recovery

Music: Meat is Murder (1984)

If I were to pass away tomorrow for some reason and had the luxury of deciding how I would be remembered, I think something like this would be nice: "Josh was a kind person, a good cook, a decent scholar, a great teacher, a closet romantic, but . . . he threw really awesome parties!" I think last Saturday night qualifies as an awesome party, and few things make me happier than seeing people having a good time. We ate. We drank. We danced. (They smoked). We slept with smiles on our faces.

The evening started off with a casual pre-party with fellow assistant colleagues (once you graduate to associate, you get excluded like Rudolph). Then waves of people bearing food rolled in. Then we danced. Crowd pleasers included the electro-house remix of Tegan and Sarah's "Back In Your Head" and various remixes of "Four Minutes" by Madonna. It if anything was going to hail the cops hither, it was the 1:30 a.m. "Come On Eileen" sing-along. I knew this playing this song would cheer folks, but I had no idea it was going to be the party's anthem. Ok, so, if you are an Eileen, the party people want you to come on, big time!

A gallery of the evening is here. couldn't make it this year? Well, you'll just have to come to the Halloween costume party in the fall. Mark your calendar for traveling: Halloween falls on a Friday this year!

outraged by obama's outrage

Music: Mansun: Kleptomania (2004)

My oh my, what whiteness has wrought.

Just in case you've been living under a rock: yesterday Obama held a press conference in which he "publicly divorced" himself from Reverend Jeremiah Wright or, as one reporter put it, in which he "threw Wright under the bus." I recognize my blog has not been a hospitable place for those of you who disagree with my reading of this pickle. I understand, for example, that the MSM believe that people in "rural North Carolina" are not smart enough to understand that the equation, Obama = Wright, is a false one. I understand that many reporters believe that Obama "is facing the biggest crisis of his 16-month campaign" because of Wright's remarks. I very much understand the rhetorical and political necessities of a campaign in postmodernity. I get it, I promise.

What I don't get, however, is what it is that Wright said the day before yesterday that qualifies as "outrageous." According to Obama:

At a certain point, if what somebody says contradicts what you believe so fundamentally, and then he questions whether or not you believe it in front of the National Press Club, then that's enough . . . . That's a show of disrespect to me. It is also, I think, an insult to what we've been trying to do in this campaign.

A fair series of statements if Wright said something offensive, but: what exactly did Wright say that merited such a rigorous and angry repudiation? What did Wright argue that merits such outrage? I listened to the speeches, I read the transcripts. I also believe I have some grasp on my government's atrocities (Indian removal, slavery, Japanese internment, Jim Crow, etc.).

I urge everyone to watch the reports and read the papers closely for the next week: only one story that I have encountered thus far specifies what exactly Wright said that is worthy of outrage. Obama did say that one remark he vehemently disagreed with was the (presumed) suggestion that the U.S. government is "involved in AIDS" to target the African American population: "But when he states and then amplifies such ridiculous propositions as the U.S. government somehow being involved in AIDS ... there are no excuses. They offend me. They rightly offend all Americans and they should be denounced." I cannot find, however, a place where Wright made such a proposition on Moyers' show, at the National Press Club, or at his talk with the NAACP.

One is tempted to misquote Queen Gertrude here, but I'll avoid that complication for a plain observation: Obama is, first, objecting to the affective tradition of black vernacular (he described Wright's talking as a "performance" and "spectacle," two very important key terms). If he does get the nomination, expect there to be pressure for him to denounce hip-hop wholesale too. He is objecting to a radical emotiveness, in a sense, no so much meaning or something said in the semiotic order; his "outrage" is aimed at the fun and intentionally fanatical flight up and down the paradigmatic axis, the associative and poetic, the lyrical. Surely I'm not the only one who smells the irony of Obama's condemnation.

Second, Obama is outraged that the Rev. Wright spoke at all. It would seem so too are the pundits in the MSM. The message is very clearly, "why didn't this guy just shut-up and go away?" The suggestion that Wright---who has done nothing wrong or said nothing that is in point of fact offensive---must shut-up is outrageous to me.

Three more observations: publicity is its own beast, although strangely, we feed it routinely. Those who would muffle Wright are the same who court the megaphone. Publicity is fed, but it cannot be controlled. I must think about this more, but Clinton's chief strategist and fuck-up Penn comes to mind . . . .

Second: Obama's political desperation yesterday and his crumbling beneath the pressure has me changing my mind. I found his over-the-top outrage at Wright (ok, let me clarify: I found the MSM reporting his outrage over-the-top and something like an amplification; fuck Tim Russert who said this was the most remarkable break-up in "fourty years of Presidential politics") detestable, insincere. Frankly: I am not for Clinton or Obama anymore. I'm firmly anti-McCain, and this shall remain my position on the democratic nomination.

Third: Wright for President! Who's with me?

america's chickens, or, more wright trouble

Music: Ikon: On the Edge Forever (2001)

Right before I went to bed last night I watched Nightline, once a staple in my television diet but something I promptly rejected when the show went from talk to tabloid (a Disney move, of course). I've actually started watching the show because the lead story is usually something akin to hard news (I stress something akin). Last night I saw a story that made me so mad I had to take a sleeping aid.

As some of you know, Jeremiah Wright has recently decided to make public appearances to both explain his decontextualized remarks and defend his church's congregation, who rightly feel they have been mistreated by the MSM. He first appeared on Bill Moyer's Journal last week ( video is here and a transcript is here). I would encourage the rhetorically-minded to watch the interview for two things especially: (a) the defense of African American vernacular in terms of the "tradition of the Black Church" (synecdoche); and (b) the full contextualization of that fiery sermon that was turned into so many fragments, recontextualized, and recirculated (what my friend Matt McGlone terms "contexomy"). The "America's Chickens Have Come Home to Roost" sermon, for lack of a better title, is powerfully moving and Moyers shows a long hunk of it. It would be great to get a transcript of this sermon not only for teaching purposes, but for a nascent essay I have brewing backstage.

Part two of Wright's publicity campaign was a frank and fun talk at the National Press Club in DC, where it is obvious he was very well received (Jerz pointed me to C-Span's website, where you can view his remarks in their entirety—go to the bottom of the page and select the appropriate drop-down menu). Again, Wright delivered the thesis he advanced on Moyers' show, but with more humor and force: "This [news coverage] is not an attack on Jeremiah Wright . . . . It has nothing to do with Senator Obama. It is an attack on the black church launched by people who know nothing about the African-American religious tradition." And there you have it: you idiots don't understand the black vernacular tradition, and you're reporting on it without any history, with a sense of political amnesia (e.g., how King's oratory was truly received in his time), and with no background whatsoever.

Last evening Nightline, however, ignored what Wright actually said and chose, instead, to argue that "Wright's tour couldn't come at a much worse time for Obama." WTF? Why? Because they "risk offending white voters." What offends white voters is misreporting Wright's comments and insinuating the man is an anti-patriot and racist, for which there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever. Quite the contrary: if you watch the "America's Chickens" sermon, what you find is a compassionate man who is deeply patriotic and therefore outraged by our government's list of atrocities against humanity. The sermon brings tears and remorse, and it says nothing about white people. As I continued to watch Nightline I as simply astonished: the report, delivered by some Brit (!) and apparently written by Nedra Pickler of the Associated Press, uses Wright's appearances to argue that his sharing his views and mind is hurting Obama's campaign. Having listened to Wright's remarks, I would argue Wright's remarks only hurt the Obama campaign if the MSM frame it as doing so, and that's precisely what the Nightline piece did. I think I share Murph's outrage now at ABC and would agree that the company does seem to be biased as far as candidates are concerned.

I generally disregard paranoia-speak. And while I am supporting Obama myself, I will again assert I will stand behind whomever ends up being the nominee. I despair, however, that ABC's reporting has become so biased and downright stupid. If Wright is making the case that White America does not understand the tradition of the Black Church or its signifyin' hermeneutics and homiletics, why isn't that getting researched and reported on? Because, of course, the more interesting story is scandal---and the MSM are creating it. "Yeah, Josh," you say, "same as it ever was." Well, I know that this is nothing new. The increasingly and explicitly bald way in which the MSM is creating (political) realities, however, is astonishing and angering.

More soapboxing on Rev. Wright here and here.

shaman-rama ding dong

Music: Madonna: Hard Candy (2008)

My resolution for the new year has been to do things that I would otherwise not ordinarily do. This decision includes many things, some of which should remain secret, as well as responding positively to invitations I normally would turn down. The first thing I did this year that is "not me" was poetry: at the urging of friends who are or who regularly write poetry, I did a poetry workshop for the semester. It was a lot of fun, but I readily acknowledge I did not discover my inner muse. I discovered I like complexity and that my poetry is "intense"---not quite the level of Vogon, so at least my poetic self is somewhat humane.

Quite spontaneously, an acquaintance invited me to join a shamanistic journey work circle. I remembered my resolution and said, "I'd LOVE to!" I will not go into the details of everything I learned today, just the gist: I’m learning "core shamanism," which is sort of a no-frills, no drugs version that is solely about the "journey." Today's five hour session was about the "lower world," one of three in this cosmology. The lower world is mostly occupied by non-human animals and is pure and harmonious. So is the upper world, except it is usually peopled by spiritual guides and is "ethereal." The "middle world," where you and I mostly subsist, is where the shit is, as well as some good stuff unavailable in the upper and lower worlds (so, yeah, it ain't Platonic). In core shamanism, you travel below and above and, if very experienced, can muck around a bit in the middle-spiritual world. In today's session we descended to the lower world.

I must admit I was pegged immediately as a "non-believer" and chided a bit for that, but for the most part I kept an open mind and I think when I left today folks were "cool" with me. I must also admit my "spirituality" is pretty hippy-dippy-pantheism-agonistic-if-god-exists-its-beyond-my-capacity-to-deal . . . uh, I'm a Mason. But today's experience was different for every one in the room, and that's "reality"---an experience with frames. We actually got into a little constructivism talk today, which I appreciated. Since my therapist likes to pull out a little guided meditation every now and again, the "journeying" wasn't foreign at all.

So what did I learn today? Well, no surprise here: I learned that my "power animal," the spirit assigned to me at birth to guide me through my life's journey, is a goat. I met him in a rather mundane place (a farm) and after he pooped and said, "here's your medicine" he looked me in the eye, seemed to grin, and then said, "you need to eat more."

"Uh, I think I've been eating a bit too much lately," I says.

"Stop cooking for other people."

reviewer profiling

Music: The Surreal Life (season 3/2003)

Yesterday I finished reviewing my tenth essay as a peer reviewer for the academic year. Given that I reviewed twice this many last year, I see this as a huge improvement to my quality of (academic) life. Nevertheless, as I was reviewing my second article for the day, I couldn't help but think of my presentation tomorrow: a talk to our grads on the "revise and resubmit" that will include a humorous profiling of reviewerly types. What type am I? My talk will begin with a description of what happens in the review process (replete with some screen shots of the manuscript reviewing program many of our journals utilize). I'll then briefly discuss the dreaded "rejection" and what it means. Finally, I'll turn to a discussion of what to do when one gets a "revise and resubmit" from an editor.

As I noted, part of my discussion will involve (folk) psychological profiling, which I hope is both useful and a little entertaining. How does one make sense of the personality behind a review? Can one "profile" reviewers to help her in the revision process? I think so. I'd like to share some of the personality profiles I've developed to make sense of the reviewers of my own work. Obviously the easiest are the extremes; it gets harder when one has a reviewer that is, er, not extreme.

First, one's profiling depends on whether or not the blind reviewer is "inside" or "outside" the field, and by "field" I mean Communication Studies. Owing to a host of historically-rooted anxieties, in general reviewers from within the field are prone to a general insecurity that permeates the field, which can result in overly zealous reviews, sometimes a bit of show-boating. Now, I recognize because I like to muck around in theoretical mud, there may be more showboating in my reviews than is normal. Nevertheless, I do think reviewers inside the field are harder to please than reviewers in related fields. That said, here's some personality profiles particular to communication studies that I've encountered:

The Naysayer: Nothing of quality or interest has ever been published in the field, and your essay is no exception. Communication Studies is a sub-par and parasite field, and your essay continues this horrible, alien existence. The Naysayer wanted to be a philosopher or studied comparative literature, but reluctantly took a position in Communication Studies out of necessity. S/he is bitter about being in Comm, and will take it out on you---especially if you take up concepts from high theory or philosophy.

The Gusher: If you're lucky enough to get a gusher, you'll recognize him by the very brief but highly complimentary review. This reviewer is often someone you cite in your essay approvingly, or at the very least someone who strongly identifies with your line of research. Alternately, the gusher thinks your essay is "good enough" and would just like your essay to go away. This kind of reviewer is rare; sometimes they admit who they are and offer to buy you a drink at the next conference. The Gusher is typically either a narcissist or deeply hysterical. Don't worry about this reviewer for a revision; he or she is pleased and anything you do will make him or her happy.

The Assassin: If you're unlucky enough to get an assassin, you'll recognize her by the way in which absolutely nothing is redeeming about your essay. In fact, the assassin will insist your work is the worst thing she has ever read and is embarrassed for the field that you submitted it in the first place. The assassin will accuse your work of "destroying the field." The assassin doesn't like anything that crosses her desk. The assassin is usually male, older, and white and particularly hostile to a feminist or queer anything. Editors keep these people on their boards to quickly kill off a manuscript they want killed off. You will not be invited to revise and resubmit if you get an assassin, so you should totally ignore what they say about your work.

The Turf Pisser: This reviewer is convinced no one reads such-and-so a theorist (Burke, Lacan, Barthes, and so on) better then they do. Although they have probably only read one work by the theorist, they are convinced they hold the Skeleton key and that you have approached the wrong Door of Understanding. This reviewer asserts a given theorist must be read as they read them, and that you are an embarrassment to Such-and-So studies. Of course, the Turf Pisser is deeply insecure and is using the review as an opportunity to Show Boat. If you get a Turf Pisser, acknowledgement of the validity of their perspective will go a long way to getting your review accepted. In your response letter, stroke this reviewer and thank them profusely for correcting your gaffs. If you can figure out who this person is, cite their work in your revision. Whatever you do, do not challenge the Turf Pisser's authority.

The Empath: This reviewer is super rare. This person finds potential in your essay, strokes you on the things you do well, and has very helpful suggestions for fixing the things you don't do well. This person is usually older and imagines you are either a graduate student or beginning junior scholar and sees reviewing as an opportunity to help you---and the field---along. Basically, the Empath is like the late Janice Hocker Rushing: she was raised in a strong supportive family, has amazing, supportive colleagues, and sees the good in everyone. Crap: how I miss Janice!

Well, I'm think I’m getting weary and need to prep for school today (meeting after meeting, topped of with shots for Birthday Boy DJ Smokehouse Brown). I'd love to hear of other reviewer profiles that I might share with students today!

unwriterly week (so let's party)

Music: Stephen Duffy & the Lilac Time: Keep Moving (2003)

I am having one of those dreadful working weeks: I have a list of six things that need to be written, but somehow I have managed to twitter to hump day with nary a sentence. Part of the inability to write has to do with winding-down: after all that traveling, it's just hard to sit still and focus. I garden. I work out (hello again, free weights; hello again, murmuring soreness). I run errands. I create new recipes with the slow cooker. But writing, oh writing: I cannot seem to muster any mustard. I might have move it to the coffee shop to force myself through to writing.

The most pressing project: finish the essay with Dana on The Secret. She's given me some incredible notes on the DVD; I need to do my part. Today if I can eek out a paragraph I will not feel so guilty.

Meanwhile, after dithering over whether or not I should continue my now ten-year tradition of throwing a Walpurgisnacht/May Day party, I've gone ahead and decided to do it. I've not been to a party since Valentines . . . a party would be good. Dancing would be good. So: party at my place on May 3rd, nine-ish. If you can be here, you're more than welcome. Please dance and don't forget to tip the DJ . . . .

hang-ups

Music: Stereolab: Transient Random-Noise Bursts With Announcements (1993)

I just saw a commercial in which a weary woman in a business suit says, "I've not had a vacation since the third grade." I resemble that sentiment. I'm finally home for about a four-week stretch after many travels. This semester is the first time I've had off (including summers) for over ten years, and so I semi-deliberately tried to cram all my traveling wishes into 2008: Tempe and Phoenix, Denton and Fort Worth, Baton Rouge and New Orleans, Washington DC, New York, State College and College Station. Next up is Seattle for RSA, then Atlanta to visit the family, then Chapel Hill to hang with some friends, then a month off before a visit to Madison, Wisconsin in September, Fayetteville, Arkansas in October, and San Diego for the National Communication Association meeting in November. (I still want to go to Six Flags in Dallas . . . who wants to join me this summer?) By the time the religious holiday season is upon us, I will have been to thirteen different places. I normally do not consider myself someone who enjoys travel, but because most of these visits were for fun (with a little bit of research on the side), it's been quite enjoyable.

One of the things that enabled me to travel was "talking": if I could get a buddy at a university to host me as a speaker for this or that event, then I could find reimbursement for traveling one way or another. I also decided to do a bunch of guest talks thinking that I'd be going up for tenure in the fall, and in general it looks nice when you've been invited to share your work with another department. So here's a related question: how many times can one give a certain pre-packaged talk before ethically it needs to be hung-up and put away? When is a talk warmed-over? When, in other words, should one retire an old talk and create a new one?

The talk I've been giving for almost a year and a half is titled variously "For the Love of Communication" or "For the Love of Rhetoric," depending on the audience. The talk actually started here in 2005, on the blog, as a series of sketches for an essay I wanted to write (and yes, DB, the sketch did begin as I was going through a particularly painful break-up). It became a talk for a pro-seminar for entering graduates here at UT, and then metamorphosed into a keynote address for UNT's annual spring conference. I subsequently delivered shorter versions at the University of Minnesota in Duluth, at Arizona State University, Penn State, and two days ago, Texas A&M. Insofar as the essay upon which the talk is based will be published in The Quarterly Journal of Speech in about three weeks, the talk is effectively retired. I must admit it's a bit sad to let the talk die: it offended people so badly they left the room in a huff; it had people laughing so hard at Denton I didn't have to buy my drinks the whole weekend; it divided audiences. It was a fun talk to give. But, I think publication is its proper death knell.

My colleague Mark Knapp disagrees. At lunch last week he said often when one is invited to give a talk, folks want to hear what they are familiar with. He said he and Frank Dance often gave talks from published material that was years-old. Nothing unethical about that, he said. The same jokes were told over and over, but they were still funny. "People want to hear the author deliver the argument." Hmm.

So what do folks think? I was operating under the assumption that once a talk is published as an essay, it should be retired. I still think that's the right way to go about it. Any other opinions?

Also, one thing this year's travels has taught me is the importance of having a talk in your pocket. Once you're out of graduate school for about five or six years---that is, around the tenure years---you and your buddies are in a position to finagle for visits. Right now I'm scheming to get some of my buddies to come and talk to my class this fall. I have schemed with other buddies to come and talk to their classes. The problem with all this "free" visiting is that you gotta have something to share. Since I'm retiring the "love talk," this summer I have to develop another talk to share. I think I will try and develop my EVP/backmasking essay into a talk, 'cause it has a high show-and-tell factor (that essay has been accepted for publication too, though, so any talk developed from it will also have a pretty short run).

The "love talk," incidentally, was retired at Texas A&M at a nicely attended colloquy. In general I think it went old kinderhook. I'm not terribly smart on my feet, I must admit, but most of the questions I had at least half-baked answers to assuage. What was more fun, though, was the visit with buddies at A&M and all that this entailed! Jenn M. and Yogita toured me the Carter family plot, a sort of hidden paean to the "largest slave owner in Texas" prior to the Civil War. The shrine was admittedly bizarre, right down to the "evolutionary" depiction of progressive travel (note the most advanced mode of travel is a Winnebago!) and the odd "is he a slave or not?" and penis-less sculpture-in-the-weeds. Gallery of the tour is here.

Happy Hour after the talk was fun, but nothing beats an evening rounded out at the local VFW in Bryan singing country-western karaoke! Since I was retiring the love talk, I actually sang a duet of "Islands in the Stream" with Tracy. It was quite embarrassing and thoroughly terrible (and I was much too sober). One of Christopher's philosopher buddies, dude named William, did the most effing' brilliant version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" I have ever heard! At evening's end I wanted his autograph and developed a guy-crush. This macho dude with a ponytail wearing a biker outfit literally got on his knees and bowed after that rendition of Steve Perry greatnes. All of this in smoky VFW with drunk bubbas and bubbettes woo-hooing and having a grand ol' time. Triumpantly, she reminded me that this is Jenn's world. It was an awesome finish to a semester of travels. (Gallery here.)

bluff your way as an academic

Music: Nine Inch Nails: Ghosts I-IV (2008)

My advisor is fond of saying that all academic departments began with the following statement: "in the beginning there was the error." I also think we should add another statement as the one which sustains a department: "our field is in danger of erasure," or alternately, "Such-and-So threatens the field" (e.g., "cultural studies," "sloppy operatinalization," "high theory,""inattention to pedagogy," "Dilip Gaonkar"). As I was responding to comments on a previous post, I think I am ready to add a third statement to the academic enterprise: "It's more complicated than that!" Now, I have finally happened upon a trinity of academic bromides that we can teach to any aspiring academic:

• In the beginning there was the error.
• Our field is in danger of erasure.
• It's more complicated than that.

"In the beginning there was the error" is a sort of retrojected mythic moment; it has always-already been there. It will remain. It will be restated. There is little we can do about this moment of utterance, as it was a necessary moment. Elsewhere I have written about the perils of the apocalyptic, sustaining statement too: "our field is in danger" seems monotonous and often becomes a principle way in which people and their ideas get rejected or excluded. I find "our field is in danger" both necessary to encourage certain actions and dangerous because of its built-in exclusions. "Our field is in danger!" is the utterance of contracting, what must be said in order to collect others into some sort of pact or agreement. Therein is the danger with the second.

But what of this third statement, "it's more complicated than that?" The phrase is usually the opening gambit of most essays in the academic humanities, and this morning I joked we could probably rechristen most departments as "The Department of It's More Complicated Than That" and function just as well. Yet I think the phrase sometimes becomes the tool of abuse, and more recently, the key technique of the academic troll.

As some of you know, a troll is Internet slang for someone who baits or attempts to get an emotional rise among folks in an online community. My colleague Dana Cloud gets troll emails all the time (and amazingly, sometimes she can bring 'em around). In general, the online rule is "don't feed the troll." The reason you ignore or don't respond to the troll is because they don't shut-up, keep coming back, and so on.

The issues with academic trolling are more difficult to discern. Here's the set up: I post something on my blog that is designed to be provocative. Someone posts the (obvious) response: "But Josh, it's more complicated than that." Well, of course the issue I blog about is always going to be more complicated than any blog argument would allow. "Simplification" is, indeed, the function of argument in general and blogs, owing to time commitments, space limitations, and so forth, further constrain what is possible to argue. That said, when does the comment, "but it's more complicated than that" become less of an invitation to discussion and more of a taunt? I don't know, but it's an interesting twist on what academic are trained to do: assert something is more complex than the status quo understanding, and then explain why.

I reckon the obvious tip-off is tone. For example, (not to single you out Ken, but . . . ) Ken Rufo often makes the "but it's more complicated than that" claim in respect to my posts, and it comes off as a sincere wiliness to engage. The recent comment by Thorkild, however, begins: " Aren’t you capable of making the disconnect between academic theorizing and lived experience?" The tone is accusatory, even if that tone was unintentional. I reckon tone is the tip-off, the way to distinguish between trolling and engagement.

Regardless, I suppose as someone who enjoys pushing buttons I should be used to "but it's more complicated than that" by now. It's only fair, right? Even so, at times I think this third phrase of the Academic Trinity is also used as a lazy way to troll, in both the classroom and on blogs. Whenever I took classes in the cultural studies department as a grad student, invariably some snot-nosed cultural study boy (you know, the ones that don't bathe and wear ratty t-shirts or plaid, or who assume you're too stupid to understand unstable irony as a way to make digs on the unsuspecting) . . . where was I? Oh yeah, inevitably some guy would chime in, "but, it's more complicated than that because . . . X." It was always a show for the instructor in that department, a one-up fest such that the discussion rather resembled the content-less argumentation of policy debate than a struggle for understanding. I mean, I think we should always assume everything is much more complex than the way we re-present any one thing. Such is the nature of language. Saying "it's more complicated than that" is redundant, in a way.

I reckon the bottom line is this: if we wrote a book titled, Bluff Your Way as an Academic, chapter three would be titled, "But, It's More Complicated Than That."

on teaching rhetorical criticism, again

Music: Neva Dinova: The Hate Yourself Change (2005)

And so continues a two-year-old conversation on teaching rhetorical criticism.

For decades Rod Hart taught the "Basic Rhetorical Criticism" seminar for graduate students here at the University of Texas at Austin. Now that Rod is the dean, the responsibility for teaching this most important of classes has fallen to Dana Cloud and me. I shall be teaching this course for the first time ever in the fall, and I'm more than a bit nervous about it. I'm nervous, in part, because I want to teach it as well as I was taught---and this requires assigning a lot of writing. I'm also just nervous because it's a new prep for me.

The first rhetorical criticism seminar I had at the University of Minnesota was with Karlyn Kohrs Campbell. We read a ton of things in addition to writing a bunch of mini-papers that we combined to form a major term-paper at the end. Four of us took the class together (three of us ended up publishing our seminar papers from the class). Karlyn commented copiously on every mini-paper and the final paper. I want to do that for my students as well, but unfortunately, expectations for enrollment are three to four times that of my experience. I simply cannot grade everything with that many students.

What I've decided to do is have the students also write the mini-papers, but then to provide feedback for each other. I will read the final two papers they submit. This will still require a ton of grading, however, I will only have to teach this class every other year (Dana and I alternate teaching it). I'm hopeful, however, that by continuing the "intensive" tradition a number of students will end up with publishable work.

Speaking of publishable work: I got a great idea from Rachel Smith that I'm going to use in this course. A number of folks teach the course with a sort of conference at the end, and students are asked to "respond" to their peers as if at a conference. Instead, we're going to run class like a journal: students will "submit" a draft of their final essay for review, which will then be "blind reviewed" by classmates. Then, I'll summarize the reviews in a cover letter and for the final project, students will have to "revise and resubmit" their essays, replete with the all-important cover letter response. I think ending this class this way will help to take a little of the mystery out of the publication process.

Anyhoo, I'll be tinkering on the syllabus all summer, but I did upload a draft for anyone interested (and I'd love some comments/feedback as well). The tentative syllabus is in PDF format here.

concluding poetry workshop

Music: Donna Summer: Bad Girls (1979)

______________

guided meditation

Guided meditation doesn't work, but
Bob Dylan does better and, but,
Berrigan likes big butts (he rarely lies)
and makes Anne's ass into open pages, a yawing
that Kerouac would
not say "no"
to later, neither.
Interior scroll with fish:
So swabbing, it empties the time, like
spirits of ammonia up in me,
the creep.

___________

a week of confrontations

On the road, nary a scroll in the pocket
just plastic and, presumably a cast-iron affect.

1. Golden Chick, not woman, and
transfat slurps; free wifi
my ass.

2. Plane turbulence, plane clothes
extra underwear for the outhouses
of rhetoric.

3. Hair-died recovery; borrowed bed and
space; she should clean up after
the cats.

4. Shit; pants slink low, zip that
shit but don’t get crunk. Why,
"hello there!"

6. Balls, blue commotion in this
tired lie, thank you Mr.
Linkletter, we're still not getting laid.

5. Anxious, getting there for
five hundred miles , punching
the brakes, I just don't do

7. Students, in a closed room who fancy
a barrel in the mouth might
be happiness

Like misogyny, the mother slang.

______________

barbeque queen

beep beep comes the barbeque queen
lifting spirits, groceries into chariots
procuring lanyards, bouncing bad news
out the window.
raiding bins of basmati backstage, for
bleating little beaks and
bankrupt bellies
Unboobing the traps,
burring faces in her bosom.
"Eat! Eat!" she brays and we
blast back: "Love! Love!"

starved

Ok, I know my sense of humor is not shared by everyone. Even so, I cannot help myself: this is heelarious.

a rodney dangerfield moment

Music: American Idol

Many years ago before her sister Janice passed away, I had the opportunity to meet Joyce Hocker at a convention in Miami. We spent the better part of the USF "party" talking about her career. As a full professor at the University of Colorado in Boulder, Joyce began coursework in psychology toward a doctorate. Eventually, she began to work on qualification as a Jungian analyst and started a small, part-time practice in addition to teaching communication studies courses. Despite the continuing success of her co-authored textbook on interpersonal conflict, and as a result of politics, academic tedium, and really enjoying her private practice, Joyce decided to leave the academy and practice therapy full time. I've never forgot our conversation that day, and we often revisit it every year at NCA conventions.

A few weeks ago a former student requested a letter of recommendation for Masters of Arts in Counseling (MAC) program at St. Edward's University, a small Catholic institution based here in Austin. Poking around their website reminded me of my conversations with Joyce and . . . long story short, I'm meeting with someone from the MAC program on Monday. To practice therapy in Texas one needs a master's degree and to master a qualifying exam for the Licensed Practicing Counselor certification. St. Edward's MAC program is mostly night-course based and doable in 2-3 years, plus an additional year or two of post-degree counseling. I'm not sure I can financially swing-it, but I'm looking into possibilities.

Of course, LPC certification is only the first step. The next step is to train in psychotherapy, and the only group that does this in the area is the Houston-Galveston Psychoanalytic Institute. They're APA division 39-registered, and the course of study to become an analyst is about five years. So we're talking about seven years or so of more coursework to become a qualified and legal psychoanalyst. I just think about all the seminar papers that will become essays . . . .

I'm not sure I want to do this, but the thought about doing so is interesting. In a lifetime, one has about two or three careers to try-out. I'm on my first, and have been thinking about my second since my 35th birthday. I don't think I'd ever leave the academy---I like my job too much. I like the fact that I am allowed to be creative in my scholarship, that people are now letting me be myself in my writing. I like writing books and continuing to learn (today I got a mound of performance studies books I'm anxious to devour). I really enjoy teaching and am addicted to the breakthrough moments. But I've always had that "what if?" question in the back of my head. In one life I wanted to be a lawyer. I no longer want that or desire it. In another life I thought I might like to be a chef. Hell's Kitchen and anecdotes from neighbors who were once chefs cured me of that.

When I started reading Freud in 2001, I often wondered what it would be like to be a therapist. I still wonder about that. The thought that I could not only teach people critical thought, but also help some folks overcome personal troubles and traumas is exciting. My therapist and I sometimes talk about the rewards of her job (and not that we keep a ledger, but . . . ). Because I'm a sensitive person, I'm not sure I could be a good therapist---I may just get too bothered by people's problems. But I'm willing to explore. I'm willing to face my own demons (a necessary passage to be a therapist oneself). I think if I can afford it, I might just do this. We shall see.

of gay jesuses and pregnant men

Music: Tobias Lilja: Time is On My Side (2007)

I'm finally home and a little rough for wear. Walked in the door precisely at midnight and was reminded I departed leaving the condo in something of a mess. A spring clean is definitely in order. I see I got a whopping $120 royalty check . . . just enough to hire someone to steam the carpet. Nothing cheers more, however, than a lovely, delightful-smelling plant and gift of goodies waiting for me (thank you, friend). Today is a series of meetings beginning here in a couple of hours. There is no rest for the nice guy.

That said: I can't leave the Tubes for two weeks without a number of titillating stories breaking! Mojoshaun reports a Last Supper as "gay orgy" painting has stirred some controversy in Austria. Then, some dude appeared on Oprah rotund for success: Thomas Beatie is pregnant. Dude doesn't look like a lady, he is a lady (on the inside) and, after sexual reassignment, he decided to leave the reproductive bits intact because he always wanted to conceive. After discussing the discrimination and difficulties Thomas and his infertile wife faced from the medical community and their families, he concluded "Love makes a family and that's all that matters." I cannot imagine a more incredibly stupid statement coming from a pregnant man.

There is much to say here, of course, regarding performativity, female masculinities, and so on, but much of that should be familiar to the academic jet set: both gender and sex are socially constructed; Thomas' scars from his breast removal bespeak the mark of a forced choice; sexuality is multiple and mutable, and so on. The Oprah appearance also highlights the regime of visibility rather well---if not the mismatch between (high) theory and affective practice. What interests me more so than what "theory" might say about Thomas' pregnancy is what everyday folks like my mum would say: this person wants to have his cake and to eat it too, and the publicity surrounding his pregnancy only serves to reinforce the impossibility of such a desire. Thomas is a woman, whatever we decide that means.

"Love makes a family and that's all that matters," says Thomas. Love, of course, is never enough: such is the brutal truth of adulthood. Yet coupled with Thomas' statement that it is his "right" to have a child, love represents something much more than intercourse or altruism. "Love" in this context is another form of righteousness, a challenge to the "natural order" of things (which is good) as well as a kind of secret violence made most blatant in Children of Men: the hubris of "men" claiming the womb of the Other. In other words, beyond the complexities of sex and gender, there are certain beings who are biologically capable of producing children, and certain beings who are not. Thomas' claim to the right of reproduction is both justified and overdetermined, both a delicious confrontation of norms as well as a reinscription of the centuries-long fantasy of "men" having children, a strange misogyny indeed.

last day

Music: Moby: Last Night (2008) I'm sitting in Rachel's lovely kitchen in a neighborhood just north of Penn State. The day is glorious (blue sky, little fluffy clouds, robins grubbing for grubs), and I'm thinking about what I might do to entertain myself as I travel. My flight doesn't leave until 6-ish, and I won't get into Austin until midnight or so. Perhaps I'll find myself blogging again before the night is over. I have some books, but I've almost finished them. I have the new season three disks from Battlestar Galactica, so I imagine I'll get getting down with sexy cylons in my own private imaginary . . . .

The night before last Rachel hosted a reception for the department, and I got to chat it up with folks about everything from plagiarism to acid rock. It was a lot of fun, the mood was welcoming, and I gnoshed on more cauliflower than I thought was possible. Mike Tumolo and I had already bonded over our psychedelic experiences at Ottos (to the background of bluegrass music). Mike Hogan disclosed he used to have long hair, saw Hendrix play, and had erasers thrown at him by Michael Calvin McGee. We bonded. Johnstone also revealed he too shared a lysergic past. I felt like if I had some shrooms, we could have taken the reception up a notch (though less so in Emeril's direction where the four Cs par-tay; moreso Westward, Height-Ashbury to be more exact). I think if Timothy Leary were alive today, he would be so proud of our opened minds. After the reception Rachel and I gabbed into the night, discussing transitions, changes, and all things life of the junior professor.

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of waiting to be fed and spelunking. After we finally found a place to eat that was not mobbed by the people in town for some gymnastics meet, Eric and I took a leisurely drive eastward through the mountains, and then back again to Penn's Cave, an underground waterway discovered some time in the mid-nineteenth century. It was fun (if not cold down there). The guide of our boat was some aspiring teenage humorist: "This stalactite is Santa Claus. Over to your left, that's Mrs. Claus. And look here at this elephant." Ho-hum. "Any questions?" he asked. "Yeah, where's the restroom?" No laughter. The highlight of the boat-ride through cave formations was the territorial swans who were apparently supposed to attack us when we exited the cave into a lake. They didn't seem to interested.

Last night Eric, Rachel and Me had a charming dinner together at some fancy pizza place. We also had cocktails. Mmmm: cocktails.

This morning I made breakfast (omelets) and Rachel and I discussed teaching. She helped me to solve a syllabus problem this fall. I'll be teaching "Basic Rhetorical Criticism," but the way I want to teach it involves a lot of writing. Since enrollment for this class hovers between 13-16 students, that would kill me. So she shared with me her peer-reviewing system and I think I'll try this: run the class like each student is submitting to a journal, and other students are "blind reviewers" and so on. It's a great idea, and strangely I'm anxious to develop the syllabus.

Eric is on his way over for a last visit; I think we'll hang at Rachel's and gab a bit more. Then I head to the airport. If my plane crashes, Roger, you get to figure out how to divvy up the CDs. Brooke, you get to help place (or take in) the animals. My books are to be divvied up among the grads and Christopher and David. My neighbors get to take some furniture, foodstuffs, and appliances if they want them. Yogita, you get my prized cooking supplies, my poetry books, and any furniture you need for your spartan apartment. My intellectual estate should go those of you who tire of buying your toilet paper. James, you get the shoe collection. Barry definitely gets the fortune teller. Oh yeah, and there is only to be a kegger wake.

days seven, eight, and nine

Music: Shelby Lynne: Just a Little Lovin'

My last day in NYC was a blast: James and I saw Dr. E! off, and then we did some laundry, and then we hooked up for dinner and drinks with Steve Llano (gallery here). Now, I'm sitting in the dining room of my most gracious host, Jeremy Engels, as I await my ride this morning for a day of record shop tourism with Eric Fuchs (and perhaps some spelunking). Eric and I went to grad school toget her at Minnesota (and he is as much a fanatic about pop music as I am). Today should be a lot of fun. I'm also looking forward to a rhetoric reading group discussion tonight about Burke, Freud, and the concept of identification.

I did finally make it to State College without too much of a delay, certainly in time for visiting with Jeremy's most excellent "Rhetoric and Democratic Theory" seminar. Gosh, what a smart and lively bunch of folks. Of course, nothing beats our UT students, but I think the Penn State folks I met yesterday and our folks would really get along. It's always a good sign when serious-minded discussion turns into flights of laughter. Last night we spent some time working through the meaning of kitsch, its distinction from camp, and the ambivalence of both in respect to cynicism. For example, could we fruitfully describe certain understandings of democracy as kitsch?

Even though the leaves are not yet on the trees, Penn State is beautiful. The architecture is interesting, especially because---from what I could see---the university didn't suffer from the exploding ugly-building boom on state university campuses across the country in the 1970s. The "stately" campus boarders, of course, a vibrant college village of bars, coffee shops, and discount bookstores. Like an idiot I forgot my camera yesterday, but I hope to capture digitally the scene better today.

___

I'm no longer sitting in Jeremy's dining room, but a groovy coffee shop/book store combo called "Webster's" in downtown State College. Yesterday Eric and I toured a music shop and a waffle diner, and then glory of glories, I got to meet the Bust of Burke at the Special Collection room at the library. Those of you who have met said bust could appreciate my reaction: the dude looks crazy. Apparently there's a photograph of Burke posing with his bust; I must locate that . . . .

Last evening I met with the "Rhetoric Reading Group" at Mike and Lisa Hogan's place. It was a blast, the discussion was lively, and I daresay Diane Davis and Mark Wright have a few new fans (we read their work on Burke, Freud, and identification). One thing that came up in the discussion was the issue of leadership in movement studies: Does a social movement or political group need a leader or not? Psychoanalysis (namely, Freud) would insist that yes, a transferential object is needed. Jeremy mentioned that Foucault's understanding of governmentality might suggest a social movement sans leader. This discussion then led to the question: what happens if, in the Freudian model, the leader becomes a faceless crowd, a "public" of sorts? I was thinking in particular of YouTube.com and other websites on which people seek the recognition of a mysterious and faceless public by publicizing their private lives. Certainly something to think about. A handful of us---me, Mike, Jenny, Jeremy and Eric) to Ottos for a brew or three (yum).

As I catch up on emails and blogging today, Jeremy is dining with an incoming student. This afternoon there is a colloquy I'm attending (on the topic of philosophy and ontology, I'm told), and then a cocktail party at Rachel Smith's house (Rachel used to be at UT and suffered my loudness as our offices were next door). Yeeeeeehhhhhaaaawwwwwwww!

accommodations

Music: My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult: Confessions of a Knife (2004 remaster)

I am sitting at JFK International Airport awaiting my delayed flight to University Park. Apparently my flight has no crew. Because my connecting flight is 30 minutes from my scheduled (as opposed to actual) arrival, I think today is an "all airport" sort of day. I have a change of clothes and prescripts. I have books and a computer. I have coffee. I can do this.

As many of you know, yesterday was a special day. So special, in fact, that my glorious chair, Barry Brummett, had some news about the building that houses our department, "CMA." As is the case with most state universities, we have something of space problem. Barry granted me permission to share his missive with the blog-reading public:

To: CMS <---- @utlists.utexas.edu>

From: Barry Brummett <------ >

Subject: space accommodation news

I recently met with Dean Hart, who announced some new and I think creative plans for dealing with the space crunch in CMA. We will begin to put these plans in place over the next year, and keep them until the new building is built. Specifically:

1) Office sharing. Recent studies show that faculty are hardly ever in their offices anyway. Therefore, each faculty member is to identify one (1) graduate assistant who will use his or her office when the faculty member is not present. Comfortable chairs will be placed in hallways outside each faculty office upon which these graduate students may sit, waiting to slip inside the office during times when faculty are not there.

2) House calls. To facilitate (1), faculty will be asked to base 1/2 of their office hours on the concept of the house call. If an undergraduate doesn't understand why they did so poorly on that last test, faculty are asked to go to their dorm room to explain matters. Note that this will reduce faculty need for offices and increase occupancy time for graduate students.

3) Rolling offices. What of the remaining graduate students who are not sharing faculty offices? The College has more funds than space, so it is chartering large, comfortable buses that will travel predetermined routes in the 40 acres. Remaining graduate assistants will have their offices moved out of UA9 to these buses and students may get on and off at convenient stops so as to consult with the assistants.

4) Guerilla debate/forensics. In the vein of #3, one bus each will be devoted to the debate and forensics squads, who will likewise give up their UA9 space. These buses will make predetermined stops to disgorge hit and run debate teams or extemporaneous speakers or interpreters of literature, who will do their thing on the street corner until the bus comes back to pick them up.

These plans will, of course, free up considerable space in UA9, which will then be used to alleviate the faculty office crunch. Faculty who annoy the Dean will be particularly slotted for these assignments. Department Chairs/Director are each allowed one allocation on the basis of annoyance.

Feel free to ask if you have any questions.

Barry Brummett

Charles Sapp Centennial Professor in Communication

Department of Communication Studies Chair

May you all be as fortunate to have a chair that makes you laugh this hard.

the dragon and the undead

Music: Underworld: Oblivion with Bells (2007)

It's day six of my "research" travels, and I'm sitting in James' charming living room with E! checking up on our emails (oh, and blogging). We've just finished eating the delicious Eggs Benedict platters that I prepared (I do cook on the road, you see, 'cause I'm talented like that). E! departs in a few minutes for the airport; James and I are going to head to the Laundromat to, you know, get jiggy with some things dirty.

We've been having an absolute blast, with a touch of somber. I arrived Sunday afternoon and we had a quiet but laugh-inducing evening in. On Monday we went into school with James and watched her metamorphose from our smiling and gracious host to a teaching machine. We had lunch with her colleague Steve and his wife Kelly, when we learned about "yiffing" (plushy sex where I'm from), and then we hopped a train to Manhattan.

We got off the E train at the World Trade Center and toured "Ground Zero." I have a lot to say about this visit, but I'm not in the mood for pensive so I'll just say it was sad, strange, and oddly proprietary. The ownership of trauma and the critique of trauma-envy was everywhere (one guy's t-shirt said, "Go find your own damn city to love"). Visitors are both barred from looking at "the hole" and from purchasing anything commemorative from renegade vendors (signs telling us not to do damage to the "9/11 community"---whatever that means---were everywhere). A sanctioned homeless man played amazing grace on a flute as visitors silently looked at and read the signs about what is being built there. Some people were tearing-up. Others, like this couple, took snap-shots of each other in front of a gate to the site, festooned with warning signs and hard-hat-wearing imperatives. I asked a cop why visitors were prevented from seeing the site with the green blinders: "There's nothin' ta see, just a hole," he said. I wanted to say, "um, yeah, that's precisely what visitors are there to see---this no-thing." But I didn't. He continued it was probably to protect visitors from debris from the construction.

We walked around the WTC block and took notice of signs and so forth. We ended up at an Irish pub, wherein we peed and had a drink (these two activities were not related, thanks . . . but stay tuned). We caught the sub, then a train home to Bayside/Queens from Penn Station. There was a K-Mart in Penn Station. I shopped in it and bought some antacid.

Once home, we changed, relaxed our feet, and then headed out to meet up with James' friend Tara for a drink at a New Orleans themed bar on Bell Street dubbed "Bourbon Street." It seems no city is free of Fat Tuesday cheer (the place serves food on plates previously occupied by Mardi Gras beads). Tara was great fun and gave us the skinny on shady shenanigans at her former employer. As we were finishing up our first martinis a handsome firefighter hit on Tara, whom she deftly redirected with an artfully placed "my boyfriend and I" phrase. It was the second "hit" that constituted the evening's strange turn of events.

We were standing near the bar sipping our second martinis when we met "The Dragon." Shortly after a nice lady took our photograph, The Dragon approached. His appearance was so astonishing, I was too busy trying not to drop my jaw that I forgot to take a photo. He was about 5'3" and had very long---like, down to his knees---hair, but it was a mullet! He had these strange wrestling-style poofy-at-the-top and skinny-at-the-bottom black pants on, with red Superman logos repeating all over them. He had a Hulk Hogan style moustache and sunglasses on and sauntered over to us and looked exclusively at James, although all of us were standing there.

"Hellllooooooooooo Sparkarella," he said in a squeaky voice, as if he knew James.

"Hello Dragon," James responded. Both of them looked like they were about to lose it in laughter, but they didn't crack. They commenced some sort of handshake routine that ended in rock-paper-scissors.

"Ok then," said the Dragon (he lost).

"Steve, a round of Butt-tree Neeeples" he demanded of the bartender in this thick, New York accent.

Needless to say, E! and I were astonished and probably looked like complete dolts at this routine. Tara acted like the guy wasn't even there. It was bizarre. I kept thinking James was going to introduce us to The Dragon, but she didn't. She just handed us our shots and we all downed them after "One, Two, Three!" The Dragon just looked straight at James the whole time. The Dragon then saluted James, did a military style turn-around, and abruptly left the bar.

"What the fuck?" I said to James. She laughed and laughed. Once she caught her breath like, oh, ten minutes later she explained The Dragon as "local color," sort of like Lindsay in Austin, only that his claim to fame was his ability to move through various social circles and find acceptance (even with those goofy pants). James met him through Kelly, who knew him from a Yiffing convention in Manhattan six months ago (Yiffing and "pot pies from my pants" were the two idioms of the day).

At this point we were pretty tipsy and largely because we hadn't ate dinner, so we left Tara and retired to Erawan, a fancy Thai place. More bizarritiy ensued: because we were running on tired and booze, we elected for "crazy" food, you know, out of our comfort zones. (We were focused more on ordering more drinks, me another gin martini, them, some sort of green tea martini that tasted like Rosie's Lime Juice and turpentine). I had some sort of sea urchin thing, E! had some kind of noodle thing, and James . . . Lobster Pad Thai. I shit you not. So they bring out this food, we're all two sheets to the wind, and James' dish has us stunned: we were expecting lobster bits in the Pad Thai, but no, it was precisely the opposite. The Pad Thai was served in the lobster, and it was huge, seriously, like a small Volkswagen, with legs and claws coming out every which a way. James was not amused. "I don't want to work to eat," she says, just as our waitress plunks down a tin bucket of surgical tools. It looked like a scene from a Marilyn Manson video. We were all laughing hysterically at James and her menu special.

E! reaches over with this clamp and rips off a claw, cracks it with a claw cracker, and lobs out a huge, intact piece of lobster toe. "See, it's easy" (Swedes grow up eatin' crustaceans like candy, apparently. And listening to Abba. Lobsters and Abba, that's Sweden). Not to be outdone, James grasps this bigger clamp and rips off the other claw. It was like a prehistoric sacrifice, complete with Quest for Fire style grunting.

This is when the Pad Thai Crustacean decided to let us know it was not dead yet. "Balls!" says James, "the fucking thing is moving." No way, I said, or something like that laughing. "I'm fucking serious. Look!" So we all put down our utensils/weapons and stare at this damn thing. It's dead as a lobster, just lying there. The noodles look like intestines coming out if its belly. Then I thought I started seeing something wriggling, every so slightly. Then I thought, "nah, your mind's playing tricks, and you are drunk." Pad Thai Crustacean then wriggled its fucking remaining arms! Total creep-out! Then it stopped. Just wriggled and then stopped.

The waitress was suddenly there like magic---probably because E! screamed bloody murder. In broken English she said, "don't worry, it's dead, it's dead. They sometimes do that. Let it cool off or stab with fork." Needless to say James didn't finish her dinner, nor did E! I did.

Never trust a crustacean. Never.

We went back to James's, perused the Twenty-Five Most Disturbing Sex Toys website, were particularly alarmed by the anime sex doll, a "horrifying, dead-eyed abomination with three useable holes." We laughed ourselves to sleep.

rhetorical studies mini-wiki-me

Music: David Dondero: "Living and the Dead" (n.d.)

I'm visiting with beloved friends in Queens and we are a gossipin'. Though I'm a gossip, I'm afraid I'm out of the loop the longer I settle into my gainfully employed bean-bag. My friends are not quite settled into their aluminum, new-job chairs. So we have some questions:

• Who took the Vanderbilt job?
• Who took University of Georgia job?
• Who got hired at Iowa (more than one person)?
• Who got the Illinois-Chicago job?
• Does anyone want a glass white wine?

Please reply in the comment section (you can use an alias and I've enabled you to put in a fake email address). Or you can email me directly. I'll do my part and spread the gossip.

universal studios can bite my left testicle

Music: Random Jam-Band Muzak stuff, including Dave Matthews circa 2001

I'm sitting in a mostly empty dining room at the Union Street Public House, a charming, locally owned steak and fish place in Old Town Alexandria. It's my last planned bit of touring today: eat, blog a bit, take some notes, and amble up King Street and that massive hill to my temporary home. Tomorrow I depart for New York City and a well-earned rendezvous with James and E! We likes to party; we likes to jam. I am assured we will do both.

Today has been both interesting and frustrating, certainly not as fun and exciting as yesterday. As I left off in the last post, yesterday morning I went to the Library of Congress to interview the head of archives at the American Folklife Center, as well as a friendly acquaintance and principle computer technician involved in their projects. The center is dedicated to collecting and archiving ephemera not intended to last (nor to reach beyond the confines of a family, community, or odd-ball archive from some obscure linguistics society) for future historians and researchers. The "Voices from the Days of Slavery" collection is what I am studying for my book project. I interviewed them for about two hours and we discussed everything from the politics of representation to Derrida's conception of the archive in postmodernity to our favorite interviews in the collection. All three of us got pretty excited, and it was infectious to hear about these guys' love of their job. They're really passionate about what they do for a living; it was just a great experience to interview them and talk about life as an archivist. I got so much information from them in this interview, I probably could write a few chapters about it. I won't blog much about what I discovered and what we discussed, though: you'll just have to wait for the book!

After my interview I toured the capital grounds and walked the mall, where the cherry-blossoms are exploding. DC is crowded with tourists and more child strollers than you'd see every other week of the year at Disney world. I watched a father and his two children throw a Frisbee and people jogging for a long time while waiting for my lunch date, Kerry Nuss.

Kerry is one of my undergraduate advisors---my Interpersonal Communication advisor (my other was in philosophy; he's now at Georgia State). I've not seen her in over six years, about three years after she had her first daughter; since that time she's adopted a daughter from India and a daughter from China! She has a lovely brood! They went to the Native American Museum while we toured Union Station and had lunch together. Disgusted with things that happened at GWU (it's complicated), Kerry left the academy but continued to do academic work. Her new book, Everyday Subversion: Revolting in the German Democratic Republic was just published by Michigan State Press in Marty's series---and it's marvelous so far (I've only read the first chapter, but it reads great). We quickly caught up and were almost immediately back in that same, friendly emotive space we forged during my undergraduate years. It was so good to see her.

Kerry and family then dropped me off in Foggy Bottom, where my alma mater is located. I toured the grounds and was surprised to see there hadn't been as much growth as I anticipated since my last visit in 2002 (everything then seemed in construction).

Here's where the pensive mood started to set-in: I went by the television studio/radio station where I used to work (housed in a gutted out church). The building was empty, and there was no sentry. When I worked there (over twelve years ago) sometimes I'd sit at the front desk: only folks buzzed in the door could get in the studio (mostly because we had lots of very expensive equipment inside). I noticed when I walked in the front desk was abandoned, the security box ripped from the wall, no television set, no decorative plants. It looked almost like an abandoned building. I went downstairs to where the editing suites used to be, and noticed some hastily printed signs that indicated the building had been claimed by a media group that does small editing projects for various student groups on campus (commercials, etc.). I finally found a guy in a windowless office. "What happened to Electronic Media/RTF?"

"Uh, dude, they're long gone."

"Huh. I used to work here. That was my office, there, in the archives [I pointed across the hallway]. It's different now. No sentry."

[puzzled look]

"This used to be a fully functioning studio for EM. What happened to the professors and engineers?"

"They got dissolved into the School of Media and Public Affairs around the corner."

"Oh, you mean the new Communcations building?"

"Well, it's old now. It used to be called the 'new building.' After Crossfire pulled out they started dissing on the building. It's kinda old now."

I told the young man thanks and walked outside toward the new/old building. I was somewhat upset that the place I used to work and love had been allowed to deteriorate. The paint was peeling, the old church—it was dirty. I later learned the department of Theatre and Dance had turned the television studios into dance studios. The building had changed hands, and the new hands: they ain't tidy.

I entered the new/old building flanked by a huge sign that read "School of Media and Public Affairs," which is what journalism calls itself there now. The building has about three floors of television studios, and then the "school" (or department) is housed above them. It was Friday and I didn't expect to catch anyone, and didn't notice any familiar names on the room listings. I went to catch an elevator and---wow!---I ran into Glen! Glen was one of the three engineers that taught us everything I knew when I worked in the church. "Glen!" I said. He recognized me, but I am fatter and hairier, so I says, "it's Josh Gunn, class of 96!" He then remembered, we hugged, and he asked me a ton of questions. He then said that Wendy (another engineer) also still worked there, and said I needed to see her. On our way he showed me the awesome set-up they had in the new building: smaller studio, but the equipment was amazing! An entire final-cut pro editing lab, even. (Now, I'm only NOW making it public that I used to run/teach media production---even did a bit of it in grad school---it’s a skill-set I kept secret because I didn't want to teach it anymore [sorry Trish!] . . . and now I'm reasonably sure I have no clue how things are done, so I won't be asked to teach it ever again!).

It was great to see Wendy, and we gabbed for what seemed like minutes but what turned out to extend way after her time to go home for the day. She and Glen explained what happened: there was a big blow-up between electronic media and journalism, the resolution was to, well, was to kill off electronic media/film studies/and so on. Part of the blow-up was a sexual harassment/tenure lawsuit thing filed by a former favorite professor of mine . . . (we were insulated as ugrads from such intrigue). The faculty were filtered into the new "school." Many of my favorite faculty left. My awesome, spitfire boss, Joan Thiel, retired. My supervisor and friend, Emmit Smith, passed away two years ago from a heart condition.

That was hard to hear. I wished I had kept in touch with "Smitty"---he was so good to us, and such a good person. Dead? Fuck me!

The news of Smitty's passing came as a tiny shock that only amplified after I said my goodbyes and exchanged business cards and started walking around some more. I got to thinking more about how long it had been since my last visit. I thought about the heart disease that runs in my own family. I thought about my age. My birthday came and went weeks ago, and I really didn't think much about it, but coming to my undergraduate stomping grounds had me in "that place," thinking about it and at some level mortality.

I trailed a student into my old GWU subsidized apartment (Milton Hall, which has been renamed Jackie-O Hall) and went up to my old floor. The place was a dump. I was surprised it had been let to deteriorate like the church studios. The students coming into and out of the building were young---I suppose my age when I was there . . . but, you know, I started to think about how that chapter is really closed and gone. Nothing was really familiar anymore. Things were dirtier . . . sort of runned-down. GW was so clean and anally retentive when I was there. It was a different vibe . . . like it was turning into American University (not a bad thing, just a tolerance of run-down-ing-ness).

It was about dusk and I decided to walk to Georgetown in hopes my favorite restaurant was still there (it wasn't). I ended up at Old Glory, a "laid back" BBQ place near a diner we used to go late at night after drinking our weight in Sam Adams (my beer of choice back then, before Sam Adams was bought by a major company and became crap beer). The wait was 45 minutes, so I went to the patio bar and ordered a bourbon.

I was needing someone to talk to; the bartender was not interested, so I turned to two young women on my right, must've been, say, 23-24. I wanted to get a sense of what people thought about GWU today. "Hey, y'all go to G-Dub or Georgetown?"

The woman closest to me gave me a quick glance and then a look of polite disgust. "No," she said in a somewhat indignant tone, "I work on Capitol Hill. My friend here is visiting from Maryland." She looked away abruptly to the other side, and gave me a cold, blue cashmere shoulder.

This rebuff gave me time to reflect and observe. She thought I was hitting on her---which I would not do at over ten years her senior. Nor would I hit on someone who spent that much attention to styling her hair---certainly not to someone who wore pearls with a sweater. I was really seeking information, idle chat, but I think my facial hair classes me. I'm aware my appearance is not "normal," I don't have that A&F appeal . . . I'm just some guy in a monochromatic wardrobe, alone, must've appeared lonely. I thought again about my age, looked around the bar, and discerned I was indeed the grandpa at 35. I sipped my drink. Eventually a barback leaned against the wall waiting for work. So I asked, "M'am, you go to GW or G-Town?"

"Nah, I got to [community college I didn't recognize]."

"Oh, well, can I bother you a minute with some questions?"

"Shoot."

"Well, I went to GW in the 90s. It's changed a lot since I've been here."

"I bet."

"What's your impression of GW students today?"

"Rich kids, snobs. Everyone knows that's where the rich people go to school."

"Not Georgetown?"

"No, that's where the smart people go."

I don't think I captured the conversation verbatim (I had a bourbon in me, ok?), but this was the gist. Apparently GWU is $50,000 a year now, which is twice what it was when I went there. I just assumed the be-pearled sweater-wearing snob sitting next to me was a GWU grad but wanted to underscore she was a big girl on Capitol Hill now.

At that moment I remembered vividly why I decided not to pursue law school: it was the class thing, stupid! I was brought up in a lower-middle-class/working class family. I will never be the kind of person to quip, "I work on Capitol Hill." Such a phrase, of course, is only uttered by young people on their way up---many of whom started just like I did.

I came home that night thinking about how a number of my friends left GWU and went into law school. The basic, mid-level firm hires at about $150,000 starting salary today. My line of work hires new assistants at anywhere from $55-70 at private, college, and research extensive places. There's a big gap, there, of course.

I went to bed last night thinking about entitlement and youth snobbery. Did I ever feel entitled to a career? I don't think so, but maybe I did. Did I ever scoff at people in their 30s? Maybe I did, but I don't remember doing that. Ugh. I guess what I'm saying is that I found Georgetown/GWU annoyingly elitist and snobby. I don't remember it that way when I was in school here.

I had a good night's rest. Today I planned to tour the House of the Temple, headquarters of the Scottish Rite Southern Jurisdiction. It was something of a hike. The website said the temple would be closed for the week, but open today. I arrived, however, to see the place covered with semi-trucks and people wheeling crap out the front door. I took lots of photos of the outside, but when I went inside was greeted by a very unfriendly, grey-bearded man in a blue blazer. The temple was "closed." I said that the website reported that it was open. "The website is wrong," he reported. I learned that he was in charge of a Universal Studios picture shoot that had just wrapped up at the temple. Apparently the shoot went a day long, and they were closing the temple for "insurance reasons." He wasn't interested in my story about how I planned the trip here, and so on. In fact, he was an asshole. I decided to ask him a ton of questions to try his patience, since he basically was standing between me and my day's highlight. I learned that Universal was shooting a picture about "political intrigue" called "Day of the Plague" or something like that. It is not about Masons, nor does Masonry play a role. They were shooting in the temple "because of the architecture." After I annoyed this asshole to the point that I think he was going to throw me out, I left. I circled the building and took more photos. I really dislike how cozy the Scottish Rite is becoming with Disney, Universal, and other movie studios . . . publicity has its price. That price is not only my planned visit, but the fraternal order itself . . . about which more in a journal near you.

I then decided to make my way back to the Washington Masonic Memorial for their tour, but after waiting in the Metro for an hour realized that the crowds here for the cherry-blossoms would make me late. Instead, I went to a shopping mall and bought some shoes for feet that didn't realize cowboy boots were not made for walking more than ten miles in two days.

I ended my day by visiting Old Town Alexandria, browsing through a record shop and a bookshop. Then eating at the Union Street Public House. If you're ever here, friends, don't order the steak. I just sent mine back. Here are some galleries of yesterday's and today's tourism.

"are you a traveling man?"

Music: American Music Club: The Golden Age (2008)

The subject line is a question you might get from a complete stranger in an airport if you have a Masonic emblem displayed on your clothing---or if you're luckier, from a cop who has just pulled you over but just noticed your square and compass bumper-sticker. Moina Ratliff asked me that question yesterday afternoon shortly after I arrived at her bed and breakfast, Yesteryear's Treasure House, in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia. "From the West, to the East," I answered. After 32 years of service on Capitol Hill, Moina started running B&Bs after retirement to make ends meet. It's clear she also enjoys meeting the dozens of folks who move through her deceptively small craftsman-style mansion every year. When she learned I picked her place because of its close proximity to a Masonic memorial, she popped the question: her late husband was a Mason and she was an officer in the Order of the Easter Star, that Great Blue sisterhood.

Moina is in her 70s, a friendly host and a charming conversationalist: after testing the waters this morning with me regarding politics, we discovered we were both left of center and had a bonding grousing session about our mutual disgust with the Bush II administration. She bought this B&B when it was up for sale about three years ago; the smaller house across the street was her former abode for some thirty years (also a B&B) and is now for sale. This house was much larger and, after repairing the foundation and expanding the four-bedroom house to 7 rooms, she's convinced the move was worth it. I cannot disagree: this is a charming place to stay and become absorbed into someone else's well-lived, well-intentioned life.

When I arrived yesterday I was told the place was "close" to the Metro station. "Close" meant about a mile away, which really isn't that bad except for three things: when I arrived at the Metro stop it was raining; I had about 70 lbs. of luggage; and the B&B is about one mile away . . . up a freakin' steep-ass hill. I arrived on the doorstep drenched (in sweat and rain) and was greeted by Moina's daughter, Leigh. Leigh is a very nice though extremely nervous person who didn't quite know what to do with me: "Where did you park?" she asked. "I, ugh, I walked," I said. "Oh [awkward pause]. Well, I can show you to your room, but there's more stairs. Do you want to rest?" What ensued was straight out of a Newhart sitcom, but I'll spare you (or rather, myself) the details to protect the innocent.

After I had a change of clothes I hit "downtown" Old Town Alexandra and wound up at the "Hard Times Café" for lunch. Their claim to fame was (holy Texas!) chili. I had a sampler. I went for the Spicey Red. It was good. I walked back up the hill, relaxed, and then went to the George Washington Masonic Memorial, which also houses three lodge rooms for active lodges, where I was invited to join Alexandria-Washington Lodge #22 for their stated meeting and festive board (dinner). Jeez this place was freakin' huge! And I lived in this city for four years and n'er heard about this monument! There's a museum inside, a dining hall or three, a number of theatres, a library, offices, a viewing tower, and three ceremonial lodges! Sure beats meeting in an aluminum-siding hut . . . .

I know most of y'all who read this are not Masons, so I won't bore you with too many details except to say: WOW! This particular lodge was on the tip, very polished, very formal, very stately. I was very impressed with their ritual work and the ceremony. They wore white gloves, used candles instead of bulbs for the representations of the "three lesser lights," and no one slurred their lines. Their ritual was very different from that of Texas or Louisiana---more formal, more, uh, "refined" (they played classical music "reflections" and stuff during the ritual, which was kind of . . . well, unexpected). What was moving about watching this lodge work was remembering the fact that the original charter was secured by none other than George Washington himself. The artifacts this lodge inherited are (obviously) priceless, and may of them were on display in the memorial.

Kirk McNulty is a member of the lodge and he was in attendance. He writes good stuff on Masonic ritual and psychoanalysis/analytical psychology. I got to meet him and was all fan-boy.

At the lodge meeting the former president of George Washington University, Stephen Trachtenberg, spoke. He was president of GWU when I was a student there. I met with him on numerous occasions---none of which were positive; they were grievance meetings---but the guy wrote letters for me for graduate school. I didn't get a chance to speak with him personally, but I did endure his indulgent speech for some 40 minutes. I didn't get it: this man quadrupled GWU's endowment and turned the university into the most expensive school in the country, yet he couldn't deliver an address that had anything to do with anything Masonic to save his life. He talked about his childhood and college experiences (almost sleeping with Ava Gardner, lessons from his father about counting the shirts you drop off at the cleaners), but didn't have much of anything to say about the "rhetorical situation." He would have got a D+ from me in public speaking 101. He made a gesture toward speaking about George Washington (but again, not in his capacity as a Mason). I was sort of scratching my head: ok, they paid this guy an honorarium, and he tells stories about his childhood and college life? [sigh] Anyway, after his "speech" there was a Q&A and I got to ask a question: "As a former university president, what is your view on the adjunctification of universities country wide?" His answer was, um, "that's a serious issue we need to address."

After the talk and during the festive board, I met a number of the lodge brothers. It was much fun. Fraternities are good for this reason: when you go to a strange place, you're entitled to visit strangers with a password and handshake. Not all of them are hospitable, but that's from ignorance, not a lack of goodwill. I met some very friendly, smart folks and had a blast.

Today was a delightful day in so many ways—went to the Library of Congress and interviewed some folks (got GREAT info), took in the cherry blossom explosion, met up with my ugrad advisor for lunch, and then toured my old stomping grounds at GWU. I was somewhat unsettled by my tour of GWU and the exclusive, super-expensive, super-snotty school that it has apparently become; I want to write more about it, but I'm having trouble holding my eyelids open, so I'll have to finish up talking about my event-fat day today tomorrow. I sleep with a smile, some ambivalence, and a smidgeon of excitement about my tourism tomorrow. Galleries of yesterday and today here, here, and here.