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There’s a useful debate happening at Inside Higher Ed and at One Flew East over William Major’s article on the teaching of composition in the academy. What it really looks like is a pissing match. Professors Gerald Nelms and Tim Mayers chide Professor Major for supposedly not knowing the important literature relating to composition and rhetoric studies. Mayers even goes so far as to accuse Major or being ignorant of the work being done in the field. Nelms provides a catalogue of where he thinks Major goes wrong.

Major responds that Nelms seemed to have read a different essay. He points out that by moving some of the literature professors into the classroom they might take a new appreciation for the teaching of writing (and learn something along the way). More importantly, they would have to move out of the lofty graduate seminar and into the trenches. This might, Major argues, leave us with fewer Ph.Ds and more jobs.

One gets the sense that the rhetoric/comp folks are a little sensitive about the matter. I’m not sure–and it’s not clear from the article–what Major knows or doesn’t know about rhet/comp theory. But Mayers and Nelms would seem to have some kind of institutional ax to grind (as well as being able to read minds). They may be feeling that they aren’t getting their due, that as composition experts their ideas are still being ignored–especially by literature folks. Maybe they are secretly tired of the whispers in the hallway that what they’re doing really isn’t worthwhile (the same way that professors of education have to swallow it). 

Some of the books Mayers cites as evidence of Major’s ignorance make the point–as Major does–that writing departments have historically been relegated to the back of the bus. It seems to me that Major’s article wants to change this fact. Too bad Nelms/Mayers and others didn’t get it.

Addendum: Mayers replies to The Grumpy Academic here.

The title of Patricia Cohen’s recent article in the NYT, “The 60s Begin to Fade as Liberal Professors Retire,” was a little misleading. Indeed, those of us who were in graduate school during some of the most fiercely fought battles (for me, late 1980s through mid 1990s) understand that the culture wars were invariably the result not of 60s radicals looking to have their day in the academy, but of their ideological progeny: those who were in college in the 70s and 80s and who sought to emulate their brothers and sisters who peopled the barricades a decade or so before.

In other words, the young professors in the late 70s, 80s, and early 90s confused what they were doing in the classroom with real politics. Of course, they had notable successes, especially when it came to opening up the canon. On the other hand, the culture wars helped give us Ronald Reagan and Bush I and II. 

Cohen writes that the young profs of today are far more politically moderate than their predecessors of a generation or so ago. I would amend her analysis to say, simply, that today’s younger profs (late 20s through early 40s, perhaps) are more politically moderate because they are more practical in their understanding of what can be done in the academy in terms of social change. They simply do not buy the idea that the university seminar room is where the rubber meets the road. 

In my day as a graduate student, I could not help but wonder how the linguistic and ideological contortions that passed for criticism and theory had any relevance to the homeless guy down the street. Even though they purported to be just what that guy needed.

Here’s what I saw on my last evening on the beach, as I was enjoying a gin and tonic and trying to concentrate on the sunset:

A woman in her mid-50s–body sculpted by modern medicine and a legion of personal trainers–had donned what would have been a very fetching bikini had she been 20 years old. She may have, at some earlier time, been a white person, yet her skin was now the color of gnawed shoe leather, and I suspect it felt about the same: a sinewy monstrosity, the product of too much good living in the sun. I was both fascinated and repulsed, strangely drawn to her presence, so symbolic she was of our collective fear of death.

But she wasn’t alone. Hard by I spotted her beau of the week. The poor fellow could barely keep up with her mockery of the passage of time. He wore a knee brace, which instead of preventing a rather marked limp only served to highlight it. He was slightly overweight, though given his age and size I wouldn’t call his overall look that unusual. He, in other words, was on his way to the grave and he didn’t seem to mind too much.

Now here’s the fun part. He saddled up behind her and began a very slight–but noticeable–grinding into her bottom, rejoicing, I guess, that he was able to land such a creature as this and therefore all the more ready to proclaim it to the world–or to her. Even though he was probably in his cups, as well as in his near dotage, I imagined that he was sporting a bit of a woody. Wouldn’t be so absurd in this, the age of Viagra.

And yet, I wasn’t scandalized: not by this woman-as-preservative, not by the soft-porn show they were putting on in front of the kids. But alas! She had to give him the reverse reach around, right there in public. She thought she was being sly, but I am, if nothing else, an observer: I observe. And thus I observed her grabbing his manhood in the midst of dozens of unsuspecting sunset worshippers. You sly leathery fox, I’m watching you!

This is what I saw at the beach at 8:27 p.m. last night.

A Sunny Day

TGA has been on vacation. Which doesn’t necessarily mean that he has been relaxing. Indeed, he feels a bit vexed. The beach is quite a fertile place–a true resource–for people watching (almost as good as airports). And though TGA watches with some interest the usual manifestations of beauty that appear regularly amongst the sand and waves, he has one question that he hopes his readers will take seriously:

Wherefore the hot babes with the fat ugly guys? 

He was reminded of the Russian beauty on the beach in Waikiki a few years ago who sported with an old slum. She had that eastern European thing that TGA has only seen in film, something bold in the lines of the face–forward, yet comely, eyes that could light a candle. He, however, possessed that middle-aged western paunch, easily recognizable–as rare as oxygen. TGA figured it was a mob thing, if for no other reason than that he couldn’t fathom her presence within this old guy’s orbit, unless of course fat-man was hung like a bear. In that case, all bets cancelled. 

At the beach today he was equally entranced by the the Hollywood-esque Cameron Diaz look-alike who frolicked with the earthy Jon Polito clone. You know, the guy from Miller’s Crossing and Homicide

Look, I’m not against love. Who’s to question the workings of the heart, or of the loins? But still.

Sometimes we have to take stock of the things for which we are grateful. Today I take a look back and give thanks for the sounds of sex that filled the dull night air during my many days as a graduate student. As an undergrad, I slept well–never awakened, least of all by someone sleeping next to me. But cut to graduate school and it was as if all the world around me were engaging in coital bliss. In virtually every apartment I lived in–and I moved around a fair bit–I heard people getting laid: through the walls, through the ductwork, the ceilings. Sometimes the lovers were unabashed and loud, clearly so enamored of their pleasure that it wouldn’t have mattered to them if I were in the same room. Others, of course, preferred a more hushed approach, and I imagined them trying to quiet each other even as their bodies were sending different and altogether more interesting signals. 

There was the delightfully dirty old fella upstairs who was married to a younger woman. Not too young, mind you, for he was in his 70s, give or take, and she had made it into her fifth decade. When they weren’t fighting they were rocking the house in a more benign fashion. My basement hovel sang with their outbursts. This was my first introduction to elderly sex–which I feel is an understudied phenomena–and it did give me pause. I was young, after all. TGA has an open mind, however, and truly believes that such pursuits should be a must for all senior citizens. 

I once rented a small room in house that had been subdivided into three apartments. Two gay undergrads shared each other’s pleasures–for I have to think that they gave as well as they received–in this house-of-love. If I had recently been introduced to the sounds of elderly sex (the only sounds my grandparents ever made were primarily G.I.: gaseous room-shaking emanations), I had not yet had any commerce with man-man love. I begrudge no man or woman his predilections, but I was fascinated with their sounds in the same way that one might the mating calls of rare birds. For in my experience, these were rare birds indeed. 

There were others–many others. And to each, I raise a toast. You enlivened countless of my evenings with your joy, brief though it were. Cheers!

The beautiful thing about this blog phenomenon–and it is a phenomenon to me, who never paid the least bit of attention to it until now–is that we can bypass fuckwad agents and fuckwad editors, all of whom are looking for reasons to say “no.” I understand–because I have a big heart and was raised empathatically–that said fuckwad agents and fuckwad editors are busy people. I understand this because they have made it abundantly clear in conversation, at conferences, and on their blogs, as well as in their many underwhelming form rejection letters they have sent to TGA, when they have bothered to send at all. 

Several issues are at stake here, and we will consider them in turn:

  • McLaughlin: Issue one, Jack Germond! Why hasn’t the world of fuckwad agents and fuckwad editors recognized TGA’s genius? Because TGA is no genius–just another in a long line of peeps who think they want to be writers. Also, because TGA gives up too easily (touche). Finally, TGA has no connections, for it is true what his grandfather taught him: “it’s not what you know; it’s who you know.” Were TGA smart enough to get into an Ivy, then savvy enough to get that internship, he’d be singing a different tune right now. As it is, he started as a nobody and he’ll end there.
  • McLaughlin: Tough love from Jackie boy! Truly spoken.
  • McLaughlin: Issue two, Pat Buchanan: Why don’t editors respond to legitimate queries and articles? John, editors are very busy people. They have to read letters and words all day long. Sometimes they have to decide which letters and words are good, and which ones are bad. It’s not that they love to say no. Just the opposite. They hate to be the bearers of bad news. It hurts them–day after day of rejection, pile after pile–and they sometimes have to take some time for themselves. Also, they’re lazy. 
  • McLaughlin: Issue three, Eleanor Clift: Resolved: The current system works fine–separates the wheat from the chaff. Oh, John, there you go again, invoking John the Baptist. The system does work fine, John, for the same reason that capitalism works fine: there are winners and there are losers. People with money, power, talent, and connection are the natural winners. It’s the order of things. The invisible hand, John, works on fuckwad agents and fuckwad editors just as it does strutting wannabe writers. My advice, if you can’t make it as a writer, become a fuckwad agent or fuckwad editor. Then, you can become the omnipotent power you always wanted to be.

For the most part, I really don’t fucking care about how most of my brothers and sisters spend their day, their peccadilloes aired for all the world to see on their blogs. Even my fellow academics seem to think that their mean little lives are somehow interesting, as if the world revolved around petty concerns. I include myself, of course.

“Couldn’t write my dissertation today.” Cue the violin. “Student was mean to me.” Waa Waa Waa. “My dean says I have to teach freshmen.” Welcome to the real world. The fascist anti-semite Ezra Pound said that he didn’t give a damn if the entire world wrote poetry, as long as they as they kept it to themselves. I sometimes feel the same way. 

Which is why I am must apologize for today’s post, for it is a kind of violation of your need to be entertained, of your inherent right, reader, not to be bothered. But I must have out:

At my local coffeehouse–really, one of those nasty chains that we all love to hate but secretly patronize (they have free wi-fi, after all)–I have recently become the victim of a group of 7 - 10 retirees, men who take up the space and fill it with their boisterous badinage. They yell across the room at each other the most insipid conversation. The best way to get from here to there. Whether the market is going to fall further. Sports scores. How much horsepower in that engine. One of them had clearly been the quintessential geek in high school. He wears a USA t-shirt and a USA baseball cap, in case he forgets where he is, I guess, and someone can lead him back to his country. They are almost all large, grain fed. They ogle the young women–which is my job–and then look at each other, knowingly. I am terribly put out. 

One old-timer isn’t part of the group, but he clearly wishes to be. As if he were back in high school. He hovers about their perimeter, aching to take part. But they barely look his way. He’ll sit at a neighboring table and look over at them, longingly. I’ve never seen them once invite him into the circle.

They have made of my coffee shop their living room, when in fact I thought it was my living room. I try to write a sentence and hear their cackling. I do not begrudge their getting old. We’ll all be there soon enough. Nor their camaraderie. I simply wish that they move on, perhaps find a venue that does not have free wi-fi, for the freeloader in me must need stay put.

And as if they weren’t bad enough, I’ve decided the book I’m working on sucks ass. But that’s fodder for another post.  

PS. To the cretin who dumped his chewing gum in the parking lot of my local grocery: I hope you get syphilis.

I want to thank the person who sent me this very thongy link. Apparently, there is another side to the thong phenomenon I wasn’t aware of. If I can quote Hamlet, “there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” 

I am now thinking seriously about the meaning of the male thong, its relative place in the world of thong. Is it possible that our women will begin to demand the thong as we have demanded it of them? Will the male thong express the same type of putative sexuality? Will men also make the thong a visible yet highly secretive under-apparatus? Or will we shift the thong’s symbolic potential by hiding it completely and thus making it the more desirable? 

I believe we have yet to realize the thong’s true potential as a bridge across the gender divide. 

I have to wonder whether there ever was a golden age of drunken professors, or whether in fact I merely romanticize what can be considered an abominable trait in anyone, academic or otherwise. More than one of my undergraduate profs imbibed, and did so frequently. And indeed, on many occasions I was asked to accompany my betters on their journeys to the local watering troughs, whereupon they bought me booze, and we drank, and everyone went away happy. 

Early years in graduate school were not so different. My most brilliant professor couldn’t keep away from the scotch in the late afternoons. Before that, likely as not he could be found having a two or three beer lunch at a bar just off campus. He introduced me to the importance of a cold one just before teaching, a practice that in my weakness I wasn’t able to keep up. A drunken professor and his glorious drunken wifeOne brilliant evening at a department party he fell headlong out of the screen door and was in for certain doom–a concrete porch and four-foot drop to the driveway below–before I caught him by the barest thread and pulled him home. On another occasion, his friends abandoned him at my apartment, so tired were they of his excessive devotion to the bottle that evening. And I thought he was just having a swell time. 

But as I said, he was a brilliant fellow and good fun to have around. Eccentric and not long for this planet, but necessary nevertheless.

These delightful people would seem to have disappeared. Is it me, or has academia cleaned itself up of late? With the loss of the G.I. generation and the imminent (and not too soon) retirements of the boomers, where are we to turn for good ole fashioned non-p.c. boozy fun? 

As for drugs, forget about it. Even the hip hippy profs now running the show barely know where to find a joint, so wrapped up are they in their retirement portfolios. 

When will the new eccentrics emerge? 

You know it’s over when your music appears on “So You Think You Can Dance.” Sorry.

Best of luck,

Grumpy

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