My friend Pete Olen is both an accomplished philosopher and a 24-7-hustle concert booker for a number of venues in southern Florida. Via a post about a show he recently booked and is currently promoting, I was reminded of 80s Welsh goth rockers Gene Loves Jezebel. To my surprise they still exist. And I do mean “they.”
The post led me to read a little on the history of GLJ, whom I vaguely remembered from high school. The band was started by two identical twins who came to despise each other by the late 90s and refused to ever work together again. But both wanted to keep playing, and each thought he was the rightful inheritor of the “Gene Loves Jezebel” name.
“If a messenger should bring you a letter informing you that you are now counted among the members of a council of scholars who shall meet frequently to discuss the methods, rules, and scope of notions by which you teach the youth, remind yourself what kind of consortium this is. When they insist that you meet with the council, place before you what happens at such meetings.
It’s that time of year again – that time when I show that maybe I haven’t completely processed *all* the anger I built up over the course of a decade on the academic job market. That’s right, it’s time for the Bitterness Brackets!
My friend Jack Thorpe died this fall. He would have been 65 today. He died back in October, but I only learned of this in the last few weeks. My contact with him had dwindled along with his health in the last two years, despite the ease of texting. The last text from him was in May as we bemoaned the worst defensive play in recent memory and Pirates’ history. After that, no replies. There’s some irony in a man who took such glee in maligning my laudable Irish ancestry leaving my world with an Irish goodbye.
“When you are going to a meeting, remember what kind of an act you are performing. If the meeting is in a room that was just being used for another meeting, and there is cold pizza in a box sitting on top of the garbage can, remind yourself of what this is: it is garbage pizza. When you desire the pizza, you are foolish, for it is garbage pizza, and you are no longer a 21 year old living on 1400 calories a day in a crackhouse in Pittsburgh because you refuse to participate in capitalism. You may desire all the pizza there is, but remember that when you do, your will is not in conformity with nature. If then you aim at the life of wisdom, remember that you must not attempt to lay hold of the garbage pizza with a quick, sneaky effort; but you must leave the garbage pizza alone entirely. And you may say, “But it is still good, and they’re just going to throw it away.” No, they have not thrown it away, they have restored it. They have restored the garbage pizza to where it now belongs…”
UPDATE (3/16/20): The search has been suspended due to the entire world flipping upside down amid the worst pandemic in a century. Sorry to all those who hoped to join us. Rest assured that any ponies that might have been distributed are doing fine. Bootsy says hi.
Please spread the word far and wide. Come work with us. Teach some stuff. Hear our witty banter in real-time. Meet my cat, Bootsy Collins. Select applicants could be eligible to enter a drawing in which they may win a pony.
USPS mistakenly delivered two packages to our doorstep this morning. I just left them, figuring I’d worry about it later. Then, the USPS truck pulls up. For Sunday delivery, carriers don’t have to wear the uniform. So out pops a guy wearing a “Molon Labe” t-shirt.
And it’s funny, because I was just thinking the same thing.