By JESSICA BURSTEIN
Sex and the conference. Oxymoronic, I know, and in all three senses of the word. Yet there it is — the reason the married people go, the reason the single people go, the reason travel stipends were invented. Sex and the conference is proof positive that — in the face of all evidence to the contrary; despite what you see when you look at your fellow panelists; regardless of the fact that it is, after all, Iowa City — hope springs eternal.
...[T]he name tags are laid out on a table. I regard this as a buffet and suggest you do the same. This for multiple reasons. First, instant alibi. Like, duh. Second, parading around with someone else's name pinned to your chest can bring out all sorts of characterological deficiencies that in toto amount to an interesting new personality. After all, it is your job to make sure that Lazlo Mancini of Little Dubuque's Learning Institute has a good time; look at what he's going home to. Famous people's name tags are slightly more dangerous, but here, as elsewhere in life, reward comes with risk. For two giddy days I was Judith Butler. I actually got her that raise, not that she thanked me. This leads me to suggest that you stay within your own gender and height skew, but on the other hand, only on my third day of being Sander Gilman did someone ask me if I perhaps should be attending to my calcium intake. All in all, there is no reason why you should confine yourself to one alternative persona, given identity's performative nature. If, for whatever bizarre reason, you are content with your own personality, more power to 'you.'
Why this? I'm home, alone. My wife is at an academic conference in DC.
Have a good time, dear.
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