“Um, actually, yeah. I, like, didn’t really do the reading.”

Happy in Austin.
Originally uploaded by littlee.

WGSS 255a is not off to a good start this semester. Earlier this summer, when I agreed to herd another 40 undergrads across the fields and streams of Yale’s raciest science course, I did so with trepidation. I could still feel the ache of the knots between my shoulder blades brought on by last semester’s mad dash and it took a good long fester at Starbucks over a tall latte before I decided that it was worth the pain to go through it all again.

The troublesome pattern emerging after several lectures, a few weeks of section and one exam is that for the most part, the students of WGSS 255a are doing their best impression of tranquilized sea lions or over-fed cows or some such creatures that can’t be bothered to do more then sit absolutely still and stare. They do not stare at ME, or the lecturing professor or any of their classmates who have miraculously stirred to contribute to the class discussion. No, their gaze is fixed on some molecule on the carpet in front of their desk or at some infinitely distant point over my shoulder, through the chalkboard on the wall and across the street.

It creeps me out. I’m starting to wonder if several of them have perfected the ability to sleep with their eyes open.

I’m cultivating a number of theories as to why this year’s crop of Sex Class participants is so different from last year’s, though none of them have really gelled. Last spring, my two sections had unique characters, one more intellectual and argumentative, the other more reserved but ultimately full of good opinion and analysis. I would end my two-hour, back to back run each Thursday physically drained but mentally buzzing and reminded once again that I’d taken on a class that required so much independent teaching because I really really like the students.

This year though, I find myself prying comments out of my students with a crowbar. I started them off easy, posing questions that didn’t even require having glanced at the reading assignment.

“Would you ever serve as a surrogate mother? Would you anonymously donate sperm for infertile couples?”

“In your opinion, what defines parenthood?”

Not rocket science. But only one or two students would raise their hands to address the first question with comments like,

“Nah, I don’t think I would. It’d be weird, you know?”

No one touched the second question. Definitely too much of a hot potato.

As the material has gotten more involved and successful participation in section discussion now requires actually having cracked the thin course packet, things have only gotten worse. This past Wednesday I dragged myself out of bed to teach, sinus infection be damned. I was dreading the silence, the spacey stares and the impatient, expectant looks from a few students who evidently feel that it’s up to me to lecture through the entire 50 minute DISCUSSION period. But I was cautiously optimistic that our topic – the 1950’s sex surveys of Masters and Johnson – would provide sufficiently tantalizing material to spark some sustained conversation.

No dice. Both sections.

Q. “So, Masters and Johnson started with an interesting study population. Who were some of their more controversial subjects? Does anyone know why these folks studied but later excluded from the final survey results?”

Anyone? Will anyone take a swing at this fastball down the middle of the plate, virtually guaranteed to relieve you the need to comment for the next 15 minutes? The silence was deafening. (Or where my ears just plugged up again from my packed sinuses?)

A. “Okay. Did anyone notice that they surveyed almost 100 prostitutes from inner city St. Louis? No? Alright then.”

In all fairness, there are a few students who have brightened up and made some useful contributions. But with only five or six of 40 making any effort, it looks to be a long semester. I hate to do it, but it may be time to start cold-heartedly calling on people.

But even with the catatonic students and the vicious head cold and two bicycle tires that both decided to go completely flat miles from a tire pump, my mood is buoyant, and my spirits have been unsinkable. I have been this gleeful for a little over a week, after having spent last weekend at one of the most awesomest places ever. You heard me. Most AWESOMEST ever. (If Steven’s blog can have bazaar, enthusiasm-induced grammar, than so can mine. So there.)

Where is this place, you ask?

At this precise hour last Saturday, I was sitting on the hard ground on a dirty blanket covered in spiky burrs, gusts of wind continuously depositing grit and bits of grass in my mouth and eyes, and sweat was running off me in small streams with the sun blazing over head, heating the air to 105 degrees.

Sophia was sitting next to me, sipping one of the two icy cold beers she had just bought for us at one of the countless BAR tents. About 100 feet in front of us, Buddy Guy and his band were jamming themselves into a sweaty frenzy. We had just come from a lovely set by Aqualung. As soon as Buddy Guy was done, we’d have to skedaddle over to see Death Cab for Cutie and then break for a bit to restore ourselves Bloc Party.

The Austin City Limits festival 2005 was on. And the music was perfect, the BAR tents were everywhere, there were no lines at the port-o-potties and the nachos were delicious and cheap. Sophia’s Oracle parties for 1.5 million and my 40 undergraduate lumps were a couple thousand miles away. Hurricane Rita was about 200 miles to the northeast, but aside from some dusty gusts, she pretty much left us alone. Everything was perfect.

Of course, there was no way it wouldn’t be. Sophia and I have been planning this adventure since last May. First we pounced on our early bird three-day passes. Plane tickets soon followed, then hotel accommodations. As the months counted down to weeks, e-mails zoomed between Connecticut and California with detailed plans of attack for super sneaky parking spots and daily schedules to enable strategic viewing of as many of the 130+ bands as possible. An ACL sampler mix CD was compiled and listened to obsessively. As hurricane Rita gained strength creeping across the Gulf, a trip was made to Target for rain ponchos and extra umbrellas. And because they were available, beer can cozies matching the blue and orange ponchos were purchased.

Our plans were set. Our good times would not be thwarted, though someone seemed to be trying pretty hard. Evidence of thwarting to ponder…

* Landing in Austin 18 hours ahead of the landfall of a class four hurricane to the east, we drove down highway 71 towards downtown passing signs directing evacuees from Houston to hurricane shelters. I began to question the wisdom of our somewhat frivolous adventure during this time of crises. But then Sophia and I found ourselves trying to figure out if our rental car windows were tinted while we were still wearing sunglasses. The laughing fit that followed left us both cramped and teary. This was not a frivolous jaunt. This was a necessary mental health retreat.

*We knew it would be hot. But we didn’t think the heat would break records. “Fine,” said whoever it is that is in charge of steering the paths of hurricanes. “You want your music festival? You’ll get it. I’ll swerve a bit towards Port Arthur. And you’ll get 101 on Friday, 105 on Saturday and 109 on Sunday.”

*When we checked into to our hotel room at the shwanky Stephen F. Austin Intercontinental Hotel on 7th Street and Congress, we smiled at and then largely ignored the two-foot wide wet spot on the carpet at the foot of Sophia’s bed.

*When we discovered only half as many towels as a double room would need, we simply called housekeeping. The next morning when, as I swung the door shut to go out for a run, the door handle came off in my hand, we just laughed and let the front desk know as we headed out of the lobby.

*Later, when we discovered that cockroaches were casually wondering across the white granite lobby floor and than that these extremely icky bugs were parading along sidewalks citywide in broad daylight, we decided that it added to the local flavor and that we’d just have to get used to it. (Though I did take the liberty of obliterating the cockroach I found in our room with the TV remote. My inner New Yorker came out and as I bashed away at the skittering insect, the batteries came flying out and the black plastic cover came off at an angle.)

But all lemons were turned into lemonade, and by the time we had seen Arcade Fire and Franz Ferdinand and were waiting in the heat and dust for Coldplay to come on at 8:30 on Sunday night, we were utterly blissed out. We were filthy and tired and I’d about had it with drunk idiots stepping on my stuff as they careened around the lawn. But Coldplay was coming and nothing else really mattered.

Now I’m back on Planet Grad School, and in front of me sits a list of experiments a mile long that need planning and a pile of exams covered in cramped, smudged handwriting that need grading. But it doesn’t matter. I have a giant stack of new ACL CDs and I’m going to crank of my iPod, arrange my collection of plastic cockroaches on the floor around me and pretend I’m back in Texas.