Indifference: A short play in one act.

SCENE: The interior of a large lecture hall. Afternoon sunlight streams through high windows on the right. A large screen fills the center wall, on which can be seen the final notes of a completed lecture. A table, upon which are several stacks of papers, and a lectern are in front of the screen.

Students carrying backpacks stream out exits to the left and right. Professor, a middle-aged woman with a weary air leans, half sitting, arms crossed, against the table. Heather is a young woman wearing a miniskirt, fantastic tan and lots of makeup. Heather approaches Professor as the other students leave for the day.

Heather

I'm going to be out of town the week of the first quiz. Can I reschedule it?

Professor

Why aren't you going to be here?

Heather

Vacation?

Professor

I can only reschedule exams and quizzes for University-sanctioned events, like athletic events or religious holidays. I can't reschedule the quiz for you.

Heather

You mean I can't make it up? What can I do, then?

Professor

You should drop the course and take it another quarter.

[Professor stands, turns her back, and gathers up the papers on the table.]

Heather

[Heather stands unmoving, mouth open for several moments. Professor walks away.]

Well!

CURTAIN

I love me some kook.

My area of expertise is such that I frequently receive unsolicited letters and emails from interesting people who claim to have discovered this or that answer to one or another (or all) secrets of the universe. I love these. My only regret is that I can never, no matter how hard I try, warp my worldview sufficiently to understand what the authors are trying to say.

The most recent offering is fine, pure kook. It combines numerology, astronomy, psychology and theology to arrive at a "FINAL NOTICE: the Earth will fall into Null Space" (in four pages). The author^* seems focused on the number 3, and null space seems to have something to do with 0. Planet masses are divided by other planet's masses, and Earth is divided by Hell (which has something to do with null space). So I think Earth is going to become Hell.


Uh-oh. On Page 2, I am told that I missed something critical on Page 1, because, not having "deduced these definitions intuitively" I have "synthesized (short-circuited) the objective/subjective thought paradox; and" I am "using a closed system of analysis." This does not sound good, especially because the definitions of open and closed systems he uses are not familiar to me. And I see there are "narrow gates" between open and closed systems. In my world, that means the closed system is not closed at all, but apparently I have synthesized the objective/subjective thought paradox and am using a closed system of analysis.

I'm getting frustrated. I just don't get it. On page 3 I learn that my inability to understand has something to do with the fact that I have lost the objective/subjective thought paradox, a tool and gift, because of my pride. The numbers have changed on this page: now the author refers to the Titius-Bode Law, which Wikipedia tells me was disproved with the discovery of Neptune (in 1846). The orbits of the planets are elliptical because the Sun is asymmetrically placed in Polarized First Space. My closed system of analysis will result in my death. Entropy has taken control of my life.




Page 4 gives me my salvation. As is typical with most salvation schemes, this requires prayer, which will save me from my fanatical secular humanism. If I use common sense, I will be saved for a multidimensional adventure. I must pray to Jesus and read the New Testament. The author assures me that he (the author) will receive my donations, but (1) do not try to buy my way into the narrow gate, and (2) his refusal to restrict Christ to a religion means that there can be no religious tax deduction. I think this means that I will not be able to claim such a donation as a deduction on my taxes. Darn.

I really want to see what he sees, or at least understand why he is so certain.

^*I blacked out his name and address, even though he gave permission to distribute his work, because I don't think he wanted the kind of attention I'm giving him.

The Thinking Blogger Award.

Dinosaur has tagged me for the Thinking Blogger Award. Thanks, Dinosaur! I expected the Whining Blogger Award, but I'm happy with this one, too:


Here are 5 blogs that make me think:

1. Axis of Evel Knievel, because things could always be worse.
2. Action Skeptics, for shining light on the cockroaches.
3. Female Science Professor, because I must stay pissed off.
4. Fat Doctor, who makes me wish she were my physician. (Dinosaur too... When my doctor examines me I get the distinct impression that she's thinking about her tax returns.)
5. Stressful Times for Psyc Girl, for making me be nicer to my grad students.

A not-so-secret message to Franklin.

(Of Panopticon fame...)

I do so.

Two reasons why I wouldn't miss teaching, much.

• Student A has waited until final grades are posted to inform me that the score for his first exam is missing. We have no record that Student A ever took the first exam. We have neither his responses to the essay questions nor a scored bubblesheet. Possibilities:
  1. We lost both parts of his exam;
  2. Someone stole his exam; or
  3. It's a scam.


• Student B has failed my class. An enthusiastic email from him says: "I have some great news! Can I come discuss my class performance with you?" Possibilities:
  1. He has a job offer and needs a passing grade in my class to graduate;
  2. His cancer is in remission and now he can finish all the work he neglected during the quarter; or
  3. He wants to tell me about Jesus.

My students have delicate souls.

I gave two finals today. The number of dead grandmothers was, surprisingly, zero, although I did have a case of mono and an emergency heart surgery pop up at the last minute.

But something else happened that was new to me. The last topic we visited in my ESP and Aliens course was Satanic ritual abuse, and I showed this documentary. I put a question about it on today's final, in which I asked the students to discuss how certain topics discussed in class entered into the phenomenon.

One student refused to answer the question and asked for another. The topic made her uncomfortable, she said. She had had to leave the showing of the documentary in the first few minutes, she said, because she was so uncomfortable.

Had she stayed another minute or two past the opening credits, she would have learned that the documentary had nothing to do with Satan or abuse (except, perhaps, the abuse of patients while in the care of incompentent healthcare professionals). While I am willing to give my students some leeway to accommodate their religious beliefs and practices (I will, for example, happily reschedule exams and assignments around Pesach and even Simchat Torah), I am unwilling to modify the contents of the class so they can avoid or ignore information that they find personally troubling. Or, more to the point, that they are afraid they might find personally troubling.

The exam proctor gave her a different question, but I am not going to give her substitute credit for it.

I hate traveling, II: All I need is a disco soundtrack.

Pigeons fuck on the ledge outside my hotel window. I opened the curtain to discover that my window ledge is the pigeon equivalent of a Motel 6 on Las Vegas Boulevard. The bottom 10" of the safety glass (am I in danger of assassination?) is scratched and filthy. The ledge itself is coated with an inch of pigeon shit.

Apparently pigeons have no problem fornicating in a thick slime of their own excrement. They seem to enjoy it.

Our work here is almost done. I have been on a Committee of Visitors (COV). Every federal agency that funds research must open their records for inspection by COVs, who spend several days evaluating the review process, the quality of the funded research, the efficiency of the agency, among other things. I bet you didn't know that people actually read those final reports we hastily cabbage together at the end of a project.

The COV produces a 15-20 page report addressing a vast array of tedious bureaucratic questions using equally tedious bureaucratic language. I can't imagine how people did this job before word processors. Do I have any old salts among my readers who could tell me how this was accomplished?

I thought briefly yesterday about sending out an invitation to Beltway-area bloggers to get together IRL for the purpose of consuming alcohol, but at 4:30 this afternoon we still had only half the report written. The second half went much faster than any of us anticipated. (Members of past COVs: we are eternally grateful for those old reports.) Next time, if I ever do this again, I'll have a better idea of how my schedule will go and I won't have to spend three nights alone in my room eating Thai food out of a styrofoam box.

Tomorrow night I will be in my own bed.

I hate traveling.

1. I'm always convinced that my plane is the one that will make the evening news: the tragic, fiery crash with no survivors.
2. All of the socks I packed have holes in the heels. All of them. At least I don't have to bring them home with me.
3. I miss my family. My baby cries when I talk to her on the phone.
4. I have insomnia because there is a TV in my hotel room and I don't have the self-discipline to turn it off when it's time to sleep.
5. The food is strange and greasy. Where are the lentils?
6. The bed is a horrible, bouncy contraption with box springs and the sheets are too tight no matter how much I tear it up.
7. I worry about the Angry Baker and how he's doing and if he's too stressed out trying to do it all himself.
8. The work I'm doing for [Federal Funding Agency] is interesting but we're isolated in tiny little groups and I feel like I'm being punished for something.
9. The weather here is even worse than in Square State. How can this be? Square State is mostly hardiness zone 5, and [Federal Funding Agency] is in hardiness zone 7.
10. I keep getting bad news via email. Our job search this year has turned into a complete clusterfuck. We may be searching again next year, even though we had six (6!) really fantastic candidates. I can't keep from thinking it's my fault, being on the search committee and all.
11. It took me an hour and a half and probably 10-15 duplicated charges to get wireless access in my room.
12. I hate sleeping alone.
13. I miss the Angry Little Dog and the Angry Crazy Cat.
14. I want to go home.
15. Edited to add: I'm obsessed with the possibility of taking bedbugs home with me.

In which I sense a trend.

Graduate student recruitment is upon us. The eager novitiates arrive later this week, and we have interviews and festivities planned. The graduate students have been pressed to serve as hosts and hostesses. A glorious time will be had by all.

But there is a new phenomenon, which seems to be affecting students in our discipline more than others. At least one in the group will show up with a family member in tow, a wife, husband, partner or parent. This person will participate fully in all planned activities, including, much to our dismay, the one-on-one interviews with faculty.

Two years ago, two students brought their wives. OK, fine. It's good for everyone in the family to see Ellesiouville and I understand that travel funds are limited for students. Whereas one student's wife realized that it would be inappropriate for her to be interviewed along with her husband (now my student) and found activities to amuse herself around campus, the other student's wife did not. She accompanied her husband to each interview, except mine.

(I told my secretary that it was unacceptable for her to be present during my interview of her husband, and so she was told as she headed my way. She was told I was "very old-fashioned," and she pouted angrily in the hall for 30 minutes.)

No, I wasn't being unreasonable. I was the student's fourth or fifth interview of the day, and I had already been warned that she had monopolized the earlier interviews with questions like, "How much will my husband be paid?" and "What kinds of jobs will he be able to get when he graduates?" So mine was the first foot to be put down, and the student's wife decided he would not be pursuing graduate studies at LSU.

Good riddance.

We just received word about the recruitment festivities at one of our top competitors for graduate students. One of our potentials visited there last week, with her mother. And she didn't say a word. Her mom dominated all discussions, even regaling the graduate students at lunch with her baby's GRE scores. I'm so glad that I'm going to be out of town for this one.

I would like to start sending out a little blurb with our invitations, something that makes it clear that family members are not welcome at those interviews and events that we use to measure someone's fitness for our program. Maybe a list of area attractions, directed to traveling companions? Or maybe we just need to grow spines?

Y'all must read this book.

I know, I know: I am culturally stunted. I have waited long to open this book and read it for myself, even though everyone on the North American continent has been talking about it for almost a year now. For those of you, like me, who haven't read it, go check Ann Coulter's Godless out of the library, right now. (For heaven's sake, don't pay full price for it.)

This is the funniest thing I've read in ages. I'm now convinced that Coulter is a parodist of the highest order. Unfortunately she doesn't write at all well, or I might think she was Voltaire reincarnated.

I'd love to list all the things she says that had me laughing to tears (like, "Although they are Druids, liberals masquerade as rationalists..."), I shall content myself with this unsubstantiated and unreferenced claim:

"...Professors are the most cosseted, pussified, subsidized group of people in the U.S. workforce. They have concocted a system to preemptively protect themselves for not doing their jobs, known as "tenure." They make a lot of money, have health plans that would make New York City municipal workers' jaws drop, and work -- at most -- fifteen hours a week."

Do any of y'all know of anyone who fits this description? My salary is lower than any other middle-aged professional I know (except my fellow professors): my friends who chose to work in the real world make approximately three times my salary -- for all 12 months of the year, not my measly 9. My healthcare plan is horrendous: if I can't get it from LSU's med school, I can't get it, but I still have to pay like it's Blue Cross/Blue Shield. If I don't meet my classes, my tenure will be revoked. It might take a year or two, but I will be fired. Incompetent secretaries at LSU, in contrast, just get moved around from department to department. And 15 hours a week? I work 60 on my slowest weeks, and I feel guilty about not doing enough.

I wanna know where I can get me one of these professorial positions Coulter is describing. Are there any where it's warm?

The last of a generation.

My Uncle Buddy died this week in a V.A. hospital somewhere in Arizona. He smoked himself to death.

Uncle Buddy was a Vietnam veteran. When he got home he joined the Atlanta police force. I'm not sure how long he served on the force, but he retired when he was transferred to homicide. At the time, he figured working homicide in Atlanta would be Vietnam all over again. He worked a series of unremarkable jobs after that, until he got sick.

He was a very quiet man, at least with me. I don't think he was so quiet with his own family. His wife left him and took their two sons with her, and Uncle Buddy moved in with my grandparents and lived with them for most of the rest of his life. This was how I knew him; I saw him every time we visited.

He got me my first Lucy Maud Montgomery book, Anne of the Island. I still have it. I think I've read it close to 100 times. He let me hold his Uzi, the only one I've ever seen or touched. When I got older, he told me where all the best jazz clubs in Atlanta were.

Uncle Buddy and I were never very close, and as I got older I heard from him less and less. About 15 years ago he was hospitalized with a huge blood clot in his aorta, at the point where that giant firehose of an artery bifurcates and becomes the common iliac arteries which supply the pelvis and legs. I don't like to think about how big the incision must have been to get at that bad boy and put in a graft. The surgeons must have had to cut him almost in half.

The cause of Uncle Buddy's arterial disease was his smoking. The weeks that Uncle Buddy was in the hospital were the only time in his adult life that he didn't smoke at least two packs of cigarettes a day. The last time I saw him was a few days after he had been released. He marveled at the fact that he hadn't smoked a cigarette in such a long time, and speculated that he could really quit this time.

His resolve didn't last more than another few days. He began smoking again as much as ever. He lost both his legs, and kept right on smoking. He developed emphysema, and smoked around his oxygen. Last week he developed pneumonia, and then he died.

I don't mourn his passing. He was very sick, and now his pain is over. His sons grew up long ago; they had their father for decades longer than I had mine. I mourn more generally the waste: most of my grandfather's and father's generations died of smoking-related illnesses. Uncle Buddy was the last to go. Two whole generations of my family died young, of vascular disease, lung cancer, throat cancer, and emphysema. How many other families have experienced the same tragedies, over and over and over again?

Not too long after I came to LSU, Uncle Buddy left a message on my answering machine. He had found my public website, and wanted to know how I was doing. I never got around to calling him back. I wish I had.