Shocking News! Your Teen May Be Lying! About Sex!

Right up there with, “Water is wet!”, here's a shocker. Teenagers have sex! Even when they say they won't!

My favorite part of the article is another breathtaking breakthrough statement.

The study also found that, five years after taking a virginity pledge, more than 80 percent of pledgers denied ever making such a promise. "This high rate of disaffiliation may imply that nearly all virginity pledgers view pledges as nonbinding," Rosenbaum said.

As opposed to all those other binding pledges—I'm thinking of ”I did my homework,” “I'll clean my room,” “If you buy me ____, I'll clean the kitchen for a month”—that teenagers make.

This was a heavily funded (I'm sure) National Study over a period of five years. Five years. Honestly, who comes up with these ideas? Were these "scientists" sitting at a round table, coming up with ideas? I guess so, judging from the other brilliant research undertaken recently.

“I bet that when you eat a bunch of magnets, it's bad for you.* Let's do a study of it!”
“No, Bill, that's not general enough...how about 'Smoking is expensive because cigarettes cost a lot of money'**?”
“Too controversial, Donna. Here's one. Teenagers have sex as they get older, even if they don't think they will.” Nodding around the table. “And we're lucky, there may be some ancillary discoveries...like teenagers will shirk duties and responsibilities they have previously said they would be accountable for!”
Shocked murmurs. “Do you think so, Carl? Isn't it too wild?”
“I don't think so, Donna. And we need to get on it now. This will take at least five years to prove, and I want to get moving on the 'Students at Party Schools like to Party' study as soon as we can.***”


*"Multiple magnet ingestion alert," Radiology, Nov. 2004.
**"The wealth effects of smoking," Tobacco Control, Dec. 2004.
***Sorry, Carl. "What We Have Learned From the Harvard School of Public Health College Alcohol Study: Focusing Attention on College Student Alcohol Consumption and the Environmental Conditions That Promote It," Henry Wechsler, Toben F. Nelson, Journal of Studies on Alcohol and Drugs, 69(4):481-490, 2008.

O.L. and Miss Velma Celebrate Christmas

Christmas is about love and family and Religion and “Fairytale of New York” and all that stuff. But for me, for years and years, it was also about Dr. O.L. Jaggers and his wife, Miss Velma Jaggers. They ran the Universal World Church in Los Angeles, which featured the Amazing Golden Altar. It was “amazing” in the way that things you've never heard of are supposed to be “amazing.” It looked hopelessly cheesy on TV.

O.L. and Miss Velma were old school evangelists, straight out of the depression/post depression years. I'm not sure what happened, but they develop a crazy streak a mile long and just as wide. O.L. is providing the narration here...“Miss Velma, who is a crack shot...after this she will play the hand organ!” They shot guns on stage. They had “spectacles.” They drove crazily decorated minibus/golf carts around the Golden Altar. They re-enacted various scenes from the Bible and American history. There were animals on stage. It was a like a 1930s circus crossed with a 7th grade American History textbook as read by a Sunday School teacher on acid. I ate it all up.

One year they advertised. “LIVE!...In church next week!...Jesus!” And our TV screens was filled with a few of their parishioners viewed through a lens covered with Vaseline. It was apparently a first person view from Our Lord. “One week only!” O.L. helpfully announced.

This is just a small sample. I miss them so much. Go with God, everyone.

On Your Radio

I just crossed about two thirds of the United States again, by car, with my pets with me. There's nothing quite like 26 hours in a 2006 Chevy Malibu Maxx with a dog and a cat (and a cat box). And that's for the best.

One of favorite things to do on these trips is spend time listening to AM radio. All the fun is on the AM stations in not very populous spots. When you're driving through relatively isolated areas of the United States—which I do—you realize how much a lifeline to the world that radio still is. On this trip, for instance, I heard:

--“Ed, your dog is running around on Wakita Highway. Put him in, for God's sake..he's not used to being out. It's freezing. Damn, you're stupid.”

--“It's time for Swap and Sell.” Mindy on Route W has a washer and dryer she'd like to swap for just about anything. Let's face it, she's not washing clothes now that the kids are gone.”

--“Bob and Shelly were really busy at the council meeting last night, as usual. They took it to Eddie's afterward, and Eddie had to cut them off after a few drinks.”

These things come in bits and pieces and are hard to find. But Interstate 40 is long and, God knows, I've got time. I hunt these things down.

Satellite Radio is the rage now. I don't get it. If I want to listen to music in the car, I'll listen to...music that I brought, as opposed to someone else's choices. I guess the argument is you don't have to put up with DJs or talk or commercials. Personally, I like the human contact of radio. I like the stories and the news ( as opposed to the “talk” of “talk radio,” which is mainly about yelling and telling people you disagree with what they're doing wrong). And I guess that says something about how far technology has come, that small town AM radio is often about “human contact.” In a world filled with Ipods and Wiis and DSL lines, that's still a good thing.

Best. Christmas. Song. Ever.

Well, I’m not saying anything new or original, but it’s that time of year. And there’s only one Christmas song for me. It doesn't matter how often it's played, or how often it's sung. I still love “Fairytale of New York.”

I love that it’s not filled with traditional Christmas images. I need more sleigh bells jingling and reindeer and snowmen right now like I need needles shoved under my fingernails. “Fairytale” is filled with drunk tanks and cold winds and marital strife. It’s filled with redemption and love. It talks about dancing to Sinatra. It could not possibly be cooler.

I love that it tells a story with genuine emotion, from the opening reflection of love, to the meeting in New York, to the drunken brawl. And in the end, when Kirsty MacColl tells Shane, “You took my dreams from me / When I first found you,” you can’t help but think Ouch; he’s not coming back from that one. So when he trumps her with “I kept them with me, babe / I put them with my own / Can’t make it on my own” and that shattering final line

I’ve built my dreams around you

you can’t help but be happy. There’s enough satisfying closure and genuine joy. All stories should end so well.

At least for the time being. I love that you don’t really know what is going to happen after the song ends. Christmas doesn’t last all year. You return to the real world soon enough.

I love that Shane’s dance with Kirsty at the end of song has become iconic. Kirsty MacColl had terrible stage fright, and she was literally unable perform live for seven years. And she was terrified when asked to perform “Fairytale” live with the Pogues, so Shane went in and told her not to worry, that he would be right there with her. And she sang, and it was great. The dance was a valediction of the faith she had in him.

I hate that Kirsty MacColl died. I hate it so much. I was a fan before she recorded with the Pogues. I was a fan afterward. In an industry of people with tissue-thin substance, she dealt with being told she was too skinny, too fat, not pretty enough, too pretty (for the Pogues), and pretty much every irrelevant thing imaginable. She was a woman funny and self aware enough to comment, when asked about the music industry, “Well, it gets to be little less about music each year, doesn’t it?”

She was killed in 2000 when a speedboat piloted by a drunk Mexican multi-millionaire wandered into an area designated only for swimmers. Everyone there agreed that Kirsty McColl’s final act was to push her son out of the way of the oncoming boat. He had minor injuries. She was killed instantly. I hate that she is gone.

I love it that when the Pogues decided to perform the song live in 2005, they recruited Katie Melua to sing with them, and that she was overcome with emotion as the time of the concert drew near. Like Kirsty, she was afraid to go on stage. And, as he done so many years before, Shane went in and told her it would be all right, that he would be there. And she sang with Shane and they danced together at the end.

I love it that, although “Fairytale” did not reach #1 when in England on its original release, that it climbed back into the top 10 in 2005 when it was rereleased, and that a chunk of the money was given to the “Justice for Kirsty” campaign (the millionaire that killed her has never been brought to trial). And, in the next two years, “Fairytale of New York” became the first song in history to go into the top 10 in three consecutive years. For God’s sake, “Fairytale” wasn’t even released as a single in 2007. It reached #4 on the strength of downloads alone. As of today, it is #19 on the BBC singles chart. I hope it makes the top ten again. I hope it makes the top ten every year.

Yes, I am

One of my students brought his mother by yesterday. The student is graduating in a week or so, and had taken a couple of classes from me. He had done well, and we had a nice teacher/student relationship.

I could tell right away it wasn't going to be the same with the parent. I got the kind of visual once over that Heidi Klum gets on a regular basis, except mine was much less appreciative. What can I tell you? I'm rumpled. I don't wear ties. I have a fast-growing beard that makes me look like I forgot to shave once 2:00 p.m. rolls around.

This sort of situation happens to me a lot. It's worse in the spring and early fall, when I'm still wearing shorts and Hawaiian shirts. One parent actually said to me, "You look like Mark Harmon in Summer School" in a frosty, Emily Gilmore voice. "Oh, I liked that movie!" I responded, which was--apparently--the wrong answer. Wrong, wrong, wrong. To be honest, he's better looking, but my shirts are much nicer.

I know I often create these startlingly poor first impressions, because I can sometimes win some of the battle back when I open my mouth. Thank God I have learned not to talk to parents like I'm still at the beach in Southern California. "Dude, The Winter's Tale just rocks!" is not really what parents want to hear from a supposedly effective University Professor. I save that for actual classroom time.

I never get all the way back, though. It's always the nice but slightly puzzled smile in parting, and I can hear the beginnings of the conversation as we walk away from each other. "That is your English professor?"

All-One or None

I use Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap--the original liquid, thanks. I used it off and on for years, and was buying it in California and bringing it here to Missouri until I discovered that my local supermarket sold quarts for $9.00. So for the last six years or so, I've been almost exclusively clean as a result of the products of the the Doc. (Or, as some of my friends put it, "The Pope of Soap." I'm serious; they call him that.)

All of us with an interest in chemical engineering or who saw Fight Club know that most soaps are actually pretty gross, ingredient wise. Commercial soaps are commonly made of rendered fat--usually from animals--and alkali salts. Dr. Bronner's is a Castile Soap, which means it is made from oils, which is significantly less disgusting (you don't get images of showering with chorizo, for instance).

The stuff is really concentrated. In practice, you have to dilute. How much you dilute is up to you, but you definitely have to water the stuff down, as the bottle tells you. Actually, the bottle tells you a lot of things. I'm not going to go into details about the original Dr. Bronner--who was certifiable and, at one point, certified--or his son that has taken over the business and apparently inherited a significant chunk of family eccentricities. There's a documentary that covers all of that. Let's just say the bottles have tons of small type that combine Dr. Bronner's rules for life, religious outbursts, infrequent love poetry, and--occasionally--comments about how to best make use of the soap. Good shower reading, if you ask me.

The stuff is a powerhouse. It seems watery at first, but you can really generate lather. And after using it and seeing how effective it is, it makes you wonder about why liquid soaps have a consistency not unlike Jell-O. Dr. Bronner's cleans better than any soap I've ever seen, doesn't dry skin out, and ends up being cheaper than any soap I've ever seen. It's also weird and different, and that works for me. Thought provoking, effective, inexpensive, weird, and different...what's not to love?

I bought my bottles a couple of weeks ago--two quarts a year gets me through a full year quite nicely. Some people dilute at 12:1, and I've heard of other going as low as 3:1. I'm around 6:1, and I get plenty of bang for the buck. I always use the Peppermint, and have one other scent/type to alternate with it. So I smell pleasantly like a large Starlight Mint half the time. Last year, I had the Eucalyptus, which made me smell like a terrific Cough Drop every other day. I've also used the Lavender (which smells like...lavender) too, but the smell is stronger and a little too feminine for me. The Tea Tree is nice, but the scent is a bit too much like Watery Lipton for my taste. So I chose the Almond this year, and have found that smelling like a big Chinese Cookie is quite nice.

Season Seven

Season 7 of Gilmore Girls has been in my DVD stacks, unopened, since last November. I didn't watch it until late last night and today when, as was my practice with the other six DVD sets, I wallowed in Stars Hollow virtually non-stop.



It's not like I needed to watch it anyway. I did not miss an episode of Gilmore Girls for more than six years, from the 19th episode of Season 1** to the very last show. Some of it was desire, a lot of it was luck, but the fact remains that when an original episode was on, I was in front of the TV. No tivo, no taping, no reruns. Occasionally, there were clashes. My friend Todd called me in May, 2004. "Hey, we're going to watch the Royals game at the _____ bar."

"Gilmore Girls is on," I answered.

Long silence on Todd's end. "John, we need to talk."

But we didn't. In his particular case, no talking would have mattered--it was "Raincoats and Recipes"...the final episode of Season 4. Kirk and the night terrors! Luke and Lorelai kiss at the Dragonfly! Rory gets it on with Dean!

Gilmore Girls hit some rough patches in its final two years. But the final season sorted out some of the crappy story lines introduced the year before, and got the mojo going for the final half of the year. Although less frequent than in previous years, the high points of that season were as good as the lofty peaks of other years...which is to say as good as anything I've ever seen on television. Watching Lauren Graham rip through dialogue at 90 miles an hour, running narrative circles around anyone and everyone, hurling literary, classic, and pop culture references at a mile a minute was off the hook. It was like the dialogue from 1930s screwball comedies, only quicker and just as arch and intelligent. It was the fastest, smartest thing I'd ever seen on the small screen. It was breathtaking. (As a guy, I have to add the fact that Lauren Graham was Hot Like a Nuclear Inferno was an added bonus.)

In general, I don't watch much TV. And few network shows really hit the mark with me. Arrested Development was truly awesome. I very much liked Sports Night, which lasted only a season or two. Nowadays, I watch a couple of shows...The Office, 30 Rock, Bones. When 24 is good, it's a terrific show (although it was really lousy last year). But none of them worked for me as well as Gilmore Girls did.

I hadn't watched the final season on DVD because I knew that watching it would be effectively saying that the show was over. Just seeing it shrink wrapped was a reminder that there was still one last big weekend with these people, one final fling before the circus left town. But I didn't want to put it off any longer. So I watched with sadness and joy, knowing that there was one less good thing in my life awaiting me, but reveling in the chance to spend time with something I truly liked.

**I was flicking through channels in April 2001, when I happened to see two teenagers discussing music.

"I like this song. It makes me gloomy."
"Gloom is good."
"No...Really gloomy."
"Like Joy Division Gloomy? Nick Cave gloomy? Robert Smith gloomy?"
"Johnny Cash gloomy."

You don't hear Joy Division and Nick Cave referenced on Network TV. You just don't. I never missed another episode.

Holiday Excitement on the Cooking Front

Being 45 and single has minuses. Lack of companionship heads that list. I don't want to go into the details of doing the friends with benefits thing, or the (in general) horrors of internet dating, or the way friends keep trying to set me up...as though being a 45 year old single heterosexual male means I can't recognize an appealing woman. No, those are the negatives. I can save those for future blogs.

I want to focus on the positive. I'm makin' Tamales for Thanksgiving!!!

Hey, I respect the rituals. And I know many of you American sorts will be having turkey, stuffing, etc. next Thursday and "enjoying" leftovers for some time after that. Well, I eat leftovers all the time because I cook for one. When I make any sort of normal recipe or use a slow cooker, it's days of food for me. I've got to really like Chicken with Mushroom and Wine Sauce, because I'm eating it two or three times a day for three days. (Please don't tell me to freeze things. Tried that.) And I don't like cranberries. Turkey is fine, but nothing special...come on, we eat Turkey all the damn time. Mashed potatoes? Please. Do we really want to talk about mashed potatoes being special in any way?

(I'm excluding the people who make from scratch mashed potatoes with extra sour cream and cheese...you're about one percent of the population. The rest of us use the boxed stuff or just crush boiled potatoes with salt.)

Tamales, on the other hand, are special. I'm talking about awesome tamales, the ones made from scratch with the killer Maseca Masa. I've made 'em in Mexico...used beef shoulder cooked with garlic and pico de gallo and a couple of other spices and some semi-sweet chocolate for the filling. They were scrumptious; they left turkey so far back in the dust, it was like Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote.

I'm gong to spend part of Wednesday cooking the filling, then make the masa and spread it on the husks and fill those bad boys up and cook them on Thursday. By 1:00 p.m., I'll be in Tamale heaven. A six pack of Dos Equis Amber--my favorite beer for good food--will top it off nicely, thanks.

People always invite me over for Thanksgiving. It's kind of a pity date. It's very nice of them. But the only family I like to spend Thanksgiving with is mine...and until I get married, that means I either go to California to see my Mom or Sister, or stay solo. And if I'm solo, I'm going to sleep late and wear the sweats all day and watch old movies (because the football games have sucked recently). And eat what I want.

A Teacher's Lament

I'm a teacher. My title is a little different, but I've got 81 students this semester. Let's call a spade a spade. I'm a teacher.

For all you parents out there... I know your kids. You know about your kids...you've fed them and clothed them and influenced them and talked to them and loved them. But you have to deal with the Heisenberg Principle. Whenever you're around, your kids aren't themselves. Not close. The only time you see your children is when you are watching, unannounced and unnoticed. It isn't often. Most of the time, you are relying on speculation and optimism and prayer. I feel for you.

Once I am out of the classroom, I am next to invisible. Your kids say things they would never say when I am in class with them. It's like people in cars who pick their noses and perform personal tasks and rituals that make them appear boorish and disgusting. They think they're cut off because they're in cars. People, you are surrounded by glass. We can see you. And students that walk out of my classroom immediately get in the cars, so to speak...only I can see and hear them. They talk about life and people (and me, occasionally and sometimes disparagingly) as though they are in a bubble from the world. I move among them like a ghost.

The average grade in my classes is a mid to low B. To be technical, the GPA in my courses is around 2.75. It doesn't vary much--sometimes I'll have a semester with a terrific upper division class filled with English majors. Sometimes I'll get a Freshmen comp class filled with the slackers and athletes who are having a second go at a class they failed previously. If I've got 20 people in a class, it's rare that I have more than 3 or 4 As. That's 15 to 20 percent. All parents think their kids deserve or should get As. 15 to 20 percent do. That's a good class. Most of the students that get As are doing it in all their classes. They're driven.

The other ones--the other 80-85%--are largely aimless and unfocused. And totally unconcerned about it. Maybe half of the students getting As actually work hard to get those grades...maybe 2 or 3 of the others put in an effort to get a well-deserved B (or C). The vast majority just sit there and let eduction wash over them, hoping that when the tide pulls back it will leave as little trace as possible. Half my students get grades of C or below. Almost none of them care about it.

I teach writing, for God's sake. I teach rhetoric. I teach students how to form reasonable arguments, and support their ideas. I teach them how to write professional documents, including resumes and cover letters. It is not an esoteric subject. I love history, but it's not common that an employer will ask you to talk about Robber Barons in the Gilded Age. She or he will, however, ask you to submit a travel report, or a project overview, or an in-house memo. You will be asked for your opinion about the project your department is working on, what to do about the break schedule, or how to improve the lunch buffet. I teach students how to do these things, how to do them better. Practical things. I tell them that a resume that gets a B will not get them a job, because someone will submit a resume that's an A. I tell them coming in five minutes late to a fifty minute class on a regular basis, or missing 10% of days for vague, inspecific reasons won't be accepted in the workplace and they will be unable to get or keep a job. Doesn't matter. Almost none of them care.

They are good kids. They are adults, but I can't help but think about them as kids...partially because of their incredible naivete about how to function in the real world, a job I am supposed to be preparing them for. I get along with students. I genuinely care about them. I like them. But they don't care; I know this. I see it every day. The passivity about their own future. The lack of concern about thinking as opposed to memorizing. The frighteningly narrow world view and inability to articulate their part in it.

One out of a hundred is truly different. He or she thinks about what is going on. These aren't necessarily the best students, but I hear from them on occasion after they have gone. "I got my job because of the stuff I learned in tech writing." "I joined the Peace Corps because of what we talked about in World Lit." "I'm going to grad school because I want to know so much more about what's going in this area." One in a hundred.

I know your kids. I care about them. But, like all teachers, I live for that one. Otherwise I'd go crazy.

Dropping F-Bombs With Joe Scarborough

Confession-- I was watching. I get up early. I like Joe Scarborough’s show. It’s chatty. I like Mika Brzezinski because she seems like the best sort of centrist. (And because of her famous lighting-the-story-about-Paris-Hilton-on-fire-rather-than-reading-it-as-headline-news escapade. Check it out here! Man, good for her!) I kind of like Joe Scarborough, too. Is there anyone who looks more like a politician than this guy? Don’t think so. I don’t agree with him often, but he’s sincere and consistent and not totally aggressive, and that puts him in the upper ranks of modern politicians and commentators. He also seems to genuinely like Mika, which is nice. I even like Willie Geist, because he’s essentially helpless and worthless…he’s Tucker Carlson lite, something I never would have dreamed possible.

Still, the fact that Joe dropped the F-bomb on the air kind of made my 7:00 a.m. post dog walking morning.

Styx makes a CD about a Giant Carrot.

Well, now that Barack Obama has won the Presidency, I guess we can all get back to the important stuff.

So...Styx made an album about a giant carrot!



Look, I was a teenager in the seventies. I liked Styx. In the great battle of the one word name Seventies/Early Eighties bands (Journey, Kansas, Toto, Foreigner, Boston, Loverboy), I was in the Styx corner. I was a fan. They made some good music. I actually saw the Kilroy Was Here tour. You know, the one with "Mr. Roboto." There was a 20 minute movie directed by Ridley Scott that set up the entire concept of the album/concert. (Bet Ridley leaves that one off his resume!) It was a daring concept considering the band's primary fan base was 16 year old girls who wanted to hear "Babe" over and over and guys like me who were busy getting stoned and wondering when the fuck they were gonna stop all this weak shit and play "Miss America."

Later, Dennis DeYoung worked with Liza, and Tommy Shaw did a record with Nugent and one of the guys from Night Ranger. So, yeah, there was a lot of bad to go with the good.

Which brings us to today. Leaving out the kind of charming idea that Styx was still recording new music as of 2003 (without, alas, Dennis DeYoung, proto Power Ballad Meister)...what's up with the carrot? What does it mean? What could it possibly mean? Since I probably won't see them again unless they play for free or I'm at a state fair and seriously drunk, it will remain a mystery.

Diddy as Etymologist and Acne Sufferer

Just had to expand on my friend Pearl’s blog about Diddy. For those that didn’t know or are somehow able to withstand the Allure of the Infomercial (I sure can’t), Diddy used Proactive solution for years. As he inimitably put it, he used Proactive to “moisturize my situation” and “preserve my sexy.”

What I love:

--Diddy calls his skin “a situation”
--Diddy makes the word "sexy" a noun

If he doesn’t have some sort of direct line to God, he’s definitely working with publishers of the OED. The dude is reinventing language! And talk about God-like clout…the ad is now NOWHERE TO BE FOUND! It exists only in our collective memory.

But we remember, Diddy. Oh yes, we remember.

An Annoying Autobiographical Note about Love and Music

I went to a concert last week. A rock concert. It was in a large hall that had at one time been used for basketball and other indoor sports. About half the crowd sat on the one side of bleachers that had been set up. The rest of us were on the floor, crowding toward the band like…well, like people do at concerts. It was very hot and very humid and smelled like an old gym with a hint of Unwashed Concertgoer (Eau De Arena).

The performer was Ben Folds, and he was terrific. I’ve seen him several times over the years, and it was pleasing to see that his performance skills were still top notch. And he was as goofy and charismatic as ever. Several songs involved band members and other wearing enormous yellow frown heads (think of the yellow smiley face, and turn that bad boy upside down). He still doesn’t have a guitar in his band. He still curses a lot. He dropped various items into his piano to vary the sounds that came out of it. It was a strange and wonderful experience, as his performances usually seem to be. I walked out with the same feeling I get whenever I go to a great show—“When’s the next good concert?”

I am 45 years old now. If I wasn’t the oldest person at the show, I was probably the oldest person on the floor rather than the bleachers. I actually went to the show with several of my students (they had a great time too). For years, I felt a sense of guilt and shame that I was still going to concerts like I did when I was 18 or 28. But I have come to realize what makes it special. I still get the same feeling from these shows that I did when I was young. For those of you that are my age or close to it (no raising of hands necessary; you know who you are), you know that it is no small feat to able to recapture those moments of transcendent bliss.

In class yesterday, students were asking me about the concert. And in a moment of clarity, I was able to articulate something precise and personal and wonderful to my class.

“I used to worry that I was getting too old to go to concerts,” I told them. “But then I realized that I am totally, completely, and madly in love with music. And we are never, ever going to be separated.”





p.s. Kings of Leon and The Whigs are playing at The Pageant in St. Louis on November 3. Score!

Replies From My New, Snarky Magic 8-Ball

I'm not telling you and you can't make me.

Change that shirt, and we'll talk.

You figure it out, question boy!

This fucking black water is in my ears...ask again.

It's all pops on buzzes on my end.

Oh, Jeez.

Reply Hazy. Must be the Shrooms.

Sarah Palin.

No Longer Weird

Don't take my word for it. No Longer Weird

Gotta say that #59 made me laugh out loud a little bit. I am a bad, bad person.

Competition BBQ

My city had its Roots 'N Blues 'N BBQ festival last weekend, and it was by all accounts a big success. On the music front, I saw a new guy named Gary Clark, Jr. who was tremendous. Tab Benoit was sober and excellent. Del McCoury and the Bel-Airs were dependable and enjoyable. It was sunny, the weather was perfect, and it was free. I live in a great city.

I remain dubious about the concept of Competition Barbecue, though. Don't get me wrong--I love competitive cooking; I'm still mesmerized by old Iron Chef reruns. ("Today, it's a Potato Battle!") And I like barbecue (or "BBQ" if I'm trying to be Joe Six Pack). I just don't get the hoopla about combining them. It doesn't have the fun subtitles of Iron Chef, and there's a certain joylessness to these people that spend a lot of money (tens of thousands of dollars) and time to travel to cities and...make food. I sort of asked around about this (thanks to my natural curiosity and the six or seven beers I had knocked back), and basically heard variations on a theme. We like to cook, we're good at BBQ, so this is the natural next step.

Yes, but. The crap you have to buy is extensive....thousands on a good grill/smoker, hundreds or thousands on other materials and food, and a trailer and /or hauling costs. You have to have a tidy group of people to attempt these competitions. Dozens of teams compete for what appears to be relatively small prizes (given the travel/preparation costs). And I guess you get the honor of being a great BBQ cook as judged by a bunch of people you don't know. But this is one of those things where I figure the only people I would want to impress would be my friends. And if I wanted to do it, I wouldn't have a "competition." I'd do something different. I would call it a "party."

I do want to add that the Beef Brisket sandwich and Pulled Pork Tamale I ate last weekend were terrific, though.

A Regular Guy Passes Away

He's going to be absolutely, positively lionized for the next few weeks, and rightfully so. But I still want to write about Paul Newman. I liked Paul Newman. I respected Paul Newman. He was an honest-to-God hero, although he'd deny it and hate it if someone said it about him. What really saddens me is that his death is just another piece of a past world that has gone and probably won't be back.

I'm not a head-in-the-sand person that thinks the world is going to hell in a handbasket, that things were 100% better when I was younger. But I don't think humanity is on a steady upward climb either. We go up and down in intelligence, decency, and kindness. And what we want or expect out of people in the limelight is one of the things that has gone down in recent decades. There have always been a celebrities of all types (artistic, political, miscellaneous) that have been peckerheads. This is not a modern occurrence. But the self-congratulatory aspect of celebrity has been magnified by increased media scrutiny. People who wouldn't have fallen prey to ego-driven conceit and selfishness fifty years ago can justify that type of negative change in their personality and self in the modern world. It's hard to keep perspective when someone is putting your face and/or voice on the airwaves, and other people respond to it. A lot of people start to think that means they're better than they are. I probably would do the same thing.

Paul Newman never did. This is a man who, without patting himself on the back too much, donated over $200 million to charity, set up camps all of the country for severely ill children, and championed civil rights a long time before it was cool (or, in Hollywood, popular or smart) to do so. But he didn't do those things for any other reason than to simply do them. His activism never intruded on his career or was part of his celebrity. You didn't hear about Paul Newman giving a quarter of a million dollars for refugees in Kosovo, or that his camps for camps for seriously ill children had expanded onto other countries and continents, or that he gave $10 million to his alma mater for a scholarship fund. You didn't hear about it because he didn't tell people and didn't advertise his philanthropy. He just did good things.

Paul Newman was a guy--but, somehow, he remained a regular guy. How he did this is beyond me. He was handsome when he was 20...and 30...and 40...and pretty much every decade after that. He drove race cars and was really good at it; he was a winning member of the 24 hours of Daytona when he was 70, and was still racing (and doing well) at 80. I have a good friend who is very involved in auto racing; he does film work for the Speed channel. "Oh, yeah," he told me once. "I've seen Paul Newman. Seen him lots of times." He paused. "He's a regular guy." Another pause. "His racing team always has great food." He made a hockey movie--the hockey movie--in Slap Shot. When he turned 70, he commented that drinking beer before noon was tougher. He served in the Navy World War II; he was as a tail gunner in the Pacific. He'd show up occasionally on Letterman and make Dave giggle. He married a famous actress and, like a lot of people--but unlike a lot of celebrities--it took. Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman celebrated their 50th anniversary earlier this year. That makes me happy.

A regular guy. Like I said, we live in a world where celebrities are almost universally convinced they are better and more important than they really are. Paul Newman didn't think he was better than he anyone else. But the truth is, he was. He did so much to help people all over the world; literally hundreds of thousands of adults and children owe him for his generosity, for his efforts to do good, for his decency. Paul Newman was a great actor--nine Academy Award nominations, one win, a slew of characters that have become cinematic and cultural icons. He was an even better human being. He'll be missed.

I did not go to college at all, having not finished high school, due to I killed a man.

I know it's the New Yorker so it's hardly underground, but my friend Jason gave this to me yesterday and I laughed until I almost peed myself. Which would have been a disaster right before my 2:00 Tech Writing class.

Keep in mind this is was written well before Sarah Palin's latest interview with Katie Couric. I'm almost tempted to say that all of us would come across like that if we were transcribed while, you know, actually talking. But no. Sarah Palin is actually that vapid.

Strong Bad Teaches English Skills, Diorama Technique

As a college English professor , I approve this message.

Middle school readers and parents will want to get diorama advice of this sort.

Snippets From the Time Travel Postcards Sent From 2008 Me to my Earlier Self

To 1976 J.P.
I‘m not blind, so don’t worry. Mom is lying.

To 1979 J.P.
Just take a deep breath before you drink the shot, and spray it out when you light the match. And don’t wear the velour shirt. Ever.

To 1982 J.P.
Not her.

To 1985 J.P.
Even though the alley on Broadway is dark and you really need to pee, don’t. You’re gonna get arrested and have to hear the judge call you up for “urinating in public.” Way embarrassing, even for you.

To 1988 J.P.
Go back to school. Go directly back to school. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.

To 1990 J.P.
Buy the Mazda. It'll last and, Christ, everyone has Toyotas and Hondas.

To 1991 J.P.
Not her either.

To 1993 J.P.
Molly will go away soon, and you won’t see her anymore. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Appreciate these times.

To 1995 J.P.
Your friend J.D. is right. Definitely not her.

To 1996 J.P.
Ignore the naysayers. Elvis is a terrific name for the cat.

To 1998 J.P.
Dissertations directors may not know as much as you--or they--think. Ask around and get other opinions. And drink more Newcastle…you’ll thank me later.

To 2001 J.P.
The western part of Kansas by Colby is a fucking speed trap now. I’m just saying.

To 2004 J.P.
Yes, the gown looks cool right now. But you’ll only wear it at convocation and graduation from now on, and it’s itchy and hot. Get the tam instead of the mortarboard; you’ll look like less of a dork.

To 2005 J.P.
The cat is going to claw the couch to bits, so don’t overpay.

To 2006 J.P.
The garden only seems like a good idea because you don't know anything about gardening. Remember the Great Retiling Incident of 1988?

Go Ben Go!

Ben Folds rocks. ETix, however, sucks. I tried desperately and, of course, hopelessly to get a ticket to the Ben Folds Five reunion show. Saw them many, many times; am going to see Ben with his new band next month. But I would have paid the bux for this. Sadly, not the bux the scalpers on ebay want.

p.s. Love the Front to Back thing! Hearing one of your favorite discs played beginning to end...nice.

TV Show Reviews (from titles without actually watching them)

"Do Not Disturb." Am I missing something? It’s a too too clever title, but it’s not going to play well with the Unwashed Masses, who will only choose this show over potential stablemate, “Don't Watch This Channel.”

"Supernanny." Getting fed up with the habit of adding the prefix “Super-“ to unnecessary nouns (likewise with the suffixes “-gate” and “-ology”). She’s a nanny, for God’s sake. Superdrugstoreclerk woudn’t get my attention etiher.

"America’s Toughest Jobs." They didn’t contact me. I know the show much be full of shit.

"Dirty Sexy Money." So, what…attractive people cleaning bills and coins? Is this some sort of reality show? Maybe it’s a spin-off from “America’s Toughest Jobs.”

"Numb3rs." Okay, here’s the deal. No more of this “numbers for letters” crap unless you’re Prince. He gets a free pass. "Nothing Compares 2 U" is still a great song.

"The Biggest Loser: Families." I know…it’s about weight loss. I’m sure it’s heartwarming. So why cross them up with the show’s name? I mean, do we crown an attractive beauty pageant candidate “Miss Armpit Stain”? Truth in advertising, that’s all I’m saying.

"My Own Worst Enemy." A bit too autobiographical. One word: Tequila.

"The Unit." Biography of a well-endowed man? Gotta be better than the 7000th show about some sort of military group. I bet this is a more serious A-Team…but if it was about John Holmes, it would be more entertaining.

Re: my last post...not going there

Okay, so now the Repubs have nominated a woman who looks like what we think/hope the Voice Woman looks like! I'm a guy; that's the selling point for me. If I was a woman, I think the strategy would go "She's got the same plumbing as me, so she gets my vote!" I am just not going there, okay? Not up to it now. Probably not ever. Gagging on my own bile is not my idea of a good time.

Excuse me for feeling vomitorious about all of this, but it's a holiday weekend, and I'm going to have a drink or seven to avoid these thoughts as prudently and completely as possible.

Love that Voiceover voice...Not!

A special note from Me to the Creepy/Sexy Voice Woman who does the voiceovers for John McCain's ads.

Dear Ms. Voice,

I know you aren't really a sexy thang hanging in a bar waiting for me to buy you a Manhattan and have Wild Monkey Sex with you. I know all you care about is keeping Capital Gains Taxes low and deporting everyone with a goofy sounding Hispanic name. You don't fool any of us even if you do sound like an E-ticket ride.

Sincerely,

Me

Whispers

I put my cat Joe to sleep today. That is the correct phrase. I was holding him while the vet put a small catheter into his vein. I kissed him and whispered "I'll find you. You look for me, and I'll look for you." His tail beat against the table once--a sign that he was happy--and he fell asleep. Then he got the second shot and I held him during that too. I told him I loved him as well, but he didn't need me to say that again. I was always there for him, right to the end. He knew.

I have been unfortunate to have two cats die in the last nine months--my old friend Elvis, who was 12, in November, and Joe. But most of all I have been lucky--so very, very lucky--to know what it is like to be trusted and loved unconditionally, to have pets that kept my priorities straight, to watch something grow and mature and turn into something special, and know that I was a part of it. It is related to the happiness I get from my work, except that I played a far greater role in the lives of my cats than I do with students...although I feel proud when students succeed too.

My cats reminded me to play at all hours, to curl up next to someone you love, to recognize that running from a confrontation is perfectly acceptable, to occasionally drop the work and stretch out and relax...so many things. And, of course, I am sad now...but I also feel happiness and love and pride and duty. The sadness will pass one day. The other feelings will stay with me, always.

There is a thread of mortality that runs through all of this. Pets are not human, of course...but they are like children in the way that they become totally dependent on you. And, unlike our children, that we try to raise so well that they, one day, do not need us anymore...pets do not grow out of needing us. Maybe that's why, in the best situations, we recognize and give back that unconditional love and the cycle is so wonderful.

And why, sometimes, the hard choices must be made. We pass through the entire life cycle of a pet the way we pray we never have to with our children. And sometimes, decisions made out of love are the hardest ones to make throughout that life. We keep pets away from dangerous things that they, mysteriously, enjoy. We scold them and get angry when they make mistakes. We help them as they begin to get confused or weak. And we ask for the final shot when we think it is best. It is all done out of love. I think we hope that, one day, someone will treat us the same way. I held Joe and spoke to him with love in his last moments because, one day, I will be on the table, and I hope others will do the same for me.

Sad (for people that get the pet thing)

My cat Joe has been diagnosed with FIP (Feline Infectious Peritonitis). It's a horrible disease; by the time a cat is diagnosed, the disease is so far advanced that the cat is unlikely to live more than a few weeks or even days. My vet--who is terrific--sort of hinted that it would be okay if I wanted to have Joe euthanized immediately. But I didn't want Joe's last few days to be in a crate or cage. We're at home now.

I imagine my next couple of posts will be about, well, pets. I have a six year old dog, Daisy. Diasy is all about Joy and Happiness; she is the happiest dog on our planet. My previous cat, Elvis, died last November. Elvis was wonderful...as I told people, the life of a graduate student is often lonely and psychologically damaging in ways you sort of have to experience to believe. I was lucky; I had Elvis. I mentioned him in the acknowledgments of my dissertation. Joe will not have that chance, He is only 13 months old and will likely not make it to 14 months.

One person asked me why I was putting myself through this...why I didn't just let them put the cat down now to spare myself and the cat. I guess this is one of those non-pet people...the ones that just don't get it. There are millions of them, people that think of a pet as an appliance or can cut themselves off from the feelings of animals. You know these people; we all do. They usually start out by saying, "Look, I know pets have feelings..." but you can hear the "but" coming up and realize they really don't know or understand that at all.

I don't dislike these people. I just recognize that they are different from me. Obviously there are lots in my camp as well--the plethora of pet books and items (many of which my Mother gives to me as birthday/Christmas presents) tells me this. The popularity of Marley and Me shows this. I guess there are a lot of people much deeper in this camp than I am...I don't really need all the accoutrements that others need or want.

I don't need to be reminded that I love my cat. Joe can barely eat now. I scratch his head and give him Prednisone and put a plate of different varieties of cat and human food out for him--anything to get him to eat. He licks at them in a desultory way. What he really likes to do be is be with me. He sleeps under the covers, stretched out against my leg. He climbs on my chest and tucks his head under my chin and purrs. I pet his now thin body and make sure he knows how much he is loved and hasd been loved in his short time here. And he knows, he knows.

I Obviously Don't Get Out Enough

I turned 45 a few weeks ago. And I am slowing down. This was brought home to me by the story of Brian Scott. (You know a headline like "Golf Cart Driver Busted for Meth" is going to get my attention.)

So...let's review and ponder.

1) Loaded gun!
2) Bag of meth!

...which still leaves out that this guy was so fucked up that he got stopped for driving a gold cart badly. Think about it. Really, the gun and meth are the icing, as it were.

Ice Cream, Instant Oatmeal and Bogging Down in Convenience

Sometimes I tell my students that it's really much, much faster to do research with a book. Or, at least, an academic database. Anything other than the internet. They, of course, don't believe me. I am still getting used to the fact that they are rebelling against The System, and that I am regarded as part of the system. Talk about a mind-fuck! But I digress.

It's hard to convince people of the difference between convenience and accessibility and real world practicality. The internet, for instance, will give you thousands and thousands of informational websites about a mundane term like “dyspepsia.” (Over 1,500,000 hits on Google!..shades of McDonalds.) All that information! And you access it anywhere...from your room, from your web equipped cellphone, in a coffee shop, in the toilet, while you eat...anywhere.

But, first, you've got millions and millions of potentially useful places to look at. This is not a help. I liken it to going to get an ice cream cone on a hit summer day. You go to one place, and they've got four choices...chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate chip. You buy your ice cream and go out and enjoy it. You go to another place, and they've 7,292 possible ice cream choices. Is this really beneficial? It's hot. You want ice cream. Spending fifteen minutes reading a list of choices—and most of the time, people pick vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, or chocolate chip anyway—is a waste of time on every level.

In the same vein, people love the fact that they can do research on the internet “anywhere.” But is this a plus? I mean, I personally don't like to be distracted when I'm using a computer. Since most public use computers aren't put in the middle of crowded thoroughfares, my assumption is that this is a shared feeling. And since scholastic and/or work research is last thing we really want to use a computer for, any sort of distraction when we're doing this type of activity is going to be...distracting. Using the internet in a dorm room, or a shared room, or among friends is like having a lecture on economics in the middle of the French Quarter. Nobody cares. Even the lecturer. And the end result is crappy.

But you just can't convince some people of this. No...it's easier! It's more convenient! When it's explained that the convenience, in this case, usually means more time to get less result, the response is disbelief. But what can you expect? We live in a world that promotes “instant” oatmeal..just pour boiling water over instant oatmeal and stir it for thirty seconds. And it;s done! Thank god we've rescued ourselves from boiling water and stirring regular old “slow” oatmeal into it for a full stinking minute. Sure, instant oatmeal costs ten times as much and isn't as good for you. But it takes, like 30 seconds less. It's instant! It's enough to drive me to drink. Or ice cream.

Summer Blockbuster Haikus

Indy still has it
And Marion's still plucky
Perhaps no fridge nuke?


Cate the Great with crop
But the accent's got to go
Too much Bullwinkle

***

A bald Jeff Bridges
Plays off Robert Downey like
Cue ball and eight ball

***

Dark, dark, dark, dark knight
But too dark—and fix that voice
Batman...overdone

Hospital Food

My mother goes to the hospital tomorrow for minor surgery (hopefully). It's possibly outpatient, but likely an overnight stay...she's 84 now, and it's better to be safe than sorry in terms of going to the hospital, getting an hour or two of surgery, and checking out/going home on the same day. Let's have them monitor things for a night.

I will be in the cafeteria at least once or twice. That means salad bars...I've discovered that hospitals almost always have good salad bars. And the food area is always well lit and comfortable to some degree. But it's always such an alien, incompatible atmosphere of wildly clashing customers...the nurses, doctors, and (especially) drug company reps that talk loudly, waving their forks airily around to make their point, laughing about some shared experiences. And the rest of us, waiting for news of loved ones, faces pinched with strain and worry.

I just focus on my food. The salad bar is always good.

What music to play while driving through Utah at 90 miles per hour

...with a dog and cat in your car. I go through the San Rafael Swell about four times a year. It's a great drive, even if you are in a Chevy Malibu Maxx stuffed to the gills with suitcases and a dog and cat. The 170 miles from the Utah/Colorado border to civilization took me about 115 minutes today. Filling that time up was:

Amy Winehouse--Frank
Great voice. I get amused when I read about people/critics talking about her "multiple influences and styles!!" like she invented that or something. (Send a memo to Ella, Sarah Vaughan, Anita O'Day, etc.) But, hey, I'm mentioning Amy in that company. That's a compliment. Loved the disc.

U2--The Joshua Tree
Not all of it; does anyone need to hear "With or Without You" again? But the songs that I still think of as the side 2 songs sounded terrific.

Ben Folds Five--Whatever and Ever Amen
Freaked my dog Daisy out with my wild gesticulations and loud singing of "kiss my ass goodbye!" and "Well, fuck you too!"

And then it was civilization again.

Happy Birthday to You, Exile in Guyville

Exile in Guyville is now 15 years old, and it's recently been reissued. It was wonderful then, it's wonderful now. Everyone knows it.



Props for getting John Cusack out there to talk. You knew he was into the Chicago indie scene at the time. You just knew.

And the fact that Liz Phair is now 41 and has had a kid and has realized that she's volcanically hot and getting hotter is a joy too. I'd like to tell her that she rocks, because it's literally true.

The Goodreads thing

My friend Beth got me to get logged into goodreads.com. It’s a terrific idea…you list books you’ve read, and review them in as much or little detail as you want. You can look at what others say, and get updates on what your “friends” are reading. Kind of like a book club with no drinking or fondue.

What's fascinating is to see what other people like and don’t like. Sure it appalls me that someone would think that complexity of The Best and the Brightest is “dry” or “boring.” But then you can see what grades these people give to other books. It’s like looking inside the heads of people that you usually don’t talk to in those cases. Seriously, it’s fascinating.

Seems like the majority of members are under 35 and there are a whole lot of them, which leads me think that maybe reading isn’t dead. That, maybe, it’s quite healthy. So even when I’m freaked by someone’s comments (King Lear gets two stars from a woman who says the play is only for “people who enjoy Shakespear!!!"), it’s still nice to see that there are lot of us still turning pages.

Bad Hair

Now in convenient book form.

For completists:



Big Hair

Still my (and your) Unca Cecil

When I lived in Northern California, I had a Saturday habit. Take Bart to Berkeley (Round trip $4). Spend morning window shopping for books at music on Telegraph and surrounding streets (free). Go to LaVal's pizza and order Lunch special (slice and small salad--$2.50). Order whatever beer was on special ($1.50). Put $1 in jukebox and play three songs--Bob Marley's "Exodus," Creedence's "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," and whatever 6 minute plus songs struck me...this gave me 25 minutes to eat my pizza and salad and drink my beer. And read The Straight Dope (also free, in the free mags by the door).

LaVal's is gone, along with their killer Garlic Cheese Bread and terrific ambience. Telegraph gets more and more upscale now...Cody's Books is gone, small music stores are endangered or gone. Those $9 days consisting of walking through the streets and checking out the vendors and the books and the music and eating my pizza and drinking my beer exist only in memory.


Slug illustrates Cecil's answer to "Does a pig really have a corkscrew shaped penis?"

The Straight Dope is still around, though. (And Slug is still doing the illustrations.) Cecil Adams is still the smartest man in the world. He is still answering the tough questions. If you ever wanted to know about why men have nipples, if there's really such a thing as cow tipping, why dinosaurs were so big, and if the stories about Catherine the Great and the horse are true, go ahead and find out here.

p.s. This one is my favorite. Don't know why. Just is.

No Life on Mars, which is a good thing

I was pretty pissed off when I heard that ABC was going to do an "American" remake of Life on Mars, the terrific BBC series. I was sure that ABC would screw it up. Guess what? I was right.

With rare exceptions, British TV doesn't translate when reconfigured for the colonies. Okay, yeah, I like both versions of The Office But, for the most part, the American desire to make everything Bigger! Better! Longer! sabotages efforts at reconfiguration.

Life on Mars is a terrific example of why Brit TV works. Know how many episodes there were? 16. It wasn't cancelled or anything; it was planned for 16 episodes. It went 16 episdoes. Great episodes. Then it shut down. Done. The show's main writer said "We decided that Sam's journey should have a finite life span and a clear-cut ending and we feel that we have now reached that point after two series [seasons]." Can you imagine an American show doing that? Not just completing only 16 episodes--that's less than Freaks and Geeks ran, for God's sake--but planning on having only sixteen. Being cool with terminating the series once your story line was over. American TV will never go for that. Not enough revenue. Not worth promoting a show that will be gone so quickly.

The characters on Life on Mars look odd compared to their American police show counterparts. Then it hits you. The BBC show has actors that actually look like normal people. No "special guest star Heather Graham as a CIA plant!" stuff. There's a sense of rumpled familiarity that American TV pretty much never pulls off. Not enough star power for us.

British TV series have lots of cultural references and subtexts. You've got to think while you watch them. The most popular show on American TV right now is Deal or No Deal. It's a show about...guessing. Except you don't guess. You watch other people guess. You watch other people guess how much money they have and/or should win. You could have the same experience by standing next to a retiree playing the slots. American audiences, frankly, don't get British TV and aren't likely to start. We've got Celebrity Circus, thanks.

Brit TV isn't afraid to drop S-bombs and show us the occasional boob or buttock. Funny isn't it...we have a Federal Communication Commission to fine networks if Janet Jackson's Frightening Nipple shows up for a split second. The BBC is socialized, and you get partial nudity and cursing. Nice. Not gonna happen here.

Life on Mars has Gene Hunt. If you've seen the show, you know what I mean. We don't have characters like that on our shows.

It's not as though we don't produce splendid TV series, anyway. Arrested Development. Gilmore Girls. The first few seasons of 24 were just roller coasters of joy. We can make our own damn shows. But we've tried to go to the well again, and it's not working again.

Remember College Instructors, You Can Just Throw Them Out

I teach for a living. (Technically, I'm a professor...but I'm one of those professors that's in the classroom all the time.) Occasionally in this blog, I'll refer to "students," or "the students," or, if I'm feeling unusually possessive and happy/furious, "my students." I love my job, so there won't be a huge amount of Work Related Bitching here. Usually, I'm a pop culture guy.

For now, I want to talk about an issue in Academia that's just as much of a problem as the students. It's the instructors. Many of them are idiots. I recognize that academia is largely self-justifying...academics write articles that are reviewed by other academics that come out in journals read almost exclusively by other academics. It's a big circle jerk. I get it. I go to the conferences where people in ill-fitting suits talk at length about incredibly arcane and tangential subjects to Literature (which is what I've got my Ph.D in and teach). There's a lot of solemn nodding at these affairs, and not nearly enough drinking.

Several years ago, I was at a conference that had a panel on Classroom Authority. As in--how to get authority, how to keep from losing authority, and how to maintain authority in the classroom. I'd like to remind everyone that we are talking about people who teach at the college level, which means they can

1) Swear at students, and

2) Throw students out of class--permanently!

both of which I personally do. So cool!

A man was at a podium nattering on about "sharing authority to gain authority" and how that could be done to keep students in line when discipline became an issue. Lots of solemn nodding. The gist of his--and several others, apparently--argument was that an instructor could regain lost authority in the classroom by sharing power with the students that had, somehow, taken over. I had to ask questions in the Q and A. Had to. "How do instructors lose authority in the first place?"

A natural opening. Maybe I'd missed something. Several people gave me short, staccato bursts of answers. It turns out that college students can sometimes be snotty or rude or actively disinterested and disruptive. Heads turned toward me; I was obviously an interloper of some sort.

"But...can't we just throw them out?" Lots of murmuring. "You know, just kick them out of class." I knew we could; like I said, it's one of my weapons of choice. So I went on. "I mean, we're the teachers. It's our class. We design the curriculum and grade the work. We have the right to boot students who are disruptive. We've already got the authority. Unless we're stupid enough to give it away."

The people on the panel and the listeners in the audience looked at me with expressions that were half poker face (sort of a ten year old look--"Don't tell Mom we put the cat in the dishwasher, 'kay?") and half disbelief ("And you are...?") The general reaction was to make some "Mmm!" sounds and ignore me. These people wrote books on how to teach. They researched it for a living. They were professionals. And, yet, so was I. And I had probably taught more students in the previous five years than any of them had taught in their careers. We were at an impasse. So they tried to ignore me. The furtive glances told me that wasn't working either. And here's the thing; they could have thrown me out. But they didn't. Just by sitting there, I was being disruptive. They had the authority and didn't use it.

Anyway, I let them off the hook and went to the bar. I remember they had Newcastle on tap. And I still didn't have authority issues in my classes. So it was a successful conference all around in my book.