Today I had a one-on-one meeting with my sexy film professor to discuss my upcoming final paper. (This paper, being a 5-7 page paper for a sophomore-level class not in my major, will be written in about two hours, after about an hour of research, 1-3 days before it is due.)

She has a pretty typical humanities professor's office - one wall covered floor to ceiling with books, messy desk with sexy Titanium iBook. Comfy-looking red armchair for students.

I sit down in the armchair and comment on its comfiness. It's got one of those cushions that sinks down about six inches when you sit on it.

And as a result, my sexy film professor, in her professional desk chair, is seated a good foot and a half higher than me. Clever! She has established herself in a position of power.

"I notice you're sitting a lot higher than me now," I say, eager to show off the knowledge of shot composition I have obtained in her class.

"That's not really the intent," she insists.

We begin talking about my paper, which I will be writing on Hitchcock's "Vertigo". I'm saying that what appeals to me about the film, and Hitchcock in general, is that, because he crafted his films so carefully, you know that all the symbolism and such is intentional. (I'm not expressing myself nearly so eloquently, of course.)

"Well, Gus," she replies, "most cultural theorists believe that it doesn't matter whether something was the author's intent or not."

Aha! If that's the case, Ms. Sexy Film Professor, then what to you have to say now about your clever little armchair power games? Not really the intent, indeed.