Matching Tracksuits

fun in fours

society and culture

“Spit flyin’ everywhere,” Take Two

Friday 04 February 2005

A wise woman once wrote,

I, too, am saddened by so much of what I read in blogs, and comment threads are even worse. It’s as if writers are grabbing the mike and running to the stage without having once practiced the song they are about to force onto the audience. At first it seems funny and then it just seems sad, desperate, irresponsible.

Raging, inarticulate personal attacks in comments and posts are becoming all too common.

There are blogs that are devoted just to criticizing other blogs. And it's not just attacks because of political views, but attacks based on, well, anything that doesn't suit the "reviewer."

There are also bloggers who go around biting ankles in comments.

Regrettably I’ve done both. This post is what’s left after all the spittle has been wiped away and people began talking civilly.

"It’s easy to tear down than to build up," said my mother (though I suspect not just mine), and the truth of that is becoming more and more evident in blogs and comments. A few examples show the childish creativity we employ (and I’ve included my own comments in this list):

  • don't feel bad because you're dumb
  • as obviously immature as you are
  • It's called symbolism--does that elude you? I know the topic of my post did.
  • lots of passion here and lots of anger but not much reason
  • the world may not miss you
  • These people are cowards
  • So as to be clear -- we wish there to be no misundertandings -- you are an in idiot. While I'm sure you have plenty of self esteem and the trophies to prove it, you remain an idiot.
  • Have fun in Poland, hope you aren’t Jewish.
  • a mean spirited, self-centered liar, spreading small-minded insults
  • I cannot believe there are people like you out there, but then again, you are from [location deleted]
  • Damn! In the above post, some idiot forgot to edit before he sent [...]
  • She is articulate; you are not. She is thoughtful; you are not.
  • When you grow up and enter the real world you'll realize that common sense and rational judgement [sic] will take you a lot farther than anger, bitterness and sarcasm

There is a full range of personal attacks and libel here. There are subtle jibes:

  • “Does that elude you? I know the topic of my post did.” naturally implies, “You’re a dolt because you didn’t understand my post.”
  • “When you grow up and enter the real world” implies, “You’re childish now.”

There are not so subtle jabs:

  • a mean spirited, self-centered liar, spreading small-minded insults
  • I cannot believe there are people like you out there, but then again, you are from [location deleted]

There are nuclear strikes:

  • don't feel bad because you're dumb
  • as obviously immature as you are

And at least one hinted at something much bigger than a personal attack: “Have fun in Poland, hope you aren’t Jewish.”

Some of these comments were catalysts for others in the list, so it’s easy to see how things can spin out of control.

We attack; we get attacked; we retaliate more viciously than we were attacked; one of our friends sees the tangle and jumps in to help -- soon it’s a playground brawl.

The problem is that the blogosphere is messy. It’s part of the aptly called “the web,” so it’s inherently difficult to track everything down and find out who indeed did start. By jumping in, as I have foolishly done, we may end up attacking the attacked when we should have turned our backs on the whole mess and gone to hang out at the swings.

“If you can’t say anything nice…”

Another problem is that the internet is essentially anonymous, and thus emotionally free:

People have no hesitation at being ugly over the internet simply because there is no cost to them. There is no personal investment to online discourse. The lack of personal interaction allows people to be as ugly as they want to be…which is often pretty ugly (Robert Fenton)

It’s like the crank calls my friends and I used to make back in the eighties when there was no caller ID and we were simply voices on the other end of the line. We can create whole personas on the internet, complete with false pictures, names, stats – everything. And in that liberated, new “us,” some of us show the darker, more immature sides of ourselves more often than we do in person. We’re all split personalities, as role theory points out, but the online personality can have a bit uglier voice than the others.

“I always think it is a shame when people stoop to personal attacks on other people, no matter what the medium” (Renee). My crank calls were never not so vitriolic as some of the things I’ve seen in comments.

In the end, it’s obviously better to sit back and watch the cat fights than to get involved. Sound advice for myself, a bit too late.

“Spit flyin’ everywhere”

Wednesday 02 February 2005

A wise woman once wrote,

I, too, am saddened by so much of what I read in blogs, and comment threads are even worse. It’s as if writers are grabbing the mike and running to the stage without having once practiced the song they are about to force onto the audience. At first it seems funny and then it just seems sad, desperate, irresponsible.

Raging, inarticulate personal attacks in comments and posts are becoming all too common.

There are blogs that are devoted just to criticizing other blogs. And it’s not just attacks because of political views, but attacks based on, well, anything that doesn’t suit the “reviewer.”

There are also bloggers who go around biting ankles in comments.

Regrettably I’ve done both. This post is what’s left after all the spittle has been wiped away and people began talking civilly.

“It’s easy to tear down than to build up,” said my mother (though I suspect not just mine), and the truth of that is becoming more and more evident in blogs and comments. A few examples show the childish creativity we employ (and I’ve included my own comments in this list):

  • don’t feel bad because you’re dumb
  • as obviously immature as you are
  • It’s called symbolism — does that elude you? I know the topic of my post did.
  • lots of passion here and lots of anger but not much reason
  • the world may not miss you
  • These people are cowards
  • So as to be clear — we wish there to be no misundertandings — you are an in idiot. While I’m sure you have plenty of self esteem and the trophies to prove it, you remain an idiot.
  • Have fun in Poland, hope you aren’t Jewish.
  • a mean spirited, self-centered liar, spreading small-minded insults
  • I cannot believe there are people like you out there, but then again, you are from [location deleted]
  • Damn! In the above post, some idiot forgot to edit before he sent […]
  • She is articulate; you are not. She is thoughtful; you are not.
  • When you grow up and enter the real world you’ll realize that common sense and rational judgement [sic] will take you a lot farther than anger, bitterness and sarcasm

There is a full range of personal attacks and libel here. There are subtle jibes:

  • “Does that elude you? I know the topic of my post did.” — naturally implies, “You’re a dolt because you didn’t understand my post.”
  • “When you grow up and enter the real world” implies, “You’re childish now.”

There are not so subtle jabs:

  • a mean spirited, self-centered liar, spreading small-minded insults
  • I cannot believe there are people like you out there, but then again, you are from [location deleted]

There are nuclear strikes:

  • don’t feel bad because you’re dumb
  • as obviously immature as you are

And at least one hinted at something much bigger than a personal attack: “Have fun in Poland, hope you aren’t Jewish.”

Some of these comments were catalysts for others in the list, so it’s easy to see how things can spin out of control.

We attack; we get attacked; we retaliate more viciously than we were attacked; one of our friends sees the tangle and jumps in to help — soon it’s a playground brawl.

The problem is that the blogosphere is messy. It’s part of the aptly called “the web,” so it’s inherently difficult to track everything down and find out who indeed did start. By jumping in, as I have foolishly done, we may end up attacking the attacked when we should have turned our backs on the whole mess and gone to hang out at the swings.

“If you can’t say anything nice…”

Another problem is that the internet is essentially anonymous, and thus emotionally free:

People have no hesitation at being ugly over the internet simply because there is no cost to them. There is no personal investment to online discourse. The lack of personal interaction allows people to be as ugly as they want to be” which is often pretty ugly (Robert Fenton)

It’s like the crank calls my friends and I used to make back in the eighties when there was no caller ID and we were simply voices on the other end of the line. We can create whole personas on the internet, complete with false pictures, names, stats everything. And in that liberated, new “us,” some of us show the darker, more immature sides of ourselves more often than we do in person. We’re all split personalities, as role theory points out, but the online personality can have a bit uglier voice than the others.

“I always think it is a shame when people stoop to personal attacks on other people, no matter what the medium” (Renee). My crank calls were never not so vitriolic as some of the things I’ve seen in comments.

In the end, it’s obviously better to sit back and watch the cat fights than to get involved. Sound advice for myself, a bit too late.

Honest

Tuesday 18 January 2005

I recently told of an unexpected admission from students. "What to do!?" I ruminated.

"Why do you have to do anything at all?" my wife asked.

Because a teacher can't just give some assignment, take it up, reprimand the students on it, then let it float of into oblivion. In the end, I'll probably take the easy way out for myself: say, "I understand it this time, and won't make you redo it, nor will I give you failing grades for the work turned in." After all, less work for me.

But the desire for blood did rise again, the next lesson.

It's a tough class, in other words.

I've always had a strange relationship with "tough" classes. At some point, I usually storm back to the teachers' room saying, "I hate that class," and then a few days later say, "That's not just a bad class after all. I kind of like them, in fact." By their final year, I often find myself liking those classes, usually because we've fought our way to a sort of equilibrium.

But it's important to point out that the class does not represent the students. In a weird way that I never would have understood before being a teacher, a class is without a doubt much more than the sum of the students in it.

Some of the students in the class that so angered me are among my favorite students. (Yes, yes, teachers shouldn't have favorites, but we're only human.) Understand: they're not my favorite students because they're such hardworking angels. Indeed, often some of these favorites even contribute to the problem.

Classes simply have their own dynamic, independent of any given student in it. It's frustrating, precisely because it's somewhat uncontrollable.

There are checks and balances, but it remains out of the control of any one teacher.

It's not mob psychology, in other words.

Honesty

Wednesday 12 January 2005

Sometimes students stop me dead in my lesson, and I stand there, unable to think what to do next. I'm not talking about "stupid" questions, or even behavior problems. Rather, I'm referring to that tendency all students have to say or ask something that just makes you reflect.

The other day I was fed up with a class and its behavior -- not even putting forth the slightest effort in a group speaking activity.

Now, I know it's artificial. I realize when I give them a task to do in English, they could accomplish it immediately in Polish. But as I ask them, "What for?" Usually they cooperate. Sometimes they don't.

They other day, they didn't.

In retaliation (and that's really the right word, I think), I assigned them a lot of homework. Basically, they were to translate the entire text we were reading into Polish.

I got the expected response: a chorus of "Proszę pana!" ("Please, sir!") I stood firm, though, and refused to relent. "The whole thing," I told them.

As they were filing into the classroom the next day, I could sense something was up. Then one lad stomped in, flopped down in his chair, and gave me a glare. He violently opened his book bag, jerked his materials out, and slammed them on the desk.

He's a theatrical boy, this lad (we'll call him Maciej), and so I regularly would have paid no heed. But the general atmosphere in the class was, as I said, strange, so I had my guard up.

Roll checked, then my usual line: "Show me the homework," in the silly way that Cuba Gooding, Jr. did, sort of, in Jerry Maguire. And so they start pulling out a typed translation -- a first, to be honest.

They started handing it in, and it hit: it's the same paper, photocopied twenty times.

"Michał, do you have your homework?" I ask one boy.

"No," he said. Another in the back piped up, "He didn't have the twenty groszy for copying."

Shock -- here they are, admitting it.

"What?"

"Yes, we copied it all, sir," replied Boy in the Back Row.

Then Agata began to explain, "See, sir, we had a big test in math today, and we didn't have any time to do the English homework. So Maciej typed it into the computer, ran it through a translator, and we all photocopied it."

I glanced down at the work. "It's the product of a computer translation, that's for sure," I thought

"We have homework in English every day," Agata continued. "We don't have many grades in math, and this was very important."

"Maciej, how long did it take you to do this?" I asked.

"Two hours," he grumbled.

"And the math test?"

"Pała," he replied. I probably don't need to translate that.

So where did it leave me?

The facts were simple:

  1. It was an unreasonable assignment, given in wrath, so to speak, rather than from some pedagogical motivation.
  2. They were honest about it.
  3. Their reason for not doing the assignment was fairly compelling.
  4. It didn't seem fair to punish them, or even get angry.

I simply stood there, thinking, "What to do? What to do?" I wanted to be fair, but I also had to save face. With some classes, face and authority are equivocal for a high school teacher, so I had to strike a balance.

Venerable Southern Institute

Monday 10 January 2005

Willful Expose mentioned recently that bastion of liberal education, Bob Jones University.

Ah, Bob Jones, where interracial dating was only recently permitted.

Well, Willful pointed out a lot of the absurdities of the regulations there. Some of my favorites:

  • Residence hall students may not watch videos above a G rating when visiting homes in town and may not attend movie theaters.
  • Contemporary Christian music is not permitted (e.g., Michael W. Smith, Stephen Curtis Chapman, WOW Worship, and so forth).
  • [Men's] sideburns should not extend past the middle of the ear. Men are expected to remain clean-shaven.
  • All wireless access to the Internet is forbidden since all Internet use must go through the University's filtered access.

Basically, as Willful pointed out, a barbed-wire fence.

In her original post, she failed to mention one regulation that best shows BJU's southern mentality:

All weapons must be turned in for storage. Trigger locks are required for pistols. Fireworks are not permitted on campus. (Source) Guns are as intregal to the southern mentality as grits. While it's completely "rational" to forbid dates without chaperones, trampling on Second Amendment rights is just out of the question. Why, there's no amendment regardin' the holdin' a hands, but son, we gotta God given right -- right, I say -- to keep an' bear arms.

The south is, after all, where you're most likely to see gun racks and to have students miss school on the opening day of some given hunting season. So while parents are not likely to raise hell -- Godly, Christian hell, but hell nonetheless -- about little Jamie not being allowed to access the internet with his wireless modem, they just might when Bubba Jones says, "Now, ya'll gotta leave them there Colts and Winchesters at home, y'hear?"

Pour Marketing

Thursday 06 January 2005

The front of the shirt reads, “ghotic,” written in a font befitting the dust jacket of an Anne Rice novel. Down the sleeves and on the back there is a stupefying message, intended, I’m sure, to be mystifying or even dreadful and chilling:

This shirt, found at outdoor markets around southern Poland, is all the rage at the moment. It seems that at least thirty percent of the girls at school have one.

It seems strange that manufacturers want to incorporate “cool” foreign languages into their design, but “cool” text with such idiotic mistakes defeats the purpose. Why not just put gibberish on shirts if comprehensible meaning has no value? Why not put some squiggles and dots and call it Arabic? Or go to a Chinese language website and pick some of the characters at random?

This is the story of our times, when style consistently trumps content. Image is everything. First impressions are almost always visible, and pop culture is always dictating in which form the initial impressions should be in order to be considered “good.” Or even “cool.” That explains why so many of my female students wear clothes that bare their midriffs even when there’s a half meter of snow on the ground, and pluck their eyebrows within a millimeter of extinction. Chinese culture crippled its women with foot binding; Polish culture freezes them and has them running around with nonsense written on their clothes.

New Year’s Break

Saturday 01 January 2005

I’m in Hel now. That’s not a comment on my current state, but my geographical reality.

Back in a few days.

Oh, all the best for the new year.

Names

Wednesday 29 December 2004

My name is Gary. My parents told me that when they first saw me, they just knew I was "Gary."

There are lots of Garys out there.

  • Gary Kasparov
  • Gary Sinise
  • Gary Moore
  • Gary Oldman
  • Gary Cherone
  • Gary Glitter
  • Gary Busey
  • Gary, Indiana
  • Gary, West Virginia
  • Gary, Minnesota
  • Gary, South Dakota

So apparently it's a popular name.

Nonetheless, I used to hate that name, particularly in junior high. I also hated my hair cut then, as well. Not man-ish enough. I wanted a Ted Danson do.

What was I thinking?

Changing my hair turned out to be easier than changing my name, which didn't happen until college. Fresh start, new faces -- I can be anyone I want. Armed with that knowledge, I tried going by my middle name: Lawrence.

It lasted a couple of weeks.

I've often wondered at stage names. Do Sting's close friends call him "Sting" or "Gordon?" Is Bono "Bono" to his wife, or just plain Paul? Does Adam Ant's mother still call him "Stuart?" When Eric Clapton was working with Babyface, did they call each other "Clapp" and "Kenneth?" Would Lauren Bacall be as famous as "Betty Joan Perske?" If you call Erykah Badu "Erica Wright," does she answer? "Full list of stage names.

The trouble was, I could never remember who I was.

Someone would call my name and I would continue walking, oblivious to the fact that someone was trying to get my attention.

Names seem to merge with your self, and it's difficult to separate "you" from your name.

The only reason I could start going by "Lawrence" was because no one knew me at college as "Gary." It would have been difficult to convince everyone in high school to call me "Lawrence," for I'd always been "Gary" to them.

Imagine calling the color white "blue" for the some arbitrary reason -- it wouldn't work, because white's, well, "white."

When I gave up on the "Lawrence" nonsense, a few people persisted in calling me "Lawrence" for a little while. That in turn made for a stupid situation, because I had to explain:

  1. that I'd always been called Gary;
  2. that I only switched to "Lawrence" at college;
  3. that I'd not been able to get used to it; and,
  4. that I'd decided to go back to my "original" name.

"Why'd you want to change in the first place?"

If I'd known what my name sounds like in Polish, and that I'd end up spending years here, I probably would have stuck to the Lawrence. "Garnek" is Polish for "pot" (the kind you cook in, not the kind you smoke), and so when you say, "I'll wash the dishes," you of course use the plural form: garnki. Or you can use the diminutive form, which sounds like...

When my wife introduced me to her grandmother, granny's reaction to my name is, "No, really -- what's his name." After all, what how would you react to being told your granddaughter is dating "Pots?"

Still, I'm glad I stuck with "Gary." It at least lets me make jokes after lunch.

Freedom-frying-over-high-heat and stupid European surrender monkeys

Tuesday 28 December 2004

Old news: the Congress (and many Americans) are opting for "Freedom Fries" instead of "French fries." (Read BBC article.) Americans are still calling "French toast" "Freedom Toast" and other nonsense.

I'm sure the French have been getting a good chuckle out of this, because it reveals striking ignorance about the English language itself. In a xenophobic attempt to purge "French" from the language and protest France's lack of support for the American war effort, our leaders headed straight for the fast food.

Are these idiots even aware of the enormous number of English words are French in origin, thanks to Willie the Conquerer, 1066 and all that? (A short article about it.) Besides, what does anyone hope to accomplish in calling a chunk of deep-fried potato a "Freedom fry" rather than a "French fry?"

I'm sure Chirac, when he heard about this, called an emergency damage control planning session with all his advisors.

If Americans are still obsessed with "French" cooking terms (after all, "French fries" is short for "French fried potatoes"), then they need to come up with new terms for:

  • blanch (Freedom remove skin?)
  • saute (Freedom fry over high heat?)
  • fondue (Freedom melt?)
  • puree (Freedom crush?)
  • flambae (Freedom burn?)

The whole list of Arabic words in English is available here

And while these idiots are at it, why not purge all the Arabic words from English? After all the terrorists that started all this are mostly Arabic, so let's chuck:

  • admiral (Freedom big Navy leader man?)
  • checkmate (Freedom inability to move your king?)
  • coffee (Freedom Java -- oh wait, do they support us?)
  • spinach (Freedom Popeye veggie?)
  • zenith (Freedom point in the sky which appears directly above the observer (definition from Wikipedia)?)

This dumbfounding nonsense reveals a basic ignorance of how language works and develops. There are very few words in English language that were "planned" in any way. Language generally just "happens," like shit. (A list of how words "happen" can be found at wordorigins.org)

It reminds me of a young man who was spooked by the fact that rearranging the letters in "Santa" produces "Satan" -- clear proof of the evil of Christmas. Still, we're not alone. The French are just as worried about borrowed words creeping into French, as evidenced by the Acadamie Francaise. And Celine at Naked Translations has an amusing post about this.

Of course what sparked all this is the feeling in America of not being appreciated.

The ingratitude of the governments of Belgium, France and Germany boggles the mind. If it were not for the heroism of American soldiers during the Second World War, Hitler's Third Reich would be in its eighth decade.

Poor us -- we won World War Two for those spineless surrender monkeys and they should still be bowing to our wishes sixty years later. How dare they think for themselves now! Why, we've earned unquestioned support!

The Dirty Stairs II

Monday 27 December 2004

"Okay -- you can check now," I called out to my wife after I thought the steps had had enough time to dry. I'd looked at all three of the un-wiped-down steps carefully, feeling to make sure there was no dampness, looking at it from this angle and that, trying to make sure it wasn't obvious.

Part One of the dirty stairs wager is here.

Up the stairs she marched. Straight to the first step. "She's a cleaning hound," I thought. "I haven't got a chance."

"This one," she proclaimed, and marched on.

My sporting-chance had now turned into insurance. "She can't possibly find all three."

She didn't -- she only found the one, which was in the most brightly lit portion of the staircase. My ego therefore took a beating, but it could have been worse -- I was saved by poor lighting, I suppose.

Stunned, I sat wondering what had gone wrong. Now, I'm not a slob. When I lived alone, I didn't have the cleanest apartment in the world, but it was regularly given a good shakedown. Still, I don't like to carry things to extremes, and wiping down the staircase after vacuuming seemed like just that.

I was sure that she would not detect a single step.

I went back and looked again. There was no difference in the carpets. At the scene of the crime, there was nothing obviously out of place. It would be easy to chalk this up to gender differences, to come up with a carefully worded generalization that didn't make all straight men seem like slobs and yet didn't insult homosexual men, who are stereotypically cleaner than straight men but not always, hence the adverb "stereotypically," that at the same time acknowledged the high slob-factor of some women without selling the occasional male clean-freak short, that tip-toed the touchy area of gender/orientation distinctions with a nod to a possible cultural influence without seeming overly PC...

All I ended up with was a run-on sentence and the affirmation that I am, despite all my protests, a lazy slob.