one really wants a Jessica, they just want to believe that they want a Jessica and you, dear friend, get to sustain that fantasy (I've yet to meet any individual who would want to be a Jessica, neither). Now what, Charlie Brown?

"How are you doing?" It's Sunday morning for Christ's sake.

en loco idiota

Music: The Today Show The Latin and Greek rooting of "idiot" is idios, which means "own," or "private." Idiota thus originally referred to a "private person" or simply one who didn't get out all that much. This is why the word evolved into, first, someone who was mentally handicapped (e.g., s/he could not get out side of him or herself, like being trapped inside one's mind) and then, simply, someone who is ignorant or stupid. An idiot is literally a tragic fool--an individual who does stupid things because they limit themselves or simply haven't been exposed to "the world at large." Hence the title of Green Day's fantastic come-back album, American Idiot, which not only refers to our Commander in Chief, but the way in which ignorance about the world at large leads to supporting state-sponsored violence.

In the airport on Sunday waiting to go home, I spoke to my mother and we talked about Ed Youngblood, a 62-year-old high school teacher who resigned after pressure from an idiotic school board. "I thought you would want to know," said my mother, "since you always spoke so highly of him. Maybe you can write a letter." I wept. Ed is one of my favorite high school teachers and first academic mentors. I had AP English with him as a senior at South Gwinnett High School back in 1991 and 1992. Since that time, Ed and I have stayed in touch, first by writing letters all through college (we both were into stamps), and later in grad school, via email. For many years in a row we drank beer together at Moody Blues concerts at Chastain Park. Until the last few years, I usually had a meal with Ed when I came home. Last holiday break we had lunch in 2002, he had just retired and opened an antiques business with his wife, also a retired teacher. After popular demand he was asked to return to South Gwinnett to teach a half-load of AP classes. He came back because he was so highly regarded as one of the few teachers who actually taught; it was common knowledge that Youngblood taught his classes like college, and that if you took one, you'd be prepared. I have to say along with my Latin teacher, Ed was the best teacher I had at South Gwinnett high school because he taught you how to think outside of the box--how to avoid idiocy.

Last Wednesday Ed was pressured to resign at South Gwinnett after a controversy involving the film Elizabeth, which he showed to his AP British Literature class. Apparently the film "shows nudity" (I don't recall that--Elizabeth I was the Virgin Queen, right?--but I have not seen it since it came out in the theatre). Apparently the parents of a student got upset and raised a stink. Apparently Ed did not follow the proper procedure for getting the film "approved," although Ed had taught for 37 years and never had a problem (he had shown this film before, too). The school board pressured him to resign, they claimed, not because the film is necessarily offensive, but because parents did not have the opportunity to extract their virgin-eyed brood from seeing powdered breasts.

There are so many things I could and want to say about this, but it really reduces to the righteousness of conservative idiocy. Since the ascent of evangelical Christianity to popular consciousness (it has always been there--but it was just beneath the surface in respect to mass awareness), those who would fiercely police the false divide between "public" and "private" have become increasingly righteous in respect to their right-to-idiocy (often defined in terms of "negative liberty," except when it comes to prayer in school, teaching "intelligent design," and other religious imperialist causes). On another blog a self-identified "conservative" said that the firing of Ed had more to do with "liberal pedagogy" and the righteous liberal push to "do away with grades" and remove power from teachers . . . which is ludicrous but, of course, reflects how closely the Righty-Right and Liberalism are aligned. Nevertheless, keeping in mind Ed taught college level classes in a high school setting, we could explain the success of these righteous parents in terms of their failure to recognize the purpose and function of an education in the humanities: to expose the student to the world of ideas, art, and science that exists outside the narrow confines of the private home. The resignation is symptomatic of what public high school has become: a glorified babysitter, idiocy incubator, and hormone containment system.

I feel bad for Ed, and for the students, parents, and especially teachers, who understood what he did and represents. And I worry that, having had parents call my principal and complain about, pretty much, the same thing (although it was my mouth, not imagery, that stirred the ire of college parents; see my post here), this trend is going to continue on up the line: the culture wars are alive with the sound of idiocy. Academic freedom is eroding. And the apocalyptic tone of the humanities continues . . . .

PS: The CEO/Superintendent of South Gwinnett's High School district is J. Alvin Wilbanks (click name for webpage and writing address), and the phone number of the school board is 770-963-8651, should you want to call and write a letter. It is my understanding that the school admin itself largely supported Ed, and that it is the school board who pressured Ed to resign--you know, those elected officials who usually have never taught in a friggin' classroom, the same sorts of people who think more aptitude testing "is the answer."

PPS: An interesting story on junior faculty blogging, its potential threat to one's tenure case, and the possibility of a "peer reviewed" blog (oh, give me a break!). The case is made that blogs are sometimes read as sucking time away from writing for more legitimated forms of publication; it should be mentioned that, since I amped up my blogging, I've spent much less time responding to email (viz., folks find out "how I'm doing" by reading this instead of sending a query).

the theory thing, or, perform or else!

Music: Fischerspooner: #1 I'm flying high above some place south of Boston on my way to Dallas. It's a long flight, and eventually I'll end up porting a DVD (it's a choice between Spirited Away or Wild at Heart, but now that I think about it, this screen is huge and the Lynch film has some naughty bits; on my last flight from Atlanta I was watching the original Amityville Horror and my neighbor got nervous during the gratuitous sex scene, you know, the clichéd fucking that starts the fucking . . . though my neighbor didn't flinch when the blood starting gushing from the stairwell, because she was down with those evangelical Christian family values). Ruth is in my row to my right, Michael is two rows back, and Trish is right behind me, but we've adopted the proper in-flight etiquette by isolating ourselves in self-absorbed bubbles of post-convention weariness.

While I loathe traveling, once I saw my friends I forgot about undisciplined toddlers and airplanes. I have never laughed harder at a NCA convention; apparently I've never appeared so relaxed. It was busy as hell and I had more meetings and panels than I could truly handle, but afternoons and evenings with friends in the bars were good for the soul.

The preconference was good but loooooooooooooong. If I had the time to do my reading I'd have had an easier time understanding what was at stake in some of the discussions; regardless, I did learn a lot. Parties were big and tiring after anything more than 20 minutes (and as the conservative "economic stimulus" packages continue to produce constipation, the number of parties with free booze continues to dwindle). As far as paneling goes, I have discovered how to make NCA tolerable, and its name is "performance studies."

Speaking of performance, or better, Jon McKenzie's invective and demand, "perform or else!--Trish passed up an interview with Jean Baudrillard in The New York Times Magazine. I read it to the sound of the filtersweeps of Fischerspooner's "L.A. Song," which I would recommend for reading any of Baudrillard's more recent writings. The philosopher appears smirking, standing in un-pressed pants and a sport coat, looking at the camera with his eyes yet with is face coyly cocked to the left, his left hand lifted to the back of his neck. He is cute. In what is apparently an email exchange, the author function asks questions in boldface, and the responses are overly and obviously intended as predictable:

There are no more French intellectuals. What you are calling French intellectuals have been destroyed by the media. They talk on television. They talk to the press and they are no longer talking among themselves.

Were you a friend of Susan Sontag? We saw each other from time to time, but the last time, it was terrible. She came to a conference in Toronto and blasted me for having denied that reality exists.

Some here feel that the study of the humanities at our universities has been damaged by the incursion of deconstruction and other French theories. That was the gift of the French. They gave Americans a language they did not need. It was like the Statue of Liberty. Nobody needs French theory.

Baudrillard is deserving of the size of his name. (Ok, so, now the guy in front of me decides to recline his chair--as if two f%$#ing inches makes any discernable difference, asshole--and now my computer is closing, so I'll have to resume this in Dallas or Austin).

Where was I? Oh yes, Baudrillard gave 'em what they wanted--he gave them much more, too. He is a good role model of how to fund your thinking for a living via branding. Of course, it's important to underscore you don't always have to be the brightest (there's room for everybody, even people who study--how did that student put it who approached me at the Georgia State party--"weird stuff, like S&M, you know"), nor need you ever be clever when the institution that funds you is only interested in your brand. So smoke me, and I'll dance a little, but I'll only think aloud and laugh with friends at the bar or over dinner (or at a French café). As Sam Cooke would say, "that's where it's at": no posturing, no too-hard-to-really-think-about-in-ten-minutes papers, no theory territory police with their pomo/post-o-meters, no realty-denier bashing. Nope, at the convention bar or in a taxi or at the airport Burger King it's just, "Have you read that interview with Baudrillard in The New York Times Magazine?" How many times can you parody yourself parodying yourself before it stops being true?