Thursday, March 26, 2009

Youngstown State U and playing the clown

John Ellis is Professor Emeritus of German Literature at UC Santa Cruz. FrontPage has published an article about the president of Youngstown State University, Dr. David C. Sweet (without mentioning him), titled “Why Students Flee the Humanities.”

Ellis writes: […] civic and historical knowledge of American history and institutions is at a low ebb precisely because that knowledge does not mesh with the dominant politically correct [Holocaust marketing] ... ethos of the professoriate ethical reasoning in the humanities is now often reduced to a compulsory buying into the obsession with group [Jewish] grievance that has been central to humanities teaching for some time […] the experience of far too many students, genuinely independent, critical thinking is scarcely inspired by teachers themselves in the grip of a shallow, one-sided critique of their own society--a dogma that may not be questioned [Holocaust orthodoxy]

I’m surprised that Professor Ellis is even reading The Jambar, (do a search on Bradley Smith) but the fact that he is referencing such folk as President Sweet and Poly-Sci professor Keith J. Lepak is unmistakable.


Had an appointment at the VA hospital in La Jolla to have the port in my chest irrigated. My wife went with me. The port in question was surgically implanted in the upper right-hand part of the chest. It’s a small affair, the width of a quarter, and rises up under the skin in a mound-like shape. I didn’t know what a “port” was. It’s used to inject the necessary drugs used during chemotherapy. There is a tube that goes from the port directly north to the juggler so that the drugs are dispersed more efficiently than needles in the arm. After the chemo was ended I had a choice to have the port removed, or leave it in on the chance that the cancer would return and it would be needed. I chose to leave it in.

Anyhow, I’m there in the lab in the green, plastic-covered reclining chair, while Irene is sitting in a chair nearby facing me. I unbutton my shirt and pull it down to reveal the port so that the nurse can inject the irrigating solutions. First she draws a little blood from the port to make certain that it’s open. Then she injects a saline solution. It takes only a moment. Then there is a second solution and when she puts that needle into me I cry out in agony and twist in the chair. I thought I was being funny. But when I looked at my wife her face was distraught. I like to say that she has the fastest tongue in Baja, I expected her to ridicule me for being a sissy, but her face looked like a ruin.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Estoy bromando. No me duele nada.”

“I’m just horsing around. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

The nurse thought my display was mildly amusing, but my wife was stricken. It wasn’t until we had left the hospital and I was apologizing out in the parking lot that I discovered that Irene was dismayed to see the port at all. It hadn’t occurred to me that she had never seen it. It was put in there a couple, three months ago. But it’s been some time since, how shall phrase this, it’s been some time since we have been holding hands, and there in the lab was the first time she had seen the bump in my chest. She didn’t like seeing it at all, and then when I let out my fake cry of pain and writhed around in the chair she thought it was real.

It amuses me again thinking about it now, but it wasn’t so funny at the time when I saw how it made her feel. There are moments, I know it, when I choose to play the clown that are not really appropriate.

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