Bucky

Another tale from my dubious youth.  As usual, the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Among the questionable movements of the hippy era was back-to-the-land romanticism, sustainable only if you had a paying job that left you enough time to muck about with gardening, a grant whose results didn’t fall due for a few years, or parents who thought you were studying to be an engineer.  My friend, call him Ned, fell into the first category.  He worked as a construction laborer, a job he described as being a human mule, and which scrubbed a good many romantic scales from his eyes.  I remember someone telling him admiringly what a healthy life physical labor was.  When he asked what she meant, she explained that you always see these old men on construction sites, obviously of advanced age, but still able to do the strenuous work required, as opposed to aging men with sedentary jobs.  Ned patiently explained that those men were only in their thirties, they just looked old, worn down by lives of hard labor and dubious choices.

Nevertheless, Ned, an eagle scout, kept a romantic edge on the idea of self reliance, to the point that he rented a house in the country from a farmer who had moved into a subdivision, having tired of the “simple life.”  He diverted water from a nearby stream for his use in the house, and heated it with a wood stove (albeit a state-of-the-art Swedish one).  He also kept a kitchen garden, and raised a few goats;  by and by he acquired a cow.  Because he earned a reasonably nice paycheck from the construction industry, he was able to make a go of it without going bankrupt.

One of the goats was a young billy who was constant trouble.  He was particularly adept at escaping the pen and eating up all the produce in the garden.  Ned devised more and more complicated ways of keeping him in, which he always defeated.  To make matters worse, he delighted in charging the legs of Ned’s friends when they were about, earning him the name Bucky.  He was especially frightening for children, who had no height or weight advantage in these confrontations.

Eventually, Ned got tired of it, shot Bucky in the head with a handgun he kept for security, and announced there was to be a goat roast.  A friend who had read somewhere how to do such things offered to clean and prepare the goat for cooking, and Ned got on to digging a pit for charcoal and rigging up a reasonable facsimile of a spit.

The actual gutting and cleaning, along with the subsequent hide tanning, is a whole other story, fraught with missteps and near disasters, that I won’t go into here, as it eventually was successful.  Suffice it to say that I will never forget the taste of fresh goat liver omelet for breakfast as long as I live.

The day of the party arrived, and guests along with it.  I have to say, it was as varied a group of individuals as you will see.  There were hippies, academics, construction workers, and people from foreign countries, reflecting Ned’s multifarious interests and genuinely diverse community of friends.  Among the merry-makers was his current girlfriend, with her five-year-old daughter, whom we shall call Robin.

Beer flowed like … beer, and the country air was hazy with cannabis.  Everyone gathered around the pit, taking turns turning the spit and arguing about whether the goat was done yet.  It didn’t take long for Robin to figure things out.  In the midst of one of the discussions, she turned to Ned.

“Is that Bucky?” she asked, pointing to the sizzling roast.

Ned took a moment, no doubt turning over in his mind exactly how to approach the topic of death and the food chain to a five-year-old.  Eventually, he cleared his throat.

“Yes, it is,'” he said.

“Good!” she replied.

 

Alma Mater, Bursa Pater

The purpose of the University is simple.  It is to further the careers of academicians.

For administrators, this means graduating as many people in lucrative fields as possible, so they can donate generously to the endowment as alumni.  This is mutually beneficial, since a large endowment enhances the reputation of the university, and, by reflection, that of its graduates, all the while assuring princely salaries for top administrators.

To achieve a similar impact in less lucrative fields, for example, in the humanities, requires significantly larger numbers of graduates, since each one will be able to contribute significantly less to the endowment.  This, in turn, is reflected in the salaries of the faculty.  By far, the largest salaries are generally paid to faculty in the professional schools: Medicine, law, and even that johnny-come-lately, business.  Funds for educational programs in the various schools are distributed in similar proportions.  Literature, history, and other such poorly remunerated fields suffer accordingly; a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, since these graduates are more likely to find work in the university system which trained them, where they will get paid relatively little.  This is especially true in these times, when such faculty are increasingly part time, at truly pathetic salaries with no benefits.

For faculty, career advancement requires an entirely different set of principles.  The motive here is to ensure a slow, but steady supply of young colleagues who will not upend years of pronouncements by established faculty.  This is accomplished in two ways.

The first is to act as gate keepers.  Faculty hiring committees sift through applications for open positions, discarding obviously unqualified candidates, then sparring over how to rank the rest.  This usually breaks down along adherence to schools of thought within the discipline; factions, in other words.  Structuralists will want other structuralists, post-modernists will want more of their kind, and so on.  Almost no one will favor applicants whose work calls into question any of the prevailing factions in the department.  There is some honor among academics, after all.  In this way, serene advancement through a career is ensured without problematic disagreement, except along acceptable factional lines.  The process is disturbingly similar to the way acolytes move up through religious ranks.

The second way is similar; it works through the peer review system for publication of papers.  For professors, advancement occurs through just one avenue: publication in peer reviewed journals.  I don’t think I need to go into detail on the difficulties of publishing a serious objection to accepted dogma, when that publication depends on favorable reviews by the very people who have built their reputations on that dogma.

It’s worth noting the increasing trend to circumvent this entire process by hiring only “adjunct” faculty, a process wryly called “adjunctivitis.”  Adjuncts are hired as part time employees, or as contractors, thereby absolving the institution of any requirements for minimum compensation, especially with regard to health insurance, retirement , and so on.  They are usually hired en masse to teach the large lower-level courses established faculty find so tiring.  This is obviously beneficial for administrators, as it frees up much more money for their own bloated salaries, but many short-sighted faculty also fall into line as well.  Adjunct faculty are no threat to the established faculty, because, in spite of technically being part-time, they are forced to teach so many courses to make ends meet, that they have no time left for the kind of research that leads to publication and career enhancement.  I say short-sighted, because this will inevitably lead to further erosion of prestige for university faculty in general, affecting the upper echelons as well as the lowest.  Of course, some, at the end of their relatively lucrative careers and ready for retirement, hardly care.

The wily reader will have noticed that at no point was the welfare of students, or the contribution to knowledge brought up.  Let me just remind you that we have spent the last few decades selling higher education exclusively as the gateway to lucrative jobs.  The inescapable conclusion is that it is the paper, not the process, which has any true value.

Surprise!  Welcome to our brave new world.

Poll: 49% of Americans are in the minority

Here are the results of the latest Nosie-Snupes poll:

  • 78% of Americans believe that if only we got rid of the intelligence community, bad people would leave us alone.
  • 56% believe that if we stopped regulating businesses, everything would be cheaper and better.
  • 42% believe criminals would have a change of heart and go straight, if only there were less government.
  • 60% believe the Tooth Fairy’s cousin Louie fills potholes for free at night.
  • 42% believe the government wants to take away their ED medications.
  • 39% think guns make them irresistible to the opposite sex.
  • 48% think guns make them irresistible to the same sex.
  • 98% believe that government aid that they get is only sensible.
  • 98% believe that government aid that someone else gets is graft and corruption.

That’s the latest from America’s chief poll-takers, the Nosie-Snupes Foundation, a subsidiary of WTF Industries.

From the diary of Pedro de los Palos, late of the caravel Pinta, 11 October 1492.

Day 34 since we embarked from San Sebastién on the pitiful island of La Gomera.  As barbaric as it was, I wish I’d have stayed.   Of course, I admit that even this is better than shoveling horse shit for Don Carlos back home, but the Italian is completely mad.  It’s all very well to say China is just over the horizon, but the horizon keeps moving, and is new each day.  Only that imbecile Rodrigo still climbs the mast every night, hoping to claim the pension promised to the first man to sight land.  Even if he does see it, does he think the fancy men will let him take it?  It will be a fight among the pilots over that juicy plum, no doubt!  No matter; we’ll never make it anyway.

So far, it’s just muttering.  The grog makes it just possible to hold down the hard tack and salt grub, but it won’t last forever.  If poor old Inigo ever sobers up before he gets his silk shirt, he’ll kill everybody on the boat.  We all agree, except for Don Martín, of course, that we ought to turn around.  I think he would agree as well, but for his position as master of the ship, but it’s up to those fancy Genoese on the Sta. María.  Those bastards would sooner change their pants before they’d change their minds.  That’s why Colombo stays on that ship.  If he ever got next to a proper Spanish crew there’d be hell to pay, I’m telling you.

Things will change soon, in any case, if we don’t get any wind.  Not that we’re short of butt wind, with these rations.  Those fancy pants with Colombo hold their farts.  I swear they’ll blow up like balloons and float away one day.

Then let the last man point his ass to the sunset, and blow us all back home, God willing.

Hoops

Today, I walked past a public basketball court, one of those ubiquitous chain link and asphalt affairs. Three young men were shooting hoops, shouting and posturing, probably wishing for a fourth to show up, so they could get up a game of two on two. As an old fart, I was, of course, invisible to them. A couple in middle age took a hasty glance in their direction, then hurried by. Better safe than sorry, they seemed to be saying.

Me, I was unexpectedly overcome with a flood of memories, of childhood alleyways and pickup games. Where I grew up, every block had at least one goal attached to a garage. Sometimes it was a sturdy plywood backboard, sometimes, the plies had long since begun to separate, the hoop sagging forward at an inviting angle for attempted dunks. Sometimes it was just a hoop, nailed at an arbitrarily convenient height. There was almost never a net, although now and then, a new net would mysteriously appear, the talk of the alleys for at least a week, by which time it had already begun to fall into tatters.

The only relevant attribute among these places was the presence of other kids; it was nice to play at one of the better garages, but if there was a kid or two at a lesser one, that’s where the action went. The ownership of these places was equally unimportant. Some places were attached to known neighborhood kids, but others seemed relics of bygone days; only the ghosts of children played there. In any case, I do not remember ever being run off by an owner, though it must have happened.

The skills I learned at alley ball were not directly transferable to organized team basketball. The official courts were too big, requiring way too much running, and too smooth; the crucial skill of hitting the cracks in the surface just right when dribbling had no place there. The official balls were all the same size and uniformly inflated; no critical in-game adjustment for equipment was required at all. Worse yet, you had to use the ball provided, and couldn’t bring your own lop-sided, hyper-inflated ball, the one you practiced with so earnestly at home.

But by far the worse aspect of official team basketball was the presence of coaches and referees. In alley ball, kids learned to be fine judges of character and excellent negotiators, none of which was the least bit of use to referees, who always insisted on having the last word. They weren’t even interested in hearing the opinions of the players before making a decision, which was apparently based on inflexible rules which took no account of the immediate circumstances of the game, let alone who was playing.

And coaches, as near as I could tell, were concerned only with making you run around the gym while they yelled at you.

What that was good for, I’ll never know.