The hunting of the snark

I heard an interview on NPR a week or so ago with David Denby, author of the new book, Snark. My ears immediately perked up as I have, on occasion, been described as snarky (when I wasn’t being called a smart-ass). Denby maintained snark was undermining discourse, particularly on the Internet, where one can be anonymous.

Do I agree with Denby’s assessment? Depends on how one defines “snark.” In the interview, the etymology of snark is not discussed thoroughly, but I’ve always assumed it’s a portmanteau of “snide remark”  (and completely separate from Lewis Carroll’s mythical creation). But I think the definition goes further than just the resulting combination of those terms. For me, snark implies a sharp, observant intelligence (a definition I perhaps devised after being deemed snarky).

I love a well-crafted snarky comment. In the right hands, a quip blending astuteness, wit, and satire can crystallize the opinion of the writer and advance the conversation far better than a novel of dry, factual points. What I don’t appreciate is cruelty and banality delivered in a drive-by fashion with the goal to insult and harass. That’s not snark. That’s just being a mean-spirited snot.

Snark (good snark, not snot-snark) can call attention to the thing that no one wants to talk about without hitting listeners over the head. It’s a springboard for further conversation. Snark can beautifully illustrate the absurdities in our world without the need to ham-handedly state, “This is ridiculous.”  Snarkers stick around for the discussion. Snotsters run away. Snarkers can articulate what their comments mean in a larger context. Snotsters say, “YOU SUCK. DIAF.”

Humor and wit are necessary tools for social commentary. I do not wish for snark to go away, and I do not think it’s destroying intelligent conversation. However, I would like to see a more agreed-upon definition of the word, and call out spiteful and mean commentary for what it is: just spiteful and mean.

Highways, pangrams, palindromes

I know it’s a bit lame to write a post that just refers to someone else’s post, but this one is too good to let slip through the cracks.  After you go to Dictionary.com and look up the word pangram, you have to read this post about Interstate 287 in New Jersey:

A 0.8-mile stretch of northbound Interstate 287 in New Jersey contains these signs:

WASHINGTON’S HEADQUARTERS
NO TRUCKS IN LEFT LANE
LAFAYETTE AVE.
EXIT 20 MPH
BRIDGE FREEZES BEFORE ROAD SURFACE
INTERSTATE NEW JERSEY 287

To date this is the shortest reported stretch of U.S. highway whose permanent, official signs contain all 26 letters of the alphabet.

Of course a whole slew of questions come to mind:

1. Was this deliberate or an accident?
2. Did someone try to break the coveted “shortest pangram highway” record?  What’s the prize?
3. If this wasn’t deliberate, who counted the distance, the signs, and the letters?  Whoever it was, bless their hearts.

Speaking of “pa-” words…  What’s your favorite palindrome?  Mine has to be “A man, a plan, a canal – Panama.“  Can you beat that?

Champing Neandertals

I recently read the origin of the phrase, “chomping at the bit.” I always assumed it came from an impatient horse gnawing at the metal between its teeth, and I was correct about that. However, the word isn’t “chomping,” it’s “champing,” which refers to a similar but specific behavior of a horse.

Along the same lines, my college anthropology instructor taught us the correct pronunciation of “Neanderthal” is actually “NeanderTAL,” with a silent “h.”

My conundrum, then, is this: Do I say these kinds of words or phrases “correctly,” or do I say them the way that’s more commonly known? I have found when I say, “champing at the bit,” the listener challenges me, and I’m forced to explain in a curmudgeony way, “No, see, it’s really champing” and end up sounding like a pompous ass. But if I say it the incorrect way, am I then contributing to the DOWNFALL OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE?

What’s more desirable, being right or being understood?

Are we sorry?

In my position as content strategist,  I am sometimes tasked with writing error messages. They seem innocuous enough. Tell the user, “We’re sorry, there’s been an error,” and move on, right?

Not so fast.

It seems natural to start the error message with “Sorry.” In conversational speech, we use it all the time. “I’m sorry?” when we didn’t catch what the other person said. “I’m sorry…” when we need to reach around someone at the grocery store. “I’m sorry,” to convey sympathy for another’s misfortune. And, of course, “I’m sorry,” to apologize for a misguided deed.

Though we have morphed “I’m sorry” from an admittance of guilt and expression of remorse to more of a synonym for “excuse me,” “I’m sorry” still holds a primary space in our language as an apology. How many times have you responded, “Wow, I’m sorry,” to a tale of woe, only to be met with, “It’s okay, it’s not your fault”? Regardless of the intent, “I’m sorry” seems to be best recognized as an apology and acknowledgment of responsibility.

With this in mind, let’s return to our error message assignment. When should we apologize? We believe it comes down to this:

We apologize when a situation on our end – intentional or unintentional – prevents the user from moving forward or completing an action.

Server down? We’re sorry. A bug? We’re sorry. Landshark? We’re sorry. In these cases, the user had absolutely nothing to do with any of these situations, and we will apologize for the inconvenience.

So then, in what situations would we withhold an apology? If a user needs to register before completing an action, we don’t apologize. If a user misses a required element on a form and cannot move forward, we don’t apologize.  If a user intentionally or unintentionally violates our policies, we don’t apologize. In these cases, it is the user’s action that causes the error, and we don’t apologize; we inform and politely guide the user to the correct action. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about the user’s plight, but we don’t claim responsibility for it.

It sounds simple, but it gets tricky. “Was the IA too difficult, and therefore, our fault?”  “Did we not message this policy correctly, and therefore, our fault?” “Should we have warned them the candygram was actually a landshark, and therefore, our fault?” You could drive yourself crazy doing this, so keep it simple. If the IA is bad, revisit and fix it later, but don’t apologize for it now.

And because this clip played repeatedly in my head as I wrote this, I now give you a moment of cinematic triumph:

Blagojevich, The Solipsist

Sometimes I wish I was a journalist.  The dream usually hits me when I read essays that manage to not just report the news, but also put it in the proper sociatal context.  James Poniewozik did this recently in a brillant article on Ex-Governor Rod Blagojavich’s recent media blitz, and what it tells us about society (and reality TV!).  You can read it here.

The reason I’m writing about it is that Poniewozik (what a fun word to say…) used a word to describe Blagojevich that I didn’t know: solipsist.  In case you don’t know it either, solipsism is defined as:

1.     The theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
2.     Extreme preoccupation with and indulgence of one’s feelings, desires, etc.; egoistic self-absorption.

The philosophy, the word, and its usage to describe Blagojevich really intruiged me, so I dug a little deeper.  Here’s what I found on the logic (?) behind this philosophy:

I cannot be sure anyone else feels any emotions that I feel.  Since our only source of knowledge of the world is our personal senses (eyes, ears, etc.), it could be argued that one only knows that he or she exists. Is it possible that our senses betray us, and that all we see and hear are but tricks played on us by our mind?

Very Matrix-like.  The etymology of the word is also interesting:

Latin solus “alone” +ipse “self” + -ism. “Solus” is the origin of “solo” but also can be found in “solitary,” “soliloquy,” and “desolate.” In the Germanic languages it became solein “alone,” devolving into English “sullen.”

I like the word sullen, and didn’t know it came from the same root.  Very interesting.  Anyway, back to why I’m writing about it here.  Two reasons, really.

One, I feel it is important for Keri and I to teach you new words that you can throw into everyday conversation to feel smart.  This particular word has an added bonus in that you’d probably be able to insult someone without them knowing it.  It’s always handy to have a word like that lying around.

Second, I’m surprised that Poniewozik (hmm, it gets funnier each time you say it) used this word in a major magazine article.  I’m sure most people just glossed over it and didn’t think about it again.  But I applaud Mr. Poniewozik (he he) for not selling out and using a lesser word when solipsist is clearly the absolute best fit for what he’s trying to say.  So let’s take that as a lesson.  When faced with a choice between using a perfect word or dumbing it down – use the perfect word.  That’s how language stays alive and vibrant.