A survey by the Louisiana Board of Regents has found that one-third of the endowed chairs created through a matching grant program by the state are unfilled, The Shreveport Times reported. Campus officials said that endowed chairs can be hard to fill. As a result of the survey, a new rule will bar institutions that have more than 20 percent of their chairs unfilled from adding a new endowed chair.
Three researchers were awarded the 2013 Nobel Prize in Medicine this morning for "their discoveries of machinery regulating vesicle traffic, a major transport system in our cells." The winners are: James E. Rothman, professor and chair of cell biology at Yale University; Randy W. Schekman, professor of molecular and cell biology at the the University of California at Berkeley and an investigator of Howard Hughes Medical Institute; and Thomas C. Südhof, professor of molecular and cellular physiology at Stanford University.
Submitted by Jeff Rice on October 7, 2013 - 3:00am
Not all academics eat well. Often, I have found myself among a group of friends at the end of a conference, hungry for dinner, and, by some unknown force, our movement is directed toward an overpriced, chain steak house or fast food restaurant.
Conference hotels often house a Starbucks; each morning of my field’s main conference, a line of 30 people deep can be found before the day’s proceedings begin. Publisher-sponsored affairs are always a big hit. Cold shrimp served with ketchup-based sauce. Small cheese-stuffed pastry hors d'oeuvres. Toast with tomatoes on top. Cheese and crackers. Hummus. Crudités. Free food. Conference lunches can be less generous as colleagues grab day-old sandwiches -- made in some unknown factory -- at Starbucks. Or they push coins into a machine and grab a Milky Way.
Office microwaves are often messy with the remnants of frozen pizza, ramen noodles, or reheated hot dogs. Sometimes, when I am walking from the parking garage to my campus office, I spot colleagues at 8 in the morning leaving the nearby McDonald's with bags of fried something-or-other. One of my more astute colleagues, who works extensively in cultural criticism, has stood more than once across from me in our building’s elevator, a bag of Chick-fil-A in his hand. Academic cocktail parties, at the university or at a conference, usually offer $6 bottles of Bud and Miller Lite. The $7 Sam Adams is labeled “import.”
Our department meetings take place every other Tuesday during lunch time. It is not uncommon for me to eat a sandwich or salad during the meeting. Being at work makes me hungry no matter how large or small a breakfast I’ve had. When I taught community college night classes almost 20 years ago, I ate a salad before class started. Sometimes, I pack hard-boiled eggs in my salad so that the sulfuric odors permeate the room during meetings.
No matter where I’ve worked, campus catering coffee is always bad. Order a vegetarian meal for an event, and campus catering makes something heavy in starch (pasta drenched in a bland, unseasoned red sauce) or portabello mushrooms (grilled or raw). Across the street from our campus is a restaurant with the word “ass" in its title (“huge” is another word in its name). Across the street, one can also dine at a Korean restaurant, an African restaurant, a local pizza place with a good beer list, a Middle Eastern restaurant, a regional taco chain with the word "local" in its title, a fast food restaurant that specializes in chicken fingers, and a McDonald’s. I entered the student union the other day and saw a 30-person deep line at the Subway.
While my wife and I are members of the local co-op, not all of our colleagues know that it is located three miles south of campus. Recently, I bought local paw paw at the coop and posted a picture to my Facebook profile; some people mistook it for rotten avocado. The possible outsourcing of campus dining to a private company has raised faculty and student concerns that the university’s spending of almost $800,000 per year on local food will vanish. During a tour of the campus dining food warehouse last year, I was informed that when the university purchases local cattle, the chefs sneak ox tail into stews served in student housing. While most, if not all, of us housed in the humanities support same sex marriage, the elevator in our building reeks of Chick fil-A - whose owner opposes such marriages - on any given day. Purchasing a University of Kentucky Dining Plan allows a student to eat at Chick fil-A and Subway in addition to campus dining facilities.
Every October, regardless of what I am teaching, I share with students my hatred of candy. "I work all year," I say to them, "to keep candy away from my kids, and two hours of walking around the neighborhood on October 31 ruins my hard work."
In the living-learning community I co-direct, we leave Tootsie Rolls and Milky Ways out in a bowl for students to snack on when they come in for academic or life advice. In the residential hall where the living-learning community is housed, for our weekly coffee chats with members of the local community or university, we provide factory-made cookies from the Kroger supermarket chain and Cheetos. The best way to get faculty or students to attend a meeting or event, common advice goes, is to serve pizza.
Several times I’ve taught a course with the word “Eating” in its title. When I was at the University of Missouri at Columbia, the course was called “Eating Missouri.” When I took a job at the University of Kentucky, the course became "Eating Kentucky." After reading Anthony Bourdain, Calvin Trillin, a profile of Whole Foods CEO John Mackey, and notable food critics and discussions, including exposés of the fast food industry and mass-produced food, students still came to class with chicken McNuggets, defrosted frozen pizzas, high-fructose corn syrup sweets, and Krispy Kreme donuts. At the four different universities that have employed me, a Subway has always been within walking distance.
Many colleagues drink 32-ounce sodas in the morning. Because of my reputation as someone who enjoys craft beer, when I’m visiting a campus for an invited talk, colleagues feel obligated to take me to a place that serves good beer. When I was on my campus visit at the University of Missouri seven years ago, colleagues took me to the local brewpub for dinner. After our last main conference in my field, I fretted over the long flight home from Las Vegas (beginning early in the morning and ending at night) and worried that I would not have time during the layover to purchase something to eat. To ease my fear of future hunger, I bought a vegetarian sandwich in the casino Subway.
I used to get excited about attending the dinners for guest speakers or job candidates. Free food. Free food at expensive restaurants. I’ve since grown tired of menus that offer only heavy meat dishes, overcooked lamb chops, bacon in everything, or scallops. The Chick-fil-A in our campus food court is "proudly" closed on Sundays. One Friday a month, the agriculture college hosts a food-related discussion for faculty and members of the community at 7:30 a.m. Local food is served for breakfast. Participants are encouraged to bring their own coffee mugs. I once gave a talk entitled "Menu Literacy" for the discussion.
I sometimes say that my casual conversational skills are limited to discussions of kids, food, and beer. My attempts to recruit job candidates often involve telling them how great the local farmer’s market is and what kind of beer they will be able to buy if they move here. For some reason, I can host a catered event with local vendors in one building on campus, but in the building next door, I must use campus catering. In my previous job, because of budget cuts, the office I directed was no longer allowed to order $15 worth of cookies from a local bakery for board meetings that took place twice a month. In my previous job, I angered campus catering by complaining about the low-quality food they served during a "Writing Across the Curriculum" event I hosted. Campus catering at my current university won’t allow me to invite a local Mexican food truck for a small event that would take place outside of the living-learning community residential hall.
I know I sound like a grump or food snob with these random observations. And I probably am as much of a food snob as I am a critic snob or rhetoric snob or teaching snob or snob of any other part of my professional life. Snobbery can simply mean valuing one thing over another to a significant, and sometimes hyperbolic, degree. I value eating.
Snobbery is not alien to academic discussion; we place value on any number of things we admire or teach. I’ve often wondered how cultural snobbery, often expressed by colleagues in regard to art, literature, music, or film, does not extend to gastronomy. I’ve often wondered how astute cultural critics or critics of the university are poor food critics. By that, I don’t mean that we must decode every food representation we encounter in order to better understand ideology or power in the food industry. Instead, I wonder why, in our practices of everyday life, we succumb so easily to fast food, high-fructose corn syrup, chains, and other items instead of merely trying to eat outside of these problematic practices.
Pleasure, of course, is a powerful agent. Pleasure, of course, is at the heart of bad eating habits. And food writers such as Michael Pollan have demonstrated the ways fat , sugar, and salt compose and encourage a specific system of food pleasure, one encouraged by much of the fast food industry. None of us are beyond such pleasure, but that does not mean we must succumb to every instance that calls out to us.
Calvin Trillin’s best effort at food critique was to declare, "I wouldn’t throw rocks at it." My food pleasure is not another’s food pleasure, I realize. And I have no desire to preach health-conscious food habits or mindful eating to my academic colleagues. I have no overall argument to make regarding what academics should or should not eat. I have no agenda to preach. My observations merely prompt me to ask: Why don’t some academics eat well?
In asking that question, I am sketching some observations that include me, too. Among these observations I highlight, I also note that I support the local food movement known as "Kentucky Proud," and my wife and I try to buy most of our produce and meat from the Lexington Farmer’s Market. But when on the road or on campus without coffee, we succumb to Starbucks, too. Among our food purchases, we buy for our kids Arthur Pasta, dehydrated cheese and pasta shaped like the popular PBS character. We are not beyond the commercialization of food either.
Bruno Latour has warned of "purification narratives," stories that try to portray some event, movement, or way of thinking as pure or without contradiction. Roland Barthes once noted that every text is made up of contradictions, what he referred to as the pleasure of the text. That I have ordered a coffee at Starbucks or bought a box of pasta named for a cartoon character might seem to be minor contradictions of my interest in local food or my series of somewhat critical observations. Minor or major, the contradictions no doubt reveal a larger crack in any kind of purification narrative of food I might want to portray. I’m sure there are more or larger cracks in my ideological stance. After all, even after he carefully decodes the industrial, meat industry in his New York Times essay “Power Steer,” Michael Pollan confesses to not caring for grass-fed beef.
My point is only to trace a type of academic eating, a series of habits and practices that run counter, at times, to our professional practices and beliefs, that suggest an untapped pleasure of the text as we build elsewhere purification narratives regarding culture or texts. For good or for bad, many academic eating practices follow similar trajectories to one another as the banal and bland overpower the local and flavorful. Professionally, we are great critics: MOOCs, corporatization of education, adjunct labor, global conflict, a fiscal crisis here or there. What about bad eating?
One type of pleasure of the text might be the relentless critic who finds fault in every representation outside of the bag of Chick-fil-A in his hand. One might surmise from this lack of critical parallelism a lack, or crack, in the overall project of critique. French fries or diet soda, it seems, may be outside of critique, the behavior change that critique is meant to promote, or even basic awareness. Such an assumption goes far beyond my simple observations of eating in the university. I can only speculate in the meantime how critical practices might better shape food practices. Do you know what you are? Frank Zappa asked. You are what you is, he responded. Or, as the popular health saying goes, you are what you eat. Either way, not all academics eat well.
Jeff Rice is Martha B. Reynolds Professor of Writing, Rhetoric, and Digital Studies at the University of Kentucky.
Pasadena City College has asked Hugo Schwyzer, professor of women’s studies and so-called “Internet feminist,” to resign or face disciplinary action, the Pasadena Star News reported. The request comes on the heels of Schwyzer’s arrest last week for suspicion of driving under the influence following an accident that left a woman injured. The professor told the Star News he would not resign until January, when he is scheduled to begin receiving his disability retirement benefits.
Schwyzer has been on leave this semester for mental health issues, which he’s discussed openly on social media. He’s called himself a fraud for “conning” his way into teaching women’s studies, although he did not study it in graduate school, and for having multiple affairs with students. Last month, he said he had continued to sleep with students, even though he’d previously claimed that he stopped doing so in 1998. That admission launched a college investigation into his conduct. Gail Cooper, general counsel for the college, did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
Further amending its controversial new health care policy, Pennsylvania State University announced this week that it would offer $100 to employees who complete an online wellness profile and biometric screening and agree to get a physical exam by late November. Those who already have completed their online wellness screenings also may delete them.
This summer, the university said it would punish – to the tune of $100 per month – employees who did not complete those tasks this semester, in an attempt to control ballooning health care costs through increased health awareness among those it insures. But last month, amid intense criticism from faculty, who said that questions in the third-party, online profile -- including those about mental health, alcohol use and family planning -- violated their privacy, Penn State dropped the requirement. (Businesspeople and lawmakers also had criticized the plan.)
Now it’s offering what it calls a “cash reward” for those who opt to complete screenings, or already have done so. The reward to employees whose covered spouses or domestic partners also complete the screenings is $150. "This is being done as a way of recognizing the many benefits-enrolled employees who are participating in the initiative, in light of the suspension of the penalty that originally had been tied to non-participation," Susan Basso, vice president for human resources said in a statement.
Brian Curran, professor of art history and president of the university's newly formed chapter of the American Association of University Professors, said via e-mail that that "it's obviously a good thing that they have moved from a stick to a carrot. The surcharge was much too severe and arbitrary, and it had the effect of driving many otherwise reluctant, mainly lower-paid employees, into complying with what they considered a very serious violation of their personal privacy."
A study released Monday suggests that being honored with a major scholarly prize may not improve the winner's productivity. George J. Borjas of Harvard University and Kirk B. Doran of the University of Notre Dame analyzed the impact of winning the Fields Medal, which is awarded every four years to the most talented mathematician under 40. Borjas and Doran compared the productivity (in research output) of mathematicians who won the medal and contenders who did not. (They found other prizes that are good predictors of winning a Fields, and so identified likely winners.) The research found that the winners and the contenders had nearly identical productivity before the winners won the Fields. But after winning the Fields, mathematicians see a decline in productivity. They also show more "cognitive mobility," working in new areas, which the authors note likely forces them to take longer to make findings and write papers. The paper was published by the National Bureau of Economic Research (abstract available here).
Very seldom in writing about scholarly publishing have I had an occasion to use the word “fun” -- actually, this may be the first time -- but with a couple of recent titles, nothing else will do.
They are not frivolous books by any means. Sober and learned reviews by experts may appear in specialist journals two or three years from now, and they will be instructive. But the books in question should generate some interest outside the field of J. Redding Ware studies.
Nobody who appreciates the history and color of the English language can fail to enjoy the University of Oxford Bodleian Library’s new facsimile edition of Ware’s masterpiece, the invaluable Passing English of the Victorian Era: A Dictionary of Heterodox English, Slang, and Phrase. First published in 1909, shortly after Ware’s death, it is now available as Ware’s Victorian Dictionary of Slang and Phrase -- a title that is more marketable, perhaps, but decidedly wanting in precision. Most of the lingo it covers is Victorian, but the dictionary itself, appearing as it did in the final month of the king’s life, is Edwardian. (A pedant’s work is never done.) The new edition contains a valuable introduction by John Simpson, who retires this month as chief editor of the Oxford English Dictionary.
It covers almost everything currently known about Ware (i.e., not much) and assesses his contribution to lexicography, which was considerable. Ware’s dictionary is cited in the OED more than 150 times, including “almost 50 times for the first recorded evidence for a word or meaning.” My earlier reference to Ware studies was a bit of a stretch, since nobody has ever written a book about him, nor a dissertation -- nor even, it seems, a journal article devoted solely to his life or works. A couple of papers by Joyce scholars identify his dictionary as a source the novelist consulted while writing Ulysses. Simpson’s introduction is the landmark in a nearly barren field.
Ware was born in 1832 and his first name was James, after his father, who was a grocer. In his teens the future author served a short jail sentence following a violent family quarrel, during which he grabbed a bacon knife and threatened to kill James the elder. He worked as mercantile clerk while writing his first novel, published in 1860. From that point on Ware seems to have eked out a hardscrabble existence along the lines George Gissing depicts in New Grub Street, cranking out fiction, journalism, and quite a few plays, along with a handbook on playing whist and a tourist’s guide to the Isle of Wight.
Simpson unfortunately neglects to mention one other documented occasion when Ware went to court, seeking relief from a downstairs neighbor who played the piano at all hours. The outcome remains unclear but it seems no bacon-knife was involved.
Not quite a gentleman, then, nor by profession a scholar. Ware’s dictionary was commissioned by Routledge as a supplement to another volume on colloquial English. “His lexicographical method is arguably modern,” Simpson notes, “as he based his selection largely on printed evidence that he (and, one imagines, other interested parties) had collected principally from newspapers and other ephemeral sources… The latest quotations date from 1902, though the majority date from the 1880s and 1890s.”
No don would have come up with what Simpson calls Ware’s “idiosyncratic labeling system,” which identifies the provenance of a given piece of slang through categories such as “Slums,” “Italian Organ-Grinders,” “Music Hall,” or “Colloquial Imbecile.” He clearly spent a good bit of time hanging around theaters and pubs, and “was painfully aware of changes in hairstyles and fashion generally over the decades, and can with the help of his printed evidence place the introduction of a new ‘look’ to a precise year.”
Some of the expressions Ware includes have passed into accepted use. He identifies opportunism as a piece of political slang from the 1860s, explaining: “Used rather in contempt, as subserving conscience to convenience, or to personal advantage.” It turns out that flappers -- young women of an immodest sort -- were on the scene well before the 1920s, And while Susan Sontag doesn't mention it in wrote her notes, Ware identified camp as an adjective applying to “actions and gestures of exaggerated emphasis," noting that it was “used chiefly by persons of exceptional want of character.” By that Ware undoubtedly means sissies, “effeminate men in society,” a term he indicates (citing an American newspaper) caught on in the 1890s.
I would have assumed the slang word narc -- pertaining to an informer, and used as both noun and verb -- derived from narcotics. Apparently not: copper’s nark is defined as thieves’ argot, also from the 1890s, meaning “a policeman’s civilian spy.” Ware indicates that police were called coppers from 1868 on, and you’d have found a copper-slosher (“individual with the mania for ‘going for’ policemen”) hanging around a copper’s shanty, as the station house was known. A working-class person thought to be blustering risked the taunt “Copper! Copper!” – implying that he was “giving himself the airs of police authority.”
But where did cop itself come from? “There has been more discussion over this widely applied word than any other in the kingdom of phrase,” writes Ward in one of his longer entries. It is incredibly polysemic, meaning “taken, seized, thrashed, struck, caught by disease, well-scolded, discovered in cheating,” and could also be used as a verb meaning “to take too much to drink” (hence copping the brewery). Thunderous applause for an especially good show at a music hall show would cop the curtain, so that the performer could take a bow.
The vast majority of Ware’s 4,000 entries define expressions that vanished without a trace. Hence his original title: "passing English" comes and goes. It's the vigor of language that drives the vitality of the book.
One craze of the 1880s was corpse-worship – “the extreme use of flowers at funerals” – which got so bad that by the ‘90s “many death notices in the press were followed by the legend ‘No flowers.’ ” Slang words often come from the contraction of common expressions; for example, damirish, “damned Irish,” and damfino, “I am damned if I know.”
Nobody still describes an egg gone bad as suitable for electioneering purposes (derived from “the exercise of projecting them at antagonistic candidates”) and the culture is all the poorer for it. Then again, it's a relief that suggestionize -- an old bit of legal jargon meaning “to prompt,” as with a witness – never caught on. Now if we could just euthanize “finalize.”
Decades before the birth of Jerry Garcia, deadhead was the entertainment-industry label for an audience member who got in without buying a ticket. It applied to critics and “’theatrical people’… [who] never pay to enter a theatre.” Ware, as a playwright, resented them, and the dictionary vents his frustration in an amusing manner:
“The experienced eye can always divide the deadheads from the ‘plank-downers’ in a theatre. The deadheads are always dressed badly, and give themselves airs when looking at the inferior parts of the house. The plank-downers never give themselves airs, mean business, and only look at the stage. Deadheads are very emphatically described by a theatrical official: ‘Here come two more deadheads; look at their boots.’”
Many entries are no doubt the only record of a term or catchphrase, and in some cases the lexicographer can just guess what they originally signified. Who stole the goose? is an “interjection of contempt, which appears to have some hidden meaning, probably of an erotic nature.” in the case of Who took it out of you?, Ware doesn't even try. The meaning is “wholly unknown to people not absolutely of lower class.”
Of comparable subaltern origins, but easier to understand, is the slang term label for sausage: bags o’ mystery. That one should come back into circulation. Its use could be extended to the hot dog.
Speaking of mystery, another book recently reissued in facsimile is Andrew Forrester, Jr.’s The Female Detective, a collection of short fiction from 1864, reprinted by the British Library and distributed in the U.S. by the University of Chicago Press. A digital edition is available from Amazon.
You can find the book online in PDF for free -- which is also true with Ware’s dictionary, although Simpson’s introduction is not to be missed. With The Female Detective, the new material consists of a foreword by Alexander McCall Smith (best known for his No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency novels, but also the author of What W.H. Auden Can Do For You, just out from Princeton University Press) and an introduction by Mike Ashley, whose books include a biography of Algernon Blackwood.
The Female Detective is offered as a collection of reports from the files of the elusive Miss G----- (she is nothing if not discreet) as edited by Forrester. The detective’s “casebook” was a very popular genre at the time, part of the “railroad literature” that sprang up to meet the demand of commuters. Forrester later wrote at least two more such collections, but his place in the history of the genre comes from having created Miss G---- (a.k.a. Mrs. Gladden), the first female professional detective in fiction. Kathleen Gregory Klein devoted several pages to the book in The Woman Detective: Gender & Genre (University of Illinois Press, 1988) and puzzlement over Forrester's identity – was it a pseudonym? – has echoed down the scholarship ever since.
It now seems very likely that the author was, in fact, J. Redding Ware. Simpson accepts it as credible in his introduction to the dictionary, as does Mike Ashley in the opening pages of the short-story collection. The identification was proposed by Kate Summerscale in the notes to her nonfiction novel The Suspicions of Mr. Whicher: A Shocking Murder and the Undoing of a Great Victorian Detective (2008). In researching her book, Summerscale noticed that Ware published a pamphlet about the crime in question: a child murder that occurred in a country house in 1860. (The circumstances are oddly reminiscent of the JonBenet Ramsey case.) He seems to have incorporated the text into a chapter of The Female Detective.
Mrs. Gladden had keen powers of observation and deduction, and a reader can’t help thinking of the much better-remembered private eye who came on the scene later in Victoria’s reign. Ware must have felt that Arthur Conan Doyle had stolen his thunder – though that seems like a rather peculiar phrase, come to think of it.
Wade lists it in his dictionary, explaining that it means “annexing another man’s idea, or work, without remunerating him, and to your own advantage.” It was first used, he writes, by one John Dennis, “a play-writer of the 17th century, who invented stage thunder for a piece of his own which failed.” The theater manager incorporated the technique in the production of someone else’s play, prompting the enraged Dennis to yell out, “They won’t act my piece, but they steal my thunder.”
I hope J. Redding Ware studies comes into its own, or at least that others discover him. How often is it worth reading a dictionary just for the stories?