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Saturday, I spent a good part of the day hanging around an art gallery, watching an open judging for an annual art competition.  It goes like this: artists in a certain prescribed area can enter up to two pieces of artwork in the competition.  Then, on the day of the judging, a juror will walk through the assembled artworks, usually lined up on tables and in a hallway, choosing what does and doesn’t get in to the show. 

It’s a spectator event of a sort.  A sporting competition for the art crowd.  Although any cheering and overt displays of glee at victory are notably absent.  Still, it’s all interesting to watch.  The juror, different every year, and every year bringing different aesthetic sensibilities, is usually articulate, smart, and has something interesting to say about the art at hand.  This year’s juror, with credentials that include a current stint at the Yale museum of art, was intent on pointing out to the crowd the particular merits of individual pieces. 

And the crowd hung on every word.  Of course, you can guess: most of the people at the event had entered artwork and were waiting for their moment, the moment when the juror would pass by their painting, their photograph, their drawing, and then — oh please — stop and say something adulatory and then — oh please, oh please, oh please – say the fateful words: “I’ll pick this one.”

The judging started at 930.  I got to the gallery somewhere around 11.  As fate, or luck, or clairvoyance would have it, I arrived about two minutes before the judge stood in front of my two pieces.  Both photographs with text.  Oh, I thought.  This is cool.  Let’s see what she says.  She picked up one piece, a photo of a gaggle of Barbies, held it up for everyone to see, read the text; then the next, a photo of a carnival horse, and did the same.  She liked them both, which was very cool.  In fact she said something really profound like, “I like them both.”  But, working with a self-imposed rule of one piece of art per artist, she chose only one.  The horse.  I’m so weird, I was disappointed.  No, dummy, choose the other one.  The Barbies.  That one’s better.  But, what do I know.  I’m an occasional artist, noodling around with silly photos, not a super-credentialed art historian.

And so the judging went on.  At noon, the juror took a break for lunch.  She had chosen a nice collection of art by then, enough to fill the gallery well.  But, when she came back from lunch, it seemed that she had been asked to choose about ten more pieces of art.

And then the competition became interesting.  The juror walked through all the remaining art, gazing at things she had already passed by.  She looked glazed, tired, ready to call it a day. A few artists who hadn’t been chosen began to tag along behind her, casually, as though they weren’t really following.  Like jackals tagging an exhausted zebra.  When the juror would stop in front of a piece, one of theirs, an artist would slink up beside her.  Engage her conversation.  Point out the good points of the piece in question.  Ask serious questions. 

At first, this didn’t work.  The juror got engaged in a long conversation with an artist who had entered two very large works, interesting works, but works with more attitude than artistry.  She didn’t choose them. Then, an artist called the juror over to look at a piece, explain to her that she’d missed the point of the piece.  The juror politely nodded.  She didn’t choose this piece either.

By now, she seemed really tired.  Someone said aloud: “She has to leave in half an hour to catch her plane.”  And then, another artist sidled up to the juror.  Would you come look at my piece in the hallway?  The juror did.  And the artist engaged the juror in a sotto voce conversation, serious and quiet, pointing out the intent of the piece, its making, its place in the artist’s oeuvre.  The juror stole a glance at her watch.   The artist hung on, intent, leaning closer.  The juror regarded the piece.  She had passed it by a dozen times.  Large, expensively framed, the piece seemed to beg for attention by its size alone.  The art itself?  The juror had passed it by a dozen times.

Finally, as if worn down by the unremitting pursuit of her approbation, the juror relented.  In a tone that seemed resigned, she gestured at the large piece before her and said, “I choose this one.”  And so it got in.  This artist had, at last, triumphed. 

Had the juror known this artist had already earned a spot in the show with a first piece, one different in style and positioned separately (no, we won’t say deliberately) from the second piece, it’s worth wondering whether the juror would have chosen the second one.  Probably not.  And, had the artist not actively pursued the juror, it’s worth wondering whether the second piece would have gotten in.  Again, probably not.  It’s also worth wondering, perhaps most of all, if the artist should be pleased at the outcome of all of this. 

I know where I stand.  This may be what it takes to have a spot — or two — in a show, a line on the CV, a career.  But no thanks. For me, these victories would be hollow. 

So, here goes kids: axiom of the week: Life is too short. Be not a jackal.  

No, the Sunday game is not football.  The favored Sunday game of this writer is reading the wedding and engagement and anniversary announcements in our local paper, and the Sunday New York Times. 

The local paper gets here first. And, off we go.

Anniversaries lead the page in today’s edition.  50th, 45th, 30th, and today, remarkably, even a 70th.  I examine the photographs of these couples.  Are they happy?  Is he nice to her? Do they still love each other? Or, has their marriage become more habit and convenience than affection and respect?  She, with her beehive hairdo, a homemaker married to a retired business owner.  I peer into her face and see another decade, the 1950’s.  And in this one, a 40th, they both look so young, barely 55.  We marry young here in the Midwest, and it could be that they tied the knot at 15, or 16.  So what is it like to be married to your high school sweetheart for forty years?  Or fifty? Did all of these couples get married because they wanted to?  Or any because, as we would have said forty or fifty years ago, because they “had” to?  No one is telling.  No one is asking. 

Weddings next.  But, alas, this week in Richmond: no weddings.  Not enough space, I suppose. I remember when I worked for the newspaper we would put wedding announcements in as the space allowed.  Announcements of weddings have no timeliness to them — it’s an event that’s over.  Anniversaries usually include an open invitation to a party; they must go in.  Engagements usually run a month or so before a wedding; they too must go in.  Weddings can wait.

So, on to the Engagement notices.  There were two this week, but one caught my eye: a college professor engaged to marry an exterminator.  Ah, yes.  We wish them both the very best as they set about merging the worlds of academia and pest control.  And no, we won’t stoop to comment that they are likely to find a great deal of – shall we say – common ground.

After the local paper, the New York Times. I like to read the longer features the Times offers, the ones that indicate how a couple met, the trajectory of their courtship, the planning of the wedding, the experience of the wedding itself.  This week, I wasn’t really drawn to the story, despite the fact that it’s about two 33-year old writers who met at the age of 19 while working on the Harvard Lampoon.  That’s nice, I suppose, and nice that they went on to work together on that TV show Friends.  Nice that they’ve been friends themselves quite a long time.  Nice.

But then there’s this story: a couple on the back page.  Also writers.  She, 71, the former Vatican correspondent for the Religion News Service, and before that 30 years with United Press International.  The Times tells us: “Her postings as a reporter and editor included Boston, New York, Washington, Madrid, Moscow, and Rome.”  And the bridegroom, 69, himself retired from Newsweek, where he was “the European regional editor, in Paris.”  The Times goes on to glumly report that his “two previous marriages ended in divorce.”  Well, perhaps this is why: The couple “met in 1973 while on assignment in Tel Aviv, covering the Yom Kippur war.”  1973.  Thirty-three years ago.  When she would have been 38.  And he 36.  How about that.

You know those weird shoes, “Crocs”?  The ones made out of extruded plastic goo?  The ones that look profoundly geeky and deeply ugly, even uglier than the Ugg?  Apparently Crocs are very comfortable, and, in some circles, very trendy.  But signs point to the fading of the trend.  Read on:

Ted Allen, one of the stars of Queer Eye … whose boyfriend owns two pairs of Crocs — iridescent green and basic black — says that the shoes are fine on the streets of Chelsea [that’s New York City, Hoosier friends…] but only with neutrals, and he would not recommend them for a job interview … .

The problem for Crocs Inc. and its investors is that fashion phenomena often don’t make lasting businesses.

Will the Croc be a Birkenstock — or a Jelly? And now that Crocs are everywhere, where can they go? “My sister in central Indiana is wearing them,” says Allen. “I wonder how much longer this can last.”

That’s it, trendspotters.  When you want to know a fashion fad is, as they say, “like over,” come to Indiana.  I, personally, will be watching for the appearance of skinny pants on the streets of Richmond.  That is a fashion moment that should be way over, and way soon.  Here’s hoping.

It is an occupational hazard of being an English professor, I suppose, that one’s eye and ear become very attuned to language. What’s written and what’s spoken. I was in a meeting yesterday and found myself copy editing the document we were discussing, even muttering aloud to myself as I circled an offending gaffe on the page:  “That’s principle not principal, dammit.”  I’m in the grocery store, on any given day, and can’t help but hear the broken twangy grammatical mess some folks routinely make of language. “They ain’t got none of them…” whatever “them” might be. 

Homophones (a word that has the same pronunciation as another word, but carries a different meaning, and usually, spelling) — these I can tolerate.  Grammatical errors born out of one’s upbringing, culture, class, region — these are as much interesting as anything else. 

But jargon — words and phrases and manners of speaking invented or employed to refer to a specific activity, or group, or profession — this really makes my head hurt.  Because jargon, while it seems innocent enough, is meant not simply to describe, but rather to indicate belonging to a particular group and thus by extension, exclusion of others from that group.  Jargon is to language what fashion is to teen gangs.  Perhaps an awkward analogy, but the idea is that jargon identifies and excludes all at once.

Below are some examples of jargon, the effect they have on this writer’s psyche, and some possible definitions, or alternatives…

• “Call me back A-S-A-P.” 
  This was a message left on my phone by a student.  Needless to say, I did not return the call as soon as was humanly possible. 
• FYI
  I don’t know; is it just me?  When this appears as a subject heading to an email, it feels a bit like an acronym evoking not “For” as the initial word, but something more strenuous, a verb perhaps — you know the one I mean — followed by Y and I standing for, oh, maybe: Yourself Immediately. 
• Assessment
  We talk about “assessment” all the time in higher education.  But what on earth do we really mean?  We mean: are we doing a good job. We mean: are our students learning anything.  We mean: is what our students are learning worth a damn thing in the real world.
• Best practices
  Why can’t we just say: This works really well, let’s use it again. 
• Conflict resolution
  We used to call this “breaking up a fight.” 
• Critical thinker
  I loathe this term.  Loathe it.  When we say this we mean what?  That we are asking “why” of a particular situation, problem, or idea?  Maybe.  But I don’t know anymore. “Critical thinking” has become a buzzphrase that we employ not to indicate so much that we are prodding ourselves to ask hard questions, but rather to indicate that we are smart, and tough, and ever on the prowl for dumb, lazy, sloppy thinkers, those non-critical thinkers out there, making a mess of things.
• Downsize
  You’re fired.
• Golden parachute
  You’re fired and here’s a big check.  Go away and don’t come back.
• Leadership
  Here are fourteen extra projects you can take on.  By yourself.  For no extra pay.  Have fun.
• Partnership
  Here’s a fifteenth project.  Go find someone else to pay for it.
• Rightsize
  Your secretary’s fired.
• Value added
  The consultant you hired to downsize your support staff will wear a nice tie to the strategic planning meetings.  He may even bring donuts.
• Womb to tomb
  Gotcha, all the way.

I had a dream last night about working in a daycamp with Madonna.  I don’t know.  Maybe it was the popcorn I ate, way too late. Maybe it was the hot sauce on the popcorn.  Maybe it was the full moon.  At any rate, there she was, Madonna, in my dream, fussing at me for being a little too, well, staid. I didn’t want to go clubbing or whatever she called it at four in the morning.  I didn’t want to go out dancing with the seventeen year old counselors.  “Madonna,” I said, “We’re 48, for god’s sake.”  She stared at me for a long moment and then snapped her bubblegum.  “So?”  she said.  I stared back.  “What do you mean SO?“ I said. She heaved an annoyed, rather theatrical sigh, turned on her heel (I know, cliche), fluffed her foxtail stole at me, and barked: “See ya.” 

Then, she was off.  Her entourage of groupies, makeup artists, costumers, roustabouts, followed behind.  And there I was, sitting at the campfire, wondering where my laptop had gotten to.  “I have to write a report,” I moaned.  “And i can’t do it without my laaaaaaaaaaaptop!”  A very young counselor, dead ringer for Ashton Kuchter, showed up at my side, very consoling.  We looked and looked, under the bleachers, under the camp cabins, under a lot of things, but, alas, we never found the laptop. 

Yet even as we searched, very diligently, I could hear echoes of Madonna’s party reverberating through the woods of the camp.  And all I could think about was my report. The Ashton look-alike vanished.  And I kept walking through the woods, searching, looking. 

I clearly need a real life.

Today, the high will be 75.

By Friday, 44.

Get out the wool.

I’m back after a weekend away for two funerals on Nantucket Island, home of the family burial plot.  My brain has little to offer today.  My body is tired.  My mood dark.  When you lose two family members, go to two funerals back to back, and notice at the funerals how old and frail some of your favorite family members have become and know that soon enough you will be back for another funeral and another, the world loses its luster.  Everything becomes flat for awhile.  Flat and empty of promise. 

For now, I am doing doing what needs to be done.  Grading papers, reading assignments, answering emails and phone calls, writing reports and assignments and more reports.  One thing after another.  In the rhythm of work there is solace.

There is at least one other reliable solace: comfort food.  Today, breakfast was toast.  Toast with lots of butter, so much butter it dripped onto the plate.  Lunch was French Fries.  Large fries, please. Lots of salt.  Afternoon snack?  I’m thinking a Snicker’s bar.  And a Coke.  And not a dumb diet coke, or the aptly named Coke Zero, either.  I’m going for the real real thing.  Sugary, caffeinated, carbonated, Coca Cola.  A pure drug for the weary soul.  And tonight? Ham. More French Fries.  And Popcorn with salt, a lot of salt, before I retire.

Yes, this is temporary.  Trust me.  But just one day of dietary self-medication.  Allow myself that, and that will be enough.