Celibacy unit readings...

So for my "Roman Catholic celibacy" unit for my sex class, I assigned a chapter from a recent ethnography of Catholic seminaries. 

I had just glanced at bits, but reading it in preparation for teaching, it's even better than I thought, since it's mostly interviews with all these people who entered the priesthood for really fucked up reasons and end up lonely and unprepared to deal with sex and channel it in odd ways (e.g. one who talked graphically at a youth retreat and got kicked out of seminary).

Probably the best anecdote, however, was the (priest) author's memory of 4 people who disappeared overnight when he was in seminary, leaving behind only rumors of sexual improprieties, including the 2 guys who were caught giving each other a bath.

Close up was the spiritual advisor who recommended that students not use online porn, but rather magazines, since the diocese was the seminary's service provider.

I texted some of this to my one friend with the cat, and she texted back -

The whole celibacy thing is so weird.  Even polyamory seems less weird to me.  And those people are f'ing weird!

When I texted back that Pope Francis seemed to do it well, she agreed, but said that those who didn't ended up "fucked in the head".

Later that night, we talked over the phone, and she said that she actually found the bathtub story kind of touching, because it was 2 men touching each other in a loving way, rather than one having his libido build up and burst outward into some horrendous or self-destructive act.

Death dreams.

Like 2 days before Roger Ebert died, I dreamt that I was at a cocktail party, and over in the corner in front of an offwhite wall there was a man who I thought looked like Roger Ebert and I thought was him, but then I thought wasn’t, and then I just wasn’t sure, as I kept looking at his chin and cheeks, since they’d been remodelled after his one cancer surgery.

So, I never talked to him.

. . .

Like 2 days after that, I dreamed that I was reading the obituaries, and there was Nicki Minaj in a big long-haired blonde-and-pink wig and a silver sparkly captain’s hat, and that’s how I discovered she was dead (in my dream).

. . .

I really hope Nicki Minaj doesn’t die, though all the times where I’ve dreamed of death and someone died, there was always this element to the dream where I saw them but couldn’t recognize them, or they didn’t behave like themselves, like they were already passing on somewhere.

Barhopping: Random (Mexican) bar.

At this one random (Mexican) bar that’s just north of a bad (black) neighborhood and that I stopped through at like 4pm when it was fairly dead, I said hello and the (Mexican) bartender woman shrugged and was like, “No ingles.”

“Okay,” I was like, “Queria una cerveza” (‘I would like a beer’).

At that, the woman’s face got stony, and she looked straight at me very seriously and was like, “Qual?” (‘Which?’).

And, I responded, very seriously, “La cerveza que cuesta menos” (‘The beer that costs less’), which is a phrase that some (Mexicans) had taught me a few months ago when I was at a bar on the far south side of the city, on the opposite side of the ghetto.

At that, she was like, “Meeler, Meeler light, Bahd, Bahd light...”, and this very short, dark brown, and wizened middle-aged (Mexican) guy in a baseball cap who was a few seats down started tittering at our interaction.

“Un pocito” (‘A little’), I was like to him, holding up my hands to show the “little bit” gesture.

And, a few seats beyond him, this old guy (the owner?) called out to the woman and said something about ID.

She was like, “ID?”, and I gave her my driver’s license, and called out to the man something about “de maioridad” (‘of majority’, I think).

“Claro” (‘Of course’), I was like, jokingly, and gestured at my face.

Later, when I left, the bartender was talking to this tough-looking (Mexican) guy over by the end of the bar by the exit, so I said bye and “Gracia por todo” (‘Thanks for everything’).

Then, I added, “Hablo un pocito, pero puedo hablar todo que necessito” (which I hope means, ‘I speak a little, but I am able to say everything that I need’).

Then, I left.

Matching the Zeitgeist.

It seems that I'm at the forefront of the zeitgeist when it comes to speaking out on doctoral education in the Humanities.

Pretty much all the students who I know who've thought through my analysis agree that there's effectively "2 tracks" of Ph.D. students, and people have better options in grad school and beyond if they have more money.

They also are all troubled, but see no good solution, other than to have students without independent money self-select out from the profession and never enter it at all.

From what I can tell, only a handful of professors feel similarly, so it'll be interesting to see what happens once these conversations reach prospective students and decisions not to go for a Ph.D. start mounting.

Though, on the other hand, I think it's only 25-35% of students who enter without independent money (though that # may be higher for some program), so it's not like a program would be devastated if half of those students wised up and decided not to attend (and I'd be surprised if half wised up; so many entering students are over-optimistic or naive about their prospects, even when you lay it out for them).

Perhaps the biggest task right now, then, is consciousness-raising: to convince students, profs, and the admin at large that the academy will suffer if the lower socio-economic classes never enter it.

Then, they *create* a problem, whereas the problem would just slide buy unnoticed otherwise, since you'll still have a full regimen of doctoral students.

Addendum addendum addendum.

I forgot forgot forgot –

We met at a coffee shop before walking over to the BDSM museum together.

It was a beautiful day, the first warm day of spring, and the sun was out, and like 3 students texted me to cancel (I send an email with my cell number and tell people to text me if they’re late or not coming).

As we walked over, I told my remaining 8 students, “See the weather is nice out today to get us into the BDSM mindset, it’s so nice outside, but we’ll be inside a stuffy museum, so we can truly appreciate the concept of torture.’

Addendum addendum.

I forgot forgot –

At the BDSM museum, we were in the archive a bit, looking at the holdings (“Pulp”, “How to”, “Periodicals”), and I pulled down a periodical to show my students how people used to contact each other through personal ads, since they’re all children who grew up with the internet.

I also pointed out a small display case of Tijuana bibles, that included lewd comics of Katherine Hepburn and Dennis the Menace.

After I was finishing up browsing and went to move on, I looked back, and 6 of the 8 students were all at the main table just poring over texts. and they were all evenly spaced out at the table, and light was just poring in through the main window.

“Isn’t that great?”, I said, talking to my one redhead, who was standing looking at a bookcase near me.  “They’re all so studious!  That could be an admissions brochure right there,” and as I made a camera gesture towards them, I was like, “Snap!”.