Life Continues at Forty

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.

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. . .

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 CoG. Just play along and it will be fine.

If I were Oscar Wilde at age 40, I would write both An Ideal Husband and The Importance of Being Earnest this year.

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.

If I were Rosalind Russell, I would make the film Mourning Becomes Electra this year. It would be another ten years before I would play Auntie Mame on Broadway.

Should I have been born George Blanda, I would play professional football another eight years before retiring.

If I were Malcom X, I would have died last year.

Had I been Billie Holiday at age 40, I would be working with ghostwriter William Dufty on my autobiography Lady Sings the Blues.

If I were Paul Walker at age 40, I would die unexpectedly in a fiery car crash.

Mae West, at age 40, made her first two major movies She Done Him Wrong and I’m No Angel this year, both with Carey Grant.




If I were Carey Grant at age 40, I would be starring in Arsenic and Old Lace.

If I were Miguel A. Otero, I would be governor of New Mexico.

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 The New York Times.

If I were The New York Times, my headlines would include a public feud between Rear Admiral Bancroft Gerardi and Acting Rear Admiral John G. Walker in the U.S. Navy.

If I were Pearl Bailey, I would release my album Gems by Pearl Bailey this year.




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.

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.




If I were Stella Payne, this is the year that I would get my groove back.

If I were Lorraine Hansberry, I would be dead.

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.

If I were George Eliot, I would publish my first novel, Adam Bede, this year.

If I were Myrna Loy, this is the year that I would film The Thin Man Goes Home.

If I were either Nick or Nora Charles, I should seriously be considering joining Alcoholics Anonymous.




If I were Frances Drake, I would reach Sierra Leone this year.

If I were Captain James Cook, I would be making my first voyage across the Pacific Ocean.

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 Enterprise in a futile effort to reclaim my youth.



If I were Elton John, I would win my libel case against The Sun for publishing stories about me paying young men for sex.

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.

If I were Freddie Mercury, this is the year that I would play my final live performance with Queen in Knebworth Park.

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.

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.

If I were Álvaro Obregón, this is the year that I would become president of Mexico.




If I were Ellen DeGeneres, my sitcom would be cancelled this year.

If I were Emiliano Zapata, I would be dead.

Were I to have been Mark Twain at age 40, then I would publish The Adventures of Tom Sawyer this year.

If I were Muhammad, I would be visited by Gabriel and receive my first divine revelation.

If I were Divine, I would be starring in Lust in the Dust this year.




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. *cough*MSG*cough*

At age 40, I would decide to visit my brethren, the Israelites, if I were Moses.

If I were Andy Warhol, Valerie Solanas would shoot me.

If I were Stan Lee, this is the year that I would create Spiderman.

If I were Jame Michener, this is the year that I would publish Tales of the South Pacific which would inspire the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.

If I were Captain Jean-Luc Picard, I would be in command of the USS Stargazer. It would be another nineteen years before I took command of the Enterprise.

If I were William T. Riker, nobody would care what I was doing at age 40. Poor Riker.




If I were Noël Coward, I would write This Happy Breed and Present Laughter this year.

If I were Pontiac, it would be another three years before I would attack Fort Detroit and start my eponymous war.

If I were Mary Richards, I would have been fired from WJM-TV three years ago.

If I were Walter Raleigh, this is the year that Elizabeth I would imprison me at the Tower of London.

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).




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.

If I were either Jamey Carroll or Derek Jeter at 40, I would still be playing professional baseball.

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 totally gay love of Thomas Jefferson. I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.

If I were fashionista, Alexander McQueen, I would die this year.

If I were GayProf, I would be starting a year sabbatical after two years of intense departmental service.

If I were Steve Carell, I would be appearing in Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s single-seasoned sitcom Watching Ellie. It would be another three years before I would make The 40-Year Old Virgin.

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.

If I were Vivian Leigh, I would suffer a major breakdown while filming Elephant Walk. I would be replaced by Elizabeth Taylor.

If I were James Baldwin, I would join marchers in Selma, Alabama demanding justice.




If I were Tennessee Williams, this is the year my play The Rose Tattoo would appear on Broadway.

If I were Marlo Thomas, I would star in It Happened One Christmas, a remake of It’s a Wonderful Life. 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.

If I were Katherine Hepburn, I would make my fourth film with Spencer Tracey, the forgettable The Sea of Grass.

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.

If I were Jaclyn Smith, I would star in the film Deja Vu.

If I were Dolly Parton, this is the year that I would purchase the obscure theme park Silver Dollar City and rename it Dollywood.



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.

If I were Jesus, I would have been dead for seven years.

If I were Farrah Fawcett, I would star in Poor Little Rich Girl: The Barbara Hutton Story.

If I were Paul Lynde, this is the year I would first appear as the prankster warlock Uncle Arthur on Bewitched.

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 Moonstruck.




If I were Kate Jackson, I would star in the quickly cancelled sitcom Baby Boom this year.

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 Gulliver’s Travels.

If I were Wonder Woman, I would age another 2,451 years before joining Patriarch’s world to fight crime.

I Have Always Depended on the Kindness of Internet Strangers

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. Historiann exchanged her rusty spurs for a series of fabulous sun dresses; Tenured Radical rabble roused among the virtual; the Madwoman with a Laptop 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.

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 CoG’s future might be. It has been a bit like CoG was my child. Only ze dropped out of college and has been holding up in my basement sneaking joints and watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory. My participation forced CoG 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:

I'll leave it to you to figure out which one of the others wore the silver jumpsuit. *cough* TR *cough*

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 CoG.
I felt like I was in the blogging closet and all my star-spangled panties were hanging around me.
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.^* I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’.

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.^** Man, what did they put in those drinks?

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?

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 CoG 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 CoG, it would be like finding out I was a dentist who left people with gaping, bleeding gums thanks to my less than skillful orthodontics.

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 self pity deep bitterness 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 Helen the Felon, Dorian, Joe.My.God, Tornwordo, VUBOQ, 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.

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. . .


* For the record, GayProf does not endorse such violence.
** For the record, Historiann does not endorse the tweeting.

Thanks a Lot

Let me tell you, kiddies, this semester is kicking GayProf’s ass. I have been deeply involved in “service.” For those outside the university, that is the amorphous category that is neither teaching nor research. Think of “service” as being the university equivalent of rotating your tires. Sure, everybody knows that it is necessary, but they rarely do it themselves.

While there is a general claim that service is “important,” the horrible truth is that it counts not at all for raises or promotion. This seems especially true for service to ethnic studies units, which “traditional” (read “white”) departments either don’t see or simply dismiss as “unnecessary.”

Let me tell you, for a junior professor, I have been giving a lot of service. Stupid GayProf and his stupid ideas about “caring” and all.

What this means for you, my faithful and loyal followers, is that the bloggy hasn’t been updated since Halloween. Maybe I should turn this into a holiday blog. Like Queen Elizabeth II, I will only address my loyal subjects when the shops are closed for the day.

Speaking of holidays, we are on the eve of U.S. Thanksgiving. It’s not a holiday that ever particularly spoke to me. Certainly, though, I could use the break. This year I felt fatigued over the usual rituals of cooking and gorging. Therefore I and a friend are driving to Multicultural Canadian City instead. Since Canada gave up their thanks over a month ago, and Americans rarely travel outside the states during this holiday, we got a pretty good deal for a hotel. Quite shockingly, I have never been to MCC, despite its relative proximity. Now I need to see where I stashed that wad of Canadian dollars that I used to have . . .

Skipping Thanksgiving suits my contrarian mood. Consider GayProf “going rogue.” To keep up with that theme, here are the things in the world that I am not at all inclined to be thankful for this year:

* Holidays that hide the brutality of imperialism by pretending that the colonized welcomed their own oppressors.



* A road close to my home that is so riddled with potholes that it threatens to literally shake my car apart when I drive down it.

* Midwestern Funky Town, instead of fixing the huge, gaping holes on said road, decided to spend tax money installing speed-bumps on it. And people wonder why this state is floundering?

* Creepy, crooked, and incompetent Treasury Secretaries who are in the back pocket of Wall Street.



* The weakness of the U.S. dollar, resulting in part from creepy, crooked, and incompetent Treasury Secretaries who are in the back pocket of Wall Street.

* Graduate students who do not recognize the difference between professional and personal relationships.

* Professors who do not recognize the difference between professional and personal relationships.

* Potlucks – A form of “entertaining” that I despise. Don’t invite me to dinner and then ask me to bring my own meal. If I wanted to cook, I’d have stayed home. Why not just ask me to bring my own silverware and dishes, too? Potlucks send the message that "I want to spend time with you, but I don't want it to cost me that much money or effort." This is especially true if it is for an event where I am also expected to bring a gift, like a wedding shower. Then you are just lazy and greedy. I have an anti-potluck agenda.

* Commercials with cavemen, talking ovens, or that creepy disembodied blonde woman who has an unhealthy relationship with her phone.



* Americans who are so greedy that they will dismiss their obligations to their fellow citizens and refuse to acknowledge that access to health care is a basic human right.

* Organized sports.

* The most recent Windows update that seems to have somehow disabled my scanner.

* Star Trek’s release on DVD reminding me of its failures in terms of race and gender.



* Colleagues who don’t actually provide service themselves, but are quite willing to criticize those who do.

* The remake of V that turned out to be so boring and slow. I can still taste the suck.

* Pharmaceutical companies that try to convince us that "inadequate eyelashes" is a serious condition that is afflicting a huge section of our population.

* The dumbass liquid rule for airport screening.

* Project Runway's move to Los Angeles. It seems to have left Tim Gunn depressed.



* Big Midwestern University obstinately refuses to acknowledge the colossal failure of on-line course evaluations.

* Logo has never approached me to star in a sitcom based on this blog.

* Guys who ruin a perfectly nice time dating by prematurely demanding to ask those “relationship” questions. I don’t understand why there is always a rush to define a relationship. Nothing makes me feel pressured like, “Where is this going?” or “Are we on the same page for the future?” or “What’s your name?”

* The karmic wheel inevitably grinds me down because of the attitude above.

* Incompetent bartenders.

* Being greeted with laughter when I propose that, instead of me always having to board a plane, my family might actually travel to Midwestern Funky Town instead.

* Chrissie Hynde never gets her recognition as an influential songwriter and recording artist.



* The Delta and Northwest merger has already demonstrated an even greater lack of service (Hello, antitrust laws???).

* Having to go around the table and name something for which we are thankful before we are allowed to eat.

* The words “very,” “opinion,” or “lifestyle” in student essays.

* Bloggers who take themselves too seriously.

What to Wear, What to Wear: Cloris Edition

Halloween always offers so many of my favorite things: candy, punch, sex with a man in a mask (who isn't into the leather scene). Alas, this year I will be thoroughly detained from the official gay holiday thanks to some remarkable work duties.

You can think of me playing Mr. Rourke this weekend. Only instead of an idyllic island, our guests will be in Midwestern Funky Town. In place of festive tropical drinks, we will have stale coffee. Instead of granting their every fantasy, I will force them to endure days of academic discussion. Still, I can manage to teach each one of them an important moral lesson that will lead them rethink their life choices. Then I will watch them depart on an amphibious plane.

Even with my tough work schedule, it doesn’t mean that I am not thinking about ideal costumes. Those who are serious long time readers of CoG know that my costumes never turn out how I imagined. Indeed, this might actually be the longest running gag on this blog. Read the archive: It's true. After five years, this bit almost seems fresh again.

Here are the things that I aim for, and my disappointing results:

What I aim for:
Edna Garrett



Some might argue that it was an ignoble culmination of the career of Charlotte Rae. Sure, some suggest that appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show was a bit more glamorous than playing dietician to four spoiled and entitled students. Well, I say, you take the good, you take the bad, and then you’ve got the facts of life.

What I end up with:
Beverly Ann Stickle



Few people even remember that Mrs. Garrett left the sinking ship show before it ended. Quite frankly, I would pay for a lot of therapy to forget this show entirely.

Maybe Mrs. Garrett left because she didn't understand how she ended up selling novelties in an ice-cream shop. Or maybe she just got tired of all the whining that went on amongst the entitled. Whatever the case, they replaced her with her sister, the divorcee Beverly Ann. Does anybody even remember her story?

***
What I aim for:
Mrs. Robinson



Because I use it for a class, I can’t seem to escape watching The Graduate at least once a year. After that many viewings, I can tell you that this film becomes much less interesting once Mrs. Robinson exits the scene. She was alluring, sharp, and oh-so-angry. Mrs. Robinson also got to wear lots of leopard prints. Today she would have her only reality t.v. show as the original "cougar".


What I end up with:
Ruth Popper



If there is one thing that I respect about The Last Picture Show, it is that it told the truth about how miserable and depressing Texas really is. Unlike the fun that Mrs. Robinson seemed to have, Ruth Popper just seems kinda sad. While she would be convicted as a pedophile today, Ruth really just needed some xanax.

***
What I aim for:
Mary Richards


Who amongst us hasn’t wished that we could turn the world on with our smile? If you suspect that my home has a giant “G” on the wall, you win the bonus prize. Mary is a model to us all about how to start life over with a go-go attitude. Well, until she cut her hair in the third season -- Then the show was just dead.

What I end up with:
Phyllis Lindstrom



Alas, Mary’s pushy neighbor is probably a bit more like the real GayProf. Phyllis was seemingly immune from Mary’s chipper disposition. Phyllis oozed gravitas.

***
What I aim for:
Baroness Paula Von Gunther



The Baroness had it all – A killer wardrobe, unlimited power, lesbian love slaves. Okay, so she was a Nazi – literally. Still, she probably stands as Wonder Woman’s most famous foe having appeared in both the comic and the television show.

What I end up with:
Frau Blücher



True, Frau Blücher has a place in cienmatic history. But GayProf doesn’t like it when the horses whinny and neigh at the sound of his name. It took a long time to break them of that habit. Besides, Frau Blücher always seemed more like a plot device to free the monster.

***

What I aim for:
Wonder Woman



The ultimate superheroine number 1, what more could be said? She can deflect bullets with her bracelets. Her tiara is a boomarang. She gets to date dreamy Steve Treavor.

What I end up with:
Queen Hippolyta



Alas, the cranky matriarch of Paradise Island just seemed so immovable. She never appreciated the beauty of Steve Trevor. And who besides her would call an island without [gay] men "paradise?"

***

* GayProf wants it made known that he adores Cloris Leachman and hopes she knows this was just a bit of silliness. Please don't hunt him down and twist his ankles.

GayProf, The Irritated

Many have asked about this phantom post. It shows that you still care!

GayProf, irritated by some local shenanigans, hastily posted before reclaiming his zen. After spending some time meditating, I remembered, “Nothing really matters.” Never blog irritated. Besides, I become so much more mysterious and interesting this way.

In place of that silly grumble, I decided that we can talk more broadly about things that irritate me. I happen to have a running list:

Creepy and crooked treasury secretaries who should never have been appointed, much less confirmed.

President Obama's willful obliviousness to the fact that the American public will never trust a word coming from his creepy and crooked treasury secretary, who should never have been appointed.

Governors who make New Mexico look bad.

A BBC commentator who confused Arizona with New Mexico a month ago.



That idiot who backed into my car in the garage with enough force to seriously dent my bumper, but drove away without leaving any note or even an apology.

Waiting at the barbershop to get my haircut.

Getting my haircut at the barbershop.

The movie Barbershop.

Ear hair.

The fact that academic events are at the mercy of the football schedule at most universities.

Dirty dishes stacked in the sink.

People who don't know that there is an obviously right way to load a dishwasher.

Corporate CEO’s who imagine that they should receive bonuses and fabulous vacations as a reward for running their companies into the ground.

The refusal of a creepy and crooked treasury secretary, who should never have been appointed, to make the termination of existing CEOs a precondition of taxpayer aid.

Republican Senators who agree to work with Democrats, but then turn out just to have intended to embarrass them.

Democrats who overestimate Republicans’ trustworthiness.

Republicans who continue to demand Reagan/Bush/Bush style economic policies that favor the wealthy despite ample evidence of the destructiveness of such policies.

People who erroneously imagine that my cat desires their attention.



People who erroneously imagine that I desire their attention.

The remarkably cheap laptop provided by BMU that crashes if I attempt to play any music or watch any video.

Knee-jerk recommendations to switch to Apple.

Claims that the movie Che provides a stunning new interpretation of the titular character when, in reality, it is just four hours of watching the revolutionary walk, pause, wheeze, and then walk some more.



The fact that U.S. movie theaters don’t serve liquor.

Lame plot devices that turn Diana Prince into a mortal simply because she isn’t wearing star-spangled panties.

Commercials for cleaning products that lead me to believe that flesh-eating bacteria is lurking on every surface in my home.

My irrational fear that two British women are randomly going to show up at my door, critique my level of cleanliness, and reveal that flesh-eating bacteria is lurking on every surface in my home.



Guests in my home who request a cocktail, but then don't drink it.

The Bee Gees.

The fact that, despite having mastered the Bewitched nose-twitch years ago, I still can’t get my couch to fly around the room.



Graduate students who don’t do their work, but nonetheless have egos so sizable that they imagine themselves as junior-junior professors.

The fact that I still mourn the loss of my Braun FlavorSelect^© Coffeemaker which died after a decade of loyal service.



My shitty Krups coffeemaker that is no replacement for the Braun FlavorSelect^©.

Peanuts contaminated with salmonella.

Job candidates who don’t do their homework before arriving on campus and, thus, ask really obvious questions that could have been answered had they taken two-minutes to consult the department webpage.

Heteronormative and consumer-driven Valentine’s Day.

Accusations that I only dislike Valentine’s Day because I am single, even if it might be true.

Wasteful construction of new buildings when architectural treasures are left abandoned and crumbling.



The nation’s airlines.

People who refer to Wonder Woman as “Superwoman.”

Bloggers who retract entries only a few hours after posting them.

I’ll leave it to you to decide my level of rationality.