Ah, Valentine’s Day, the Hallmark-approved day to celebrate love in all its many forms. Well, not all, if you’re the University of Iowa’s Tom Rocklin. Rocklin recently decided to cancel the Bijou Theatre’s showing of the 3-D camp porn classic “Disco Dolls in Hot Skin.” Showing pornography, he said in a statement, was “clearly not in the public interest for a public facility at a public institution.”

While concerns over pornographic films certainly have merit, the film in question is considered by many to be a camp classic, not a modern plotless humpfest. In fact, the Bijou has shown the same film before,  filling every seat in the theater. Other art house and campus cinemas, from New York City, to the University of Kentucky to Oregon University have done the same.

Rocklin argues that the film has no educational value. But, film studies majors certainly know that porn films, old-school 3D films,  and (by the mathematical law of addition) 3D porn films, have influenced our current film culture for better or worse and therefore do have SOME educational value.

But, forget all that for a minute, let’s look beyond “educational value.” The Bijou may be a student-run organization but, due to much publicized changes in the local cinemascape, it is now charged with providing an entire community with alternative films. While we may not all need to go to the cinema for our porn fix, we do NEED the Bijou to be free to bring alternative films (whatever they may be) to a community that prides itself on its open mind. The UI administration’s censorship (and it is that, make no mistake) is a dangerous thing.

Unfortunately, this could only be the beginning.  It seems the leverage employed last week while negotiating the Bijou’s budget – literally threatening to withhold funds if they showed this film – gave Rocklin a really terrible, regressive idea that will hurt the community and severely damage the university’s reputation if it is allowed to persist: The creation of a supervisory board with the power to censor the Bijou.

According to the DI on Friday:

Evan Meaney, Bijou’s executive director, said he spoke with Thomas Rocklin, UI interim vice president for Student Services, about a new agreement that would require screening by UI officials.

The Bijou may act in mysterious ways but in this case Rocklin himself has proven their point for them: Discomfort with (and desire to suppress) this film is just one of the ways the Bijou demonstrates that it is the only theater in town that is serious about making you (yes you, Tom Rocklin) think.

There is a reason that University policy does not allow such censorship, and Rocklin’s dirty use of funding as leverage to circumvent that policy is totally unacceptable.

So, since you cant go watch 3D porn this Valentine’s, do the next best thing, fire up the internet and enjoy some 70s camp for free and mail a $5 bill to the Bijou to show your support.

When I first moved to Iowa City I would get knocked off kilter when attractive women I didn’t know would smile and nod at me when we’d pass each other by on the sidewalk or in an aisle at the grocery store or the public library.

This was a lot different from the “make no eye contact, keep your purse clenched under your arm like a football, keys in your hand ready to strike at the eyes” posture I was accustomed to seeing women adopt when I lived in Chicago. I’ve seen women in Iowa City walking down the street with with actual footballs clenched under their arm but they never looked like they were about to straight-arm me. I’ve also seen them clenching stacks of books and cases of beer and sometimes even bags of compost they were taking to their garden someplace–but always with good humor. From time to time they’ve even clenched my heart too, and however long they’ve held it for, I’ve always been better off for it.

Okay, perhaps the women back in Chicago they weren’t all quite so ready to attack but they certainly weren’t in the habit of smiling at strangers on the street. Maybe they would if they had a clipboard in their hands and were asking if you “had a few minutes for the environment” or whatever cause du jour they were shilling for that week, or if it were the kind of neighborhood that was in the news a lot for women being very friendly to strangers and were often arrested for it as a result.

The first dozen or so times this happened to me I actually turned around to look over my shoulder to see who it was they were smiling at.

When I saw no one there behind me and I realized that I was the intended recipient of their smile I’d respond with pointless, half-hearted waves to their backs that they never saw and a lot of them might have mistaken me for being shy.

I was simply not accustomed to strangers acknowledging each other on the street without some scheme being involved.

Though such friendliness is often referred to as being a “Midwestern” phenomenon, Chicago–where I’m from–is a part of the Midwest, and I certainly never experienced anything like this there.

There’s probably some dry sociological reason that explains this difference, but I just like to think that it’s because the women in Iowa City are uniquely wonderful.

They’re untainted by the cynicism and world-weariness and leeriness of strangers that women from bigger cities seem to have, which so often turns the act of getting to know someone well enough just to ask for their number into something only slightly less dangerous than a high-wire unicycle act performed above a mine field.

I moved to Iowa City to be with one amazing woman and stuck around to be with a second amazing one when the first relationship didn’t work out. The second relationship didn’t work out either, ultimately, but I have no regrets about either and I’m going to stick around for a while because there’s no place else in the world I’d rather keep trying to get it right.

A friend of mine who spent some time in the Army called our town a “target-rich environment” when he came for a visit once, and, numbers-wise, I suppose he was right.

But it’s not the fresh batch of young co-eds spit out of a hopper someplace who arrive here each fall and turn the town into that Star Trek episode where they visit the planet of blond girls who all wear too big sunglasses and too tight black tights that appeals to me.

Sure, because of The University of Iowa, there are more drop-dead gorgeous women here than anywhere else I’ve ever lived–more than enough distracting eye candy to guarantee a legion of auto-body shops a brisk business all year round.

But whatever passing thrill that the mere sight of them may provide you with will ultimately be a fleeting one.

The best part about growing old with someone is the time you get to spend together while you’re doing it. The person who first caught your eye in short-shorts on the pedmall or shirtless while playing Ultimate Frisbee at age 20 would probably cause you to burst out laughing if you saw them wearing the same outfit 30 or 40 or 50 years later.

But that’s okay, because if you’re still together 50 years later I think you’ve probably impressed each other plenty enough already.

No, it’s not the quantity of women here or their beauty or youth that makes Iowa City such a wonderful place to live–it’s the quality.

All the women I’ve known in Iowa possess a certain kindness, practicality and intelligence I’ve never encountered anywhere else. They laugh out loud unabashedly. They’ll not only watch football with you without prodding, they’ll follow the game and understand what’s happening on the field and offer color commentary better than what’s on TV. Not only will they not balk at the idea of eating biscuits and gravy, they’ll make it for you. To me, these are uniquely Iowa traits.

Perhaps these qualities can be found in women from big cities. Maybe they’ve even existed in women from big cities I’ve dated. If so, I was either dating the wrong women or I didn’t date the right ones long enough to find out about it.

A woman I dated in Chicago once called to ask me to come hang some shelves for her. A woman I dated in Iowa City once called me to ask if she could borrow my table saw so she could cut her own.

I think that’s pretty damn cool.

Though it’s Chicago that’s immortalized as the “City of Big Shoulders,” none of the women I ever dated there actually had them and this is a vastly underappreciated quality when seeking out a mate, I think.

Nor did they have the broad hips and strong backs and solid arms and legs that women here have. Maybe a few of them did but only if it was only the result of time spent in soft lighting with some $75-per-hour personal trainer while sipping bottled water in a gym while hooked up to a Pilates machine that did all the work for them and they were barely breaking a sweat.

No, the women in Iowa City come by their impressive statures honestly, from hard work done in good humor because it was required of them and everybody has to pull their own weight out on the prairie.

None of the girlfriends I had when I lived in Chicago had ever bailed hay or used a post-hole digger to dig holes for a barbed wire fence or spent two hours lugging 50-pound feed bags into the barn in the middle of a blizzard.

Some of the women I’ve had the pleasure to know here in Iowa actually have. I’ve seen it.

This sort of honest labor cultivates an entirely different outlook on life than if you come from a long line of stock brokers, lawyers and art dealers and your doorman carries the groceries you ordered online into the lobby for you when they’re delivered to your high-rise by Peapod.

Because of these experiences, they know firsthand that life can be hard and often involves hard work. As a result, small, thoughtful, practical acts that can make it a little easier from time to time will be seen as the romantic gestures they truly are–not merely chores outsourced to the boyfriend.

Sure, flowers and candy may be nice but new tires last a lot longer.

I think of these things now that Valentine’s Day is upon us and men will be inundated with instructions on what to buy to express our “true feelings” for that someone special.

If you’re with the right person, just mowing their lawn for them while they’re at work or surprising them with an 80-pound bag of rock salt in the wintertime can do the trick.

Somehow I don’t think that small, practical displays of affection like these would carry the same weight in a place where people didn’t have to do these things themselves or hired out for them if they did.

Women in Iowa City don’t tend to put on airs. They put on sunscreen in the summer and chapstick in the winter and bug spray in between and that’s about it.

They don’t ask to be impressed with outlandish displays of wealth to demonstrate your affection, and they understand that bowling is a perfectly acceptable anniversary date, that ice skating can be just as passionate as Tango dancing if you’re good enough (or bad enough) at it and that spending an evening in with some rented movies is more than enough excitement for a Saturday night because hey, you’re that much closer to the bedroom staying in, and that was where you were headed all along, right?

Things like skyboxes and bottle service and V.I.P. rooms haven’t yet entered the everyday nightlife picture here and I doubt they’d catch on if they did. Any of the women I’ve known here in Iowa would see them for the gaudy and ostentatious extravagances that they are.

A few PBRs and some burgers at George’s is more than enough to make for a romantic evening if you’re with the right person. How could that possibly be improved upon?

So, if you have someone you’re spending Valentine’s Day with, go there together to celebrate it . Sit in a dark booth and lean in close and be thankful and laugh together and whisper sweet things in each others’ ears. They don’t even have to be true as long your feelings for each other are.

And if you don’t have someone special you’re spending Valentine’s Day with this year, just remember where you are and that it will be well worth the wait if you’re lucky enough to find that person here. When you do, remember it was Iowa City that brought you together and be thankful for that too.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Iowa City.

Yale Cohn is uncertain as to the true origins of Valentine’s Day but is glad there is something lighthearted to break up the wretched dreariness otherwise known as the month of February.

She’s managed to take subjects as difficult as the Trail of Tears and presidential assassinations (the subject of her New York Times best-seller, Assassination Vacation) and make them somehow approachable, poignant, and relevant. Whether in print or over the airwaves, she adds spice to history with dashes of her personal experiences and wit.

Not so much in her new book, The Wordy Shipmates.

In this blending of history, memoir and social commentary, Vowell tackles another tough subject: Puritans.

Vowell seems ultra-aware of her subjects’ lack of sexiness. She warns early on, “Readers who squirm at microscopic theological differences might be unsuited to read a book about 17th century Christians.”

I don’t understand this apologetic tone. This is not because I have a deep-rooted passion for Puritans. Nope. I went into this read knowing basically what any grade-school child knows about the Puritans, if not less (Thanksgiving! Salem witch trials!).

Rather, it’s because there are parts of the book where I am convinced that Puritans are fascinating. In fact, for the first 50 pages or so of The Wordy Shipmates, I was riveted by Vowell’s investigations into Puritan life, which range from serious questions about the Puritan legacy in America, to personal revelations (after 9/11, Vowell found comfort in the words of Puritan Governor John Winthrop), to the just plain silly (at one point, Vowell compares the 17th century Puritan ministers to pop stars).

But the introduction just seemed to go on…and on…and on. The book is short—just under 250 pages—with no chapter divisions, creating a roving narrative that left me continually waiting for the climax.

There is one recurring theme in the book: Massachusetts Bay Colony Governor John Winthrop’s sermon “A Model of Christian Charity,” which contains the “as a city on a hill” phrase, famously appropriated by President Ronald Reagan. Winthrop’s teachings, Vowell explains, are America’s real inheritance from the Puritans—not the sexual repression and stodginess that so many assume is their legacy.

The city-on-a-hill mindset has led to some scary actions throughout American history, and Vowell’s at her best when exploring them. For example: “As I write this, the United States of America is still a city on a hill; and it’s still shining—because we never turn off the lights in our torture prisons. That’s how we carry out the sleep deprivation.”

But such moments of insight and dry humor just make the book’s overall failure to hang together more frustrating. Vowell too often wanders away from the heart of her argument. At one point, she digs extensively into the Pequot Indian War. I think the goal of this passage was to give an example of the “city on a hill” philosophy gone wrong, but it reads more like a 20-page non sequitur—when at this point, can you believe that I really just wanted to hear more about Puritan spiritual squabbling?

Maybe, I thought, it’s Vowell’s actual voice that I’m missing when reading her book. So I went to her “Live From Prairie Lights” reading on Oct. 24 hoping to make a connection. This special edition of the storied program, which has been a staple of public radio in Iowa for more than 15 years, was broadcast from the Englert Theatre. Unusually, it was a ticketed event, made more unusual only the purchase of the book could get you two tickets.

Vowell certainly saw a sales boost, because the Englert was packed—nearly 500 people filled the lower level and overflowed into the balcony. The audience’s excitement was palpable: As Vowell strode purposefully out onto the stage, their extended applause neared the point of discomfort.

I’m willing to bet that many of those 500 people left this reading feeling just as disappointed as I did.

I’d love to be able to tell you that I was disappointed because the book still didn’t hit home, even when delivered in Vowell’s sardonic nasal soprano. But I can’t. Because Vowell literally read seven paragraphs from her book the entire evening.

Vowell has a tendency to meander in her answers, which can be funny—or it can be boring and leave no time for actual reading. Even Vowell recognized she was not quite hitting the mark as she responded to long-time “Live from Prairie Lights” host Julie Englander’s first question, which asked her to sum up the entire book—characters, situation, how she got interested in the subject. Everything. “In the book—oh, yeah, the book, where I have time to think about I’m saying—it’s fascinating,” Vowell said.

Meandering answers also require astute follow-up questions, something Englander did not seem able to produce. She jumped from topic to topic with stilted or no transitions. Vowell remarked: “On the radio show I work on, to make transitions when there are none, we play music.”

Englander almost seemed star-struck, flubbing her words and creating awkward silences—the worst of which occurred when she asked Vowell to read a passage neither of them could find—and even once saying, “Sarah Vowell, you are wonderful.” I cringed in sympathetic embarrassment.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s no doubt that Vowell can be funny, and she certainly got some laughs that night, such as when she claimed the Massachusetts Bay Pilgrims to be her Pilgrims, or when she told an audience member that his question was “a very Grant Wood kind of way to ask about sex.”

But overall, at the reading as in the book, the good moments were all too rare. And we should expect more from a talent as esteemed as Vowell and a radio program as storied as “Live from Prairie Lights.”