This is the third annual report that I have submitted since assuming the editorship of the APSR in September of 2001. In my initial report, I characterized 2001–2002 as a start-up year for the new editorial office, greatly complicated by the September 11 attacks and the disruption of mail service by the anthrax threat, but highlighted by major procedural and outreach initiatives and by a massive upsurge in submissions. My second report described a year of beginning to settle in to a more “normal” operating mode, of undergoing an intensive internal review and instituting new procedural refinements as a consequence, and of experiencing a further, and unexpected, increase in submissions. The main theme of my third report is one of stability—continuity with, rather than major departures from, the situation described in last year's report. I think it is accurate to say that during the past year we functioned in normal operating mode rather than making it up as we went along, as often seemed to be the case during the early going.

This is the thirty-third year that I have been monitoring participation by women at our Annual Meeting. These PS reports have documented the ascent of women in our profession.

By far the most significant form of gerrymandering is partisan gerrymandering. It is painfully ubiquitous and yet can be covert, hidden in plain view. More importantly the advent of the computer and the growing polarization of the electorate have enhanced its importance. Already the House of Representatives has become virtually safe for most incumbents and in recent elections experienced less turnover than the Senate, which has far fewer members and only one-third of its members up for reelection.

As we approach the fourth quarter of fiscal 2006, the American Political Science Association is financially sound, able to support a wide range of professional programs and projects to serve the membership. This strong condition arises from a solidly positive balance of assets against liabilities, and an operating budget well-matched to APSA's current scope and activities.

Absolute systems are strong as long as they are absolute. When they begin to reform, they are lost. Yet they cannot avoid reform, or they will explode.

Milovan Djilas

It is easy to make a strong case for economic and political reforms in Eastern Europe. First, this is what Mikhail Gorbachev wants, and what a Soviet leader wants carries special weight in the bloc. Second, it is clear that socialist economics does not work, especially in Eastern Europe. It is not just that four of these states—Romania, Poland, Hungary and Yugoslavia—have suffered an actual decline in their standard of living since 1980; it is also that there has been a longterm decline throughout the region in capital and labor productivity. Finally, the political future of the region is mortgaged as well. Many of these parties, most notably in Hungary, Poland and Yugoslavia, can be termed mere shadows of their former Leninist selves. What is a communist party, after all, if it cannot manage the economy, agree on policies or control the public?

If the pressures for reform are great, however, so are the pressures against reform, and for many of the same reasons. Faltering economies, divided parties, nervous privileged interests and angry, impatient publics are hardly the stuff out of which a reform coalition can be cobbled. This is the lesson of Poland from 1956 to the present (Bunce, 1989b). Second, even if such a coalition could somehow be constructed, there is no guarantee that reforms would solve the problems of socialism. Indeed, they could make matters worse.

During the 1980s, there has been an enormous amount of interest in the idea of faculty development. But what exactly does faculty development mean? Is the expression used so often and imprecisely that it loses all meaning? Surely everyone must favor faculty development?

My feeling was that faculty development was something that every good college must do as a matter of enlightened management. I decided to investigate the topic in two ways. First, I read some of the literature (mostly in higher education, but some discipline-based), looking especially at definitions and assumptions about faculty development. Second, I conducted a survey of chairs of departments of political science, suggesting a definition of faculty development and asking about their experiences.

Many articles dealing with faculty development are too broad and fail to define the term. There is also a tendency to equate faculty development with improved teaching (Lacefield, 1983; Moses, 1984). One exception is this:

Applying such a broad definition suggests that faculty development occurs constantly at all levels of an institution, which does not take us very far in trying to analyze its effectiveness.

Mosely (1981) suggests three different foci: faculty development; instructional development; and organizational development. Development of a faculty's skills should occur automatically as part of good academic administration. If Penn State provides me with a computer in my office or gives me a research assistant, I will perform better, albeit with slow, incremental improvement. More central to an understanding of faculty development are those cases where faculty achieve a substantial improvement in their performance. In order to assess the nature and incidence of these cases of “substantial improvement,” I surveyed chairs of departments of political science in the U.S. A questionnaire was sent to each institution with at least eight faculty where one individual had been chair for at least five years, presumably long enough to get a perspective on faculty development.

When you're stymied on the measurement of one of your critical variables, put that project aside and write another essay on what Thucydides really meant (Singer 1975).

The trouble with Classical Realism is that it is difficult to distinguish … dialectical insight from a refusal to define concepts clearly and consistently, or to develop a systematic set of propositions that could be subjected to empirical tests (Keohane 1983).

In the study of ancient Greek democracy, Thucydides' account of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians surely deserves a privileged place. As a cardinal instance of the genre Hegel (1975, 14) called original history, Thucydides' work provides a uniquely direct point of contact with Athenian democracy in its most radical and imperial—phase: the chief figures of that work “express the maxims of their nation and of their own personality, their consciousness of their political position and of their moral and spiritual nature, and the principles that underlie their designs and conduct.” Thus, from Thucydides we get much more than a reconstruction of events. We also get access to the ancient Greeks' own understanding of the world they made and destroyed.

Decision making under conditions of crisis is an integral part of international relations. Yet in most introductory IR texts, crisis decision making consists of Graham Allison's models, the Cuban missile crisis, and updated examples, discussed in five pages or less. In supplementing such texts, instructors of international politics at the introductory level may find themselves skirting Scylla and Charybdis. In the cliffs lies the extensive simulation exercise requiring additional readings and valuable class time to establish the game. Ahead, lies the whirlpool of detailed historical case studies all vying for attention as the necessary cases for relating to the student experience.

Over the past few semesters, I have sought to resolve this dilemma with a simple simulation exercise that integrates current events with the basics of decision making under crisis. The demands on class time are minimal. The simulation adds anywhere from 30 minutes to one hour to the regular classroom time spent on discussing foreign policy decision making. Instructor preparation merely requires a scan of reference materials and some creativity. The results, in terms of student interaction, awakening the shy student, and promoting learning instead of regurgitation of simple facts have all been extremely positive for classes as small as 25 students and as large as 65 students.

In the early stages of my study of the political movements surrounding the advent of AIDS and HIV, my first concern was not maintaining, or even achieving, objectivity. Rather, I found myself exploring many of the same questions as other scholars who focused on the human side of the emerging pandemic. Many of us puzzled over why AIDS had been such a strong mobilizing force. An intriguing political science question was why certain subgroups of AIDS activists enjoyed such success once the larger affected communities mobilized. Many of the people at the forefront of AIDS activism seemed to have been remarkably successful both in having their policy demands met and in incorporating themselves into the decision-making bodies that would formulate future policies. These successes seemed all the more amazing when one considered that a majority of Americans associated the epidemic with groups of people they perceived as, at best, marginally parts of American society—the diseased (hemophiliacs), the unwelcome (Haitian immigrants), and, most especially, the morally suspect (gay men and injection drug users).

This paradox of unprecedented success for disempowered actors has spawned a vast literature spanning a variety of disciplines. Early books on the subject, beginning with Randy Shilts's unequaled classic, And the Band Played On, focused on the manifold obstacles facing early activists and government officials attempting to deal with the impending crisis.

On November 8, 1994, Oklahoma Democrats were stunned by an unprecedented GOP tide in the midterm elections. Just two years before, the Democrats still looked like the majority party: they held the governor's office, a 5-3 majority in the congressional delegation, and huge majorities in the state legislature. On Wednesday morning they woke up to a new reality. Republicans swept the offices of governor and lieutenant governor, picked up seats in the state legislature, and seized a remarkable 7-1 majority in the congressional delegation. Not since 1920 had the Republicans sent a majority to Washington, and never by such a margin.

Of equal significance is the nature of that congressional delegation. All five of the victorious Republican House members and both of the senators have ties to the Christian Right and received strong backing from conservative Evangelical voters. The lone surviving Democrat is conservative Representative Bill Brewster. From the standpoint of the Christian Right, therefore, the elections were a smashing success; Oklahoma's delegation to Washington will be highly sympathetic to their policy goals.

What produced this outcome was a fortuitous blend of discontent, resources, and opportunity. Successful social movements need resources to channel discontent and favorable opportunities to exploit. All of these came together in Oklahoma. Discontent with the drift of secular society, accentuated by deep displeasure with President Clinton (who embodied the “counterculture” in the White House), galvanized conservative Evangelicals. In turn, this discontent was channeled by sophisticated Christian Right leaders and fueled by expanding resources (money, media outlets, and a volunteer corps).

Beginning with the 1980 presidential campaign, the Republican coalition became dramatically more heterogeneous by the incorporation of white Evangelical Protestants. Galvanized by the desire to promote traditional moral values, these new Republicans were characterized by lower social status and less libertarian values than many regular Republicans.

Thus, this Republican-white Evangelical alliance contained, from the beginning, a strong potential for conflict and division. Its success has depended on the ability of Republican candidates to manage these differences. Such management, in turn, depends on the issues raised, candidate strategies, media agenda-setting, and the underlying state of public opinion. Two opposite outcomes have always been possible.

One possibility might be termed the “rosy scenario,” where economic and social conservatives combine to pursue common electoral and policy goals (see Nesmith 1994, 129-32). Models for this scenario are Reagan's victories in 1980 and 1984, as well as George Bush's election in 1988. This scenario might mean Republicans could take advantage of a public climate combining a “reaction against modernity” and the “moral emptiness of the public square” with “a general renewal of confidence in the market” (Reichley 1986, 35; Hutcheson 1988). At a minimum it would require a measure of pragmatism by all party factions, accepting and supporting each other's candidates regardless of divisions over specific issues. The chance of overturning Democratic control, either locally or nationally, could cement such interfactional cooperation.