philosophysmoker-Mstarz

This is what happens to me every year. I know what the job market is like. I know that there are lots of jobs and lots of applicants, and that the odds of me getting a job are not high, and that for any particular job, the odds of me getting that job are low. I know this.

But then the job ads start coming out. And I see a couple of jobs that seem really attractive. Maybe I know somebody in the department; maybe I've been to the city or town and thought it would be pretty cool to live there; maybe it's close to family or friends; maybe there's a reason why it would be particularly good for my family; maybe there's something about the job that I connect with somehow, where I'd be especially well-suited for it, or it would be especially well-suited for me.

And then I can't help but start to think about what it would be like to get that job. I start to get hope. I would rather not get these hopes, but it's hard not to. At least, I seem to have no ability to prevent it. I can't help it. And I have found myself doing this again over the past few weeks.

And a few times, I've actually gotten interviews at these places. It is very hard to avoid this hopefulness when you are prepping for an interview with your favorite job from this year's JFP, or with your favorite job ever.

And frankly, I'm not sure how you'd be able to summon the motivation to apply for these jobs, or to prep for the interview, if you weren't at least somewhat hopeful that you'd get the job. I once had an interview with a school that was located in a city I'd lived in as a child, and where I had a really tough time. When I thought about the possibility of moving back--and bringing my family with me--I didn't feel particularly hopeful. I wasn't excited about it. I wasn't "into" it. And I think that came through in the interview. I didn't say anything about it, of course; I didn't attempt to express these feelings and did what I could to conceal them. But I couldn't get myself excited about the job, and I think it showed. I don't think I fucked it up, or anything, but I also didn't blow them away, and I didn't get the flyout. So I suppose I see the utility of feeling hopeful. It seems to play a somewhat important role in providing motivation.

But I really don't like having to let go of these hopes as the season progresses. I don't like it at all. And so I wish there were a way to avoid it, and then to do without it.

Sorry if this post is a bummer. Here's some Miles Davis.



--Mr. Zero

I was recently made slightly sad about something. Before I say what it was, I want to emphasize that I'm not complaining. On balance, it's a reasonably decent situation. Better than average. Overall, I have no ground for complaint.

I submitted a paper to a journal this summer, and heard back almost immediately. Often, a near-immediate response is a sign that the paper was summarily rejected by the editor and was not sent out for review. A "desk rejection," as they say. In this case, however, it is clear that this did not happen. It is clear that this submission was sent out for review, for a couple of reasons. First, the rejection letter says something like, "based on the advice received" or whatever. Second, there were comments. Comments! After it had been under review for just a few days. And the comments have been helpful. Helpful comments in under a week. I don't know anyone--and I include myself here--who has sent helpful comments within a week of receiving the paper.

And again, I want to stress that I am not complaining. As rejections go, this is the best-case scenario. It was lightning-fast, and it was accompanied by commentary that will help me make the paper better. No complaints.

But the minor aspect that made me slightly sad was, one of the things I'm looking for when I send a paper to a journal is a bit of a break from it. I know when I send something out--especially if I'm aiming a little high, as I was here--that I'm going to be thinking about this paper again in a few months. But I like having that respite. I kind of need it, so that I can move on to other things and get work done on other projects. (I realize that this is not a big deal, but since when does something need to be a big deal in order for me to remark upon it?)

On the other hand, one sort of nice thing about this situation is that I haven't had to spend any time re-familiarizing myself with the issues the paper concerns or the arguments the paper makes. So I would say that the revisions are going somewhat more quickly than they otherwise would have. Which is a plus.

So, in closing, thanks a million to the anonymous reviewer for an undisclosed journal.

--Mr. Zero

It occurs to me that it has been something like five years since I've had a "revise and resubmit" verdict from a journal. In that time, I've had several papers accepted "as is," several more conditionally accepted as long as I am willing to make the changes and successfully execute, and a bunch of rejections. Many of these rejections, of course, come with no comments. But when they do come with comments, it sometimes seems to me that the actual comments are basically consistent with an R&R. They say, "a few minor suggestions," or some such thing, not, "there were several serious problems." Often these reports don't say anything specific about what they recommend the editor do—that material usually goes straight to the editor—but one report I recently got was explicit that the referee thought the paper should be R&R-ed. The editor, of course, rejected the paper.

And it seems to me that many of my friends have had the same experience. At least, the ones I've discussed this with. Although this is so unscientific that it's of basically no value whatsoever. Probably shouldn't have mentioned it. 

But I have gotten the sense that, over the past ten years or so, space in the journals has gotten increasingly scarce—witness Nous and PPR's annual six-month submission hiatus—and that this makes editors increasingly reluctant to deploy the R&R, and to reach straight for the "reject" button instead. 

And that's too bad. I like R&Rs, and not just because it's not a full-on rejection. I like hearing that the editor believes in the paper enough to give it another shot. I like getting real feedback from an editor who isn't sending it along just in case I'll find it helpful, but who actually believes that the suggestions will make the paper better. And I like being in a position to discuss and possibly negotiate the proposed changes. I think there's legitimate value in the R&R, and it makes me sad to see it go. If, indeed, it is going. Which, maybe it's not. 

Does that seem right? What am I missing? 

--Mr. Zero

That's what I find, at least. A few years back, I mentioned that in studying for my dissertation defense, I sat down and reread the entire thing cover-to-cover (taking notes, making an outline, constructing handouts, etc). I said that I could see clear differences between the chapters that I'd written first and the ones I'd written last. I said, "the change in quality of writing, argument, and general sophistication between the first chapter I wrote and the last was astonishing to me; I am a much better philosopher now than I was when I started writing."

I feel the same way about the stuff I'm writing now in comparison with the stuff I was writing back then. The work I'm producing now is much more clearly written, the arguments are better, the general sophistication is higher. I am a much better producer of written philosophical work now than I was just two or three years ago. At least, that's how it seems to me.

The thing that's sort of weird about it—and, I don't know, maybe this isn't really all that weird—is that although I would say that I have gotten better at doing this, I would not say that it feels like I've gotten better, and I wouldn't say that it has gotten any easier to do it. If anything, I would say that it has gotten much more difficult. I find more and more that I wrestle with almost every sentence, and from there I wrestle with the arrangement of sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into sections, and sections into a coherent, complete paper. I struggle to formulate and organize and express the ideas and views and arguments that I'm trying to develop or defend, as well as those that appear in the literature that I'm trying to engage with.

I'm inclined to chalk it up to my being more sensitive to various nuances and subtleties and stuff, but maybe not proportionately better at expressing those nuances and subtleties, but I'm not sure. I don't know. I just made that up. It's probably wrong.

And now that I think of it, I'm not really sure why this seems surprising. I guess I was thinking of proficiency at philosophy on the model of proficiency at a musical instrument. When you first start learning an instrument, it's extremely difficult. You can't get it to do the things you want it to do; you can't make it play the sounds you want it to play. You can't play at tempo and you get tired quickly. But as you get better, it gets easier. You can make the instrument do what you want; you can play at tempo and for longer. A piece that gave you trouble or was unplayable two or three years ago comes easily now; a piece that would have been beyond impossible two or three years ago is merely difficult now. You can see and feel your improvement. And so I guess I figured that as I got better at philosophy, things that I found to be difficult would come to me more easily. (I'm not sure I ever really experienced this, but I think I thought that maybe I would if I got good enough.)

But now that I think of it, I don't think that's quite the right way to think of it. Now that I think of it—if you'll bear with me while I take this metaphor and torture it to death—I think that it would be more accurate to say that I've been playing a succession of pieces, each of which is right at the limit of my abilities. It doesn't seem like it's getting easier because improvements in my abilities make it possible for me to conceive of more difficult things (nuances, subtleties, etc) which I then immediately attempt. And so the work gets better, but not in a way that generates a literal awareness of improvement or feelings of ease.

So, anyways, that's what I've been thinking about as I decide whether to grade these exams or revise this paper.

--Mr. Zero

I haven't ever been excited about the start of job market season. And I've been progressively less excited each year for the past few years. But I was still kind of surprised to discover how much I'm not looking forward to being on the job market again. I started getting my materials together and it just hit me. Like a black rock in my guts. Ugh.

When I finished my dissertation and started teaching on the VAP circuit, I sort of thought that if I was a hard worker and did what I was supposed to do--if I did a good job teaching my classes and published a lot--then I would eventually snag a TT position somewhere. I didn't think it was a guarantee, or anything. But based on what happened to people I went to grad school with, and to people whose degrees are from departments similar to mine, I thought I had a decent chance. I was trying to be realistic about it, but I was also at least a little optimistic, insofar as that's a possible combination. And so, although I wasn't in love with it or anything, I didn't have too much trouble getting myself motivated to go on the market in the fall.

But the past couple of years have been different. Although I believe in what I'm doing, and I'm proud of what I've accomplished, I'm not getting the results I want. It keeps happening, and the job market keeps not bouncing back. It gets harder to get myself moving on all the shit I need to do before the JFP drops. Blah.

Anyways, here's some Cake for your enjoyment. I hope everyone's prowess is potent this year. Especially mine.



--Mr. Zero

A little while ago, I got a nice but impersonal PFO letter from the HR department of the school that interviewed me at the APA. They wrote to let me know that I didn't get an on-campus interview, that they hired somebody else, and to encourage me to apply for other positions at their institution that might interest me. Of course, I already knew I didn't get the job when I didn't get the on-campus, and I knew I didn't get the on-campus when the wiki said other people were invited to campus and I didn't hear from them. Also, when the hire was announced on the Leiter jobs thread, that was a clue, too.

The thing that made this one stand out is that, at the interview, the lead interviewer specifically said that I would hear from them either way by a certain date. They made a point of saying that this wasn't going to be one of those things where they drop off the face of the earth. I didn't bring it up; they did. They went out of their way to emphasize it. This struck me as unusual. And then they dropped off the face of the earth, and then six or seven months later I got a form letter from their HR department.

I find this really galling, but maybe that's the wrong attitude. Maybe I should lighten up about this. It happens all the time, after all. But that's exactly what's so galling about it. This disregard for job applicants is such a normal thing that if you mention it whenever it happens then you end up mentioning it all the time—so much that you're the one who's annoying. And I don't want to be someone who doesn't find that galling.

But that doesn't mean I don't realize that I'm somewhat of a broken record about this. I realize that I write about it all the time and have been for years. You're probably sick and tired of reading my complaining, whiny posts about it. I feel the same way, frankly. I'm tired of this. I set this post aside several times as I was writing it. Not only have I said this a billion times before, but I can't imagine I'll ever say it better than I did here. What's the point?

Nevertheless, it seems to me that how search committees treat job candidates is a basic issue of some importance. So allow me to just reiterate. If you conducted a search this past season, you really ought to contact the people you interviewed but didn't hire to let them know you appreciate that they took the time to meet with you and to wish them well. You should especially do this if they spent their own money to travel to the interview. You should especially especially do this if you told them you would. You should definitely do this if the interview involved a trip to your campus. If you haven't done this already, you should do it now. If you are only doing it just now, you should probably also apologize for having taken so long to get around to it. And if you're not sure whether you've done it, you should make sure. It's only the decent thing to do.

--Mr. Zero

I've been teaching an online course this summer, which more or less requires me to use Canvas. (I guess I could have built a website and such, but Canvas is there, and set up for this kind of thing, so...) But what I've noticed, at least at my school, is that the Canvas gradebook totally enables the instant gratification neediness in students. They freak out if their grades are not posted RIGHT AWAY. They send me emails asking WHY grades have not been posted. They are SURE that there must be some mistake that accounts for that void sitting there in the gradebook.

Me, on the other hand, I hate posting the grades, because as soon as I do, the grubbing starts. The demanding-to-know-why-I-only-got-an-A-minus starts. Which makes me want to not post grades. I'm required to let my students know how they're doing before the drop deadline each term. Freshmen and transfers get midterm grades as well. But I'm not actually required to let them know how they're doing at every moment, and I'm disinclined to do so because of the grade-grubbing and the whingeing and whining.

On the other other hand, the gradebook feature is handy and easy to use, except that it is visible to students. It's not that I think their grades should be a complete surprise to them at the end of the term. They should get enough feedback to know if they're doing OK, or not. And my assessment and pedagogical strategy is to give them more frequent assignments rather than a couple of high-stakes ones. But that only increases the frequency with which they are inspired to complain.

I suppose I could do what I did before Canvas, which is keep my own grading spreadsheet, and make students ask me about their grades. I'm curious about how the rest of you deal with this, and if you see the same instant gratification syndrome in your students.

~zombie

I wrote this post a while ago, but didn't feel like posting it just then. I'm not sure I feel like posting it now, but I figure, what the hell. So, here's what I hope is my last annual "I didn't get a job this year" post:

Although I haven't received any final word on any of the jobs I interviewed for this year, I have some pretty convincing data that suggests that I'm out of the running for every job I applied for so far in this year's job cycle. There's one school I haven't heard a peep from but is listed on the wiki; another I haven't heard from and which isn't on the wiki but whose department website lists a suspicious number of colloquia by junior philosophers who work in my area; another who sent me a nice "we'll be glad to hire you if the folks we invited to campus don't work out" note. (Seriously. It was a very nice note, for a note that says "we invited people to campus, but not you, though.")

This is a real bummer. I mean, that's obvious, but it's also worth repeating. What a fucking bummer.

When I arrived at my first full-time teaching job out of grad school, I had two goals. 1. To learn how to do this job well—to do a good job of teaching while at the same time carrying out a productive research/publishing program; 2. To compile a record that demonstrates that I am capable of doing a good job of teaching while carrying out a productive research/publishing program. I feel good about what I've accomplished. I'm proud of what I've accomplished. My teaching is going well; my publishing is going well—I had no idea that my publishing would ever go as well as it has; but my job search is not going well. And I am bummed.

Last fall, someone asked me in comments how I can continue to muster the energy to keep applying for jobs year after year. I didn't answer at the time because I wasn't sure. How do I keep this up? It's hard to say. One important factor is that my family is very supportive—Mrs. Zero is behind me all the way, as are my parents and my siblings and what subset of my extended family has a clear idea of what's going on. My friends, both in and out of the profession, and particularly my colleagues here in my department, are supportive, too.

The other thing that keeps me going is that I really do believe in what I'm doing. I feel like I'm doing good work. I like teaching and I believe in my classes. I like writing papers, and I believe in the papers I write, and I am able to place them in good journals. I have compiled a record that I am proud of in the time I've been here. I believe in my record. I believe that my record proves that I can do this job. But my job search is not going well.

In years past I have been able to shrug it off and channel the disappointment into an effort to do better next year. This is the first year I've been genuinely discouraged. I'm not sure what else I can do. I realize that, at a certain point, I just have to get lucky. There are a lot of us—a lot of people who look good on paper. Good enough to interview, and good enough to hire. In order to get the job, you have to look good in all the right ways, and be one who happens to connect in all the right ways. And it's frustrating, because there's not much you can do to make yourself get lucky.

So, I wouldn't say that I'm ready to throw in the towel or anything like that. But I thought about it this year more seriously than I usually do. And I find myself muttering curse words under my breath pretty often.

So, that's what's going on with me. How are you?

--Mr. Zero

P.S. God damn it.

Spiros asks:

I was just getting my APA receipts organized. I'll submit them next week to my University, and in due course I'll get reimbursed for nearly every dollar I spent on the APA Eastern. But I have to say that the grand sum is pretty staggering, considering what one gets in return.

Unless one happens to live close enough to DC to not need to fly, the cost for most of getting to the conference and staying in the conference hotel has to be roughly $1000. How do graduate students and non-TT slave-wage earners who don't live on the East Coast afford it?

What we do is, we scrimp; we find less-expensive alternatives to the conference hotel; we eat as cheaply as we can; and we put up blog posts and comments in which we point out what a bunch of inhumane bullshit the current set of hiring procedures are and in which we propose more humane, less bullshitty alternatives, for which we are then derided as entitled whiners who are unwilling to do what it takes to get a job in philosophy.

--Mr. Zero

I don't like being on the job market very much and I look forward to a time when I don't have to do it any more.

--Mr. Zero

I read with interest this article in the Chronicle of Higher Ed, in which Rena Kraut tells the disappointing story of the time she found out she didn't get a job because of a celebratory Facebook post from the friend who did get it. I quote at length:

On a Friday afternoon, just days before my due date [she was super pregnant during this job search], I gave up waiting by the phone for the weekend, figuring I would resume my breathless anticipation on Monday. Browsing Facebook, I came upon a status update from an old friend I had worked with a decade ago. Something about it caught my eye. Could it be? ... No ... oh, no, he didn't. ...

He did. He had posted his job offer and subsequent acceptance on Facebook. And the reader can well guess what job that was.

No need to detail the ensuing hormonal rant, nor the contained message of congratulations I sent off. But be sure that, when the call from the dean came three days later—three days, long enough to rise from the dead, for Pete's sake—and told me I was not The One, my answer was, "I know. I've known since Friday."

Rejection via Facebook. It's a whole new world out there.

Readers of the administrative ilk, I hope you can learn from my cautionary tale. For while this university had been the very model of respect and propriety throughout the hiring process, it sadly stumbled at the finish line. Judging from the shock in the dean's voice, the hiring committee had not foreseen that, in a world where information moves faster than one might wish, the final candidates might connect with each other—albeit accidentally—faster than the university communicated with them.

I thought it was pretty interesting because certain details sounded awfully familiar. This is pretty much how I found out I didn't get the job I on-campus-interviewed for. And as I read the passage, I thought, You're lucky. At least they told you at all, however late. My people seem to have just figured I'd hear through the grapevine eventually, because they didn't bother to do me the courtesy of ever contacting me at all—let alone contacting me on a Monday to let me know they'd hired someone the previous Friday.

--Mr. Zero

I've been having a pretty decent year on the market for the first time this year (my fourth year on the market). I've got a couple of nibbles, one of which I'm extremely excited about and the other of which is very close to my Platonic ideal. I'm really happy about these developments and I would love--LOVE--to have either one of these jobs.

But in spite of that, my overall experience over the last month or so has been decidedly negative. Part of that is that there is a moment where the elation that comes from having snagged an interview turns to dread that I will now have to convince these people to hire me. Another is that for every interview I've been granted, there are at least 15 I've missed. Getting one or two interviews and then seeing 15 or 30 jobs go down the drain has a way of taking the wind out of my sails. And then I start to think about how an interview isn't a job, it's a 1 in 4 chance of getting a campus visit. And a campus visit isn't a job, it's a 1 in 3 chance of getting an offer. And then I think, fuck.

To be clear, I am not trying to complain about my interviews. I am making an observation complaining about my own fucked up emotions. Even when I'm doing well, I can't make myself feel good about it. I'm stressed about my interviews, stressed about getting campus visits, and stressed about how I don't have more interviews.

Gotta love the job market.

--Mr. Zero

The conventional wisdom appears to be that because the super shitty economy has been causing a below-average number of people to get jobs every year for the past several years, it is going to take longer for our Ph.D.s to go stale. That is, future search committees are going to see that we've had trouble getting jobs, but they're not going to hold it against us because they'll understand that we were caught up in the recession. It's not us, it's George Bush, they'll say.

I have found myself wondering (and worrying) whether this is really true. For one thing, it's not as though there are no new Ph.D.s being produced during this time. A lot of these newer Ph.D.s will have less teaching experience and fewer publications than I have, but they'll definitely seem fresher. Not jaded and worn out. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And someone who finishes her dissertation, doesn't defend it, and stays in grad school for a couple of extra years is going to have more time to devote to publishing than me.

And it's not as though nobody is getting jobs right now. There have been people getting hired the last couple of years, just not as many as usual. Maybe future search committees will think that the hot-shots got hired and whoever was left over must be some kind of a cold-shot. Now, a smart, diligent search committee might play moneyball and try to find a talented person who'd been overlooked by an inefficient job market; but a lazy search committee might not. And everyone I know hates being on search committees.

I don't know. This is more doomy-gloomy than I want to be right now. But I've been wondering and worrying about this for a while, and I wonder what the Smokers have to say.

--Mr. Zero

One nice thing about graduate school was that that there were a bunch of people who were either obligated by contract or who had a strong professional/departmental interest in reading my papers. Nowadays I must rely on the kindness of friends and acquaintances, almost all of whom have various contractual or professional/departmental obligations to a lot of people other than me. The results are unsurprising and not awesome. Usually if I send a paper to a bunch of friends one or two might get around to it in a month or so. Possibly this is in part because almost all of these people live a thousand miles away from me, and so never see me in the hall, and are consequently never made to feel guilty by the sight of me. I've also tried sending papers to well-known people from the paper's bibliography, but I've never had any luck.

No point. Just griping. Carry on.

--Mr. Zero

In a recent thread, there was a lively discussion about the relative merits of tenure-line work and working as a VAP. The commenter that got the ball rolling has a fairly heavy 4-4 teaching load with the standard non-teaching duties, and was coming off a VAP with a pretty light 2-2 load. That's a lot of teaching, and the effect is probably magnified and focused by the transition.

But look. I have a 4-4 now. And I have almost no say in which four classes I teach every semester. (My chair is pretty good about keeping my preps down.) My classes are almost all at introductory level, which means they are easy to teach but which also means that my students almost all have no backgound or interest in philosophy.^* I have no administrative responsibilities, but I also have no say as to what policies are adopted by my department or my school. And although I have an above-average amount of job security^† for a VAP, I have a lot less job security than your average "unmodified" assistant professor (UAP), and as long as I stay in this position, I will never have the opportunity to apply for tenure. I also make in the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars a year less than your average UAP, and as long as I stay in this position, I will never have the opportunity to get a raise. And I have no travel budget, so I have to use my own money if I ever want to go to a conference (and I have less of my own money to start with).

I'm not trying to complain about my job.^‡ I love my job. Almost every job in the entire world would be worse, and only a few jobs could possibly be better. I'm having a great time, and I've learned a lot.

But the idea that a VAP's desire for a tenure-line job is a case of the grass is greeners is stupid. It's an objectively better job. More work and more responsibility, yes. But those meetings are a necessary evil and an all-things-considered good. Your department, college, and university could not operate without them, and you vote in those meetings. You have a say. And this having a say comes with more security, more autonomy, and more money.

--Mr. Zero

^* To be clear, I like introducing people to philosophy who have no prior interest or background in the discipline. I also like teaching advanced students, and I would like to have more opportunities to do so.

^† And most VAPs are year-to-year, which means they go on the TT market in the fall and then the temporary market in the spring. This is time-consuming and sucks.

^‡ In the earlier post, I was complaining about the aspects of my job which lead to my being on the job market every year. That complaint is completely legitimate.

Sorry about the less-than-regular blogging schedule lateley. I blame family obligations, traveling, and jacked-up midtown wifi rates. Whatever.

Anyways, anon 12:38 says it well:

$10 Bud Light at the second night's smoker. Ten mother fucking dollars for a bottle of bud fucking light?! $12 for a glass of wine?! $6 for a bottle of water or a glass of soda?!

Dear APA - did you AGREE to those prices? Were they prearranged? If so - fuck you. We're poor and not getting any richer and obligated to attend the smoker and then have to make the choice of spending $10 on one bottle of piss poor beer or going without.

I mean, it's cool that the beers at the first smoker are free, and I get that a lot of people want the conference to be in Midtown New York. But come on. We're un- or underemployed philosophers forced to spend our own money to fly to New York two days after Christmas for job interviews. The APA should be doing everything it possibly can to make it affordable.

Next time, lets have the conference at the Plaza. Nicer views.

--Mr. Zero

What's the deal with ads that say "AOC: open," and then immediately list a bunch of areas in which the successful candidates will be expected to teach courses on a regular basis? Maybe I don't know what an AOC is supposed to be, but that seems like it.

What's the deal with ads where you have to create an account on the school's "jobs" website in order to see the AOS? Why not just put that information in the first sentence of the ad, where it belongs?

What's the deal with ads that don't mention the courseload? Fuck that.

I know I've complained about this before, but there has got to be a way to ensure that each ad gets identified by just one ad number, even though it might be duplicated in later editions of the JFP. We can put a man on the moon.

--Mr. Zero

I had a question from a fellow Smoker, Three Sickles Short, that was e-mailed to me a blue moon ago and I've been meaning to throw my two cents in on, but I was sick as a dog (maybe a pig?) as of late. In any case, here's the question:

Is there any point to joining professional organizations? I see the point to the APA in that they're the source of job postings, but what about things like the International [Plato/Kant/Wittgenstein/Whoever] Society? Does anybody care whether you're a member of such things, or are they just so much C.V. filler? If your dissertation is on Frederick C. Bumfizzle, had you better shell out the 20 bucks a year to join the Frederick C. Bumfizzle Society and prove your devotion to the profession, or is that 20 bucks better spent on alcohol to dull the pain of a crappy job market? Thoughts?

I can think of a few reasons that you'd want to join a professional society. Perhaps your dues pay for a journal that puts out good research and you get a subscription by being a member. Or, you need to join the society in order to present at their conference, which is a good one where every one who is anyone in your field will be in attendance. Or (as Three Sickles Short notes) it's the only way to get a poorly organized listing of jobs every once in a while that is sometimes published after the conferences at which interviews could be, and once were, but not anymore, conducted.

But, besides that, I think your money might be better spent on alcohol. I presume being a member of a professional organization that you pay to be a member of (think Who's Who?) doesn't pad your CV in anyway or make you anymore of an attractive candidate, even if the practical reasons noted above make it advisable to join the organization.

Of course, I could be wrong. And people should tell me if I am. After all, I do harbor some deep-seated resentment for one organization in particular (figure it out!). I mean, if you pay dues for a whole year, you should get a whole year of membership in return from the date you paid and you shouldn't have to renew mid-year and pay for a whole 'nother year just so you can submit a paper to a conference you probably won't get in to, but you worked your ass off for regardless. Right?

-- Jaded Dissertator