tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-160104782024-03-06T22:05:52.921-08:00Center of GravitasGayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.comBlogger385125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-55624779997413257502015-06-30T11:19:00.000-07:002015-06-30T11:19:58.255-07:00Age is a State of Mind, Somewhere Near Nebraska<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXIx5zJp28IB42ytRIxrMdNDJuVjjKzIL3KrRiymAMe2kgqPi0VFxi8_UvJhmtJ3HyxmfL06WWJClhkDERt5Aw8JegV-N6jaPhh__wHMuV626i_JA3WZgnZyhuGUtx8LXbBdY/s1600/sencvr31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdXIx5zJp28IB42ytRIxrMdNDJuVjjKzIL3KrRiymAMe2kgqPi0VFxi8_UvJhmtJ3HyxmfL06WWJClhkDERt5Aw8JegV-N6jaPhh__wHMuV626i_JA3WZgnZyhuGUtx8LXbBdY/s320/sencvr31.jpg" /></a></div>What a year it has been! After surviving the odometer rolling over to 40, I had a year of sabbatical. That gave me plenty of time to think about my <s>mid-life crisis</s> next steps in my career. It turns out that I needed to make some important adjustments to my plans. Now I have a new writing project, hints of which can be found in this post. I also have a new attitude about returning to the soul-crushing service that had drained me of ambition before my leave. Seriously kids, stay clear of administrators who take your labor without gratitude.<br>
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I also feel much better about being in my forties than I did at this point last year. Sure, my local supermarket has started sending me targeted coupons for adult incontinence undergarments. In my heart, I know that I am at least two years away from needing to take advantage of them. Most of the television that I watch also seems to be sponsored by reverse mortgages and joint-pain supplements. At least the marketing demographic profiling appears consistent.<br>
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What I mean to convey is that there is a new GayProf in town ‘cause I’m feelin’ good. Get a smile, get a song, for the neighborhood. There’s a new GayProf in town on his own two feet and this GayProf is here to say with some luck and love –- Wait, that might be Alice, not GayProf. Although I had heard that she doesn’t live here anymore.<br>
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Whatever the case, another year means taking a moment for some much needed comparative stock with where other people happened to be at this same point with their lives. Won’t you join me as we find out what it meant to be 41?<br>
<ul><br>
If I were Johnston McCulley at age 41, I would have invented my most enduring and popular character, Zorro, four years ago. I would continue to write <i>Zorro</i> stories for another thirty four years.<br>
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If I were Truman Capote at age 41, I would be finishing <I>In Cold Blood</I> this year. <br>
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If I were Ronald Reagan at age 41, I would marry Nancy Davis this year. I would also become the host of <i>General Electric Theater</I>. This is not to say that my career might have hit a dead end. My last starring role, however, would have found me competing for screen time with a chimpanzee. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.<br>
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If I were Diego de la Vega at age 41, it would have been seventeen years since I set out to foil injustice with nothing more than a rapier, mask, and long flowing black cape. <br>
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At 41, if I were Montgomery Clift, I would co-star with Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable in <i>The Misfits</I> this year. I would also be nominated for an Academy Award for <I>Judgment at Nuremberg</I>. <br>
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If I were Marilyn Monroe, I would be dead. <br>
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If I were Pancho Villa, this would be my last year as a military commander.<br>
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If I were Linda Lavin, I would be starting my second season in <I>Alice.</i><br>
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If I were Queen Isabella I of Castile, I would complete the brutal so-called “Reconquista.” I would also issue my Alhambra Decree, expelling people of Jewish faith from Castile and Aragon. Finally, I would send Christopher Columbus across the Atlantic to claim new lands for my crown. It would be a year that would show me not to be a particularly nice person. <br>
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If I were Pierre Trudeau, I would be an associate professor of law at the Université de Montréal. <br>
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If I were Clark Gable, this is the year that I would lose my wife Carole Lombard in a plane crash.<br>
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If were Corky Gonzáles at age 41, I would organize the Chicano Youth Conference, the first of its kind and a major milestone for the Chicano movement. <br>
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If I were Candice Bergen, it would be another year before I would be cast as the eponymous character in <I>Murphy Brown</I>. <br>
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When Murphy Brown turned 41, she had been sober for one year.<br>
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If I were Gene Roddenberry, I would be working on launching the show <i>The Lieutenant</I>. It would be another two years before I started production of <I>Star Trek</I>.<br>
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If I were legendary folklorist Américo Paredes, this is the year I would earn my Ph.D. It would be another two years before my most famous work, <I>With a Pistol in His Hand</I>, would be published. <br>
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If I were Dorthea Lange, I would have just become famous for my photography documenting poverty and suffering during the 1930s. <br>
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If I were J. Edgar Hoover, I would have just started as Director of the newly formed Federal Bureau of Investigation. Civil liberties everywhere would take a giant step backwards. <br>
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If I were Bayard Rustin, I would be arrested in Pasadena, California on charges of “sex perversion” with two other men who were with me in a parked car. It would be another ten years before I would be the logistical mastermind behind the March on Washington. <br>
<br>If I were Douglas Fairbanks at age 41, I would make the film <i>The Thief of Bagdad</I>. It would have been four years since I originated the role of Zorro on film. Next year, I would have the audacity to play Diego de la Vega’s son in the sequel <i>Don Q, Son of Zorro</I> despite being sixteen years older than the character.<br>
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If I were Mae West, I would be at the height of my film career, releasing <I>Belle of the Nineties</I>.<br>
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If I were Mary Tyler Moore, this would be my last year playing Mary Richards.<br>
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If I were Reies López Tijerina, this is the year that I would lead an armed raid on the Rio Arriba County courthouse in New Mexico. <br>
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If I were Gloria Swanson, it would be another ten years before I would play faded star Norma Desmond in <I>Sunset Boulvard</I>. <br>
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If I were Lyndon Johnson, I would start my first year in the U.S. Senate. <br>
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If I were Murphy Brown's boss, Miles Silverberg, it would have been sixteen years since I started working at <i>FYI.</I><br>
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If I were Ellen Burstyn, this is the year that I would dodge projectile vomit in <i>The Exorcist.</I> It would be another year before I would win the Academy Award for Best Actress for my work in <I>Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore</i>.<br>
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If I were Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, my former secretary would release a tell-all book about working for me this year. <br>
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At 41, I would return to my role as Hikaru Sulu in <i>Star Trek:The Motion Picture</i> if I were George Takei.<br>
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If I were Jimmy Carter, I would be in the midst of serving my second term in the Georgia State Senate. <br>
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If I were Oscar Wilde at 41, this would be the year that I would try to prosecute my lover’s father, the Marquess of Queensberry, for libel. That would turn out not be such a good idea.<br>
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If I were Guy Williams, this is the year I would start playing Professor John Robinson on <i>Lost in Space.</I> It would have been four years since my last television appearance as Zorro.<br>
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If I were Billie Holiday, I would release my album <I>Lady Sings the Blues</I>, my last for Clef Records.<br>
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If I were Isabel Allende, I would win Novel of the Year from the Chilean government for my book <I>The House of Spirits</I>. It would be another twenty-two years before I would write <i>Zorro</i>. <br>
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If I were Chris Christie, I would have no moral compass.<br>
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If I were Lily Tomlin, this is the year that I would make <I>9 to 5</I>.<br>
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If I were Martin Luther King, Jr, I would have been dead for two years. <br>
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Jane Fonda, at age 41, starred in the film <i>Coming Home</i>. I would age another two years before I teamed up with Dolly Parton and Lily Tomlin for <i>9 to 5</I>. <br>
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If I were Scott Walker, I would be a college dropout.<br>
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If I were Kate Jackson, I would be starring in the short-lived sitcom <i>Baby Boom</i>.<br>
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If I were Pearl Bailey, this is the year that I would release <I>Pearl Bailey Sings for Adults Only</I>, one of my best. <br>
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If I were Elizabeth Montgomery, this is the year I would make the controversial television-movie <i>A Case of Rape</I>.<br>
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If I were Batman, I would be a knockoff of Zorro.<br>
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If I were Farrah Fawcett, it would have been a year since I starred in <i>Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story</I>.<br>
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If I were Ted Cruz, I would be totally nuts.<br>
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If I were Dick York, this would be the year that I would be replaced by Dick Sargent as Darrin Stephens in <i>Bewitched</I>.<br>
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If I were Jaclyn Smith, I would be starring in <i>Rage of Angels: The Story Continues</I>. Disappointingly, the titular angels would have no relation to Charlie.<br>
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If I were Bobby Jindal, I would be completely delusional. <br>
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If I were Cher, this is the year that I would star in <I>Moonstruck</i>, for which I would win an Academy Award. Snap out of it!<br>
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If I were Dolly Parton, I would record the much acclaimed album <i>Trio</i> with Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt.<br>
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If I were Tyrone Power, I would be touring the United States and Canada in the play <i>The Dark is Light Enough</I>. It would have been fifteen years since I portrayed Zorro. <br>
<br>If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,450 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1NRU4ECz0Oz0dRm0bxnIXAakpeKK3TJGhbHZmWBSwWl6aXjvrLdi_vudJSWE48N81uPHUqpcn_89AmNTMPVpNqKJm5KhUPMkKijEJ8BG7WOJR0PQ8jp-gTJcayiOM0u375R7/s1600/wwcape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1NRU4ECz0Oz0dRm0bxnIXAakpeKK3TJGhbHZmWBSwWl6aXjvrLdi_vudJSWE48N81uPHUqpcn_89AmNTMPVpNqKJm5KhUPMkKijEJ8BG7WOJR0PQ8jp-gTJcayiOM0u375R7/s320/wwcape.jpg" /></a></div>
</ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-88133198189053334622014-12-22T05:05:00.000-08:002014-12-22T05:05:00.060-08:00GayProf's Holiday Gift Guide 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzBElY7Xve6tgpgwG9zxRlR8qoZtCPHpnbDLnpaGjqFpvb3qYUqsuuFiCWOWTbGXCp9FtLfitYuvBCS6nAWeeoteZ-yf41h6LjLuJ_hqLRnvqHnzDaP1TuQ6Ss5SLDcu8d1bE/s1600/ccsanta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzBElY7Xve6tgpgwG9zxRlR8qoZtCPHpnbDLnpaGjqFpvb3qYUqsuuFiCWOWTbGXCp9FtLfitYuvBCS6nAWeeoteZ-yf41h6LjLuJ_hqLRnvqHnzDaP1TuQ6Ss5SLDcu8d1bE/s320/ccsanta.jpg" /></a></div>Holidays always seem like a period of extreme endurance to me. For weeks we struggle with crowds of shoppers, awkward conversations with distant relatives, and even more awkward conversations with close relatives. Everybody scrambles and agonizes over what gift to buy that special somebody in their lives. For me, I don’t need lots of things just to prove that people adore me. No, no. In the immortal words of Pearl Bailey, just give me a five-pound box of money. Cash, after all, is always the perfect size and always the perfect color.<BR><BR>
Not everybody, I recognize, has my pragmatic sense of the world. Many of you want to send just the right message with a present this year. To help you all out, here is my [almost]annual gift guide. Allow me to decipher just what those hidden messages are behind the gifts we give.<br>
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<uL><br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> Tortoise shell hair combs with jeweled rims.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> I clearly had not anticipated that you were going to cut your hair like a Coney Island chorus girl. Why, oh, why did I sell my grandfather's gold watch for these damn things? <br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Hey, at least my hair will be long and luxurious again in a few months. Good luck growing a new gold watch.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A 500-page summary outlining the CIA’s illegal and ineffective use of torture.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Your Congress is hard at work and on top of things – thirteen years after they happen!<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> If somebody actually ends up doing jailtime for this, it would be the best Christmas present ever!<br>
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<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A commemorative statue of Batman’s 75th anniversary.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> You’re kinda a nerd.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVE THINKS:</b> A statue of Batman -- the lesser Zorro.<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0krpy0h0kxPjP5bYgYiKeVZEtpicHK86we0ynXv86ZhIWnxEAHY3sVET5HGmpvZDaZPwjHLtLgP4bpK6XsKlTIH6-lhohPEmZFNXuTDTq6iMkzSP7p0weB6nHvr2SnFfTwXz8/s1600/batmanvszorro.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0krpy0h0kxPjP5bYgYiKeVZEtpicHK86we0ynXv86ZhIWnxEAHY3sVET5HGmpvZDaZPwjHLtLgP4bpK6XsKlTIH6-lhohPEmZFNXuTDTq6iMkzSP7p0weB6nHvr2SnFfTwXz8/s320/batmanvszorro.png" /></a></div>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> An announcement by Jeb Bush that he will be running for President of the United States.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b>This nation has been foolish enough to let two other members of this mediocre family become president. Why not me?<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Isn't there a way to keep this family sequestered on an island somewhere?<br>
<br>
***
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A poem about a visit from St. Nicholas<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Aren’t I clever?<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Other children get <i>actual</I> gifts from St. Nicholas. All I got was a cloying set of sloppy rhyming couplets. Worst. Christmas. Ever.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> Normalized relations with Cuba.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> This has been a complicated and difficult set of diplomatic negotiations that will have lasting impact on this hemisphere and beyond.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Finally! I will be able to get a bottle of Havana Club rum without having to smuggle it across the U.S.-Mexican border. <br>
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<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> Flesh, wine, and pine logs<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> You shall dine well tonight and be warm!<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Uh, that’s nice for tonight. What about the other 364 days when I live in grinding poverty? This neighborhood is a dump! We get landslides from the mountain; the forest fence needs repair; and I can't even remember the last time that Saint Agnes’ fountain actually had water in it! Your cruel tyranny has allowed the accumulation of wealth among the few.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> Crystal wine glasses<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Your stemware situation is grievous.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> These are better than drinking out of a bottle in a paper bag I suppose.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A collection of money to replace the missing deposit that your uncle was supposed to make for the savings and loan.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> We are a shockingly selfish set of humans making a token gesture. We will never really acknowledge our parasitic dependence on you or that our lives would have certainly turned to crime and/or alcoholism had you not been around.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Great, I get to avoid jail time for a mistake that I did not actually make. Otherwise, my life remains focused on playing nursemaid to an entire community. God, I hate this town.<br>
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<br>
<BR>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A diamond tennis bracelet.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Television tells me to buy these.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> If I look closely, I can almost see the blood inside each one.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A video of our employees making paper airplanes out of boarding passes.<br>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gEOwFpkaUH4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> You all are sheep and won’t notice the cripplingly expensive airfares we charge despite the low prices of fuel.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> The holidays are that special time of year when I become nostalgic for the era when our nation actually enforced its anti-trust laws.<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A three-month gym membership.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> I plan to break up with you soon, but I want to make you feel as badly about yourself as possible beforehand.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Gee, if ever I begin to doubt what a small person that you are, I can just think of this gift.<br>
<br>
***
<BR>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A <a href="http://centerofgravitas.blogspot.com/2014/04/university-admini-o-crats.html">“shared services”</a> center designed by an outside consulting firm for $11 million.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Faculty who protest this should really just shut-up and teach.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Apparently I work at a university that values its employees at the same depth as a Texas Wal-Mart. <br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> The opportunity to carry flesh, wine, and pine logs through the bitter cold so that I can look like a saint.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Walk in my footsteps and you will find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> You know what would freeze my blood less coldly? If you handed over your ermine cloak, you selfish bastard.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4utKU7c17dibLhquqbi_iAcrr3JBdin7H5NbBUnLdu4Pda7rwxO3jkH5kpE7JazQKzbTrboA2b707kzjZXJ_wRUAdvS7UH22B3cnHB0Q7d6uOQosBRncZGcbeZyPXllgR35IQ/s1600/wenceslas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4utKU7c17dibLhquqbi_iAcrr3JBdin7H5NbBUnLdu4Pda7rwxO3jkH5kpE7JazQKzbTrboA2b707kzjZXJ_wRUAdvS7UH22B3cnHB0Q7d6uOQosBRncZGcbeZyPXllgR35IQ/s320/wenceslas.jpg" /></a></div>
<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A blog post after months, or even years, of absence.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> I can still be funny, right?<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Oh, are you still alive?<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> The complete DVD box set of <i>WKRP in Cincinnati</I>.<br>
<br><iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/YQvCNLIVydM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> Aren’t you nostalgic for the time when AM radio stations played rock’n’roll?<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> What is a radio station?<br>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> The opportunity to guide my sleigh through a blizzard.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> I used to think you were a cruel freak of nature. Now that you have some marginal use to me, I am more than glad to exploit your labor.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> After tonight, I am converting to Judaism and running away with Hermey, my gay lover.<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuObvF8c0f1ZdAdSPljG_47S2igvXJ7wkhBeEbE4UIT5SUMQl0HGSgE3uutZq3h7yEjwQe7ig-LRvkwNSa8rXLa9wKptUgg_alr2TgB6T2CRp5DY0heqY0jTAmm68waT-SNjYu/s1600/rudolph.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuObvF8c0f1ZdAdSPljG_47S2igvXJ7wkhBeEbE4UIT5SUMQl0HGSgE3uutZq3h7yEjwQe7ig-LRvkwNSa8rXLa9wKptUgg_alr2TgB6T2CRp5DY0heqY0jTAmm68waT-SNjYu/s320/rudolph.jpg" /></a></div>
<br>
***
<br>
<b>THE GIFT:</b> A Republican controlled Congress.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE GIVER MEANT:</b> I hate America.<br>
<br>
<b>WHAT THE RECEIVER THINKS:</b> Looks like I picked the wrong holiday to quit drinking.<br>
<br>
</uL><br>
Well, on that final cheerful note, I will simply extend my best non-sectarian, non-denominational winter greetings to you all. Enjoy the gifts whatever their hidden meanings.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvKPbE7xKNE4A_b7Fej16uqZgUYr2wIF4-GOiMJJ7aBsZVIb585MGQXF_aiuQyf-KJKUULIkL6Nb4O4aBsZv_KkR6q3gkmbIbvkUFwLGKTLacY2tiTbxOBGo-yB4SsiEB8C7W/s1600/wonder-woman-the-deadly-toys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnvKPbE7xKNE4A_b7Fej16uqZgUYr2wIF4-GOiMJJ7aBsZVIb585MGQXF_aiuQyf-KJKUULIkL6Nb4O4aBsZv_KkR6q3gkmbIbvkUFwLGKTLacY2tiTbxOBGo-yB4SsiEB8C7W/s320/wonder-woman-the-deadly-toys.jpg" /></a></div>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-29120878229791032152014-07-09T12:00:00.001-07:002014-07-09T12:10:59.292-07:00Life Continues at Forty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eI-hBT16XJyDie0BShNsv6F20BcWnA4eu3MbdTpDiT0hpZMQdfwdNsooPJpfvRtuiy8Z-u-Y4xDfp9Y_fdflP2g1c7D935yMp-D1Zx_A4SD98vwvNSkcW2vUNvAnoDlmabSt/s1600/wwmirrorwitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_eI-hBT16XJyDie0BShNsv6F20BcWnA4eu3MbdTpDiT0hpZMQdfwdNsooPJpfvRtuiy8Z-u-Y4xDfp9Y_fdflP2g1c7D935yMp-D1Zx_A4SD98vwvNSkcW2vUNvAnoDlmabSt/s320/wwmirrorwitch.jpg" /></a></div>GayProf’s ol’ odometer rolled over yet again this past June. At some point I expect that I will be due for a tire rotation. For those keeping tack, I have now entered the forties. Growing up, my mother had a plaque hanging in her bathroom with the phrase “Life begins at forty.” The optimistic assessment appeared juxtaposed to a lesser-known Rockwell painting showing a bored middle-aged woman sipping coffee with an inattentive husband buried in the newspaper. Less ironic than cruel it seemed to me. <br>
<br>
Such pervasive messages about aging can really warp us. Even I, my dear and loyal readers, succumb to doubts. Then I think about where other people happen to have been in their lives at 40. It turns out that for many people life really did begin at forty. Well, except for the ones who were already dead. Their lives were never quite the same. . . <br>
<BR>
Whatever the case, as we all know, I use my birthday as a time to take stock of my life by making comparisons to others’ life journeys, real or imagined, at the same age. It is a little ritual that we have at <i>CoG</I>. Just play along and it will be fine.
<br>
<ul>
If I were Oscar Wilde at age 40, I would write both <i>An Ideal Husband</I> and <i>The Importance of Being Earnest</i> this year.<br>
<br>
If I were Zebulon Pike at age 40, I would be dead. It would have been nine years since I published my journals about being captured by Spanish authorities in New Mexico. It would have been six years since I was blown to bits in the War of 1812 at the Battle of York.<br>
<br>
If I were Rosalind Russell, I would make the film <i>Mourning Becomes Electra</I> this year. It would be another ten years before I would play Auntie Mame on Broadway.<br>
<br>
Should I have been born George Blanda, I would play professional football another eight years before retiring.<br>
<br>
If I were Malcom X, I would have died last year.<br>
<br>
Had I been Billie Holiday at age 40, I would be working with ghostwriter William Dufty on my autobiography <i>Lady Sings the Blues</i>.<br>
<Br>
If I were Paul Walker at age 40, I would die unexpectedly in a fiery car crash.<br>
<br>
Mae West, at age 40, made her first two major movies <i>She Done Him Wrong</i> and <i>I’m No Angel</i> this year, both with Carey Grant.<br>
<br>
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<br>
If I were Carey Grant at age 40, I would be starring in <i>Arsenic and Old Lace</I>.<br>
<br>
If I were Miguel A. Otero, I would be governor of New Mexico.<br>
<br>
If I were Will Rogers, I would be in the midst of a three-year contract with Samuel Goldwyn. It would be another three years before my syndicated column started appearing in <i>The New York Times</i>.<br>
<br>
If I were <i>The New York Times</I>, my headlines would include a public feud between Rear Admiral Bancroft Gerardi and Acting Rear Admiral John G. Walker in the U.S. Navy.<br>
<br>
If I were Pearl Bailey, I would release my album <i>Gems by Pearl Bailey</I> this year.<br>
<br>
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<br>
If I were Cabeza de Vaca, I would land at Tampa Bay, Florida with the doomed Narváez expedition. Only three others of the original 600 would survive with me.<br>
<br>
If I were Tecumseh, this is the year that I would establish Prophetstown, My charismatic leadership would make this town into an early base for a confederation of tribes committed to challenging U.S. incursions into the Great Lakes region. <br>
<br>
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<br>
If I were Stella Payne, this is the year that I would get my groove back. <br>
<br>
If I were Lorraine Hansberry, I would be dead.<br>
<br>
If I were the nation of Mexico, Queen Isabella II, Queen Victoria, and Napoleon III would all have signed an agreement to force me to resume my loan payments. This would start the time in my life that we would later refer to as the Second Mexican Empire.<br>
<br>
If I were George Eliot, I would publish my first novel, <i>Adam Bede</I>, this year. <br>
<br>
If I were Myrna Loy, this is the year that I would film <i>The Thin Man Goes Home</I>.<br>
<br>
If I were either Nick or Nora Charles, I should seriously be considering joining Alcoholics Anonymous.<br>
<br>
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<br>
If I were Frances Drake, I would reach Sierra Leone this year.<br>
<br>
If I were Captain James Cook, I would be making my first voyage across the Pacific Ocean.<br>
<br>
If I were James T. Kirk, I would be the youngest admiral in Starfleet and the Chief of Starfleet Operations. Apparently, though, that just wouldn't be good enough for me. This is also the year that I would use the V’Ger incident as an excuse to displace William Decker as Captain of the <I>Enterprise</i> in a futile effort to reclaim my youth.<br>
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If I were Elton John, I would win my libel case against <i>The Sun</I> for publishing stories about me paying young men for sex.<br>
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If I were Eusebio Kino, I would abandon the Misión San Bruno in Baja California and return to Mexico City. Many indigenous people likely spent the year hosting parties as a result.<br>
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If I were Freddie Mercury, this is the year that I would play my final live performance with Queen in Knebworth Park.<br>
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If I were Popé, it would be five years before I would be one of 47 religious leaders arrested by Spanish authorities for “witchcraft.” It would be another ten years before I became a key leader in the Pueblo Revolt of 1680. <br>
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If I were Huey Long, I would break with FDR and oppose the National Recovery Act on the grounds that it catered too much to business interests. <br>
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If I were Álvaro Obregón, this is the year that I would become president of Mexico.<br>
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If I were Ellen DeGeneres, my sitcom would be cancelled this year. <br>
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If I were Emiliano Zapata, I would be dead. <br>
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Were I to have been Mark Twain at age 40, then I would publish <i>The Adventures of Tom Sawyer</I> this year. <br>
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If I were Muhammad, I would be visited by Gabriel and receive my first divine revelation.<br>
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If I were Divine, I would be starring in <i>Lust in the Dust</I> this year.<br>
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If I were Colonel Sanders, this is the year that I would start preparing fried chicken for folks who stopped at my service station in Corbin, Kentucky. It would be another few years before I perfected my herb-to-spice ratio. <I>*cough*MSG*cough*</I><br>
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At age 40, I would decide to visit my brethren, the Israelites, if I were Moses.<br>
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If I were Andy Warhol, Valerie Solanas would shoot me. <br>
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If I were Stan Lee, this is the year that I would create <i>Spiderman</I>.<br>
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If I were Jame Michener, this is the year that I would publish <i>Tales of the South Pacific</I> which would inspire the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. <br>
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If I were Captain Jean-Luc Picard, I would be in command of the <i>USS Stargazer</i>. It would be another nineteen years before I took command of the <i>Enterprise</i>.<br>
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If I were William T. Riker, nobody would care what I was doing at age 40. Poor Riker.<br>
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If I were Noël Coward, I would write <i>This Happy Breed</i> and <i>Present Laughter</i> this year. <br>
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If I were Pontiac, it would be another three years before I would attack Fort Detroit and start my eponymous war.<br>
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If I were Mary Richards, I would have been fired from WJM-TV three years ago.<br>
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If I were Walter Raleigh, this is the year that Elizabeth I would imprison me at the Tower of London.<br>
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If I were Mary Tyler Moore, I would win my fifth Emmy award this year for playing Mary Richards (and the third Emmy for that role).<br>
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If I were Harvey Milk, this is the year that I would be fired from my job as a financial analyst after protesting the U.S. invasion of Cambodia.<br>
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If I were either Jamey Carroll or Derek Jeter at 40, I would still be playing professional baseball.<br>
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If I were Meriwether Lewis at age 40, I would be dead. It would have been five years since I shot myself in the head . . . twice. Or somebody shot me in the head twice. We aren’t really sure what happened. My personal guess is that he suffered from an unrequited and <i>totally</I> gay love of Thomas Jefferson. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.<br>
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If I were fashionista, Alexander McQueen, I would die this year. <br>
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If I were GayProf, I would be starting a year sabbatical after two years of intense departmental service.<br>
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If I were Steve Carell, I would be appearing in Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s single-seasoned sitcom <I>Watching Ellie</i>. It would be another three years before I would make <I>The 40-Year Old Virgin</i>.<br>
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If I were astrophysicist Donald Clayton at age forty, this is the year that I would propose that the isotopic effects of condensed anomalous dust within supernovae could be found in meteorites. – Or something – I was never good at science. <br>
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If I were Vivian Leigh, I would suffer a major breakdown while filming <i>Elephant Walk</I>. I would be replaced by Elizabeth Taylor. <br>
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If I were James Baldwin, I would join marchers in Selma, Alabama demanding justice. <br>
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If I were Tennessee Williams, this is the year my play <i>The Rose Tattoo</I> would appear on Broadway.<br>
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If I were Marlo Thomas, I would star in <I>It Happened One Christmas</I>, a remake of <i>It’s a Wonderful Life</I>. I would make a subtle political statement by taking over the Jimmy Stewart role with Cloris Leachman taking up the task of being my guardian angel.<br>
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If I were Katherine Hepburn, I would make my fourth film with Spencer Tracey, the forgettable <i>The Sea of Grass</I>.<br>
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If I were either of my parents at age 40, I would have three children. The oldest, now twenty, would have moved out of the house. The youngest would be thirteen. <br>
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If I were Jaclyn Smith, I would star in the film <I>Deja Vu</I>.<br>
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If I were Dolly Parton, this is the year that I would purchase the obscure theme park Silver Dollar City and rename it Dollywood.<br>
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If I were William Clark, this is the year that I would complete my comprehensive map of the West. It would become the standard reference for a quarter century as trappers, traders, scientists, and other U.S. citizens became increasing interlopers on other people’s lands. <br>
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If I were Jesus, I would have been dead for seven years. <br>
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If I were Farrah Fawcett, I would star in <I>Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story</I>. <br>
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If I were Paul Lynde, this is the year I would first appear as the prankster warlock Uncle Arthur on <I>Bewitched</i>.<br>
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If I were Cher at age 40, this is the year that I would stun viewers of the Academy Awards with my Bob Mackie original. It would be another two years before I would win an Oscar for <I>Moonstruck</I>.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiGNf5Tc2-XDpxxjUUaC8y2F6D3xGsrRH7ZXZi8D7FrLcaFtylInQfXbo1VMQ2ahppvncJMaF5uMMKd6FaSk5vFQNrvqOl402rq9wiuuZZZ8CayZuVoYatplX3bcUsdO8955h/s1600/cher-oscar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiGNf5Tc2-XDpxxjUUaC8y2F6D3xGsrRH7ZXZi8D7FrLcaFtylInQfXbo1VMQ2ahppvncJMaF5uMMKd6FaSk5vFQNrvqOl402rq9wiuuZZZ8CayZuVoYatplX3bcUsdO8955h/s320/cher-oscar.jpg" /></a></div>
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If I were Kate Jackson, I would star in the quickly cancelled sitcom <I>Baby Boom</I> this year. <br>
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If I were Jonathan Swift, I would be in London advocating for the government to provide the same subsidy to Church of Ireland clerics as it did for the Church of England. It would be another fifteen years before I would pen <I>Gulliver’s Travels</I>.<br>
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If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,451 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsH6cn63b39cFWuji3QlnSWtDRxEYV2VOQ-ieZaGzhDBYZl2GpmnuLKjyvEskP4rHgXhxFR_5pJDeXaMGRAEpE638rALOcD9iGvCeB-cRYa08cc663AQYvlPk3HHTHFQNoJmU9/s1600/wwcape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsH6cn63b39cFWuji3QlnSWtDRxEYV2VOQ-ieZaGzhDBYZl2GpmnuLKjyvEskP4rHgXhxFR_5pJDeXaMGRAEpE638rALOcD9iGvCeB-cRYa08cc663AQYvlPk3HHTHFQNoJmU9/s320/wwcape.jpg" /></a></div></ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-7462597108345247222014-04-28T09:03:00.001-07:002014-04-28T09:44:57.367-07:00University Admini-o-crats <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJ527oucH7jRIb3gcUD2jOJSawMMXdpCZfU8W9WDCRY_hUAoX-z6cEk4Lx4xLFmnp5p3DBkHl0vYJY7lLIHe4PfNHNDwBDUV7SwYiAkcH4C2NfFtK8O0SEAUEmk0vwIYg4WDp/s1600/allstarmoney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJ527oucH7jRIb3gcUD2jOJSawMMXdpCZfU8W9WDCRY_hUAoX-z6cEk4Lx4xLFmnp5p3DBkHl0vYJY7lLIHe4PfNHNDwBDUV7SwYiAkcH4C2NfFtK8O0SEAUEmk0vwIYg4WDp/s320/allstarmoney.jpg" /></a></div>Over the past year, Big Midwestern University (BMU) has faced so many revelations and scandals that I half expected to see Kerry Washington lurking about the campus. All the elements that have played out would probably wake Nixon from the grave: stonewalling (university) presidents, leaked documents, budget smoke-and-mirrors, and even FOIA requests from faculty members like myself. Heck, if this level of intrigue keeps up, I am going to have to buy more trenchcoats.<br>
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BMU’s scandals have left us with the unsavory realization that a tier of for-hire consultants and professional administrators have finagled themselves into institutions of higher education. These are not faculty administrators, but rather companies and individuals who have found a way to profit from institutions of higher learning. Let’s call these folks admini-o-crats to distinguish them from actual faculty administrators. Admini-o-crats often manufacture a crisis just so that they can deploy their “expertise” as a solution. All the while they quietly siphon public funds into their own bottomless pockets.<br>
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Years of neglect and poor choices by the upper-level faculty administrators and a dozing board of regents essentially gave admini-o-crats a free hand over our campus. They arrived with a smile on their face and a promise to solve our shrinking resources by running BMU like a private corporation. The most recent yield from that practice has been nine months of faculty, staff, and student alienation around issues of labor, diversity, and fiscal management. Never have I been a part of a campus with such a low sense of morale. Our president’s reputation has crashed faster than a government sponsored health care web-page.<br>
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Things really started to unravel for her at the start of the academic year when her personal slate of admini-o-crats unveiled a master plan which they had euphemistically named the <a href="http://www.insidehighered.com/views/2013/11/25/essay-impact-applying-corporate-values-higher-education#sthash.kCQTHSRX.dpbs">Administrative Services Transformation (AST)</a>. The titular “transformation” promised to change the most underpaid and undervalued workers on campus into easy scapegoats who could be sacrficed to show the administration’s toughness on budget issues. AST issued over a hundred notices to departmental staff across campus that their position had been eliminated. Most of these notices went to employees who were women clerical workers over the age of 40. Though many of them had literally given decades of service to the university for already unfairly low compensation, the admini-o-crats now labeled them as “bloat” and “redundant.” Few took solace in the university’s offer that they could apply for exciting new jobs in a centralized “shared services” center that would be located far off campus. Think of it as a glorified call center where faculty members would send HR and accounting requests without being troubled by the idea that a real person was actually doing labor. <br>
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My goddess, the faculty did not take kindly to the admini-o-crats dehumanizing their staff colleagues by referring to them merely as a set of “processes.” Dozens of letters of protest emerged from departments across the campus. The Faculty Senate and the LSA Faculty both called for an immediate halt. Our president, fully ensconced in a circle of admini-o-crats, at first ignored the growing unhappiness on campus. Ultimately, when she had no other choice, she deigned to respond to our very real concerns for our staff colleagues and the harm that AST would bring to individual departments. Her response made clear just what she thought of the faculty on her campus. She used a language and approach that made us out to be misbehaving five-year olds. AST would proceed, she more-or-less stated, “Because I said so.” Merciful Minerva! <br>
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It turns out that BMU has paid $11.7 million dollars (and counting) to the for-hire consulting company Accenture LLP for this little gem of a plan. Accenture’s salesmen appear to be ingratiating themselves with university presidents across the nation, including in Texas and California. Are you yet unfamiliar with Accenture? They are a global “advising” corporation spun off from their parent company, Andersen Consulting. Yep, the same Arthur Andersen involved oh-so-directly in the Enron scandal. Ain’t that a nice pedigree to invite onto your campus to manage tuition and state funds?<br>
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As far as I can discern, Accenture’s business model centers on chasing <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/24/nyregion/bloombergs-computer-project-for-personnel-data-leads-to-waste.html">down ever possible public dollar</a> to add to its private coffer. In exchange for BMU’s $11.7 million dollars, Accenture promised to return savings of $17 million/year. But, gosh, even as the notices of termination arrived to the targeted staff members, they were already acknowledging that they might have miscalculated those promised savings just a bit. By October of this past year, they scaled back those estimates to $5 million. Wait – Did they say $5 million? Maybe those numbers, they recently acknowledged, were skewed as well. Now the admini-o-crats in charge of AST flatly refuse to discuss numbers entirely. If asked directly (and I have), they meekly claim that they are pretty sure that AST will save BSU something . . . well, mostly sure . . . well. . . It’s not too hard to think that the board of regents and the president have signed up for a boondoggle that makes the Teapot Dome Scandal look like a trip to the gas station.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACuibQVlE2rlzl7zLDYLhzSbYBl9mCGmQAw1EpVKOMf6E-cp98LXga9nwjQysoHjQ03-3J6Y6mxLCgb36byXYCdoNETAOQ_fxgtPFnUNzIveONrD3qE-vaSa-QuTc3tm3_3Hb/s1600/racket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjACuibQVlE2rlzl7zLDYLhzSbYBl9mCGmQAw1EpVKOMf6E-cp98LXga9nwjQysoHjQ03-3J6Y6mxLCgb36byXYCdoNETAOQ_fxgtPFnUNzIveONrD3qE-vaSa-QuTc3tm3_3Hb/s320/racket.jpg" /></a></div><br>
Faculty members continued to educate themselves about how this might have come into play. We were spurred on by a leaked details about the key admini-o-crat in charge of AST. Before joining BMU’s payroll, it turns out that this particular admini-o-crat took home a pay check from none other than Accenture. (Cue dramatic music and raised eyebrows). In addition to a remarkably generous salary of over $300,000, BMU also gave this admini-o-crat undisclosed bonus pay in the ballpark of another $100,000. In other words, this one admini-o-crat alone took home the annual salary of eight (8) regular staff members who had been targeted in the AST debacle. Faculty might not be fancy accountants, as the president points out, but it sure does seem like cost savings could be attained more easily if we trimmed the salaries and bonuses of folks at the top. Fortunately for us this particular admini-o-crat saw the writing on the wall moved off to peddle his financial snake oil at another institution. My sympathies to them.<br>
<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUey7oUQiNYfnv8s0oCLf4_PsYGuwZNZUE6gvtyKVcm8eWf8Hgp5HMwE2RRx8UJZ8WdClW_3JPC2t20ORDk0LYB5aQ3frWMhktUJtjrF2lZLg-ISHPkuTUulnOTaUGUYCFD7U/s1600/wwsinglemind.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUey7oUQiNYfnv8s0oCLf4_PsYGuwZNZUE6gvtyKVcm8eWf8Hgp5HMwE2RRx8UJZ8WdClW_3JPC2t20ORDk0LYB5aQ3frWMhktUJtjrF2lZLg-ISHPkuTUulnOTaUGUYCFD7U/s320/wwsinglemind.JPG" /></a></div><br>
More digging <a href="http://chronicle.com/article/Professors-at-U-of-Michigan/146187/">showed</a> that the upper levels of the administration, starting at the CFO’s office, have developed a culture of giving each other enormous salaries and unregulated bonuses while starving the rest of the campus. Since this bonus pay was not considered part of their base salary, the administration did not have to provide these amounts in its public publishing of salaries. Thus the need for FOIA requests to find out just what was going on with all this unregulated pay. Over the past nine years, the amount of money spent on “additional pay” (read: bonuses) has grown from $13 million annually to $46 million annually. That would be in addition to the fact that the top base pay of our top administrators appears to be 30 percent (or more) higher than our peer institutions. Suddenly the president has started claiming that institutions that we use as peers to evaluate faculty scholarship really aren’t our peers at all when it comes to the administration’s compensation.<br>
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Top administrators, like their corporate equivalents, have justified their own large salaries and unregulated bonuses through an argument that they must pay for “talent.” <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b7ekosVOK31A-NBLwzs3X8oRhdBsN5vnpB8z9PMtGDohVB3u_6PBOllq6Li-1Vaj2Qg7PpzipP_OFHN10QDgYSwqS8aVx_lYLifDt3_mqiqFoASkp0mc8j5aasFpJlb2FcZy/s1600/wwgreed.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5b7ekosVOK31A-NBLwzs3X8oRhdBsN5vnpB8z9PMtGDohVB3u_6PBOllq6Li-1Vaj2Qg7PpzipP_OFHN10QDgYSwqS8aVx_lYLifDt3_mqiqFoASkp0mc8j5aasFpJlb2FcZy/s320/wwgreed.JPG" /></a></div>Such arguments strike me as suspect for a number of reasons. Most obviously, the market for top university administrators is a fairly closed one. With a finite number of institutions in the nation, we might well imagine that the number of qualified administrators outnumber the positions available at those institutions. Instead of a rational effort to hire administrators at solid salaries, universities have entered into a bizarre economic cold war where they hope to outspend the others in a futile effort to avoid the stark reality that we are all on the edge of financial ruin. So too does such an argument about talent presume that the individual workers on the lower levels of the university lack skills or talent worthy of adequate compensation or respect.<br>
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I do believe that universities like BMU indeed face tough economic circumstances that require real decisions about budget cuts. Greedy state legislatures favor tax breaks over financing public institutions. These short-sighted slashes in funding combined with a nationally ballooning student debt will inevitably cripple higher education across the nation unless we reform. Our experience at BMU, however, points to a basic question of shared values in how we will address those economic challenges. The admini-o-crats’ claims that AST is the right type of belt-tightening would appear laughable if it had not involved real working people’s livelihoods. As one last surprise twist to the story, our CFO recently announced that he would become the President of the University of Phoenix. Perhaps that proved the most telling sign of just how far off BMU had drifted from its mission. Rather than being a place where administrators worked hard to protect education and research, we allowed a legion of admini-o-crats to turn BMU into an educational McDonald's. GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-36393383694569918032013-06-28T12:58:00.000-07:002013-06-28T12:58:30.482-07:00Baby, If You've Ever Wondered<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApMb06YfhiWLBhQ0EVsA4uKlhjrbxLGdEculQbmrBmyt96-Myu-tWMiq1Llel2lPJrCZ_0wLFUEqU28O_tfLLfQ4U-a_RCpRWv9Ao04ybngmiVgGiAQhmbAc9G0G6zrDc1N4A/s561/sensdc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApMb06YfhiWLBhQ0EVsA4uKlhjrbxLGdEculQbmrBmyt96-Myu-tWMiq1Llel2lPJrCZ_0wLFUEqU28O_tfLLfQ4U-a_RCpRWv9Ao04ybngmiVgGiAQhmbAc9G0G6zrDc1N4A/s561/sensdc.jpg" /></a></div>Another year has elapsed in the adventures of GayProf. We are starting the end of my thirties and it ain't pretty, people. Fortunately, I was able to have per-celebrations visiting <a href="http://vuboq.blogspot.com/">VUBOQ</a> and his Amazing Friends. There was much eating and drinking and climbing of broken escalators.<br>
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Apparently the Supreme Court also decided to give me an early gift by declaring me almost-human. Well, almost-human as long as my home state's legislature or court thinks of me as such. Whatever the case, as we all know, I use my birthday as a time to take stock of my life by making comparisons to others’ life journeys, real or imagined, at the same age. It is a little <s>macabre habit</s> <s>tired gimmick</s> ritual that I have. I’m not sayin', I'm just sayin'.<Br>
<br><ul>
If I were Andy Travis at age 39, it would have been six years since I moved to Cincinnati, Ohio from my hometown of Santa Fe, New Mexico.<br><br>
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If I were Dolly Parton at 39, I would contradictorily record two songs entitled “Real Love” and “Don’t Call It Love" this year.<br>
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If I were Paul Lynde at age 39, this is the year I would make my first appearance in the television show <i>Bewitched</I>. My role was <i>not</I> Uncle Arthur (which I would originate at age 40), but rather the outlandishly mortal Harold Harold who attempts to teach Samantha how to drive a car. <br>
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If I were Mr. Carlson, it would be another five years before I hired Andy Travis as Program Director of WKRP.<br>
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If I were Paula Deen, I would be a racist idiot.<br>
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If I were either of my parents at age 39, I would have three children. The oldest would be nineteen and the youngest would be twelve.<br>
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If I were Oscar Wilde, this is the year I would produce my play <I>A Woman of No Importance</I>.<br>
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If I were Lyle Waggoner, this is the year that I would leave <i>The Carol Burnett Show</I> to play the role of Wonder Woman’s boyfriend, Steve Trevor. Aside: The realization that I was the same age as Steve Trevor sorta made me feel better about aging.<br>
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If I were Harvey Milk, this is the year that I would move to San Francisco for the first time.<br>
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If I were Che Guevara, I would be executed this year after failing to incite revolution in Bolivia.<br>
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If I were Dick Sargent, this is the year I would replace Dick York as Darrin Stephens in the television show <I>Bewitched</i>. Apparently, Elizabeth Montgomery liked to hang around the gays. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.<br>
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If I were Les Nessman, I would have met Andy Travis last year. Aside: The realization that I was the same age as Les sorta made me want to kill myself.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mGLMe4AjzrXADqQVwN6rvfEJYGMeBaQqbFew1SD3I08qzh35QcfgXC947mBsVuFoN0X5KkVC_y63dbQ76a_H3PNxUVDxd4qIJXUMGpe1L4aJVqioiN8qHhjdK9jXyxJZ2qjq/s320/les_bandage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6mGLMe4AjzrXADqQVwN6rvfEJYGMeBaQqbFew1SD3I08qzh35QcfgXC947mBsVuFoN0X5KkVC_y63dbQ76a_H3PNxUVDxd4qIJXUMGpe1L4aJVqioiN8qHhjdK9jXyxJZ2qjq/s320/les_bandage.jpg" /></a></div>
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If I were Adam West, this would be my last year playing Batman. I would, however, continue to do the Batusi on demand.<br>
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If I were Venus Flytrap, it would have been ten years since Andy Travis convinced me to quit my job as a science teacher and become a DJ.<br>
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If I were Marylin Monroe, I would have been dead for three years.<br>
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If I were Miguel Antonio Otero II, I would have been governor of New Mexico for two years.<br>
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If I were Mary Richards, I would have been fired from WJM-TV two years ago.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8xtCmuCaYV4r41zo9C9-4mZC4zW_nAZkDAYSLfetH1f-4zR_8ChdVbKAMNXLHWgDetiRi_LxyBoT3AuI8CqGlrVffhuEVYomwPciRidCX_34eL9aY1NM479AREKNz-Pm0fRUq/s283/maryrichards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8xtCmuCaYV4r41zo9C9-4mZC4zW_nAZkDAYSLfetH1f-4zR_8ChdVbKAMNXLHWgDetiRi_LxyBoT3AuI8CqGlrVffhuEVYomwPciRidCX_34eL9aY1NM479AREKNz-Pm0fRUq/s283/maryrichards.jpg" /></a></div>
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If I were Johnny Fever, Andy Travis would have freed me from playing music by the Hallelujah Tabernacle Choir in order to play rock’n’roll last year.<br>
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If I were Jesus, I would have been dead for six years.<br>
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Anna Nicole Smith died at age 39.<br>
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If I were Pearl Bailey, it would have been ten years since I appeared in <i>Variety Girl</I> with Bob Hope.<br>
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If were Leonardo DiCaprio, this is the year I would bore audiences with yet another film version of <I>The Great Gatsby</I>.<br>
<br>Activist Harry Hay officially launched the gay-rights group known as the Mattachine Society at age 39. Given it was 1951, he was considered quite daring.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOLHDqeewElBipHjm8PlO6N2dKe9puhaX9vWfUkB5Krgoewfk6o2gQlw3GxDf_SduuG32BclEcgIh1a2EnSNIhu7DpCE4ZPwWE9s9Z_LrZvMEKxI61ecmLEkpdqmSedqkPDUp/s379/mattachine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOOLHDqeewElBipHjm8PlO6N2dKe9puhaX9vWfUkB5Krgoewfk6o2gQlw3GxDf_SduuG32BclEcgIh1a2EnSNIhu7DpCE4ZPwWE9s9Z_LrZvMEKxI61ecmLEkpdqmSedqkPDUp/s379/mattachine.jpg" /></a></div>
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If I were Sofia Vergara, this is the year I would be voted the “most desirable woman”.<br>
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If I were Billie Holiday, this is the year that I would first tour Europe and release my LP <I>Billie Holiday</I> for Clef Records.<br>
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If I were Alois Schicklgruber, this is the year that I would change my surname to “Hitler.” It would be another 13 years before the birth of my evil-incarnate son Adolf.<br>
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If I were Audrey Hepburn, this is the year that I would marry Italian psychiatrist Andrea Dotti.<br>
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If I were Dinah Washington, a.k.a. “Queen of the Blues”, I would die of an accidental overdose of sleeping pills in my Detroit home this year.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbU581pbxfsm72puqj6RQYBKWtrYqK11P5UzPmOaHRbG8bRxxMx443GlGFEwWQ5VlODWjtliz8kFxjLtS2mRxBIBsjZO2Gac4_M2GK4HuNRD2vTBFvqdjz_602oVT5iMl_YL9/s400/dinah-washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbU581pbxfsm72puqj6RQYBKWtrYqK11P5UzPmOaHRbG8bRxxMx443GlGFEwWQ5VlODWjtliz8kFxjLtS2mRxBIBsjZO2Gac4_M2GK4HuNRD2vTBFvqdjz_602oVT5iMl_YL9/s400/dinah-washington.jpg" /></a></div>
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If I were Jennifer Marlow, nobody would know my age by my own design.<br>
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If I were Octavio Ambrosio Larrazolo, I would be practicing law in Las Vegas, New Mexico. It would be another twenty years before I would be the first elected Mexican American governor in the United States.<br>
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If I were Jenny McCarthy, this is they year I would pose for <i>Playboy</I>. Everyone else would wonder how I ever became famous in the first place.<br>
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If I were GayProf, I would be under the delusion that people still know this blog exists.<br>
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Jaclyn Smith at 39 was reigning as the “Queen of Television Mini-Movie” by starring in both <i>George Washington</I> and <i>The Night They Saved Christmas</I>.<br>
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If I were Kate Jackson, I would be diagnosed with a malignant tumor after my first ever mammogram. It would be my last year as one of the titular characters in <I>Scarecrow and Mrs. King</i>.<br>
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If I were Cher, I would have created the film production company Isis and filmed one of my most memorable roles as Florence “Rusty” Dennis in the movie <i>Mask</I> at age 39.<br>
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If I were Jacqueline Kennedy, this is the year that I would become Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.<br>
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If I were Barbie, I would become a Nascar driver this year because, why not? <br>
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If I were <i>Spartacus</I> star Andy Whitfield, I would die this year of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.<br>
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If I were Franklin D. Roosevelt at age 39, this is the year I would contract my paralytic illness.<br>
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If I were Farrah Fawcett, I would win critical acclaim for my acting in the film <i>Extremities</I>.<br>
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If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,452 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.<br>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T2KdyXyu5iByhdWTOpmuFRI1EMRZJltomOCBLDX3K0BgWaK5ScaS8xlrrfRaDmnZSyn_ka2Ra1adspODHGqQqFvk1dllwmvOuEVN7cDcda63sqQxJbHuNOxToC_YNsfVTQ3v/s467/wwcape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9T2KdyXyu5iByhdWTOpmuFRI1EMRZJltomOCBLDX3K0BgWaK5ScaS8xlrrfRaDmnZSyn_ka2Ra1adspODHGqQqFvk1dllwmvOuEVN7cDcda63sqQxJbHuNOxToC_YNsfVTQ3v/s467/wwcape.jpg" /></a></div>
</ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-37759878800320226282012-11-20T07:34:00.000-08:002012-11-20T07:34:19.543-08:00I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Internet Strangers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswh6k_zo64X77RqhPH5hlfCBR-aMhsj9i6qCs1afe-q-EwC2lpIzCD0JthogcVTZQxtMtQ4_3mTs7Xn_X_xP_YH-nj_gBqCB4tZyxBk7WwG4rs3cMRDtNfijWHKxFjL3exwrl/s1600/wwradio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiswh6k_zo64X77RqhPH5hlfCBR-aMhsj9i6qCs1afe-q-EwC2lpIzCD0JthogcVTZQxtMtQ4_3mTs7Xn_X_xP_YH-nj_gBqCB4tZyxBk7WwG4rs3cMRDtNfijWHKxFjL3exwrl/s320/wwradio.jpg" /></a></div>Greetings! Over the past weekend, I jetted to an island other than Paradise for an academic conference. It was my good fortune to be on a panel with academic blogging true believers. <a href="http://www.historiann.com/">Historiann</a> exchanged her rusty spurs for a series of fabulous sun dresses; <a href="http://chronicle.com/blognetwork/tenuredradical/">Tenured Radical</a> rabble roused among the virtual; the <a href="http://madwomanwithalaptop.com/">Madwoman with a Laptop</a> proved once and for all that her authorial prowess was not dependent on channeling a dead canine; and the Woman Formally Known as Goose (WFKG) served as the most delightful of mistresses of ceremonies. The panel, in other words, was filled with the cool.<br>
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It came at the right moment for me – and, let’s be honest, it’s always about me in the end. I had been wondering for quite a bit of time what <i>CoG’s</I> future might be. It has been a bit like <i>CoG</i> was my child. Only ze dropped out of college and has been holding up in my basement sneaking joints and watching reruns of <i>The Big Bang Theory</i>. My participation forced <i>CoG</i> into the light of day and to rejoin society. It also marked a new step for this ol’ blog. It meant that I relinquished the last vestiges of pseudonymity and “owned” it professionally. For the first time something related to the blog will appear on my c.v. Here is an image from our panel:<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhld_6HuA32SFk5zM7nShlXSeai2D-4XRamFJWIU_7DppuJRQHQXJXJ0li93DZAQRd0_n1gJWhIk-IP5mbRuvOqVnXaQT-XtBuAZ4DLnblsc0xyRhLixm4m3f87iLr_kU6U4MKX/s1600/wwpanel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="190" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhld_6HuA32SFk5zM7nShlXSeai2D-4XRamFJWIU_7DppuJRQHQXJXJ0li93DZAQRd0_n1gJWhIk-IP5mbRuvOqVnXaQT-XtBuAZ4DLnblsc0xyRhLixm4m3f87iLr_kU6U4MKX/s320/wwpanel.JPG" /></a></div>
I'll leave it to you to figure out which one of the others wore the silver jumpsuit. <i>*cough* TR *cough*<br></i>
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I had to think hard about whether to let go of my Diana Prince alter ego. With Cheetah and Giganta on the prowl, one can never be too careful. Over time, however, my pseudonym had become harder and harder to maintain. The blog occupied an uncertain place as more people came to know of it. At some point, it became awkward that half of my friends knew of the blog and half did not. So, too, I always wondered if any academics at my usual conferences ever stumbled upon <i>CoG</i>.<br> I felt like I was in the blogging closet and all my star-spangled panties were hanging around me.
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As it turns out, my anonymity could be purchased for a price. That price was a trip to an island with tremendous historical significance for Spanish and U.S. imperialism. Or maybe, even more cheaply, I was lured by the fact that the conference hotel promised Piña Coladas so good that Joan Crawford once proclaimed them more enjoyable than slapping Bette Davis in the face. On the latter I cannot say; however, having sampled the drink in question, I would say that if I were a Joan Crawford dragqueen, I would probably take the swing.<sup><b>*</b></sup> I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HvaEjKzCpTpeUAYb-KIKvjlmYOYimZurkwnRQoeziWfkgyi4JkKsnfjwLTa-_JY4nDoT1PHBEmBPl0P8KtiuRcnAXQHFUW52Zj4V_l31w8CQDu9HYldbVAIAZnOQStOSkL82/s1600/wwdiana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HvaEjKzCpTpeUAYb-KIKvjlmYOYimZurkwnRQoeziWfkgyi4JkKsnfjwLTa-_JY4nDoT1PHBEmBPl0P8KtiuRcnAXQHFUW52Zj4V_l31w8CQDu9HYldbVAIAZnOQStOSkL82/s320/wwdiana.jpg" /></a></div>
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Let me tell you, too, that these blogging folks can be a persuasive crew. After a few drinks with Madwoman, TR, WFKG, and a delightful Yale postdoc, they convinced me to do things that I never imagined doing. No, not tequila shots via a congo line (although. . .). Rather, I opened a Twitter account.<sup><b>**</b></sup> Man, what did they put in those drinks?<br>
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All and all, the conference required me to ask just what have we been up to on this blog since 2005? Anonymously complaining about bad behavior in academia can be as fun as slapping Bette Davis in the face (Or so I am told). It becomes much harder to write about your colleagues’ shenanigans, though, if they have you in their RSS feed. So, what can academic blogs do other than pointing out our foibles?<br>
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I found myself disarmed that so many conference participants approached me through the weekend to say they were surprised that I was part of the“Digital Humanities.” So was I. Given that I am more than a bit dense, I had never contemplated that <i>CoG</I> was a version of that. It was a bit like finding out that I had secret skills as a dentist that I performed only while sleepwalking. Of course, to make that analogy work for <i>CoG</I>, it would be like finding out I was a dentist who left people with gaping, bleeding gums thanks to my less than skillful orthodontics.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCispXRTxdRhb1Haq1uIpPWs8m0aH86YHtEAEpsATK5S3yYo1POQ445KvHWs7jEP30Php_C255r5_kapHc-7RO7vQrtG_5ngvW5Brk_aKc5-D1O0wnhTSmAgXyAYMcbSeSgGH/s1600/Wonder-Woman-Amazons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXCispXRTxdRhb1Haq1uIpPWs8m0aH86YHtEAEpsATK5S3yYo1POQ445KvHWs7jEP30Php_C255r5_kapHc-7RO7vQrtG_5ngvW5Brk_aKc5-D1O0wnhTSmAgXyAYMcbSeSgGH/s320/Wonder-Woman-Amazons.jpg" /></a></div>
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The conference made me reminisce about when the little bloggy started. Then again, I have always been prone to nostalgia. I am a professional historian after all. My blog began at a pretty low point in my personal and professional life. The truly loyal readers out there will remember that many of the early posts conveyed <s>self pity</s> <s>deep bitterness</s> my reflections on a remarkably acrimonious break up with somebody who was truth challenged. My tenuous (and not tenured) position in a poisonously contentious department in the middle of TexAss only compounded those woes. From its start, then, the blog always had a certain messiness that blurred the personal and professional in ways that did not make me as wise as Athena. Well, if the blog’s author is a bit of mess, why wouldn’t the blog be one too? The blog became really important to me to combat the personal and professional isolation that I felt in East Texas. I did not have many other gay folks with whom to hang or other Chicano/a historians with whom to chat. Thank the goddess that those times have past. I will always remember, though, and be really grateful for the generosity of bloggers like <a href="http://helendamnation.blogspot.com/">Helen the Felon</a>, <a href="http://www.postmodernbarney.com/">Dorian</a>, <a href="http://www.joemygod.blogspot.com/">Joe.My.God</a>, <a href="http://stickycrows.blogspot.com/">Tornwordo</a>, <a href="http://vuboq.blogspot.com/">VUBOQ</a>, and others who reached out through cold dark cyberspace to be kind. Some are now famous, some faded. Whatever the case, I’m not sure I ever properly thanked them.<br>
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Thinking about the blog and hanging out with cool bloggeres reminded me that I still love the genre after all these years. Blogging offers tantalizing opportunities for us to write frankly about things that we see transpiring both in our immediate contexts and in the larger media. That type of writing does not necessarily align with my professional publishing trajectory as a nineteenth-century historian, but it sure is fun. So much so, I just might dust off those old comic books once more. . .<br>
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* <font size="1">For the record, GayProf does not endorse such violence.</font><br>
** <font size="1">For the record, Historiann does not endorse the tweeting.</font>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-53818080925207222032012-10-15T05:00:00.000-07:002012-10-15T05:00:00.412-07:00The CoG Best Sellers List<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LaLvAsBMfq1aVHeMnc0AYJbdtA0ulSJodgpaHxaIBeUSYF9ETkrVBeXw3gmyuhkxcBYs-dK_zIb31y0JnspvFwPvihoiXqWQxnzGv4VOGXEmH_C7-7nZ539qbFr9cnD7lauz/s1600/wwwashingtonrocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LaLvAsBMfq1aVHeMnc0AYJbdtA0ulSJodgpaHxaIBeUSYF9ETkrVBeXw3gmyuhkxcBYs-dK_zIb31y0JnspvFwPvihoiXqWQxnzGv4VOGXEmH_C7-7nZ539qbFr9cnD7lauz/s320/wwwashingtonrocket.jpg" /></a></div>Time sure is flying. With the start of the semester, I barely have time to read blogs much less write one. Apparently I am not alone in being in such a time crunch. It seems that the President is so busy that he doesn’t even have time to do those little things, like send flowers to Michele for their anniversary or prepare for a nationally televised debate. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’. . .<br>
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The good news from GayProflandia is that <I>NERPoD</i> is having some modest success in terms of sales. Have you purchased your copy yet? It is also available for your nook or kindle.I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'. . .<br>
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Of course, no academic book can compete with the dozens of political tell-alls or "road maps to political oblivion" that appear each election cycle. All of this political publishing has me thinking about one of my favorite recurring features on <i>CoG</I>: The Best and Worst Seller List. Allow me to help you navigate which books would be likely to fly off the shelves and which would be reduced to the bargain bin.<br>
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<ul>
<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>Occupy Sesame Street</I>, by Big Bird<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3Dg2f8ucEdsxzwzNekw1HslBbUFJrb8zl-YD0iTQjNnX21nxHQymNkCsYaTOe9-nCMvUkyzntxkl_Tj3wWBOadVLhEKTu3BJEitmS66ZVlfowaUjMFnk1feUPDDKaWyGfi33/s1600/Occupy-Big-Bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="180" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3Dg2f8ucEdsxzwzNekw1HslBbUFJrb8zl-YD0iTQjNnX21nxHQymNkCsYaTOe9-nCMvUkyzntxkl_Tj3wWBOadVLhEKTu3BJEitmS66ZVlfowaUjMFnk1feUPDDKaWyGfi33/s320/Occupy-Big-Bird.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Mr. Snuffleupagus is Real</I>, George W. Bush<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Horse Dressage is More Interesting than My Husband and Other Regrets</I>, by Ann Romney<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>The Horrors of Horse Dressage</I>, by Ann Romney’s Horse<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXNCuv7LUOaaUCzklz_d9UffeP-SKM2_vw8Iy5fIlamoiMlaY0R-YSgShKCwRrJ1jyLM1lm5y_sH-Ybm9Iy97FGjTUkKyNosM4791HGZbH_oou0dkAZqt9E1FB6PsdYZhCY6a/s1600/Rafalca-Dressage-Horse-Romney.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="185" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfXNCuv7LUOaaUCzklz_d9UffeP-SKM2_vw8Iy5fIlamoiMlaY0R-YSgShKCwRrJ1jyLM1lm5y_sH-Ybm9Iy97FGjTUkKyNosM4791HGZbH_oou0dkAZqt9E1FB6PsdYZhCY6a/s320/Rafalca-Dressage-Horse-Romney.png" /></a></div>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <I>Who Lets These People Have Pets?: An Argument for Stricter Pet Adoption Laws</I>, by Seamus Romney<br>
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<B>Best Seller:</b> <i>Blogging for Career Success!</i> by <a href="http://www.historiann.com/">Historiann</a> and <a href="http://chronicle.com/blognetwork/tenuredradical/">Tenured Radical</a><br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <I>Blogging for Career Success!</I> by GayProf<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>My Indian Heritage</I>, by Elizabeth Warren<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>My Mexican Heritage</I>, by George Romney<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <I>Tastes Like Type II Diabetes: Favorite Southern Recipes</I>, by Paula Dean<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Tastes Like Hate: Favorite Chic-fil-a Recipes</I>, by Dan Cathy<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <I>Tastes Like Gerrymandering: Favorite Recipes for a Republican Victory</I>, by Republican Controlled Legislatures <br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <I>A Bunny’s Tale: My Time as a Playboy Cocktail Waitress</I>, by Gloria Steinem<br>
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<B>Bargain Bin:</b> <I>A Dumb Bunny’s Tale: My Time as a Cosmo Centerfold</I>, by Scott Brown<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdhPrNZRzeyvzgj7-r7_Vte7zAhmMs-WVI1VulXHkhR0I_YGNWe0uLTckKye8V0FwQKS0oJsM8Y4lzC5ar9dh6de9JXOcDRG_6ztfY04Am1JSS9a75nBExJoVpnKvAT3JfWsx/s1600/ScottBrownCenterfoldFin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="243" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdhPrNZRzeyvzgj7-r7_Vte7zAhmMs-WVI1VulXHkhR0I_YGNWe0uLTckKye8V0FwQKS0oJsM8Y4lzC5ar9dh6de9JXOcDRG_6ztfY04Am1JSS9a75nBExJoVpnKvAT3JfWsx/s320/ScottBrownCenterfoldFin.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Union Busting Ain’t Just for Republicans Anymore</I>, by Rohn Emanuel<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <I>Not Enough Money in the World: A Fair Salary for Teaching Your Spoiled Brats</I>, by School Teachers Everywhere<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <I>Basic Female Biology</i>, by Todd Aiken<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Smart and Fair Immigration Reform in Arizona</I>, by Jan Brewer<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXg4QpdMfmz_dLOUZyYk0s9Gqi7SXFPnHM1xkGWWKp55hXuvUi8ikycztxhTP04jbJCNuJyipT2mdQUPnLA3BgN_OnKUXeqst23N8im8chaoTY_0RGCph4DlZ5K97BH2L9635/s1600/Jan+Brewer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghXg4QpdMfmz_dLOUZyYk0s9Gqi7SXFPnHM1xkGWWKp55hXuvUi8ikycztxhTP04jbJCNuJyipT2mdQUPnLA3BgN_OnKUXeqst23N8im8chaoTY_0RGCph4DlZ5K97BH2L9635/s320/Jan+Brewer.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>My Secret Life as a Podling</I>, by Jan Brewer<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM93Wh0sq4KxQHYxWSOHcnvCrudv-fvtGlwx9RuGXb3m1bKEUkDd1KnsGnSL190C4i3N9pDW7y8e5xtdX9qYGrxFqjcHnGo9KrF3TdQLP-V2aMfwYrFqsq4sWV9CyaU-pj_FrH/s1600/podling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="290" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM93Wh0sq4KxQHYxWSOHcnvCrudv-fvtGlwx9RuGXb3m1bKEUkDd1KnsGnSL190C4i3N9pDW7y8e5xtdX9qYGrxFqjcHnGo9KrF3TdQLP-V2aMfwYrFqsq4sWV9CyaU-pj_FrH/s320/podling.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Say Anything: My New Plan to Get the Votes of the Despicable Leeches Who Compose 47 Percent of the Nation’s Population</I>, by Mitt Romney <br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>We’re Not That Stupid</I>, by 47 Percent of the Nation’s Population<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <I>Hope and Change</I>, by Barack Obama, 2008<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Lowered Expectations and the Status Quo</I>, by Barack Obama, 2012<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>The People Have Spoken and Now the People Must Suffer</I>, by Hillary Rodham Clinton, 2008<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>My Life in Pictures</I>, by Michelle Obama<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaeu022lnWo_f1VVhGgxC1dgEVdIkdNsEdl5EaCLwudzxicq1pPFz3ayD_TktBJUO5sufOTwrBZV_YDkJxC2jo5PiSgyqpJWlTakO0oLTPXZBbCKPJ74356JYJvR8T35O42tC/s1600/Michelle_Obama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="301" width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJaeu022lnWo_f1VVhGgxC1dgEVdIkdNsEdl5EaCLwudzxicq1pPFz3ayD_TktBJUO5sufOTwrBZV_YDkJxC2jo5PiSgyqpJWlTakO0oLTPXZBbCKPJ74356JYJvR8T35O42tC/s320/Michelle_Obama.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>My Life in Pictures</i>, by Chris Christie<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCtNtOoOQ6t7DOnON1xv1xaWJGGFTK1maw9aCHZEmcZsNny-6e0JI8SU234-i_7mQN5H051XEelmEbczyPilyzfjK8ZxYGao383xRUF2Xq3wD5hFTzAC1XI8aSWAYnB5Ehb-F/s1600/Chris_Christie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCtNtOoOQ6t7DOnON1xv1xaWJGGFTK1maw9aCHZEmcZsNny-6e0JI8SU234-i_7mQN5H051XEelmEbczyPilyzfjK8ZxYGao383xRUF2Xq3wD5hFTzAC1XI8aSWAYnB5Ehb-F/s320/Chris_Christie.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Fifty Shades of Crazy</I>, by Michele Bachmann<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>Tips and Tricks for Being an Effective Public Speaker</I>, by Bill Clinton <br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Cigar Aficionado</I>, by Bill Clinton<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>Where Am I?</I>, by Apple iPhone 5 Users <br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVg6SwhLQKoafqofLrOoorJ-Od55e6BQEk5JY-qV3OSVhyphenhyphenfjrnIb9oV-si0b_fm3dVN58VAclCVn68b-KIo-fKNGqc5sf9BqqOniJNMRB8NTIUWU7DjkB_7YH8GPPA-wRMlW4g/s1600/iphonemaps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVg6SwhLQKoafqofLrOoorJ-Od55e6BQEk5JY-qV3OSVhyphenhyphenfjrnIb9oV-si0b_fm3dVN58VAclCVn68b-KIo-fKNGqc5sf9BqqOniJNMRB8NTIUWU7DjkB_7YH8GPPA-wRMlW4g/s320/iphonemaps.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Where Am I?</I>, by Jim Lehrer<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>The Gym is My Closet</I>, by Paul Ryan <i>*cough*</I> What? How else do you explain a self-proclaimed "devout Catholic" with only three children? Either he is risking eternal damnation by using birth control or . . . I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’. . .<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyh2KQEbyNlMo65hJfDg0s9ZJKQ7F7fD6Zzxbo8TWa90vieZLQrj_T6RZdv5osaU08KWMuufg9kezPTHb0e6VoAJv88ovfQ3AG_xi1Q_X8-FtX4RylQoM5tcarJCXReJku5wIQ/s1600/paul-ryan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="241" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyh2KQEbyNlMo65hJfDg0s9ZJKQ7F7fD6Zzxbo8TWa90vieZLQrj_T6RZdv5osaU08KWMuufg9kezPTHb0e6VoAJv88ovfQ3AG_xi1Q_X8-FtX4RylQoM5tcarJCXReJku5wIQ/s320/paul-ryan.jpg" /></a></div>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <I>No Respect: My Life as Politics’ Rodney Dangerfield</I>, by Joe Biden<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Living a Clean, Natural Lifestyle</I>, by Lance Armstrong<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>Hulk Smash: My Life with Lance Armstrong</I>, by Sheryl Crow<br>
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<b>Bargain Bin:</b> <i>Derivative Dribble Sells!</I> by Adele<br>
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<b>Best Seller:</b> <i>That Adele Bitch Stole My Act</i>, by Shirley Bassey<br>
</ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-83727245072956425812012-08-14T11:21:00.000-07:002012-08-14T11:21:10.677-07:00How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Online Learning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzKZ4tvtAu8ZEvS0mDsOwIkSdaMaJii5as6DnDsdoezZEX_QrutoAUHlzFOjz06lMvWGy8xRUYQN5kDrpHVlI1EbHXxkChqZbUVhMXF7kQNqcZ1hL7mVutQqjvGNF_5W1ajpY/s1600/wwrobot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzKZ4tvtAu8ZEvS0mDsOwIkSdaMaJii5as6DnDsdoezZEX_QrutoAUHlzFOjz06lMvWGy8xRUYQN5kDrpHVlI1EbHXxkChqZbUVhMXF7kQNqcZ1hL7mVutQqjvGNF_5W1ajpY/s320/wwrobot.jpg" /></a></div>Some weeks ago the gentleman beau and I decided to take advantage of the <s>sizzling merciless soul killing heat</s> summer weather by taking a leisurely canoe ride. Doesn't that sound nice? After slathering ourselves in SPF-275 cream, we piled into a massive van of strangers to take the short ride to our launch point. Since we are both academic types, our conversation turned to online teaching as the van meander its way up the river. The gentleman beau has experience teaching online classes, but I do not. We both agreed nonetheless that online classes seem like bad news if one cares about quality education. We rehearsed the usual <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/20/opinion/the-trouble-with-online-education.html/">arguments against online courses</a>: They reduce contact between professors and students; they reduce contact between students and students; they are often less rigorous; students are frequently left directionless and rarely put forward as much effort as a brick-and-mortar class; they compete with <i>World of Warcraft</I> for a student's attention; parents hate them and feel they are a “cheat” by the university. We hardly came up with novel critiques in other words. In that heat, one can’t expect me to be at my best. Just about the time that I began the inevitable claim that online classes were a harbinger of the pending demise of higher education as we know it, the stranger seated in front of me turned with daggers in her eyes. “I did my degree with many on-line classes,” she said curtly, “And they were <i>really</I> hard.” For a split second I swear that I could feel a slight tinge in a blood vessel in my brain as she attempted to telepathically explode my head.<br>
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Now this encounter took me back a bit and not just because I imagined that she hoped to spread my gray matter across the interior of the van. First, I don’t like to out-and-out insult people in public. That’s why I have this blog – I like to insult people virtually. Second, it dawned on me that my stance on online classes belied my status working for an elite institution.<br>
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Most professors and parents continue to consider online classes dubious at best (even those who actually teach them). Up until this point, taking a majority of online course work made one’s degree seem like a modern day correspondence course. Only you didn't have to draw the image on the back of the matchbook first. Despite this, two constituent groups really love the online courses: students and administrators. If they had their way, every university would have more of an online presence than a closeted Republican member of the House of Representatives looking to get laid. What? This ain’t a blog for children. <br>
<br>
The stark reality is that most colleges and universities are exponentially increasing their online offerings. Cluck-clucking about it as a moral crisis might be easy (and fun too!), but it will not reverse the trend. Those who followed the recent showdown between the President of the University of Virginia and its governing board know that the latter felt the former moved too slowly in promoting online classes. If one of the original “public ivies” is about to cave into this pressure we should acknowledge that online classes are to be with us for quite some time. The impulse is there for a number of reasons. First, online classes are economical. Without needing to find actual classroom space, online classes can be as large as possible while still using just a single faculty member (or, worse, a severely underpaid adjunct). Second, liberal arts colleges and small regional universities are feeling the pressure from for-profit universities. As Republican-controlled legislatures and governors slash budgets to state-supported higher education the need to compete for every tuition dollar is getting greater and greater. Small colleges and universities have no choice but to try and accommodate the impulses that drive students to for-profit institutions.<br>
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Anybody who has a penchant for late-night television has seen the ads for these shady institutions promising the ease of a college education without ever having to change out of your pajamas or put down the tub of Ben-and-Jerry’s. Those ads make taking online classes seem like a virtual slumber party complete with intellectual tickle fights. Given what my students show up wearing in my actual class, though, I am left wondering if that is a real difference. It is no wonder that students who have to work or tend to family duties would find such an avenue to a college degree appealing. They simply need the flexibility.<br>
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This is no longer a debate about <I>whether</i> universities should offer online classes. The question now is what type of standards we are going to expect from them. The truth is that there are some students in online classes, like my fellow canoeist, who have the necessary motivation and discipline to make such a degree meaningful. It is also true that online classes continue to have the presumption of being easier than brick-and-mortar classes. This, in part, likely generated the defensiveness to my critiques. Those two things have to be reconciled.<br>
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To my mind, humanities professors (including me) have been slow to accept the new reality. This is especially true for those of us who teach at elite institutions that have not started pushing faculty to offer at least some of their classes online – yet. No, I am not advising that we all run out and start posting online classes like a blog troll posts incendiary comments. Rather, I am thinking that we need to cede the question over whether online classes provide good/bad learning environments in favor of considering <i>how</I> online classes can be taught using good, ethical pedagogies. Even if we are not directly involved in teaching an online class, we are nonetheless training graduate students who are most likely going to land a job at an institution that will expect, if not require, them to apportion part of their teaching effort to online classes. It is our obligation to them and their future students to start to model ethical uses of new teaching technologies. <br>
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To that end, we need to first identify and reject the models that favor corporate profit over learning. I was recently horrified when an acquaintance of mine reported that the nearby university where he teaches had purchased “modules” from some unknown company. He, the instructor of the class, had almost no control over the content, assignments, or lectures of the class that he was “teaching.” Instead, he became a glorified tech operator and grader. This, it seems to me, is not why we hire individuals with unique specialities to teach classes.<br>
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The reverse must also be guarded against. Academic associations and unions should proactively fight administrative efforts to own online classes generated by faculty members. There is a distinct danger that once a professor pours concerted effort into creating a novel and interesting online class that the material will then be pimped out as the aforementioned “modules’ to other universities. Or, even locally, the adminstration should not be allowed to replace the allegedly expensive professor with a graduate student or underpaid adjunct who simply takes control of the web materials. The content and structure of a course should be considered a type of intellectual property that belongs to the instructor. <br>
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On the faculty side, if we are going to venture into new learning technologies, then we also need to bring with us the best practices that we now take for granted in the brick-and-mortar classroom. Over the past twenty years, for instance, flat out lecturing has come to be seen as one of the least valuable means for engaging students. So I am frequently surprised that much of the online content created for classes simply involves videotaped lectures that have been uploaded for students to watch. Trust me, unless those videos include skateboarding kittens or substantive out takes from <I>Modern Family</I>, the students are barely going to pay attention. Much as we now create exercises and assignments that have students proactively engaged and talking in brick-and-mortar classes, so too should we dump the prerecorded lecture in favor of things that get students engaged online. This might mean that we call upon individuals with programming and technical skills beyond the average humanities professor. One model that intrigued me, for instance, originated in Canada. Students attempted to “solve”some significant historic crimes from the Canadian past. In that instance, the online materials became part of a larger puzzle that students needed to piece together. Along the way, they happened to learn important cultural contexts that informed each crime (racial attitudes, gender assumptions, regional bias). Doesn’t that sound more interesting to you than downloading a 50 minute talking head rambling on about the Articles of Confederation? Creative technological innovations, of course, will require technological and staff investments from universities and colleges. It seems to me, though, given that these courses will ultimately generate more tuition dollars than a brick-and-mortar class, it is the least that they can do.<br>
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Don’t let the blog fool you, though. I am remarkably unsavvy when it comes to technology and probably don’t have the best imagination to tackle this problem. Nonetheless, I do think that the time has come when humanities professors have to engage online learning in a serious way. It’s not going anywhere. Our best bet is that we take control of the conversation to show the difference between a quality online learning experience and the hasty for-profit nonsense.<br>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-1991518957043230512012-07-10T10:43:00.000-07:002012-07-10T10:43:59.186-07:00Collegial is as Collegial Does<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ohHAgiBhwtbqYdS2fBJ2MOJ_zk6_HRWLoiVKUhCY28aixep3TZhj53-LxlmuxLMN1gHc3ZPu_kYA_1n-_trs4OfGH6852F7X70KMAoockZPkbaa6tI6IrowuUwTN-DPmdfLj/s1600/ccbaseball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ohHAgiBhwtbqYdS2fBJ2MOJ_zk6_HRWLoiVKUhCY28aixep3TZhj53-LxlmuxLMN1gHc3ZPu_kYA_1n-_trs4OfGH6852F7X70KMAoockZPkbaa6tI6IrowuUwTN-DPmdfLj/s320/ccbaseball.jpg" /></a></div>A few weeks ago, Dr. Crazy had a <a href="http://reassignedtime.wordpress.com/2012/06/19/what-does-it-mean-to-be-collegial-what-constitutes-civility-and-how-do-we-promote-these-things/">post</a> about collegiality in academic departments. She suggested some pretty basic notions about how one should behave in such an environment. To crudely summarize, she suggests that collegiality involves no more than simply doing your job at its most basic level: teach, research, and serve to the best of one’s abilities as outlined in your contract.<br>
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I tend to agree with that assessment. Nonetheless, it strikes me that such a straightforward mandate still confuses many professors. So, allow me to provide a simple set of guidelines to help you gauge whether you are an ideal colleague or the professor everybody wishes would just die. Think about which of the following most closely resembles what you might say in these situations.<br>
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When it comes time to decide the course schedule for next semester:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I am willing to teach a mix of upper level and service-oriented courses. While I certainly have preferences about scheduling, I am willing to negotiated with my colleagues to insure that we have a wide distribution of classes throughout the day.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I have several courses that I teach over and over. They serve some basic requirements of the department.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I will only teach classes between the hours of nine and noon. Teaching a survey class is clearly beneath my intellectual talents. Besides, I have a political obligation to offer an incredibly narrow graduate course that only appeals to two students every year.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “My class enrollment is by instructor permission only. That way I can make sure that only hot, fit students ever sign up. No fatties!”<br>
<br></ul>
When I take the last cup of coffee from the break room:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I always make a fresh pot of coffee for the next person.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I be sure to shut off the burner so that the whole office doesn’t fill with the smell of scorched coffee.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I demand the secretary make a new pot of coffee.”<br>
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<b>Evil:</b> “Coffee? I replaced all that with Postum<sup>©</sup> years ago.”<br>
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When it comes to time for committee assignments to be made, I think:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “Nobody likes service, but it is a necessary part of keeping any university operating. I will roll up my sleeves and serve on committees when needed.”<br>
<br>
<b>Good:</b> “If I really care about a particular issue, I am willing to serve on a committee or two.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Gee, I would serve on some committees, but I think that my decision to have children means that I can neglect my basic duties for which I am paid. Selfish childless people can pick up my slack. After all, what else do they have to do with their empty lives?”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I see every committee assignment as a stepping stone to be dean one day.”<br>
</ul><br>
My thinking about new hires is usually along the lines of:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I consider it a basic part of my job to advocate vigorously for new positions based on my particular intellectual training. Nonetheless, I also recognize that a diverse set of perspectives and coverage is required for a really solid academic department. Therefore, I am willing to yield on hiring decisions when other priorities are clear.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I will work really hard to hire people in my immediate field."<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “If I didn’t get my way when a job position was conceived, I will do everything in my power to sabotage this search. It’s better to have a failed search than for other people to have won a new hire.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “If a candidate wants this job, they better invite me to their hotel room during the campus visit.”<br>
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<br></ul>
When Running a Meeting:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I have a clear agenda and will get you out of here in an hour.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “The agenda is set, but everybody can speak their mind on whatever topic they desire. It’s fine with me if we have to spend the whole afternoon chatting.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Was there a meeting scheduled today?”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Let me tell you what we already decided as a committee.”<br>
<br></ul>
When Attending a Meeting:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I did my due diligence and read any pre-circulated materials before I arrived. I listen attentively and will give my opinion based on a well reasoned argument about the best needs of the unit.”<br>
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<b>Fair:</b> “I didn’t really have time to read up on this particular issue. Still, I’ll go along with whatever the majority has to say.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I would have attended this meeting, but I needed to wash my cat.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I am only here to point out how much I really, really, really hate the chair of this meeting.”<br>
<br></ul>
When I find that I am in the minority on an issue facing the department:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I will voice my opinion and give my reasons for objecting. In the end, though, I must have faith in democracy.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I will withhold my opinion but then complain bitterly to colleagues over drinks later.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I take this decision very personally. It shows that there is a larger conspiracy at play to take away my power and agency!”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I pack a gun.”<br>
<br></ul>
When advising students about what courses to take:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I emphasize the strengths of the department. I also take some time to consider the particular interests of the student and their own career ambitions. My goal is always to give a student the widest range of perspectives that we offer.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I am vaguely aware of what my colleagues teach, but, whatever. I guess that I wouldn’t actively dissuade a student from taking a class with another professor -- if that is what they really want to do.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I take the time to trash all the colleagues in my unit that I dislike. A student should leave my office knowing that my department is nothing but a snake pit of dissension filled with people who aren’t half as smart as I am.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I take the time to explain the power of the dark side of the force and invite the student to become my protégé. Together we can topple the department chair and rule together.”<br>
<br></ul>
When serving on a masters thesis or dissertation committee:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I read the entire thesis/dissertation. My goal is to provide strategies for the student to revise the work to the best of hir abilities.”<br>
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<b>Fair:</b> “I read the entire thesis/dissertation. My goal is to get this over with as soon as possible.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I read some of the thesis/dissertation. My goal is to show that I personally know a lot more about this particular topic than the student.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I plagiarized several chapters of this thesis/dissertation. Nonetheless, I will still vote to fail the student just because I can.”<br>
<br></ul>
During the summer:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I drink a lot.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I drink a lot.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I drink a lot.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I drink a lot.”<br>
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<br></ul>
When a hardworking undergraduate student tells me that ze is applying for graduate school:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I am supportive and offer to write a letter. Still, I do provide a candid assessment of the job market and encourage the student to think about the time, energy, money and effort that goes into obtaining an advanced degree.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I write a letter of recommendation and wish the student well.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I write a letter of recommendation but also frighten the student with horror students about the academic world. I cite the <i>Center of Gravitas</I> as evidence of academia's moral bankruptcy.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I promise to write a letter of recommendation but never quite get around to it. I assure the student that, even if the job market is terrible, they will absolutely get a tenure-track job because they are the exception.”<br>
<br></ul>
When a colleague in my field publishes a book:<br>
<br><uL>
<b>Best:</b> “I buy <i>and</I> read it.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I send an e-mail of congratulations.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Do I have colleagues in my field?”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I tell anyone who will listen that I would have written a much better version of that same book.”<br>
<br></ul>
When editing an academic journal:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “My goal is to give authors clear and concise feedback as quickly as possible. No journal can accept everything submitted, but I work really hard to be fair and prompt. I understand that my authors often have tenure and/or promotion pressures. Any delay only harms their research agendas and makes my journal look unprofessional.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I farm out a lot of my duties and depend almost entirely on others’ opinions. Still, I aim for an initial turn around of six to eight weeks. After all, I have a basic competence in my job.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I decide that my journal will devote itself to publishing many, many ‘Special Editions’ so that I can reward all my friends by printing their articles. Others can submit manuscripts, but they really shouldn’t hold their breath.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I regularly sit on manuscripts for over a year and a half (or longer if I can!). When I do finally get around to making a decision, it’s usually a negative one. Heck, somebody has to teach these young scholars a cold hard lesson. If the author doesn’t like it, then they shouldn’t have bothered my prestigious journal with their pitiful article in the first place.”<br>
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<br></ul>
My office:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “Is a place where I work quietly.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “Is a place where I meet students from time to time.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Is a place where I can really turn up the volume on my music.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Smells suspiciously of sulphur.”<br>
<br></ul>
When a colleague in my field comes up for tenure:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I diligently read as much of the file as possible. During the meeting, I aim to make sure that every candidate gets a fair hearing by offering well informed insights on the research, service, and teaching.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I read the cover letter to the file and dip in and out of the other materials. Unless there are clear problems, my default impulse is always to vote in favor of the candidate.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I didn’t really have time to read the file. I’ll go to the meeting and try to get a sense of which way the wind is blowing and then make up my mind.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I met with the candidate a full year before they went up for tenure to remind them that they needed my vote to advance. If they didn’t spend the past several months groveling, it’s curtains!”<br>
<br></ul>
The secretary/support staff in my unit:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “Are not paid nearly enough given that they do 90 percent of the heavy lifting! I support any effort to improve their working conditions.”<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ23lx8ngCYg54wNBQP27GPqF9VgpTcwTMzvq2sd5PhWYMw3eDRsUWMt9ncgupKP5sGcNdCiptnpV8aWikxw9fFOZYVntL5uodWYEHdOt1w_TmZh6iRMiXfX0SZSd6puEXliyQ/s1600/wonderwoman_sec.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ23lx8ngCYg54wNBQP27GPqF9VgpTcwTMzvq2sd5PhWYMw3eDRsUWMt9ncgupKP5sGcNdCiptnpV8aWikxw9fFOZYVntL5uodWYEHdOt1w_TmZh6iRMiXfX0SZSd6puEXliyQ/s320/wonderwoman_sec.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>Fair:</b> “Do their job well and I acknowledge that.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Are fine, but I don’t understand why they won’t pick up my dry cleaning.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Should only be paid for nine months given that is the length of the academic year.”<br>
<br></ul>
If I had not become an academic, I would have:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “Found another avenue to share my knowledge and research with a wider public. My goal would always be to find a way to enrich our intellectual conversations.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “Found a job that allowed me to earn much more money.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Run for public office as a Republican so that I could dismantle higher education as we know it.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Harvested the souls of the innocent.”<br>
<br></ul>
The role model who influenced my career:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “The hardworking professors who took an interest in me as a student. They not only taught me the knowledge that I need for this job, but also what it means to be a committed educator.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “Wonder Woman.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I did it on my own. Nobody ever helped me and I was always falling through the cracks.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Pope Benedict XVI.”<br>
<br>
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<br></ul>
When writing a book review for a journal:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I highlight the strengths of the book and the author’s intent. I limit my critique to one or two questions at most. It is important to recognize the hard work that goes into writing any monograph.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I offer faint praise, but conclude with criticism.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “Most of my review is simply critique about what the author <i>might</i> have written but didn't. I can only think of holes in the work and imagine an entirely different book than the one that I am reviewing.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “Every book review is just an opportunity to ruin somebody’s career.”<br>
<br></ul>
When a colleague passes me in the hall:<br>
<br><ul>
<b>Best:</b> “I greet them and ask how they are doing.”<br>
<br>
<b>Fair:</b> “I smile warmly.”<br>
<br>
<b>Bad:</b> “I avoid eye contact.”<br>
<br>
<b>Evil:</b> “I make a distinctive rattling sound.”<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GMQE86jlVMakv1smKc2OFL8VZo-BUuggs7kYAasI4Yy7YGDSdXbFv8rbostKfAL_7kj6DA7G7NGkPvaR35CfDcUIW6skGZQ53I_JGZF1xMpf4aEYs2M-XOhuzBbYPVpbLSBx/s1600/snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GMQE86jlVMakv1smKc2OFL8VZo-BUuggs7kYAasI4Yy7YGDSdXbFv8rbostKfAL_7kj6DA7G7NGkPvaR35CfDcUIW6skGZQ53I_JGZF1xMpf4aEYs2M-XOhuzBbYPVpbLSBx/s320/snake.jpg" /></a></div>
<br></ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-73323454662068897592012-06-26T11:02:00.000-07:002012-06-26T11:31:01.532-07:00A Jolly GayProf Fellow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qsGe0otXdB-BDJnnjI7rsvkCJq1hDdGs1vGqCh6EA9saeCez-LYYWhTDQ87O-6bSTLz1c2n_cN3ckWi7kv8u5POereJ6vUiIpFaCkM1Fo2eL7NcfQjw1kq8u1zzJcCi6HT8J/s1600/wwclown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9qsGe0otXdB-BDJnnjI7rsvkCJq1hDdGs1vGqCh6EA9saeCez-LYYWhTDQ87O-6bSTLz1c2n_cN3ckWi7kv8u5POereJ6vUiIpFaCkM1Fo2eL7NcfQjw1kq8u1zzJcCi6HT8J/s320/wwclown.jpg" /></a>Aging is usually something best done alone. Or maybe with a bottle of bourbon. Whatever the case, it’s hard to conceive that I will be 38 this week. Another year probably doesn't matter too much. Fortunately or unfortunately, my gravitas has always made me seem much older than I really am. People are always pleasantly surprised that I am so much younger than they initially think. It's sorta a compliment or something. <br>
<br>
Speaking of gravitas, I am just not ready to part with my annual birthday post here at <i>CoG</I>. Who does not enjoy weighing their life accomplishments against others at the same age?
<ul>At age 38, this is the year that I would publish <i>The Native Tribes about the East Texas Missions</i> if I were historian Herbert Bolton. It would be my last year teaching at the University of Texas.<br>
<br>
If I were Gore Vidal at age 38, I would be busy writing my novel <i>Julian</I>.<br>
<br>
If I were Don Draper, this is the year that I would start a new advertising agency (Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce). Reaching the age of 38 would also mean that this is the year that I would finally divorce Betty.<br>
<br><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIqlPVVRSUgpm_AL2xSBlloT-371noiVIXGasLbXBGw6svQ1b-xElt9fw5jrWanb6cKDveP15ewqaj2Rb3G7vSzoKQ13OypU7HATxoKe5jVHVyTAVSVexmKUAHCukoksoW12X/s1600/don.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIqlPVVRSUgpm_AL2xSBlloT-371noiVIXGasLbXBGw6svQ1b-xElt9fw5jrWanb6cKDveP15ewqaj2Rb3G7vSzoKQ13OypU7HATxoKe5jVHVyTAVSVexmKUAHCukoksoW12X/s320/don.jpg" /></a><br>
<br>
If I were Elizabeth Cady Staton I would be working with Susan B. Anthony at the shortlived Woman’s State Temperance Society. We would both decide our efforts were better spent working on suffrage.<br>
<br>
If I were Cher at age 38, I would be filming <i>Mask</I> this year.<br>
<br>
If I were Frederick Jackson Turner, I would have delivered my career-defining “The Significance of the Frontier in American History” essay six years ago. History grad students everywhere would come to curse my name.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6w_cWyXxeBvApDeniR9iIA1U4QR5oDtkYJ05bhxPyJXaGyPb2D61XhaC8BtQPcDAg-ie-by5pf1y0FbWkeFDS6mUdrhA5g-F-ZOEJ9BHMDG7y9_6c5M9UuraT8F2vowgMDzo/s1600/frederick-jackson-turner-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="319" width="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH6w_cWyXxeBvApDeniR9iIA1U4QR5oDtkYJ05bhxPyJXaGyPb2D61XhaC8BtQPcDAg-ie-by5pf1y0FbWkeFDS6mUdrhA5g-F-ZOEJ9BHMDG7y9_6c5M9UuraT8F2vowgMDzo/s320/frederick-jackson-turner-1.jpg" /></a><br>
<br>
According to traditional sources, I would use an asp to kill myself this year if I were Cleopatra VII.<br>
<br>
If I were Sam Steward, I would be working at World Book Encyclopedia after leaving Loyola University. I would also have my last drink this year.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm4ajnwAo-d3N83upOhzOeSfEkqCRtAzgC6LtaX0vDX2TUe2fMXEBaZ7p0Ze8NFrSqKVfZ2xZ58EXDXHvPeBwrYyGsT2ZDDwURiS2BsR-YOvil5xJYCOEyv4o466MLYfxHo5m/s1600/samsteward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUm4ajnwAo-d3N83upOhzOeSfEkqCRtAzgC6LtaX0vDX2TUe2fMXEBaZ7p0Ze8NFrSqKVfZ2xZ58EXDXHvPeBwrYyGsT2ZDDwURiS2BsR-YOvil5xJYCOEyv4o466MLYfxHo5m/s320/samsteward.jpg" /></a><br>
<br>
If I were Dolores Huerta, I would be seated on the platform while Robert Kennedy gave his last speech before being shot minutes later.<br>
<br>
If I were Rudolph Valentino, I would be dead. It would have been seven years since I had sex with Sam Steward in my hotel room.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAo-y8OhrV7r3mYvWxzI3fcOlht1YHxEmCpJzzQYMnpHLnySjFm83mcYcteR11CEAqYQD3WJl57ZyA8rWdqJfGzpqNGyJqpZDne4HL_ed7O-dJDlyC2p-XyIOv8XLtAJUd0rfQ/s1600/Rudolph_valentino_1922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="294" width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAo-y8OhrV7r3mYvWxzI3fcOlht1YHxEmCpJzzQYMnpHLnySjFm83mcYcteR11CEAqYQD3WJl57ZyA8rWdqJfGzpqNGyJqpZDne4HL_ed7O-dJDlyC2p-XyIOv8XLtAJUd0rfQ/s320/Rudolph_valentino_1922.jpg" /></a><br>
If I were James Baldwin, this is the year that I would publish the essay “Down at the Cross” in the <i>New Yorker</I>. It would have been six years since I wrote <i>Giovanni’s Room</I>.<br>
If I were Jimmy Stewart, I would star in <i>It’s a Wonderful Life</I> this year, a heartwarming picture about an ungrateful town that drives a man to suicide on Christmas Eve.<br>
<br>
If I were Lolita Lebrón, it would have been four years since I led an armed attack on the U.S. House of Representatives in the name of Puerto Rican independence.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiun3Qp4qZN3d3Jahe_39ZAZduCqabfat9iUm2GAUXGCwpubh_XCzUpul49a4Fe8emXEGLVD8xJbXghy7eaUHXLpBuiTL6sAttZR5jRwImY1UJvEIOiM6ZklTiw1oaNW55ekp5A/s1600/lolita-lebron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="193" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiun3Qp4qZN3d3Jahe_39ZAZduCqabfat9iUm2GAUXGCwpubh_XCzUpul49a4Fe8emXEGLVD8xJbXghy7eaUHXLpBuiTL6sAttZR5jRwImY1UJvEIOiM6ZklTiw1oaNW55ekp5A/s320/lolita-lebron.jpg" /></a> <br>
If I were 99 percent of the U.S. public, I would have no idea who Lolita Lebrón was.<br>
If I were Frances Parkman, it would be another four years before I published <i>The Pioneers of France in the New World</I>.<br>
<br>
If I were Rock Hudson, I would star in the forgettable <i>A Gathering of Eagles</i> this year. It would have been 17 years since I had sex with Sam Steward in a freight elevator at Marshall Field’s department store.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqe7bRMnMhw_gex2B6pUhrPLB9uyvCNf9pGfOfhV6_zYEn0DiYfFEGGXdadtYqWWHjT7V3fYDI8BulrC3XU9NmpZttrl_fgwwprurzbTDA39VjLdp-59IPe6NM1ccSXnRtPyRs/s1600/rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqe7bRMnMhw_gex2B6pUhrPLB9uyvCNf9pGfOfhV6_zYEn0DiYfFEGGXdadtYqWWHjT7V3fYDI8BulrC3XU9NmpZttrl_fgwwprurzbTDA39VjLdp-59IPe6NM1ccSXnRtPyRs/s320/rock.jpg" /></a><br>
If I were Malcolm X, I would declare that John F. Kennedy’s assassination was the “chickens coming home to roost.”<br>
<br>
If I were Pearl Bailey, I would release the album <i>The Intoxicating Pearl Bailey</I> this year.<br>
<br>
If I were Tennessee Williams, I would have just started my affair with Frank Merlo. It would last 14 years and ultimately be the longest lasting romantic relationship of my life.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71PDa5uYkAAj_AgLENAg3xQ2da6sj1dVR8Vwxu0n4uIKHaEvT6EHBEoKJ6U7RHlmBTVroFBN9OxCJ0A3E7aSZSGDqfLxqwxmUaERpHYTV9Rj4aY6QCSCE3zTYsrj7jUpeRhKW/s1600/frank_merlo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi71PDa5uYkAAj_AgLENAg3xQ2da6sj1dVR8Vwxu0n4uIKHaEvT6EHBEoKJ6U7RHlmBTVroFBN9OxCJ0A3E7aSZSGDqfLxqwxmUaERpHYTV9Rj4aY6QCSCE3zTYsrj7jUpeRhKW/s320/frank_merlo.jpg" /></a><br>
If I were Ann Bancroft, it would have been two years <i>since</I> (!) I played the role of Mrs. Robinson in <i>The Graduate</i>.<br>
<br>
If I were Vivian Leigh, I would win my second Academy Award for Best Actress for portraying Blanche DuBois in <i>A Streetcar Named Desire</I>. My mental health would be mighty precarious. <br>
<br>
If I were Danny Kaye, I would star in <i>On the Riviera</I> this year. My alleged affair with Laurence Olivier probably didn’t help Vivian Leigh’s mighty precarious mental health.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IjRUk7vmQV0LVC2wGUOzW3gqttVBiO33O5W6QiD7dXEGZGK4s3vqAQc1Kd8oYH-HJWKC2NAo7SWju5F08RYijmpsB1vMOVk4Ps744TwUNdOxSbWNFkzn4prxjGVB7zbO8dWS/s1600/dannyandlaurence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="226" width="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IjRUk7vmQV0LVC2wGUOzW3gqttVBiO33O5W6QiD7dXEGZGK4s3vqAQc1Kd8oYH-HJWKC2NAo7SWju5F08RYijmpsB1vMOVk4Ps744TwUNdOxSbWNFkzn4prxjGVB7zbO8dWS/s320/dannyandlaurence.jpg" /></a> <br>
If I were Abraham Lincoln, I would be serving in my only term in the U.S. House of Representatives. It would have been a decade since I started slaying vampires.<br>
<br>
If I were Marylin Monroe, I would be dead.<br>
<br>
If I were William Shatner, this would be my last season on the t.v. show <i>Star Trek</I>.<br>
<br>
If I were Oscar Wilde, I would be in the first year of my affair with Alfred “Bosie” Douglas. Things would not go well for me in that relationship...<br>
<br>
If I were Alfred “Bosie” Douglas, it would be another 29 years before I had sex with Sam Steward.<br>
<br>
If I were Lupe Vélez, I would be dead.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6E1_GasWy2phE0sbRbdEYRdeKidaGMVQpjqzm-ctlrHNUaOV1og72ucnZLCpzWgxUOqaDGeFhU0jhkUpCI1prM_OZjvfGBUGZY9OzimdKPf5AJxoGjs_Uwx5JzKhT0jG1SHkc/s1600/lupevelez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6E1_GasWy2phE0sbRbdEYRdeKidaGMVQpjqzm-ctlrHNUaOV1og72ucnZLCpzWgxUOqaDGeFhU0jhkUpCI1prM_OZjvfGBUGZY9OzimdKPf5AJxoGjs_Uwx5JzKhT0jG1SHkc/s320/lupevelez.jpg" /></a><br>
<br>
If I were Alexander Hamilton, I would resign my position as Secretary of the Treasury because of a scandal involving an extra-marital affair. The story would have been more interesting if it had been with Sam Steward.<br>
<br>
If I were Gloria Steinem, this is the year that I would found <i>Ms.</I> magazine.<br>
<br>
If I were either of my parents at age 38, I would have three children. The oldest would be eighteen and the youngest would be eleven.<br>
<br>
If I were Mary Richards, I, and most of my friends, would have been fired from WJM last year.<br>
<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPe_ohyphenhyphenlQskYgYI0EGqZvz-UPoT3xh44HFrDe7_2KTSqvPU7qZ11T7KzC79befoLKrJXTWGbkGNmpAsyYCc73KIAdaDDC-CoOeGCKEmm1cCtjg0NscJiAiX-tnQAM5japLwZW/s1600/maryrichards2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPe_ohyphenhyphenlQskYgYI0EGqZvz-UPoT3xh44HFrDe7_2KTSqvPU7qZ11T7KzC79befoLKrJXTWGbkGNmpAsyYCc73KIAdaDDC-CoOeGCKEmm1cCtjg0NscJiAiX-tnQAM5japLwZW/s320/maryrichards2.jpg" /></a><br>
If I were Mitt Romney, I would hopefully never be President of the United States.<br>
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If I were Jaqueline Kennedy, I would visit Cambodia as an official-unofficial ambassador for the United States at the age of 38.<br>
<br> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1lGJmyayHbwhmvC1Wl_6ReWiKD5ebxi5b7MZeqqvTs5dvDnzRZLJS7mCFL90-8kxkdX4xUPqUw8pB5iQ4bvDuNdxJNOsQlzCGk8K7enA41JU7sglljKcPqfvrOobheHoE5oW/s1600/jackieimcambodia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1lGJmyayHbwhmvC1Wl_6ReWiKD5ebxi5b7MZeqqvTs5dvDnzRZLJS7mCFL90-8kxkdX4xUPqUw8pB5iQ4bvDuNdxJNOsQlzCGk8K7enA41JU7sglljKcPqfvrOobheHoE5oW/s320/jackieimcambodia.jpg" /></a><br>
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If I were Saint Anthony, I would be dead.<br>
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If I were Michele Obama, I would be fabulous.<br>
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If I were GayProf, I would have achieved tenure and promotion this year. My blog would have been updated so infrequently in the past year that two birthday posts would appear on the same page. I would never have had sex with Sam Steward.<br>
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If I were Jayne Mansfield, I would be dead.<br>
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If I were William Rufus King, I would be serving as a Senator from Alabama in Washington D.C. I would soon shack up with future President James Buchannan. Our relationship, among other things, would lead Andrew Jackson to give me the nicknames “Miss Nancy” and “Aunt Fancy.” I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ci-5Ng4G3wVNdhdWpFVtTPsru7m9a-5EWHxZWNt2NCIP59vwdcFsdRLC3297hwNXckzcBszt9PioWcWPBu0IKoXepIK7EhEd2y3wRXusQZ1ogtKMYoKz9dyUZk-JcoDaYxg/s1600/kingandunknowngentleman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ci-5Ng4G3wVNdhdWpFVtTPsru7m9a-5EWHxZWNt2NCIP59vwdcFsdRLC3297hwNXckzcBszt9PioWcWPBu0IKoXepIK7EhEd2y3wRXusQZ1ogtKMYoKz9dyUZk-JcoDaYxg/s320/kingandunknowngentleman.jpg" /></a><br>
If I were Dolly Parton, this is the year I would star in the regrettable <i>Rhinestone</I> with Sylvester Stallone.<br>
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If I were teen heartthrob Corey Haimm, this is the year I would die.<br>
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If I were Che Guevara, this is the year that I would arrive in Bolivia in a doomed effort to foment revolution.<br>
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If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,453 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.<br>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixs-KYR_B1UzI3AAasEDAIlrtruE8sf4c-A2dpNYo0JFgnFsxPmJCLyyM6uxxRbxwyKwyvp38z0hun5MZcKeyHFuHHkWXy4D7wLTcYeaq-MG3pcileLvGrNe_Wl3JVmw03ncic/s1600/wonderwomanarmor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixs-KYR_B1UzI3AAasEDAIlrtruE8sf4c-A2dpNYo0JFgnFsxPmJCLyyM6uxxRbxwyKwyvp38z0hun5MZcKeyHFuHHkWXy4D7wLTcYeaq-MG3pcileLvGrNe_Wl3JVmw03ncic/s320/wonderwomanarmor.jpg" /></a></ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-11694402682102043652012-06-18T10:07:00.000-07:002012-06-18T14:50:04.570-07:00Cursed Cursive<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWC4QUy4Ccj94kFnOKUUBz6MNTdjMjBLU4G6Tdr-QZtwJJKwg4rNVUdGhvMkqJrPDGz5Dy1R85W7xmoJUamLFfmzuTVfWjlSlaOnGam4i00yGQkDnGHqd0JzuRuRN6fyJLc9K/s1600/wwnewspaper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWC4QUy4Ccj94kFnOKUUBz6MNTdjMjBLU4G6Tdr-QZtwJJKwg4rNVUdGhvMkqJrPDGz5Dy1R85W7xmoJUamLFfmzuTVfWjlSlaOnGam4i00yGQkDnGHqd0JzuRuRN6fyJLc9K/s320/wwnewspaper.jpg" /></a>Several years ago I briefly dated a man with young children. Anybody who knows me can well imagine why that relationship did not last more than a few weeks. I feel about children the way Republicans feel about taxes. They might be necessary for the continuation of society, but whatever. That, though, is not the point of this post. What did stick with me from that dating experience was that he once mentioned that his daughter was not learning cursive writing in school. After all, he argued, they do everything on the computer now anyway. Why would they need such an antiquated skill? Living in the shadow of Decaying Midwestern Urban Center, I figured that this astounding news was just another local failing in an already pretty dismal school system. The antipathy that the rest of the nation feels for this region had now cost students the very ability to communicate on paper! Not only do we not deserve jobs or a well-maintained infrastructure, but it appeared that we also shouldn’t be able to jot down a grocery list with speed! It always feels good to have righteous indignation about the nation’s uncaring attitude toward the industrial Midwest.<br />
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The past year of teaching, however, revealed that this was no local anomaly. You see I taught the U.S. History survey for the first time in many years. Consider it the jury duty of the history professorate. Since I do my best to give even freshman students an idea of what professionals historians actual do, I often assign some significant amount of writing. I began to notice that students took an unusually long time to complete even the most basic in-class essay. Even a paragraph took what seemed like a century. Then I observed that each of them always submitted about a page of neatly block-printed prose. Each letter of each word seemed like it had been crafted with more attention than John Hancock’s signature on a forged ship’s manifesto. Well, if John Hancock had never learned cursive writing. It brought me back to what the former boyfriend had mentioned about his own children. Had we reached the point where students no longer even knew how to write cursive? Little did I know it was deeper than that.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gUmT_6l_FkmsLxrzLmn9NxuCMa1rPfj83ohK2ll_kv3SA_F-NhtjUOeT6MiDpxHg8xt_0ClEhs1jcPUyMPfHSeuj7i8z4ID72oepFCNCtoE-IARgPnwu0PcFvvVKhWDVSbBJ/s1600/hancocksignaturelg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="153" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gUmT_6l_FkmsLxrzLmn9NxuCMa1rPfj83ohK2ll_kv3SA_F-NhtjUOeT6MiDpxHg8xt_0ClEhs1jcPUyMPfHSeuj7i8z4ID72oepFCNCtoE-IARgPnwu0PcFvvVKhWDVSbBJ/s320/hancocksignaturelg.jpg" /></a><br />
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It really did not cross my mind again for another several weeks. In the meantime, I had assigned a document reader of historical sources entitled <i>American History Firsthand: Working with Primary Sources</i>. This choice proved imperfect to be sure. After all, this careful collection of materials lacked a single document from any Latina/o – ever. Apparently the editors imagined that no such people existed in this country despite the fact that they are now the largest minority population. But I digress.<br />
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I selected this particular reader, despite its implicit anti-Latino bias, because of what it did do: mixing popular culture, visual, and political documents in one binding. It also reproduced those documents as closely as they might have appeared in an actual archive. This, I thought, simulated the work of actual historians without having to march all my students to an actual archive. After all, the idea of 170 students descending on a manuscript collection would make any archivist sweat more than Rick Santorum in a gay sauna.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjea8FuXILtGVcPWh_0HtotOEVGwye_JsVcCB63SxU4QqQ1p22e9XS51P_2biSYNFs8lMRJe3vbC3EIICWu01_4H6H68aveTLKxauXB91ONNyAQBcFVKAymUyavV3b9Yn1d8QG7/s1600/sauna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="197" width="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjea8FuXILtGVcPWh_0HtotOEVGwye_JsVcCB63SxU4QqQ1p22e9XS51P_2biSYNFs8lMRJe3vbC3EIICWu01_4H6H68aveTLKxauXB91ONNyAQBcFVKAymUyavV3b9Yn1d8QG7/s320/sauna.jpg" /></a><br />
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The students in this class performed quite well and showed that they had smart and savvy skills. One day, though, when it came time to discuss a series of letters in the reader, they became oddly silent. After using up the usual bag of tricks to try and promote conversation, I asked them what was the deal? With some hemming and hawing, a lone brave student admitted that he couldn’t read the documents because they were in cursive. The rest of the students, happy that he had released the shameful truth, all agreed that the letters were unfathomable. This blew my mind. I mean, it was one thing to have never mastered <i>writing</i> cursive, but <i>reading</i> it was now out of the question? To be clear, too, I did not assign colonial-era documents written with the fluff and frills of old English. That mess could screw anybody up with all those "f's" that are really "s's". No, no. These were something written in the twentieth century with a clear and simple penmanship. I became curious and asked if they learned any cursive at all. They acknowledged that they spent a few days or so on it back in grade school. It was enough to learn a signature, but otherwise, why bother? They could type whatever they needed. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2w03C5p1AYrKmXKM0xgmcXMEcg0TxDVoLeFVLqhNec6l4bBe6SfzoCh96n1mtkCTjdbX7fAttauMoB00WLBz4NJAEo75hrT1poMH2LXW6pdT61Iw4AR3_3z8mLWFA95pNwA8/s1600/cursive.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="247" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM2w03C5p1AYrKmXKM0xgmcXMEcg0TxDVoLeFVLqhNec6l4bBe6SfzoCh96n1mtkCTjdbX7fAttauMoB00WLBz4NJAEo75hrT1poMH2LXW6pdT61Iw4AR3_3z8mLWFA95pNwA8/s320/cursive.gif" /></a><br />
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I suppose that there is a logic in the demise of cursive. When was the last time any of us wrote an actual letter to somebody? Anything longer than a sticky note is generally done on a computer. Yet, I can’t explain my unease that cursive is leaving the world.<br />
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It is peculiar that I should think such a thing since I have actually always struggled with my penmanship. In grade school I had only one Achilles heel to an otherwise spotless academic record. After all, I played well with others, never ran with scissors, and only occasionally ate library paste. Yet, my report card always listed a “carrottop” for handwriting. For those who did not attend Albuquerque Public Schools, a carrottop was this symbol: ^. It basically meant a “D”, but apparently educational theory in the 1980s suggested letter grades would be too demeaning to a third grader. A carrottop must have sounded so much more pleasant. It’s something you would give Peter Rabbit on his report card. Well, if Peter Rabbit’s future education hung precariously by a thread because he appeared functionally illiterate. <br />
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Forever after that point teachers would usually have only one complaint about my school work: “The boy’s handwriting is so messy and small that I almost went blind trying to read it.” It would not be until my freshman year in college that my handwriting improved dramatically. Oddly enough, it was a semester of Russian that turned things around quite a bit. While I can do nothing in that language other than ask directions to the Bolshoi theater, attempting to learn Russian had an odd side effect of transforming my penmanship. Having to learn an entirely new script meant that I also indirectly relearned how to write in cursive in English. This is not to say that I now write in calligraphy (I still field many complaints about my writing), but it is a vast improvement.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOODKfor2Tqreh3a-mLSv2n5uUFAUhpevE55MIdgsM0rjhmr6q_EqKw3jMxHg1hOiTA7yxZL-VjVrVS4reSwZ_47V-Ag2nZri0QvFSi4phRCxio5r9kTls_IWzRPpaHFC6La6N/s1600/doris-day-teacher%2527s-pet3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOODKfor2Tqreh3a-mLSv2n5uUFAUhpevE55MIdgsM0rjhmr6q_EqKw3jMxHg1hOiTA7yxZL-VjVrVS4reSwZ_47V-Ag2nZri0QvFSi4phRCxio5r9kTls_IWzRPpaHFC6La6N/s320/doris-day-teacher%2527s-pet3.jpg" /></a><br />
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This peculiar knowledge about writing cursive puts an odd generational divide between my students and me. For instance, I will have to remember when I grade their papers to block print my comments. Oh, look at me, thinking they would actually read my comments on their papers! Silly, optimistic, GayProf. Nonetheless, it feels quite weird to have such a big gap between them and me. I am not <i>that</i> much older.<br />
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True, there are many other things that I do that would seem totally anachronistic to them as well. I proudly drive a car with a manual transmission – Anything else really isn’t really driving. I grill only with charcoal – Anything else isn’t barbequing, it’s just cooking outside. I still pay almost all my bills with actual checks – Anything else seems like a one-way path to identity theft. I therefore long ago accepted that I fell far behind in the social/technological world of my students. I would know if I was tweeting, right?<br />
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So it makes me a bit sad to think cursive is at as great a risk as Lindsay Lohan is for a relapse. If you remember this blog then you already know that I am more than a bit inclined to nostalgia. This morning’s coffee has already become a treasured bittersweet memory of something now gone. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs06QKhu1l3n4-_WjhxlvstjdqUcP55NfxZ1mdASaM8Fodad4zHiSMWVglmp-l1FUPjlrmVuZFwAafEhYRTFjmp5jfMpyjZgyNhddCT1TNAgKu7ejVPmiE72kAaYXX-fS63VZ/s1600/coffee.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs06QKhu1l3n4-_WjhxlvstjdqUcP55NfxZ1mdASaM8Fodad4zHiSMWVglmp-l1FUPjlrmVuZFwAafEhYRTFjmp5jfMpyjZgyNhddCT1TNAgKu7ejVPmiE72kAaYXX-fS63VZ/s320/coffee.bmp" /></a><br />
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The loss of cursive, though, really leaves me blue. It only speeds us even faster to becoming a cyborg nation. As much as I struggled with cursive, I do remember that learning it felt like a rite of passage on the way to adulthood. My mother always had to translate the notes or birthday cards that my grandparents sent in the mysterious scroll. Learning to write (even feebly) in the same manner felt the same as breaking the code of the Rosetta Stone to my nine-year old self. Now it appears that later generations will find the code forever locked to them.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-88516597232425256172011-08-15T12:20:00.000-07:002011-08-15T12:44:57.860-07:00Drunk Girls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOGFsRLRSH7anTKSmhPJmCNZP6ZAmV3l5rpJoyD6N5WjHUgkYUXvlvwFwlVtQ2r0_wXQiwROtucA2sk0HZKJUPVJpGqCnh2o114JmMVP2JRN8hTk7Yd37gQdEhRtKlU78KWLk/s1600/allstarpiano.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOGFsRLRSH7anTKSmhPJmCNZP6ZAmV3l5rpJoyD6N5WjHUgkYUXvlvwFwlVtQ2r0_wXQiwROtucA2sk0HZKJUPVJpGqCnh2o114JmMVP2JRN8hTk7Yd37gQdEhRtKlU78KWLk/s320/allstarpiano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641166505970852546" /></a>Given my penchant for seventies television references, it might not surprise you that I am often a bit out of touch with contemporary popular culture. Still, because my gym pumps in the current top 20 on an endless cycle, I am able to at least identify songs that are circulating widely. Over the past few months, I have come to two conclusions. One, Fox is making a fortune off those <I>Glee</I> kids. Two, this country seems to prefer our young women to be drunk and reckless.
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<br />Numerous songs en vogue right now celebrate women consuming alcohol to the point of blacking out, hooking up, or hurling (not always in that order). Hadn’t thought about it? Take just a few examples off the top of my head. Ke$ha’s “Tik Tok” opens with lines that would make even the most seasoned AA sponsor grimace: “Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack/’Cause when I leave for the night, I ain’t coming back.” Drinking beer, Ke$ha later sings, gets the “dudes...lining up.” Only police intervention ends that girl’s good times.
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<br />One of Lady GaGa’s earliest hits similarly recounts being so bombed that she has little idea of where she even is. In “Just Dance,” GaGa has had so much to drink that she “can’t see straight anymore” and has little idea how her “shirt got turned inside out.” If one of my friends reached this state, my advice would be to return home and sleep it off. GaGa, however, suggests that it might be the perfect time to hook up with somebody dancing in the club “And now there’s no reason at all,” she warbles, “ why you can’t leave here with me.” Well, no reason except that the previous stanzas suggest that she is entirely likely to puke on whatever guy she is taking home. Some people are into that, I suppose.
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<br />Not surprisingly, Katy Perry most happily jumps onto this bacchanal bandwagon. After all, her first major hit “I Kissed a Girl” more than foreshadowed this trend. In that song, Perry implied that sexual desire between women need not be taken more seriously than bar flirtations and pillow fights. It was fun, the melody told us, for women to kiss each other as an “experimental game” as long as there was a boyfriend waiting in the wings. Of course, a stiff cocktail got things rolling as the first stanza informs us, “This was never the way I planned/Not my intention/I got so brave, drink in hand/Lost my discretion.”
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<br />One of her most recent hits, “Last Friday Night,” ditches the homoerotic themes. In their place are the allegedly fun times that girls can have by drinking to point of serious memory loss. Perry sings about a list of events that would make most people fear for their personal safety. She awakes, hung over, with a stranger in her bed and lewd photos posted on-line. She is uncertain whether she has a hickey or a bruise. If you think that this is going to lead her to the door of Betty Ford, think again. She promises that she will do it all again next Friday.
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<br />With all that drinking and amnesia going on, it’s not surprising that P!nk would have a song entitled “Sober” where she contemplates the problems of being a party girl. Now, of all the artists mentioned, I actually like P!nk. To my mind she is one of very few who attempts to put out feminist messages in the mainstream. It’s true that many of P!nk’s other songs celebrate drinking as much as Ke$ha or Perry. At least P!nk most often talks about men as getting in the way of her good times (e.g. “U + Ur Hand”) rather than as being the objective for getting sloshed. “Sober” offers much needed caution to being a party girl. The song opens with the statement that she doesn’t “wanna be the girl who laughs the loudest/Or the girl who never wants to be alone/I don’t wanna be that call at four o’clock in the morning/’Cause I’m the only one you know in the world that won’t be home.” Unlike Perry, P!nk acknowledges that drinking to the point of blacking out will lead to serious regret instead of giggles with your girlfriends.
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<br />As far as I can tell, no such genre exists for men on the radio. Of course songs produced by male artists occasionally mention liquor or other drugs, but they are rarely presented as the opening shot to a night of forgotten sex. So what are we to make of all these "drunk girls" on the radio? <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9APiZqHelCKuhdqzBlNS7vm9lXz-x38yga2qJcemrGji6VjzJdBc33ufu54XFBfpKVA9t3A-ThaQRTC9En4Z_KOhESVvDFi0uq0oEpRVSaugqbv-3KV8_PTUQbpyLnDQchU7I/s1600/wondergirldance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9APiZqHelCKuhdqzBlNS7vm9lXz-x38yga2qJcemrGji6VjzJdBc33ufu54XFBfpKVA9t3A-ThaQRTC9En4Z_KOhESVvDFi0uq0oEpRVSaugqbv-3KV8_PTUQbpyLnDQchU7I/s320/wondergirldance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641169261541866674" /></a>Songs about women drinking to abandon are part of a larger pattern, it seems to me, in which women’s sexuality/sexualities and agency have been constrained in mainstream popular culture. One need only think of the classless <i>Girls Gone Wild</i> series to see that the media has been conflating drunkenness with sexual availability. If young women must continue to navigate the age-old virgin/whore (“ho” in modern parlance) dichotomy, then the music they listen to today isn’t offering many healthy solutions. These songs suggest that women can have a good time and explore a variety of sexual opportunities, but only if they are not really in control of their faculties. Drinking to the point of being without inhibition isn’t about putting yourself into situations where you might be exploited (or even be in serious danger). Rather, these songs suggest that it is a path to being cool and finding sexual fulfillment. Not only is that absurdly false, I think, but it also undermines women’s real ability to make decisions about sex. Instead it upholds the horrible notion that women are the most desirable when they are almost totally passive (if not passed out entirely). GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-5809284165744298092011-06-29T13:56:00.000-07:002011-06-29T15:03:49.404-07:00Yes, I am Getting Older Too<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SXGA-ZVP-qrHW-EO441fTcHF3SI92noU7Ye-_QSmmBjJPyfYnW3Ly4VICCDGcKVNH5JCqgXtCw3-Q6FC3HI-1OJcEELOJ0SJfZTFtq5WOE9iLjiFFZRotqa4uoViOLw2Y_I7/s1600/wwmirrorwitch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SXGA-ZVP-qrHW-EO441fTcHF3SI92noU7Ye-_QSmmBjJPyfYnW3Ly4VICCDGcKVNH5JCqgXtCw3-Q6FC3HI-1OJcEELOJ0SJfZTFtq5WOE9iLjiFFZRotqa4uoViOLw2Y_I7/s320/wwmirrorwitch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623749532295066978" /></a>I find it hard to believe that I just finished my fourth year in Midwestern Funky Town. That’s one year longer than I survived in Texas. Yet, my time in Texas still feels like it was almost twice as long. Go figure.<br /><br />The summer has technically just started, but the appearance of fireflies suggest that we are already halfway through the season in the north. The fireflies also means that it must be time to celebrate my birthday, some 37 years ago. Do take the time to fix yourself a cocktail and toast to my health. Probably I will live quite a long time -- unless I don’t. Whatever the case, I always like to take a moment each year to consider what other people were doing when they were my age:<br /><UL><br />If I were Mary Richards at age thirty-seven, I would have moved to Minneapolis seven years ago. Although I would not know it, this would be my last year working at WJM.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JEIFSKklp6CEKxvrHyGVD6WC2Ma_kYODOss_Fsqi-AbR3FJa7zi0OTAArvOwbYQb8v-tFm22pRaKoPG-k0hRlnKIoC-6ZaE_AGKH0MKkTNFl7aPTCjbHctcDVMY7ohCzwrxv/s1600/maryrichards.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JEIFSKklp6CEKxvrHyGVD6WC2Ma_kYODOss_Fsqi-AbR3FJa7zi0OTAArvOwbYQb8v-tFm22pRaKoPG-k0hRlnKIoC-6ZaE_AGKH0MKkTNFl7aPTCjbHctcDVMY7ohCzwrxv/s320/maryrichards.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623751361747788610" /></a><br /><br />If I were Dolly Parton, this is the year that I would release “Islands in the Stream” with Kenny Rogers.<br /><br />If I were Kenny Rogers, this is the year I would release my first solo album. It would be another sixteen years before my disastrous foray into fast food.<br /><br />If I were Cher, this would be the year that my film career took off with the release of <I>Silkwood</I>. I would take the then-unknown Val Kilmer as my date to the Oscars. He would be 13 years my junior and sport a hideous mullet.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6tXovPeORNhqA9KngiPWiPTHhD9YtnwEpOD0IB8ZnNAGhwFyVhJ7C3xG7WzCGfIthFcsiut_ttFCOSr-HglyL34y4yL9CWW3yqxJnoJlVWCOPK8S7rZDxVYSoHg5xV_XXDr7/s1600/cherandval.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6tXovPeORNhqA9KngiPWiPTHhD9YtnwEpOD0IB8ZnNAGhwFyVhJ7C3xG7WzCGfIthFcsiut_ttFCOSr-HglyL34y4yL9CWW3yqxJnoJlVWCOPK8S7rZDxVYSoHg5xV_XXDr7/s320/cherandval.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623753127325870178" /></a><br /><br />If I were James Dean, I would be dead.<br /><br />If I were Luke Appling, the Chicago White Sox legend, I would be serving in World War II at age 37.<br /><br />If I were Pancho Villa, this is the year that I would attack the small town of Columbus, New Mexico. This action would transform me overnight into a villain in the eyes of most U.S. citizens.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJLq9OVJdsygxA9cJrRm6RSnkmqbF1ReDy-LWf9UeI4uTsBY9bYdVsqsCdJfeyql5TbA6Sas49bRnLwqUxXhwSN5LJTQXs7CeZOFkqGrtHFWXND9CGzV-5RORGmUzLqnHgAtL/s1600/Pancho_Villa_bandolier.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZJLq9OVJdsygxA9cJrRm6RSnkmqbF1ReDy-LWf9UeI4uTsBY9bYdVsqsCdJfeyql5TbA6Sas49bRnLwqUxXhwSN5LJTQXs7CeZOFkqGrtHFWXND9CGzV-5RORGmUzLqnHgAtL/s320/Pancho_Villa_bandolier.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623754142279301922" /></a><br /><br />If I were the Roman Emperor Nero, I would be dead.<br /><br />If I were Chloë Sevigny, this is the year that I would have finished filming the series <I>Big Love</I>.<br /><br />If I were Captain Kirk, my five year mission “to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations” would end.<br /><br />If I were William Shatner, I would have been playing Captain Kirk for two years.<br /><br />If I were Captain Picard, I would be serving as first officer of the <I>U.S.S. Stargazer</I>. It would be another 22 years before I took command of the <I>Enterprise</I>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cntw-CetxPBxyVEa9kwdZFQCin7jKkD-G8DUjccl23USQ8iZ5WB2hSCgCb8ftqKyrrwhJe-aSDmDoU5hNGVaYKTIUxKqNeFsHZEw7OUVK_GQH245QadE_6scNiNQIJhYJRn8/s1600/Jean_Luc_Picard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cntw-CetxPBxyVEa9kwdZFQCin7jKkD-G8DUjccl23USQ8iZ5WB2hSCgCb8ftqKyrrwhJe-aSDmDoU5hNGVaYKTIUxKqNeFsHZEw7OUVK_GQH245QadE_6scNiNQIJhYJRn8/s320/Jean_Luc_Picard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623757141269341010" /></a><br /><br />If I were Patrick Stewart, I would have been a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company for eleven years. It would be another ten before I accepted the role of Captain Picard.<br /><br />If I were Jesus, I would be dead.<br /><br />If I were GayProf, I would be mediating on another failed romance. My blog, <I>The Center of Gravitas</I>, would barely be updated in its sixth year.<br /><br />If I were César Chávez, I would sign the one-thousandth member to the recently founded National Farm Workers Association. That organization would have fifty locals.<br /><br />If I were Marylin Monroe, I would be dead.<br /><br />If I were Martin Luther King, Jr., I would be campaigning to end slums in Chicago.<br /><br />If I were Noël Coward, I would produce my short play <I>Still Life</I> for the first time in London this year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0keOkjFP26OGHc302f0oDvGwoQBNdOTaVrKRf0TmFZrpkGO5gXI1O_5UmPNLR2aCeIUjxqOY2UOdhdWtpjvst1MF9wkeyNhUIhCtj_pStpBL5AniUQKTztl7nJgho0MxW9yId/s1600/NoelCoward.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0keOkjFP26OGHc302f0oDvGwoQBNdOTaVrKRf0TmFZrpkGO5gXI1O_5UmPNLR2aCeIUjxqOY2UOdhdWtpjvst1MF9wkeyNhUIhCtj_pStpBL5AniUQKTztl7nJgho0MxW9yId/s320/NoelCoward.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623751917319083762" /></a><br /><br />If I were Paul Revere, my silversmith business would be struggling. It would be another three years before I rode through the night to warn Massachusetts colonists that the British regular army was mobilizing for a possible assault on Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and others at Lexington.<br /><br />If I were Sarah Palin, I would have absolutely no idea why Paul Revere was important to the U.S. War for Independence.<br /><br />If I were Princess Diana, I would be dead.<br /><br />In between nursing my polio stricken husband, I would write my first article (“Common Sense Versus Party Regularity) if I were Eleanor Roosevelt.<br /><br />If I were Blake Harper, I would retire from gay porn in three years. -- What? This isn't a blog for children.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIa8k1bImKdo4soyRfqamXoELrNXzt6PcAMxQdWGBSO0kYrNlzsHoV-gcOfKZctt4mO836jenPkXtySifthGpXUlmauaHDQJEeFPDIl4xvO_1qW9gHot9PmcqoXTJkTIeOycll/s1600/blakeharperjpg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIa8k1bImKdo4soyRfqamXoELrNXzt6PcAMxQdWGBSO0kYrNlzsHoV-gcOfKZctt4mO836jenPkXtySifthGpXUlmauaHDQJEeFPDIl4xvO_1qW9gHot9PmcqoXTJkTIeOycll/s320/blakeharperjpg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623765762148377026" /></a><br /><br />If I were Ellen Degeneres, I would be starring in my own sitcom (<I>Ellen</I>). It would be another two years before I publicly came out of the closet.<br /> <br />If I were Oscar Wilde, I would pen “The Soul of Man under Socialism” this year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFC0FalATcICzI_AxDkF-Pm2h27k7KLfSRdDZ6rNvKACPHSfjxXga2TOiEl8dfhyt1gMHQiKBuT0bR13vWlpyd5CZ_f9AT20KGueLvJE9_4ss1Ed5ou_K3HU6I9EpUmTm-huL/s1600/oscar_wilde.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWFC0FalATcICzI_AxDkF-Pm2h27k7KLfSRdDZ6rNvKACPHSfjxXga2TOiEl8dfhyt1gMHQiKBuT0bR13vWlpyd5CZ_f9AT20KGueLvJE9_4ss1Ed5ou_K3HU6I9EpUmTm-huL/s320/oscar_wilde.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623761159996254178" /></a><br /> <br />If I were Hernán Cortés, Malintzin (a.k.a. Doña Marina, a.k.a. “La Malinche”) would give birth to my son this year.<br /><br />If I were Michel Foucault, I would publish <I>Birth of the Clinic</I> this year.<br /><br />If I were either of my parents, I would already have three children. The oldest would be seventeen years old. The youngest would be ten years old.<br /><br />If I were Montgomery Clift, I would finish filming <I>Raintree County</I> with Elizabeth Taylor. It would be the first time the public saw my face after my car accident.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicoOCIQT2vktQPa0LNyh8s36iHtovazX1qiaQQmz4V7NbbMrGHs-Autq5pnOSCocsXlg3OsTOn9P36MLaeGlsZwG3laXNxGCHofxUhm242_uvkerardX_wvziIPot8tNAb9jkz/s1600/Montgomery-Clift.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicoOCIQT2vktQPa0LNyh8s36iHtovazX1qiaQQmz4V7NbbMrGHs-Autq5pnOSCocsXlg3OsTOn9P36MLaeGlsZwG3laXNxGCHofxUhm242_uvkerardX_wvziIPot8tNAb9jkz/s320/Montgomery-Clift.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623755622945645330" /></a><br /><br />If I were Derek Jeter, this would be the year that I hit my 3,000th hit (most likely).<br /><br />If I were Franklin Roosevelt, I would be the Assistant Secretary of the Navy. It would be another 14 years before I became President of the United States.<br /><br />If I were Paul Lynde, I would record a comedy album entitled <I>Recently Released</I> this year.<br /><br />If I were Mitt Romney, my insatiable greed would lead me to seek $37 million to co-found the private equity firm Bain Capital.<br /><br />If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,454 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQ3iAQJUC4wPU6PX95x9JsrZDATFLPhNsLvrqtAMiqSt406LKD8FrjeTaflmPeQQWykjw52tmTJLBLMHUvD2bLnEItKLbEeyZiANZNitdZKUA3Nm5ZD7hSmuu2PDnrCP0zjYU/s1600/wwcape.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQ3iAQJUC4wPU6PX95x9JsrZDATFLPhNsLvrqtAMiqSt406LKD8FrjeTaflmPeQQWykjw52tmTJLBLMHUvD2bLnEItKLbEeyZiANZNitdZKUA3Nm5ZD7hSmuu2PDnrCP0zjYU/s320/wwcape.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5623756202111210818" /></a></ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-28539658284878050042011-06-27T05:06:00.000-07:002011-06-27T07:51:20.714-07:00The World is Ready for You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNPKjneTnfNZ-N3BVS2YYX52NhsGGGMLYlIxFEk-ZRMp4vogKTtqTHbj7V8AMrI2PQcyv8ZTDh_f-pvphJx9F1Rab_NoDtmpu81A9UI2Hwx8qIq67g20EB70soOLNMm3B4HM8/s1600/wwmovie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNPKjneTnfNZ-N3BVS2YYX52NhsGGGMLYlIxFEk-ZRMp4vogKTtqTHbj7V8AMrI2PQcyv8ZTDh_f-pvphJx9F1Rab_NoDtmpu81A9UI2Hwx8qIq67g20EB70soOLNMm3B4HM8/s320/wwmovie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621868860511665490" /></a>Many of you have asked what I thought about the failed effort to bring <I>Wonder Woman</i> back to television. Well, some of you asked. Okay, one person mentioned it in passing. Still, given that I shamelessly stole this beloved character to be my on-line avatar, I have some thoughts.<br /><br />For those of you who don’t slavishly follow the Amazon Princess, NBC recently rejected a pilot for a new <I>Wonder Woman</I> t.v. series. Produced and written by David E. Kelley, many people (including Lynda Carter) fully expected that it would be a slam dunk. Certainly the actor chosen for the role was plausible. The few details that have emerged about the script, though, suggest that it was a bit of a trainwreck. Making a new <I>Wonder Woman</I> show should not have been that hard, really. This country is currently obsessed with the superhero genre. It’s true that Diana isn’t the only one who has been screwed over (Poor Green Lantern! I can smell the suck from here.), but she sure doesn’t get much respect. Shortly following NBC’s rejection, DC comics announced that it planned to reboot the <i>Wonder Woman</I> comic yet again. Ol’ Superheroine-Number-One can’t catch a break these days. For reasons that remain a total mystery to me, neither DC comics nor Warner Brothers ever solicits my opinion about how to promote and protect their most important female hero. I have some ideas:<br /><UL><br /><B>1. Wonder Woman is a Feminist:</B><br /><br />For either comic book writers or television executives, the “f” word continues to make their brows sweat. This probably explains why Warner Brothers tapped the creator of <i>Ally “Feminism is Dead” McBeal</i> as producer for their most recent t.v. venture. Gee, who would have guessed that would fail? <br /><br />It’s fundamentally dishonest to develop a Wonder Woman project without feminism being a driving point of the story. Doing so would be like creating a t.v. show about the Tea Party without the crazy. When William Moulton Marston created the character in the 1940s, he included the radical notion that women were more than the intellectual equals of men. He feared that young girls were unfairly kept from realizing their true potentials and lacked the types of role models that abounded for boys in comics. True, he also had a bad habit of essentializing gender roles and some fairly bizarre notions that bondage could be a path to liberation (Paging Dr. Foucault, stat!). Still, for the middle of the twentieth century, any pop culture venue that showed women as both physically powerful and scientifically minded was a breakthrough.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeIqwzlu0vRrrXWFb1QW3cib1j6_PUALpvhQMwbBLecKVfM6ecRCaN4ennb5DdNpCMt-oOKNkmKxj7zEfW_UnQoo1qheQzjMI2KStG6dRjq1k9N8agmoXGpxAFER8Cac4Ibt_/s1600/womangetstrong.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 236px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWeIqwzlu0vRrrXWFb1QW3cib1j6_PUALpvhQMwbBLecKVfM6ecRCaN4ennb5DdNpCMt-oOKNkmKxj7zEfW_UnQoo1qheQzjMI2KStG6dRjq1k9N8agmoXGpxAFER8Cac4Ibt_/s320/womangetstrong.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621865607182154306" /></a><br /><br />Since that time, most of <I>Wonder Woman’s</I> (male) writers have had a hard time trying to figure out what to do with the feminist bits. Either they forced her into traditionally subservient roles (e.g. they made her secretary for the Justice Society despite her being the most powerful member) or they made her into a psycho man-hater who played into the media’s favorite image of feminists as unreasonable and bitter. Needless to say that neither of these is acceptable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GMaeVW1Bya9VFjjJDut0SEf-_Ux3qA0UlurBGe9ys0W9jhzrjUTGe_Gg6Qg6LPOT1J5ohJbrSYv6oX7Bx6my9DGPsoXq2caT3sigW5EyXFgPg8hR0taGjnzySuASa6duwkkE/s1600/super+secretary.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2GMaeVW1Bya9VFjjJDut0SEf-_Ux3qA0UlurBGe9ys0W9jhzrjUTGe_Gg6Qg6LPOT1J5ohJbrSYv6oX7Bx6my9DGPsoXq2caT3sigW5EyXFgPg8hR0taGjnzySuASa6duwkkE/s320/super+secretary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622263570271377010" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0Op9f5ZtwQOBSgMHraXfdT5ny8_JcuVtwbvz0uWX46OWntzd7qvoFpZNtAIUBfzdrRQHqLHAfAcetTVXEUdw5HGJ0P6J1C1cwYmLUzbYbfMX2RIlg_QVnND0Qha0exr39et7/s1600/thoughtofasequal.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0Op9f5ZtwQOBSgMHraXfdT5ny8_JcuVtwbvz0uWX46OWntzd7qvoFpZNtAIUBfzdrRQHqLHAfAcetTVXEUdw5HGJ0P6J1C1cwYmLUzbYbfMX2RIlg_QVnND0Qha0exr39et7/s320/thoughtofasequal.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621866139208985954" /></a><br /><br />I can’t help but think that the fight for women’s equality has taken some huge steps backward over the past decade and a half. Personally, I put at least partial blame on the drivel created by David E. Kelley. The time is right for Wonder Woman to speak candidly about actual feminist goals. <br /><br /><B>2. Everybody Wants Wonder Woman to Wear Her Original Costume</B><br /><br />Okay, I know the Playboy-bunny costume is sexist, absurd, and as practical as a wooden fire escape (See Number One Above). One doesn’t know if you should salute her or give her your drink order. <br /><br />The efforts at changing her costume, however, have not really solved the biggest complaints about the original. Slapping on some skin-tight trousers while keeping her in a cleavage popping bustier is a lame attempt to appease critics. It should have been a forgone conclusion, too, that her costume would not be made out of plastic. The costume designer from the failed pilot was an idiot:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithXDW32QAXNFA3HtFXeI9Fagf0fSW1TEOvO7TR6U5dVtIwmTvPmd1hCsr7wyqgJ2hcJUfK86qSkGaMxoLAcvxOWpYyVQafVCg1ZVFf3quT1yeRsOy71VQ1pbGeftH9BwlPFQl/s1600/Horrible-Wonder-Woman-Costume.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithXDW32QAXNFA3HtFXeI9Fagf0fSW1TEOvO7TR6U5dVtIwmTvPmd1hCsr7wyqgJ2hcJUfK86qSkGaMxoLAcvxOWpYyVQafVCg1ZVFf3quT1yeRsOy71VQ1pbGeftH9BwlPFQl/s320/Horrible-Wonder-Woman-Costume.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621882352666657474" /></a><br /><br />If Wonder Woman is going to inevitably be about T&A, then I say just own it and try to at least give her some dignity. <br /><br />Also, keep the eagle and ditch the stupid WW. If you have doubts that the eagle is cool, consider that DC comics could sue the Washington Capitals for copyright infringement. If a WW eagle is tough enough for a hockey team, then it certainly can do the job for Wonder Woman.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkT-cN6VUqpRHX0vFOFAZOG73xmz68AFR2TZD4JFnJ839x1RYGYvliSWzC6N0ZXZDJDen5sZR-pfKgz_SKBJGRjFJco8djBQOZxCHb4FWvfguttwwg_g1vXShn1BeGsWNgir7U/s1600/capitals.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkT-cN6VUqpRHX0vFOFAZOG73xmz68AFR2TZD4JFnJ839x1RYGYvliSWzC6N0ZXZDJDen5sZR-pfKgz_SKBJGRjFJco8djBQOZxCHb4FWvfguttwwg_g1vXShn1BeGsWNgir7U/s320/capitals.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621867608035726850" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3b4yfcbi3FGVa5OZBMCoiS1JWhbb3Idd1f1AR4q892QAYEYAkrXsAAvCqm4CwZHLZgE-48u53Ne6LW5IbXFkROfx8YdLO5O_B3C8x9JToT_mek5nFm-IGC1d-iaeF9p1qpRB/s1600/wweagle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo3b4yfcbi3FGVa5OZBMCoiS1JWhbb3Idd1f1AR4q892QAYEYAkrXsAAvCqm4CwZHLZgE-48u53Ne6LW5IbXFkROfx8YdLO5O_B3C8x9JToT_mek5nFm-IGC1d-iaeF9p1qpRB/s320/wweagle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621870428729416930" /></a><br /><B>3. Wonder Woman should never say the following lines of dialogue:</B><br /><ul><br />“If you liked it, you shoulda put a ring on it.”<br /><br />“Capitalism sure seems like a fair and equitable economic system.”<br /><br />“I want a baby so badly that I see one dancing in my room at night.”<br /><br />"I just need to lose five more pounds."<br /><br />“Why are all the best men married or gay?”<br /><br />"I'm not a feminist, but . . ." (See Number One Above)<br />“I can haz cheeseburger.”<br /><br />"The unrestrained mergers of banks, airlines, media, and telecommunications corporations has served consumers well."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTUZvmudYFbfNdNov6yxiJFc9BvnFUjlslK9XHKkvZ21wZwCCeNB_4IiuRGGJLzyF4uMrqyqmBuE6g-aF99RKXwop8xT0bwL0ySF1ITeyp4ta_6T6CdAjAEfLi72ROG-Uhfgg/s1600/internationalmilk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTUZvmudYFbfNdNov6yxiJFc9BvnFUjlslK9XHKkvZ21wZwCCeNB_4IiuRGGJLzyF4uMrqyqmBuE6g-aF99RKXwop8xT0bwL0ySF1ITeyp4ta_6T6CdAjAEfLi72ROG-Uhfgg/s320/internationalmilk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622202810866732386" /></a><br /><br />“When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”<br /><br />"The heterosexual nuclear family sure seems like a fair and equitable building block for society."<br /><br />“Follow me on Twitter.”<br /><br />“Cheesecake makes everything better.”<br /><br />"What do you think of my costume?"<br /><br />“The meek shall inherit the earth.”<br /><br />“Math is hard!”<br /><br />“Christianity sure seems like a fair and equitable religious system.”</ul><br /><br /><br /><B>4. Wonder Woman Does Not Believe in Capital Punishment</B><br /><br />Wonder Woman might have some flaws in that she often solves violence with violence. Still, when push comes to shove (literally!), she will never kill anybody (except maybe Max Lord, but, hey, she had no choice). Given that the United States currently imagines its prison system as massive holding tanks and has no problem sending people to death, how radical would it seem for Wonder Woman to advocate that every person can be redeemed? Diana would likely imagine the current prison system as a symptom of a deeply flawed patriarchal society (See Number One Above). Instead, let's see a return of Reform Island! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchLzyUiFyjDbNkeoXQ-wy6CV6vdI5jVdZUsBLBdxcTZoJlAVr6xR9HMnyUP3PMwy_3Nu229sBUYVAokx5TG2WIwt-G8b0D9Nd-mPKwGgn_dlghRcoTCBowIlGtpCrqpuU23O9/s1600/reformisland.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchLzyUiFyjDbNkeoXQ-wy6CV6vdI5jVdZUsBLBdxcTZoJlAVr6xR9HMnyUP3PMwy_3Nu229sBUYVAokx5TG2WIwt-G8b0D9Nd-mPKwGgn_dlghRcoTCBowIlGtpCrqpuU23O9/s320/reformisland.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621875737649696322" /></a><br /><br /><B>5. Wonder Woman is a Scientist First, a Warrior Second</B><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXm6jwqlKN19Dr31uvJfKCVB8XTsllD8AZJgMmpU2LVDlxiLd0A7J7Y7rmXSTlaA8WnZsGJUyi_83qWiQ4jyLvKwEnk_aTcJhe7wdw7xiPNaMiE_4t1kDyGRngqm3qWU90njE/s1600/dianascience.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 154px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXm6jwqlKN19Dr31uvJfKCVB8XTsllD8AZJgMmpU2LVDlxiLd0A7J7Y7rmXSTlaA8WnZsGJUyi_83qWiQ4jyLvKwEnk_aTcJhe7wdw7xiPNaMiE_4t1kDyGRngqm3qWU90njE/s320/dianascience.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621871971899411810" /></a>Diana first saved Steve Trevor’s life through her immense knowledge of science and medicine. Then she kinda got stuck saving his life all the time. Whatever the case, Wonder Woman is a thinker. Among the many quirky ideas held by Marston was the one that the Amazons attained their physical power through successfully tapping into their hidden intellectual gifts. <br /><br />Young women in this country are still not encouraged to pursue science related careers. Playing up this aspect of her character would go a long way to inspiring women to change this (See Number One Above).<br /><br /><B>6. Wonder Woman Would Not Participate in, Much Less Profit from, the Subjugation of Other Women</B><br /><br />One of the most puzzling details about the failed Kelley pilot was that Wonder Woman was supposed to have run a cosmetic company. Maybe this came from a desire to do a product placement with the recent MAC line featuring the iconic hero? Other than that, I can’t think why <I>anybody</I> who knows <I>anything</I> about Wonder Woman would think that would make sense (See Number One Above). I mean, okay, she did once run a dress shop, but that was from a comic storyline that is best forgotten. We can debate on whether makeup is about liberation or repression for women (Heck, I am undecided), but it seems unlikely that somebody devoted to gender equality (See Number One Above) would be interested in taking money from women so that they could attract a man.<br /><br />Wonder Woman would be devoted to public service. First, she didn’t leave the comforts of her island, where she was a goddamn princess, just so that she could work for some faceless corporation. She left the island so that she could help patriarch’s world become better. Second, she would want a job that kept her informed about dangerous villains or international plots. It seems unlikely that such things would emerge during boardroom discussions about whether a new brand of lip gloss should be called "Cherry High." <br /><br /><B>7. Bring Back the Greek Gods</B><br /><br />It might be sacrilege to some, but I was never a fan of George Pérez’s stint on <I>Wonder Woman</I>. No Diana Prince alter-ego just seems sad to me. Still, I will give him credit for drawing the Greek gods back into the mix. If Diana is almost indestructible in patriarch’s world, then she has to have somebody who can keep her on her toes. A god or two could do the trick. In the 1940s, it was a wager between Aries and Aphrodite that sent Wonder Woman into man’s world after all. Aphrodite argued that love could triumph over war (See Number One Above).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCiCxRSjUobXX8f-0XNuNIchIZyVbgDdnNkExZ2Hh8-QZhjLV7Ia1rpKkkbeGLXmH-3hhyphenhyphenOH_6W2XtR-nNVCQ6jsVwI98wc7aRSXMMTCLlCnF8NkwTTVwWcmonhdoz6-13zpN/s1600/godsearth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWCiCxRSjUobXX8f-0XNuNIchIZyVbgDdnNkExZ2Hh8-QZhjLV7Ia1rpKkkbeGLXmH-3hhyphenhyphenOH_6W2XtR-nNVCQ6jsVwI98wc7aRSXMMTCLlCnF8NkwTTVwWcmonhdoz6-13zpN/s320/godsearth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622261382449203906" /></a><br /><br /><B>8. Doctor Psycho is a Plausible Villain</B><br /><br />Some people argue that Wonder Woman lacks a decent rogues gallery. This just isn’t so. Why is Cheetah somehow lame, but Catwoman cool? They are basically the same character.<br /><br />Regardless, the most interesting villain (aside from maybe Orana or Artemis) has to be Doctor Psycho. In lots of ways, he is the total opposite of Diana: insecure, cruel, and misogynistic (See Number One Above). His telepathic abilities make him a dangerous foe for somebody as powerful as Wonder Woman (I’m told one of the hardest parts of writing in the superhero genre is figuring out how to keep the threat real). The ideological divide between the two characters would make their battles all the more compelling. Who will win in the final throw down between the feminist (See Number One Above) or the misogynist?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmyOPF9QzfMwHAGi28DV665T0P-hZUQ0d6c7ZZWbTCAZCS25McKCkJeMCgYvvy7s7fodqVwgl8hdRCnyyMKaMjjHKkoXcxNVyUQs_CmMYI6VzTa4_8UeQSrfdABlVSzIcr-62/s1600/womanfreedom.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmyOPF9QzfMwHAGi28DV665T0P-hZUQ0d6c7ZZWbTCAZCS25McKCkJeMCgYvvy7s7fodqVwgl8hdRCnyyMKaMjjHKkoXcxNVyUQs_CmMYI6VzTa4_8UeQSrfdABlVSzIcr-62/s320/womanfreedom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621877209319514306" /></a><br /><br /><B>9. Wonder Woman is a Fish Out of Water</b><br /><br />Wonder Woman first achieved popularity, I think, because she offered an inverted mirror through which the U.S. could view itself. A smart writer would play up those aspects. That same writer would point out the foibles of our society as seen through a foreigner’s eyes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL9L_-Mvv06NjKtJAhM5uqbX9qrH-yY3T74N0NYJtEwEbbul__4KNIm9xQ6yTVXi7BQ37HzEi-Fzge81VyJ_ufUiCm3QPkUPf3zUXUN3Hj2UOMFUWImZZtpE-qp-sMjB-B47r/s1600/womenjinxes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 287px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL9L_-Mvv06NjKtJAhM5uqbX9qrH-yY3T74N0NYJtEwEbbul__4KNIm9xQ6yTVXi7BQ37HzEi-Fzge81VyJ_ufUiCm3QPkUPf3zUXUN3Hj2UOMFUWImZZtpE-qp-sMjB-B47r/s320/womenjinxes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621880919774122786" /></a><br /><br />The most immediate difference is that Diana never interacted with a patriarchal society (See Number One Above). Actually, she literally never interacted with a patriarch at all given that she had no father (She was formed out of clay by her mother, for those whose comic history is a little rusty). Her responses to the pervasive problems of our society could range from bemusement to impatience. Then, of course, there is the story line of her grappling with her feelings for Steve Trevor. This would be difficult for her because. . .<br /><br /><B>10. Wonder Woman was Raised by Lesbians!</B><br /><br />Alright, there has never been anything to make this canonical. Still, wouldn’t that be a great story line that makes some sense? She is part of a society of women who had little use for the company of men. They lived quite happily for two thousand years until some guy showed up. How confused would the rest of the island be by the princess’s sexual interest in a man? Indeed, wouldn’t a few of them think of it as a bit perverted? Think of the immortal words of Queen Hippolyta, “I named this island ‘Paradise’ for an excellent reason. There are no men on it.” Suffering Sappho! I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.</ul><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQKaWjMXom5dY1uItERGBiP3XKbcOOlLF7NN7oyOsgWSN6iwjisjN_xGDftyH2yozmxSfcDqpu0nl8dLRZANlxNhPkqb3ls5Y6Bm73EELIP9g-FMNTwetUFQgbUD_Ky8xRmmp/s1600/wonderdoe.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsQKaWjMXom5dY1uItERGBiP3XKbcOOlLF7NN7oyOsgWSN6iwjisjN_xGDftyH2yozmxSfcDqpu0nl8dLRZANlxNhPkqb3ls5Y6Bm73EELIP9g-FMNTwetUFQgbUD_Ky8xRmmp/s320/wonderdoe.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622262156604577186" /></a>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-61859763672191145142011-05-24T05:42:00.000-07:002011-05-24T05:42:00.529-07:00Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Feminist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvhzgTeWIbT4fXzxv-aeF11DjXcHdWdyvh6zcYuVkKRwBahqrltYcDbwW6vVV-Mzz7j0tX5rkYrCy0srnel0i67tMaMEXoqcEfvLAWbsVqirujraSc2ZgLwOgySQojEcDKu3I/s1600/ww3dterror.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjvhzgTeWIbT4fXzxv-aeF11DjXcHdWdyvh6zcYuVkKRwBahqrltYcDbwW6vVV-Mzz7j0tX5rkYrCy0srnel0i67tMaMEXoqcEfvLAWbsVqirujraSc2ZgLwOgySQojEcDKu3I/s320/ww3dterror.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610046172861983362" /></a>Sometimes I like to follow the trends of the day. What can I say? I can be a slave to peer pressure. This is how I recently found myself at the local cineplex. Given all the attention to, and the supposed hilarity of, the film <I>Bridesmaids</I>, I and some friends decided to take a look see.<br /><br />For those who haven’t seen the media blitz surrounding this film, it has been billed as the remedy for the “bromance” film (a genre that successfully suckers young men these days ((but that is another entry entirely)). The film’s producers imagined it to be revolutionary to film women drinking, imitating a penis, or defecating in a sink. They, and their admirers, claim that this shows that women can be just as raunchy as men. <I>The New York Times</I> went as far as stating that the film triumphed because it proved that “women can go aggressive laugh to aggressive-and-absurd laugh with men.” Frankly, I was surprised to learn that large sections of our society imagined women as totally humorless. There is also something mighty peculiar about assuming that certain forms of humor are gendered “male,” like toilet humor. It is even more troubling to then assume that such a genre is what accounts for being <I>truly</I> funny compared to other humor, apparently considered feminine. Even the tagline that promoted <I>Bridesmaids</I>, “chick flicks don’t have to suck,” suggests a certain contempt for women. When did that little bit of sexist nonsense start? While I was dozing the new measure of social progress apparently became a film that coupled women with scat jokes. Well GayProf ain’t convinced. When you cut deep into the <I>Bridesmaid’s</I> frosting you realize that this cake is from a pretty stale mix of tired gender assumptions.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTSLSdAQctCVbILH6bhY_hkqxejufQL_EHV2tCgVosBSgB6biPO3LQkAiDyFmqeLXQq7I4MBprwmS38kittRHadWGpquxfNdX5W7WfqbMvCFgSmTQY5AvEWB6qm7ooL7MKRKy/s1600/bridesmaids-movie-poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJTSLSdAQctCVbILH6bhY_hkqxejufQL_EHV2tCgVosBSgB6biPO3LQkAiDyFmqeLXQq7I4MBprwmS38kittRHadWGpquxfNdX5W7WfqbMvCFgSmTQY5AvEWB6qm7ooL7MKRKy/s320/bridesmaids-movie-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610047507999241202" /></a><br /><br />The story centers around Annie, a thirty-something woman whose life appears on the downward spiral. She once owned a bakery in the center of Milwaukee, but by the time the film opens she has been reduced to peddling cheap jewelry in a strip mall. At her most vulnerable, Annie’s BFF, Lillian, announces that she is about to be married and asks her to serve as maid of honor. Annie soon meets the remaining titular bridesmaids, including a rival named Helen. Much of the film’s humor draws on some universal social anxieties about being shown up or losing your close friends. Annie and Helen compete for Lillian’s affections as the plans for the wedding progress. At each junction, Annie doesn’t quite measure up and, in fact, makes the situation absurd. <br /><br />Aside from the fairly obvious problem that the film suggests that women’s natural inclination is to compete against each other (a la Helen and Annie), the real problems emerge when we consider what type of messages the film sends about sex, relationships, and women’s ultimate goals. Don’t let the cum jokes fool you, at its heart this film puts forward a pretty retrograde notion that women must have a man to be happy and fulfilled.<br /><br />The film opens with an active sex scene between Annie and the film’s cad (played by the dreamy Jon Hamm). This scene makes it clear, that despite Hamm’s enthusiasm, Annie isn’t having much fun at all. Later she sneaks out of bed to apply ample makeup so that when Hamm awakes he is to imagine that Annie looks that good “naturally.” Much to her dismay, he instead reminds her that they are in a NSA deal and that he’d really rather she depart. She then makes a slow walk of shame down his driveway in the early morning light. Later, when her car breaks down, she apparently can only think of Hamm to phone. He arrives, refers to her as a “fuck buddy” (NB: Heteros, we in the gay community are not amused when you steal our lingo), and then suggests a blowjob as he drives her home. All of this is done, of course, to reveal the Hamm character as a sexist, cold-hearted snake that can only serve to make Annie’s true love more appealing (more on him in a minute). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT86kNb9CnijQthTpLhVE9GOsGlPOlYJED-yEvsszz5jLStie-XrvcG0vqR3J2pFSjARY57rARDL0lKW7JuKiZGbezTqogKHr7LSKAF1a5ugnBFdGeEWHTlRJ_6fg2FUa7X2n/s1600/hamm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyT86kNb9CnijQthTpLhVE9GOsGlPOlYJED-yEvsszz5jLStie-XrvcG0vqR3J2pFSjARY57rARDL0lKW7JuKiZGbezTqogKHr7LSKAF1a5ugnBFdGeEWHTlRJ_6fg2FUa7X2n/s320/hamm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610047832211744546" /></a><br /><br />Here’s the problem: using such means to identify the supposedly unworthy men also presumes that women are incapable and uninterested in sex for its own merits (Maybe there is also a divide between the gay and the straight world here, but I’d be more than happy to be on Hamm’s occasional call list. The fact that he wouldn’t expect me to spend the night seems like a bonus). Annie unconvincingly pretends to be Hamm’s equal in the fuck-buddy relationship, but in reality she secretly craves what the film implies all women want: a good man to rescue her. Enter Officer Rhodes, the patrolman with a heart of gold and a mysterious Irish accent. Annie at first refuses Rhodes’ advances, even though the film makes it painfully obvious that he is her last chance for happiness. Rhodes eventually charms Annie by complementing her doomed bakery and offering deep discounts on auto parts. By the end of the film Annie rides off on Prince Rhodes' stallion, in this case in the form of a patrol car. Annie’s life is otherwise unchanged. She does not reopen the bakery (though Rhodes encourages her to bake . . . for him). She does not have her own place to live or even a job. But she has her man, so all will be okay.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RcvIjk1sIa3xHeO2kPAMhHpnfwa4qgRR6jcOL6BKddPKrbUbkYfuSNc72Dq2EISAg1LdMaxvSdA-OXk4E_tZAA24qfB7BmJ-yVX3LSxx3CC8EvtDWvzoa0aRsRMxKD7tIWA0/s1600/kristen-wiig-chris-odowd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RcvIjk1sIa3xHeO2kPAMhHpnfwa4qgRR6jcOL6BKddPKrbUbkYfuSNc72Dq2EISAg1LdMaxvSdA-OXk4E_tZAA24qfB7BmJ-yVX3LSxx3CC8EvtDWvzoa0aRsRMxKD7tIWA0/s320/kristen-wiig-chris-odowd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610048179014608530" /></a><br /><br />Annie isn’t alone. Many of the other film’s characters talk the talk when it comes to free willing sex, but we find in each case that when push came to shove (as it were) it was just talk. Rita, one of the bridesmaids, had many punch lines involving her desire for sexual adventure. Rita insists that she is hungry for action, demanding that the pre-wedding ceremonies include male strippers and other such things to alleviate the boredom of her marriage. She goes so far as to encourage the ingenue, Becca, to “experiment” and “find out what she likes” in bed. It sounds like sensible advice to me. We see, though, that Rita is much like Annie in pretending to want one thing (NSA fun with male go-go dancers) and actually desiring another (intimacy in a monogamous relationship). In a drunken bout, she confesses to Becca that she and her husband actually have sex quite often. What she really misses, though, are the kisses that he once gave. For her part, Becca never explores her sexuality as Rita suggested. Instead, she remains committed to her husband as ever. Even the character with the least amount of gender conformity ends up safely coupled up with a male air marshal by the film’s closing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcc86_T961cXyjg3BCUzc5S00MY5jmNW8XLjhCKMP3g3fLQ6iuPGV3Q9eSrBSOoJCP4cZGonOgsPNPGEtpbJIVOyUqXjD2XxCx6gsUPwmuYTycvv6K0CwJ25_vFcUXhD3FO3f/s1600/wwweddingday.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtcc86_T961cXyjg3BCUzc5S00MY5jmNW8XLjhCKMP3g3fLQ6iuPGV3Q9eSrBSOoJCP4cZGonOgsPNPGEtpbJIVOyUqXjD2XxCx6gsUPwmuYTycvv6K0CwJ25_vFcUXhD3FO3f/s320/wwweddingday.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610046793752477186" /></a><br /><br />It is not the case that I am knocking monogamy per se. Rather, I am concerned that the film offers it as the only viable option for women (and their only goal). Men, according to the film, can have varied approaches to sex and relationships. They might be in a committed relationship or have fun without being emotionally invested. Women's happiness or despair, <I>Bridesmaids</i> makes clear, depends instead on the quality of relationship they have to a man. Sexual freedom is presented as an emotional dead end and a distraction from the hard work of finding a "good husband." <br /><br />Despite their relative lack of screen time, it is the men who play the most important roles in these characters’ lives. Even Helen’s competitive struggle with Annie is later explained as being symptomatic of her missing her husband during his frequent business trips. If you think it is about women’s relationships to each other, <I>Bridesmaids</I> suggests, you haven't looked carefully enough at their relationship to men. That alone filters how well they relate to each other.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-38664882495283931042011-05-16T06:00:00.000-07:002011-05-16T09:06:32.524-07:00Poor Life Choices<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Dat_Sho23C9W20wNvlPQ4VgmkzP_vloGMFiMNsl-adZPInzKQWXGwlyIe51xE3JbwrK1SoXBpjhdcRk4McJIEhUCq7Jx85hYypVkhzuyClK273TXsXJvFWesClM1QrIKuH-A/s1600/Sencvr34.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Dat_Sho23C9W20wNvlPQ4VgmkzP_vloGMFiMNsl-adZPInzKQWXGwlyIe51xE3JbwrK1SoXBpjhdcRk4McJIEhUCq7Jx85hYypVkhzuyClK273TXsXJvFWesClM1QrIKuH-A/s320/Sencvr34.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607065238608691874" /></a>Lately I have been thinking about graduate education in the humanities. Perhaps it would be a bit extreme to say that I have been having a moral crisis. Like St. Thomas, though, I sometimes have my doubts.<br /><br />It’s not that I give credence to right-wing attacks on humanities research. Nothing drives me up the wall more than to switch on some local news story about an illiterate state legislator claiming that the humanities are irrelevant and a waste of tax payer money. I have written here and elsewhere about how critical an engagement with the humanities is for an informed and responsible citizenry, mostly to keep them from electing illiterate state legislators. Ethnic studies research also has a critical role to play as the nation’s demographics continue to shift. Ironically (in an Alanis Morrisette sorta way) it is at the very moment that companies and government agencies are desperate for individuals who can intelligently engage with minority communities, especially Latinos, that many universities are slashing their ethnic studies programs. I am looking at you, University of Texas system.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5o8qdgwuCEj5W3lRZ-_0gR4CuqtC_x9cd0ZJ3HbmReoVvyNJ9Adzygb7JNQI1JIbJtdl5iZnVJrYWo3FjxGgkaBRY3d8Yu4nO2tYXQbdLObfqNjeXf6BzPPiKHPh83dlb0-v/s1600/wonderdifference.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5o8qdgwuCEj5W3lRZ-_0gR4CuqtC_x9cd0ZJ3HbmReoVvyNJ9Adzygb7JNQI1JIbJtdl5iZnVJrYWo3FjxGgkaBRY3d8Yu4nO2tYXQbdLObfqNjeXf6BzPPiKHPh83dlb0-v/s320/wonderdifference.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607065936339027010" /></a><br /><br />My concerns about graduate studies in the humanities are a bit more pragmatic. I have wondered about the wisdom of churning out armies of Ph.D.’s when the opportunity to land a traditional tenure–track position is becoming more and more remote. "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked" or something . . .<br /><br />Do we have any ethical obligation to resist the temptation to admit graduate students when we know this to be the case? How do we balance that obligation with an equal investment in insuring that new research on critical topics like race, gender, sexuality, class, disability studies and other fields moves forward? <br /><br />Sadly, I have no answers to these questions. Instead, I can only think about the type of advice that I would give to newly admitted Ph.D. students in the Social Sciences or the Humanities. Hopefully you already received some clear-cut guidance before you applied to these programs. If not, here are some things to consider as you start a new program. It might be harsh, but it’s only because I love you.<br /><br /><UL><B>1. Do not expect to get an academic job.</B> Surely I can’t be the first person to mention that the academic job market is beyond miserable. A few very lucky folks land a coveted tenure-track position, but then a few lucky folks also win the lottery. Many others are placed into some mighty abysmal working arrangements as part of the adjunct machine. Universities and colleges, regrettably, know that they can acquire cheap labor and offer no guarantees because there is a surplus of Ph.D.’s on the market. Only you can decide if you want to work those long hours for minimal pay (and probably do without health benefits). It seems wiser, though, to prepare yourself to walk away from the t-t market. Consider obtaining an advanced degree as the opportunity itself. You have six years (or so) to really delve into topics that interest you. That is a luxury that can be enjoyed on its own.<br /><br /><B>2. Learn to combat feelings of being an intellectual imposter.</b> If you find yourself feeling like everybody around you is a bit smarter or has read more, don’t worry. They are all thinking the exact same thing. I won’t deny that admissions to a graduate program depends upon a range of subjective criteria. Nonetheless, you would be surprised by the level of consensus that usually forms around candidates during admissions. This means that you should rest assured that you are just as bright and capable as any other student in the program. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-Nlv208-c613148vUTexaoLWAO9t3h40ABFXJQ4HsG_qDqUJVmINijJS5nOrvZlIqCbkDRt07Wg15mzyiIqCm1iD66vRC8Zcf6AIS6YZurVNOyJb9dhnn8RTz_Wd-g3Trbbg/s1600/wwchalboard.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-Nlv208-c613148vUTexaoLWAO9t3h40ABFXJQ4HsG_qDqUJVmINijJS5nOrvZlIqCbkDRt07Wg15mzyiIqCm1iD66vRC8Zcf6AIS6YZurVNOyJb9dhnn8RTz_Wd-g3Trbbg/s320/wwchalboard.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607072656215682290" /></a><br /><br /><B>3. Learn to combat feelings of being an intellectual superior.</b> This is the flip side of number two. Indeed, many students vacillate between these two extremes. Graduate school can turn you downright bipolar. You have talents, to be sure, but they do not surpass those around you. It has seemed to me that once graduate students go down the path of hyper-ego their minds close faster than a vegan restaurant in Texas.<br /><br /><B>4. Use the gentle cycle on the washing machine.</b> Have you looked at your stipend recently? You better make your existing wardrobe last because there are no trips to the mall in your future. It’s either that or join a nudist colony by your fifth year. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT3nEzcTtHYxhIgJvEyQzJOChQZtCn4X8jfYPZYnz7eQL8BTPTy44ZvFkbUZ0GuYzmou-_eeggCFkdi34fslNuz7GQUv9H9PzErngLn_DbBhjJ3sjiKID7gH5zgnRHCZtnVhc/s1600/wwsoftner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpT3nEzcTtHYxhIgJvEyQzJOChQZtCn4X8jfYPZYnz7eQL8BTPTy44ZvFkbUZ0GuYzmou-_eeggCFkdi34fslNuz7GQUv9H9PzErngLn_DbBhjJ3sjiKID7gH5zgnRHCZtnVhc/s320/wwsoftner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607070265156943778" /></a><br /><br /><B>5. Remember that being a graduate student is a remarkably privileged position.</b> This might seem hard to imagine given the brutal hours that you spend toiling away in the library. Nonetheless, you are now part of a tiny educated elite in this country whatever your economic or social class prior to admission. Estimates suggest that only 3 percent of the nation’s population holds a Ph.D. There are many mighty smart people who would have jumped at the chance to continue their education, but circumstances prevented it. This isn’t to say that the stress you feel is not real or that institutions can’t do better. Still, remember that you aren’t exactly shoveling coal for a living either.<br /><br /><B>6. Avoid having sex with faculty members in your department/immediate field.</b> In my time, I have been propositioned by faculty who outranked me and also by graduate students. I don’t mention this to make claims about my innate hotness (Although . . .), rather it is to suggest that such things are a common turn of events in the academic world. It seems to me if you are a woman or a gay man, your chances of fielding unexpected/unwanted advances are pretty high. For some gay men, it’s how they say hello. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnfac_Vzu1DvaB32erfxDakT4Z4YgusQ2z7MlBLEIxg8zdU8vgPKgLn4JZso0qib1IxeYV7PPmFsZgO1Kw4lGaXdDPULOsqkvA6bAqxyZU-gPoVHkienS4fdANRxtl461IThq/s1600/dontcallmeangel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnfac_Vzu1DvaB32erfxDakT4Z4YgusQ2z7MlBLEIxg8zdU8vgPKgLn4JZso0qib1IxeYV7PPmFsZgO1Kw4lGaXdDPULOsqkvA6bAqxyZU-gPoVHkienS4fdANRxtl461IThq/s320/dontcallmeangel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607078833122380658" /></a><br /><br />It might also be the case that you are occasionally dazzled by a faculty member who really pushes your buttons. Never, though, does it seem like a particularly good idea when there is such an obvious difference in power. Coming up with polite ways to decline is your best option.<br /><br />Feel free to have sex with faculty members in departments far removed from your own. If you are in the humanities, there is no reason not to take a tumble with somebody in civil engineering should the mood and opportunity appear. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.<br /><br /><B>7. Learn the metric system.</b> Okay, this doesn't really have much to do with your success in the program. Still, it's embarrassing that the U.S. is far behind on converting to metric. <br /><br /><B>8. Summers are not vacations.</B> Take a poll of your department’s junior faculty and find out how they spent their summer months. Chances are you will hear things like “researching,” “writing,” “visiting archives,” or “field work.” If you hear the word “vacation,” generally it means they have dragged their significant other along with them in a simple attempt to appease them. “Yeah, I really needed to spend some serious time at the Iowa State Archive,” one might say, “so I took my husband and we made a vacation out of it! I don’t care what they say, Des Moines has lots of summer surprises.” By “vacation,” they really mean that their spouse got to spend time with them late at night and on the weekends when the archives closed. The spouse’s “surprise” was that they found themselves being a dedicated xerox operator the rest of the time.<br /><br />This is a window into the life of an academic, especially one who is early in hir career. The demands of the regular academic year generally permit only scattered time to focus on a research agenda. Summers become precious opportunities to really bare down and work. If you plan to spend the four months lounging around a pool without cracking an academic journal or book, save yourself some heartache and drop out of graduate school now.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eTRl-3b90f6dGUQQFt3WhgG9ZkKV6mMcGQEFa-DCkkitVYCSZE4EoaRkCjgS0NEjz51pJ2SYxjj2Xb5UYuJax2GRP9ZxeS8J3bM7aBlM1GQLM3o7HpkBdauIXh0gNCazbrjl/s1600/vacation.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eTRl-3b90f6dGUQQFt3WhgG9ZkKV6mMcGQEFa-DCkkitVYCSZE4EoaRkCjgS0NEjz51pJ2SYxjj2Xb5UYuJax2GRP9ZxeS8J3bM7aBlM1GQLM3o7HpkBdauIXh0gNCazbrjl/s320/vacation.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607082158721948514" /></a><br /><br /><B>9. Tend to your personal life.</B> Sacrifices will inevitably have to be made, but try not to let grad school take complete control of your life. Have plans to get married? No reason not to do so. I mean, you’ll still end up divorced eventually, so why not get the clock running now? At least this way you’ll still be relatively young when your first marriage goes south. Want children? Go for it (Although, as always, I would suggest that one think carefully about the larger environmental implications of producing another weapon of massive consumption). Don’t have a family plan? Rather frequent bathhouses? As long as you have an endless supply of condoms, I say make it a weekly ritual if that’s your thing. In other words, there is really not a reason to delay doing other things simply for graduate school. This doesn’t mean that you don’t still need to do the actual work, but I haven’t seen any reward come to those who put off their personal life.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQvWO6JQy1YB6nSQrHH_Z6NyAxvc7VhBmocTiBiKcyVRKbvymbwqKgaYc-yhlOOvxqlPdSTKVSW32p5LIaShuHtLpyXZjM4_CUxRzjViARfuix_njRTDdvT1Mr3BT8tS1TWXs/s1600/Superman+Wonder+Woman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 187px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQvWO6JQy1YB6nSQrHH_Z6NyAxvc7VhBmocTiBiKcyVRKbvymbwqKgaYc-yhlOOvxqlPdSTKVSW32p5LIaShuHtLpyXZjM4_CUxRzjViARfuix_njRTDdvT1Mr3BT8tS1TWXs/s320/Superman+Wonder+Woman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607139186247029058" /></a><br /><br /><B>10. Keep an eye on the liquor consumption.</b> It’s hardly an original story when one turns to gin when feeling a bit stressed out. I am not a teetotaler (<I>trust me</i>), but it is always well worth thinking about how much liquor you consume. Avoid the binges or drinking every day. Besides, it’s an expensive habit and that money could go to other extravagances – like protein. An ideal scholar ends up with a classroom building named after hir; a less than ideal scholar ends up with the boardroom at Tanqueray named after hir.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4H_i0oOS4r3QaACQuGrRpe7OZqvUp3Mx12OVYfr_KlarXnUyOY9f62nsiDy7F-cL32N_lgKfd7cc6ZzeWbymEqDT7HKgyGkVDrvARcVCd8m69Bvz4lXAusPpK4Z9auW2sokp/s1600/wonderwine.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR4H_i0oOS4r3QaACQuGrRpe7OZqvUp3Mx12OVYfr_KlarXnUyOY9f62nsiDy7F-cL32N_lgKfd7cc6ZzeWbymEqDT7HKgyGkVDrvARcVCd8m69Bvz4lXAusPpK4Z9auW2sokp/s320/wonderwine.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607066114536192882" /></a><br /><br /><B>11. Come to terms with the fact that you will not likely live in Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Chicago, Boston, or another of the nation’s great cities.</b> Back in the nineteenth century, when most of this nation’s universities started, popular thinking associated cities with vice, pollution, and unhealthy living. To insure that young adults remained morally and physically in shape, the logic went, universities needed to be as far away from urban areas as possible. Better that they hang out with the cows. That was before the nation faced the epidemic of bovine gangs. Personally, I blame the alfalfa black-market. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z9TooJvEjqEIBTFoSKqczCJmhf5Z-zk-x_-XlE-XU_hyphenhyphen0WsfGVMBc4wQgmqzdImi1R1BKlKmaBXqcO1sR1r0Lwn5lkQ0bHa2Ks-SCUXfkNEMi4wCOIax_6EitDom83roBYdI/s1600/missnewyork.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Z9TooJvEjqEIBTFoSKqczCJmhf5Z-zk-x_-XlE-XU_hyphenhyphen0WsfGVMBc4wQgmqzdImi1R1BKlKmaBXqcO1sR1r0Lwn5lkQ0bHa2Ks-SCUXfkNEMi4wCOIax_6EitDom83roBYdI/s320/missnewyork.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607068506161757874" /></a><br /><br />Now we reap the legacy of nineteenth-century discourse as most of us in the academic world live in small towns rather than metropolises. This, I think, is one of the hardest things that we have to come to terms with for this job, especially if you’re gay (where the number of other gay people is necessarily going to be quite small). I have no solution to offer, which is probably why Tanqueray named that boardroom after me.<br /> <br /><B>12. Learn how to communicate your ideas to a wide audience.</b> There are good reasons to delve deeply into a particular subfield or methodology. Nonetheless, you’ll be taking your dissertation on a road tour before you know it. If you find yourself at conferences getting asked questions about your main argument (or, worse, not getting asked any questions at all), it’s not the audience’s problem. You have to know how to pitch things in a way that is approachable from a wider range of disciplines.</ul><br /><br />Keep your chin up. In the end, graduate school is mostly about sticking through it.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-26327794606892214692011-04-25T11:53:00.000-07:002011-04-25T16:47:38.980-07:00Missing Minority<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HUjwF3KPtMSLrnK30aNkMYm2qZx0LVErn_0fplpe-szQSQ8fzz5f3owrJu49Y2gNPp3wR1J0wCe8p5dlLWgxVktNRjvPd52uGJ_UeSNqAm2HLALD6j0i7zRL6MRRjKQq0-Rw/s1600/wwgaucho.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7HUjwF3KPtMSLrnK30aNkMYm2qZx0LVErn_0fplpe-szQSQ8fzz5f3owrJu49Y2gNPp3wR1J0wCe8p5dlLWgxVktNRjvPd52uGJ_UeSNqAm2HLALD6j0i7zRL6MRRjKQq0-Rw/s320/wwgaucho.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599597403413217058" /></a>Those of you who have followed the slow release of data from the Census Bureau (and who hasn’t!) know that the nation’s demographics have shifted considerably over the past ten years. The Midwest, once the metaphorical and population “center” of the nation, is hemorrhaging people faster than Sarah Palin’s campaign team. Part of that change, of course, is the combination of Midwestern urban decay, failing infrastructure (Why pay taxes?), and mass relocations to "sunbelt" areas in the southwest. Another contributing factor, though, is the rapid growth of Latino populations in the border states. Census officials estimated that there were 45.5 million Latinos and Latinas in the United States as of 2009. This represents an almost 29 percent increase from the 2000 Census report of 35.3 million Latino/as.<br /><br />What has surprised me is that our national entertainment industry has been remarkably slow to reflect this new reality. Latina/os might be the largest minority, but you would be hard pressed to find substantial representations on either broadcast or cable television. Some networks, including Oprah’s OWN, Lifetime, or FX, have zero (0) recurring Latino characters or hosts in all of their 24/7 programming. Those that do exist on other networks are sadly retreads of some pretty worn out stereotypes. Latinos remain relegated to the supporting cast. This is true despite the fact that various corporations have become increasingly hungry to grab a slice of the Latino economic pie.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDf3HgBQSAclXJw0CVBXh86VIi6qM42r6xXAj3C3d9A67MXj-gaFJqk0BIGt5hZOUp-5IePIOHaPT5Yeoij1WY3tkxkC-BwBsDGtpE55YBfNeymaLlXK38huXx66LeSpWPHcea/s1600/OWN.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDf3HgBQSAclXJw0CVBXh86VIi6qM42r6xXAj3C3d9A67MXj-gaFJqk0BIGt5hZOUp-5IePIOHaPT5Yeoij1WY3tkxkC-BwBsDGtpE55YBfNeymaLlXK38huXx66LeSpWPHcea/s320/OWN.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599602929097129986" /></a><br /><br />It strikes me that the most visible characters currently on the air are Latinas. Yet, this is not necessarily good news. Two major roles define the options for Latinas on television: the sex bomb and the steely enforcer. The first has deep roots in this country. Since way back in the nineteenth century, mainstream representations of Latinas have most often presented them as tempting “tamales” who turn out to be “too hot to handle.” Latina women became convenient metaphors that legitimated multiple racialized assumptions as the U.S. contemplated war with its neighboring republic. Latinas were construed as always sexually available to Euro American men even as they were simultaneously presented as duplicitous, scheming, and dangerous. Euro-American travel writers first circulated these types of images to suggest that "immoral" Mexico needed a U.S. invasion to satisfy God’s supposed plan of manifest destiny (You can read about this and many other fascinating elements of nineteenth-century Chicano history when you purchase a copy of <I>NERPoD</I> from a fine on-line book retailer near you).<br /><br />Such images live on in the conniving and fickle character played by Eva Longoria on <I>Desperate Housewives</i>; Colombian-born Sofía Vergara’s “trophy wife” role on <I>Modern Family</I>; and even Naya Rivera’s role on <i>Glee</I>. The last character, Santana López, hits many of the hallmarks of the stereotype. López uses her sexuality, often presented as irresistible to the white men around her, to satisfy her ambitions or as part of a larger scheme. At the same time, she can be depended upon to enact the “loca” traits that make her untamable. Quick tempered and cruel, López shows she is always ready for a fight. This includes a recent episode where she claimed to have razor blades hidden throughout her hair (!). Perhaps the revelation of her same-sex love interest will redeem this character, or at least steer her from being a twenty-first century incarnation of <a href="http://www.cowboylyrics.com/lyrics/robbins-marty/el-paso-11889.html">“wicked Felina.”</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK43Y-CAl3J3cxUN9I87J4fR1oJu31o2z7XN6BAY9a7VK-OhxjQ1hd05y-9kU_RW410IsxwBl2Zh4XhZ8nlo8sSpNdjlltBAo-Rx1xZ-gp9zmKOiG9wn-IQkfes1QVWzmYqcbN/s1600/santana_lopez.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK43Y-CAl3J3cxUN9I87J4fR1oJu31o2z7XN6BAY9a7VK-OhxjQ1hd05y-9kU_RW410IsxwBl2Zh4XhZ8nlo8sSpNdjlltBAo-Rx1xZ-gp9zmKOiG9wn-IQkfes1QVWzmYqcbN/s320/santana_lopez.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599602570810575954" /></a><br />Another less noticed, but still identifiably stereotypical role, appears in the police-procedure genre. Many shows, like <I>Law and Order</I>, <I>Eureka</I>, or the doomed <I>Detroit 187</I> feature the tough Latina enforcer. While I can’t say for sure, it seems like this version of Latina can find some of its roots in <I>Aliens</I> (1982). That film introduced the memorable character Private Jeanette Vásquez, a tough-as-nails marine. Here was a Latina character who got to do things on screen that had previously been reserved almost exclusively for men, including handling some really big guns. She also met her demise memorably in an altruistic blaze of fire, ultimately hugging a grenade rather than being taken by the titular aliens. Reportedly, the Vásquez character left such an impression on Gene Rodenberry that he intended the security officer on <I>Star Trek: The Next Generation</I> to be a comparable Latina figure (which was later dropped when he cast blond Denise Crosby for the role, contributing to <I>Star Trek’s</I> long history of failing to include Latino/as in the future – but that is another <a href="http://centerofgravitas.blogspot.com/2007/03/future-imperfect.html">entry</a>). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiAsRJ5LOD6577LN5ckRXYKkxeQNvMOP0KqROh5dwG8039zOHlYK4BiN3fRvgGaEOaXclM7Lw1e-XiSMe23l4guW9h7pHl1aruSpDGQtfQBpdEnc9TYyfxzs7CTQIYqggFWKD/s1600/vasquez.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitiAsRJ5LOD6577LN5ckRXYKkxeQNvMOP0KqROh5dwG8039zOHlYK4BiN3fRvgGaEOaXclM7Lw1e-XiSMe23l4guW9h7pHl1aruSpDGQtfQBpdEnc9TYyfxzs7CTQIYqggFWKD/s320/vasquez.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599602087964162402" /></a><br /><br />What I call the “Vásquez type” presents Latinas as figures who bend traditional gender conformity through their military/police skills. They are often presented as invaluable to the white leads in solving crimes, battling aliens, or generally kicking ass. They know their way around a gun, wear their hair in a sensible bob or poneytail, and can more than handle themselves in battle. All of that is nice . . . but these Latina figures are also always ancillary to the main white characters. If they provide the muscle, than it is up to their white (usually male) partner to provide the problem solving skills which truly stops the criminals/aliens/mayhem. Representations of their personal lives range from non-existent to deeply troubled. While generally I appreciate their rejection of gender conformity, it can nonetheless becomes a racial marker that only serves to highlight the more authentic masculinity of the (white) male lead and/or the more alluring femininity of the (white) women around them. Latinas become characters who have not quite mastered the mainstream gender rules, and therefore remain outside of society.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgVhkvkVF2rSjV-GyR-WZQqMYUpyUO5Z1FTpMaeEQEwi2yi8Q1J-WyJ0cNcwyNeag4JLfsvwy5xG1n82_AZ_AldNCg4F4JCactonRM2tkE0CnHHkQ5wzMdzrOPzlBfPtJjAPoR/s1600/jo-lupo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgVhkvkVF2rSjV-GyR-WZQqMYUpyUO5Z1FTpMaeEQEwi2yi8Q1J-WyJ0cNcwyNeag4JLfsvwy5xG1n82_AZ_AldNCg4F4JCactonRM2tkE0CnHHkQ5wzMdzrOPzlBfPtJjAPoR/s320/jo-lupo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599603448802312914" /></a><br /><br />Keep in mind that those are the most <I>positive</I> options currently seen on television. Most of the time, television networks prefer to imagine that Latinos don’t exist at all. Even shows set in geographic areas with significant Latino populations manage to sideline those inhabitants or simply turn them into background “color” that spices up the main white characters’ lives. As I have talked about <a href="http://centerofgravitas.blogspot.com/2009/09/burning-and-itching.html">elsewhere</a>, the USA show <I>Burn Notice</I> takes place in Miami but manages to only grant roles for Cubans as either victims (usually women) or as villains (either men or women). Whatever the case, both are easily dispatched after one episode. <br /><br />For obvious reasons, I am the most sensitive about this phenomena when programs are set in New Mexico. My home state, as everybody knows, has always had a non-white majority population. Recently, the census bureau also revealed that Latinos are now the largest ethnic group in the land of enchantment. Making a show set in New Mexico without showing Latinos is like making a show set in Washington, D.C. without showing idiots. Nonetheless, that is exactly what happens in USA’s <I>In Plain Sight</I> or the critically acclaimed AMC show <I>Breaking Bad</I>. The first, which centers of the blond lead, has a token Latino character who is a Dominican baseball player. Apparently the USA network could only imagine Latinos as recent immigrants, thereby ignoring the Latinos actually residing in the state whose families have been there for generations. <br /><br /><I>Breaking Bad</I>, also set in Albuquerque, does little better. Like in <I>Burn Notice</I>, Latinos zest up the drab background by providing Spanish-language music, low-rider cars, or colorful expressions. When they aren't providing the literal and metaphorical salsa, they appear as threats to the main white leads. These roles as side characters serve to contrast the normalcy of the two middle-class white characters. Latinos, as dangerous drug dealers, represent an upending of the “quiet” life of the white school teacher and his former student. The series lead, we are told, had no choice but to enter the drug underground. He begins manufacturing meth in a noble attempt to provide for his family after his imminent death from cancer. Latino drug dealers, on the other hand, are shown to be motivated only by greed and violence with few redeeming characteristics. They are almost always recent arrivals in the country.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqs2hRFnbECQDByW5V6wbXEFCLK98rUG54naDI2tXKlzdoM0NCa796PFE0Mpm4O4ZdQT1EmYZG4Jy9313yMqlv5E1NUa6mRU3DhHrSMsjnYb_lx_z7WLUn2OI8peTJsvcS23iQ/s1600/breaking+bad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqs2hRFnbECQDByW5V6wbXEFCLK98rUG54naDI2tXKlzdoM0NCa796PFE0Mpm4O4ZdQT1EmYZG4Jy9313yMqlv5E1NUa6mRU3DhHrSMsjnYb_lx_z7WLUn2OI8peTJsvcS23iQ/s320/breaking+bad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599604155706702050" /></a><br /><br />I am disappointed that television programming has failed to understand or represent the variety of Latino/a experiences in the United States. This is even more troubling when we consider that many (most?) of the nation’s other citizens probably depend on television as the only venue through which they get to know the United States' largest minority. For the most part, it seems that television executives consider Latinos too much of a political hot potato to represent fairly. When they do make an appearance, they enforce the notion that Latinos (and a multi-cultural society in general) threatens to upend the national status quo through their supposedly hyper sexuality and unquenchable thirst for violence.<br /><br />Some of this might change when media monopoly Comcast launches its new English-language Latino network in 2012. I’m not holding my breath, though.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-44107903719012935522011-03-31T08:19:00.001-07:002011-03-31T11:30:32.043-07:00The Detective<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweyQbFstT3U5vjJZPev7zE3yZBIKVtYRMZFToDaQd49mCoTrHU_CFfXw6uVdDIC82MJhVnLCuYAcBCZFQANWAGQOZOyOIZjNdKQ3razNMlA6S5SK1XOlEvX0iErFuTDlfKZPd/s1600/wwprivatedetc.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweyQbFstT3U5vjJZPev7zE3yZBIKVtYRMZFToDaQd49mCoTrHU_CFfXw6uVdDIC82MJhVnLCuYAcBCZFQANWAGQOZOyOIZjNdKQ3razNMlA6S5SK1XOlEvX0iErFuTDlfKZPd/s320/wwprivatedetc.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590264750238361538" /></a>Some evenings ago, I had finished with a hard day of accomplishing nothing on <I>NERPoD: The Sequel</I> (Which reminds me, have you ordered your copy of the original <I>NERPoD</I> from your favorite on-line bookseller? All the really <a href=http://vuboq.blogspot.com/">cool bloggers</a> have already read it. Why haven’t you?). This meant that I needed some form of entertainment to distract me. My mindless channel surfing stopped at the start of <I>The Detective</I> (1968). Now here was a film that would allow a lot of self-justification for watching the idiot box. I knew of this film from Vito Russo’s classic <I>Celluloid Closet</i> (and the later HBO documentary of the same name), but had never watched it in its entirety. Parking on the couch to watch this wasn’t me blowing off the evening. Rather, I was assessing a critical primary source that would shed light on past notions of sexual difference. Hey, it’s tough work, but somebody has to do it. <br /><br />For those who have never heard of <I>The Detective</I> (and I’m going to guess most people have not), it was one of the first explicit representations of gay men at the local picture palaces. The year 1968 had brought significant changes and challenges to the nation. The Civil Rights movement was dealt a serious blow by the death of Martin Luther King, Jr; LBJ served his last year in office; Pierre Trudeau became Canada’s Prime Minister; Andy Warhol got in the way of radical feminist Valerie Solanas’ bullets; and <I>Hawaii Five-O</I> premiered on television (for the first time). That last one alone sent many people into an existential crisis from which they never recovered.<br /><br />The year 1968 also brought an end to the draconian censorship of the Movie Production Code. Moviegoers demanded that films start reflecting the bleak and turbulent times. In place of the censorship Code, which sought to keep everything squeaky clean for all audiences, films started having a letter rating (G, PG, R, and X) that parents could totally ignore when considering which films were appropriate for their families.<br /><br />Twentieth Century Fox rode that new rating train all the way to the bank with their highest grossing picture that year, <I>The Detective</I>. None other than Frank Sinatra occupied the titular role. The movie, based on a novel by Roger Thorpe (the man who later brought you <I>Die Hard</I> (more or less)), included topics like marital infidelity, corruption, civil rights movements, anonymous sex, and, of course, homosexuality. They probably couldn’t have included any more salacious story lines unless they made it a flat-out porno. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHWIYRoYcf1RMApShacds0IV5v1HME6REid0fRMiFd4YGcxj9uL17eTS_kVKt7gs07ZR_4Q5gE71wUqXhN7HoxQenKEWkIbw-unFeknOnjo30AJXKOh0BTL7QdaOM0kvGeNZp/s1600/detective.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHWIYRoYcf1RMApShacds0IV5v1HME6REid0fRMiFd4YGcxj9uL17eTS_kVKt7gs07ZR_4Q5gE71wUqXhN7HoxQenKEWkIbw-unFeknOnjo30AJXKOh0BTL7QdaOM0kvGeNZp/s320/detective.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590267927403658290" /></a><br /><br />The start of the film lets us know that this ain’t no Doris Day flick. New York Detective Joe Leland (ol’ blue eyes) arrives at a crime scene. Upon entering the upscale apartment, he casually observes that the victim was a “male Caucasian, nude laying on the floor. Penis cut off, laying on the floor of the living room.” Leland’s partner, a novice African-American policeman, nearly hurls his cookies onto the floor. In contrast, Leland has seen it all and casually asks Quincy, or, er, Jack Klugman to wrap up the penis in newspaper to keep people from accidentally kicking it around the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBrBBqxujxv-CA98KugRuSG8FG4sxpDmtJD7Vt-K7GHt67KqOJ9ntZiJR-ZxoEp9wXUPqXNZpq6Ji8_giIwLzKMM8Rh9JnGFqBWZGCgr8CPCkWikzItn1KjYJzOR_ktGT460Y/s1600/detective_the_1968.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBrBBqxujxv-CA98KugRuSG8FG4sxpDmtJD7Vt-K7GHt67KqOJ9ntZiJR-ZxoEp9wXUPqXNZpq6Ji8_giIwLzKMM8Rh9JnGFqBWZGCgr8CPCkWikzItn1KjYJzOR_ktGT460Y/s320/detective_the_1968.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590267567764913698" /></a><br /><br />The audience is left asking, who could have perpetuated such a gruesome crime? Well, it was a number of years too early for people to imagine that Bobbit story.<br /><br />We start to get clues about what might have transpired as Leland tours the deceased’s apartment: Nude, greco-roman male statutes in every corner? Check. Unknown drugs in the medicine cabinet? Check. Semen stained sheets? Check. A pile of barbells and a half-gallon jug of mineral oil? Check and check! Even Scooby-Doo could have pieced together that this man was as queer as Fred’s ascot. <i>The Detective</i> is that subtle.<br /><br />But this was post code! No longer did movie makers need to hint broadly about the sexual identity of its dead characters through <I>objets d`art</I>. <I>The Detective</i> spelled it out plain and cold: “Junior over there was a homosexual” remarks the medical examiner. Just how the doctor determined this posthumously is never revealed, but he assures Leland such an end is typical for men of his persuasion. When asked about the cause of death, he glibly replies “Lover’s quarrel, that’s how they settle it.. . . Twenty years and they still disturb the hell out of me.” Who can blame him? Most of my man dates usually follow the trajectory of drinks; then dinner; then a movie; then sex (possibly slathered in mineral oil); and then a bloody death match on the livingroom floor. If I come out alive and with my member intact, I hope he calls me again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_ZD3ZNxcVFGAHsUOHn0_Cy4TSdvFkJdob1ISgckACdif1t_uzQnaEf0slQr7MXr6S2p-229qZdNW8ipto6NO0yNl7U7i0t7OBOgEJaQBCbWLFTWsAnkubZ1f05pytMYhhyphenhyphenRl/s1600/octavius.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_ZD3ZNxcVFGAHsUOHn0_Cy4TSdvFkJdob1ISgckACdif1t_uzQnaEf0slQr7MXr6S2p-229qZdNW8ipto6NO0yNl7U7i0t7OBOgEJaQBCbWLFTWsAnkubZ1f05pytMYhhyphenhyphenRl/s320/octavius.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590268401201125106" /></a><br /><br />One doesn’t need an extra eye to see the homophobia dripping out of the film. It is for this reason that <I>The Detective</i> has been rightly disparaged by generations of queer scholars and moviegoers. The film makers promised, and delivered, the first celluloid glimpse at “gay” life. Following the chairman-of-the-board through his investigation gave a voyeuristic glimpse at all the joints that gay men apparently inhabited: gyms, boarding houses, the docks, and orgies in semi-trucks. Or, as I think of it, Tuesday. Each time they encounter a gay person, an ancillary character comments on how “sickening” it is to normal men like him. <br /><br />To make a long, convoluted story shorter, Nancy Sinatra's father thinks that he finds his man, Felix Tesla, at a sketchy boarding house. The suspect fits with what sixties mainstream society imagined for gay men. In other words, he was totally drugged out . . . or nuts . . . or both. It didn’t really matter. Listening to his contorted speech patterns, it’s hard to believe this man was lucid enough to ride a city bus much less have an extended relationship with a prominent millionaire. But, whatev’s. <br /><br />Tesla arrives at the police station for intensive interrogation, which does result in some of my favorite campy movie dialog ever. When questioned about life with the victim, Tesla proclaims, “He was a bitch!” Oh, honey, I’ve been there. The rest of the scene played out more peculiarly as Frank Sinatra more-or-less seduces his suspect. A gentle touch here, an oblique reference to a gay bar there, questions about the victim’s body (“soft, like a girl’s” btw). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmW8NM3xd9hkanyVNFQ1X7yto0Q8Ypy9jDUEXkz6xeiYVfgK-jkZD1Le59tIszWzLM-LIF9nRtLbheWqvZOcHs0aWe8vWwq2BOu8un5p-JNbLcfdkYzwPACKNfIXu4q3K2V1G/s1600/DetectiveTesla.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmW8NM3xd9hkanyVNFQ1X7yto0Q8Ypy9jDUEXkz6xeiYVfgK-jkZD1Le59tIszWzLM-LIF9nRtLbheWqvZOcHs0aWe8vWwq2BOu8un5p-JNbLcfdkYzwPACKNfIXu4q3K2V1G/s320/DetectiveTesla.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590267186646097810" /></a> Before you can say “police coercion” Leland has his suspect singing like Billie Holiday. You can guess what happens next. Yep, the gay man goes immediately to the electric chair and fries faster than a bucket of chicken. All the cops and politicians are delighted. The detective wins a big promotion and everybody enjoys some stiff brown drinks. A happy ending in heteroville. Well, except . . .<br /><br />Turns out maybe Tesla wasn’t so guilty after all. Through an unrelated investigation, the detective discovers that another man has jumped to his death at a local race track. The newly deceased? A closeted gay man who had been involved in some mighty shady deals in the city. Apparently the director couldn’t let a full twenty minutes of celluloid lapse without having a gay man facing some type of peril: dismembered, strangled, beaten up, threatened with a gun, threatened with imprisonment, electrocuted, or just clumsy on a ledge. Like all gay men, <I>The Detective</i> lets us know that the most recently departed deserved his fate. He helped a crew of politicians and real estate brokers embezzle millions of dollars, all at the expense of the poor. Yet, this was not what set him over the edge, literally. He just couldn’t handle his deep, deep desire for some man love. I mean, committing outrageous acts of fraud and theft are one thing, but kissing another man? Somebody has to die.<br /><br />Leland uncovers a taped confession that outlines the closeted man’s torment. Oh, you know the type. He had “experimented” in college, but since then had become 100 percent heterosexual. Think an accountant version of Ted Haggard. To prove his new found straightness, he even married the glamorous Jacqueline Bisset. Hey, if you’re going to get a beard, go top of the line is what I say. Trouble was that sometimes he just needed somebody in bed who was, shall we say, a bit more hairy. He turned up at a local gay bar and went home with the millionaire. And, as we were told early on, the inevitable happened when two gay men connect: murder. Sinatra emotes some remorse over turning Tesla into a human flambé, but not enough so that he can’t end with a sanctimonious speech about city corruption.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeDSvnUFi6IHESgUly0hqph1iPUZN3b-5J0-UPsj4Tt0THGMzuBIUxnRXop7NJbVubEsf1AMgxQ77QgLnq_i6jkcS_8pqRuKWTr64DKQqDMri2fwyfCGh3tI1vDPleQJXQx_Z/s1600/ElectricChair.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOeDSvnUFi6IHESgUly0hqph1iPUZN3b-5J0-UPsj4Tt0THGMzuBIUxnRXop7NJbVubEsf1AMgxQ77QgLnq_i6jkcS_8pqRuKWTr64DKQqDMri2fwyfCGh3tI1vDPleQJXQx_Z/s320/ElectricChair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590280723132370658" /></a><br /><br />All in all, the movie leaves you with the impression that gay men are self-hating, drug addled, murderous embezzlers who keep the mineral oil industry afloat. Yet, in watching the film I was surprised to see that it also contained a (very modest) counter vision of gay men. The police contemptuously questioned the victim’s beard, or er, occasional “date” to parties. She defended the victim. “I knew he was gay," she said without apology, "but he was civilized and he a bit of wit, which is more than I can say for most people.” Though most of the police rough up the gay men whom they encounter at the docks, Leland reminds them to “take it easy. These people aren’t murderers.” Of course, that line would have been more convincing if the film hadn’t already presented gay men as only murderers. Later in the film, he tells Tesla “I believe in live and let live.” Of course, that line would have been more convincing if he didn’t later send Tesla to die in the electric chair. <br /><br />Perhaps <I>The Detective</i> can be understood as exploiting the contradictory attitudes about sex and sexuality swirling around during the 1960s. On one hand, the film didn’t shy away from pointing out that gay men actually existed and were out having a good time. Well, at least until they died in some gruesome way. When they did die, it was usually their own fault or at each other’s hands. Those depictions of gay men, though, have to be placed into the larger context of the way the film presents other forms of sexual behavior. <I>The Detective</i> didn’t just delve into gay men as the only symbol of sixties sexual corruption. In an ancillary plot, Leland's own marriage falls apart when it’s revealed that his wife likes to have anonymous sex with strangers whom she meets at bars (Don’t ask). The increased sexual freedom of the era costs Leland personally and left him disillusioned. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOc596jcekh0LePhpoSus9IhCLu-7Y2Mee_JWhEJaY01OyBc70UIs4PUAT5srLSFjVhgPdyKBPMvMCf-G0ceZPpvg25lpXUnUPOVkrg90MHY6sx7CUeFvUX9eX3EJ7rlWe4TF/s1600/DetectiveBed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 142px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOc596jcekh0LePhpoSus9IhCLu-7Y2Mee_JWhEJaY01OyBc70UIs4PUAT5srLSFjVhgPdyKBPMvMCf-G0ceZPpvg25lpXUnUPOVkrg90MHY6sx7CUeFvUX9eX3EJ7rlWe4TF/s320/DetectiveBed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590267021612867890" /></a><br /><br />Leland thereby comes off less as a crusader for social justice than as a libertarian who has himself been victimized by the sexual revolution. The film reassured audiences that good straight white men, like Leland, always fight for the less fortunate and provide stability in a world run amok. His mild defense of gay men served to make him appear more generous and “by-the-book,” unlike the crooked cops who surrounded him. He was a hetero patriarch that audiences were supposed to embrace. It ignored that such straight cops were often the ones harassing anybody who dared to break the social mores.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-25774077873796928692011-03-07T05:27:00.000-08:002011-03-07T07:58:44.640-08:00Baby Nation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wm4Cnfbz8P_44C7MrQL-9qrZ9PuSallRr-yTh3BCQcU6j2tGteoaEpQzMESJyt8lc08tVUw2AH364GxtVaL-cjtRvcganEf6gEnbSBqiKAjK77W93-QZfFJFYRHRpXyzIznn/s1600/wwchildren.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wm4Cnfbz8P_44C7MrQL-9qrZ9PuSallRr-yTh3BCQcU6j2tGteoaEpQzMESJyt8lc08tVUw2AH364GxtVaL-cjtRvcganEf6gEnbSBqiKAjK77W93-QZfFJFYRHRpXyzIznn/s320/wwchildren.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580309885143135250" /></a>Given that I am a junior faculty member, I sometimes attend professional panels for career advice. Most often, the advice is fairly predictable (e.g. Publish, publish, publish; keep your c.v. updated; don’t sleep with your students; teach well, but don’t let it interfere with publishing; avoid unprofessional journals/presses that take 8 months to decide whether to even send out a piece for review; wear sensible shoes). What emerged during one such recent discussion among distinguished faculty left me gobsmacked. Yeah, that’s right. I used “gobsmacked” in a sentence. American slang just doesn’t have a good enough alternative. Or maybe I have been watching BBC America a wee bit too much. <br /><br />Whatever the case, there isn’t much that can surprise me about the academic world these days. Like the immortal character of Kelly Garett, I’ve been around. So you might imagine that it took me quite a bit aback when one of the male panelists charged with mentoring junior faculty suggested that the key to maintaining one’s balance and success in the academic realm was having children. He did not present this as one of a menu of options (i.e. “One needs to have focus on things beyond the job, like having children; or a series of romantic relationships; or a pet poodle; or building ships in a bottle.”). Nope, the key was children and the unnameable, but miraculous, power of parenthood to transform an individual to a higher plane of consciousness and zen clarity. Only then would you succeed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j96HiZWyze_nLaSPvaC2tFd5RUq6loEdDAjO2YqWgLCoYnPOU27FX2DhnoL7p18vnta4P0qQdLydoQ-9ndXjxvWSZxQEiSO-k-QGqDoQsxuvNMFY5B3SfyzqthQ4lL1n2RW8/s1600/Wonder_Tot.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3j96HiZWyze_nLaSPvaC2tFd5RUq6loEdDAjO2YqWgLCoYnPOU27FX2DhnoL7p18vnta4P0qQdLydoQ-9ndXjxvWSZxQEiSO-k-QGqDoQsxuvNMFY5B3SfyzqthQ4lL1n2RW8/s320/Wonder_Tot.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580310465830176242" /></a><br /><br />Had he been a lone voice on the panel, it might have seemed a peculiar, but dismissible, comment. Astoundingly, though, the majority of the panel, a mixture of men and women, agreed enthusiastically with him. This was not a panel riddled with Christian fundamentalists. These were some mighty smart people who themselves write about issues of social difference. Yet, they saw few problems with promoting a pretty strict type of conformity (and, I would suggest, unrealistic expectations). Only two dissented with the parent agenda: One who agreed that children was a must for a happy life, but meekly suggested that waiting until after tenure might not be a terrible idea for some people. This left just one panelist who pointed out that: a) Not everybody wants children; b) Not everybody can have children; c) Having children (or not) has little, if anything, to do with the path to tenure or one’s professional identity.<br /><br />To that, I would have added that such advice intentionally ignores the very serious work and time that parenting requires. It keeps in place the myth that being a parent is all reward and no sacrifice. Or, if there is sacrifice, one hardly notices it. Those who might suggest that parenting is often unrewarded drudgery might as well say that they keep their kids locked in the basement. <br /><br />The panelists’ advice also veiled the reality that women remain disproportionately responsible for childcare in most households. For junior faculty, it is likely that women's careers will be more impacted than their male counterparts. Looking from the far (FAR) outside, it seems to me that even suggesting that becoming a parent would somehow ease the burdens of a tenure-track career is more than slightly disingenuous. It is a lie. <br /><br />Finally, this advice is riddled with a particular brand of heterosexist privilege. Let’s pretend that I, GayProf, actually desired a human worm larvae of my own (Which I don’t – Trust me). The chances of me having a baby via sex are pretty slim (but that doesn’t mean I am not willing to keep on trying!). The effort that I would need to expend to obtain said larvae would far exceed all the sweat that went into <I>NERPoD</I> (Currently available for purchase at any of your favorite on-line book stores). States like Arkansas, Utah, and Mississippi even make it illegal or nearly impossible for gay men to adopt, no matter how much money they throw into the system. Along the same lines, many heterosexual couples are unable to have biological children for a variety of reasons. For them, hearing that children is a must for maintaining one’s sanity in the academic profession could only be construed as coming from a source of parental privilege.<br /><br />This emphasis on parenting occurs despite the economic recession/depression, global hunger, and environmental strain. Rarely do I see any call for U.S. citizens to consider the ethical implications of our parenting choices. Each new human born in the United States will consume 30 times more than a brand new human born in India and 20 times more than a new human in Africa. Given that our nation represents only 5 percent of the world’s population, but consumes 20 percent of its resources, it is hard not to imagine that some consider our nation as giving birth to weapons of massive consumption.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BRtK6OlHhmtBobC4tuqhbLcjM_lmd8x6r8DJ-TOCC5sLqBFJP4ElYdegeQOJ4d-nv2hRQ_ldYnbvPNNnEqreYlXmvMx42qm4j0CmiGzk7Em3juoxoVq7dhi6I81330BSyXP7/s1600/worldpop.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BRtK6OlHhmtBobC4tuqhbLcjM_lmd8x6r8DJ-TOCC5sLqBFJP4ElYdegeQOJ4d-nv2hRQ_ldYnbvPNNnEqreYlXmvMx42qm4j0CmiGzk7Em3juoxoVq7dhi6I81330BSyXP7/s320/worldpop.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580314026536657506" /></a><br /><br />Is this to say that I would argue against having children while untenured? Not really. I actually don’t care. We are lucky to live in an era when becoming a parent is still a choice. I would say such choices should be weighed seriously and with an understanding about the local, national, and global costs of an excessive population. Moreover, if you are with a spouse (or two) who won’t put in equal effort towards the kid, you really should think again about whether you want those spouse(s) around. <br /><br />This panel, though, reminded me how obsessive our society has become about parenting. It left me thinking that if a group of people who are otherwise committed to questions of social justice could/would generalize so easily, just what has happened that natalism has become the benchmark for an individual’s success? Not since the middle of the twentieth century has parenting become a defining element of one’s place in our society. Much like the 1950s, those who do not have children are imagined as pitiable, selfish, immature, bitter, or simply crazy. As a single gay man with no family plan, I have a problem with that. Moreover, since I spent the larger part of my childhood living in fear of one of my parents, I am not inclined to see the mere act of becoming a legal guardian as necessarily representing an enhancement of one’s moral being. As I have mentioned in other posts, I am disturbed by children’s lack of rights and the assumption that they basically “belong” to their parents.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrINWSTz9TVWbe5XAe-e9FNvAFXyORjnXH2eivxr-S0qhYQWnaTd-Ml8mZFM7i1wto72Nq_t2PUEOXSnlcKJRMuvZXIhhNI6jG1QEdlpBEkDqxe210viHCimDmhTc4g51nYUDN/s1600/a5fatherknowsbestcast.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrINWSTz9TVWbe5XAe-e9FNvAFXyORjnXH2eivxr-S0qhYQWnaTd-Ml8mZFM7i1wto72Nq_t2PUEOXSnlcKJRMuvZXIhhNI6jG1QEdlpBEkDqxe210viHCimDmhTc4g51nYUDN/s320/a5fatherknowsbestcast.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580311692537140274" /></a><br /><br />The career panel was surprising because it was a formal event, but it is not the only place where I have heard such messages. Indeed, I have one colleague at Big Midwestern University whom I see fairly rarely (My department is quite massive). Nonetheless, the few conversations that I have had with him have always centered on his efforts to convince me that I need to have a child. Part of this, I think, is an ingrained tendency that we all have to want other people to make the same choices that we have made. The first conversation seemed fine. After the third, I made a direct statement that I had no desire for children. He nonetheless continued and assured me that I didn't really know what I wanted. While he is generally a nice guy, it started to feel a bit like harassment.<br /><br />If a single gay man is getting this type of insistence, I can’t possibly imagine what women (of all sexualities) are facing. Unlike the 1970s, where a question might be about <I>whether</i> a woman wanted children, the question is now <I>when</i> a woman will want children. It seems to me that modern feminism has left unchecked the notion that women must be defined through their role within a family. This can be seen across our culture. Popular magazines and blogs obsess about famous women and whether they have a “baby bump.” The professional accomplishments of women actors and singers are sidelined once reporters develop a creepy fixation on the occupancy status of their uteruses. Their goals or success prior to pregnancy, we are told, were just illusions of happiness. Only babies make women truly happy!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahOERpP6JLukGkLBU4tcQNWcMc7GQtdyW-a-R5sDezGZVdS5qyEEUs1EQiQcHV1mKdSqKaKOySM4AVAVV8CvBu2IM3ulPyMR3HmT4Wtbr1EO3iHjJJjmq03pmwNiB2QaayeeY/s1600/hallebabyhappiness.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahOERpP6JLukGkLBU4tcQNWcMc7GQtdyW-a-R5sDezGZVdS5qyEEUs1EQiQcHV1mKdSqKaKOySM4AVAVV8CvBu2IM3ulPyMR3HmT4Wtbr1EO3iHjJJjmq03pmwNiB2QaayeeY/s320/hallebabyhappiness.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580312248138201122" /></a><br /><br />Take, for example, the coverage of Oscar winner Natalie Portman. Before she even won the award, at least half of the coverage that I heard focused on her pregnancy rather than, you know, her hard work in the film <I>Black Swan</I> (Personally, I didn’t care for the film, but that is another entry entirely). Her professional identity was swept aside in ways that would never happen for a male actor who was at the same stage of having a child. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5yPM-QjSUCU5O65AwLIWQcZFPvcoL5gHnqqaA0Oaffa4m5_-XDkOHdPEmpAcWS1KvuTtLJEc-DKOCNS5Vyh0ydPq1mE8iKELV9SSi1MGG6yMpTgHgIAuFpoEIUt8d0Cr0-Wd/s1600/amidala.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5yPM-QjSUCU5O65AwLIWQcZFPvcoL5gHnqqaA0Oaffa4m5_-XDkOHdPEmpAcWS1KvuTtLJEc-DKOCNS5Vyh0ydPq1mE8iKELV9SSi1MGG6yMpTgHgIAuFpoEIUt8d0Cr0-Wd/s320/amidala.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580313247511987618" /></a><br /><br />One of the problems, then, with the hyper investment in parenting is that it also threatens to return us to some pretty retrograde notions of gender and familial roles. Not only has parenting become compulsory for one’s place in the world, but the choices about parenting are also highly scrutinized and policed. Witness the <a href="http://tenured-radical.blogspot.com/2011/01/old-racism-new-clothes-middle-class.html">recent kerfuffle over “Tiger Mommy.</a>” Or ultraconservative Mike Huckabee's accusation that Portman "glamorized” unwed pregnancy. Responding to Portman’s statement that her fiancé had given her “the most wonderful gift [a baby],” Huckabee sputtered, “He didn't give her the most wonderful gift, which would be a wedding ring!” Portman apparently didn't realize that there is still a "natural" order to life when she skipped over that all important wedding.<br /><br />Compulsory parenthood comes with seem pretty high costs it seems to me. My sexuality will always be at odds with a discourse that asserts that our best potential is realized through replicating ourselves. We should be leery of retuning to an era when biology was destiny and the patriarchal nuclear family reigned supreme.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-18744437060326636002010-12-17T11:11:00.000-08:002010-12-17T12:31:12.323-08:00Give It Up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGefq5VgI-4uItiOJyC4Q7falMpJddtE2igp3N66SBmAcneqhQNDZjZGuYTCXmOdZzboQQF1swr0d08ou3eknRTw1sAC1E2JiZVJfoD_7KjSlenmCI2X1jSJ-aUmg6puKzjFdv/s1600/cctoys.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGefq5VgI-4uItiOJyC4Q7falMpJddtE2igp3N66SBmAcneqhQNDZjZGuYTCXmOdZzboQQF1swr0d08ou3eknRTw1sAC1E2JiZVJfoD_7KjSlenmCI2X1jSJ-aUmg6puKzjFdv/s320/cctoys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551734777543459154" /></a>December is passing by rather quickly. While we all know that I celebrate the winter Lunar celebration for the goddess Diana (wink), others are preparing for the big C. Or the big H (sometimes also C). Or the big K. The pressures of finding the perfect gifts for your loved ones, traveling to see your loved ones, and then spending an ungodly amount of time with your loved ones is likely driving you all batty. It’s like GayProf always says, “Family: Can’t live with them, can’t shove them in a trunk and drive them over a cliff.”<br /><br />As I prepare the invisible jet for my return to Paradise Island, I wanted to offer my annual help to the loyal legions who keep vigil in cyberspace. Allow me to be your guide as you navigate these gift giving rituals. There is still plenty of time to figure out just what type of message you want to send with your presents this year:<br /><br />***<br /><UL><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A bottle of bourbon.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a drunken bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Give me, give me, give me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhHn_xIOfQt72ZY5rADEHXpU_pROXJx8XUdLOi82osItyhRENNA6QLC4dXyEN3MVomoHfvP0HCoplKMPmThpgnS-vLAtwuhRq2nyMvd18mPTNxm3YpVCj2HzD048Sc4PprMrQ/s1600/knob-creek-bourbon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhHn_xIOfQt72ZY5rADEHXpU_pROXJx8XUdLOi82osItyhRENNA6QLC4dXyEN3MVomoHfvP0HCoplKMPmThpgnS-vLAtwuhRq2nyMvd18mPTNxm3YpVCj2HzD048Sc4PprMrQ/s320/knob-creek-bourbon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551738053465140866" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A hands-free infrared soap dispenser.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a dirty bastard<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Anal retentive much?<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A nativity set with characters from <I>Star Trek</I>, including Mr. Spock as Jesus.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a nerdy bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Maybe Shatner was right. Maybe I do need to get a life.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> An assortment of flavored hot chocolates.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I want you to be warm and toasty in these cold winter nights.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I’d rather have a bottle of bourbon.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A year-long membership on Manhunt.com<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You're a horny bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I guess that I can use this if Grindr is ever down.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45MBGYBxEEpm0EyzuPCFs1Urww2XaLSPw2R8uo2WgyAKXAx2wE0lBD-ugXOUDLkHRNep_vjDaehmOR68Uk9rDqZfBb2UtdwaqIGk8ePkyERD4d8JDXV-fVIpadMBESlFSEqX4/s1600/grindr.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj45MBGYBxEEpm0EyzuPCFs1Urww2XaLSPw2R8uo2WgyAKXAx2wE0lBD-ugXOUDLkHRNep_vjDaehmOR68Uk9rDqZfBb2UtdwaqIGk8ePkyERD4d8JDXV-fVIpadMBESlFSEqX4/s320/grindr.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551742118897324194" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A year-long membership to Match.com.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You're a lonely bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I’d rather have a bottle of bourbon.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A year-long membership to eHarmony.com.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You're a creepy, Christian bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I don't need anybody in my life because my ability to smugly judge others keeps me warm through the night.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A give away tax plan for the wealthy.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I ignore the people who elected me in a futile effort to curry favor with the people who will forever hate me.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I see we are still waiting on that spine donor.<br /><br />***<br /><B>The Gift:</b> Mid-century modern ceramics<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I am a man of exceptional style and taste.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Somebody has been watching <I>Mad Men</I> a bit too much.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hUB_5Wr48INphXoFKhxJ07vNrLu99O5AaZpFUMVD47UBcoSYf-Qw0P-L4nwCifSOhBTdDri1C2OjLaACK8NzlTd5R2Y5bUit1Vcf2Zq6sAtEXSJWjNGxYMJYgFhJtB8Ch6Re/s1600/Starburst.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hUB_5Wr48INphXoFKhxJ07vNrLu99O5AaZpFUMVD47UBcoSYf-Qw0P-L4nwCifSOhBTdDri1C2OjLaACK8NzlTd5R2Y5bUit1Vcf2Zq6sAtEXSJWjNGxYMJYgFhJtB8Ch6Re/s320/Starburst.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551736403753440770" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> The DVD collection of <I>Glee</I>.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a gay bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I still have fantasies that high school could have been fun.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEju52ybScmBTqAnzOkOhHmImKD5HbYZ943EdNwPovBsbWO16xDZuAt5E7IheUHlDCkmVkN4bwM2-vi3rlIm4CjGvNfgkKZaqnYmarUnCPt7woyMCQl93dGAz-WWwFMCarctC/s1600/glee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoEju52ybScmBTqAnzOkOhHmImKD5HbYZ943EdNwPovBsbWO16xDZuAt5E7IheUHlDCkmVkN4bwM2-vi3rlIm4CjGvNfgkKZaqnYmarUnCPt7woyMCQl93dGAz-WWwFMCarctC/s320/glee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551738838922675346" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> The DVD collection of <i>Modern Family</I>.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You like shows with non threatening Latina and/or gay characters who subtly conform to societal stereotypes.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I enjoy the stifling suburban status quo.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> The DVD collection of <I>Dallas</i>.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re an out-of-touch bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Why did the eighties have to end?<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A product made in the state of Arizona.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I have no social conscience.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I need better friends.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTM8NM8bvrzhoFFDwvpltDA_CW-m-xSqvdOqIX13uyrS9yVZc3rU6aIprJ4tUOa6k7ggYivfQehyphenhypheniGkkeNxxzmdmHP_w3aR9G7e1sz3ICevE8lLlCVuxU1wtVT8iYjNbPZxg1F/s1600/aizonaflag.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTM8NM8bvrzhoFFDwvpltDA_CW-m-xSqvdOqIX13uyrS9yVZc3rU6aIprJ4tUOa6k7ggYivfQehyphenhypheniGkkeNxxzmdmHP_w3aR9G7e1sz3ICevE8lLlCVuxU1wtVT8iYjNbPZxg1F/s320/aizonaflag.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551736545907815810" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A Dodge Challenger!<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> It’s not like Chrysler is going to be around much longer.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I have the best friends.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQ0nnW-BBF6rJ07yW-nROoJ0kNviqHwc_bOVVtDVb2UAHjs0eaPwAetwemn4pVEvCRnnqFD9Dr1pV5GFJQ6O99alPw2H24CF-UiXoNPL7EcN7-gN1c1Ebj_pp77sWRFgF5R3m/s1600/2011-dodge-challenger-grey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQ0nnW-BBF6rJ07yW-nROoJ0kNviqHwc_bOVVtDVb2UAHjs0eaPwAetwemn4pVEvCRnnqFD9Dr1pV5GFJQ6O99alPw2H24CF-UiXoNPL7EcN7-gN1c1Ebj_pp77sWRFgF5R3m/s320/2011-dodge-challenger-grey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551738468549110706" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A reclining chair with built-in massaging technology.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a lazy bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I wish it had come with a bedpan. <br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> Tea Party Paraphernalia.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You're a crazy bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> ? (When dealing with the crazed, your guess is as good as mine.)<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A copy of <I>NERPoD</I>.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> Somebody, somewhere, should read this thing.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Was the bookstore out of <I>Secret Historian</I>?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPluK4D1xH3W3bmc6nzO5x8kuo4U-YIq4-F_QxEfdePBcy-qzwcQoEhCy03vMKSOuh-FS3yU3wW7u3rTc4NsZfDSc7rn2uEtuaRkRbRzzXn3J29ks7fjCidHlBXmSvoEs6uSfj/s1600/secrethistorian.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPluK4D1xH3W3bmc6nzO5x8kuo4U-YIq4-F_QxEfdePBcy-qzwcQoEhCy03vMKSOuh-FS3yU3wW7u3rTc4NsZfDSc7rn2uEtuaRkRbRzzXn3J29ks7fjCidHlBXmSvoEs6uSfj/s320/secrethistorian.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551739425348884322" /></a><br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A humidifier and a tub of Vick’s vapor rub.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a sickly bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> (Unable to receive gift because you are in bed).<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> Your own blog.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a whining bastard. Now you can vent your spleen without me having to listen to it.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> This would have been interesting... Five years ago (Unless you are an academic, in which case you feel really hip having a blog).<br /><br />***<br /><br /><br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A wildly inappropriate airport screening procedure.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> Hey, if we make this a big enough dog and pony show nobody will notice that we blew an obscene amount of money on machines that will do nothing to make us safer.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Basic human dignity was overrated.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoPGIea6uQI7-q2DJ8Y5qebe7W2bH8954P5cRYaDq-yrEN33ch7c7bD0PKbKJcwmYw01k0e-KsElpfZ-aPWk8F40ufU9x93o9tE7T_5MlIachLXm0z9Z3odV6b5bj90R5zZqG/s1600/rapi_scan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNoPGIea6uQI7-q2DJ8Y5qebe7W2bH8954P5cRYaDq-yrEN33ch7c7bD0PKbKJcwmYw01k0e-KsElpfZ-aPWk8F40ufU9x93o9tE7T_5MlIachLXm0z9Z3odV6b5bj90R5zZqG/s320/rapi_scan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551741156951024194" /></a><br /><br /><br />***<br /><B>The Gift:</b> A gift card.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re an impossible-to-shop-for bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble! Cash would have been just fine.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A Wii entertainment center.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re an adolescent bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> We are <I>so</I> having a slumber party this weekend.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> An ipad.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I am a slave to the Apple corporation and have confused capitalist brand identification with actual individuality.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Here is an overpriced toy that will end up sitting in a drawer in six months.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A window’s based PC tablet.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> I was too cheap to buy the ipad.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Why is it on fire?<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> An all expense paid trip to Madrid!<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> The holidays are meant to be enjoyed.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> This is the best present, ever!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmniLsW16UZETI50w8bq3Dgb-Z5luIMPjNHZaPC5zFcSd8PTkES_ihvDPj2HQx1gWP38LzcCLYe19P1dcQccVkMwEMcBNFPGq1k3Ktkj3LJ__J5_MEFl-9rWRPafgFtL6gj0R/s1600/Spain+006.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmniLsW16UZETI50w8bq3Dgb-Z5luIMPjNHZaPC5zFcSd8PTkES_ihvDPj2HQx1gWP38LzcCLYe19P1dcQccVkMwEMcBNFPGq1k3Ktkj3LJ__J5_MEFl-9rWRPafgFtL6gj0R/s320/Spain+006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551735151628582930" /></a><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A trip to see your family that you have to pay for yourself!<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> The holidays are meant to be endured.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Life is suffering.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> Diamonds!<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a greedy bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Marilyn was right.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZ43krv7Lu714ArxsWtfR3BjZRn3C4-Al4qH4K9IoUMlMBXMvfio5tG0ECja35LX2r1DuDLyFPasCp75Y0Z2qXUj1j8HSbjbHgIzeVGD_2o3C2C45OvW5V8XmbbOyyBbtt9g1/s1600/ChakirisMonroe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBZ43krv7Lu714ArxsWtfR3BjZRn3C4-Al4qH4K9IoUMlMBXMvfio5tG0ECja35LX2r1DuDLyFPasCp75Y0Z2qXUj1j8HSbjbHgIzeVGD_2o3C2C45OvW5V8XmbbOyyBbtt9g1/s320/ChakirisMonroe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551735566985187938" /></a><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A key holder disguised as a realistic rock.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a forgetful bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Where am I?<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A lava lamp.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a stoned bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Where am I?<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> The soundtrack for <I>Burlesque</I>.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a campy bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> I missed my calling as a Cher drag queen.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> The Clapper.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re an old bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Well, I suppose it is better than the clap.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A Tom and Jerry bowl with matching cups.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a weird bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> Now my 1930s dish collection is complete!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ao_KTiVQ3a9ahcsysD4RRn7lsVdwMmq-huExwyEaTEuHTS_PRO0bCCYFBcORcRcbrCqEiQVCBErMaQ51Hh-ahlH7Y4O4qrIAe8iW6MigtJ-1G5BQdM0zWHKAZn0uINSbDbIU/s1600/tomandjerry.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ao_KTiVQ3a9ahcsysD4RRn7lsVdwMmq-huExwyEaTEuHTS_PRO0bCCYFBcORcRcbrCqEiQVCBErMaQ51Hh-ahlH7Y4O4qrIAe8iW6MigtJ-1G5BQdM0zWHKAZn0uINSbDbIU/s320/tomandjerry.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551739932115353394" /></a><br />***<br /><br /><B>The Gift:</b> A three-month membership to a gym.<br /><br /><B>What the Giver Meant:</b> You’re a fat bastard.<br /><br /><B>What the Receiver Thinks:</b> You’re just a bastard.</Ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-60052619501908378342010-12-09T07:47:00.001-08:002010-12-09T07:51:42.868-08:00Center of Fabulous<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcw8B9GIYS2qmL6cnAX7EdhN88I_yTu1eQm4xU8agiy2SCW7YKQ63P0qGu6RVOKejA60d73x-heF224jpg9_Ghm1CDttGZADhmJoKAzA1f5ExguNbbWTIRdNSwGgRDyOyaTZp/s1600/ccxmas3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcw8B9GIYS2qmL6cnAX7EdhN88I_yTu1eQm4xU8agiy2SCW7YKQ63P0qGu6RVOKejA60d73x-heF224jpg9_Ghm1CDttGZADhmJoKAzA1f5ExguNbbWTIRdNSwGgRDyOyaTZp/s320/ccxmas3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548710209316975874" /></a>Remember that Part II of my discussion with VUBOQ can be found <a href="http://vuboq.blogspot.com/2010/12/center-of-fabulous_09.html">here</a>. In this addition, VUBOQ shares his special holiday cocktail recipes. It's like blogging with Martha Stewart. Well, if Martha Stwart were a gay man. What am I saying? "If!" <br /><br />There is even more sequins, glitter, and Cher!GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-77554208925308653702010-12-08T04:56:00.000-08:002010-12-08T04:56:00.283-08:00Inside the Blogging Studio with VUBOQ<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hlq0iV72iR9W2avO3_cfOxol2TqkRD-g0W3JqQHiYn2BlDICEd1G_iIiCVKLrO9mZAjzXy0E5lAyzCN-JopSBBXwuzQ-qCc4PVk6CvnuXjOPAScvodfz7QF8L5T37tHrb-TQ/s1600/wwalt.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hlq0iV72iR9W2avO3_cfOxol2TqkRD-g0W3JqQHiYn2BlDICEd1G_iIiCVKLrO9mZAjzXy0E5lAyzCN-JopSBBXwuzQ-qCc4PVk6CvnuXjOPAScvodfz7QF8L5T37tHrb-TQ/s320/wwalt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548033318989814194" /></a><br />Over the past five years, blogging has allowed me to meet some mighty cool people in real life. On that list is the ever effervescent <a href="http://vuboq.blogspot.com/">VUBOQ</a> (not to mention his superfantabulous cuzin who happens to be my superfantabulous neighbor). The time had come for us to sit down for a special holiday spectacular:<br /><br />***<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> As you all know, GayProf is Full of the Gravitas. However, I am lucky enough to know the GayProf in the Real Life (yay! You may all envy/worship me). And, since I know him in the Real Life, I know that he is not always Full of the Gravitas. Sometimes he is Full of the Light-Heartedness and Fun and, sometimes he can be a little bit silly (especially after a couple of bottles of red wine).</font> <br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> Ugh – I was full of the Spanish red. Man, I still have a hangover from your visit.<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> So, for this joint post, my goal is to show the rest of Blogtopia this side of the GayProf. We are going to discuss the fun, the frivolous, the sparkly, the glittery, and the tons of f**king sequins.<br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CCFuR1s4h5Q?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CCFuR1s4h5Q?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />But, we are going to start with the Food (and the booze!) ... <br /><br />I had the very good fortune to visit GayProf in Midwestern Funky Town recently (you may have read about it!). During that visit, he taught me and my superfantabulous cuzin how to make tamales. For those of you who don't know, GayProf is from New Mexico, which is <I>not</I> a foreign country (<I>*cough* right *cough*</I>). BUT, they do make foreign food ... like tamales! Normally, the tamales are made with the pork products. Such as pork. and lard. However, GayProf, knowing that I am vegetarian and have eschewed all meat, made his beloved tamales without the pieces of shredded and mutilated dead pig. Our tamales were made with Crisco<sup>©</sup> (*gasp*) and beans.</font><br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> I still can’t believe that I grew up believing that Crisco<sup>©</sup> was somehow a <I>healthy</I> alternative to lard. They lied to me! Lard is really the only way to go. It is the secret ingredient to all great Mexican cooking.<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> Piglet (no matter how delicious he may be) did not die for our tamales. And they were YUMMERz. Really. Ask the GayProf's Sparkly Contingent of Gays who were at his little dinner party (we'll be discussing the place settings later ... trust me).</font><br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> You’re not going to mock my dishmania, are you?<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> Never. I may playfully poke fun, though. Anyway, his willingness to cast aside his love for Cruelly Raised and Brutally Slaughtered Pigs just for my eating preference is yet another reason I totes *heart* the GayProf.</font><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__H_8RHABbZT3axII3OM-IuQhj9V2hV40d4Mr_ia4JVRbh2zU1afydWVz79uQLi-zvxQvjaorZ4ZtIHqPFS9vFXzGsPx2A2ek-ufqbIbGbmTE24aR0ppLJpu0tvl5geZFhK-z/s1600/vuboq.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__H_8RHABbZT3axII3OM-IuQhj9V2hV40d4Mr_ia4JVRbh2zU1afydWVz79uQLi-zvxQvjaorZ4ZtIHqPFS9vFXzGsPx2A2ek-ufqbIbGbmTE24aR0ppLJpu0tvl5geZFhK-z/s320/vuboq.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548036107721683922" /></a><br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> It turns out that I was eager to try a tamale alternative to my usual (absurdly delicious) pork filled versions. Beans worked out pretty well. It does make me wonder, though, why Mexican food in general doesn’t get the respect it deserves. To my mind, it is one of the classic world cuisines: easily identifiable and supremely influential. Yet, the only time the mainstream media gives it any credit is if a white boy adopted it (i.e. Bobby Flay or Rick Balis). <br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> Which brings us to the main point of this section: VEGETARIAN COOKING. It really isn't that difficult. And modifying UberMeaty recipes into something a vegetarian can eat isn't that difficult. Right, GayProf?</font><br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> Vegetarian cooking is hell. It’s only because I adore you so that I even attempt it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dw3Tr5fwK5-bcVOhehjdUvrqrx9NuonckklkSpxIsDV5rxJy6gAwycAddK5JL14flVROUqG9FpNQll5JHyVht8eoWldcfx-DhkXfSdUQhC_CKQ8-2p979Qt6VxBNHAeGXJFf/s1600/stayfordinner.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7dw3Tr5fwK5-bcVOhehjdUvrqrx9NuonckklkSpxIsDV5rxJy6gAwycAddK5JL14flVROUqG9FpNQll5JHyVht8eoWldcfx-DhkXfSdUQhC_CKQ8-2p979Qt6VxBNHAeGXJFf/s320/stayfordinner.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548047896138296834" /></a><br /><br />You see, I only know how to make basically six things. Five of them involve meat in some form or another. I was glad that the bean tamales turned out somewhat okay. Otherwise it would have been quiche forever.<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> There is nothing wrong with the quiche. Real men eat it, I hear.</font><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ980jYVW4hbUP1AtwMQNQAlmKShOKcRiiqbt56RqFL4g2DmrXu0cpiQI_i-XuDXgSXPoQz5ankUFXxbRaZ47kHcd6z2tTV0tCi2vUCYVdmKnfF8lCBfngIrgLeid4ifIcgh2D/s1600/wonderwine.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ980jYVW4hbUP1AtwMQNQAlmKShOKcRiiqbt56RqFL4g2DmrXu0cpiQI_i-XuDXgSXPoQz5ankUFXxbRaZ47kHcd6z2tTV0tCi2vUCYVdmKnfF8lCBfngIrgLeid4ifIcgh2D/s320/wonderwine.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548036995453231186" /></a><B>GayProf:</B> Don’t get me wrong, I admire the vegetarians (less so the vegans, who just take things too damn far (Hate mail for GayProf can be sent in care of VUBOQ at blogspot.com)). If I spend anytime thinking about the way animals suffer for our food, it makes me want to be a vegetarian. But, then I don’t think about it. La-la-la-la-la-la – Can’t hear you. I am pretty weak willed when it comes to meat, as it turns out.<br /><br />Still, I’m not somebody who has to eat meat everyday. I am more than happy to have a basic bean burrito as my meal. Plus, I adore tofu. As I recall, somebody was supposed to give me a cooking lesson with tofu while he visited. <I>**cough-cough**</I><br /><br />It does remind me of those faux vegetarians we talked about while you were in MFT. I’ll do my best to accommodate guests who are really committed to vegetarianism (or who have similar religious convictions), but I have no patience for the people who are “vegetarian,” but make exceptions for seafood. What evidence is there that a tuna is somehow less likely to suffer pain and panic than a chicken? Frankly, it seems likely to me that a tuna is probably a bit smarter than chickens. And, as cooking goes, few things are more cruel than lobster and crab. Vegetarians who eat seafood are like people who claim that they are kosher, except they love a side of bacon in a thick cream gravy every now and again. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.<br /><br /><font color="dodgerblue"><B>VUBOQ:</b> Yes, the fake vegetarians grate on my last nerve. Although, I have found that their calling themselves “vegetarian” is because they don’t know the correct word for their particular eating habits. Fish-eating vegetarians are pescatarians, derived from the Greek root “pesce” meaning “not a vegetarian.” Vegetarians who eat chicken (or any other meat product) are Filthy Dirty Liars. <br /><br />Haha! I kid. Vegetarians, who sometimes supplement their diets with the flesh of dead animals, are flexitarians. See? You can learn something and still be sparkly and fabulous. Now, go forth and educate the masses! </font><br /><br /><B>GayProf:</B> Flexitarians? I thought that was a category on Manhunt.<br /><br />***<br />Tune in tomorrow at VUBOQ's <a href="http://vuboq.blogspot.com/">place</a> for the conclusion of our musings.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-12351615138184191652010-10-28T08:48:00.000-07:002010-10-28T10:39:53.332-07:00What to Wear, What to Wear: Part VI<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidz4X_w4PDwl6b7V73KRvYDyOJppTjPdPqA9_xV4JBDKccnEB907y61FCgck2TVy_ZZmaqLVmOAP-qAgWAYCTQYSVb_ewTK_h8Cd63RCIheGq00c16udUcuu5jpQI_yYLgege_/s1600/wwghost.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidz4X_w4PDwl6b7V73KRvYDyOJppTjPdPqA9_xV4JBDKccnEB907y61FCgck2TVy_ZZmaqLVmOAP-qAgWAYCTQYSVb_ewTK_h8Cd63RCIheGq00c16udUcuu5jpQI_yYLgege_/s320/wwghost.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533125341576051250" /></a>Autumn is passing rather quickly for me. Such is the advantage of a research leave. I have taken full advantage of it by traveling, traveling, traveling. The only downside is that my gym schedule has been thrown totally out of whack. Erratic time at the gym brings on the ever present threat of an expanding waistline. I just hope by the end of my leave I'm not going to need a crane and Richard Simmons to get me out of my house.<br /><br />For the time being, I have temporarily returned to MFT (before leaving again next week for Midwestern Metropolis). With an upcoming party on my social calendar, I must face my age-old question of what costume to wear for Halloween. As you all known, I often aim for great ideas, but end up appearing in a disappointing result:<br /><uL><br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Robin Hood --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3V8wIAYhzWYLkzOT8WTCtFMLqbiKEkeOx7MecsXabdUcy_4S4QEy5v0MASAI8wnc578LJMiLpVaG9lL0e0grw0vqEJS2VayJkn6xo8Q7V0FCI4SNoRa6bqwoMq6_aGdbQ06z/s1600/robin-hood.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq3V8wIAYhzWYLkzOT8WTCtFMLqbiKEkeOx7MecsXabdUcy_4S4QEy5v0MASAI8wnc578LJMiLpVaG9lL0e0grw0vqEJS2VayJkn6xo8Q7V0FCI4SNoRa6bqwoMq6_aGdbQ06z/s320/robin-hood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533128381962722402" /></a><br />He stands as a classic symbol for the fight for economic justice by stealing from the rich to give to the poor.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpO_yxQDei45rmBwsYZACNcbJP8ah_ZJ7JnU4YQCJ5IN3uaKskzU5PqTUqV5RkrHSBC_rQBKm-OlevN960eFCgy3p6QuhmKfurUPaKLsCcAkklS_BgGKpbDyxzIqy2Wk00uzdt/s1600/geithner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpO_yxQDei45rmBwsYZACNcbJP8ah_ZJ7JnU4YQCJ5IN3uaKskzU5PqTUqV5RkrHSBC_rQBKm-OlevN960eFCgy3p6QuhmKfurUPaKLsCcAkklS_BgGKpbDyxzIqy2Wk00uzdt/s320/geithner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533128631013792274" /></a><br />He stands as a classic symbol of incompetence and greed by stealing from the poor to give to multinational corporations. I suppose Obama thinks that he is doing a "heck of a job."<br /><br />***<br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Father Charles Coughlin --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4y5u5xyd_-D_z1UIQnSy72bOpFCpRVYpWP8Y4G27AT0uKgwjlQiE_ZeRhMomA9sBMXs1z2v69Xn8wy0nGAmWRpi3yy9pqb1tdvNiBriISU7sW8jV8vhJ4sGRaJLT-XWufQAMe/s1600/coughlin.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4y5u5xyd_-D_z1UIQnSy72bOpFCpRVYpWP8Y4G27AT0uKgwjlQiE_ZeRhMomA9sBMXs1z2v69Xn8wy0nGAmWRpi3yy9pqb1tdvNiBriISU7sW8jV8vhJ4sGRaJLT-XWufQAMe/s320/coughlin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533130142111280962" /></a><br />For some people, the mere sight of any Catholic priest is enough to send them running to hide in the basement. Father Coughlin took it to a whole other level by finding new ways to abuse his access to the media. Coughlin started his famed radio program in Royal Oak, Michigan by appealing to working people during the Great Depression. He soon learned that he could play upon their real concerns and fears to promote his unhinged, conspiratorial racist beliefs. By the end of the decade he would be known for his antisemitic tirades and valorization of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. Few other costumes could capture "evil" quite so well.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Glenn Beck --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4MQ3wrnzkO5_If0NvQ1nGnZDTGA_cqRybQUh6hiBTFVMVekTItpd6pY9uy5-197vxM72kJeV2ynQMfwgiF7NYNrwEedzAGiLzBgVJ9fZUuEbMwT-kvGx-78PyNdBwq0W4HrL/s1600/beck.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4MQ3wrnzkO5_If0NvQ1nGnZDTGA_cqRybQUh6hiBTFVMVekTItpd6pY9uy5-197vxM72kJeV2ynQMfwgiF7NYNrwEedzAGiLzBgVJ9fZUuEbMwT-kvGx-78PyNdBwq0W4HrL/s320/beck.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533130533631346674" /></a><br />For some people, the mere sight of any white, conservative, overweight, straight man is enough to send them running to hide in the basement.Beck frightens small children to be sure, but we’ve seen it all before. Beck’s radio and television program exploits the fears of working people during this economic crisis to foster his unhinged conspiracy theories and accusations that President Obama has “a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture"(Yes, he actually said that). In the end, though, his buffoonery will result in him slipping into historical obscurity having been shamed and discredited.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Nichelle Nichols --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiiCjIeY9WHEGTZgPxv5MOEMN3jEl5N6-mQjnxoNjU3ZN3c2DXMbusIMes-95a0mtiwU6pLXCQVcfcQPIipwujYjW7JRBbmM6jI0ftERTV3HHdLPNEOXadBJqCPjm_JHhDXnk/s1600/Nichelle+Nichols+Star+Trek+Uhura.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBiiCjIeY9WHEGTZgPxv5MOEMN3jEl5N6-mQjnxoNjU3ZN3c2DXMbusIMes-95a0mtiwU6pLXCQVcfcQPIipwujYjW7JRBbmM6jI0ftERTV3HHdLPNEOXadBJqCPjm_JHhDXnk/s320/Nichelle+Nichols+Star+Trek+Uhura.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533131042541889426" /></a><br />Lt. Uhura might not have had much to do on the bridge of the <i>Enterprise</i> back in the 1960s, but Nichols gave the role class and dignity. That was no small task given that her basic function involved mastering the use of an intergalactic hold button. She broke both gender and racial boundaries by portraying a bridge officer with real command credit.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Zoë Saldaña --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTtcXZdHOFyK3QFKkIEppMtk7NJR80nK2O1Yyj2uh9LIroI5dVFWROWftavGEDaxvBvQC8fkkpgG0-tMLs32apT90t2ru9LBuMijFxz8HK91ndrRb1-YcPjP1UB6ROqkouBGO/s1600/Zoe_Saldana_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHTtcXZdHOFyK3QFKkIEppMtk7NJR80nK2O1Yyj2uh9LIroI5dVFWROWftavGEDaxvBvQC8fkkpgG0-tMLs32apT90t2ru9LBuMijFxz8HK91ndrRb1-YcPjP1UB6ROqkouBGO/s320/Zoe_Saldana_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533132091014328850" /></a><br />Lt. Uhura might not have had much to do on the bridge of the <i>Enterprise</I> back in 2008, but Saldaña managed to make the role totally retrograde by going along with the idea that Uhura’s chief function should be to either cheer up or make out with Mr. Spock (or making out with Mr. Spock to cheer him up).<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Gordon Bethune --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqUqo7GSYt5gMCXiKbN02okpgd0A0OZIos6PbHT6dKDVFuxux35gydBQbZbLraizOh1DsbQ_aWY819zHW8nnys2VXocL_0pogKTAIaC0b4ztViOt0WCCiz1Dh5GBAnrL0ojlH/s1600/Gordon_bethune.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 158px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqUqo7GSYt5gMCXiKbN02okpgd0A0OZIos6PbHT6dKDVFuxux35gydBQbZbLraizOh1DsbQ_aWY819zHW8nnys2VXocL_0pogKTAIaC0b4ztViOt0WCCiz1Dh5GBAnrL0ojlH/s320/Gordon_bethune.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533132930907276626" /></a><br />I’m not one to celebrate CEO’s, trust me. Nonetheless, even the most ardent critic has to give credit to Bethune for dramatically changing the fortunes and service on Continental Airlines during the 1990s. When he assumed control of the airline in 1994, it had already filed for bankruptcy twice and looked to be heading there again. He had an astounding philosophy that customer satisfaction and employee contentment were critical to the success of any business (Basically heresy today). <br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Jeff Smisek --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDBbNs1EIECnF6SCVw61YGsV_W6gOva0Etq0C7X403J5qwHw4d_FzN9A-iDYsSGw6wowFDDwpsJhVhS-BIyADzsBE7zpdGqe7TlO_ckxdB_K_sjPsS0nOFRS-6562btPqKkkv/s1600/jeff-smisek.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 223px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDBbNs1EIECnF6SCVw61YGsV_W6gOva0Etq0C7X403J5qwHw4d_FzN9A-iDYsSGw6wowFDDwpsJhVhS-BIyADzsBE7zpdGqe7TlO_ckxdB_K_sjPsS0nOFRS-6562btPqKkkv/s320/jeff-smisek.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533133497710944386" /></a><br />We can credit the demise of Continental Airline’s quality with Smisek's (or, as I think of him, Sleazek's) decision to merge with United Airlines, the airline that most often finishes dead last in every measure of customer satisfaction and employee contentment. Sleazek also brought the philosophy of nickle-and-dimeing his customers to death for everything from food to baggage fees. But, hey, why do you need happy customers when you are part of a greedy new airline monopoly? Of course, special thanks should go to the Obama administration for catering once again to the interests of corporations over the needs of consumers.<br /><br />***<br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Cylon --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PZvJMpS1nnspb7fWckN7rtnJ86h7Ss2n9qrNxjbkywD4SsjbcJCkVq9iw5YfWynsjpD0dyPb0O7acsYltJG9_D3kJyV8n1z9wNMjXsUBYfxDr-cMH5b7xFDXfOwfPrNAtOjJ/s1600/cylon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PZvJMpS1nnspb7fWckN7rtnJ86h7Ss2n9qrNxjbkywD4SsjbcJCkVq9iw5YfWynsjpD0dyPb0O7acsYltJG9_D3kJyV8n1z9wNMjXsUBYfxDr-cMH5b7xFDXfOwfPrNAtOjJ/s320/cylon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533134273911363890" /></a><br />In the re-imagined <i>Battlestar Galactica</i>, the lumbering metal cylons existed as muscular killing machines. Not since the adventures of Odysseus had the lack of depth perception seemed so terrifying. From the ever-satisfying “voom, voom” sound that they made to their rotating swiss-army-knife arms, these were some richly satisfying robots.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Twiki --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qUIHP3ujCieOcI7UvbAMMcGNFS0SDiTSwwOcYySjO87wCe7ZVL-RMWNIZfTFWVXYLN9lwa5kF6dBuRupdULmhSwnNGtY1CDlFtuuszBtXtNqZG5AoNQR5JvaLs5dCdZdPkzx/s1600/twiki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5qUIHP3ujCieOcI7UvbAMMcGNFS0SDiTSwwOcYySjO87wCe7ZVL-RMWNIZfTFWVXYLN9lwa5kF6dBuRupdULmhSwnNGtY1CDlFtuuszBtXtNqZG5AoNQR5JvaLs5dCdZdPkzx/s320/twiki.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533135037770337762" /></a><br />As a youngster, I adored all robots in popular film (B-9 from <I>Lost in Space</I>, R2-D2, V.I.N.Cent., C-3PO (<i>especially</i> C-3PO)). Yet, Twiki almost always got on my nerves. And that’s funny, because his head was shaped exactly like a penis. That usually appeals to me.<br /><br />***<br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Feminist Activist</i><br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_HxbvTMYy9wrtZGxGCHwH4itvZ4OM__fopndJ5FxIdx_hR_oA1dY-ckKQdyx43G-rdzCJnyfTf0eeo_ipePxtEaUvtEQTj4sLsFIzUM-TUbyNKWIh7Cxp79wwAyRq_0DAV-D/s1600/MISS+AMERICA+1968.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_HxbvTMYy9wrtZGxGCHwH4itvZ4OM__fopndJ5FxIdx_hR_oA1dY-ckKQdyx43G-rdzCJnyfTf0eeo_ipePxtEaUvtEQTj4sLsFIzUM-TUbyNKWIh7Cxp79wwAyRq_0DAV-D/s320/MISS+AMERICA+1968.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533126133385199122" /></a><br />Having recently perused the Halloween offerings for women (Drag is always an option...), I am struck by how much this holiday has suddenly demanded that women dress like prostitutes – both literally and figuratively. When manufactures are pushing costumes labeled “Sexy Ghostbuster” or “Army Seductress,” you know we need a feminist intervention.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><i>Sarah Palin</I> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5yzsngzGaILlgb_7ZD8TuUUCrzEDzAXOXNIsXH_XrH6dXOEgS2uNScRFXeOM2Bhof1Ow8pBoGgV6O6NSBFYTG8skLAv3lIJc__UJceKcO04-jEatAGaGI8cws7Ma-NtuXMMm/s1600/sarah-palin.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5yzsngzGaILlgb_7ZD8TuUUCrzEDzAXOXNIsXH_XrH6dXOEgS2uNScRFXeOM2Bhof1Ow8pBoGgV6O6NSBFYTG8skLAv3lIJc__UJceKcO04-jEatAGaGI8cws7Ma-NtuXMMm/s320/sarah-palin.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533127155065188850" /></a><br />Alas, I would end up looking like a woman who has reaped all the benefits of feminist activism (such as access to politics, being able to manage both a career and a family, media interest), but who nonetheless supports a party and politics that seeks to undermine women in multiple ways. <br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Lady GaGa --</i><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6r6W8NaSM2iq4K8MpGHkBTjdDn4_wc32mI-vcHP4F5BS4WegvBAN3YvgOUWf2qfw7UMrAsS1nIQiJyZLV56917gstGWdU85suOR0uWQyshsY4tuiiOPCX5aTTu5LANbNjjYzA/s1600/lady-ga-ga.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6r6W8NaSM2iq4K8MpGHkBTjdDn4_wc32mI-vcHP4F5BS4WegvBAN3YvgOUWf2qfw7UMrAsS1nIQiJyZLV56917gstGWdU85suOR0uWQyshsY4tuiiOPCX5aTTu5LANbNjjYzA/s320/lady-ga-ga.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533137241911661138" /></a><br />Being somewhat contrarian, I have been slow to jump aboard the GaGa train. Still, I give the woman credit for capturing the nation’s imagination. Not since Elton John has a musical artist said so much with eyewear.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><i>Toni Basil --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqM2be6smA1Uoe4lPlnoCb5-ytlR1Cl26u3yZGVzCIIvN79DVgVUsqoFrNLrO4mRRmJsCZ8STTV6likJmJs11hsLvSnwgFMarEaxFmPS99cIJRPHw-yHgdKJ0ttEo_csAAdr5/s1600/tonibasil.jpe"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwqM2be6smA1Uoe4lPlnoCb5-ytlR1Cl26u3yZGVzCIIvN79DVgVUsqoFrNLrO4mRRmJsCZ8STTV6likJmJs11hsLvSnwgFMarEaxFmPS99cIJRPHw-yHgdKJ0ttEo_csAAdr5/s320/tonibasil.jpe" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533137611238931506" /></a><br />Don’t get me wrong, the song and video for “Hey Mickey” probably shaped my sense of gender and sexuality in ways that only years of therapy will uncover. Still, if you know this reference you are probably too old to be parading around town in any costume.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>A wet mop --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEVfKD03T_aSYqeAz5dmn6hlz9Wk1oBJVdHq0xz8JM0_Osj0ef5ZycyUfm3C-BxjPhuTKb3UHkqv0zdTE3nsMc1o8KFrjwgI-D7c48DLXppJ6gZVVAope7YddWm7mo4sFP431/s1600/mop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEVfKD03T_aSYqeAz5dmn6hlz9Wk1oBJVdHq0xz8JM0_Osj0ef5ZycyUfm3C-BxjPhuTKb3UHkqv0zdTE3nsMc1o8KFrjwgI-D7c48DLXppJ6gZVVAope7YddWm7mo4sFP431/s320/mop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533138764005809202" /></a><br />Say what you will, but we all need a mop from time to time. They serve a much needed service to keep our households clean and fresh.<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><I>Tea-Party Senate Candidate Joe Miller --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1apWlAjIIxiMSs8yw1ximwZWDXVq6JGaCg1nrVA5yaU40mHEE9VvjKPJ8BuqV3LSz-xnazmOc_i-IW19Aes9JHIVUNw5upElxexO_iITdglIckHV7m4tYnm-jvojNX7z694y/s1600/joemiller.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1apWlAjIIxiMSs8yw1ximwZWDXVq6JGaCg1nrVA5yaU40mHEE9VvjKPJ8BuqV3LSz-xnazmOc_i-IW19Aes9JHIVUNw5upElxexO_iITdglIckHV7m4tYnm-jvojNX7z694y/s320/joemiller.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533139239501697378" /></a><br />I might be willing to degrade myself, but turning out looking like Miller would just make me cry. Let’s not forget that this is the man who said the United States should draw a page from East Germany when thinking about its border with Mexico (Yes, he really said that). I can’t help but think that the wet mop would likely be a more informed and thoughtful candidate.<br /><br />***<br /><B>What I aim for:</b><br /><I>Wonder Woman --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBUD8TwCZoHRHndapZ7n4xuzv0R0WDylkoA-JX4Do6L8SHmKd6FXX_XtKf1BAeqvva7hniZRtuPe6xj7ykGI2ybgKdaNdDtOA-PqLiTrxGzpgsx5UY-b2lW-sdsokRJ57UPX0/s1600/wwpeeved.BMP"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 221px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBUD8TwCZoHRHndapZ7n4xuzv0R0WDylkoA-JX4Do6L8SHmKd6FXX_XtKf1BAeqvva7hniZRtuPe6xj7ykGI2ybgKdaNdDtOA-PqLiTrxGzpgsx5UY-b2lW-sdsokRJ57UPX0/s320/wwpeeved.BMP" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533139658403557218" /></a><br />Could there be a better ideal for me to aspire to attain? She is smart, strong, bold, and brave. Granted, her costume might require a corset and enough spirit gum to build a space shuttle, but isn’t it worth it?<br /><br /><b>What I end up with:</b><br /><i>A Hot-Topic Refugee --</I><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMIYARQ1CTSJJRoPzqKdJ29t3pKp78eecmINqFPNMyCry03nV4xeHLSoZKjl1QwyNNqHXKjgiD3kNiNR-uEjmhdB1Ph4-BottK9QU5zSjOgbN7jokadqqtuZHq93qwIG-vZFci/s1600/hottopic.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMIYARQ1CTSJJRoPzqKdJ29t3pKp78eecmINqFPNMyCry03nV4xeHLSoZKjl1QwyNNqHXKjgiD3kNiNR-uEjmhdB1Ph4-BottK9QU5zSjOgbN7jokadqqtuZHq93qwIG-vZFci/s320/hottopic.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533144570512600546" /></a><br />Alas, not only are her clothes dreadfully uninspired, she ended up being poorly written and juggling more continuity problems than the last season of <I>Lost</I>. If that wouldn't make her a disappointing choice for a costume, I also wouldn't be able to get the epic boob job required to reach that 42 DD.<br /></ul>GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-45870541033471343062010-10-13T14:58:00.000-07:002010-10-13T14:58:00.818-07:00Bully, Bully<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRR2Hae-uhZgn1mmw4zMtI30TrwrADPvUPeHQtXqDmqdvBY3XL6t03_6QdUQh5Bvr77lxjHRXrHmxI3onmjY9aj7kDKY1ysjuotzuKL5WhAugSd1vV6lpvborXlPhDjWbaiSiE/s1600/sencvr23.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRR2Hae-uhZgn1mmw4zMtI30TrwrADPvUPeHQtXqDmqdvBY3XL6t03_6QdUQh5Bvr77lxjHRXrHmxI3onmjY9aj7kDKY1ysjuotzuKL5WhAugSd1vV6lpvborXlPhDjWbaiSiE/s320/sencvr23.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527622863548768386" /></a>Like <a href="http://www.historiann.com/2010/10/12/coming-outit-gets-better-stories/">many</a> <a href="http://likeawhisper.wordpress.com/2010/09/28/it-gets-better/">people</a>, I have been haunted by the recent revelations of bullying of GLBTQ youth in schools and universities. These tragedies have shocked people, I think, because there has been a presumption that somehow homophobia had been “solved” in our society. Indeed, before these news stories broke, both hetero and queer friends commented to me that they had faith in the future because the younger generation was immune from the hangups of the bad ol’ days. “It’s not like when we were kids” was a common refrain. Having spent several years in TexAss and hearing from students there, I knew that the picture was not quite as rosy as everybody hoped.<br /><br />Having previously <s>blatantly plagiarized</s> <s>borrowed liberally</s> been inspired by Dan Savage’s humor, I was drawn to his “It Gets Better Campaign.” This project collects videos from queer people across the world who want to offer words of hope to young people. If you haven’t done so, spend some time watching these stories and learn about how they lived through the bullying and found a better life. <br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9GGAgtq_rQc?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9GGAgtq_rQc?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />It probably won’t surprise anybody, but my gravitas found shape in some pretty grim experiences as a young person. Growing up in a Latino/Irish Catholic family during the 1980s meant that I heard clearly and frequently that being gay was not an acceptable option. Compounding that was my father’s alcoholism and abusive tendencies, which were themselves compounded by his irregular income. Having enjoyed a pretty solid middle class existence through elementary school, my entrance into middle school coincided with my family becoming broke, erratic, and unpredictable. For the next ten years we would be perpetually wondering if our utilities would be shut off again or how ends would be met. We walked on eggshells in the hopes that my father wouldn't have an outburst. To say that my home life was not a supportive and safe environment is a bit like saying the <I>Titanic</I> had some minor design flaws.<br /><br />I can’t pinpoint one particular incident when the school bullying started, but it is worth noting that we are not talking about an occasional scuffle or a few harsh words from time to time. It was a daily eight-hour marathon of intense harassment starting in the seventh grade. I became a master of time management having been able to pace my walk to the bus stop so that it was only a minute or two from the time that the bus would arrive (as I was certainly going to be tormented, probably beat up, if I dared to show up too early). For those who have never been fortunate enough to take a school bus, let me tell you how lucky you are. They are basically rolling sardine cans of torture. The bus driver is usually too focused on keeping the thing on the road (and probably nursing a hangover) to intervene in what is transpiring in the rear of the bus.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Hotu3n-A-tIOv2__IPuk1hg4ftGPYBeNirbNOGZE6L4z_XTT0hkRyChsmcqxAvwz-Cx6ZcCcv2YGFyeHxIKCSWLxlY5GNN113A8NROf3-fntM1QlLHfXUgo0u-N9N3zXJgr5/s1600/pushed.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Hotu3n-A-tIOv2__IPuk1hg4ftGPYBeNirbNOGZE6L4z_XTT0hkRyChsmcqxAvwz-Cx6ZcCcv2YGFyeHxIKCSWLxlY5GNN113A8NROf3-fntM1QlLHfXUgo0u-N9N3zXJgr5/s320/pushed.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527623442530164050" /></a><br /><br />At one point, a new driver did try to impose order on the bus by instituting a seating chart. The “cool” kids (and being “cool” and being a bully often went hand and hand in middle school) protested against such an arrangement. “There is a fag on this bus,” one of them told the bus driver, “and we shouldn’t be forced to sit with him.” My face flushed as I tried to meld with my current seat. “Well,” the bus driver said, “what you will learn when you get older is that the fags are the ones driving the fancy sports cars while you are driving a bunch of brats around in a bus.” As empty as that sounds in retrospect, that was the closest thing to a defense that any adult offered me during the entire time that I was in middle school.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TVyvYC4c4GA?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TVyvYC4c4GA?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Not soon after the seat reassignments, I remember exiting the school bus one day and suddenly feeling something damp hit my cheek. Then something else wet hit my face immediately after. The intense New Mexico sun was already burning holes in the asphalt, even at 8 in the morning, so it couldn’t be rain. As I looked around quickly, I realized what was happening. The other boys in the school were spitting on me. The door to the bus closed and it drove away as I was surrounded by hacking and spewing. I pushed my way through the crowd and went to the restroom to try and washout the gobs of phlegm that were enmeshed in my hair. I considered myself lucky that none of them followed me to the boy’s room, as it was a place where I was usually guaranteed a beating and therefore avoided it at all costs during other circumstances. That pretty much sums up my middle school life: literally spat upon. Friends became a concept totally alien to me as I had zero (not a single one). <br /><br /><object width="640" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mAXErDZoj8w&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mAXErDZoj8w&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="390"></embed></object><br /><br />At home, I learned to avoid my father until he was safely passed out for the night. During the day, I avoided anywhere that was public, including the lunch room. To be honest, I didn’t really have money for lunch anyway. The library became a refuge where I read silently. Most of the rest of the students, it seems, had no interest in books. Reading offered not only an immediate escape, but I also had sense enough to know that education might just be a long-term salvation and perhaps the key to that promised sports car. <br /><br /><object style="background-image:url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/b6Qx5_Kxfe8/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/b6Qx5_Kxfe8?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/b6Qx5_Kxfe8?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br /><br />The library seemed like an ideal hideout until the school librarian asked me not to return anymore because my silent reading bothered her. With such an astounding adult staff, it’s a real mystery why my middle school continues to be considered one of the worst in Albuquerque to this day. After being booted from my haven, I spent my lunch time roaming the school grounds with my eyes firmly fixed on my shoes and not speaking to anybody. <br /><br />High school promised a change. Well, it seemed like it might offer a change at least. The school was extremely large (my graduating class had 1,200 people) and there were assurances/expectations that I would find my niche. . . or at least one friend. Those hopes were quickly dashed on day one. Things couldn’t have been worse as I had the very bad luck to be assigned P.E. as my first class of the day. Without skipping a beat from middle school, I was instantly surrounded by another group of bullies (or occasional bullies) who asked me on that first day, “Are you a faggot, Faggot?” It made me wonder what it was about me that they had so quickly noticed. It was the first moment that they had ever laid eyes on me and yet they were already singling me out as the target of ridicule and harassment. It would be years before I was willing to really admit my sexuality to myself, but these folks were dead certain of it. When the first day ended, I remember going immediately to my room and crying. My mother diagnosed my tears as a product of being overwhelmed by the change. I knew, though, that I was more overwhelmed by the lack of change. <br /><br /><object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FjFxosDnzOo?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FjFxosDnzOo?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object> <br /><br />The bulling continued for all of that year, especially in P.E. No matter the sport we were supposed to play, my tormentors found unique and novel ways to use the equipment against me. Field hockey, which we played on a freezing patch of mud, became a venue where they would intentionally send the ball my way so that they could “legitimately” smack me around with their sticks. Volleyball, which I had until that point always imagined as a nonviolent and potentially fun sport, offered opportunities for them to spike the roughly covered ball directly into my face at full force. And those were my “teammates.” Tennis left me covered with welts from being pummeled with a barrage of yellow balls. “Dodge Ball” could only have been invented by a sadistic, homophobic jerk.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctMw5jbYVCbh2jCzMflzJWiROr7UGoWuoYHd7qm7Poc7XJ0zLReW4YlWfkAvfPJbYIh1h62qQk3M5bdK0eW2_6xzYSDai7LCGqw0WD8k_8uYVtou_HMUgSfF3IjPbz50QHn7v/s1600/capturingscum.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgctMw5jbYVCbh2jCzMflzJWiROr7UGoWuoYHd7qm7Poc7XJ0zLReW4YlWfkAvfPJbYIh1h62qQk3M5bdK0eW2_6xzYSDai7LCGqw0WD8k_8uYVtou_HMUgSfF3IjPbz50QHn7v/s320/capturingscum.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527623026525984194" /></a><br /><br />Some of you might be asking, wasn’t there a teacher assigned to this class? Were you just a bunch of little animal things let out without any supervision? Of course, the class did have a teacher of record: a relatively young man named Coach Sánchez who also happened to be in charge of the football team. Let me tell you, he either ignored the abuse I faced or tacitly approved of it. In that entire year, I remember him intervening just once. A group had clustered around me and had forgone any pretense that impending injury was just a result of athletic mishap. He disbanded the group and then roughly pushed me to a corner and asked, “Why do I have to defend you? It’s not my job. I have forty other students in this class. They're picking on you because it’s your own fault.” He was actually angry that I was “allowing” myself to become the subject of torment. I had heard of blaming the victim, but this gave me a new vantage point into that sociological concept. <br /><br />It was at that precise moment that Coach Sánchez mysteriously burst into flames and melted into a bizarre waxy spot on the basketball court. Well, that’s what would have happened if I had strange mental powers at the time. Perhaps it is a good thing that I hadn’t developed those . . . yet.<br /><br />Since Coach Sánchez apparently took the film <i>Tea and Sympathy</I> as the basis for his pedagogy, the rest of the year progressed with me living in constant fear and dread. Needless to say, his singular intervention only increased the torment. “Hey, fag” one of my tormentors told me as he pushed me against the gym lockers (the locker rooms were rarely supervised by teachers of coaches. Wasn’t that nice?), “Do you want Sánchez to take care of you? Does he know that you want to stare at his dick? Fag.” That showed how ignorant the bully really was. If I wasn’t clear in my own my mind about my sexual desires, I knew <i>for sure</i> that I had absolutely no attraction to Coach Sánchez (And, in retrospect, is that really what he imagined two gay people did together? Just stared at each other’s penis? Idiot.).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj76MHFwAX1YIs66ezEX7bvZuvzw9rxEYeQivIufU7U4VXeQ6rjBk5WeQXTBk24XyxIn0aQdhx7kKA77mE72u1hcajMJr91W3czfDshx8Wr_9_cypoXeQt5IFm9_5EwRPr59SiY/s1600/letthemgo.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj76MHFwAX1YIs66ezEX7bvZuvzw9rxEYeQivIufU7U4VXeQ6rjBk5WeQXTBk24XyxIn0aQdhx7kKA77mE72u1hcajMJr91W3czfDshx8Wr_9_cypoXeQt5IFm9_5EwRPr59SiY/s320/letthemgo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527623589867743026" /></a>My freshman year continued to be painful and intensely lonely. During health class that year, my teacher informed us that having gay sex was a one-way ticket to death by AIDS. Listening to him made one think that a date with another man would start with dinner and a show and end in bodybags and morticians. I delved deeper into reading and was grateful that at least the highschool library stayed open during lunch. <br /><br />My story didn’t include the nice ways that the media presents stories of queer youth on television. No open-minded and understanding adult appeared to save me from the bullies or offer much assurance at all that being queer was actually a good thing. No peer reached out a helping hand or words of kindness. Nor did my hidden fantasies, informed heavily by the media, come true with a white knight appearing on the horizon to rescue me. In the end, there was only me left to figure out what to do. I know that I would have been so relieved and comforted had the "It Gets Better" campaign existed when I was young. Even the assurances of strangers would have made a big difference.<br /><br />True to the current campaign’s name, things did get better for me. Much better. Thank the goddess, New Mexico only required one year of P.E. I also slowly and consciously began to work on my own social skills and to actively learn how to make friends. It might seem strange, but after many years of being almost mute in public, it was tough to figure out how to hold basic conversations. Rightly or wrongly (Healthily or unhealthily?), I also learned to totally compartmentalized the chaos at home as well. I also started working which brought me into contact with people who were already in college. My real path to queer salvation didn’t occur until I entered university too, but I did manage to find a place for myself by the end of highschool. <br /><br />Today, I might still be waiting on that sports car, but I have a pretty darn good life. My job is cushy and rewarding. I have lots of friends who adore me. Plus, I can be as out as I possibly can be, including in the classroom.<br /><br />I am angry that my young GLBTQ brothers and sisters continue to suffer the same types of harassment that I endured. The bullying, isolation, and despair that GLBTQ teenagers experience in this country is tied directly to the ways that our lives are discounted in our larger society. It is a discounting that starts right at the top. President Barack Obama says that he thinks queer people should have some rights, but not equal rights and that heterosexual institutions need to be “protected” [apparently from us]. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7JGIW1Nmcvw8b45Z9-f9zDk0SQHzxv7dYjgcQDDXED8jDjJQrbBy62KgQggGGhbHZT2AxK7I7xD8bMKbwnQNe1RXmORHOx4GVFPU1WFimUmAiMGHAq9Z1KMPA4sfYKcnVVhh/s1600/gentle.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq7JGIW1Nmcvw8b45Z9-f9zDk0SQHzxv7dYjgcQDDXED8jDjJQrbBy62KgQggGGhbHZT2AxK7I7xD8bMKbwnQNe1RXmORHOx4GVFPU1WFimUmAiMGHAq9Z1KMPA4sfYKcnVVhh/s320/gentle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527624078329805890" /></a> Keep in mind we are supposed to consider him our <I>ally</I>. What else can young people conclude but that queer people are less valuable? It seems to me that school grounds are simply enacting the inequalities that exist throughout our society. Indeed, recent news stories reveal that young immigrant youths are also being tormented and tortured on their school grounds. I would argue that it is a similar symptom of the way this country has demonized others and sent the message that certain people in our society are open targets.<br /><br />I suppose the traditional ending to these types of recollections should include a wise and informed gesture to the idea that these are the things that made me who I am. Or, for those of us who were raised Catholic, we are to marvel that the challenges which did not kill us actually made us stronger. Well, if that were true, shouldn’t I have developed those strange mental powers by now? With all the shit that I went through, I should at least be able to levitate a table or something.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16010478.post-37524214428143527482010-10-06T12:27:00.000-07:002010-10-06T12:27:00.647-07:00Reality Bites<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVnLtxkm9P6UgrBG-hL9sYjp9_KFp5LnG4TSym7cdiYqdnWvXyzL5lJ3vcwQlx7HmJF8hSjHl-Uf13KjqGcu7EswtJ2KnQKcQ3EX5zRUnb6wYnwOUXH5dTzQ9Q1pBLaDnnqjr/s1600/wonderwomandouble.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVnLtxkm9P6UgrBG-hL9sYjp9_KFp5LnG4TSym7cdiYqdnWvXyzL5lJ3vcwQlx7HmJF8hSjHl-Uf13KjqGcu7EswtJ2KnQKcQ3EX5zRUnb6wYnwOUXH5dTzQ9Q1pBLaDnnqjr/s320/wonderwomandouble.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524616162915199138" /></a>Recent news about the status of gays in this country can be chilling to say the least. These stories range from the frustratingly absurd, like Republicans blocking the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” to the heartbreaking, including revelations of torment and bulling in individual lives. In the midst of these stories, the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) recently reported that the number of fictional gays and lesbians being represented on scripted television increased slightly (up to a still paltry 3.9 percent of all characters from the previous year’s 2.6). It draws into question, if there are more images of queer folk on television than ever before, how does this reconcile with the lack of GLBTQ equality in the United States?<br /><br />Certainly I do marvel at how much attitudes have changed since I first came out in the early nineties. At the time, the best one could hope for on television was a “very special” episode where a never-before-seen friend reveals that he or she is gay to the protagonist. The rest of those stories tend to be devoted to watching how that central character came to terms with the revelation. While these types of episodes did usually have a core message about “tolerance,” they more often served to emphasize just how “charitable” the main character was deep down. Once established, we would never see or hear mention of that gay friend ever again.<br /><br />By the early nineties, fledgling attempts at “reality” television marked a sudden departure in representations of gay people. MTV’s <I>The Real World</i> and other similar shows began to show gay people with actual lives and concerns themselves, often times that had little to do with the straight people who surrounded them. This opened the flood gates to making at least one gay person <I>de rigueur</i> for any new reality program. Scripted television has likewise come along a bit in terms of adding gay men and lesbians as supporting characters. Yet, those shows tend to only make queer people accessible if they are white and safely locked in suburbia (That, though, is another blog post entirely). Despite these changes, “reality” television (which is usually anything but its namesake) remains the touchstone for gay representation. We would do well well to consider some recent forms of this entertainment. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbs4ASVPtbH5e2a1g7kXzMnGJSRtbK_x1jcDgLX4SESs2s2FZgGaLiHlS58pgMUfM8UO-UnohZUKu40qJJIoQ1uNonncP25qmCkKOIKbDRUKRujVg5L8woyVYgyyBwueaXG-O/s1600/realworld.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhbs4ASVPtbH5e2a1g7kXzMnGJSRtbK_x1jcDgLX4SESs2s2FZgGaLiHlS58pgMUfM8UO-UnohZUKu40qJJIoQ1uNonncP25qmCkKOIKbDRUKRujVg5L8woyVYgyyBwueaXG-O/s320/realworld.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524956153310785042" /></a><br /><br />My students these days have never known an era of television without gay and lesbian representations (transgender people, on the other hand, remain almost totally invisible – But that is a subject for another post). It is jarring to me when they mention that <I>Queer Eye for the Straight Guy</i> (which I still tend to think of as “new”) was something that they enjoyed while in middle school. If <I>Queer Eye</i> represented a type of breakthrough in terms of the number of gay people in any given show, it also set the stage for remaking reality representations of those same people. Gone were the notions that GLBTQ people had independent lives that were worth learning about for their own sake. Instead, we found that reality television had come to depend upon representing our community (particularly gay men) as having value only in as much as they either entertained or served straight people. The show avoided delving into any of the leads actual lives and instead defined them by the job they performed for a socially inept straight man. In the end, I suppose it was better to help dress a straight man than be beat up by one.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtu58LOREALjeKXdmjuMaVVYFy6Rie7M-uEbOVFoKw0VdJ13bV0mNDvHSJNLtNxFFG18Ed3lB6yTHT6lM0Uasd6mY06i0QwhaL_xmggg9jKkjoEGyNvR4JY_X7pf65L_erGug0/s1600/queer_eye.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtu58LOREALjeKXdmjuMaVVYFy6Rie7M-uEbOVFoKw0VdJ13bV0mNDvHSJNLtNxFFG18Ed3lB6yTHT6lM0Uasd6mY06i0QwhaL_xmggg9jKkjoEGyNvR4JY_X7pf65L_erGug0/s320/queer_eye.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524659730370637970" /></a><br /><br />Over the summer, a number of new and noteworthy reality shows launched featuring gay men and lesbians as the central stars. Each owes more than a little debt to <I>Queer Eye</I>. The producers of these new shows clearly sought to attract both a core queer audience as well as a more mainstream hetero viewership. They walk a tightrope between providing representations of gays who appeal to insider camp sensibilities while making sure that they also don’t threaten the hetero status quo.<br /><br /><I>On the Road with Austin and Santino</I> reconciles those seemingly contradictory goals perfectly. The show centers on two former reality show contestants on a cross-country road trip together. Personally, I have adored the titular Austin Scarlett since he captured my imagination during the first season of <I>Project Runway</I>. Scarlett proved his talents by crafting impeccable fashion, including a memorable dress made out of corn-husks. I always felt that he was robbed of his spot in the final three (seemingly because the producers wanted a contestant who would provide more backstage drama). Aside from his glamorous persona, <I>Project Runway</I> highlighted his strong work ethic. While other designers went out drinking, Scarlett puritanically stayed in his hotel room to be well rested for the next day’s work. He also expressed a self-awareness that his nonconformity would provide inspiration to younger viewers who might be feeling harassed. I like that. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhAigUpJ29vZ169zXvzuhiAs6EvN7zDlf6oPT_DdqhjoQ3RqMsZhBPJ3eZhGL7izJjgIogBblAMhdWKA7xYFAJJBV01JOrnRbVhdZPrcZUbLo4GjN9Va2geOSlgYovRryIHOn/s1600/On+The+Road+With+Austin+Santino.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmhAigUpJ29vZ169zXvzuhiAs6EvN7zDlf6oPT_DdqhjoQ3RqMsZhBPJ3eZhGL7izJjgIogBblAMhdWKA7xYFAJJBV01JOrnRbVhdZPrcZUbLo4GjN9Va2geOSlgYovRryIHOn/s320/On+The+Road+With+Austin+Santino.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524657727374954498" /></a><br /><br />In his new program, Scarlett joined with his real-life friend Santino Rice for a Greek-inspired odyssey across the United States. Along the way, they stop in small towns, locate a specific heterosexual woman who needs a fashionable frock, and, after an appropriate amount of assurances that she truly “deserves” their services, they present the teary-eyed woman with the fruits of their labor. All in all, it is a pretty formulaic make-over show. To distinguish itself, the show looks to wring humor out of the notion that Austin and Santino are “fish out of water” in the small towns that they visit. In addition to the dress making, Austin and Santino frequently participate in the town’s local activities (like riding horses, fishing, or babysitting). The show implicitly juxtaposes Austin and Santino’s dilated personas against the austere town folk who surround them. Executive producer Rich Bye has commented on the reactions that some town people have had, noting “They would have been less surprised if an alien beamed into their store. They just kept staring. They didn't say a word.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3XbiHnW2z22i2imL1rVuOwACYdp4NrUgg6h6X5Zu7XcRoYB4Pu9dM-4UEMW8LdsG-xGDkoJ7IM3AZOqnCw20leSl4gXsj2j2qb_h37DQlnWpH1LxYMUB5eujGE72ulenfCdK/s1600/AustinSantino.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3XbiHnW2z22i2imL1rVuOwACYdp4NrUgg6h6X5Zu7XcRoYB4Pu9dM-4UEMW8LdsG-xGDkoJ7IM3AZOqnCw20leSl4gXsj2j2qb_h37DQlnWpH1LxYMUB5eujGE72ulenfCdK/s320/AustinSantino.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524655764071516594" /></a><br /><br />The show thereby makes gayness something that is always removed or set outside of the supposedly heterosexual towns that they visit. If Austin and Santino arrive to temporarily add some glamour and urbanity to the dull grey towns that they visit, then the town is also assured that they will just as quickly exit so that things will return to “normal.” Any hint that Austin or Santino might challenge local views of queer sexuality are avoided.<br /><br />Many of the episodes center on the two preparing a dress for either a wedding or an anniversary. In an era where marriage equality dominates political discussions about queer life, it is striking that neither Austin nor Santino ever note the inability of gay men to celebrate comparable milestones legally. Instead, they happily work away to satisfy the needs of their heterosexual clients without complaint. While we occasional get hints of the affection the two have for each other, we also never learn much about their own romantic interests or ambitions. The show implicitly subjugates queer desires in order to highlight the supposedly more valuable heterosexual relationships on the show.<br /><br />Perhaps I can come to understand why Lifetime, a network that started by targeting an audience of [heterosexual] women, would create such a representation of gay men. But the gay network Logo’s decisions about <I>Rupaul’s Drag University</I> leave me almost entirely baffled. I have previously written that I am a fan of <I>RuPaul’s Drag Race</I>. That show excelled because it presented an impressively diverse cast that reflected a wide range of drag performers (even if I remain concerned that the show also discriminates against contestants with non-English accents). So when Logo announced <I>Drag University</I> as the new companion series, I expected that it would center on established drag queens mentoring young gay men who desired a career in drag. Wrong!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvlKDJ3fQxpyB3-ExF8C8AMPkqMz6422cGUKfdnwIzL5-QboeVMiuKX7bCTnYHmrSVUK72uwHYXu33dt9VLsRvhLp3Qg2MSeRLO4j0Q19fg4rxZkEi2Cf4hqFKqhjuqjlurxd/s1600/ru-pauls-drag-u.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvlKDJ3fQxpyB3-ExF8C8AMPkqMz6422cGUKfdnwIzL5-QboeVMiuKX7bCTnYHmrSVUK72uwHYXu33dt9VLsRvhLp3Qg2MSeRLO4j0Q19fg4rxZkEi2Cf4hqFKqhjuqjlurxd/s320/ru-pauls-drag-u.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524658252374035442" /></a><br /><br />The show actually focuses on “biological” women being tutored by the established drag queens. Prof. Susurro has an excellent <a href="http://likeawhisper.wordpress.com/2010/08/23/fluff-drag-u-or-why-gay-prof-was-right/">assessment</a> of the show’s positives. I agree with her totally (after all, she starts and ends the post by agreeing with me). The show does provide an unusual opportunity to see mostly working class women claiming the spotlight. In good Judith-Butler fashion, the show also utilizes drag as a means to highlight how all gender roles are artifices that can be manipulated at will (regardless of the anatomy of the performer). It also provides a strong emphasis on claiming femininity as a source of power. "Ultimately, <I>DragU</I> is a comedic send up of a genre I find largely detrimental to both the female viewers and female participants," Prof. Susurro notes, "While it is nothing deeper or more meaningful than light entertainment, it does it with the kind of diversity and attention to people’s needs that rings decidedly hollow in shows that claim to take these things seriously." All of that is great for me.<br /><br />At the same time, though, the show also makes the drag queens into little more than exposition for the straight women’s transformations. Much attention is given to the straight women’s ambitions and personal relationships (I am also more than a bit disturbed by how many of the contestants report that they are participating in the show to please their man rather than for their own enjoyment, but that is another entry entirely). The drag queens, meanwhile, apparently have no lives outside of the work room. They are given only enough airtime to sprinkle the screen with glitter and sassy one-liners before literally being cast to the sidelines while straight women take over the stage.<br /><br />The phenomena of queer helpers improving the lives of deserving heteros isn’t the exclusive territory of gay men, either. Out-lesbian trainer Jackie Warner has been given a new reality program on the network Bravo. In place of her first show, which emphasized Warner’s grappling with personal and professional commitments, the new show relegates Warner to the sidelines as she trains a group of straight women and men (and one gay man, who is set up as the comic relief on the program) to lose some weight. Warner acts as a combination of therapist and cheerleader to the show’s central figures. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9uQpxxwZmWCgquqPq4DvcsEIPZVaJfRPFNFn-FqXw-MB2n18zknjyeuWaN8T5kQ5ZayYwqyblIwbhjiF8byXfK6tnO8wnkOatcrlcrpXA4v5oGZVaL3sa9tavRelhPKm4nTv/s1600/Jackie.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9uQpxxwZmWCgquqPq4DvcsEIPZVaJfRPFNFn-FqXw-MB2n18zknjyeuWaN8T5kQ5ZayYwqyblIwbhjiF8byXfK6tnO8wnkOatcrlcrpXA4v5oGZVaL3sa9tavRelhPKm4nTv/s320/Jackie.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524658724557158050" /></a> <br /><br />Shows like <I>Austin and Santino, Drag U</I>, and Warner’s program suggest the compromises that have been made to get queer representation onto reality television. Queer people are acknowledged as important members of society, but only to the extent that they can provide valuable services to the dominant heterosexual community. Any explicit desires for civic and social equality are muted in favor of a narrative of mutual cooperation and humorous shenanigans. Queer people become hetero helpers, monitoring their fashion sense and opening the gates to their own happiness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnyaUSZ5n_MBi7yex5kBLl4HbX5MR5gt-GFfzygpgKD_jSGtT4PDzFfiojINwJkQbZ-v42GcN_pI0CjBXti5VtTpdUGAR5A4rEFNmdN4ar0szVjzIGwc2KzkH0IuoQrQqFZ3U/s1600/wwweddingday.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnyaUSZ5n_MBi7yex5kBLl4HbX5MR5gt-GFfzygpgKD_jSGtT4PDzFfiojINwJkQbZ-v42GcN_pI0CjBXti5VtTpdUGAR5A4rEFNmdN4ar0szVjzIGwc2KzkH0IuoQrQqFZ3U/s320/wwweddingday.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524615559972675026" /></a><br /><br />Maybe the only summer reality program that sought a more balanced view of queer life appeared on the obscure network Planet Green. <I>The Fabulous Beekman Boys</I> charts the foibles of two elite New York gay men who purchase a rural farm. The show’s link to the network’s supposed environmental message is tenuous at best. Nonetheless, of the new queer reality programs <I>Beekman</I> manages to show queer figures as a bit more complex and multifaceted than the others (even if its cast is exclusively white). This includes the two leads, Brent and Josh, (whose bickering defines the show), a gay goat herder (who is <i>really</i> attached to his charges) and another gay couple (who own the local hotel), along with a number of straight people who surround the life on the farm. <i>Beekman</i> allows [white] gay men to be the actual story of the reality program rather than as a plot device.<br /><br />Even here, though, the show could not resist putting the queer figures into the service of hetero hegemony. One episode focuses on a straight couple using the farm as the site of their wedding. We mostly see Brent’s devoted efforts to preparing the event and insuring its perfection. Unlike the other reality programs, which tend to pretend that marriage is not a political issue, at least <I>Beekman</I> included commentary by Josh that noted his inability to have his relationship to Josh legally sanctioned. The two had pledged that the first wedding on the farm would be theirs, but apparently Brent sorta forgot about that when he saw the size of the bride’s deposit check. In the end, even Josh set aside his political position and came to the aid of the happy straight couple. Queer people might be treated like second-class citizens, but that doesn't mean we aren't gracious hosts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4RQzJ630vxucc0Zx66SleVD0PB_P6lVEple0QEvmtrcF6YiUDb9ySPkpG_EDKFLYO9dFdHXyX8dpwav-p7Q5k53EqjjaIHK-fhwbP-ECOx5zLV7wLlBksYdhLsWyvMJjUHM2/s1600/BeekmanBoys.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4RQzJ630vxucc0Zx66SleVD0PB_P6lVEple0QEvmtrcF6YiUDb9ySPkpG_EDKFLYO9dFdHXyX8dpwav-p7Q5k53EqjjaIHK-fhwbP-ECOx5zLV7wLlBksYdhLsWyvMJjUHM2/s320/BeekmanBoys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524659188176258338" /></a><br /><br />It’s hard to consider whether these queer images represent actual real people or clownish characters who spend every waking moment wondering how they can spruce up previously depressing heterosexual enclaves. I grant that it is a type of improvement after decades of media images that presented queer sexuality as something to fear and destroy. If the trade off for my sexuality not landing me in jail or sent for electroshock therapy is being forced to sew couture, then hand me that bobbin. Nonetheless, these images also tend to present queer people as frivolous and less fully human than their hetero counterparts. These shows subsume their stories, political needs, and personal desires (including, ironically, their sexual desires given that their sexuality defines their roles on these shows). Instead queer people have been relegated to being decorators and decorative objects for heterosexual escapist fantasies.GayProfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11289510184782252498noreply@blogger.com16