Besides the, you know, real intellectual exchange — in this case putting the finishing touches on a paper I’m writing with a colleague…

And besides the opportunity to drink a real martini mixed right (for which I paid an eye-popping $12 — but it was at the bar of the Sofitel, so honestly, what was I expecting?)…

And besides the opportunity to eat mussels at a hipster joint with a fabulous selection of beers (Monk’s Cafe)…

And besides the opportunity to catch up with grad school colleagues to gossip, etc….

What conferences are really good for is the opportunity to attend sessions with such enticing papers as “The Politics of Postmodernity: Foucault or Lefebvre?”  Aside from from calling to mind my favorite grad-school cocktail party-game (”ASA session titles: faux or verity?”), this particular session restored my faith in the sublimely ridiculous nature of my profession.

Item #1: I walked into the room and there was no table.  When I remarked “ooh, so does post-structuralism mean we have sit in a circle?” I was told that, no, in fact, they were sending out for a table.

Item #2: For my second remark — referring to a distinct odor in the rather poorly-ventilated room — I asked whether patchouli is the scent of postcolonialism.  This received a rather puzzled silence.

Item #3: Figuring if I was in for a penny, I was in for a pound, I compounded the litany of bitchitude by asking if this was in fact the right room for the session on “PoMo/PoCo/PoStruct.”  With this I hit the brass ring of humor and got a laugh from those present.

Item #4: The presenters were, to a man, bearded and quite white. I was reminded of the riff in Cryptonomicon.  ‘Nuff said.

Item #5: The first paper involved a disquisition on Heading South, with the basic thesis that this movie encapsulates the death of theory.  No, really.  I’m not making this up.  Sigh.  When a middle-aged white dude (who, for the record, teaches at a Catholic college) thinks that a movie about sex tourism represents a fatal sundering of the utility of our basic hermeneutics, the final feeding through the shredder of our epistemological sacred canopy, I can only refer us to that delightful bumper sticker which states “Older women with younger men pisses off all the right people.”  It may or may not be a brave new world, buddy, but you sure as shit need a therapist. 

Item #6: The second paper (which was, I think, trying to bring together Habermas and Foucault.  Two great tastes that taste great together, indeed) was so painful that I tried an old trick: when forced to listen to post-modernist theory papers, treat it as you would those old “magic eye” diagrams.  Instead of unfocusing one’s eyes, however, unfocus one’s ears.  If done right, you can unhook your brain and what was painful jargon becomes potentially beautiful poetry written in a language one does not understand.  And just as one can appreciate Lasker-Schuler regardless of the state of one’s German, one can, sometimes, appreciate commentaries on Baudrillard.  Unfortunately, however, this gentleman was a bad poet whatever the idiom.

Item #7: The third and final paper began with an aside by the author that damn near laid me out on the floor.  To wit: he announced that in his paper he would discuss some of Foucault’s untranslated lectures and their implications for our understanding of neoliberalism, “governmentality” (whatever the hell that is), and “the multitude.”  Fair enough — but wait for the punchline: he had last taken French in 7th grade.

Now that, my friends, encapsulates the death of the theory. 

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The irony, that is.  Or maybe it’s just confined to a small area in Houston.

I received an e-mail from a student inviting me to a live performance revue.  I can’t quite bring myself to reproduce the precise phrasing, but it was along the following lines:

Interested in watching some lovely ladies of the Lord getting jiggy for Jesus?  Come to one of our shows!

I am a terrible, terrible person.  Why?  Because my very first thought upon reading the invitation was “Ooh! Will there be poles involved?”

And for that, I am most certainly going to hell.

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I was going to run a little grammer-number on Gonzo’s latest “don’t hurt me with those barbed questions, please!” non-admission of non-responsibility, but someone beat me to it.

So instead, I’ll simple say “first time is tragedy, second time is farce.”  Or, as the kiddies are saying these days, second verse, same as the first.

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Still waiting to hear about the results of my trip back east for a… talk.  Yeah, yeah, that’s it.  A talk.

In the meantime, let me leave you with a couple of notes from the past two weeks — a taste of what it’s like to live in this place:

a.) Someone I know through politics died.  At the age of 54.  It’s not entirely clear from what, but the causes appear to be some combination of the following (i) a heart attack brought on by sodium overdose induced by kidney malfunction traced ultimately to pancreatitis; (ii) pancreatitis brought on by “functional” alcoholism, (iii) pancreatitis brought on by a boyhood spent in Baytown (which was recently in the news because of a refinery explosion), or (iv) well, if you’re 54 and your pancreas doesn’t work, it might be because of all the semi-toxic pills one typically has to take to manage living with HIV.

TMI, I know, but the grisly details of death are what one talks about when one is surrounded by horror.

b.) Speaking of Baytown refinery explosions, my church may have found the ultimate solution to its current budget deficit. 

A guardian angel donor?  No…

Subdividing our nice parcel of suburban hilliness, and putting in a gas well.  Which is variously estimated to bring in an income of, oh, something on the order of $25k/month for the next ten years.  Which will almost certainly pay for the renovation of the old Sunday School Gym building and probably even pay for shoring up the wall of the choir loft — which has a crack wide enough to stick one’s fingers through (though unlike little Hans, I doubt it would do much good).  No word yet on whether the Montessori school that rents space from us thinks that it’ll be a good idea to have a heavy industrial operation right next door to where 6 year olds are learning to say “run, Spot, run!”

c.) And speaking of death.  Another political acquaintance passed away two days ago.  Also in his sleep, probably from a heart attack.  At the age of 59. 

Ugh.  That makes for four funerals in the past 6 months.

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Of irony in this place: Knitta, please!

Though we’ll probably never have as much irony as they get in Augusta, Georgia, of all places.

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