AcademYawn Awards

There's nothing better than getting the beers and munchies going, chowing down on a couple of Cheeseboard pizzas and making snide comments en masse during a four-hour awards ceremony. But last night's Academy Awards were pretty lame, in my opinion: no big surprises and nothing all that great to make fun of. Sure, we had our annual moment of reverence for George Clooney, joined this year by a moment of reverence for Al Gore, who got a good laugh. And there was Celine Dion's ubiquitous presence to ridicule, an errant bow on Nicole Kidman, and Clint Eastwood pretending to do a simultaneous Italian translation, but c'mon! Where was the tacky see-through dress? The impassioned political rant, cut off by the orchestra? The upset win? The unexpectedly choked-up acceptance speech? The starlet who forgets to thank her husband? The old geezer who doesn't read off the cue cards? The look of utter disgust on the face of one of the losers? Where was, you know, the good stuff?

5 out of 100 Years

One of the Main Events at my campus interviews this year and last year has been the teaching demonstration. Now, the term "demonstration" is misleading, because it makes it seem like you're in a hermetically-sealed room teaching to a classroom of crash test dummies while a committee in white lab coats and pocket protectors takes notes on clipboards from behind double panes of glass.

This is not what happens. Teaching demonstrations use real students as guinea pigs, and in many cases this is just another day in the semester for them. They may or may not be expecting to learn something, but you're nevertheless expected to teach them something, even though you may be regarded as a being one notch higher on the rung of respectability than the average middle school biology sub.

In the course of my on-campus teaching demonstrations, I have been asked to teach a wide range of subjects, from "your research" to "The Transition" to "this paragraph about Picasso" to "the Mexican mural movement." Now, the latest challenge: Amherst wants me to teach chapter five of Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. First of all, there is no chapter five in OHYoS (or CAdS, its Spanish acronym), because the chapters aren't numbered. Secondly, whereas I taught the Mexican mural movement in an introductory literature class, I'm expected to teach a foundational work of 20th-century literature to 45 students in a senior seminar normally taught by a highly-regarded Latin Americanist.

As a friend observed today, while jovially buying five Cal mugs at the Cal student store, I've got my work cut out for me.

El laberinto del Fauno/Pan's Labyrinth

My review of "Pan's Labyrinth" ("El laberinto del Fauno") is up on Flakmag today. It'll live on for eternity here.

Since writing this review, I've also watched Guillermo del Toro's earlier movie set during the Spanish Civil War, "The Devil's Backbone" ("El espinazo del diablo,") which, contrary to what the iMDB says, isn't really so much a horror movie as an historical thriller. Guillermo del Toro was recently interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air, and, among other things, described how he came to this interest in Spain's history. As it turns out, he befriended an exiled Spanish Republican in Mexico as a young man, and got a first-hand account of the Spanish Civil War and aftermath from someone who was able to escape to Mexico and work as a teacher, along with many others caught on the losing end of the war. Del Toro also describes how his grandmother used to exorcise him periodically. When you see the movie, you'll understand why.

¡Feliz cumpleaños SJBlog!

How very exciting, I've managed to come up with a year's worth of blog posts as of today. No, I may not be the most prolific blogger, nor perhaps the most ground-breaking, but there's something cathartic in the process, so I guess I'll stick with it until I get bored of it.

And to you, my gentle readers, I thank you for a year's worth of comments, silent acknowledgement, tacit agreement, and reminders when I speak to you in person and begin to weave one of my shaggy-dog tales that you've already read about it on the blog, thank you very much.

The blogger hard at work drafting another exciting installment of the SJBlog for your continued enjoyment.

Little College on the Prairie

Back in the Bay, with thoughts of snow-covered Grinnell behind me, here's my report. Compared to Penn State, the interview process at Grinnell was intense: hour-long meetings with every member of the Spanish department (there are only 4, but still) in which I was grilled on every possible classroom scenario and how I would handle it, as well as prompted for my new, creative, innovative additions to a number of syllabi that are suffering from 20th-century Peninsular Literature Depletion. That's where I come in: Dr. Brenneis, ready with your Contemporary Spanish Literature injection.

I also taught a class on the Mexican mural movement, which I previously knew nothing about, but now I've got visiting Diego Rivera's two murals in San Francisco on my agenda before I leave. And then there was the job talk, which went well, though I saw some glazed-over undergraduate eyes, so I tried to hop around a little more than usual while delivering it. And I met with members of the Executive Council, who, contrary to what I had imagined, did not wear long, flowing hooded capes and speak in Darth Vader-like rasps.

Grinnell's an interesting place: the pre-tenure faculty prefer to be called "early career faculty" (instead of junior faculty), and have founded an informal group called the FLM (Faculty Liberation Movement) through which they go to Grinnell's one non-undergrad bar for happy hours and take jaunts to Iowa City for cultural inspiration. I was briefed on the death-and-dismemberment policy (by the benefits woman who's maybe a few years older than I am and who told me she has six kids -- six kids!! She tossed this information off like she was talking about a litter of cats), which I found fascinating because apparently body parts are valued differently, and the insurance company maintains a map of the body with the prices of each of your members, should they get lopped off on the job. I thought this tidbit made for good cocktail hour chatter, but other 'early term faculty' at a reception later that day didn't find it quite as fascinating as I did. The Dean likes to ride his bike even when it's 10 degrees outside. They're pretty much just giving away houses in Grinnell. "Wisconsin Beer Cheese Soup" is a delicacy offered at the local fine-dining establishment. Still, they have a movie theater, which we didn't have at Wesleyan, and they even reserve one screen for "art" movies (this week it was "Dreamgirls," not exactly my definition of an art movie, but better than "Big Momma's House 17" or whatever).

So, if you're keeping score at home, that's 2 flybacks down and one to go. I'm looking forward to not being on a plane for a couple of weeks, and eating vegetables...

Hot Medieval Spanish Professors

GRINNELL, IOWA -- These first night dinners at campus visits are strange. On the one hand, you've got a glass of wine in front of you and perhaps some Beef Wellington to dig into, and you're dining with people who are more or less your age (more or less) and know each other well, so it's all chummy. On the other hand, you're exhausted after getting up at 5 am to fly half way across the country and you're on edge about the interviews/teaching/job talk to come, and you know that although this may seem like a normal dinner to the casual observer, it's actually all part of the interview process, and asking too many questions about the availability of avocados in the middle of February in rural Iowa could make you seem like a snooty produce-lover who can't handle iceberg lettuce instead of arugula.

At tonight's dinner, I was surprised to find out that one of the Assistant Professors at Grinnell was in a class with me (and a few of the other PQ girls) a couple of years ago at Berkeley, and had a pretty good working knowledge of all the egomaniacs in my department. She also remembered a certain medieval Spanish literature professor from Spain, who was/is perhaps the hottest medieval Spanish literature professor ever to grace the halls of Dwinelle, but sadly went back to Spain and got married. This conversation elicited a low-grade obscenity from me (Asst. Prof: "Es muy guapo." Yo: "¡Qué te cagas!"¹) which reminded me that -- whoops! -- I'm in a freakin' interview and I should attempt to keep the gossiping and tacos madrileños² to a minimum.

¹ Basic translation: "Hell yeah he is!"
² In Madrid, tacos are spicy language, not spicy meat-filled hard or soft-shelled edibles.

The Town that Joe Paterno Built

STATE COLLEGE, PENN. -- Well, I'm at the end of my two day campus visit to Penn State, with a little breather before I make the long flight back to the Bay Area. State College was kind enough to provide me with a mini-snow storm yesterday, followed by cold and sunshine today. I do not know whether the groundhog saw his shadow on February 2nd, but I do feel fortunate not to have had to relive yesterday over and over again until I got it right, a la Bill Murray.

Yesterday was a full day of interviews, meals and my job talk, starting at 7:45 am (which of course felt like 4:45) and not over until 9 pm, after I'd experienced four faculty members sniping at each other over the future of the profession over salmon and crab cakes. In between, I shuffled around from faculty member to dean to librarian to graduate students -- who were probably the most fun to hang out with, and who are clearly dying for some more courses in 20th Century Spanish Lit., which is where I come in. The most common question asked was "Do you like football?" to which I responded: "I can pretend to like football." This usually elicited the relieved response of: "Oh no, no, we don't care about football" from a faculty member. Clearly, however, they're the only ones in this town who don't care about football. In fact, the real estate agent who just drove me around town made sure to regale me with anecdotes about Joe Paterno (who, after having been briefed by Dad, and then having seen like five buildings on campus named after him, I now know is the 80-year old coach of the Penn State Nitny Lions¹) not being able to pump his own gas, among other tidbits. Then she drove me by his house, which is not for sale, by the way. The second most common question asked was "Have you heard of Wegmans?" to which I answered yes, since it's SKBK's favorite grocery store, and other Rochester natives and non-natives have been singing the praises of it for years. The Penn State folks are very excited about having their own Wegmans (or is it Wegman's?); I told them it sounded like some sort of cult, and did they come by your house to wash your carpets, too?

Anyway, the professional end of things went well -- my job talk was well-attended, came off without a hitch, and was followed by many questions. One of the faculty at Berkeley told me after my practice job talk that I should expect harder questions, and he was right. The questions were not softballs, but I think I handled them well.

That's the report for now -- one down, two to go. Whew!

¹ I still don't know what differentiates a nitny lion from a regular lion, but I think it has something to do with the fact that the Nitny Lion looks like a panther.

Trees, torture and technology

SOMEWHERE OVER THE MIDDLE OF THE COUNTRY -- As I sit on the plane headed to State College, PA, sick of reading over my job talk for the gazillionth time, my thoughts turn to this week’s developments on the Berkeley campus. It’s been a busy week for the forces of good and the forces of evil at Cal, so let’s have a round-up.

People began living in the grove of oak trees situated just outside the gates of Memorial Stadium on December 2nd (which will live on in our memory as the day I went to the Big Game). The tree-sitters gained national attention last week when Shirley Dean (former mayor of Berkeley) and her cronies, all over the age of 70, spent a few hours with the rest of the considerably younger treehuggers. After an article in the New York Times on the ladies, one complained to the Berkeley Daily Planet that she is 90, not 91. Fair point.
Anyway, on Monday an injunction was handed down to halt the University’s plans to demolish the grove and expand their athletic facilities, at least temporarily. Officially, the injunction was passed because the area may or may not be right on the Hayward Fault, but the treesitters celebrated nonetheless. Berkeley’s home page, however, ominously declared that they would not be deterred by this latest “setback,” proving, I guess, that the Regents are no friend to the trees. File this under “evil.”

But then, also on Monday, Berkeley held a triumphant celebration of the latest works of Latin American artist Fernando Botero. Botero’s Abu Ghraib series depicts his characteristic ample figures in various states of torture, inspired by the photos of the prison. I attended a conversation with the artist, along with what seemed like the entire population of Berkeley, and later visited the exhibit, which is housed in the main library. Botero’s paintings are disturbing and unambiguous; images, like the photos from Abu Ghraib, that one is not likely to forget. That, Botero told Robert Haas, was the point. This exhibit was rejected by something like 45 other museums and public institutions when Berkeley requested it and then put it smack dab in the middle of the library. File this under “good.”

And today, Arnold announced that UC Berkeley and the Lawrence Lab are going to be one of the host institutions for BP’s Energy Biosciences Institute for the study of clean, alternative energy. Despite academically being many light years away from the kind of alchemy they’re cooking up there at the Lawrence Labs, I can’t help feel some sense of pride in Cal for being so green.

Now, if they’d only stop cutting down the oaks, we could all be unconditionally proud, hmm?