Gibberish and Journalism

The essay “Politics and the English Language”  (https://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/orwell46.htm) is as relevant today as it was when George Orwell wrote it in 1946. Within the theme of the essay about the deleterious effects of ugly and slovenly language and thoughts, Orwell offered a prescription that should be administered to professional language manglers until they are cured of what he labeled “doublespeak,” his term for language that deliberately distorts or obfuscates meaning.

In the essay are his rules for writers:
1. Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.
2. Never use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is possible to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. Never use the passive where you can use the active.
5. Never use a foreign phrase, a scientific word, or a jargon word
6. Break any of these rules sooner than say anything outright barbarous.

“These rules sound elementary,” Orwell wrote, “and so they are, but they demand a deep change of attitude in anyone who has grown used to writing in the style now fashionable.”

Alas, there are journalists who have grown used to writing and speaking in a style now as fashionable as it is incomprehensible, oblivious as they are to the difference between clarity and the latest jargon, gibberish, or doublespeak that is in vogue.

Gibberish

A sideline reporter last season referred to the “enormity” of basketball at Kentucky. Was she really alluding to its extreme wickedness, which is the literal meaning of the word? Batiatus (Peter Ustinov), the unctuous slave trader in the film Spartacus, inadvertently got it right when he addressed the politically devious Roman general Crassus (Laurence Olivier) as “your enormity.” A New York Yankees broadcaster uses the redundant “and also...as well” in one sentence, giving new meaning to the phrase “triple double.”

“Modern English, especially written English,” wrote Orwell, is full of bad habits which spread by imitation.” Exactly. Case in point: At one time, “low-hanging fruit” was an original metaphor to describe easy picking. It stopped being original the moment it was first copied. Shortly thereafter, it became a cliché.

Need other examples? Going forward. Moving the needle. Pushing the envelope. Under the radar. At the end of the day. Bottom line. On the same page. Iconic, systemic, organic, granular, viral. If these words and phrases are part of your vocabulary, or if you find examples of your work in this encyclopedia of clichés (http://www.squidoo.com/businesscliches#module3436417), put down your pen and step away from the laptop.

If only Orwell were still alive to save us from stories about “How Journalists Can Measure Engagement” (http://www.poynter.org/how-tos/digital-strategies/209695/how-journalists-can-measure-engagement/).

Unreadable Journalism
“The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read,” said Oscar Wilde. That was written over 100 years ago but may as well have been yesterday. On a similar note, Mark Twain wrote, “Those who do not read good books have no advantage over those who cannot read.” The trouble is, bad writers never read good writers. If they did, they'd recognize how inadequate their own prose is. In a speech to Associated Press sports editors last June, Frank Deford addressed his concerns about the decline of good sportswriting and of the class of “optionally illiterate” created by new media who have “chosen not to read or write.”

Where are the editors and broadcast executives to save us from the banality? Many are unqualified or ill-equipped for the job; others, no doubt, are like mahouts trying to coax a rogue elephant across the street on a green light. It’s hard to try to convince the recalcitrant writers to act in their own, and the readers’, best interests.

“Media is a word that has come to mean bad journalism,” wrote Graham Greene a generation ago. And that was before there were media watchdogs, surely the most expendable staff position on any newspaper. Do we really need media coverage of the media coverage? It’s the bland leading the bland. Is there anyone more fatuous than a newspaper media columnist, nitpicking a broadcast, who cannot write? More lapdogs than watchdogs, they save their venom for obvious or politically safe targets and curry favor with others more influential.

Jargon
Jargon is what dull writers employ to couch their own insecurities, to try to give the impression that their subject matter is decipherable only to a select few of them who truly understand the arcane vocabulary. Did you know that people no longer watch TV? Instead, we are told that eyeballs (that is, viewers) now consume media. Of course, much of what they consume these days in media causes indigestion.

Oh, and no one proposes a new idea; rather, ideations are the result of thought leaders’ thought processes and mindsets that are rolled out of their thought silos and then ramped up across multiple platforms. If only we could roll these thought leaders into the same silo that Harrison Ford put to good use at the climax of the film Witness.

I have spent the last three years teaching in elementary schools. The compensation for and satisfaction in working with the youngsters on their literacy development are great, or as Nobel Prize-winning Irish poet Seamus Heaney noted, “The excitement of something coming out right is its own reward.” One thing about children’s language development: It never includes jargon. That comes much later, when innocence yields to pretentiousness.

Dante designated sycophants for eternal damnation. If he were alive today he’d have to add a separate circle in hell for clods who speak fluent jargon. Something is forever being kicked to the curb while someone is always being thrown under a bus. Milton could return and retitle his masterpiece “Paradigms Lost.”

Basic English
But it’s not simply jargon that jars. It’s basic English. We learned in grammar school that the object of the preposition takes an objective pronoun. I stopped counting the instances of reporters saying “between he and I” or “with she and you.” Many of those same professionals do not know the difference between “its” and “it’s” or between possessives and plurals. They assign apostrophes to simple plural words. Even my local tailor has been corrupted by this. The sign in his shop window reads “Tuxedo’s for Rent.” That tux must be one size that fits all.

More abuses: “Disinterested” does not mean “not interested,” “presently” does not mean “now,” and “fortuitous” does not mean “fortunate.” “Intrical” and “physicality” are not words. “Pushback” and “takeaway” are nonsensical. “Decimated by injuries” does not mean “hit hard.”

Fact checking! Who’s got the time for that? And who needs a dictionary when you have spell check?

“Laziness has become the chief characteristic of journalism, displacing incompetence,” wrote Kingsley Amis. For lazy journalists, “incredible” is the most overworked adjective, used indiscriminately to describe the most mundane people, things, and feats. “‘Incredible’ and ‘incredibly’...like Chernobyl, should be out of service for decades to come,” wrote Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd in their book Good Prose.

And don’t bother to read another word of any writer who describes being “blown away” by something. That says all you need to know about his imagination.

“Myriad” is not a noun. “Task” is not a verb; neither is “impact” or “gift” or “medal.” One time, after I had interviewed a reclusive personality, I was asked how I “got the get.” The New York Times wrote about “Those Irritating Verbs-as-Nouns”  (http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/03/30/those-irritating-verbs-as-nouns/?smid=tw-share).

Journalism vs. Public Relations
“Journalism is printing what someone else does not want printed,” wrote Orwell. “Everything else is public relations.” He never had to deal with sports beat reporters. Remember when they had backbone and did not nod and swallow whole and then regurgitate the platitudes fed to them by managers, coaches, and GMs?

Now, we have beat reporters who cannot think or write and who are too timid or too stupid to ask meaningful questions. I am embarrassed for real reporters when I hear the moronic questions asked by sycophants (with media credentials) at postgame press conferences: “How big was that win?” “How important was this game?” “How [fill in one of these words] surprised/impressed/excited/happy/disappointed/anxious are you?” Who is writing their script—the clubs’ P.R. directors?

Bryce Harper of the Washington Nationals had it right when he came face-to-face with an inane reporter.“That’s a clown question, bro,” he said in response to some witlessness. Maybe his statement could be written on a placard that drops from every sports team’s clubhouse—a la the secret-word duck from Grouch Marx’s old You Bet Your Life TV show—any time a mindless question is put to an athlete.

“The point is that the process is reversible,” wrote Orwell. “[The bad habits] can be avoided if one is willing to take the necessary trouble. The fight against bad English is not frivolous and is not the exclusive concern of professional writers.”

Kindergarten

Given the choice during this past school year between teaching (as a substitute) kindergarten or high school, I opted for kindergarten every time. I’ll take the youthful enthusiasm and innate curiosity of five year olds over the grim indifference and monosyllabic inarticulateness of so many teenagers. And with five kindergarten classes in the district, there were numerous opportunities to work with the children.

As an editor, I thought my 35 years’ experience with childish behavior—albeit never with 20 or more writers and artists at the same time all day—would serve me well with kindergartners. At times this year, though, I felt more like a shepherd than an instructor, trying to maintain at least a sense of order and collaboration within the group while staying alert to any individuals tending to wander off (physically and emotionally). 

I am blessed to have what is a tiny role in an elementary school among so many intelligent, compassionate, and dedicated teachers and staff members. Kindergarten teachers, however, are a special breed, with deep reserves of patience and cool. For most of the children, kindergarten represents their first full day of structure. And it is a very long day for them, especially at the start of the fall semester.

 

Not once did I ever witness a kindergarten teacher lose her composure, even under the most trying circumstances. And not a day went by that I was not asked by another kindergarten teacher or aide if I needed anything: assistance, a break, advice, etc. There were times when one of them walked past the open door to my class and laughed. It must have been the shell-shocked expression on my face.

Every day that I subbed in kindergarten brought wonderful and unpredictable surprises from the children. For example:

• While I was bending low to explain something to the bespectacled Anthony, he suddenly looked me in the eye and said, “I think you must like me.” How would that not melt the coldest heart!

• One morning, apropos of nothing, Giovanni started crying. “I miss my mom and dad,” he told me. Shortly after I had calmed him down, he announced, “Mr. K, look—I’m not crying anymore.” For the rest of the day he periodically alternated those two pronouncements.
• “Being bullied is like getting an injury, only your body doesn’t hurt,” said future philosopher William.
• The same William, when asked in June what was the most important thing he learned in kindergarten, told me, “Girls don’t like boys who use potty words.”
• Nathan interrupted a lesson to ask me, “Mr. K, what was your name when you were a kid?” When I told him “Jerry,” he said, “Then why did you change it to Mr. K.?” 
• I asked Nathan, whom I called “Nate the Great,” if anyone else referred to him by that nickname. “Mommy,” he said.

Other unanticipated questions and unsolicited opinions:
• “Do you know how to say ‘ten’ in Japanese?”
• “How old are you?”
• “One time, I got a stye.”
• “You rock!”
• “Whenever I look at a bright, shiny light I get a headache.”
• “What’s your elf’s name?”
• “It’s sad when people die, right? Well, everybody dies—even me”
• “My baby sister is zero [years old].”
• “Blue and red are my brother’s favorite colors.”
• “You know what’s super weird? My grandma gave my mom and dad chocolate candy coal [for Christmas].”
• “I can clap my hands behind my back.”
• “Can I go to the nurse, because I stabbed myself.”
• “It’s not lying; it’s changing your mind.”
• “My dad bites his nails.”
• “Why do you have a ring on your finger?”
• “Who are you married to?”
• “Where’s Mrs. K?”

As the children counted down the remaining days on the June calendar, I had one thought: I wish the school year was not coming to an end.

 

That’s easy for me to say. I never have to create lesson plans; I merely attempt to implement those left for me by the real teacher. I am not accountable to any state board for the progress (or perceived lack thereof) of the students. Nor do I meet with the parents, principal, superintendent, or director of curriculum. But the rewards are great.

The Things That Editors Remember

The recent release of this summer’s Mostly Mozart Festival schedule reminded me of my late friend and former boss at New York magazine, Alan Rich. Mozart, you see, was Alan’s favorite composer. Every January, for many years, Alan would write his annual Mozart birthday article in New York. I miss that feature.

I also fondly remember New York magazine executive editor Shelley Zelaznick from my own too-brief four-year (1975-79) tour as assistant arts editor. It was New York’s loss when Shelley resigned in 1977 after the magazine’s visionary founder and editor in chief Clay Felker lost the property in a hostile takeover by Rupert Murdoch. Shelley was smart, tough, and gentlemanly. I admired him very much. Even on the hottest days he always seemed cool and regal.

Alan, the arts editor and music critic, had great respect for Shelley, whose company he enjoyed dating back to their days together as comrades at the Herald Tribune, from whose Sunday magazine New York had sprung. There was a time in the late 1970s when Alan briefly added theater critic to his duties (and John Simon switched over to film).

 

In reviewing a play (I can't remember the title), Alan referred to an actress as “a female [very prominent and distinguished British actress].” It was a self-consciously silly throway line that I, with first read on the review, would dutifully if reluctantly have to throw away.

“Alan, you can't write that,” I told him.

I clearly recall Alan's impish grin. “Show it to Shelley. See what he says,” Alan said. He was reluctant to give up quietly a line that he enjoyed so much.

So I walked up to the front of the office and gave the copy to Shelley, who dropped what he was doing and read it immediately. He then came back to discuss it with Alan, trying to suppress a smile while affecting a headmaster’s admonition for a brilliant but mischievous student.  

 

The reading had the desired effect. Alan knew the phrase had no chance of making it into print, but he wanted to show Shelley what an amusing line it was and to make him laugh. And then it was O.K. to delete the sentence.

Fuchsia

While watching the NCAA basketball tournament last night I learned from the game’s announcers that Marquette has a play called “fuchsia.” This delighted me because only one other team that I know of ever had such a colorful name for a play: my team.

It was about 18 years ago when my son, Peter, played for my St. Margaret’s CYO sixth-grade team. We had an offensive play called “blue.” After running it repeatedly at practice one night, I realized that in a game an opposing coach and his players would quickly recognize the play and make the proper defensive adjustments.

So, I instructed Peter and his teammates to run the same play but to call it any color, not just “blue.” It’s a simple tweak, I thought, and would make it less likely for opponents to react immediately to it. While I was congratulating myself on this coaching strategy, Peter, as the point guard, brought the ball into the frontcourt.

 

“Fuchsia,” he called out. His teammates froze, perhaps not as familiar as Peter with Crayola’s 64-crayon box.

Tom Gola and La Salle Basketball

With the NCAA basketball tournament ready to recommence tomorrow night with 16 remaining teams, including upstart La Salle University, which first had to survive a play-in game prior to the main event, the Wall Street Journal on Monday (3-25-13) ran a story, “Why La Salle Basketball Matters,” by Mike Sielski (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324789504578382711983492502.html).

Sielski brought perspective to La Salle’s current foray into the college sport’s elite territory, reminding readers of the Explorers’ rich basketball past and especially of Tom Gola, the most prominent player in the school’s history.

In the summer of 2003 I spoke with Gola, singled out by Street & Smith’s as one of the college game’s all-time best players. Shortly after that interview, I learned that Gola fell outside a Philadelphia restaurant, hitting his head, and slipped into a coma. He later suffered a stroke. As Sielski reported in the Wall Street Journal, Gola, at age 80, now lives in a nursing home in Philadelphia.

No story about the present La Salle team is complete without reference to the best player of its past. Here, then, is further background—and my story (from Street & Smith’s 100 Greatest College Basketball Players)—on Gola, who, 58 years after his final college game, remains the NCAA’s all-time leading rebounder.  

Tom Gola is the proverbial golden boy who made good. A winner at every level in basketball, he is one of only two players (with Arnie Ferrin) to have won NIT, NCAA, and NBA titles. And he did it all in his native Philadelphia.

“That’s it, and I’m still there,” said Gola with a laugh. “Can’t get out of the ghetto.”

Born in the middle of a basketball season on Jan. 13, 1933, Gola was a versatile player who scored 2,222 points and led his team to a city championship at La Salle High School. He then took his game to nearby La Salle University, where in 1952 he was co-MVP for the NIT champions as the Explorers beat Dayton in the final. Two years later, he was named Most Outstanding Player in the NCAA Tournament as La Salle beat Bradley for the championship. The following season, Gola averaged 24.1 points for an Explorer team that lost to San Francisco and Bill Russell in the NCAA final.

The foundation for success for Gola was established early on.

“I had good coaches,” the three-time consensus All-America said. “I was 6-6 and 215 pounds in college. The coach that we had, Ken Loeffler—he’s in the Hall of Fame—he didn’t believe in a pivot. He played a five-man weave. When I was in high school, the coach did the same thing to me: He wouldn’t let me play the pivot either. And in grade school I was the big kid, but the coach said we had to learn to shoot two-hand sets on the move. And that’s what we used to do.”

Gola was on the wining end in 102 of 121 games in college, where he averaged 20.9 points and 18.7 rebounds from 1951-55. He ended his career as La Salle’s all-time leader in points (2,461) and rebounds (2,201). He remains the NCAA’s all-time rebound leader.

“I always tell people that the biggest thrill of my basketball life was when I was an 18-year-old freshman at La Salle and we won the NIT,” Gola said. “We were the Cinderella team, the last one in, and we made it all the way.

“What was more important was that that season followed the New York basketball [point-shaving] scandals. And I think [the NIT championship] rejuvenated basketball in New York because it was in the old Madison Square Garden and every game was a sellout. We were fortunate to win it, and I shared the MVP with my teammate Norm Grekin.”

Prosperity continued for Gola in Philly, where he remained to begin his professional career. He averaged 10.8 points a game as a rookie with the NBA champion Warriors in 1955-56. Gola finally left town when the warriors moved to San Francisco in 1962. He finished his playing career with the New York Knicks in 1966. In 698 pro games Gola averaged 11.3 points, 8.0 rebounds, and 4.2 assists.

Gola returned home to coach the Explorers for two seasons, leading his team to a 23-1 mark in 1968-69 and to 14-12 in 1969-70. In 1998, La Salle named its arena after him.

“They usually wait until you die before they do that,” Gola said dryly.

Gola had already joined the basketball immortals when he was elected to the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in 1976.