There was Richard the Third, Malcolm the Tenth, May the Thirtieth, and Title the Ninth.
That last one, what a motherfucker. I see "IX" and I check my heart rate a few seconds later to find that it has gone up to 80 (resting is normally 60 for me).
With Title IX, everything--and I mean everything--can go wrong.
This year, I served on a committee that, let's say, "has something to do with Title IX." I don't know why I agreed to this. I'd sit in the meetings and wonder why there were no lawyers in the room. "We really need lawyers here," I'd say. "These are not decisions we should be making without lawyers here." It is disheartening to say, "We need lawyers here." Oh, christ on a cracker, what had I gotten myself into?
Yesterday, someone took a beating--just for doing her job about as well as anyone could. I'm glad I'm not in her shoes. My heart rate would probably be up over 100 while sleeping.
I so enjoyed reading Kipnis's piece and the one in the NYT Magazine. I skipped the readers' comments on the former--because they can be such a waste of time in The Crampicle--but I will likely go back and skim through the comments on the latter (once they've accumulated, perhaps Monday or Tuesday). Kipnis, especially, let me feel like someone was commiserating with me.
It's such a goddamned cottage industry. Part of me wishes I'd majored in Title IX instead of getting a PhD in whatever the hell it was I studied. Talk about job security.
This is the ambivalence: So much of what we do involves exploring an increasingly tangled web--with the exploration itself tending to tangle the web even more. And I'm driven to do that. But I also so thoroughly enjoy mopping the floor, mowing the lawn, changing my mother's Depends, and washing the dishes, because these accomplishments are concrete and tangible and knowable.
That's all. I'm just drunk and talking to myself and Cal is getting crankier by the minute....