Sometimes the Minority Voice Just Keeps Quiet

There is an article on Yahoo News right now that is ridiculous. It opens with this: “When the Iowa Faith & Freedom Coalition plays host to nine Republican White House hopefuls [in Iowa] this weekend, the conservative Christian group will simply be pursuing its stated mission to ‘take back our state and country’." Now, there’s nothing wrong with quoting directly, but whoever interviewed the speaker here did not ask this person any obvious questions, which that statement is begging for. Such questions might include: Take it back from whom? Where was it taken? Faith in what? Freedom for whom? Is this code for “push those fags back in the closet where they belong”? (I say this because the issue of gay marriage was mentioned as a key issue multiple times in the less than 600-word article.) I wanted the interviewer to interview the group’s representatives, not just document its party line.

With that in mind, I did some of my own investigative journalism. The interview was conducted by a woman named Luciana Lopez, and I can’t help but wonder what her thoughts were as she spoke to these coalition members. Actually, her personal politics are successfully veiled from the public, which I discovered by reading her Twitter feed from the last four months. The only hints about her personal preferences are that she likes Tom Hanks and has experienced discrimination based on her Hispanic name and appearance. Here’s a tip: If someone writes articles for credible news outlets like Reuters IN ENGLISH, it’s a safe bet that they speak English. You don’t ask the people named Anderson if they need a Norwegian translator so don’t ask people named Lopez if they need a Spanish translator. By the way, both of those names are among the top 40 most common surnames in the U.S. so, yes, that is an apples-to-apples comparison.

Anyway, Luciana Lopez appears to be a credible news reporter attempting to do her job with this interview thing while (at least on some level) being keenly aware of the fact that she was a non-white woman in a sea of conservative white men at a gathering of something called the “Faith & Freedom Coalition.” Whatever her personal thoughts and feelings on the politics of this group were, I am merely pointing out that she didn’t ask any pertinent follow-up questions about this group’s platform. The entire article goes back and forth between quotes of a bunch of white dudes (and one white lady named Connie) about “faith” and “freedom”, and I started to wonder if Lopez was being silent because she was simply biting her tongue so hard.  Also, she uses the words “scrum” and “bloc” unironically. (Or maybe it was ironic. They are strange adjectives that make their subjects sound weird.)

After some analysis of this news article, I began to wonder if Lopez was simply letting the speakers say whatever the heck they wanted because they sounded suspiciously like well-trained parrots. Or perhaps she fell asleep with her microphone recording? At any rate, the article ends with a former Iowa Republican Party chairman saying “faith and freedom folks, its title sort of discloses the content.” That it does, sir. That it does.

Unfortunately for him, it’s not the message he thinks.  The word faith is about belief in something. The problem, of course, is that he’s using it to mean the adherence to prescribed conservative Christian values that, if you don’t believe the way he does, you’re wrong and should be punished. (Not by God as his religious text might suggest, but by the government, under the control of people his group has purchased.) Further, the word freedom (which I’ve analyzed in these pages previously for being one of those notorious framing devices George Lakoff warned us about) implies the notion of rights and abilities guaranteed by legal language. Suggesting that this group will “take back” its freedom implies it’s been taken away at some point. Fine, except no one has taken away this group’s freedom. In reality, it is a religious group mucking about with politics. That’s actually frowned upon by, like the Constitution or something. Also, this coalition’s talking head sounds like he’s badly quoting dialogue from a Mel Gibson film. You know the one I mean.

In summation, if the name of your political organization sounds like an extremist group from a movie, you may want to reconsider how you interact with news media. The fact that they aren’t interrupting you with pesky questions does not indicate endorsement. 

On a Scale of 1 to 5, I Give Professor McPhee a Score of Potato

In high school, teachers have been conditioned to “teach to the test.” (Thanks, Obama. Wait, no. We need to blame that nonsense on Dubya.) In college, professors are increasingly being conditioned to “educate to the evals.” It’s no secret (especially among higher ed. faculty) that relying on course evaluations as the primary (or in many cases, only) method for evaluating an instructor’s effectiveness is the worst possible way to determine how good instructors are at their jobs. Now it seems, the courts want to add their fingerprints to this crime scene, and in a big way. It’s great if we want to reassign the blame for this criminal act to the government. The problem, of course, is that the damage is done—the house has been emptied of its valuables. The stereo equipment has been pawned for pennies on the dollar two counties over and we homeowners are left sitting here trying to make a go of it with nothing to show for our efforts but the ratty old grammar textbook that even the thieves didn’t bother with.

There is an excellent article on NPR right now that discusses the problem of student evals in depth—with research! Here’s an excerpt that accurately describes a serious problem with reliance on student evals as a measure of instructor effectiveness:

"If you make your students do well in their academic career, you get worse evaluations from your students," Pellizzari said. Students, by and large, don't enjoy learning from a taskmaster, even if it does them some good . . . An easy-A prof may earn five stars in return for handing out good grades. But this leniency, his research suggests, does the students no long-term favors.

That’s right—handing out A’s like Halloween candy gets you smiley faces from students, but it doesn't result in an educated populace. I have to rely on these students’ decision-making abilities about my healthcare and finances years from now when I’m confined to my bed in the nursing home and I want them to be critical thinkers and socially aware of the world, not people who coasted through college by getting beer money from hocking their roommate's iPhone.

 Another serious issue related to asking students what they thought of the instructor is that some students have no idea what the course was supposed to teach them so they equate doing poorly with the instructor’s personal feelings, either towards them as individuals or towards their socio-political beliefs. Rarely do poorer performers recognize that their grades reflected an inability to distinguish between "their" and "there." Worse, there are students who don’t even know what’s going on at all. Case in point: I received an email from a student this morning apologizing for not attending my classes this whole week. His reason? He “was informed” that the semester was over and his attendance was no longer required. Institutional practices have students like this evaluating my skills as an educator. Several such students noted that they didn't like my fashion choices. Also, I am apparently going to hell.

 When it comes to gen ed. courses, often students don’t know why they’re required to take the classes and feel like their time is being wasted before the semester even starts. It’s difficult to get good evals from students who explicitly state on the first day that they’re only taking this bullspit course because the university wants their tuition money. There is a disconnect between what it means to get a liberal arts education and how liberal arts classes may, you know, be important to that goal. In a broader sense, these students have never been told by anyone along the education ladder—parents, high school teachers, academic advisors—that attending college (especially at a large university) will not magically result in them “making lots of money” down the road. College is not vocational training. I suggest if that’s your goal, you invest your tuition money in an apprentice plumbing program. You won’t have to take stupid critical thinking courses and in a few years’ time you can be pulling in $60K annually.

 In summation, my favorite student course evaluation of all time said simply “Bush/Cheney 2004!!!” It was from Spring 2009. That student gave me a slightly higher rating than the one whose entire evaluation was a single word: poop. That’s the current value of my teaching.

You Might Be a Troll If…

…you register for a free account on a website you don’t regularly read because you want to post negative comments on an article about abortion, gay rights, police brutality, or another hot button topic. If you left feedback on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram for someone you don’t know disparaging that person’s ideas, opinions, creative works, or personhood, you might be a troll. You might be a troll if you are a member of a privileged group complaining of “reverse discrimination” or the infringement on your right to be a douche-nozzle. Or, you might just be an @$$hole with an opinion. What’s the old joke about what everyone has? Oh yeah, those two things.

I read an article this morning about two women who’d posted two photos of themselves via their Instagram account. The photos were their pregnancy announcements for their friends and family. In the photos the two women posed identically, except they switched places with each other from one to the next to highlight the baby belly of the one that was expecting. They now have two children together, and their family photos are as beautiful as any I’ve ever seen. For whatever reason, some troll decided to muck up an exquisite series of snapshots (of total strangers) by posting a bunch of rude and ignorant comments about the women’s sexual orientation. What are you doing, troll? How is this effective discourse? Are you operating under the misguided belief that your grammatically incorrect sentences will convince this family to disband? I have some news for you: It won’t and you are a troll. Also, I think you may be a graduate of the Westboro Baptist Church school of effecting social change. This is not an accredited institution.

I’m not new to the internet. In fact, I am a member of the www old guard. I’ve had the same email address for fifteen years. I participated in the earliest iterations of online communities and have had plenty of experiences with trolls. It’s actually interesting how much things stay the same over time. We may have changed the rules for web sites, social media, and YouTube celebrity status since the early days of hard coding JavaScript to make a button wiggle, but it seems the trolls are still struggling to learn the basic rules of grammar and netiquette. Remember hard coding JavaScript into your Angelfire-hosted Xena: Warrior Princess fan website to make Xena’s chakram spin? Good times.

So, yes, my experience with trolls goes back a long way. In all honesty, today’s internet trolls are yesterday’s high school bullies, and I’ve learned a lot about dealing with bullies since high school (but that’s a topic for another day. Look for my tell-all memoir in a bookstore near you.) What’s interesting to note is that trolls haven’t really evolved much since their high school bullying days. They’re still jerks who think that the person with the loudest, cruelest taunt is the winner. Winner of what, I’m not sure.  Mostly, just making people feel bad, I guess. Good job, bully-troll! That’s a feat worth being remembered for.  I am going to have a custom trophy made in the shape of a golden #1 engraved with the text “Most Victims in Therapy.” I will take a picture of this trophy and post it in reply to the comments of people who say things like “Eww, faggiots. Stop shoving you’re homo lifestyle in my face.” Also, the offensive slur you were looking for there was “dyke” not “faggot.” At least have some standards in your own hate speech. 

Since the very earliest interactions on the internet, trolls have had these same kinds of grammar and mechanical problems with their attacks. You’d think they’d compare notes after all these years and correct some of the grosser errors. You're, your, and yore are not interchangeable. I question your ethos when you make these kinds of elementary school mistakes. I will say one thing for the Westboro Baptist Church nutjobs: They appear to proofread their crazy. Their signage sticks to small words they know how to spell.

In summation, you might be a troll if you are green, wart-covered, and live under a bridge asking unwary travelers trivia questions in exchange for safe passage. This is what I imagine internet trolls actually look like anyway.

My Cartoon Character Name is Professor Crotchety McPhee

I am now officially a caricature of a college professor. I have become so befuddled by institutional policies, that I feel like every time I open my mouth I’m a cartoon character rather than a real person. The latest institutional incident to make me feel like a badly drawn sketch of myself? The final exam schedule policy. Cue the cartoon swearing: @#$%&!

Exam times are scheduled by the university, and for my 3:00 p.m. course our final is set for 7:30 a.m. I am totally on board with my students on this one: that’s really early. That said, I should clarify that I’m not complaining about the schedule here (although I am perplexed about how they determine the times.) My issue is with the exam scheduling policy itself, which states that I can’t reschedule exams for the convenience of all, but I must reschedule them for the convenience of individual students. Is it just me, or does this make zero sense? If it is just me, well, that's already my fear and the reason I think I am a cartoon.

I’ve had other early exams before and I always remember what our scheduling guru once said about early classes: “Everybody gets their turn in the barrel. It’s your turn.” The time itself is as inconvenient for my students as it is for me, but according to policy, that’s the way it is. Which would be fine, except it’s not.  I am forbidden from rescheduling the exam for the whole class; however, I am required to make arrangements for students individually. No, we can’t reschedule the exam to a time that’s more convenient for everyone. Yes, I am required to set up alternatives for you and you and you and you and you and what?

The exam policy says that students simply inform their instructors of the need for an alternative time and instructors must make other arrangements for them. While this policy is specifically referring to students who end up with three or more exams in one day, it says nothing about students needing to prove that’s the reason for the request. Here’s the pertinent part of the policy: "Students who have three or more finals on the same calendar day may request to reschedule a final. The instructor of the course having the smallest number of students is responsible for arranging an alternate examination time for the student..."

That's the policy. It seems intentionally vague. Linguists take note: The sentence that includes “may request to reschedule” is just begging for a prepositional phrase. I searched and searched for additional information: What are my rights and responsibilities as an instructor? What proof do students need to provide? How many alternatives do I need to offer? Do students simply need to “request to reschedule” and I must oblige without question? I am genuinely unsure. Also, I am concerned that I have turned into my dad—an out-of-the-higher-ed-loop senior who uses Bill Gates as an example for every problem in contemporary education. “Bill Gates didn’t have to attend final exams and he’s worth millions!”

The result of my confusion is that I feel like a crotchety old bun-wearing Looney Tune complaining about the state of the nation. (You kids get off my lawn!) I really do enjoy teaching and I want the students to get something out of my courses, but I feel repeatedly constrained by institutional polices, which either make me the bad guy for wanting clarification or absolve the students of responsibility for their own education. My job now seems to be more about making the customers happy than it does about mentoring young minds.

In summation, I am apparently a cartoon character working in a service industry. Perhaps I should put a tip jar on my desk with a sign that says “if you like the education you received, consider donating your extra pennies.” I'm probably getting fired. Out of a cannon.

Pop Quiz on Pop Culture: Get Out a Piece of Notebook Paper and a Pencil

I know a lot of information useful in only very esoteric and specific contexts. For example, I know that a regular turn in the fourth edition of Dungeons and Dragons consists of a move, a minor, and a standard action. This is of course impacted by a number of other factors, including whether or not you use up an action point and if your character is ridiculous. Anyway, thus far in my academic career no one has given me a quiz on the ins and outs of role playing games. That’s never even been a course offering that I’m aware of. That would be epic. I would so take that class. What am I saying? I would teach that class. The point is, much of the knowledge I have and use on a given day has little to nothing to do with what I learned in the classroom.

Or at least that is the perception my students seem to have in my classes. In fact, a great deal of what I do in my courses is make the content as relevant as possible. Thinking critically about the visual and verbal messages that surround students on a daily basis is a central theme of my current course. Case in point: the assignment my students are working on right now is creating a BuzzFeed post. One of the main goals for this assignment is to steer students away from mistakenly thinking that I, as their instructor, am somehow the audience for the compositions they create. Through the visual composition process, they are hopefully discovering that if they attempt to tailor their posts to me, they will probably be ignored on a website whose main audience demographic is 15 to 20 year my junior. Although in fairness, according to a pop culture tastes quiz I took last night, BuzzFeed thinks I’m 19. I don’t know what criteria they’re using to come up with that. I clearly selected Pretty in Pink as the definitive teen movie and Whitney Houston as my favorite pop music star of all time.

I gave a pop quiz to my students on Friday. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In fact, they also thought so, in part because I said I would use it in place of a big fat zero on an earlier quiz that about 80% of them had received (because they forgot to take it, not because it was hard.) So, it was Friday afternoon, the sun was shining, the birds outside our classroom windows were singing, and I was giving them all a pop quiz. I put four questions on this quiz, accounting for twelve points, which equates to exactly 1% of their total course grade. Clearly, a low stakes endeavor. The quiz asked students to identify a number of key concepts from the course, which we had gone over repeatedly throughout the semester, including getting them to identify what “audience” means to rhetoric, something they have had to do on literally every single assignment this semester. Sadly, the average score on the quiz was four out of twelve. The high score (achieved by only one student) was nine. I suspect there are a handful of students who would have aced the quiz if I had actually included questions about D&D.

What’s the point? First, this pop quiz was freaking easy. I didn’t even try to trick them. As I was making it (which took me all of about five minutes,) I was intentionally trying to think of questions we’d gone over repeatedly in class. Secondly, the very basic concepts on the quiz are actually relevant and pertinent to the pop cultural artifacts they interact with on a daily basis, not the least of which being the BuzzFeed website that they’re using for the current assignment. Seriously, I asked them about audience and purpose in communication; it’s not rocket surgery. I said this in class. My conclusion about what happened with such low scores on the quiz is that students aren’t even listening to me at all. They’re playing D&D Online on their phones during my lectures. That’s the only possible explanation. (Since I have actually witnessed students playing Settlers of Catan on their electronic devices, I think this is a fair assessment of the situation.)

But professor, you might be saying, can’t you ban electronics from your classroom? Sadly, no. In fact, that’s a bad idea. Many students now rely on their phones and tablets for the actual textbook, style manual, and for non-native English speakers, translation devices. It’s way too late to eliminate tech from the classroom. I’ve therefore tried to integrate it rather than eliminate it, hence the BuzzFeed assignment. One thing is clear: tech or no, I can’t make students listen if they think the course is useless, even when the content is awesome. Also, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him stay awake during your PowerPoint about the rhetorical canon. Even when every slide is riveting—with pictures of cannons and everything.

In summation, this blog probably needed a “pop quiz hotshot” quote from the movie Speed, grading BuzzFeed posts may prove more challenging than I originally planned, and thinking critically about popular culture is actually a useful skill.

Star Wars! (J.J. Abrams: We’re All Counting on You)

I watched the trailer for the new movie, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, yesterday. I mean, who didn’t? (If you just said you didn’t, what was so damn important yesterday that you didn’t watch the new Star Wars trailer? It was posted on Facebook like eight million times. Shut up and go watch it right now.) Although my skepticism persists after the debacle that was Episodes I, II, and III, as well as my eye-squinting confusion at J.J. Abrams directorial choices more generally, I have to say I am a little bit excited. Not a single racial stereotype to be seen. No Gunguns or Neimoidians babbling in broken English in the whole trailer. Also, Han Solo. HAN FREAKING SOLO.

My eye squinting at Abrams is two-fold: First, I squint out of reflex from all the annoying lens flares that blind me unexpectedly. Second, I squint at the baffling anti-canon storylines he managed to squish into my beloved Star Trek. Seriously, an alternate timeline in which Vulcan is obliterated is hard enough to cope with, but Spock and Uhura hooking up? Come on, that’s not even a … wha…I don’t …huh? I could have been on board with a Yeoman Janice Rand slash Spock romance, but Uhura? Nope. Suspension of disbelief  stretched too far. Snap. So, when I heard Abrams was the guy piloting the Corellian Corvette, I was naturally concerned (and squinting.)

If you watched the trailer you know it relied heavily, and perhaps intentionally, on the female character and the “black Stormtrooper.” Is that the preferred nomenclature we’re going with? “Black Stormtrooper”? Okay. Seems a bit clunky to me, but whatever, I’m already strapped in for this ride so let’s see where we go. Anyway, the female, whose name I have not yet learned (I’m sure Wookieepedia knows, but I haven’t looked it up—yet,) and the black stormtrooper (BS for short? see, the initials there are just not good) are featured prominently in the trailer that is desperately trying to pull a memory wipe on all of us who had such high hopes for Episode I only to have them crushed upon the shoals of terrible racial stereotypes like Jar Jar Binks, Nute Gunray, and Watto. I, for one, welcome this memory-erasing attempt to reengage my childhood love for Star Wars. It’s as though Agent J has arrived in his black suit, slipped on his sunglasses, and held up his Neuralyzer. All of a sudden, in a single flash, boom: episodes one, two, and three, completely forgotten.  Shut up and take my money, Abrams.

Oh crap, I just realized my money is going to Disney. This makes my eye-narrowing concern for the future of the galaxy far, far away three-fold. I know that Uncle Walt is dead and the multi-national corporate conglomerate in control of childhood innocence has worked hard to eliminate the racism and anti-Semitic undertones from its earlier films, but I worry. I’m a worrier. Actually, the accidently-on-purpose inclusion of racism and anti-Semitism in both Disney’s and Star Wars’ recent pasts make them a match made in the Magic Kingdom. And, let’s not forget the Smurfette Syndrome that both entities consistently suffered from. (And that goes for the original Star Wars films too.) Disney’s Frozen at least made some headway there.

I admit, the new trailer makes me hopeful. We’ll see if J.J. Abrams can wash Star Wars’ and Disney’s remaining sins away. Teasing fans with Han Solo and Chewbacca is a good start. Also, my current sexual orientation is a crashed Star Destroyer on the surface of Tatooine. How do you suppose the Jawas’ nomadic lifestyle will be impacted by the introduction of an entire Star Destroyer into their salvage operation? Someone should write a paper. That’s some uber-nerd fan fiction right there.

In summation, Han Solo is home. I hope I am too.

Next on FOX: “Grade Grubbers” - Reality TV Meets Freshman Composition

I have a three-inch tall stack of student essays sitting on my kitchen table demanding attention. They need to be—they have to be—graded, and soon. As anyone who teaches is well aware, grading is the worst part of the job, by like a million times. I would rather do anything else. And that includes arguing with students about the grades I already gave them. I don’t give out A’s for effort, despite what students may have learned prior to college. There has been a lot of criticism of reality television (and with good reason, since most of it is total garbage) but it does have one thing going for it: It’s not afraid to tell people they’re not as great as they think. That’s basically what grading is—telling a large group of people they’re not special snowflakes. Here’s the up-side, kids: C’s get degrees.

There are no “participant” ribbons in college. Unless you have a video surveillance recording of yourself doing all this hard work, I can only grade based on what you actually handed in. Also, please don’t hand in surveillance videos with your assignments. Your future employer will fire you for spending a lot of time on a project that ends up being so-so.

The only thing worse than actually grading papers is handing them back. Fortunately, that moment is much, much shorter. I have some rules about this, which includes that students must wait at least 24 hours before approaching me with concerns.  They must read the comments I have written, which I understand can be painful. Also, they must have actual questions about the assignments. That seems like a “duh” rule, but you’d be surprised how many of them show up with nothing.

Despite these rules, I often end up having discussions with students that are actually just them lobbying for higher grades. The grade most likely to result in these conversations? The worst possible grade you can receive in college: a B minus. These conversations are especially difficult to have with students who genuinely spent an inordinate amount of time on something that ended up being middle-of-the-road, and they start to get teary-eyed when I am matter-of-factly trying to explain how to improve the work. We can’t all crap out brilliance on the first go-around. This blog proves that. (Sorry for all the sucky blogs, btw.) Also, if they spent as much time developing their arguments in the essays as they did developing their arguments for higher grades, the essay grades would be higher.

Like my students, I resist reading the comments on my writing for fear of being told I’m average. I made a huge mistake yesterday and did just that. My most recent published article (on the X-Files for those of you keeping score) had a handful of comments, and I naively thought I wanted to know what random strangers had to say. One person angrily noted that nothing I said was worth his/her time because I had made a chronological error on the ordering of a minor plot point. I did make an error. S/he suggested Google would help me. I should not have read the feedback. I didn’t need to be reminded that I am nothing special. Also, Google was not helpful. I don’t think Google ever saw the movie.

So, when it comes to assessment and the pain of being told we’re nothing special, it’s never fun. I think we all can relate to that. Even famous people who look outwardly as though they’ve got a hold of their chosen profession by the balls struggle with feelings of inadequacy. Or so I’ve been led to believe. I think they’re probably just ungrateful babies who don’t know how good they’ve got it. Did I say that out loud?

I am actually pretty good at the part of the job where I give critical feedback on areas of student assignments that require improvement. The problem is I’m not as good on sparing students’ feelings in the process. I’m like the Simon Cowell of first year composition. I wonder if that’s a legit job I could pursue. Maybe I can pitch a reality show to FOX. Ooh, or the History Channel! That’s the kind of mainstream pabulum they’ve slumped into. What was that stern British woman’s name on that knowledge game show? I could so pull that off. “You are the weakest link. Goodbye.”

In summation, most of us are average, don’t read the comments, and my stack of grading is still as tall as it was at the beginning of this blog.

Armadillo Shot, Takes Revenge on Shooter’s Mother-In-Law

Armadillos are apparently bullet-proof. Yesterday’s news from the state of Georgia included a story about one of these roly-poly little hard-shelled mammals wandering along minding its own business when some redneck jerk pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger. Being the total badass that he was, this particular armadillo who I’m calling Neo for his resemblance to the chosen one from The Matrix, simply raised up his armadillo hand, a la Neo, and the bullet bounced off him. Boom—bulletproof. But that’s not all: The bullet, from a 9 mm handgun mind you, ricocheted off of our bony friend and hit the shooter’s mother-in-law, who was all the way inside the house at the time. She wasn’t seriously injured, since Neo’s casual raise of his paw had slowed the bullet to injuring-only velocity. This is the best possible outcome of any news story involving the words “accidental shooting.”

Or this is the end I want the story to have. I want the armadillo to be a badass bulletproof critter giving no f*cks about failed attempts on his life. Sadly, that’s not how the story ends. Unfortunately, the armadillo was killed by the shot. The rest of this tale is true though; the bullet did ricochet off his shell and hit the shooter’s mother-in-law, so at least he got his revenge. I hope the mother-in-law never forgives the gun-happy SOB.

Stories like this make me angry. What the hell is wrong with people that use other living beings for target practice? Oh look, a helpless animal minding its own business. I think I’ll kill it because it’s there. And I am not talking about hunting either. Humans eat meat, and the hunters I know are careful with their guns and the way they dispatch the animals that they intend to consume (mostly deer and birds in these parts.) There isn’t a casual pointing of a 9 mm handgun from the porch of the house at an animal with no good recipes to its name just because.  (I could be wrong about the recipes thing—maybe people enjoy armadillo casserole in Georgia.)  The point is, casual cruelty isn’t the same as hunting for food.

There was a story from my home town a few months back about two teenagers out for a joyride with a shotgun. They were taking pot shots at birds from the car window and actually hit a bald eagle. What. The. Hell? Not only is the whole idea of shooting a shotgun out of a car window inanely stupid for so many reasons, but bald eagles are literally the most iconic, recognizable animal in the United States. Who raised these boys? Saddam Hussein? The bird proved heartier than poor Neo the armadillo and was rescued later by a wildlife rehab team. The boys were arrested by the county sheriffs but the slap-on-the-wrist punishment they received hardly seems fitting to the wanton intention of mindlessly inflicting pain on other living creatures. Stories like this make me hate my own species.

I remember a news story from a number of years ago (also in my home state) about three boys who went into a cat rescue with baseball bats. They killed or maimed many of the cats (some of whom were tiny kittens) and left thinking it was all a good time. They were eventually arrested but, like the eagle shooters, not charged with a felony. I wanted to be alone with them in a small room with a baseball bat. Why isn’t animal cruelty treated like a more serious crime? I don’t understand. People who commit violence against animals make me want to punch those people in the face. I like to imagine that these cats were reincarnated as the bears that ate Timothy Treadwell. It's the only way I can sleep at night.

In summation, the religious right is worried about god’s judgment of our immortal souls with good reason; killing things for no good reason is why we’re all going to hell.

The War on Rhetoric

Rhetoric, as a discipline, has gotten a bad rep. I blame the media pundits. They have unfairly referred to whatever garbage that spews forth from the mouths of politicons as rhetoric. (I just misspelled politician as politicon and now I am going to use that word forever, emphasis on the “con”.) Referring to politicons’ words as rhetoric is the grossed pejorative use of the R word ever. Unlike Joan Jett, who cares not for what others think of her, I do give a damn about the bad reputation of my chosen scholarly field. Stop blaming stupid political ideas on a useful and ancient art form. Put simply, rhetoric is the art of persuasive discourse. Whatever Ted Cruz said recently about the gays was not art. I’m not sure it counts as discourse either. Perhaps Senator Cruz needs to attend my undergraduate communication course.

Every semester when I teach a rhetoric-based communication class I give students the nickel tour of rhetoric through the ages. Mostly that involves name-dropping Aristotle and then skipping ahead a couple thousand years. I get from the “Sophistic Greeks” slide in my PowerPoint to a cartoon asserting that “Stephen Toulmin was a 1950s beatnik” in about five minutes. It’s an awesome lecture. Okay, it’s probably not worth a nickel.

While it is true that rhetoric’s history does begin in the political arena way back in the Greco-Roman forums, the people (the white male citizens, lest we ignore privilege in history) were trained to speak eloquently about a number of topics, not just politics. Also, they sat under trees because it was hot in Greece and air conditioning hadn’t been invented yet. Ancient rhetoric bears little resemblance to whatever the politicons are spouting these days. I’m not going to give the full history here. Anyone who has studied rhetoric can tell you that a big part of the study of rhetoric is figuring out what the study of rhetoric is. We’re still arguing about that. I’m in the big R camp. Go big R. That’s a joke for my fellow big R rhetors and anyone who went to Roosevelt High School with me. My jokes are way inside today. I am a super dork. That’s like a regular dork, but with a cape. I am currently flying over tangent land.

Rhetoric, the art of persuasive discourse, requires more than cramming some buzz words together into a mostly grammatically correct sentence. “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously” is a grammatically correct sentence, but as Noam Chomsky pointed out, it doesn’t have any meaning. Let me demonstrate the kind of vapid buzz-wordy yammering I’m talking about, as spouted by politicons (on multiple sides of the spectrum) “Freedom.” “Natural.” “Terror.” “Rhetoric.” (Yes, the use of the term “rhetoric” is itself a buzz word devoid of actual rhetoric. Oh the irony. ) There is neither art nor discourse taking place when politicons use these words in sentences. They don’t have any clear meaning. For example, what does “Protect our freedom from terror” actually mean? Whose freedom? What terror? Protect how? From whom? Politicons are just trying to get people riled up, not artfully persuade them of anything.

Such utterances are really more along the lines of what George Lakoff describes as linguistic framing. Don’t think of an elephant! Ha ha, you’re picturing a pachyderm. Yes, when politicons use words like “freedom” they are trying to frame us. We’re being framed, not persuaded with artful discourse. Senator Ted Cruz described gay rights activists as “jihadists” waging war on Christians. Jihad is a buzz word, not a rhetorical strategy; although, his strategy does seem to be one of inciting the hillbillies to violence over imagined wrongs. I don’t think Cruz has access to the internet. If he did, he could look up the actual meaning of jihad on dictionary.com. I’m not waging a holy war. I just want a pizza.

In summation, I want credit for inventing the word politicon, Joan Jett is a rock star who should asked me out on a date, Ted Cruz is trying to get me killed by rednecks, I cited a lot of scholars in this blog, and Rhetoric with a capital R deserves better than to be associated with U.S. politics.

Hillary Clinton’s Secret Revealed: She’s Batman

So yesterday, Hillary announced her candidacy for president, surprising no one. She wants to be our hero. She said so on Twitter. Okay, she used the word “champion.” Same diff. The GOP is delighted and many liberal Democrats are disappointed and concerned. If you don’t know why, you’ve been living under a rock. Or in a bat cave. She should consider using the Batman movie franchise as her campaign model. Seriously, it seems apropos. I’ve updated Batman’s motto for her: "She’s the candidate America deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll support her. Because she can take it. Because she's not our hero…” I’m imagining a big H projected into the sky whenever there’s a global crisis the U.S. needs to get involved in.

In addition to her qualifications as Secretary of State, her Twitter profile also says that she is a “hair icon” and “pantsuit aficionado.” That right there is why I’m going to vote for her. Just like Batman, she’s concerned not only about the citizens of Gotham/America and the destructive power of the GOP/Joker but she has an awkward fashion sense and a clunky sense of humor. That’s worth a few votes, right?

A lot of folks smarter than me have already written a lot about Hillary’s campaign, but it bears repeating. Not supporting Hillary is a vote for the comic book villains. Do you want The Penguin in the White House? Do you like the idea of Mr. Freeze and Two-Face appointed to the Supreme Court, supporting corporate interests and further restricting civil liberties for women, gays, and minorities? Are you really interested in The Joker robbing more banks and blowing up hospitals? Then support Harvey Dent’s campaign. Seriously, no matter who wins this next election, we are all effed. Yes, we are stuck in a two-party system. I don’t know how we’re going to fix that. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to get repaired by November of 2016. Yep, voting for Batman I mean Hillary is the lesser of two evils.

I would love for another option. But we’re getting Hillary. I’m actually less worried about the email thing than some folks (although that was just stupid) than I am about the secrecy and what seems to me to be a woman who’s not quite in touch with the constituency she advocates for. Seriously, her similarities to Batman are scary: A wealthy recluse out of touch with the average Joe but still sort of advocating for him while throwing parties that only rich people attend. Also, the ordering of Bush-Clinton-Bush-Obama-Clinton is a bit too nepotistic for the supposed principles of our country. Can we have some additional variety? Even if she becomes the first female president, Hillary still feels like she’s part of the boys club. I can’t help but wonder how she privately reacted to Bill’s indiscretions. Did he have to sleep on the Oval Office couch for a month? I really want there to be a secret door in the White House that leads to an underground cavern full of cool motorcycles.

I’ve decided the best thing we can do is to repackage Hillary as the anti-hero Batman. Not the hero we wanted but apparently the one we deserve. Actually, I can imagine her with a utility belt and a butler. Maybe if she gets Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman on her campaign team, we can get over the hump of political disillusionment. I think Tina Fey and Amy Poehler are on board already—that’s promising. Even Nancy Reagan’s come out publically in support of her, which is an interesting portent. It’s either a sign that women are gaining some political power or it’s an augur of a coming apocalypse. Either way, hang on to your @$$. We’re in for a ride. I’m so glad I live in Iowa. Rumor has it that Hillary is on the way here now. In a van. Lucius Fox needs to get her a cool off-road campaign ATV.

In summation, Hillary is our champion. Let’s hope the campaign is more like The Dark Knight and less like Batman and Robin. We’ve had enough of Arnold Schwarzenegger in politics already.

How Not to Treat Your Cat, As Explained by The Muppets

A friend of mine posted on Facebook last night that their family’s lost cat had returned home safe and sound. The circumstances of the cat’s disappearance sounded suspiciously like the cat never considered itself lost and was instead exploring its environment, perhaps hot on the trail of some delicious baby bunnies. Don’t give me that “oh poor bunnies” moan. It’s a well-known fact that bunnies are edible. It’s why they have so many babies. If it weren’t for cats, bunnies would have overrun the earth by now. Also, automobiles help keep the bunny population in check. And then crows eat them. So, cats, cars, and crows are keeping us safe from the Monty Python-esque scenario in which bunnies evolve into predatory carnivores that can only be destroyed with explosive devices. What was I talking about?

After seeing the post about my friend’s cat returning home from its hunting expedition, I was reminded of the old Sesame Street sketch with Ralf the Dog singing about a cat who kept coming back. It was a favorite of mine as a child, unsurprisingly titled “The Cat Came Back.” I had not watched this particular Muppets ditty in decades (perhaps since I was a kid) but I always liked it and did remember some of the lyrics. I searched out the video and re-watched a childhood memory with glee.  (Here’s a YouTube link if you want to watch for yourself, which I do recommend.) Ralf plays the banjo and sings while the story plays out behind him. It’s a catchy tune. But here’s the thing about this 1970s masterpiece of Muppets and music: it’s actually horrifying. The entire song is about some kid named Benny whose mother is trying to get rid of his cat; the poor kitty is evicted from his home repeatedly, in drastically escalating the methods of removal each time the cat returns home. Also, the cat wears an eye patch. He might be a pirate. It’s never explained.

Initially, the cat is simply given away to a stranger. Predictably, since “the cat came back” is the refrain, the cat returns home. Later, the cat is put in a car and driven “West” but the driver (who isn’t even Toonces the Driving Cat) crashes into a tree, the cat escapes unscathed, and again returns home. Eventually, the cat is put into a cannon and fired into the air. This causes Benny’s neighbors to surrender, but the cat survives. At the end a sketchy fellow hands puss a bomb with a burning fuse in an attempt to blow up the poor beast. (See how I circled back around to destroying animals with explosives?)  Here’s the thing: What on earth was Sesame Street trying to communicate to me as a child?

As I watched this Muppets song on YouTube, I had no recollection of how violent the story actually was—car wrecks, cannons, blowing up pets. Does the ASPCA know about this? Should I call PETA? As I look around the world at all the violence and destruction, I can’t help but wonder if seemingly innocuous and “kid-friendly” media is partly to blame. I know a lot of studies have been done over the years about whether or not simulated violence in the media causes children to act violently, but this seems different somehow. The narrative that fuzzy Ralf the Dog communicates to young viewers is that violent acts are harmless and have no consequences. You can put kitty in a cannon and he’ll be fine. Cats have nine lives, right? Also, that you can abuse weaker life forms and they’ll still love you.

If you have an unwanted pet, the best solution is not to attempt to kill the animal with explosives. I recommend a local animal shelter. Or better yet, don’t get a cat if you’re not prepared to take care of it because, unlike the kitty Ralf is singing about, stray cats have very sad, hard lives, and short painful deaths. Please teach your kids that cats cannot survive being blown up or crashed into trees.

In summation, I’m glad my friends got their cat back. I am 99.9% certain they didn’t fire it out of a cannon. 

In Which I React Poorly to an Institutional "Suggestion"

I received an email from the administration in the program where I teach this morning. This email expressed concern about student behavior at evening lecture events. Apparently, students are chatting, texting, and otherwise acting like @$$-hats during the speakers they are required to attend outside of regular class time. The email suggested that we as instructors attend the lectures with our students, and sit with them to ensure they behave respectfully. To which I responded (out loud as I read the email): You have got to be effing kidding me. It’s not the instructor’s responsibility that their ill-mannered students act like rude fuckwits. Perhaps the suggestion can also include mandating that college professors buy their students popcorn and save their seats while they go outside to smoke a joint.

As a general rule, I don’t enjoy interacting with my students outside of class and designated office hours. There are exceptions to every rule of course and I have had some brightly shining stars over the years, but generally speaking, students are not my peers and I don’t want to deal with them outside of the classroom. Am I being a total duck-bag? Perhaps. But let me explain: some of them are total jerks who actually frighten me—and I don’t just mean the garden variety texting-during-a-speaker kind of jerk; I mean the drunken-vandal-crime-committing kind. I have felt physically and emotionally threatened by groups of students and I am not going to volunteer to chaperone them during my off hours.

Last year, the whole rigmarole about whether to continue the traditional spring festival (you know the one I'm talking about) in the light of ongoing riots, serious injuries to students, and widespread property damage, demonstrated the scary crowd mentality I’m talking about. The local newspaper interviewed a number of students, and to my chagrin, one of the interviewees was a former student of mine. He reported he would continue to drink excessively and party, university sanctioning of the event or not. They included a picture of him, a now iconic red plastic Solo cup of beer in his hand, standing in the front yard of a campus town frat house in the middle of the day. Way to represent higher education, guy. This student is the rule, not the exception. The huge mob overturning cars and tearing down lamp-posts that resulted in the cancelling of a century-old institutional tradition proved that. I imagine my now-deceased grandfather—a proud 1930s alum—furrowing his brow in disappointment from beyond the grave as the spirits of the sheep he raised for the livestock show bleat their ghostly disdain.

This isn’t a problem some babysitting at a lecture can solve. There’s actually a systemic issue taking place here, and it’s not one I can fully explore in a 600 word rant. I would even argue that there are multiple systemic issues at work here, none of which can be solved with me yelping. However, I am going to keep barking about it like a mangy, t-bone-deficient junkyard dog. My cat is currently sitting on my lap and does not approve of this metaphor. Too bad, kitty. I’m running with it. Woof.

Here’s the nutshell: College is the new high school. We treat students—especially students in first and second year gen. ed. courses—like they’re still children. Unsurprisingly, they continue to act like children. (And by “we” I mean the royal “we” and not me specifically since I resist this tendency with every fiber of my academic integrity, which is wearing awfully thin as I am asked to lower my expectations a bit more each semester.) At what point to we treat students like adults (which THEY ARE) and expect them to act like it? Talking during a lecture? Have the ushers ask them to leave. Also, babysitters make more money per hour than most adjunct instructors.

In summation, anyone old enough to vote is old enough to attend a lecture unsupervised. I hope I don’t get fired for writing about why this angers me.

Find Me the B-Roll, Fred, This Episode Sucks

There are mornings when I want to phone it in. I sit at my computer resisting the urge to head-desk until an idea pops in there. If only I could do what the Hollywood screen writers do when they’ve had too late of a night with too many Cosmos (or whatever douche-baggie booze screen writers might drink.) I would cobble together a blog from the highlights reel of several recent blogs tied together with some flimsy premise that wouldn’t stand alone because it would be three sentences long, which in TV terms is like 16 minutes of new material in a 50 minute episode. Ladies, gentlemen, and androgynous persons, I present to you: the clip show.

Writer: Picture an archaeological dig site, the intro sequence opens with Garbrielle dressed like Indiana Jones engaged in a gun fight with Nazis. Xena: Warrior Princess, dressed like Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday, steps out of an old timey taxi just in time to thwart Ares, dressed like Ares, who’s searching for a McGuffin during WWII. Gabrielle is angry about her fedora being riddled with bullets and Joxer has a bad French accent.

Exec: That’s only going to be 12 minutes of screen time.

Writer: Yeah, we’ll just fill up the time with flashbacks to Xena and Gabrielle’s past lives. They can read about themselves off of scrolls they find in a pyramid.

Exec: Brilliant! Tell wardrobe to get Lucy some fishnet stockings.

Clip shows are a dying art. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say they are a zombie art. They are, after all, made up of a bunch of parts from already dead episodes, and then stitched together through some lame-o plot device like a memory or dream; what we writers call “a contrived bit of crappy nonsense” AKA exposition. Some of my most favorite shows in all of television history have their shining moment in the clip show sun, where the clunkiest dialogue ever gets delivered by the lead actors attempting to make such exposition sound like normal conversation.

For example, one of the worst clip shows ever is "Shades of Gray." It's from one of my favorite shows ever, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and features Deanna Troi and Doctor Pulaski treating a mostly unconscious Commander Riker for what is basically a sting from carnivorous poison ivy. The episode opens with an unexplained romp through the jungle where Riker sustains said plant-borne life-threatening wound. Thanks, Geordi. Way to see things no one else does. The remainder of the episode is just Pulaski mumbling standard Trek medical mumbo-jumbo (“His acetylcholine levels are dropping! Hand me the hypo-spray.") while Troi tries to get him to feel better. Literally, that’s the plot. Troi tries to make Riker remember strong emotions because the treatment for being stung by a meat-eating vine is feeling angry. Every Star Trek: TNG fan will tell you that this is the worst episode in the seven season run of the series.  Also, it was the season two finale. Way to end the season, Roddenberry.

I haven’t seen a clip show in a while. Maybe TV execs have wised up to the notion that there are too many other channels to surf through. When the viewer figures out the “new” episode is actually reheated leftovers from earlier in the season they grab the remote. I can’t remember the last time I saw a clip show. I think CSI: Crime Scene Investigation had one. Hollywood must be getting sneakier with their clip shows by making the “remember when” transitions more organic. Also, TV is now saturated with sh!tty reality television that doesn’t require any screen writing.

Usually, clip shows are stop gap episodes that writers (or god forbid, producers) throw together at the last minute because external pressures beyond their control, like guild strikes or main actor injuries, have made that week’s episode plan fall apart. Or in the case of Star Trek, they blew their budget wad on special effects for the Borg. Being the cynic that I am, however, I usually just think of them as lazy answers to writer’s block. At least when The Simpsons crapped out a clip show, they had the decency to acknowledge their laziness and apologize in song: “Sorry for the clip show. Have no fears, we’ve got stories for years.” 

In summation, I really wish I could do a blog clip show. In all honesty, that’s what my doctoral dissertation was: a 250 page clip show of my first three seasons as a Ph.D. candidate.

Unused Box of 3.5 Floppy Disks: Free to Good Home

Email is my cloud storage. I’m lazy and it’s the quickest, easiest way to archive documents. I send myself emails almost every day. I create a new email, usually with a subject line like “that thing you wrote,” type a couple of words into the body along the lines of “proof this later,” and hit send. I then click my inbox and get excited that I’ve just gotten a new email from someone. I’m like a goldfish with a ten second memory. Goldfish have gotten a bad rap. Their memories are not actually that short. We’re thinking of Dori from Finding Nemo. It’s probably because of that Ani DiFranco song “Little Plastic Castle.” Does anyone remember that? No? Just me? Well, anyway, whenever I send myself email it’s like that song—I’m surprised every time. Hurray, someone sent me something...oh, right. That’s from me. I just wanted to save my file.

Earlier this year I got rid of an old computer. It was a beast: a tan monstrosity of a tower with a ten thousand pound tube-style monitor and an internal zip disk drive. It was the Mad Max of PCs. It was actually a really good computer…when I bought it in 2004. Having 3 gigs of storage on the hard drive was a big freaking deal. And I had filled it up. At the time that I got it, I had some actual functioning knowledge of computer hardware and had removed the hard drive from the computer I had before that and installed it as a back-up hard drive. I had a lot of data on those drives. The PC had cost me about $1,500. It had state-of-the-art video graphics drivers, a writable CD drive (DVDs weren’t really a thing then), and I shelled out extra for that zip drive. Remember zip disks? They were like floppy disks after too many Big Macs. By that I mean fat, not depressed and covered with acne.

This Ferrari-slash-Frankenstein of a computer was actually a very good tool. I wrote my Master’s thesis on it. I played countless hours of Morrowind on it while I was procrastinating writing my Master’s thesis. I moved Max no less than five times; I kept it and moved it a couple of times even after I had replaced it with a shinier, faster computer. Two of them actually. Why? Because of all the damned data I had stored on the hard drives. I didn’t have most of it backed up to portable media. Yes, I guess if I moved the computer to different places, it’s technically “portable” but did I mention the monitor weighed like eight thousand pounds? It wasn’t ideal. Also, I had been housing Max in the basement of the last couple of places I lived so the data was not even being accessed.

The first computer I got after Max was my first laptop, a Dell I got in 2007. Although I outwardly claimed I needed a laptop since I was back in school and had to be more “mobile” as well as have access to new software, the real reason I got the laptop was because Max did not meet the minimum system requirements for playing Oblivion. In fact, I replaced that laptop several years later with a newer laptop so I could meet the minimum system requirements of Skyrim. Yep, I upgrade my technology in order to play new games. Between laptops one and two, I also bought a new desktop (which I am typing on right now) and refurbished and gifted laptop number one to my mom. Through it all, Max sat unused, a hefty reminder of all the freelance work I had done in the early two thousands that had been archived nowhere other than his rusty innards. (Don’t even get me started on the word processor I had before Max. The writing I did on that thing had to be re-typed completely.)

So, I finally decided this year that I needed to get rid of Max. I dug him out of the basement and hooked up all the cords and periphery bits. I was pleased to discover that I still remembered how. I plugged him in to the outlet and hit the power button. There were noises. Whirring. Sputtering. And then nothing. Unsurprisingly, a decade of disuse and mishandling had rendered Max completely uncooperative. I fiddled, I fidgeted, I plugged and unplugged. Same results. Max was not going to boot up. I picked up the whole system, put it in my car, and drove it to Goodwill. So long, Max. I hope your next owner enjoys my NC-17 rated Xena: Warrior Princess fan fiction. God only knows what else was stored in you.

In summation, back up your data.

Motorcycles and Madness: Tropes of the Midlife Crisis

Is the desire to get a radical haircut and dye it blue indicative of a midlife crisis? What about quitting one’s job and moving somewhere tropical? If so, I have some news for you, interweb friends. I’ve taken a number of highly reliable BuzzFeed quizzes lately all trying to guess my age. Although they’ve all been incorrect, they’ve all been consistently incorrect, guessing me to be about 10 years younger than I am. Apparently, my taste in music, television, clothing, and video games is keeping me youthful. That is great, except I don’t feel 10 years younger than I am. I feel like getting an indigo-colored Mohawk and hanging out in Key West.

The irony of being a certain age and having blue hair is not lost on me. According to Urban Dictionary (which, after dictionary.com, is the dictionary I consult most often) a “blue hair” is an old person whose white hair appears blue and is the only thing visible above the steering wheel of a gigantic car. There’s an episode of The Simpsons (it’s one of those blogs) where Krusty the Clown and Brooke Shields are presenting on an awards show and the cue-card joke they’re forced to read refers to them as the star of The Blue Lagoon and the blue-haired goon. Of course an incensed Krusty blurts out “My hair is green, not blue.” I feel for Krusty. I don’t want to be remembered as a blue haired goon either. Or as the star of a syrupy 80’s romance movie starring eyebrows and incest. (Fun fact—the characters from that film could legally marry each other in Indiana.)

Pop culture has a lot of representations of men of a certain age experiencing midlife crises with the requisite red convertible sports cars accompanied by blonde, bouncy second wives of questionable age-appropriateness. I’ve never actually met any of these men IRL. (I’ve known one or two who decided to go all in on a Harley-Davidson and the leather outfit, but they didn’t leave their wives for it.) Men of a certain age having a second childhood (or whatever we want to call that nonsense) seems to be a stock character for Hollywood. They’re all destined to end up like Kirk Van Houten, dating a chain-smoking barfly named Starla Starbeam who’ll eventually steal their cars. “Hey, my demo tape is in there.”

But in Hollywood, women of a certain age don’t’ have midlife crises. Instead, they’re depicted as nut-jobs. There are some pretty enjoyable films with this trope: Death Becomes Her is a hoot.  Fatal Attraction, not so much. These women have some trigger moment and then completely reject their lives and the men they’re involved with, usually by being represented as crazy for not enjoying their stifling domestic bliss.  Often, they’re depicted as wacko stalker types or bad mothers and wives. This trope isn’t new or unique to Hollywood either. Let’s not forget that the first Mrs. Rochester was locked in the attic for expressing dissatisfaction with her domestic situation so Mr. Rochester could hook up with the nanny. Am I the only one who wanted to punch Jane Eyre in the face and tell her to listen to her gut? Apparently, in the nineteenth century “widowed” was a euphemism for “I locked my wife in the attic for being depressed.” You can’t really blame the Mrs. for starting the manor house on fire. Light that match, Bertha Mason, and watch that mother burn!

So, it seems my options as a woman of a certain age are limited to witchcraft, insanity, or a life of crime. (Or all three, why not?) Given the choices, obviously I would opt for supernatural powers. Sadly, that’s not really possible and my tendency towards gender non-conformity is pushing me towards a shiny new motorcycle, which may or may not make me look like a criminal. Also, I have a new tattoo.

In summation, Thelma and Louise drove off a cliff together in a convertible, I can still see over the steering wheel of my car, and I am considering going with a nice emerald dye color to match my eyes. 

Critical Reception: “Worst Movie of All Time” Beats Two Stars

Yesterday I learned that John Voight could use dramatic facial expressions to fight a sheepdog using martial arts and is also the plot of a movie that exists. Hollywood has had some really bad ideas. The film is called The Karate Dog and Chevy Chase is the voice of the dog. Did I mention the dog can talk? Lori Petty was the voice of something (I think like the dog’s computer?) and Pat Morita was in it, because karate, so of course he was. Also, the dog is a homicide detective investigating Pat Morita’s murder. The movie has too many premises. Like all of us, this movie has made some mistakes.

I think The Karate Dog is supposed to be a kids’ movie, but since it was from 2005, no child of the early 2000s is going to recognize any “veteran” actors in the film. (I hope it’s a kids’ movie. I don’t know what self-respecting adult would watch it. Oh wait, yes I do: a very, very stoned adult.) Sad, really, that the careers of these Hollywood giants have fallen so low: Lori Petty’s haircut from Tank Girl continues to guide my fashion decisions and the number of times I’ve yelled “Sweep the leg, Johnny!” during karate class is incalculable. I don’t have anything good to say about Chevy Chase. Sorry. I guess the National Lampoon’s Vacation movie was kinda funny; maybe there’s a joke about a gas station sandwich I could reference. Also, Jon Voight helped make Angelia Jolie.

There are bad movies and there are terrible movies. A crime fighting martial arts dog movie is a bad movie. A terrible movie is something special. A terrible movie is so special in its unbelievable badness, that it somehow becomes good. And by good, I mean bad. Actually, by good I mean watchable. Usually, it’s so terrible, it’s funny. Or at least worth wasting some popcorn on. Terrible movies are to be enjoyed with friends. A good example of a terrible movie is Birdemic: Chaos and Fear. Or was it called Birdemic: Shock and Awe?  I can’t remember the full title. I’ll have to Google that later. Basically the title was Birdemic: Two Things You Won’t Experience on Viewing. Unless a hummingbird matte-painted onto a piece of glass and placed in front of the camera for every scene is chaotic, fear-inducting, shocking and/or terrifying to you. It wasn’t for me; although, it was worth some hearty guffaws. I wish there were more terrible movies like that. For every Star Wars epic we get to enjoy, I think Hollywood should also give us a Troll 2 to revel in because classic dialogue like “Nilbog is goblin spelled backwards” just bears repeating.

The thing about terrible ideas is that, once released to the universe, there will be someone to laugh at your expense. If you’re smart and/or you’re Tommy Wiseau, you quickly figure out that the laughter beats the obscurity you’d otherwise be doomed to and you run with it. Wiseau has made a sequel to his quotable train wreck of a film, The Room, widely referred to as the worst movie ever made. Seriously, there’s a sequel. Wiseau figured out he has a cult following and he’s going with it. As Pee Wee Herman famously said, “I meant to do that.” He was not referring to that adult theatre incident at the time.

I think Lori Petty is making a comeback on Orange is the New Black. I’m not sure how this information relates. I just like talking about her and her sassy short hair. She really didn’t make any terrible movies. The moral of the story is that if you’re going to eff up, do it spectacularly so the rest of us can enjoy it. A little self-deprecating humor and awareness of your shortcomings goes a long way. Without it you’re just a creepy John Travolta dressed like a gigantic ugly alien.

In summation, we all make mistakes, whether that’s cramming contrived plots about dogs with black belts into craptastic children’s movies, eating sandwiches purchased from gas stations, or writing daily blogs about nothing. You might as well bask in your own terribleness. That’s my plan.

Aristotle Thinks Your Argument is Invalid

Have you ever been in a public bathroom stall, sitting there minding your own business, when someone in a stall next to you starts talking? You’re convinced that they’re either crazy or desperate for attention in the most inconvenient and inappropriate of contexts. Unsure of what to say, you offer polite mumblings of assent to their strange questions and oddly phrased commentary. Hurriedly, you finish your personal business in order to exit the awkward conversation as quickly as possible only to discover that your stall-neighbor is also exiting. You wash your hands silently, trying hard not to make eye contact with this person, who is continuing to talk. It is at that point you notice your bathroom friend is holding a cell phone. Embarrassed, you realize you were never involved. A conversation was taking place, but you weren’t in it. Welcome to the internet, where people are talking but no one is actually listening.

Let’s face it: The internet is a cesspool. A false sense of anonymity combined with an overly easy medium for spouting one’s opinions (no matter how ridiculous they may be, as this blog demonstrates) has created an atmosphere of something I call fuckery. My favorite line from Shakespeare is “What fuckery be this?” (Insert totally credible citation here.) There is always some fuckery to be read on the internet and for some reason I can’t fathom, I waste a lot of time reading that stuff. No one is even talking to me.

Actually, I’m not sure who some of these internet writers are talking to. It seems they are attempting to craft the perfectly phrased persuasion in order to convince someone of something. But what? Will the right words left on the comments page of a random news article about Indiana steer sinners away from their chosen sin-filled lifestyle? Is someone talking to me? It’s hard to know if I’m the audience when a self-identified straight, white Christian man presents his logical and well-developed argument at the bottom of a BuzzFeed post about Ted Cruz, explaining how my desire for equal rights is squashing his personal liberties, while using words like “faggot” and “feminazi.” Maybe his audience would become clearer if he threw in the N-word for good measure. Also, the frequent use of “libtard” always makes me receptive to viewpoints other than my own.

Call me a cynic, but these don’t seem like effective communication strategies. Seriously, who is the audience for this argument? This is a question I ask my freshman composition students when they begin writing a paper. If your audience is either ‘people who will never be convinced no matter how much “evidence” you present’ then I put it to you that you are wasting your breath. Or bandwidth, which is much more valuable. Conversely, if your audience is ‘people who will believe everything you say despite your lack of any credible evidence at all’ then the question is, what’s the point of crafting a good argument? That’s called preaching to the choir. Can I get an Amen?

This issue of audience isn’t my idea. I am using Aristotle’s model for good rhetoric—the key features of argumentation are audience, purpose, and context. (Admittedly, I’ve taken a few liberties with my paraphrasing.) If you don’t have an audience willing to hear you out, you can’t achieve your purpose. Considering part of the context I’m discussing here is the doggone comments section of a random internet post, well, that’s sort of significant. I’m going out on a limb here and suggest that the internet isn’t the best place to convince the opposition of your argument’s validity. I think Aristotle will back me up on this.

In summation, I don’t think the internet pundits are talking to me so I’m going to look at cat pictures for the next twelve hours because I think the kittens actually are. 

Is Your Pronoun a Boy or a Girl? Prescription vs. Evolution

Do you ever feel like you’re swimming upstream? I’m experiencing an existential crisis of the linguistic variety wherein my English teacher self is battling my socio-cultural self. The trend in the English language currently, both spoken and in print, is the increasing use of they/them as a gender neutral singular pronoun. Pretty much every single student paper I’ve read in the last couple of years has done this. It’s especially common when students are attempting to sound formal and use the word “one” for a hypothetical discussion about someone. Ironically, their attempts to be intentionally formal and gender neutral are not reflected in their outdated use of words like “mankind.” I can’t completely blame them for still using that clunker of a manly throwback because it’s persisted in popular media. Every time I hear it in a movie or on television, I cringe. C’mon, Hollywood screen writers: Is the word “humanity” that complicated?

So, we’re moving to a point in language where they/them is a singular pronoun. Great. We need one.  Many contemporary sources on the subject advocate quite loudly for the use of they/them as an appropriate gender neutral singular. Current thinking in LGBTQ+ studies is to allow individuals to determine their own pronouns. It’s even one of the user-selected pronoun choices on Facebook. Unfortunately, English pedagogy isn’t quite onboard yet. All existing grammar textbooks I (am required to) assign for my classes and my English department guidelines all state that I should point out this “error” to students. What this amounts to is me telling my students that their correct decision to use gender neutral pronouns is incorrect. It’s not even a grammar rule I adhere to in my own speech.

I say “they” all the time in reference to a single person. My use of this formerly plural pronoun as a singular is a daily occurrence. Lately, whenever I hear myself say it, I note that I’ve done it and under what circumstances. Usually, it’s when I am either referencing a person generically, or more commonly, referencing a person whose gender I don’t want to reveal. This is a strategy LGBTQ+ people have been employing for years to publically discuss their significant others without outing themselves. It’s colloquially called playing “the pronoun game.” But increasingly, it’s no longer a strategic choice made for safety reasons by sex and gender minorities—it’s linguistic evolution—and my English teacher self feels like a fish with stubby legs wondering if those new fangled furry mammals walking around all cocky on dry land are going to eat me because I’m too slow to run away.

Prescriptively speaking, the “official” guidelines for directing students to fix their pronoun “errors” is to have them revise sentences to make all the nouns plural. When I write, this is what I do, as the previous sentence demonstrates. This is fine, and for generic discussions, plurals are usually stylistically preferred anyway; however, the “fix” feels like a stopgap measure for educators until we can put our collective gigantic brains together and come up with a better answer to teaching grammar than telling students they’re linguistically wrong for being politically correct.

Linguistic evolution isn’t a new thing—it’s the way language works. We all stopped using the gendered word “doctoress” back in the nineteenth century. Even ole’ long-in-the-tooth Microsoft Word knew to auto-correct that to the gender neutral doctor (and MSWord doesn’t know what heteronormativity means.) If you think I made that word up, go read Henry James’ book The Bostonians. Also, Google “Boston marriage” just for funsies.

In summation, my sensible-shoes wearing, ruler-cracking English teacher self wasting red ink circling plural pronouns is feeling out of sync with my skinny-jeans wearing, sriratcha and kale eating hipster self who knows that English is a pronoun-deficient language and we’re using what’s available.

Seduce and Destroy: Classic Hollywood Ending

I grew up with James Bond. I mean in the metaphorical sense, obviously. I have seen more James Bond movies than you might guess. Most of them, in fact. My grandmother was nuts about Hollywood films and she passed that down to my mom and her siblings. They’re even named for Hollywood celebs—Deborah Kerr, Clint Eastwood, Lon Cheney. I forget them all—there were seven kids. I have a cousin named Jonathan Wayne. I’m not even kidding. The only reason he’s not named simply John Wayne is because my mom didn’t share the celebrity naming convention fascination and convinced my uncle to use Jonathan. Thank god. If she had been a Hollywood name-dropper, I’d be Pussy Galore. My mom loves the Sean Connery era Bond. The Pussy Galore article on Wikipedia helpfully points out that the character’s name is a double entendre for female genitalia. It’s good I have the internet to tell me these things. Was that a dodged bullet or a missed opportunity? 

So, as I was saying, I grew up with 007. This makes an objective evaluation of films and pop culture icons I was immersed in from childhood difficult. It took many years for me to see anything wrong with James Bond. I re-watched the 1964 film Goldfinger recently (which I had not seen for decades) and the gleeful nostalgia I experienced hearing that Shirley Bassey song and seeing Odd Job throw his metal-rimmed hat was uncomfortably unbalanced by my horror at the pseudo-rape scene, which occurs between Bond and Galore. If you haven’t seen the film, let me explain: They’re in an isolated barn, and she is clearly saying no repeatedly while he lies on top of her, holding her down until she stops fighting him and “gives in” to having sex with him.

In the original 1959 Ian Flemming book, she’s a lesbian; the movie only hints at that by coding her as “immune” to Bond’s initial attempts at seduction. Galore’s all-female team of stunt pilots, “Pussy Galore’s Flying Circus” were also supposed to be lesbians and their “immunity” is the reason why Auric Goldfinger hired them; in addition to their resistance to male persuasion, their deceptive appearance “tricks” the “normal” folks—pretty girls can’t be bad, right? Eventually the theme of Bond “conquering” the “confused” woman in order for good to triumph over evil comes through (in both the book and the movie.)  Ian Flemming was a bit of a homophobe, TBH.

I’d like to say that this trend has ended, but sadly, that is not the case. The most recent James Bond film, Daniel Craig’s Skyfall, is still glorifying straight male dominance over women and vilifying queers. I’m not going to do a full analysis here but I will direct you to two important scenes: The first one is when Bond sneaks into a woman’s room while she is showering, silently takes off his clothes, gets in with her uninvited, and begins to seduce her. The second is when he’s held hostage by the film’s villain. The villain begins rubbing Bond’s thigh and making overt sexual advances on him, which Bond doesn’t respond to. Later Bond kills the sh!t out of that evil homo. Classic Hollywood ending.

In summation, the irony of reading a queer woman’s daily ramblings which could have alternately been titled “Pussy’s Blog” has not gone by unnoticed, and if you’re confused about what is “supposed” to happen to gays, just go watch some classic movies. They’re either “cured” or killed. The end.

Video Game Commentary: Critiques, Clichés, and Condiments

I read a brief analysis of video games this morning where the incredibly astute author’s main claim was that “sex sells.” What a useless thing to say. It was this intent of the author, I think, to present a serious critique of games targeting a male demographic by using imagery and storylines that reduce women to objects for the male players’ enjoyment.  But the phrase “sex sells” doesn’t communicate that. When I read a critical analysis, I always hope for some thoughtful exploration of the topic and the artifact under scrutiny. This is especially true if I happen to care at all about the artifact and agree that the critical concerns of the author are valid ones, which I do when it comes to women’s representation in video games. It’s therefore a big disappointment when a subject ripe for discussion we as an educated polis should be engaging in presents a lame and thoughtless conclusion like “sex sells.”

The author’s overarching critique is certainly valid, though it’s hardly new. Plenty of feminists have been talking at length about sexism in the gaming industry with plenty of fedora bros telling them to shut up for like five years now. If you’re not familiar with that whole can of worms, I would ask, first off, if you’ve ever been on the internet before, and then encourage you to check out game developer Breanna Wu’s long running Twitter commentary, feminist pop culture critic Anita Sarkeesian’s videos, or (if you’re feeling particularly brave,) read some stuff listed under the hashtag gamergate. (Use caution: misogyny and rape threats aplenty.) No, my beef is not with the issue itself, it’s with the phrase “sex sells.” This led zeppelin of a conclusion is nothing more than a placeholder for actual meaningful commentary. As a phrase, it begs several questions, which are much more important to answer than parroting the cliché itself. Also, it’s the kind of thing Don Draper would say to an intern after too many highballs.

Here are some better questions: What does sex sell? To whom? Why is it effective marketing? How is sex defined? Are you referring to the actual act of copulation or a normalized heterosexual construction of femininity versus masculinity that attempts to create desire for a product or lifestyle by playing on the fears of an audience conditioned to believe their sex and gender are “natural” and they should want the hyper-sexualized, unrealistic Barbies that companies are showing them if they’re “normal” men? These meaty questions are where real critique takes place. The phrase “sex sells” is the kind of empty BS my freshman communication students say during ad analysis presentations when they’ve done the prep work the night before it’s due.

When I read analyses, I want to have my ideas challenged (well, you know, to a certain degree.) I mean, there’s intelligent discourse and then there’s Rush Limbaugh mocking Michelle Obama for saying ketchup should not count as a vegetable. Seriously, Rush? If the harshest thing ring-wing pundits can think of to say about the First Lady involves her concerns about condiments then I think she’s doing okay. Anyway, it’s just disappointing when legitimate cultural issues get reduced to catch-phrases and clichés that don’t get us anywhere. Thoughtful critical discourse should not fit on a bumper sticker.

In summation, ketchup doesn’t even count as food, this blog is making me want to play the classic arcade game Burger Time, and if your important socio-cultural commentary is short enough to fit into a 140-character Tweet, your critique might need some extra hamburger patties on your analysis bun.