cf. and e.g.

Here is how to project an image of academic idiocy: use the wrong version of a fancy label. For example, people will laugh if you propose the “tenants” of a program, rather than the “tenets.” Another way to appear foolish is by mispronouncing words. Once upon a time a doc student was explaining to me her lack of experience and confided about her NAY-uh-VET (rhyming with Corvette) when she was thinking about her naiveté (audio clip). Sure, we all make mistakes in our rush to send messages and automatic spellcheckers are not always helpful. For example, here is my mother’s email (not from a famous writer) sent to all her children the day after Thanksgiving: “Today I cooked a turkey breast, had cranberries, graveyard, and dressing.” There are many examples I could give but I wanted to share interesting contrasts instead.

Reviewing manuscripts for research journals is a responsibility of professors. A challenge with this type of activity is not simply to decide whether a given manuscript is good or not. Instead, the decision pivots on the potential of the manuscript to perhaps be improved to be acceptable. Every manuscript can be improved but not all authors exhibit the capacity to make their manuscript salvageable. The type of feedback that I give depends on my perception of the author’s talents. If their research has promise, then I will suggest ways of restructuring the material, offer ideas about how to present the ideas, or encourage the inclusion of more front and/or back matter to build coherence. Oftentimes, the type of input I supply hinges on whether I think my efforts to explain will translate into genuine refinements in a subsequent version of the manuscript. I am typically optimistic about every new manuscript I am asked to review. Beyond the quality of the writing, the qualities of the writer often end up tipping the scales.

So here I am, reviewing a manuscript that is just okay. The research question is interesting but not compelling, the methodology is adequate but not skillfully deployed, and the interpretations are accurate but not ambitious. I’m frustrated because I can envision what could be done – but I am unsure whether the time I would spend pointing out the flaws, suggesting alternatives, and indicating good role models is worthwhile. And then I notice the author attempted a flourish that breaks my confidence in his or her sincerity. Just as when somebody name drops or flashes arrogance in conversation, I realize the person is less concerned about clarity and more invested in showing off. The offense: using “cf.” is a clumsy and inaccurate manner. Why does this little abbreviation induce aggravation? Because it discloses an underlying lack of thoughtfulness and suggests that the sparkle will distract from the lack of substance. The parallel is putting glitter on a science fair project board to compensates for the absence of care with the process. I’d rather check Facebook for the twentieth time today rather than waste energy offering edits that the recipient is unlikely to navigate. Because this misuse of “cf.” is increasingly common, I am attempting to dissuade its perpetuation. For those who might actually take the time to wonder about whether their use of “cf.” is correct, maybe they will stumble across this post. I realize just how unlikely this is. At best, the subsequent paragraph ¶ is archived here so I can drop it into all future reviews.

The “cf.” is from the Latin conferre and indicates that the subsequent citation contrasts with the claim just made. In other words, to signal to the reader that opinions vary and a contrary view appears elsewhere, the “cf.” is apropos as in “We endorse the belief that learning does not necessarily derive from experience (cf. Dewey, 1910).” There is only one period in “cf.” because it is an abbreviation of one word. Only use “cf.” if there is a desire to indicate that another author offers an alternative view. If you are instead trying to point the reader to other sources that are examples, then “e.g.,” is the proper abbreviation. A stupid way to remember this is: “eg”-sample. Why two periods? Because the original Latin phrase was two words: exempli gratia (literally “for the sake of an example”). Why the comma? Because that’s how it uttered: “for example [pause].” And what of the “i.e.” abbreviation? First of all, it comes from two Latin words; that’s why there are two periods. Second, those two words are “id est” which translate to “that is.” Third, a comma follows the abbreviation. A simpleton’s mnemonic (not “pneumonic”) for “i.e.” could be “in essence.” In summary, if you were reading your text aloud and would say “for example” then use “e.g.” If instead you wanted to restate using an alternate, synonymous phrase as in “that is” then insert “i.e.” in the sentence. But, if you are asserting a claim that others view differently, then precede that citation with “cf.” as if you want to say “compare this with” followed by the citation revealing you have a substantive knowledge of your field.

In all likelihood there are things about my writing that irritate those who review my work. Maybe I use flourishes that make readers fidget. I don’t even know exactly what it is I do that others find so wrong. Perhaps this unknowing is liberating because I don’t fear my use of unacceptable phrasing, punctuation or descriptions in threesomes. Given my inevitable flaws, I apologize about my clumsy writing and would welcome your efforts to correct my flubs. It was in this spirit that I composed this request for others to discontinue using “cf.” until they know what they are doing.

fall's on-time arrival

According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, the fall equinox of 2012 began today, September 22nd, at 10:49 am EDT. Aside from the implications care of astronomy (i.e., position of the Sun relative to the Earth and the ratio of day to night) I suppose I've always believed the date was approximate and that the time was trivial. Today I experienced the instantaneous of the seasonal change.

 

We took the canoe out today simply because it was a bright, warm and calm day. It is unlikely we will have many more of these this year and rather than postpone the opportunity, we loaded the gear and began to paddle around our favorite local pond. At 10 a.m. on a Saturday, nobody else was around. We spied a couple of herons, saw a couple dozen Canada geese flying in their crooked vees. Otherwise, it was a peaceful as ever with subtle hints of fall color.

At one bend, there was a puff of air and we were pelted by plant debris. Twigs pierced the water and a few leaves drifted into our collars. Sue noted the time as being 10:49 am. We had paddled all the way from summer 2012 right into fall 2012. The burst of leaves came our way as if they  had appointments. After an hour of so of paddling, we made our way home, noticing an occasional maple that was exhibiting more orange than the surrounding green trees. Estimates are that our local colors will peak near the end of October. No complaints from me because gently easing into winter is one of the best journeys I know.

Halfway There?

The bookmark in my copy of Half Empty by David Rakoff rests at page 100. That means I have yet to reach the halfway point of the 224 pages. This is not the first book I’ve owned when the author passed away. In fact, Rakoff had been quite public about his battle with cancer. It still caught me off-guard when his death was announced

This prompted me to wonder how many of the books I own and the music in my possession were created by individuals who are no longer alive. For some, their absence has not a tremendous loss. Even if they by some miracle they did create something new, I’d pretty much feel content with what already exists. While it was sad for me when John Lee Hooker died, because of the 250+ songs of his on my computer (fourteen and a half hours worth), it’s hard to imagine that if he recorded one more song that it would make much difference.

I am more troubled by people who were alive when I first learned of their existence than those who were dead before I knew they were around. I can’t miss Miles Davis or John Dewey all that much. In my life, they have always been deceased. Those who I have read or listened to while they were still alive but are no longer – their absences bother me. Only in my darkest moods do I dread the passing of artists and performers who I still want to read and hear from just a little bit more.

I have heard the elderly say that one of the hardest things about growing old is that everyone they knew is dead. Even with new births and new acquaintances added to one’s human life list, at some point it most feel that half the people you know are dead. Would this be some morbid half-life (half-death) metric? But wait, that would depend on your social circumstances. Rather than worrying what death will put me over the halfway point (presuming I’m not there yet) maybe we could consider how to live life in an effort to delay this half-dead point for as late in life as possible.

The day after I was born, everybody I had ever met was still alive. The doctor who smacked my white hiney and the nurses who clucked their tongues when my mother cursed my father’s name were probably kicking around for several more decades. My maternal grandmother might have been the first person I actually was in contact with who died – but I think I was just 3 or 4 years old. A few days after finishing fourth grade, one of my classmates accidentally killed himself with a deer rifle – at age ten-and-a-half. That had been one of my favorite school years and I had cherished my teacher. How tragic to all come together (minus one) less than a month after summer vacation had begun.

So the plan would be to heavily restrict your acquaintances early on in life but with the plan to have an ever-accelerating pool of friends as the years went by. An added strategy would be to select only healthy friends who possess genes for longevity. If I’m calculating correctly and I doubled my number of acquaintances each year, then on the day I was married, I would have known 4 million people. That’s more than the population of Chicago at that time. I suppose another strategy would be much more escapist wherein I would move to another part of the world and assume that everyone I once knew was still alive – which in some ways they could be since I wouldn’t know of their deaths. It wouldn't be honest but then who would it really matter to except me?

And then I realize that the best compromise is to simply get to know as many people as I can and hope they remember me with a smile when they hear I’ve moved along.

testing for authenticity

Saturday's trip into the countryside was propelled by a pressing need for a new bookcase for my office. Instead, it was a nice excuse to get out of the air-conditioned house in order to zip about in an air-conditioned car. We went to an old mill town near the Rhode Island border that has an entire downtown dedicated to luring in those seeking antiques. We saw lots of old stuff, not all of which qualifies as antiques. I don't know quite why but old spice canisters and magazines, even when sheathed in plastic, still feel like junk to me.

I knew there were no incredible finds there. Being in such proximity to BOS and PVD and NYC, all the amazing treasures have long since been extracted and are the pride and joy of stealthy shoppers. But it was still amusing to see a raccoon pelt mounted like a bear rug and to puzzle over carvings made in walrus tusks. The arrowheads in that drawer look awfully large and their shape looks more accidental that deliberately crafted by an artisan-hunter. None of this kept me from picking up an old ammunition pouch to wonder if it was really from the French army or to hoist heavy seltzer bottles as I imagined dispensing the makings of an amazing cocktail.

Interestingly, once you get into this mode of doubting objects' authenticity, we continue applying our tests even when uncalled for. Without having purchased an antler-handled corkscrew or an old chemistry reagent bottle, we still had a need to spend. So we cross the street toward the corner coffee shop which has decent beverages and amazing pastries. A short round couple tumbled out of a store front and would have collided with us were we not so nimble (I checked their sandled feet: hairless! They weren't from the Shire). But now outside of antique shops, the guy was still in "is it real?" mode.

He walked by an iron cafe table similar to what is pictured here. And he rapped on it with his knuckles. It was as if he was unsure whether this outdoor furniture was real or resin. The object wasn't for sale as it was clearly associated with a sidewalk cafe. Still, his (and perhaps my) way of interacting the materials was a skepticism about the genuineness of what was in our path. How odd it was to me — not his tactile test — that we continue to rely on senses as tools for judging. Was it hot? Was it solid? Did it ring or did it thud? And now I wonder what equivalent tests of authenticity I have "in hand" to assess whether a science teaching applicant is genuine in his intentions? How might I rap on his head or his record to establish the promise or absence of potential?

being handy, man

There was no reason to go to campus today. Anything I might need to do befitting my title could have been accomplished from home. There's a manuscript I should read, there's a book review I can finish, and there is a proposal I should write for a conference next spring. Instead, I took advantage of the weekday and was handy.

First, I took the old vehicle to our friendly mechanic. When I go too fast while taking the hard right by the pizza joint on the corner, I hear something rubbing/scraping. It's been doing that for awhile. I few weeks ago, I actually looked at the right rear tire and it had a major bump on it. I was scared because I thought it was a weak spot in the sidewall. Or some Vulcanized cyst that might cause havoc. But as usually works with bodily health concerns (incl. a root canal I delayed for months) it all seemed to go away.

So the reason I was going to the mechanic is because the vehicle started hopping on a certain stretch of road. At first, I thought the asphalt had a washboarded surface. But then it happened on the highway. It's hard to replicate the behavior and that also makes me reluctant to take it in to be looked at. If I expressed concern to the tire store, they're going to sell me a new set of tires. For some reason, I fall for the line about buying them in pairs. And then there's the extra charge for "balancing" which we all know just means they hammer some old lead fishing weights to the rim. And if I thought the rear suspension was going, then if I took it to that shop, I'd find myself using a couple of credit cards to buy new shocks or struts or springs. Was the car lurching a little because of the transmission? All I knew was that Jim charges an honest yet hefty fee but usually fills the stinky, aquamarine banter that can be repeated at home all the way from dinner to bedtime. But his shop's gate was chained shut and I was refilling my coffee cup at home in ten minutes.

 

There on the wooden kitchen island was the half-pint of vinyl spackle I picked up a couple days ago at the True-Value hardware store. It might have been enough to retrieve the window that was having a pane being replaced. But the garage walls could use some touching up. I thought spackle might be near the paint drop cloths, but it wasn't. Nor was it on the same aisle as other putties that help plumbers and woodworkers. I did find it on my own, bought it, and set it on the roof of the vehicle so I could gently load the window pane. But I didn't forget it there so when I got home, I first took in the window and made a second trip to retrieve the lidded cup. I wonder if "vinyl spackling" has the necessary subject and predicate to qualify as a complete sentence.

After a day and half in the kitchen, I took the spackle out to the garage. I set it on the circular saw case that is heavily covered in dust. This was the same saw that charred its way through some walnut boards of the detached garage roof in Cleveland. Now the saw is a shelf for the spackle. I turned it so the label shows what it contains, just like if it was on display at a meticulously organized hardware store. Now I have the raw materials such that when I finish watching the Louis C.K. episodes I just discovered on Netflix, I can move forward with my handyman ways and perhaps paint the garage this summer.

Q: amount? A: a color.

Unless I brought a thermos of homebrewed coffee to school, the place to get the best java on campus is at the library. There, students stand in line to buy Cliff Bars or colored water (oops! "water of color"). Me: I endure the line for their double espresso. It's huge (just $1.65) and served in a paper Dixie cup that trembles. Maybe it's my twitchy anticipation but I suspect the container experiences its own quaking because of the high octane stuff. Last time I went, the clerk seemed puzzled that this was all I wanted in my drink. It dawned on me that most people order that mega-shot as a depth charge into their large cups of multisyllabic joe: latte, soy milk, etc. I'm not begrudging people ordering exactly what they want if that is what they desire. But that double espresso is about as elemental as one could get — and that's why it's so freaking good.

Partly out of simplicity but mainly because it is satisfying, I order the most basic beverage at Starbucks. By asking for a medium, dark roast I don't have to wait in line. They fill my cup and take my money — and I'm done. Except for one small hiccup. They always ask, while they pour, whether to leave room for cream. It's a simple "no" but it breaks the flow. For quite some time, I've puzzled about how to place my order to avoid that question. Fill 'er up seems to quaint, like what I'd say to Goober at the Mayberry gas pumps. Top it off? Again, doesn't sound sufficiently 21st century. I puzzled over this, believing there was a code word I could use. With someone else always in line behind me, I avoided any chit-chat that might make me the target of derisive stares.

Wandering away from the crowded Starbucks at the conference hotel, I strolled with an acquaintance to turned out to be a nearby hotel's Starbucks, not crowded. With a casual air and knowing that the Midwestern location would be amendable to conversation, I asked what I should say to avoid the room-for-cream inquiry. Ultimately, this turned into fascinating discussion about social norms and the persistence of a color blind society. The barista was a super chatty black guy and his co-worker was a skittish white lady from NYC. Lots of tension and hilarity — at least that's how I remember it. How did the talking move to that point? Because I learned that to get a full cup of dark roast, I don't say how much but instead tell them I want it black. That now makes sense even though it puzzles me that they only serve dark roast in black. If it becomes a lighter brown, that would only happen because I add dairy to it. In summary, to get a full cup of dark roast, one has to specify "black." If you do want room for cream, I just realized I don't know what you should say. What I do know is that your coffee would be the same color as mine (black) but just not quite as much of it.

not such a long way for breakfast

Sugar and Spice in Mendon, Vermont was nominated by the Wall Street Journal in its list of “destination restaurants”  off-the-beaten-path. Others on their list include a barbecue joint in Texas, a crawfish shack in Louisiana, a fried chicken spot in Tennessee, and a grill in remote Utah. The very real prospects of chowing down in May at the last place prompted me to see whether I might find my way to the Vermont breakfast spot.

Aside from a freak Halloween snowstorm that knocked out power for most of Connecticut, this has been an incredibly mild winter. When weather forecasters began bouncing in their seats about a looming winter event, we scoffed. And as it turned out, rightly so. When we reached our inn last Thursday night, even though the snow swirled about (since we were at 2000 feet!) it was not the least bit hazardous. Also, since it was early March the ski resorts had long ago abandoned hope. By Friday morning, the roads were not only cleared but damp as things melted. 

 

We are pleased to report that our 3 hour drive for pancakes and waffles was not a wasted effort. Because we beat whatever weekend flood of visitors, the place was not packed and the servers were mildly polite. The food was quite good: tiny Maine blueberries on Sue’s stack of pancakes, nicely crumbled walnuts on my waffle, and plenty of syrup. Perhaps we didn’t realize during the meal just how much we were enjoying the syrup until we realized that the once full container had been mostly emptied.

Just as important though was the trip out of town and the reminder that it is still winter and that spring has yet to arrive. On the way up, I stopped for a fuel stop. As I waited, I noticed the perfectly formed snowflakes collecting on the outside of my fleece. There was still a little snow in the air on Friday morning. There was none at home so to look back on the surface frostings is a delight. Evidence of spring’s approach in Vermont? Check the sap bucket on the tree to the far right.

fifty years ago today

Often mentioned but until now incompletely documented, here is an early moment in the lifetime of one of America's most intriguing personalities. The occasion? The 50th anniversary of John Glenn's trip around the globe. The image? A diary excerpt from February 14–20, 1962 as originally authored by Jacquelyn Settlage (nee Wells). The lefthand two-thirds is an hourly plot of the infant's activity. Decoding this archival material is made easier by accessing the legend, also in the mother's careful handwriting.

Solid blocks = asleep, Horizontal line = feeding (presumably mother's milk)

S = cereal, F = Fruit, ∆ = Vegetables & Meat, Rx = medicine for skin rash.

Several continuing patterns are apparent including long nights of sleep (often 8 pm to 7 am) as well as a very irregular schedule of bathing (roughly once a week). The boy was also eager to be in close proximity to breasts. And large noontime meals were appreciated. Perhaps in a future post, the plots of Junior's height and weight relative to standardized data would be worth examining. For today, and because of today, the annotations to the right are our focus. We don't have access to John Glenn's movements and moods during the third week of February 1962 so this other John's life will have to do.

On Thursday the 15th, it was noted that he was smiling most of the time, although he was quick to cry when his guardians moved out of sight. The next day, his diarrhea was much improved and he could move from prone to sitting — perhaps the two were related? Skipping ahead to Monday the 19th, he discovered his navel and even bent over to suck his toes. And on 2/20/1962, he "Plays in clover. Normal BM. Glenn into space." Much stays the same. John Glenn spoke to astronauts in space, my digestive system is pooping right along, and life is good -- everything goes well short of having actual clover in which to play. Spring is 10 days away and clover does better in our backyard than does grass. Thanks for being interested!

suggestions for the new and aspiring dean

I got wind of a senior level faculty member who has been outed for his deanship desires. Despite claims he’d rather swab bathroom floors and sort used Kleenexes from bins designated for recycling, it occurs to me that deans come from somewhere and usually from among the faculty ranks. Whether deans start out as dicks or just become that way is not for me to say. However, I can envision how a mild-mannered, cat-fearing, non-grizzled professor might subconsciously lay the path for his own ascendancy. Because that trail is well-marked, I offer ideas about steps to follow once the name plate has been changed on the doorway to the nicest office in the building.

teaching assignment lottery
Next semester, one course from each faculty member’s load will be changed. You will not have a role in choosing which of your favored courses is reassigned. Instead, I will select the class, write the name on a slip of paper, put it inside a plastic easter egg, and place it among all the other eggs in a bingo cage. At the designated hour, I will call your name and you will draw an egg that identifies your new course assignment. You are NOT to replicate the way the course has always been taught. You must do it differently and you must do it better. If you aren’t smart enough to figure out how to lead students to learn the material, then you’re too stupid to remain in our department, college or school. Should you decline, your office will be changed to a regional campus housed within a 24-hour convenience store.

keep your old shit at home
You will no longer be permitted to store stuff at school that won’t fit in your home. This includes unread books, recycled heating devices (e.g., microwaves and coffee pot), demonstration materials (esp. old bicycle wheels and decrepit wind-up toys), and/or various kitchen, rumpus room or garage cast-offs. This is a professional building, not a storage shed to hide stuff from your spouse, partner or parents. We will be entering offices to clear them of these contents according to this schedule:

• Monday: videotapes and cassette tapes
• Tuesday: poster boards, butcher paper, etc. that depict “notes” from a class.
• Wednesday: boots, sweaters, socks, running attire.
• Thursday: tea bags, granola bars, Laffy Taffy and other disgusting sugary treats.
• Friday: dissertations, theses, handbooks, encyclopedias.
  

distribution of desktop speakers
Every faculty member will receive a pair of high quality desktop speakers through which background music should be played. The volume should be adjusted to drown distracting noises (e.g., the sounds of old man Coolidge’s shit going into the dumpster or inane undergraduate phone calls to their mothers) and so when you have a visitor, they can detect the genre if not the artist. You can listen to anything you want to with the following provisions:

1. Odd numbered days: each song must include a harmonica, accordion, Tuva throat singing, pedal guitar or glockenspiel.
   
2. Even numbered days: playlists consisting of Jethro Tull, Frank Turner, The Corin Tucker Band, Little Feat, Black Dub, Steve Earle, Gillian Welch, Charles Mingus, and Lyle Lovett. No, you may not play Journey -- ever!

future changes
More adjustments are forthcoming. If you say or do something idiotic, I'm gonna make a rule about that. Be on your guard and make sure you haven't abandoned something in the office refrigerator with your name on it.