But I complain. And will continue to complain, but not at the moment. Today, I want to point out a signature bloviation, if you will. It’s an indirect one, but if The Great Bloviator doesn’t like you, he makes a special effort to smear you, so he must think the Pitifully Misdirected Soul who thinks, in our current economic times, that professors nearing retirement should retire out of an obligation to new PhDs. Apparently, new PhDs (or just unemployed PhDs) are owed a career by old PhDs (or just employed PhDs). Wow!

Here is the brilliance:

This [the economic downturn affecting university hiring] is very grim news for people who would like to enter the profession.  Your [The Great Bloviator's] observation that  ”a lot of faculty who might have been thinking about retirement in the coming year are going to postpone given the huge losses most will have suffered” [in the stock markets] seems correct.  This raises seriouis ethical questions for tenured faculty.  Since keeping one’s position and not retiring is likely to directly cause the unemployment/underemployment of young philosophers, it is wrong to postpone one’s retirement past a certain age?  If so, at what age should one retire?  I don’t have answers to these questions but would like to see them discussed on your blog.

What’s worse is that most are taking this ridiculous suggestion seriously! All casuistry, of course, as usual. We are best at that. No one, in fact, is better at casuistry than a philosopher. Without it, we would have nothing to say. 

But, no matter. I suppose I will have to go die out of obligation to newborns.

“I love it here. The 4th of July was barely mentioned. Such a civilized country.”

I puked in my mouth after that one. What the hell is he talking about? Sure, our independence is tarnished by slavery and other abuses of people of color. But come on. Germany gets a special award for civility? Not such a civilized place, oh, around WW II, no? I prefer being more ecumenical with my cynicism. Also, sanctimonious liberalism is nauseating. Hence, the puke in my mouth.

“Wife of Head” is better than a mere description of the woman who is the spouse of the Head of my department. She actually chose the name herself in a characteristically besotted statement of her misperceived power over graduate students and junior faculty (and especially me). “Queen of the Harpies” would be suitable, too, but by all means let Wife of Head have the name she chose herself.

Wife of Head would remind you of an aging Janis Joplin after losing 40 pounds. With a Gorgon’s head. It must be the aging-hippie clothes, chain-smoking, and IV alcohol that reminds me of Janis Joplin. The Gorgon’s head must just be bad genes. I can see her now at a philosopher’s cocktail party. Is she coming toward me? God, no. She is. She’s coming toward me. I begin estimating her blood alcohol level by observing her gait: martini sloshing over the sides of the glass on guests as she bumps across the room like a pinball in slow motion. There is no escape for me. She is here. Can I talk to you? she slurs. That is the phrase that clues you in to the fact that you didn’t leave the party early enough. Wife of Head wants to explain to you your personal flaws and why she doesn’t like you, in her capacity as Wife of Head of course. This time, it’s because I remind her of her crazy ex-husband. My mind goes blank. I am lost.

Early in my career here at Large US University, ignorance of her capacity to abuse her “power” found me in the company of Wife of Head at social events. One such event took place at a smallish summer philosophy conference outside the US. These things always have culminating banquets so that philosophers may demonstrate their thoroughgoing lack of social skills in an environment where they are less likely to harm themselves or others, drinks provided free. I like to think these situations are similar to organized toddler bowling: without the bumpers it’s all smashed fingers, missed opportunities, and tears, sugar provided free.

And so I found myself at the banquet with a few colleagues, including John Wayne and, inextricably, Wife of Head. I’d spent much of the evening forcing small talk while juggling a drink in one hand and a tiny paper plate of hors d’oeuvres in the other. I noticed Wife of Head alone, swaying in place, sitting on our host’s backyard deck. Next to her was her 15 year old daughter, bent over and heaving a foamy amalgam of the beer and finger foods she had consumed in huge quantities over the edge of the deck. I stared blankly at the pair, willing myself invisible as the embarrassment of being associated with these people burned my face. Call me puritanical.

Our host wasn’t pleased about the foul-smelling gunk on his grass, but was gracious in his acceptance of the situation. Wife of Head and her child managed to toddle back to the hotel. And, finally, we all had something to make small talk about. Of course my guilt by association drove me back to the hotel bar where I hoped to find anonymity. I didn’t. Word had spread with remarkable speed. And so to not endure embarrassment alone, I sat with a small group of my colleagues to join in some righteous head-shaking.

Hours later, John Wayne showed up at our table, obviously tense, and asked to talk to me and a colleague who is affectionately called “Better Way,” because in any situation, he always thinks he has a better way. I do not know why Better Way was included. Perhaps John Wayne was hoping for a better way. The three of us stepped out of the bar. Confrontation ensued. Apparently I had offended John Wayne’s inebriated family. What? Offended? How? I asked. Of the puker, it was believed I had announced to all present at the banquet that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!

Had I? I surely had the thought. And much more. And much worse. Could I see myself clinking my wine glass with my plastic fork and standing up on a chair to announce to all the confused guests, Do not be alarmed. It is just Wife of Head and her offspring. You see, the apple does not fall far from the tree! Followed by laughter and perhaps a bit of applause from the audience for my wit. I was beginning to believe that story in the seconds after John Wayne’s accusation. But no. I hadn’t said anything. For that would be open, honest, and not a little bit mean. And I am not open or honest. So I denied the slight indignantly.

But I had been seen and heard! John Wayne shouted. By whom? Why, by Wife of Head herself! It did not help that I said Wife of Head’s allegation could not be trusted in her state. John Wayne stepped closer to me. This is, apparently, the “John Wayne way of conflict resolution.” Little did I know that this would not be the last time I would have to engage in the “John Wayne way of conflict resolution.” No help from Better Way, who stood there silently and without a better way, as usual. John Wayne was glaring at me. Or in my direction. He’s half blind remember. I could see the pecks his hen left in his face. And I said as much.

By now, John Wayne, the real John Wayne, would have socked me. But instead I just got gibberish. Perhaps if John Wayne, the anti-John Wayne, was standing a step or so back, I would have understood what he was saying. But there we were. Chest to chest. Bluffing. There was no resolution in sight. No nothing in sight. Better Way got us to step back. I again denied the slur. And such a cutting slur it was! All John Wayne could say now was that his family was up in his hotel room making his life miserable. Those hen pecks must have stung.

Next morning just about everyone I ran into bothered me about the incident. Only John Wayne and Wife of Head (and the puker) were silent. Again, part of the “John Wayne way of conflict resolution.” Pretend nothing happened. Wife of Head did not give up her ire of course. Now when she stumbled across the room at dinners and such, wetting guests all the way, she merely told me she hated me. I regret I merely thought the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. At least then I could enjoy Wife of Head’s hatred!