Ketchup

A quick run-down about what I've been up to (and why I haven't been posting as often lately):

• A couple weeks ago, I got flown out to give a lecture on Peruvian cinema at University of Kansas as part of an Andean and Amazonian Worlds seminar put on by their Hall Center for the Humanities. I got the gig thanks to my colleague and friend (and collection co-editor) Tamara -- and it marks the first time that I've actually been brought anywhere to talk about my specialty. I also got to give a talk to undergrads at the Center for Latin American Studies. And here's the thing: not only was everyone really nice, but people were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Except for Tamara, I don't know any of these people at all. And every so often in academia, you wonder if what you're doing is really of any interest to anyone else but yourself -- you hope so, but you never know. Watching people take notes on what I said was quite the boost. (Plus, Lawrence and Kansas City turned out to be a pretty neat place! Who knew?)
• Last weekend, I was in Chicago at the Society for Cinema and Media Studies, giving a paper entitled -- wait for it -- "It's Not Easy Bein' Brown: Rita Moreno, Lena Horne and The Muppet Show." It's my second foray into writing about television (come to think of it, the second writing about racial depictions in TV, the first one having already been published at the e-journal Slayage), which I don't have formal academic training in, but am slowly gaining some know-how. The story behind my wanting to do the paper is intriguing: two years ago, I was prepping my course on Stardom and wanted to do a unit on Lena Horne. I went looking for a famous episode of A Different World, but that was unavailable at the time. Instead, I found The Muppet Show, whose first season had just been released on DVD. The episode was (for me, at first) unusually milquetoast -- but then on a whim, I watched the episode on Rita Moreno. (I do have an academic interest in Rita Moreno, but that's a later endeavor.) Seeing the episodes back-to-back led to the idea for the paper -- and a year-and-a-half later, I've now given it. I may even try to pump it up a little further at another point.
• Visiting Chicago also gave me the opportunity to call on one James Chadd, one of my 'shmen from waaaay back when I was a UGA at Dartmouth. The last time I saw him, he was just about to graduate in '96; just over ten years later, he's doing wonderfully well working as an ER doctor in Chicago proper. (And, had I contacted him earlier, his apartment was only eight blocks from the conference site. Instead, I stayed at a friend's palce way up north in Andersonville; they weren't around, so I cat-sit for them, even making friends with Loopy Lucy.) Next year's conference: Philly.
• At the conference, I got to talk to a couple presses, who at least seem interested in the book. That's all I'll say for now, but I just have to keep plugging away. It's so close to being done -- I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
• Last week, I found out that I'll be teaching my standard into film course for University College next year. This means that instead of 50 students from across the university spectrum, I'll get around 20 students, all freshmen who will live on the same floor. This is a huge opportunity that I didn't even know I was being considered for until after it happened, so I'm thrilled at the chance to teach it. My schedule for next year is a bit odd, but is shaping up to be very nice, with my spring featuring only my stardom class and my grad seminar on film. (This means, for once, my spring will not feature a class at 8:30 AM! Woohoo!)
• Speaking of teaching, summer plans thus far: teaching a course on Almodóvar in May and June; Cape Cod at Ange's parents in July; my parents in A2 in August before the fall begins. In between, a conference in early June in Edmonton (also a fly-out!) on Peruvian exploitation film, and possibly a trip up to Hanover for reunion (#15!).
  
• I still have to choose the movie for my class' final project, which has to come out over the next couple weeks. I'm narrowing the choices now, having already seen one good candidate.
  
• And oh yes, looky that: someone's having a birthday next week. And man, is he turning two. With all that implies.
  

Pondering the pigskin

Oge (who I just noticed is now a Texan!) will not necessarily be happy with this, but he won't be surprised by this admission either: I'm not really a football fan.

This may in part be due to my upbringing. My dad was not really a football fan and I went to high school in Peru where fútbol is something else entirely. That changed slightly when I went to college when, in order to be a freshman in relatively good standing, one went to football games. I therefore became a fairly ardent fan of the Big Green, even if we are currently 2-7. I didn't really understand the game all that well even then. This changed when, of all things, I joined the marching band my senior year (I switched to cymbals after playing the videocamera for a season) and I wanted to know when -- and more importantly why -- we had to start playing. (I also learned for the aforementioned Oge, the 'shmen on my hallway who played. And who derived great pleasure from tackling me in the hallway when I went to brush my teeth. Shall I describe what it's like having an offensive tackle doing something called the "turkey trot" on your chest while the rest of my 'shmen are looking on? I digress...) My dear wife played with the DCMB for five years and still can't really tell you what is happening on the field, but I finally picked up a cursory understanding.

This was not enough to turn my into a football fan, however. I don't really follow the NFL, nor do I really follow college football. After all, I teach at a school which happily doesn't have a football team (I've talked to the athletic director and she used the word "happy"). This also comes after having gone to graduate school at a place where football (along with basketball and hockey) was somewhat sacred: I shamfacedly confess that I never attended a game while I was there.

All this is meant to preface the peculiar things I'm feeling today, when NPR, colleagues at work and even my neighbors are asking me how I feel about the Michigan-OSU Game-to-End-All-Games this afternoon. (No, I didn't know they were both undefeated, although somehow i knew that Rutgers was.) And to be honest, with Angela and Xan out this weekend on Cape Cod and me here trying to get some serious writing done, I will reluctantly have to refrain from watching The Game.

But today?

Today, I feel like a Wolverine. Go Blue.

(UPDATE: So I lied, slightly. I have to make an appetizer for a birthday dinner tonight and I just turned on the game, where I discover it's 7-7. More perplexingly, however, I heard for the first time the opening strains of "O Fortuna" (from Orff's Carmina Burana) done by a marching band as fight music. I'm impressed -- and slightly disturbed. [Actually, I am more disturbed by this. Apparently, this is a common marching band thing?] But hey, Xan can actually sing that. I'm not kidding: he heard it on the radio the other day and has been happily screaming what sounds like "O Fortuna" all the time, appropriately fortissimo.)

Now hear this...

The fact that this seems to have actually been printed in my undergraduate institution's daily newspaper makes it even funnier. Any old Dart-folk want to confirm this? (Alas, I never did anything like this in what we used to call "the New Dorms." Besides, I was quiet then.)

(Thanks, frood, for posting it.)

X sometimes doesn't mark the spot

It is no secret that our son is named Alexander at least in part because of the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The real reason is because we had agreed that he should have a name that could translate into the three languages that we speak -- English, Spanish and Polish -- which meant that he would not get my name, which doesn't translate into any other language at all. Alexander fit very nicely: Aleksander, Alejandro. Plus, it lent itself to the possibilities of a nickname with a "Z" sound, which would make me very happy. (My first choice, Zachary, had long been rejected by both my wife and my mother.)

We couldn't bring ourselves to call him "Xander," however, just because it would be a little too close to the series. Not that we don't love the character Xander Harris -- I, for one, perhaps identified a little too closely to his goofy, sad-sack ways and how much those indeed emulated my own high school experience. (Xander was cooler, however, than I was. Jenny can confirm that.) Angela found that a possible nickname was "Xan," which we thought was way cool, and there we go: our child's nickname.

A few months ago, I found out that an old college friend, Angela Lee, was moving to DC and indeed was also pregnant. She informed us that she was having a boy and that they too had decided on the name Alexander. I thought this was great. A couple weeks ago, right after she got to town, she came to see me on campus and she saw my Xander Harris action figure (in camouflage from the Halloween episode, purchased while I was at a conference from the New Orleans Tower Records entirely because it was 90% off). She said, "That's what Xander Harris is like?" I said, "Oh yeah," and then went off describing the character's life as a loveable loser. "Oh great," she said, "maybe I don't want him to be named that after all."

I laughed it off and didn't think about it. This last weekend, we were both headed to Annapolis to celebrate our friend Ric getting tenure at the USNA. (We were there to assure various people that, yes, Ric used to have very long hair.) I also finally met Angela's husband, whose name is Peter Harris.

It took me until the drive home when Angela finally spelled out for me the problem with now naming him Alexander: the fact that his last name would be, as it turns out, Harris. In other words, their son would have the exact name as the BTVS character.

Somehow I missed that.

Of course, she's 36 weeks pregnant and so far the only other name they have for their child is "Moo-Shiu Godzilla" so maybe there will be a real Alexander Harris after all. (Although wouldn't you want to be a kid named "Godzilla"? Your friend at the playground could point at you while you're arriving, then run away screaming while you stomp on sand sculptures emulating Tokyo. Plus, his initials would then be MSG.)

On Greek numerals

This morning's weather was humid, but cooler than usual. And since Xan and I were awake, I decided we should go for a nice long walk in Sligo Creek Park. (Also, Ange had had a particularly bad evening, so this would get us out of her hair so that she could sleep more. Little did I realize that by continuing my walk, I was actually preventing Xan from getting a proper nap -- and therefore contributing to the problem. Oops. I have since read the solemn text known as Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and have thus converted. But I digress...)

Since there must be an ordinance somewhere against me walking out of the house without some semblance of clothing on, I decided in a moment of whimsy to wear my Alpha This eta pledge shirt. Perhaps this was because I wanted to see how the prim and proper Takoma Park jogger/dogwalker/etc. would react to what to the naked eye would appear to be a slightly-less-than-middle-age frat-boy (baseball cap included) with a baby stroller. Perhaps this was because it was a bright red shirt which, in addition to showing up brightly in the gray morning air, would also match Xan's bright red onesie he was wearing. (Aside: A red shirt? And my house was known for its Star Trek obsession? Did we have a suicidal death wish or what??!!) Perhaps I'm just a 33-year-old guy thinkin' I'm still 19.

Anyway, here's my gripe with my older sibs, now that I'm big enough to believe I can complain. (Kristy, I'm sure you'll weigh in here on my whining.) The problem with my jock shirt is that the number on it doesn't match the meaning of the name printed on it.

An explanation for the unintiated (literally): my shirt on the front has the greek letters, but on the back reads "BOB FOSSE" and then the number 6. Why? you may ask. Well, my name has a couple pretty cool stories attached to it, in my opinion. Thanks to the whimsy of our (probably drunk) pledge chairs, each person in my entire pledge class (which was relatively large that semester) got a name that had the name "Bob" in it (ex. Bobcat, Bobstreperous, Bob Smith of the Cure, etc.). During one house meeting, our pledge chairs yelled at us "Pledge Sound Off!!" and, having never had to do that before, we all looked at one another and spontaneously yelled, "One!" to much laughter. After this, we had to all yell "One!" at virtually all house meetings -- and at one of these (perhaps inspired by some imbibing), I got up and continued with the Chorus Line tune: "-singular sensation, every little step she takes!" This was naturally complete with a make-shift one-man kickline around the room. Hence: Bob Fosse, Broadway and Hollywood choreographer, dancer and director.

As such, I have always believed that the number on my shirt should have been "1." Why "6"? Well, as it turned out, three of us who lived in the same room all pledged that quarter: my roommate Rich Yeung ("Bob Smith") and Caroline Kanegson, who I think meant to just visit with Rich for a few days and ended up living on our common room floor (earning her the name "Bobonthefloor," if I remember correctly). And we all lived in 6 Hinman.

I wouldn't be so bugged about having the number "6" on the shirt if a picture survived of the three of us standing together with our backs to the camera displaying the number "666." I personally think that Rich and Caroline should come to the next reunion with their shirts so we can create this picture for my own personal benefit. Come on, whadaya say??

And do I need help or what? Poor Xan, he has a complete wacko for a dad. Oh well.

Becoming Brandon -- yay!

Ah, the memory of Brandon David Adams. It is highly unlikely that he will read this and, if he does, it will be a miracle and a half if he writes to me concerning it (although if anyone wishes to tell him about this, be my guest -- I would love to be proven wrong here). Brandon is one of my favorite people in the world: the guy who lived across the hall from me freshman year of college who we first heard about as "the guy who tap dances." At first, this unnerved my roommate and I, who were both thoroughly entranced by the likes of alternative music (although he tended toward the Pixies and Diamanda Galas and I tended toward Depeche Mode and Erasure, meaning that we met in the middle at the Sisters of Mercy). And yet Brandon and we became very good friends, not in the least because the three of us were in glee club together and we were all in awe of Julie Kulchuk (née Full Fare), who came down to us lowly folks in the River Cluster to talk about what college freshmen do until we all fell asleep. Brandon was known among us for many things, including spontaneous tapping (which I still occasionally do) and inventing patently ridiculous sing-songs, such as the immortal "Juuuuu-lie/Julie, Julie Full Fare/She likes to watch you eat -- yay!"

Note the "yay!" Indeed, this is a constant Brandonism, a word forever associated with him. Oftentimes, it precedes a distrubingly horrific concept so as to disarm it completely and make it seem light-hearted and carefree. For example: "Yay! Nuclear war!"; "Yay! We're going to be disemboweled by heathens!" and the ever-popular standard: "Yay! Death!" I was attached to post-teenage morbidity by way of Depeche Mode; Brandon with an exclamation. (Aside: Brandon's other refrain, also repeated by the aforementioned Ms. Full Fare, was -- spoken in a happy, sing-songy voice -- "Sadness! Sorrow! Doom! Despair!" The exclamation points here are not merely written punctuation either.)

Here's the issue: I find myself saying "Yay!!" a lot these days.

Granted, this is because I'm Xan's primary caretaker for now. And he's learned how to smile, which sends him (and me) into sensory overload with joy. He's also almost carrying on conversations with me via some mutlisyllabic cooing, which is also adorable. And so, when something funny happens, or he's done something cool, or he's just looking awfully cute, I've tened to respond with a heartfelt "Yay!!" Ever the linguist, Ange says that while Brandon uses the construction "Yay, object," I have tended to use "Object, yay." (In case you didn't know this, my wife did an analysis of the grammatical inconsistencies in Yoda-speak in graduate school.)

At least I haven't devolved into the baby-talk gobbledy-gook that I find somewhat idiotic. Nonetheless, I'm wondering how my actions this summer are going to haunt my everyday life, particularly when I go back to teach in the fall.

"So, class, how might we approach the rampant sexuality in Cuarón's Y tu mamá también?"
"Well, the raw use of the hand-held camera might expose the empty significance of the sexuality."
"Empty signifiance -- yay!! You did soooooo well, Emily! Yes, you did! You did really well!"
"But Professor Middents, I was going to say that! Why didn't you pick me?"
"Oooooh, Todd, I know you have a crush on Emily. I know you feel bad. Iiiiit's OK. Here, let me put you on my shoulder and pat your back so that I can get some of that gas out of you. Theeeere we go."
"Wait a minute, this is really kinda wei- urp!"
"Are you still talking? Here, try this pacifier. Thaaaaat's a gooooood boooooy, yes you are. Professor Middents is going to teach now, OK Todd? Good."

I'm telling you -- I think a clause concerning the use of pacifiers is going into the next set of syllabi, right next to the part where I inform them how I will break their cell phones if they go off during class. Pacifiers, yay!

Not easy bring Green

(Sorry for this Dart-centric post. Please skip if you're more interested in Xan or movies, heh heh...)

I admit that when I entered Dartmouth, I was incredibly naive. I had no idea it was the inspiration for Animal House, nor did I realize its reputation for being a generally conservative school. Happily, I traipsed up to Hanover with only the notion that I was going to get a rock-solid, challenging education in at atmosphere that had a lot of green. The alumni support was an added bonus. (It shoud be said that, at this time, I was also planning on being a math and chemistry double major. And that I had a "Bush/Quayle '98" button. My, how things change.)

While at Dartmouth, I ran into my share of older alumni while working Commencement and Reunion, which I did for three out of the four years there. The large majority were wonderful, genteel men who had fascinating stories to tell of Dartmouth Hall, war and having to import women from Mount Holyoke. It always amazed me, however, when I ran into an alum who would mutter under his breath, "Dartmouth was better when the women weren't here." Personally, I'm thankful for the women. (I'd better -- heck, I married one.) Dartmouth could not remain an all-boys school and maintain its position as a top school. The world changed; it continues to change and institutions have the change with it.

I mention all of this because I am really upset by recent events caused by the otherwise apathetic attitude of some of my fellow alums. Dartmouth's alumni just elected two new trustees, Peter Robinson and Todd Zywicki, two candidates who were nominated by petition instead of by the College's nomination committee and who reflect rather reactionary values concerning the direction Dartmouth should go (not to mention higher education in general). In this Bush-tastic world, I should perhaps no longer be surprised by their election. I have come to realize that my way of thinking is far enough out of the mainstream that I can no longer call myself "left of center" as much as "left," even though I'm not yet wearing any hammer-and-sickle apparel.

The attitudes that Robinson and Zywicki seem to represent, however, reflect a very "old school" Dartmouth that promises to thwart any and all attempts to innovate the quality of the school's reputation. Though both are relatively young alums, they share the attitudes of the older alums from the 40s and 50s, not the overwhelming ideals (I think) of those like myself from the 90s. As a college educator, I now understand what Dartmouth's current administration is trying to do; nonetheless, I'm flabbergasted that the alums now stand poised to step it its way. In the most awful way, I'm glad I'm not teaching at a school where the alumni don't care enough to meddle in the school's current activities. I've always loved the fact that Dartmouth's alumni did care this much, but now I'm seeing a flaw in the system.

Enough is enough, I say. I can't be the only one sickened by this trend. Maybe the alums just aren't aware. Maybe they need to be smacked around enough to be made to care. (A snarkey note: "they" in this last sentence includes my own wife.) Or am I just a wistful liberal who should just quietly go the way of the current conventional trend? Am I ridiculous for having these feelings about my school? (Heck, AU would love if their alumni would feel this way.)

Here's a modest proposal to any of the Dartmouth alums who feel similarly: in the last two trustee elections, all the candidates who won were by petition. Can the same grass-roots efforts that brought these trustees in also work to our advantage? Why not try a petition candidate from our side?

Wow, look at me. I've become a crusty, bitter alum after all.