I had two competing thoughts: (1) This couldn’t possibly be true. The American Anthropological Association getting rid of science? (2) This is undoubtedly true.
One Foot In
You’re probably wondering who Pixie is. She’s my muse. I don’t remember when I learned her name, nor do I even remember when she showed up in my imagination as an actual person. Well, not exactly a person. She looks like a bad-girl version of Tinkerbell, so more like a fairy. She also smokes, although never near me, so I’m OK with it.
Yes, plagiarism is bad because it is a form of cheating. But the “innocent” plagiarists, meaning those who copy from Wikipedia without credit, worry me more.
Regarding three journals I’ve lately been fantasizing about founding.
Wasn't Publishing Supposed to Be About New Knowledge, or Improving Human Existence, or Something Other Than . . . Publishing?
When I was a mortgage broker in the 80’s, on Long Island, it was obvious to us all the system was broken and would crash. You see, we were all being paid to write mortgages. No one’s income depended on whether property owners could actually pay the mortgages back. Write ‘em up, write ‘em up, rah rah rah.
The prenatal dex project has turned out to be like having a child: I can’t really remember what life was like before it. Did I have endless amounts of free time before it all started a little over a month ago? Because now it seems to take up hours and hours each day. And hours and hours each night.
My son, who is now in fourth grade, has been studying the Civil War. He asked me the other day, as I paused from struggling with the dex bomb to help him with his homework, “Was Lincoln a freed black?”
My departmental chair assured me that he has money in the budget for an exorcism. Maybe we can find a Salesian priest to do it.
And I thought to myself, what a position of privilege such a postmodern stance is. What a sign of a working democracy and a stable middle class, that one can make such an argument--that evidence is just cute and naive. This was obviously not a man who had been accused of murder, as Chagnon has been.
Whatever else I can’t know about why that newspaper from 1938 ended up in the wall of my bathroom, what I can know, better than ever, is that our house has been inhabited before by people like us: people who read the New York Times; people who grow flowers to give to neighbors; people who establish powerful local relationships over shared indulgences downtown; people who probably, like most people, hurt when meaning to help.