You keep using this word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

The most exceptional error in word choice in a student essay this semester is, without question:

"Groups of people like to consummate in the theater lobby before or after the movie."

The Few. The Proud. The Postmodern.

Yesterday evening I was driving home when I saw police lights at the intersection up ahead. I figured there had been an accident on the main road, so I turned down a side-street, only to realize that in fact, Lubbock had been temporarily shut down for the Christmas Parade. I decided to park in front of a local business to watch the illuminated floats, which included an array of pickup trucks and muscle cars coated with Christmas lights.

After a while, the profile of the parade participants started to shift from local businesses and church groups to military vehicles and Marines. Their uniforms, in this context, reminded me of toy soldiers and nutcrackers. This photograph, which I stole from the internet, is a good illustration of what was going on in my brain:

The vehicles had banners on the sides that read "Toys for Tots", and the Marines were cheerfully collecting presents from people in the crowd. I thought, "Oh, that's nice." But then, I saw something that made me wonder if someone had spiked the eggnog at the Marines' Public Relations Department office party. As is customary in Christmas Parades, the final float featured a guy dressed as Santa Claus, who sat in a big chair and waved to the crowds. This was all very expected, as were the assortment of elves, toys and illuminated candy canes that surrounded him. As the float rolled past, however, I started to make out other figures on the flatbed, positioned across from Santa. As it was dark, it took me a moment to identify them as cardboard cutouts of this photograph:

So, Santa Claus is on Iwo Jima? The Marines have just taken the North Pole? Do acts of war qualify as naughty or nice? So many questions.

The Good Ferret

Today we had the annual Blessing of the Animals service at my church. The furrier members of the congregation each received a sprinkling with holy water and a laying on of hands. Mollie was agreeable about the ritualized petting, but she doesn't like to get wet, so when the holy water was deployed she shot me a glance that asked "is this really necessary?"

We read one of St. Basil's prayers for animals, which includes a confession of guilt:

"We remember with shame that in the past we have exercised the high dominion of man with ruthless cruelty so that the voice of the earth, which should have gone up to Thee in song has been a groan of travail."

The instant the congregation said "groan of travail", one of the assembled schnauzers offered an appropriate sound effect, which got laughs, but also made it all a bit spooky.

As the priest blessed each animal, he said "May God make you a good dog [cat], and may you live a long, happy, and healthy life." There wasn't much variety in species at the event, in part because I failed to convince my friend Linda to bring one of her chickens, but I did have the privilege of witnessing the blessing of a ferret. "May God make you a good ferret..." I wonder, what constitutes a good ferret?

Party Boots

Last weekend I attended a friend's birthday party, where someone complimented me on my boots. I pulled up the leg of my jeans to reveal the green uppers, at which point the birthday girl's boyfriend left the room to put on his similarly-colored kickers. This was a fine Texas moment.

Morris Dancing?!

Man, I wish I had time for this: the university is starting a Morris Dancing troupe to perform with their Vernacular Music ensemble. For those of you not familiar with Morris Dancing, it's a pagan dance tradition from the UK (before it was the UK) - it's the sort of thing that happens at festivals celebrating the Green Man. There is lots of jumping about and hitting of sticks, and it's no coincidence that Monty Python emerged from the same culture. Again, West Texas is ever surprising.

Water and Power

My trip to Israel this summer was the first time I've really experienced the desert. I live in a desert-adjacent area, but so far I've kept my hiking to a minimum. Israel's desert, as you may know from experience or from Biblical narratives, is quite serious - one feels like one is standing in the blast of a hot hair dryer, even at 4am (more on that in a moment). I couldn't help notice that at every tourist destination, there was much talk about water.

I stayed at a hotel in East Jerusalem, partly because it was close to the Episcopal Cathedral. I dropped in for a service, then walked around to look at the decor. I couldn't help but notice the full-immersion baptismal font.

This is pretty intense for Episcopalians, who wouldn't normally want to get their linen trousers wet, but a trip to the archaeological site by the Western Wall soon clarified things.

This is an old-school mikvah, a purification bath where people could undergo ritual cleansing before approaching the temple. I particularly like this one, with the divider down the middle to separate the clean from the unclean. This is part of the elaborate hydraulic infrastructure surrounding Herod the Great's Second Temple. During my day at the Western Wall (of said Temple), I took the much-recommended tunnel tour, which allows one to walk the full length of the Wall underground. The tour guide made much of Herod's architectural genius, continually noting the effective water system in and around the Temple. At the end of the wall, the guide did offer a caveat, reminding us that while Herod was a great builder, he was also a deranged and paranoid murderer (see Innocents, Slaughter of the) whose victims included his own wife and children.

I got to enjoy more of Herod's dubious greatness in Masada, a city built on top of a mountain by the Dead Sea, constructed to be virtually self-sufficient so as to survive a siege. The "thing to do" is to climb Masada at sunrise, partly because it's unbearably hot at any other time of day, and partly because it commemorates Masada's last stand. Its last inhabitants were able to resist the Roman invaders, as the city was well fortified and the only access route is a narrow winding path. That is, until the Romans, who wouldn't take no for an answer, decided to build a ramp up the side of the mountain. The Romans finished their ramp and breached the walls at dawn, only to find the inhabitants of Masada had committed mass suicide. It's all a bit grim. I arrived at 4am, put on my hiking boots, and headed for the top with a group of young soldiers on a field trip. Just as I set out, my taxi driver ran after me with another bottle of water, just in case. It was a good thing too, as the climb was long and broiling, even without the sun.

Here I am in Herod's summer palace, which is a dramatic cliff-trail walk from the elaborate baths (complete with caldarium, tepidarium, and frigidarium) and multiple cisterns that would keep the city supplied with water even through seemingly constant drought, not to mention the pools for Dead Sea water, with its healing properties.

These fierce birds frequent the area (one managed to steal some of my breakfast later that morning - I turned my back and was suddenly missing a knish), and this one was helpfully pointing out highlights on the interpretive model of the site. The palace is in the lower left corner, and the bird is standing near the swimming pool, a true luxury in the desert. This was an impressive, if somewhat hyperbolic use of water, and I imagined that it would make life in Masada quite bearable.

After a couple of hours I decided to start my descent, but just before leaving I walked past a small tour group, where the guide was talking about Herod's personality problems. He described him as utterly paranoid, convinced that everyone, from neighbouring tribes to his own family, were out to kill him. The guide then asked his group "Do you know Herod's preferred method of murder?" I slowed down, eager to hear the lurid answer: "Drowning."

Planning

I am in the process of applying for a Green Card, and have been enjoying the strangeness of the process. Yesterday I filled out a questionnaire where I was asked if I've ever been a Communist and/or a Nazi. More specifically, if I had been a Nazi back in the day, they wanted to know if I ever actually hurt anybody. Were you a nice Nazi?

They also want to know if I plan to engage in polygamy while in the US. My question is, does anyone ever really plan on polygamy? From my extensive viewing of HBO's hit series Big Love, about the lives and loves of fringe Mormons, it seems like polygamy is something that just happens - you take a babysitting job and "pow!", you find yourself surrounded by sister wives. Anyway, I don't have polygamy plans myself, so I was able to tick the "No" box on that one, but life is full of surprises.

Other questions addressed my involvement in prostitution, espionage, arms dealing, terrorism, forging documents, "helping with" genocide, working in concentration camps, arms dealing, drug dealing, murder, and coup-planning. As I said "No" to all of the above, I started to think of my life as actually pretty dull. Maybe I should step things up with some unplanned polygamy.

Missing the Point

Write your own joke.

Yum

This is chocolate baklava. Words fail me.

Photo Op

I arrived in Istanbul yesterday, and met up with two girlfriends from my Toronto days. Today we hit the Blue Mosque, which is indeed a beautiful place. I wore the same outfit I had worn through Jerusalem's Old City, i.e. my "Western woman who respects your religious traditions and is therefore dressed very modestly" outfit. This look got me mistaken for a Mennonite in Jerusalem, so you get the idea. I was well pleased that at the entrance to the Blue Mosque, where the fashion police were wrapping tourists in shawls and sarongs, they just waved me through. Once inside, I milled about like everyone else, until a Muslim Turkish family approached me and asked "Photo?" I nodded and reached for their camera, thinking that they wanted me to take their family picture, but as it turns out, they wanted to have their picture taken with me. They gathered around, giggling, and we all smiled for the camera. I have no idea what made me such a photogenic figure, but I am terribly amused that I will now live on in this family's photo album. A couple of minutes later I realized that I had missed the golden opportunity to then demand that they take the same photo with my camera. I'll be quicker next time.

After they left, I told my friends what had happened, and when they were done laughing their heads off, they tried to figure out what had made me a more compelling tourist attraction than, say, The Blue Mosque. They kept saying "it must me your shoes" (see earlier post). I had to keep reminding them that I was barefoot, because, you know, it's The Blue Mosque. By the way, they have a really fabulous carpet (no, really?):

Then we speculated that they may have been fascinated with my hat, which is itself a conversation starter. Maybe they were just stunned to see a Western tourist who was dressed properly, and felt they needed to document it for posterity.

Art of Conversation

Jerusalem is having a festival of lights, where artists have created nighttime installations throughout the Old City using various types of projections, lasers, and fiber-optic effects. I approve of public art, so I visited one of the sites, where they have illuminated the inside of a cave to look like an aquarium. Here we have a deep-sea diver:
As I was taking this photo, a group of parent-free Arabic-speaking boys sidled up to me. After they figured out that I spoke English, this exchange ensued:

them: How are you?

me: I'm fine.

them: F*ck you? [with strong interrogative intonation]

me: No, I don't think so.

They really need to work on their game.

Conversation Starters

I have written about how much I like my Vibram Five Fingers shoes in the past, and I have noted that they are a great way to make friends, as they provide ample opportunity for conversation. They have been earning their keep in Jerusalem. Not only are they providing me with a tactile sense of the varieties of stone that make up the Old City (here my feet are enjoying a Byzantine mosaic floor), but they have facilitated conversations with all the people you might want to meet in Jerusalem:

Pilgrims - As I was exploring Zedekiah's Cave, an ancient quarry that is thought to be the source for much of Jerusalem's stone, I noticed a fellow explorer looking at a member of Israel's feral cat population. I had seen the cat earlier - or rather, she had seen me and had made an aggressive noise that I have never heard from a domestic cat, so I steered clear. We talked about her kittens, who were playing around one of the lights illuminating the cave, when the lady noticed my shoes and called her friends over. Turns out they were a group of Mennonites on a pilgrimage. Some of them were originally from Canada - near Winnipeg - but now live in Texas. When I spoke to them, they asked if I was a Mennonite. I took this as confirmation that I had succeeded in choosing sufficiently modest wardrobe choices for Jerusalem. If Mennonites think I look appropriate, then I'm A-Ok.

Soldiers - In order to get to the Western Wall, you have to go through a security checkpoint staffed by soldiers with very large guns. When one of them noticed my shoes, he called all his friends over to check them out. One asked if he could take a picture, and when I said "sure!" (I'm going to disagree with the guy with the machine gun?), all five of them whipped out their cell phones to get a snapshot of my feet. I have to say this encounter took on an erotic quality that I am still struggling to define. The female soldier among them led me through the scanner and said "Don't mind them - they get so bored here."

Rabbis - As I stopped to look at my guidebook outside the Davidson Archaeology Center, I heard a man say "Rabbi! Come look at these!", "these" being my shoes. The Rabbi chatted with me, joked that my "English is very good for an Israeli", and soon revealed that he and his followers are from Austin. A conversation about Texas Tech football soon ensued. Normally, I avoid conversations on that topic, but this was not to be missed.

Tel Aviv

I've spent the last week in Tel Aviv at a film studies conference. I had a fine time, and since it was a small conference, I had the time to really get to know a number of bigwigs in the field, so it was certainly a professional success. But the real boon was in anecdotes:

The conference began with a welcome from the Rector of the University, who announced that he likes movies, but doesn't approve of 3D because he thinks it's a gimmick, and further, he's a mathematician who deals with many more dimensions every day, so he finds this obsession with the third dimension old hat. I was dazzled at the inappropriateness of this, and only hoped that the next speaker might up the ante. Indeed, he was followed by the Dean of Arts, who did not disappoint. She welcomed us by remarking on how terrible it is that our conference was at the same time as the International Student Film Festival, taking place elsewhere in the city, as this meant that we couldn't attend the films, and the students couldn't come to our papers. I should note that they have organized it this way for many years, but it's always good to start on a negative note.

Anyhoo, the conference was the usual combination of scholarship - some interesting, some ill-advised. The crowd possessed a remarkable capacity to make every paper somehow about the fractious nature of Mid-East politics. Some found this irritating, but I thought it was quite fun to watch. What was especially fun was the reception hosted by the University at the home of a big-time donor. The place was amazing, adorned with multiple chandeliers and erotic portraits of the lady of the house. Here is one of the more discreet examples:

The Rector was in attendance, and was dressed like a mafioso, with a grey suit, black shirt, and a white tie. He looked like Paulie from The Sopranos.

The house was full of objets d'art from around the world, including a display of sculptures and tiny bottles of booze in the guest bathroom. I was impressed at the Canadian content. Also, I don't know the provenance of the gentleman with the spear, but I enjoy telling myself that he is a Conquistador, so his position alongside the totem pole suggests an interesting commentary on the history of the New World.

As I was admiring the chandelier illuminating the main staircase, I had the good fortune to look down to the basement, where I noted the presence of three enormous sculptures of penguins who appear to be having a picnic. There may have been more down there, but I was afraid of what might happen if I were to sneak downstairs. Israelis are very serious about boundaries.

The entertainment for the evening was provided by a recent graduate of the University's music program, who began by playing selections from Fiddler on the Roof. This was astounding to the conference participants, who had a hard time dealing with the postmodernism of sitting in a garden in Israel, listening to an American musical about the trials of Russian Jews. I should note that it appears the young violinist was performing without irony. I could not have been more delighted.

Magnum

My local grocery store employs an army of bag boys and girls who carry your groceries to your car. I approve of this practice because it provides lots of employment, but sometimes it leads to awkward moments as I make small talk on the way to my car. The other day an older gentleman was helping to load my canvas bags of kale, tofu, and geriatric dog food into the car when our conversation about the weather turned to conversation about where I am from. I said "I'm originally from Canada, but I was living in Atlanta last year." His eyes brightened as he said "I've always wanted to go to Canada. I've never been." I replied with something like "There are lots of really beautiful places." Then he leaned in a bit too close and said in a hushed tone "If I went, I'd have to bring my Magnum 300." For my readers who are not gun-literate, the Magnum 300 is a huge hunting rifle. It's the kind of thing you might need in Jurassic Park. I realized that there are probably lots of people who think about holiday destinations in terms of what kinds of animals they can kill when they get there. I jumped in my car and sped away.

Flumen Segne

It took me a whole year to get around to it, but today I had my first trip to the famous Texas Tech Leisure Pool. It was constructed last year in an effort to attract students to the university. What kind of students? Students who make choices about which university to attend based on the availability of party pools. This makes me sigh, but since I have no chance of beating them, I was persuaded by my friend Michele to join them. She invited me to join her in the Lazy River, a circuitous canal with a rather powerful current, on which one floats in an inner tube. This, along with the always-busy hot tub, are the principle attractions of the Leisure Pool. Michele came by to pick me up, and quickly informed me that her husband, who is teaching himself Latin for fun (that's the kind of student I want to have, less so the party pool kind, but I digress), had informed her that in Latin, lazy river is flumen segne. We agreed that we were glad to know this, and that this is what we will be calling it from now on.

I had a pleasant time floating around, and acquired my first sunburn in years.

More Lubbock Surprises

One of my plans for the future is to teach a course on film and dance. I even have an article coming out in the fall on dance in silent German cinema. Thing is, I know very well that my knowledge of dance studies lacks both depth and breadth, so I have long dreamed of collaborating with a dance professor who will steer me in the right direction. So, when I learned that the Dance program at Texas Tech was hosting the first annual Flatlands Dance Festival, I figured it would be a good chance to see what the dance faculty were up to. The performances were all by students in the dance program, so I have to admit that I braced myself, as contemporary dance is one of those things that if not done extremely well, can be truly agonizing to watch. Some arts are more forgiving - if a mediocre pianist is playing in the background, it doesn't make you want to run for the door, whereas bad dance can be excruciating. I steeled myself and set out to investigate.

Upon arrival, I was amused to see that since much of the audience consisted of the friends and family of the performers, almost everyone had brought a bouquet to give to their favorite dancer, allowing me the near-magical experience of sitting in an audience full of flowers. The girl who took my ticket asked if I was there to see anyone in particular, and was delighted when I said no, since this indicated a level of community interest in dance. I'm always happy to represent the world of dance fans.

The performances themselves were impressive, with a level of inventiveness and wit that I had not expected. Another pleasant surprise from the Lubbock avant-garde.

Shootin' and Dancin'

I've written before about how Lubbock is party central - never has my social calendar been so full. I just got home from my third party of the weekend, which was a Jane Austen themed garden party, officially called "Drinking with Mr. Darcy." The host was the same colleague who held the birthday bash with the "adult" piñata, so you get the idea. The invitation called for period/formal dress, and there were plenty of Empire waists to go around. Apart from a gin-centered bar and buffet of cold lamb, the attractions included archery and 18th century dancing. My friend Michele won the archery tournament, and I was a close second. We were pleased that we trounced the men, and there is talk of honing our skills this summer at future garden parties. Our dance instructor was an elementary school music teacher, so the level of discourse was just right.

Dedication to Silence

When I was nine years old, I presented my parents with an index card on which I had written my first work of critical theory: "Never talk to the artist." This was my way of expressing the idea of the critical fallacy, i.e. that if you want to know what a work of art means, you should just ask the artist to explain it to you. This is not an effective strategy, because a) artists are damn liars, b) they are most eloquent when engaged in art-making, not when talking about it, and c) this strategy ignores the role of the reader in the creation of meaning, and the transformations of meaning over historical time. I was reassured in my views when I first saw Fellini's masterpiece, 8 1/2, as a character declares that "All artists should swear an oath: Dedication to silence!" Nowhere was this more true than at the Lubbock Arts Festival. I attended the opening night gala with some friends, and it was the social event of the season. The main attraction was a display of Lego art - sculptures and portraits made of Lego pieces. The work was quite good, but the difficulty was that each piece was accompanied by interpretive signage written by the artist. For example, the sculpture you see above, entitled "Solar System" is really quite witty, until you read the label, where the artist clarifies that he knows that in reality, the planets in the solar system are not stacked on top of each other in this manner. This made me sigh. I'm sure this label is in response to people making dumb comments about his Lego art, but even in the face of the literal-minded, I wish he had remained dedicated to silence.

Lawn Care

I often write of my neighbours Ginger and Norman, who watch my house while I'm away (and, frankly, while I'm there), bake me pies, and serve as my airport taxi service. Yesterday they really outdid themselves. I stopped to chat with them after Mollie's morning walk, and Ginger asked if my landlord takes care of lawn mowing. This was her nice way of telling me that the dandelion garden I'm cultivating is cramping her style (Ginger is a precise and constant gardener). I said no, and that as she could see, I'd been very lazy about addressing the issue.

Then I went to work, leaving Mollie in the back yard.

When I returned, I let Mollie inside to have her dinner, and noticed that she was covered in grass clippings. It seems Ginger and Norman had come over and mowed both my front and back yards (the back was verging on jungle). I told them that they were gold-star neighbours, and Ginger said "Well, if we were in wheelchairs you'd do the same for us." That's true. I also suspect that being an academic is kind of like wearing a sign that says "I require assistance."

Birthday Bash

For my birthday, I had considered making a visit to "Ladies' Night" at the local gun range, but soon realized that I would need to take their gun safety workshop, which requires an investment of time and money that effectively ruins the joke. So, my friend suggested we attend the season-opening bout at the "West Texas Roller Dollz" Roller Derby. It was held at the Civic Center, an all-purpose facility that accommodates the Lubbock Symphony and professional wrestling alike. It was flat-track roller derby, which comes with the added excitement of dangerous seating options - one can elect to sit in places where a woman in body armor, roller skates and a purple tutu could end up in your lap. We didn't arrive early enough to grab the prime real estate, but we know better for next time.

The bouts were exciting, the music was loud, and the crowd was intriguing. Lots of families, college kids, and a considerable number of senior citizens. We speculated that the older ladies had roller derby (or perhaps barrel racing) careers in the past, and were reliving the old days. At one point the MC, who wore thigh-high leather boots and a top hat while being substantially pregnant, asked if it was anyone's birthday. I scurried down to the front, where the various birthday boys and girls had a dance contest. When it was my turn, I busted out some belly-dancing moves that I learned back in Chicago. (I have taken lessons in many styles of dance, but I have found the belly-dancing to be particularly useful.) Unfortunately for me, the other contestants included a woman with a wheelchair, who impressed the crowd with wheelies, and a lady celebrating her 83rd birthday, who garnered the most applause. She ended up winning a sparkly birthday hat. As I was walking back to my seat, it occurred to me that I might have students in the audience - students who now know about my belly-dancing career. I wonder how they are handling that.

A week later I ran into one of my friends, a history professor, who had been with me at roller derby. She said "Allison, thanks to you I've earned coolness points with my students. Before class, I heard one of them say that they saw me at roller derby, and had no idea I was that awesome." Stick with me and you'll go far.

Santa Monica

Here I am running, Baywatch-style, on the beach in Santa Monica. The photographer, my friend Brigitta, suggested the pose. While walking on the beach, I had the good fortune to overhear a young woman's cell phone conversation, presumably with a man. She complained "But you never think about me when you're in New York - just when you come to LA." Oh, the trials of the bi-coastals.

Starball

This delightful object is the decommissioned star projector from the planetarium in San Diego. To give you sense of scale, its diameter is about five feet. It now lives in the basement, where it is, sadly, collecting dust. This projector was innovative in that it could represent the cosmos in a more dynamic way than the traditional "dumbell" projectors because it has three axes of rotation, as opposed to the regular two. Thus, you could feel like you were flying through the sky, and not just looking up at it. They showed me the new projector, which is digital and can of course do lots of fancy things, but it has none of the romance of this terrifying spiky sphere.

San Diego

I'm in California for Spring Break, which for me means archival research, a conference, and hanging out with other film nerds. I went down to San Diego a couple of times to do some research on the world's first OMNIMAX theatre, a combination planetarium/IMAX dome that was built in 1973. I interviewed one of the theatre's founders, who showed me his old photographs of the architectural plans. I established my credibility by identifying Michael Collins, the Apollo 11 astronaut, examining a theatre model in one of the photos. Collins is known to be an IMAX fan, which causes me no end of delight. I was offered a tour of the projection room - I always find IMAX projectors charming, almost as charming as the projectionist, who got very chatty once I revealed the depth of my technical knowledge. We had a swell time talking about 3D formats, and he showed me the welding device they use for splicing IMAX film together.

Just before I left, I was introduced to the museum's director, who invited me to that evening's premiere of the new Hubble Telescope movie. The very jolly (and German) administrator put me on the list and promised there would be food, so I was there with bells on. They put on a great spread, and one could eat fancy cheese while playing with the museum's tornado simulator, the optical illusion machines, and the interactive display explaining the properties of transverse waves. I spotted the jolly German walking around in an authentic NASA spacesuit (circa 1980s). She was very excited about this part of her job, and I happily accepted her offer of astronaut ice cream. I had never tasted this delicacy, and to be honest, it's not very good, but it probably tastes better in space.

Just before the screening, I overheard a woman who was telling her friends that she has donated her body to the UC San Diego medical school, so on the event of her death, they will come to retrieve her, and she is not to have an autopsy. She then joked that this means her husband could poison her, and nobody would ever know. Everyone laughed. I wish her well, but I am waiting for the lurid made-for-tv movie about her case.

Dallas

I visited Dallas a couple of weekends ago to attend a festival of horror films by women directors. It was good fun and I won a t-shirt, but the highlight of my journey was the trip to South Fork Ranch, site of the original location shooting for the epic soap opera, Dallas. Here I am with JR's portrait, and he appears to be making a rude gesture behind my head.

To my surprise, only the exteriors were shot at the ranch, and yet, one can tour the interior of the house. The interior has been lavishly decorated, but not to look like the sets of the show. Rather, they have just designed it with Dallas in mind. It's really more of a Dallas-based art installation than anything else. It was an excellent example of a simulacrum - a copy without an original - which was one of the "big ideas" in my science fiction class last semester. I suspect I was the only person on the tour thinking about it in this particular way.

I particularly enjoyed JR's bedroom, what with the chandelier over the bed.

Stranger still was JR's master bath, with the telephone installed beside the toilet. This seems a questionable design choice.

As the tour guide was telling us about the history of the house, he mentioned that the original owner's name was JR Duncan. I asked if that was the origin of the character's name, but it turns out it wasn't - the script had already been written before the location was chosen. I was pleased to hear this because I have a pet theory about the origin of JR Ewing's name. In the movie Giant, which is the master narrative of West Texas, James Dean plays a character named Jett Rink who gets rich when he strikes oil. There's a wonderful scene where he's sitting at a banquet table, and his initials, "JR" are plastered in huge letters on the wall behind him. When I saw this, I thought, "that must be where they got the name for Dallas." I haven't made the effort to actually find out, but I floated this theory to the tour guide, and he found it intriguing. Then a lady on the tour jumped in to explain that JR Ewing is called that because his father's name is John Ross and he's named after him. I restrained myself from telling her that they are fictional characters, so that's not actually an explanation. Instead, I went back to thinking about simulacra.

Santa Fe

I played hooky from my Albuquerque conference a few weekends ago so I could visit Santa Fe. When I was a graduate student and I was exhausted and stressed out, I would read about Santa Fe on the internet and imagine what it would be like to go there. Here are some highlights of my now-realized dreams.

I went for lunch at a vegetarian-friendly place that had mole on the menu (if you've not experienced it, mole is a particularly delicious, and often hard-to-find Mexican sauce). I sat at the "community" table - a big table in the middle of the room where you get to meet fellow diners. I chatted with a nice couple who quizzed me on my favorite movies. We spent a lot of time discussing No Country For Old Men, which was appropriate given the surrounding landscape, and the fact that Cormac McCarthy lives just up the road. I splurged on a nine-dollar espresso milkshake, pictured below. It kept me going for the rest of the day, such that I skipped dinner.

Santa Fe is a very liberal place, especially compared with dear old Lubbock. After my milkshake I wandered about, and found the local hemp store, which carried an array of left-leaning bumper stickers and ethically-produced t-shirts. The poster selection says it all:

Fossil Fuels

The other day I had a conversation with a retired schoolteacher who said that she didn't understand how oil and coal were fossil fuels because "there weren't that many dinosaurs." I tried to explain that any organic matter (plants, etc.) was part of the fossil fuel equation. She countered with the taxonomy of "animal, vegetable, mineral", so if coal is a mineral, it can't have been a vegetable. It's Lent, so I decided to give up.

Kay Caddy

Sadly, the subtle colouring of this car doesn't come across well in this photograph, but this is a genuine Mary Kay pink Cadillac, which was parked across the street from my house today. I got to meet the driver, who was heavily ornamented.

Albuquerque

I know I haven't written anything for a while, but I've had a lousy cold, so didn't have much to say beyond "Ate soup today."

But now I'm the picture of health and I'm in glorious New Mexico for a conference. The conference is not particularly well populated because the great Snowmageddon/Snowpocalypse of the East has made it impossible for people to get here, but that means that you can eat more at the receptions (which are surprisingly fancy), so I don't mind. At tomorrow's keynote address they're going to serve tea and crumpets - no joke. I'll be first in line.

I have wanted to visit New Mexico for years, and it is not disappointing. I've never been in a landscape of burgundy soil and blue-grey grasses - it seems hyperreal. More exploring to come.

Post-tenure Partying

Last night I attended a collective birthday party for my many colleagues who have birthdays in January. Throughout the evening, the hostess kept saying "this is the kind of party you can have once you get tenure." Allow me to explain.

The hostess (who was also a birthday girl) is an expert in literatures of the Southwest - she studies cowboys, landscapes, intersections of Latino/Native American/White Folks culture, etc. Naturally, the party featured a piñata, which was shaped like a unicorn. At a certain point in the evening, her husband called everyone outside, where he had suspended the unicorn from the tree in the front yard. Another guest jumped in his pickup truck, and re-positioned it so the festivities would be illuminated by his headlights. Guests took turns being blindfolded, spun around, and handed a big stick with which to smash the piñata. The first couple of blows decapitated the unicorn, and its head got stuck in the tree. It looked quite amazing in silhouette against the full moon (sorry, too dark for a photo). While this drama was unfolding, an enterprising Girl Scout circulated through the crowd, taking orders for cookies. I signed up for two boxes - thin mints and peanut butter. Finally it was my turn. A fellow faculty member spun me around, and I let fly at whatever was in front of me. I am satisfied to say that I dealt the death blow, and the piñata's contents exploded across the yard.

This is where the post-tenure part comes in: the contents were entirely "adult-oriented", i.e. tiny bottles of booze, condoms, silk baggies containing racy underwear, and buttons featuring rude words and dirty jokes. I picked up one that read "Slut", explaining to everyone that the word's original meaning was "bad housekeeper." Indeed, my house is not so tidy right now, on account of my constantly writing lectures and conference papers.

Later that evening, as I was putting on my coat, the hostess' son, a boy of eight or so, approached and showed me his toy gun. He demonstrated how it made cool noises and could convert from a gun to a bowie knife. We discussed its potential uses in different tactical situations, and then he said "You know what's cool? You hit that piñata really hard."

All in all, a successful party - I made away with a bottle of coconut rum and reputation as a badass (at least among Lubbock's eight-year-olds).

Visual Argument

These are stickers on my neighbor's truck. I have questions.

I'm not sure about the rhetorical implications of the NRA sticker plus bullet holes. The bullet holes imply that your gun ownership does not deter armed attackers, which is one of the key arguments supporting free access to firearms. They also suggest that you are someone worth shooting at. I don't necessarily disagree with this point, but it seems an odd thing to advertise about oneself.

Set Up

Today's post-class conversation with a student (a woman in her thirties) went like this:

She: Professor Whitney, do you have kids?

Me: No, I don't.

She: If you don't mind my asking, how old are you?

Me: I'm 34.

She: Wow, really? You don't look it.

Me: Thank you.

She: I'd love to set you up with my fiance's brother - he's a really sweet guy, and a firefighter.

Me: (laughing) Hmmm, probably best if we hold off on that plan until after you've graduated.

She: Of course, he's only 27 - just a baby. Ok, see you later!

Me: Ok, bye!

I'll let ya'll know if I end up raiding the firehouse/robbing the cradle.

Professor Whitney Wilson

My relationship with the various computerized systems at Texas Tech has not been an easy one. My struggle to get an email address lasted for months, and I managed to teach for an entire semester without my actually existing within the University's system - I began my first class by reassuring my students that even though they would find no record of me on campus, I really was their professor. I thought things had been sorted out, but a couple of weeks ago I tried to log into something called "Digital Measures", a system that faculty members are supposed to use to report on their professional activities. Not surprisingly, I couldn't log in, and thus began many days of confused emails to and from various IT people. I finally got an email saying that my account was ready, so I logged in, only to be greeted by a page welcoming "Professor Whitney Wilson". For the occasional reader who doesn't actually know my name, it is not Whitney Wilson. I sighed, and began another round of emails to correct my identity. When I mentioned this to a friend of mine from my Georgia Tech days, she suggested that I could take this opportunity to make Professor Whitney Wilson into a George P. Burdell figure.

Who is George P. Burdell, you ask?

Here's the story: In 1927, a student received two acceptance forms to attend Georgia Tech. He decided to enroll as two people: himself, and an imaginary person named George P. Burdell. Students who were in on the prank would complete assignments and sit exams on George's behalf, and he eventually received his degree. This has become an important part of Georgia Tech culture, such that GT folk can always find one another by, for example, paging George P. Burdell at an airport to see who shows up. Good fun.

Anyway, my friend and I started to fantasize about what sorts of things Prof. Whitney Wilson could accomplish in her time at Texas Tech. I am open to suggestions.

Provocation

When I was in Winnipeg, my cousin and I went to a cafe to recover our strength after a vigorous afternoon of shopping for yoga pants. We borrowed someone's newspaper to check if there were any movies we wanted to see. Alas, the showtimes weren't going to work out, but as we were leaving, a woman called us over to her table.

Woman: What movie are you girls planning to see?

Us: We actually decided against it because the timing won't work.

Woman: I was going to warn you about Up in the Air.

Us: Oh, really?

Woman: Yes - don't see it. It has a message and it's thought-provoking.

Heaven forbid! We really dodged a bullet there. I saw Up in the Air last night, and indeed, it transmitted messages and provoked thoughts.

Dating

I went on an interesting date this weekend with an archaeologist who works for the Texas Tech Museum. He picked me up in his jeep, and gave me the behind-the-scenes tour of Lubbock circa 16,000-10,000 BCE. We crawled around dig sites while he explained things about sediment and GPS devices. Then he took me to the lab to admire stone tools and, of all things, a 3 million year old jawbone from a woolly rhinoceros. I was delighted at the rows and rows of little boxes, each containing skeletons of local animals and birds - they use them to help identify the remains of their ancestors. Actually, the boxes of mammoth bones weren't so little. I asked where the modern skeletons came from, and he showed me the "animal morgue" refrigerator, which is exactly what it sounds like. There was a whole shelf of prairie dogs in ziplock bags. As a girl whose favorite childhood toy was her dissection kit, I found this pretty cool. Then we went out for huevos rancheros. I may reciprocate and take him to the IMAX theatre.

Holiday Inn

For the past couple of Christmases my family has had the good sense to move into a hotel for Christmas dinner. The food is good and plentiful, there's a suite for late-night partying, people can retire to their rooms when overwhelmed by holiday intensity, and nobody has to cook or do extensive cleanup. Plus, the hotels have pools with awesome water slides, which keeps the kids amused, but, more important, also keeps me amused. This year's water slide was truly exceptional - four stories high, and mostly enclosed and therefore dark and extra scary. My young cousins soon discovered that the acoustic qualities of the tube were such that if you shouted into it, the person in the slide would hear your voice as though it were directly behind them, thus enhancing the freakout factor.

Dinner was a buffet in one of the ballrooms. The vegetarian option consisted primarily of an endless supply of pierogies, which made my day since there isn't much Ukrainian cuisine available in Lubbock. The ballroom was clearly equipped for business presentations, as there were six digital projectors and screens installed in the room. In support of the Christmas theme, they were each showing a video of a fireplace - not unlike the fireplace channels one sees on tv at this time of year. It did strike me as strange, though, to have six of them in one room, and all showing the same fireplace. Between that and the spooky water slide, it was a bit like spending Christmas in a Janet Cardiff installation. My young cousins embraced the opportunity for performance art by posing in the projection beam to make it look like they were being consumed by flames. This might have come across as mere mischief, but I preferred to read it at part of a larger tradition of video art. So there.

Millinery

I was working off the Christmas season's champagne cocktails on my treadmill while watching Lover Come Back, a delightful Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie. An eternal virgin and a gay man - sounds like the perfect relationship! Anyway, someday, when I get tenure and they can't get rid of me, I can start to teach crazy courses on my true passions, such as, Doris' amazing hat collection:
This hat is suitable for sitting at one's desk and thinking up ways to advertise furniture wax.

This hat says "Take me seriously! I'm a girl with a job!"

When it's time to have a serious talk about "our relationship", I always find it helps if I put a purple cone covered in pom-poms on my head.
Doris' segregated flowers tell us that she is experiencing internal conflict.
Rock, do you like my gigantic pink flower? It goes with my suit. (Note that at this point in the narrative, Rock has a beard because he has been roughing it in Canada.)