Tightly Wound

Things That Make Me Laugh

Things That Make Me Laugh

If you ignore the fact that the laughter is a little unnaturally high pitched and kinda maniacal, when you get right down to it...

This online colloquy from the Chronicle on whether or not a professor should be terminated for lying about his credentials. As expected, discussion devolved into parsing the nuances of the unfairness of demanding qualifications from those esoteric artist types. Reality was inserted by, of all people, a grad student. See, we probably should determine different standards for folks in creative programs, but that's not the point here. He lied. It's wrong. Penalty paid, he'll move on. The "funny" part is that everyone's scratching their heads lately about rampant academic cheating, but no one seems to notice that when authority figures have to debate the merits of dismissing someone for falsifying their credentials (or cheating, not to put too fine a point on it) it might have an effect on campus culture generally. See? Funny! hahaha!

Or this little item (via Erin O'Connor) about how easy it is to purify a campus from all hate crimes--why, you just stifle speech and reprogram dissenters! Why hasn't anyone ever thought of that before? How very droll! Haahaaahaa!

And guess what! That new pneumonia? Why, turns out it's a lot deadlier and easier to spread than anyone thought! Know what else? China wasn't entirely honest about the extent of the epidemic! Those wacky commies! Guess the joke's on us! HAAAAAHAAAAAAAAAHAAAAAAAAAA!

Whoo! Nothing gets your heart racing and your head pounding like a good laugh. Or maybe that's an anxiety attack. Hard to tell the difference, lately.

This and That How is

This and That

• How is it that I can spend at least half my day reading about or watching war coverage, and still have no idea what the hell is going on? I'm thinking I might just go home and play video games for a while; if the Iraqi army shows up at my door, I will assume the war went badly. If not, I'll continue with my arrogant American assumption that we'll win.


• I have a secret crush on Tony Blair. Obviously it's no longer a secret now, but whatever. I wanted to send him a happy gram, but apparently you cannot just email the Prime Minister of Britain. On their official web site, they say you may fax or write him, and that email will be coming soon. Umm, guys? It's 2003. I realize the PM is not eager to receive "TonyBLair! Grow Your Penis!" spam, but I would think you're sophisticated enough to weed out the crud. That's what lackeys are for--and you're British! You should know all about lackeys, fer cryin' out loud. Anyway, I heart you, little Tony Blair! I would give you a big hug if it wouldn't a) embarrass your british sensibilities and/or b) result in my arrest for assault or stalking.


• I also have a warm place in my heart for Donald Rumsfeld, mainly because he reminds me of my grandfather (Paw-Paw) who literally tossed his brother-in-law off of his front porch for being rude. Paw-Paw could do anything, was a great storyteller, and loved his family. But it didn't pay to piss him off. I get the same vibe from Rumsfeld--is there an official fan club?


• Attended a seminar on the Invisible Knapsack of White Privilege yesterday, and while I believe that the speaker is correct to a degree, I couldn't get past the fact that all of her examples of white oppression and male oppression dated from 1986 or earlier. Is it really safe to assume that nothing would have changed in almost 20 years? I found this particularly disturbing when coming from an academic who has built her entire career around this subject. I kept thinking "bug in amber" every time she referenced an event from 1986. That was apparently a banner year for her. Is she aware that there's an entirely new generation around now? Just wondering.... There was also the unfortunate impression that she sought to curry favor by self-flagellation. Ah well.


• We are going to break down and purchase a new lawn mower tomorrow. I'll be sad to see the old one go. We bought it for about $100 at Wal-Mart, and it has reliably cut our 3/4 acre lawn for 5 years, despite having been on fire, having its motor cord spliced together in 3 or 4 different places, and having no actual oil in the engine on several occasions. Fare thee well, brave mower--the fire was particularly exciting.

Self-Absorption 220: Advanced Topics in

Self-Absorption 220: Advanced Topics in Puling

Course Description: This course seeks to emphasize the importance of self-aggrandizement over all other concerns, even in moments of national crisis. We will discuss the place of the peace protestor in society at large, with particular emphasis on his/her response to being ignored by all rational people. Discussions will revolve around the following sentiments:

"We aren't being listened to, so what do you do?"

and

"One day of disruption in people's lives is nothing compared to the $1.1 billion a day that the US is spending to fight this war. If this is the only way that people are going to start listening, it's worth it."

The instructor's focus will be on making students feel better about themselves, and ignoring or justifying vandalism, violence, and the real consequences of taking resources away from those in need of emergency health care or protection.

Students' grades will depend upon class participation in frivolous and ultimately self-destructive activities such as:

• Creating convincing papier mache missile dildos


• Stilt-walking for peace


• Making protest signs that cobble together no fewer than 4 unrelated causes in support of a brutal dictatorship

For the final, students must demonstrate competency in treating road rash received from naked die-ins, mental agility in avoiding actual debate about the issue at hand, and evading reality by shouting doggerel rhyme. In addition, a final self-esteem test will be administered. Passing grades will be given to all those who still manage to hold their heads up and retain their belief that they are acting "for peace" or in the best interests of "the people" or "the majority."

Expiration Date Let me just

Expiration Date

Let me just say right now that I have been ripped off. No one told me that my body had such a short half-life, yet here I am at the ripe old age of 34 and unable to bend at the waist or the knee without groaning and clutching at furniture for support like some pathetic Caucasian Yoda on Dagobah. Is it too much to ask that my back muscles actually do more than contract into a tiny immobile ball of pain when I attempt to lift my child? And don't lecture me on lifting with my legs--that requires working knees, and mine haven't had cartilege for about 10 years now.

The most annoying thing is not that I am apparently mortal, but that I am now forced to confront the cold, hard, reality of never being able to live out my badass Xena fantasies. Xena would never finish a chakram toss by grabbing at the small of her back and trying to stretch. Xena would never be thwarted by a toddler who has figured out that he can evade pursuit by getting under the sideboard. And this is particularly galling as I find myself getting worked up into a righteous warrior princess snit about morons here and abroad. So I am left with only words to do my smiting, and I chafe--chafe I tell you--under these unfair conditions!

But there is hope. Tomorrow I shall away to the doctor's office and procure a muscle relaxant. Or maybe just some Doan's pills and a heating pad. And a cane. And possibly some bifocals. Oh man, I am so old.

Adventures in Reality So I'm

Adventures in Reality

So I'm having a bit of trouble reconciling reality with, well, reality right now. I'm still getting up early, dealing with the fact that my son is most emphatically NOT a morning person regardless of how much sleep he gets at night, rushing to work, rushing home, and trying to find time for a leisurely family stroll, a moderately healthy dinner, and a few minutes of "me time" before bed.

Then I turn on the television, or check my blogroll, and a wholly different reality appears. War and protests and oscars, oh my! I feel disconnected from everything I see on the screen, and then I feel guilty for not "feeling" appropriately, whatever that means. It seems like something this earth-shattering should be more earth-shattering, I guess, not just reduced to sound bites and maps and the reactions of pundits and guesswork and talking, talking, talking all day. And how utterly self-absorbed is that? "Oh, the war in which people are dying is insufficiently moving. It lacks that certain...reality."

The boon of the communication age is that we're immediately and intimately aware of each other and the world. The curse is that we don't understand that the other people and the world are real, when all we get are pixels, not people.

There was one sad little protester outside our office today, whacking a bongo, ostensibly to simulate the drums of war. She's gone now, probably had to get some lunch or go to class. After all, what are symbolic drums of war when compared to Taco Bell or an "A" in Comparative Lit? I could insert a little caveat here about how wonderful it is that she can be a dilettante for peace, but I won't, 'cause it's just stupid and a waste of time. Whatever, little girl. Thanks for playing the home game. I'd suggest that she give that plane of existence called "the real world" a try, but that'll happen for her soon enough. Or not. Particularly if she's getting her reality from pixel-ville.

Addicted Nothing original here today,

Addicted

Nothing original here today, folks. Can't get the blog checking monkey off my back, I'm afraid. I'm spending all of my time at The Command Post--it's like 2, 2, 2 blogs in one! Well, more like 50 blogs in one, but the syllables didn't work out for the Certs commercial ripoff when I said it that way.

Grocery Slumming Because I'm trying

Grocery Slumming

Because I'm trying to wean myself (unsuccessfully, thus far) off of clicking all over my blogroll every 6 seconds and obsessively scanning every news site on the planet, I've decided to take a step back, breathe, and focus on the mundane.

So Lileks and Instapundit had some sort of bizarre "grocery-off" via their blogs this morning, with Insta musing over a margarine wrapper and Lileks doing the grocery shopping full monty. This made me think that I'm missing out on the whole grocery experience. See, I live outside of Raleigh, in what used to be a pretty rural area. Until recently, we had only one grocery store: Food Lion. I hate Food Lion with large chunks of bitter hate, because it is the antithesis of everything I look for in a shopping experience; namely, The Shiny. Food Lion has no Shiny. Food Lion doesn't even have a muted glow. Food Lion is dull and unpolished, and it sucks the life right out of me every time I go there. And I go there a lot, because the next most "convenient" store is about 10 miles away.

The clientele at the local FL all look as though they'd rather be ANYWHERE else, shuffling dispiritedly through the badly lit, kiosk-obstructed aisles, loading their tarnished, squeaky carts and wrestling them to the checkout, then toting their drab plastic bags to the exit. I can see their shoulders straighten and the faint blush of life returning to their cheeks as the automatic doors open and allow the fresh, fresh air of freedom to caress their careworn faces. Okay, so that's over the top. I still hate Food Lion.

Not even the food looks happy to be there. The produce is sad and listless, despite the best efforts of the water-misting system to keep it perky. The bananas all huddle together on one side of their display for comfort, and the meat department frankly forces me to avert my eyes. Even mass-produced canned goods manage to seem as though they've been recently discovered in a cold war era bunker and yanked from their underground lair for our consumption. And this is AFTER a 6 month renovation to the store. I can't even remember what it looked like before the "improvements"--I think I'm suffering from a post-traumatic memory loss.

So imagine my delight when I discovered that a new grocery store would be coming to our area. I waited impatiently for the ground to be cleared and construction to begin, visualizing a shopping area with cheese that didn't all come from Kraft, and a bakery that didn't consist of 6 shelves of Merita's Sweet Sixteen powdered doughnuts. Finally one day as I drove past the site, I saw the long-awaited sign announcing the arrival of the new store. In large letters, it read: Coming Soon! Food Lion! My tears were bitter indeed.

Self-absorption 101 I know this

Self-absorption 101

I know this has been done, but I'm sorry, I've just gotta get it off my chest. Let's kick it off with this quote:

When you get to the point that the war actually begins, that's a point when many... feel they have to take the strongest action they can personally take,"

And what might these actions be? Let's recap--first, the absurd:

• In Portsmouth, N.H., protesters plan to make noise by banging pots and pans


• Many groups plan to carry out die-ins, where activists lie on the ground to symbolize war victims and to block passers-by


• Some students at Swarthmore College, in Pennsylvania, plan to lower campus flags to half-staff


• In SC, they want to plaster a federal building with duct tape and plastic sheeting


• And the ubiquitous naked thing--again, I respond with, the HELL?

Next, the mildly annoying:

• In Seattle, envelopes with white powder and anti-war messages were left at six locations Monday, including a post office that was evacuated.


• Eight anti-war opponents were arrested Monday in Traverse City, Mich., when they tried to block an Army Reserve convoy headed to a training area. One handcuffed himself to a truck and the other seven locked arms in front of the vehicle, police said.


• Four others were were arrested in Lansing, N.Y., on Monday on charges of trespassing at a military recruiting station. During the protest, about 20 people splattered what they said was their own blood onto recruiting station walls and windows and an American flag.

And finally, reckless endangerment of the lives of ordinary folks:

• San Francisco anti-war groups have laid out similar plans on a larger scale for the outbreak of war, including blocking traffic and an effort to shut down the Pacific Stock Exchange and some high-profile commercial buildings.


• "The bare bones of the plan is to basically shut down the financial district of San Francisco. The way we see it is that we basically unplug the system that creates war," said Patrick Reinsborough, an organizer.

Sooo, blocking traffic that could result in the deaths of people who are forced to wait for police or medical assistance because of your arty "traffic jam for war" is just dissent, eh? Oh, you didn't THINK about that, did you? Or perhaps you just don't give a shit. I'm thinking you're leaning toward the latter.

And let's not forget the calls for actual attacks on military installations.

When it's pointed out that perhaps there are more constructive ways to protest, here's the response:

"What else are we supposed to do? Sit and say nothing ... and be silent? That's not very American."

Umm, no. But you could adhere to the "civil" part of civil disobediance, you know, the part where no one gets hurt as a result of your actions? I mean, I thought that was what being "for peace" was all about. Guess I was misled. It's obviously just all about you not getting your way and throwing a tantrum. Don't make me come over there and give you a time out.

Anatomy of an Academic Bloat

Anatomy of an Academic Bloat

Ever wonder how new courses of study pop up in academia and rapidly become entrenched, even when, to the casual observer, they seem pointless?

This article, on the free version of the Chronicle, provides insight into just that phenomenon, even though I don't think it's the article's intent to do so. The subject is the development of the "field" of Comp-Rhetoric, which is basically teaching college students to write (At State, the course for Freshmen is English 111, which I taught for a couple of years while I worked on my MA. Interestingly, I had no idea that there was a Comp-Rhetoric discipline, or if I did, I didn't care. But I digress).

Apparently, the field is gearing up for a big "theory war." But the more interesting angle is that the development of this discipline is evolving in the same way that most twentieth-century additions to the curriculum have:

1. Federal cash flows into universities in the '60s to address a "problem"--in this case, it's poor writing skills.


2. Educators follow the money, and create a new sub-cateogory, "rhet comp," which has a decided lack of a curriculum. Professors fill the void by dumping linguistics, developmental psych, sociology and anthropology into the "rhet comp" field of study.


3. Newly minted PhDs begin to take up "theoretical stances" pertaining to their discipline.


4. Intra-discipline debate becomes Pythonesque, as the intellectual equivalent of "Follow the Gourd" versus "Follow the Sandal!" ensues and the whole discipline just gets goofy.


5. Someone finally admits the truth, "It may very well be composition's dirty little secret that many of us who teach writing would rather talk about cultural studies or critical theory and not trouble ourselves with the writing that our students do,"


6. The truth, however, doesn't have the power to stop or change anything, because professorial ego, cash, and prestige are now involved, the field has reached critical mass, and its own inertia keeps it moving inevitably on. When you think about it, it's kinda like a Usenet thread...


7. Meanwhile, actual Freshman Composition is being quite adequately taught--by graduate students in the Lit. field.

For a fun exercise, substitute "Women's Studies," "Higher Education," or any other new discipline for "rhet comp" and then ask yourselves again what you're paying for when you send your kids to college. Whee!

Cho-sen for All the Right

Cho-sen for All the Right Reasons

Short posting today, as the bizarre confluence of green beer, shamrocks, and stuff getting ready to be blown up REAL GOOD is making me a little edgy. But--I did notice today that State will be hosting a Tunnel of Oppression during next week's Unity Week! My joy knows no bounds. In related news, Margaret Cho has been invited to campus to perform during Unity Week, "because her performance addresses such a wide variety of issues, including race relations and gender equity."

Nowhere in the article does it state that Ms. Cho is being invited to perform because she is actually funny or entertaining. She may well be both, but apparently these considerations are not important in light of the fact that she is both Korean and bisexual, and thus "a great figure to promote diversity."

And here I thought she was a comedian. Thank God for Unity Week; otherwise, I'd have been forced to evaluate Ms. Cho on the basis of her entertainment value, not her value as a disseminator of, well, campus lip service to diversity. I wonder how much the university shelled out for the experience?

Gearing Down for the Weekend

Gearing Down for the Weekend

Since this week was Spring Break at State, I've not spent a lot of time on the "Hey, I'm stupid, look at me, and my shiny PhD" crowd. And this post will be no exception, so if you're here just for the ranty goodness, you may want to bebop on over to NoIndoctination.org. Big fun site, if you define "fun" as getting worked up about the learned class. For the rest of you, a mellow Friday post that will be absolutely Seinfeldian in its lack of real content. And it'll be bulleted!

• How I know I live in the South--reminder #4,125: We have a possum. A full-grown, fairly slow-moving possum who likes to hang out on our front porch and rifle through the recycling on the deck. Every night about 8:30, the dog will go to the screen door and sniff the air. Soon after, we'll hear plastic being rearranged. I'll wander over to the door, flip on the deck light, and say, "Move along, possum." The possum will look at me, then meander/scuttle away until the next evening. If a possum's top speed is demonstrated by the way ours moves, well then it's no wonder they tend to populate the center line of the highways.
• Yesterday evening I was outside with the boy, trying to burn off his excess energy before dark. He was excited about seeing birds flying overhead, and kept pointing skyward. I had been absently replying, "Yes, sweetie. Birds," but then I looked up and noticed that he was pointing at the moon, which was visible in the still sunny sky. I thought, "Oh! He's never really noticed the moon before!" and named it for him. Then he walked over to me and asked to be picked up. Even in my arms he kept stretching upward, pointing at the moon, and I realized that he thought I could lift him all the way up to touch it. And I would love nothing more than to be able to do just that.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Take a Number. I'll Call

Take a Number. I'll Call You When I Care.

In this time of uncertainty and turmoil, isn't it refreshing to know that the Oscars are planning for every contingency? In the event that a tacky war breaks out before the broadcast, they're bandying about the idea of a scrolling news feed. Well thank God. I mean, I understand that the bad fashion, half-baked political commentary and sheer length of the Oscars can be paralyzing to the average viewer, but I had NO IDEA that we will be rendered completely incapable of SWITCHING THE CHANNEL or WATCHING ANYTHING ELSE until the ceremony releases us from its hypnotic thrall.

In happier news, Eminem will be "on vacation" during the Oscars, hence unable to perform his Oscar nominated song. Hee! Eminem might be a rat bastard, but that's why he's fun. I do believe his absence gave the program planner a bad case of the vapors.

Eh, showbiz. I'll check the web the morning after to laugh at the badly dressed. That's about all the energy I can muster for anything "Hollywood" anymore.

Dear Bill Clinton, Please stop

Dear Bill Clinton,

Please stop talking now.

Sincerely,
America

PS - Could you please forward this message to Jimmy Carter? Thanks ever so.

Overthink So yesterday I'm in

Overthink

So yesterday I'm in the car, returning to work from a dental appointment, when Young Turks by Rod Stewart comes on the oldies station (Ack--it's an oldie! Guess I am too, then. Dammit.) Anyhoo, I'm sort of half-listening, doing that whole "remember how we'd listen to this on the radio at the pool in '80-something," when I caught myself beginning to pay attention to the lyrics. Then before I knew it, I was engaged in this mental conversation:

Don't let them put you down, don't let 'em push you around,
don't let 'em ever change your point of view.

Riiight. They're SEVENTEEN! The only point of view they have is informed by watching MTV news, fer cryin' out loud...

Happiness was found in each other's arms as expected,
yeah Billy pierced his ears, drove a pickup like a lunatic, ooh!

Yeah, that's about right. Teenage sex, illicit piercings and a truck. My bumpkin high school in a nutshell. Billy--you're a moron.

But there ain't no point in talking when there's nobody list'ning so we just ran away
Patti gave birth to a ten pound baby boy, yeah!

Young hearts be free tonight, time is on your side.

Sure, time does tend to seem endless when you're an unemployed, umnmarried, high school dropout with a new baby, doomed forever to a LIFE OF GRINDING POVERTY because you couldn't KEEP IT ZIPPED OR KEEP IT COVERED for like the FIVE EXTRA MINUTES it would take you to at least get a DIPLOMA, YOU STUPID GIT! And what's WRONG WITH YOU, ROD STEWART, GLORIFYING THIS STUFF LIKE IT WOULD BE BLISS?!?!? Damn you and your satin stretch leopard print pants, Rod Stewart! Damn you!

And then the stoplight turned green, the song faded out, and I realized that I am, at the very least, in need of decaf. Or possibly valium.

Help! My Writing and Reasoning

Help! My Writing and Reasoning Skills are Being Oppressed!

Okay, I know I crib a lot from Critical Mass, but dangit! It's worth it. From today's entry, Erin O'Connor posts a response from a local organizer of the Tunnel of Oppression meme that has unfortunately taken hold on campuses as the ultimate diversity experience. We will leave aside the oftentimes absurd nature of the practice itself--go see one sometime if you have an hour to kill and have run short of bamboo to ram under your fingernails for fun--and let its defender speak:

it's people like you that don't allow us to move foward and add to the oppression in society. Being educated means being open to new ideas you may not agree with. As a scholar myself I ask you to look beyond the actors and role play and look at the real hidden meaning of this program and what it truely does. Because numbers don't like and when 750 students ATTEND a program.....you guys have no leg to stand on

It's a self-fisker, really, but that's not my point. What a lot of folks don't realize is that university housing programs, in a desperate bid to avoid privatization, have instituted "residence hall programming" designed to slap a veneer of scholarship over dormitory living. The culprits are almost uniformly Higher Ed majors, and the bulk of their "programming" consists of diversity training, because frankly, Higher Ed as a discipline has nothing concrete to offer dormitory residents. These programs are under the purview of Resident Advisors, Directors and Residence Life Coordinators, and attendance tends to be gained either through bribery or compulsion. So the idea that the mere presence of 750 bodies lends credence to something is patently ridiculous, particularly when the stated purpose of that something is to "move forward and add to the oppression in society." Okay, so I couldn't pass that one up. Fish, barrel, bang.

Also, I would lay money on the fact that the writer of this letter is probably a higher education major (AHA! Google proves me correct--the referenced document is standard in res hall programming, and NACURH is a national body for Housing professionals, much like the MLA for English majors. Added bonus--NACURH will be hosted by my university this year. Huzzah!) Like Liberal Studies, this discipline came about as a way to ensure job security for professors more than anything else. It's a weird hybrid of pop psychology, education theory, and a touch of statistics, and tends to produce "scholarship" of the poorly written, evangelistic variety.

Higher Ed as a discipline also proves the point that more is not always better, particularly where dogma is concerned. Replacing critical thought and literacy with activism should be disdained by the educated, but hey! If it's easy and gets you tenure, then I guess it's all good.

The Deadliest Continent Australia--designed to

The Deadliest Continent

Australia--designed to kill the unwary. At least, that's my impression of it from, well, everywhere. Any time you turn on a nature channel about deadly animals, you learn that most of them live in Australia, and not far removed from the average Australian. Let's see, they have the world's deadliest snakes (with, I think the exception of the black mamba), the world's deadliest spiders (funnel web, anyone?) and their bodies of water are populated with crocodiles, sharks, eeeville box jellyfish and some tiny little octupus that will Kill. You. Dead.

Usually, I dismiss that information with a "Wow! Remind me, when I visit Australia, to avoid the ocean/outback/ponds/lakes/streams/fields/woodpiles/backyards," (as of today, I believe my future trip will consist of touring one pub in Sydney) and amazement that the prevailing attitude toward these items by the residents is fairly breezy. I am also comforted by my geographical distance from the Australian Scary. But, ladies and gentlemen, we have been duped. The Australian Scary has become more than a mere collection of venomous fauna, has escaped its former pen, and now threatens the world. In fact, the Scary has arrived on these shores, even in my very home, and it is trying to end my life. The scary in question?

The Wiggles.

Specifically The Wiggly Safari, which features, in addition to the aforementioned Wiggly types, the presence of the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin. Even now, the haunting tones of "Crocodile Hunter, big Steve Irwin, Crocodile Hunter, Action MAAAAANN!" from the Wiggly Safari's opening number echo in my consciousness, and they are driving me maaaaad, I tell you! Maaaaaaadddd!

Oh, it all started innocently enough. I noticed that my child would sit still for thirty entire minutes when The Wiggles came on The Disney Channel, captivated by four slightly goofy men in colored shirts, a pirate with a feather for a sword (do not go there--just, it's been done, okay?), a dog, a dinosaur, and an octopus with a disturbing penchant for plaid. And the songs were WAY better than that saccharine Barney tripe or the creepy songs of satan sung by The Little People. So, God help me, I encouraged Wiggly consumption.

But I fear I have gone too far, and am now caught in the Wiggle trap. In a fit of motherly dotage I purchased the DVD of the Wiggly Safari, thinking it might prove a nice break from repeated viewings of Baby Shakespeare and the Veggie Tales. And now, it is the ONLY THING MY CHILD WILL WATCH. EVER. AND DID I MENTION IT'S AN HOUR LONG? SO THAT ALL OF HIS ALLOTTED TV TIME IS SPENT WITH THE WIGGLES? I am spending hours of my life that I will never get back watching Captain Feathersword with a fake "cockatoo head" hat screeching "Pieces of Eight! Pieces of Eight!" over and over again. I can actually feel the brain cells running out of my ears.

That's not even the worst part. The worst part is that the songs, however irritating they become, are also impossible to remove from my head. They're on eternal loop. I have no escape. I am doomed. I can only hope that this blog entry will save others, for it is too late for me. Beware the Australian Scary! Beware grown men who hang out with plaid-clad octopi in straw boaters and patent leather! I can't believe I just typed that sentence! Save yourselves! Aaaaaaaaaa!

Behold the Power of Uterus

Behold the Power of Uterus

Maybe it's just me, but I didn't think that the way to liberate women from manichean stereotyping was by replacing one set of stereotypes with another. It's still just a bunch of gibberish. I've been thinking about that lately after the whole Lysistrata thing, and then I came across this article on a "progressive" website. Here's the most offensive paragraph (and I had a hard time choosing):

Liberation, the act of rescuing the damsel in distress, the art of war to free people seen as incapable of carving out their own destiny, is a patriarchal fallacy. The idea of liberating Iraq by force represents the systematic domination of male over female, the forcible rape and ensuing grief and shame of disempowerment that women have historically encountered as victims of male-perpetrated violence.

As opposed to the everyday reality of rape, grief, disempowerment and shame that women endure under Iraqi rule. By this logic, no population, no matter how forcibly repressed, has any excuse for not liberating itself. And no one can help them, either, because that's patriarchal. Instead, we should listen to our feminine side in the matter:

Embodied in the female experience is this notion of conscience. It is the intuitive, secret voice that whispers the directions for following a higher path. It is the dreamlike symbolism revealed through humility and introspection. Turning inward requires reflection and self-knowledge, faith in the unseen. It is the root system which takes hold beneath the soil before peering upward into the light. First we must go deep before emerging into the world.

Iraq, the religious and historical cradle of civilization, is a potent metaphor for femininity. It is the Fertile Crescent, the great mother womb which gave birth to inventions like the wheel, the art of writing and three of the world's far-reaching religions, Islam, Judaism and Christianity which share a common Abrahamic lineage. It is the home of archaeological treasures buried deep in the vast desert sands. It is the home of unheard weeping, suffering borne disproportionately by grandmothers, mothers and children.

The invasion of Iraq is a crime against all women, against all that is feminine and sacred.

Here's where I'm going to get a little wound up. Women aren't somehow "closer to the divine" than men. Iraq is a country with a history. It is not a womb, not a sacred repository of the earth mother, and not a cypher for the great and powerful holiness that is WOMAN. And while I don't doubt that there is weeping and suffering borne disproportionately by women there, it's NOT because Iraq will probably be liberated by force, it's because REAL WOMEN, with REAL, NOT FIGURATIVE WOMBS AND BODIES, ARE BEING OPPRESSED, TORTURED AND KILLED BY THEIR FELLOW CITIZENS.

Get your head out of your sacred womb, you stupid cow, and look at reality. You're so caught up in "big ideas" about patriarchy and earth mother symbolism that you cannot see how your pseudo-intellectual analysis and resultant paralysis lead to the continuing perpetration of crimes against living, breathing women. There is a fine line between deliberate ignorance and willful evil, lady, and you're walking it. No matter how enlightened you think your uterus makes you.

The Energizer Bunny of Stupid

The Energizer Bunny of Stupid

It just keeps going, and going, and going. Read this if you need a laugh. Me? I want a Hip Hop Against Racist War t-shirt. Sigh. Especially when its spokeswoman says stuff like this:

We feel that the nature and intensity of these attacks reveal the clear white supremacist sentiment that is driving the push for war by its supporters. In addition, the violence embedded within this attack reflects the real and present threat of violence that students of color feel every day at North Carolina State University.

Gee, I must have missed the "KKK Says Bombs Away" pro-war demonstration.

Holy Hobbit, Batman! I think

Holy Hobbit, Batman!

I think I missed something in my first reading of The Hobbit, as this book description reveals. The original page from Wal-Mart has been taken down, but TORN helpfully provides a screencap. Hee!

Sorry for the light posting--hope to get back to my regular raving tomorrow.

Bon Mot of the Day

Bon Mot of the Day

"War is Terrorism. Just ask those who have plastic and duct tape for windows."

Had to pass through the Free Expression Tunnel, or "The Goofy Gauntlet" this a.m. on the way to Kinkos and Starbucks, and saw the above painted on the wall. I am...puzzled by the sentiment, to say the least.

What does that mean? Does it mean that squatters in unfinished housing are war refugees? Does it mean that Iraquis only have plastic and duct tape for windows? Just--what? Does it mean that Americans are having war perpetrated on them? See, if War is Terrorism, then I guess Terrorism means War. Following that logic, an act of Terrorism is an act of War, and we are more than justified in defending ourselves, so going into Iraq to dismantle a regime that funds terrorism and therefore creates war isn't pre-emptive at all...oops. Maybe they didn't think that little trope through. Or maybe they just ran out of paint before they could finish the thought.

Or maybe, if you're in a confined area (like a tunnel) where paint fumes tend to be trapped, at 1 a.m. (when the slogan was painted--we're now datestamping our graffiti at State to prevent premature whitewashing), and you've never really HAD an original idea in your life, combining all the slogans you've ever heard into one gobbet of dumb and spewing it forth onto a tunnel wall seems like brilliance.

But then, I've had a LOT of coffee this morning, so maybe I'm just thinking too much. Gotta hate when that happens.

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise Actually, this

Surprise, Surprise, Surprise

Actually, this took about a whole minute longer than I would have expected. Perhaps the reflexes are slowing down in knee-jerk land? Yes, it's the ubiquitous "Look, there were racist slurs in the free expression tunnel about the war in Iraq! War is racist!" piece, written by someone in the "vaunted" and appropriately titled "liberal studies" program.

For the uninitiated, "liberal studies" is a catchall for folks whose attention spans are far too short for them to actually concentrate on one discipline. It's a mishmash of humanities courses, seasoned with marxist and feminist theory, whipped into a lather of reactionary and lazy scholarship, and half-baked for easy intellectual consumption. Yum-my. Here's a little taste from the aforementioned dish:

Since the United States embarked on its never-ending "War on Terrorism" in 2001, many of us who stood to oppose this endless war identified racism as one of the key components in the ideological backing for war. As war in Afghanistan turned into war in Iraq turned into war in Korea, we had our suspicions confirmed: The United States is much more interested in the economic, political and social control of black and brown bodies and their resources than ending "terrorism."

Note that the actual racism practiced by the people who flew the jets into large buildings is glossed over. See, if you're conducting a religious war against the infidel, it helps if a lot of the infidel happen to be white. That way, if the infidel get kinda pissy and start shooting at you, you can count on mental midgets in liberal studies programs to freak out and cry racism. See also how the racism inherent in the idea that black and brown bodies are always victims, never independent actors, is ignored.

Read the rest, if you're so inclined. But really, you don't have to. Here's the conclusion, just to give you some closure--or indigestion, if you'd like to continue with the belabored food metaphor:

Tuesday's messages were sad, frightening and telling, as the pro-war forces confirmed what we have known all along. War and racism are linked, and our world will not be safe until they are both eliminated.

No, that wasn't at all predictable. Just think--this guy's gonna have an MA soon. This piece could have been written by a random Chomsky generator. Explain to me again how academia is about rigorous mental discipline?