Student Profile #5 (or, "My sick, sick fantasy")

^*The title of this entry may have piqued the interest of many of you, and perhaps rightfully so. But be not alarmed, fair reader: it is the not the sort of Mary Kay Laterno variety of student-fantasy. Read on to discover another sort of sick fantasy.
Traditionally I use the first names of the students featured in my semi-regular "Student Profile" posts. Because we live in letigious times, however, I am a little concerned that, should the content of this post be discovered by its subject, it could be used as the basis for a defamation/libel lawsuit against the author. [Note: The content of this entry are entirely true, but, not being sufficiently familiar with legal affairs, I am not certain whether veracity is enough to dismiss a defamation/libel suit.] Accordingly, the student featured today will be referred to as simply as "P.E.," which could stand for "Pure Evil;" it could also be rendered as the more familiar "physical education," as in "what this student could use more of." After perusing this article, the reader is invited to suggest his own creative and clever version of the words for which the initials stand.

As per my custom, I have taken the effort to collect some photos to help the reader visualize the featured student. Fortunately, when P.E. isn't spewing obscenities at me or his classmates, he's generally sleeping, so I have some photographs that won't allow for personal identification. P.E. on left; Jennifer on right.

P.E. makes is virtually impossible to teach. In my mind, each day is a new day, and I tell myself “today will be different. I will find some way to grab his attention, and help him to learn.” However, each day he is only too glad to prove that I am wrong. Today was particularly bad, and after class, I wished that P.E. would just die.

“No, these are ungodly, wicked thoughts” I told myself. But it was too late: a detailed fantasy had already embedded itself in my mind.

P.E. is overweight (probably flirting with the medical definition of obesity.) In my mind’s eye, I watch him inflate to around 300 pounds, at which point he succumbs to type II diabetes. Both his feet are amputated; he goes blind. Bound to a wheel chair, his health deteriorates due to lack of physical exercise. Finally he has congestive heart failure, and suffers a massive cardiac arrest.

In slow motion, I watch him lean forward, clutching at his chest with his right arm, in the throngs of agony that shoot through his left. As he convulses forward from the pain, the momentum forward propels him out of his wheelchair, and he tumbles pathetically to the floor. A small crowd begins to congregate; they watch him writhe, but no one bothers to call 911.

“It’s better to let him die. His life wasn’t worth living, anyway,” they tell each other, as they shake their heads sadly. After a few moments he lies motionless, and, one by one, the crowd slowly disperses.

In my imagination, somehow this painful ordeal teaches P.E. a lesson: he should respect his teachers, and try harder in school. I’m not sure how adult-onset diabetes and a fatal heart attack imbue him with these important lessons, but it’s a fantasy.

This may seem cruel, but actually, it's a shorter, less tortuous ending than the alternate my mind had wrung out like creative water from a towel: P.E. is in a loveless marriage of convenience. Because of his poor relationship skills, his homelife has devolved into a travesty of marriage; basically, it’s two people under one roof; the only thing they share is a mutual repugnance. His laziness and bad attitude has also affected his relationship with his two (maybe three?) children who, like their mother, detest him. His general sloth and inability to communicate without vitriol have resulted in his being unable to hold any job for more than a couple weeks. The burgeoning list of “positions from which I have been fired” is making it increasingly difficult to find work other than that from a day laborer’s center.

What astounds me about these fantasies (besides the fact that they are, admittedly, cruel) is that they both have some basis in reality: P.E.'s weight problem adversely affects his health, and eventually causes his demise; or his indolence and general contempt for human society result in an unhappy family life and preclude him from retaining real employment.

While his complete disrespect for both me and his classmates, and his contempt for learning, are certainly my main grievances against him, they are, unfortunately, not the only ones. Although P.E. displays no aversion to being hated by his classmates, there is one student with whom he daily attempts to ingratiate himself: Benson. If Benson mentions Family Guy, the next day P.E. comes in and won't stop reenacting scenes from the most recent episode.

"Hey, Benson, didja see the part where Peter blah, blah, blah..." When asked to be quiet so that we can continue the lesson, P.E. just talks above me and continues with his personal burlesque. The quickest way to return to the lesson material is usually just to let P.E. complete his favorite 4-5 scenes, and resume once he can't remember any more. This Bensonphilia is a constant theme in class. Whatever Benson says or does, P.E. is compelled to mimick. Jennifer (pictured above), has noted that it's pathetic in every sense of the word, but she concedes that if she had a personality like P.E.'s, she would probably try to leech off someone else and steal that person's identity, too.

One day I watched P.E. correct Benson's vocabulary quiz. As I watched, I noticed that he wasn't marking the incorrect answers as incorrect; I added reminders like "Number sixteen is D. D! He put, A, so mark that one wrong." When Benson failed, he blamed P.E., who in turn blamed me.

"It's not my fault. It's his. He made me fail you. Don't blame me." Then he rose from his chair, sad against the wall, and put his hood over his face. Resisting my greatest protestations, he sad there and refused to move, demanding that I "make Benson say that it's not my fault. It's your fault. Make him say it."[Above photo: P.E. with his hood over his face, refusing to sit in his seat.]

Sigh. There is little doubt in my mind that he will one day grow up to be a Public Enemy.


*This essay was emended April 4, 2007 (12:24 am). Special thanks to Andy, who found my errors.

TV Land

Tonight my parents are watching the "TV Land Awards." For those blessed enough not to be in the know, TVLand is a cable channel that airs reruns from the 1950s, 1960s, and occasionally from the '70s. Popular favorites include Leave it to Beaver, The Andy Griffith Show, The Brady Bunch, and, of course, I Love Lucy.

So why the TV Land awards? Actually, I'm not sure myself, and barely in possession of the requisite interest to blog about this from my seat at the kitchen table, I am certainly not sufficiently invested to get up, walk to the family room, and watch enough of the program to know what exactly they are awarding. Anyways, it's much more fun to guess.

Perhaps they're just reliving the actual Emmy Awards from a given year (maybe 1962?). Sure that seems fatalistic and masochistically boring, but these are people voluntarily attending an event entitled "the TV Land Awards," so who knows what they're willing to endure. Perhaps it's only those who never won an Emmy--a chance for the bitter losers to affirm that, had the actual Emmy recipient not been in their category, they would have gone home with the precious statuette that they were denied those long, cruel decades ago. Or perhaps there are new awards being given out, awards that can only be given to a show long past it's prime: most widely syndicated program; lowest cast members-to-rerun ratio; show least likely to be carried over into next year's TV Land programming, and so forth.

I can now hear Donnie and Marie (Osmond) singing the intro. It's a clear sign you've tumbled from the heights of stardom onto the B-list when you're singing on the TV Land awards.

Gym humor

On Monday I tutored Jeff, a Taiwanese immigrant who attends my church; he needs help in grammar and vocabulary in preparation for college. His residence is only a few blocks from the Norwalk Bally Total Fitness gym (yes, the very same gym against which my parents advised me against using), so I stopped by for a quick workout.

Thanks to my all-gym membership, I have used not a few Bally gyms in southern California, but the layout of this one was very unique, and is best described as cavernous. A full 85% of the gym is below ground: the men’s and women’s showers and locker rooms, the group aerobics class room, the free weights, the machine weights, a large conference center, and a few of the exercycles. This means that air circulation in the free weights room is restricted; consequently it is stuffy and smells…unpleasant.

It was in the confines of this ventilation-challenged room that my joke was born:
“Why couldn’t the aqueous silver nitrate pay his debt?”
Because he was insolvent! (Get it? Insolvent, in solvent.)

While doing seated curls, I was ruminating on the word “insolvency,” which led me to think about “insolvent,” and I noticed the possibility for a pun on “in solvent”. Then I had to think of a context for something that could be both “dissolved in solvent” and “unable to finance its debts”. I’m glad that my high school education furnished me with knowledge about both chemistry and economics.

The stinky dungeon of the Norwalk Bally Total Fitness weight room: what an unlikely place for the genesis of such an erudite joke!

Icy Stabs, the Reprise

Yet again I found myself in the front yard--minding my own business, extricating those varieties of wildflower often labeled as "weeds" in order to end their detraction from the more comely, non-native plants with which I am trying to replace them. Minding my own business...enhancing the overall aesthetic of my neighborhood...helping to prop up the value of local real estate...and again I am accosted by icy stabs, the pangs of bitter jealousy that have lately been assaulting my otherwise peaceful inner-self.

The dedicated subscribers to My Teeming Brain will doubtless remember my previous entry detailing the inner turmoil known as icy stabs. For the rest of you, you Johnny-come-latelys, you jump-on-the-bandwagons, you fickle readers complaning that my blog is two months behind, (you know who you are!), or for those who simply have poor memories: the "icy stab" is a nearly universal phenomenon in which an individual suffers from feelings of jealousy and inferiority, feelings originating from an actual lack of material success. These attacks, which can range from very mild and passing to accute and debilitating, are brought on by reminders of others' relative success (which are, therefore, reminders' of the icy-stabs-victem's relative failure). This term was coined by Ms. Sandra Tsing Loh, noted author, social commentator, radio personality, and deeply neurotic minor Los Angeles celebrity.

There I was, minding my own business and while listening to NPR, for my personal benefit, as well as the benefit of those who would have the pleasure of engaging my NPR-expanded mind in social intercourse. The World was being broadcast (as it is weekdays from 12-1pm); a correspondant in Bogotá began his piece on the elections which pushed more supporters of President Alvaro Uribe into Congress. Which Congress? Which President? Those of Colombia, the name of the seventh university to reject me from its graduate program in English literature. True, "Colombia" the country is only a homophone of "Columbia" the university, but when listening to the radio, who can make distinctions such as this? (Certainly not I, with my poor spelling! I had the hardest time finding a country called "Columbia," because I didn't know it differed in spelling from the university.)

Listening to NPR during the past few weeks, I have been beset by icy stabs. Since professors are often more available than other experts for radio interviews, they often constitute the main source of material for many NPR reports; many of these professors represent the various universities to which I have been denied admission thus far (UCLA, Cornell, Princeton, Yale, Stanford, Berkeley, ColUmbia, U. Chicago). Each time one of these schools (or its homophone) is menitoned on the air, I feel morose; I feel unwanted; I feel inferior; I feel...an icy stab.

The final delusion...

...is the belief that one has lost all delusions.
--Maurice Chapelain

I haven't gotten to the bottom of all these rejection letters from the grad schools, but I have narrowed it down to two basic possibilities: (a) it's all part of some grand conspiracy, in which the current members of academia are colluding to prevent me from joining their ranks, in the feeble hope of averting my eclipsing their so-called "discoveries" and intellectual contributions; or (b) each university believes that all the other graduate programs will accept me, and, not wanting me to reject their offers in order to pursue a degree at a more prestigious school, they have all sent out pre-emptory "no thank you's".

Perhaps (if you are not well acquainted with the magnitude of my genius) you are wondering why I have chosen these seemingly contrived renditions over the more simple "you weren't as competent as the other applicants" explanation. I will enumerate only a few of my qualifications: I was nominated for the English department's scholarship for excellence in writing; my major GPA is over 3.85; my writing sample is 20 pages of Shakespearian genius--proof of my promise as a literary scholar (and probably intimidated the application committees); circumcised the eighth day, of the stock of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of the Hebrews; concerning the law, a Pharisee; concerning zeal, persecuting the church; concerning the righteousness which is in the law, blameless. Wait, some of those might not have been *my* accomplishments...

In any event, even the admissions officers could not deny my worthiness and overall desirability as a candidate. I will allow the deans of these universities to speak for themselves:

Ms. Ursula K. Heise of Stanford University writes:
We regret to report that the department did not admit you to its graduate program...Each year, many strong candidates must be turned down.

John V. Richardson Jr., Associate Dean of UCLA adds:
We regret to inform you that you were not admitted...many talented and promising students are not recommended for admission by these committees.
We understand that this decision is a disappointment.

William B. Russel, a dean at Princeton:
I regret to inform you that the department was not able to recommend your admission for the forthcoming year...we are unable to offer admission to many who are well-qualified. I regret that you will not be joining us at Princeton. Please accept my best wishes for success in graduate study elsewhere.

Yale's Dean of the Graduate School, Jon Butler:
I regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission...we are not able to admit many excellent candidates.

Gale M. Morrison, Ph.D. Acting Dean echoed the sentiments of her colleagues:
I regret to convey to you that your application for admission to UC Santa Barbara has been denied by the Department of English...Sometimes even outstanding applicants whose research interests match closely those of our faculty may not be accepted.

The rejection from Henry C. Pinkham, Dean of Columbia, seems particularly enigmatic, given how highly he praises me in his missive:
With regret, we must tell you that the Committee on Admissions was unable to accept you for admission...we are encouraged by the knowledge that most of our applicants are qualified to gain admission to one of the many other fine graduate schools in the country. We hope that this will be true for you and wish you success in your studies and in your future career.

Perhaps most compunctious is Cornell's James Eli Adams, Associate Professor of English:
I'm very sorry to say that we have not been able to admit you to the graduate program in English at Cornell...we had to turn down a number of very talented people with very impressive records, many of whom no doubt will go on to distinguished careers. We wish you all success in yours.

"Strong candidate," "very talented...with impressive records," "outstanding applicant," "well-qualified," "talented and promising,"--aren't these recommendations in and of themselves? How is it that the same schools that would commend me to "to one of the many other fine graduate schools in the country" are at the same time rejecting me? Something is very, very rotten in the states of Chicago, New York, New Jersey, and California.

Beautiful Acne

One cannot help but apprecaite the thoughtfullness of the English graduate programs to time their rejection letters to come in a succession of little waves, each one incrementally adding upon the joy brought by its predecessors. I have surmised that in their great solicitude, the chairs of these departments make a master schedule of mailings, so as to prevent one great deluge of letters from reaching me at once, thereby overwhelming me with the complete rapture such an inundation would doubtless engender. My nine, oh yes, 9--count them (as I have, several times over), nine--consecutive rejections thus far are:

UCLA (Feb 12)
Cornell (Feb 16)
Princeton (Feb 23)
Yale (Feb 23)
Stanford (Feb 25)
Berkeley (Feb 27)
Columbia (March 1)
Chicago (March 3)
USCB (March 9)

This most recent letter was particularly heartening, since it was my "backup" school. I am not good enough to be a UC Santa Barbara Gaucho, which I suppose is just as well, because the gauchos were not noted for their literary acumen.

It was thus in this fine state of mind that I began SAT class this morning to find a new student. A new, very handsome student. A new, young, very handsome student. A new, young, very handsome, Korean student. "Oh the inhumanity of it all!" shrieked the voice in my head, as I smiled politely and said, "Hi. What's your name? Nice to meet you. I'm Mr. Hayashi." Aside from his being Korean (and, based on his presense in the class, his want of verbal dexterity) I was quite jealous of him. "I am nine times rejected, aging, and ugly," the voice moaned. "Yes," rejoined my optimistic spirit, "but at least you're not Korean." This silver lining provided some measure of solice.

One feature that added to his youthful aesthetic (besides the full head of straight, black hair declaring his juvenescence) was his sanguine cheeks, not overly bright to indicate rosacea or signal embarrassment, but just enough to add a vigorous glow to his slightly tanned complexion.

I began passing out vocabulary quizzes, and as I handed the new student his copy...is his rosy glow is pixelated? I realized that the scarlet color added to his cheeks was composed of divers miniature pimples. It was the way Monet might have rendered an adolescent blush: tiny dots carefully placed to produce the illusion of a sustained, continuous hue from far way.

Perhaps a rational person in a less fraught state of mind would have been grateful not to have acne that caused a reddened complexion, but rather than propitiate my unreasoning jealousy, this newfound knowledge actually increased it. "A sanguine glow from afar, and up close, the little pimples don't even look bad. He's like a walking Impressionist painting! Living art! OH THE HUMANITY!" The effect, was, in fact, rather charming.

This was more than could be born on the shoulders of one so recently smitten by the cold, merciless graduate programs; I needed some comfort food. My instinct for solace notwithstanding, I knew I shouldn't overindulge in real comfort food. The aesthetic inadaquacy brought on by this unknowing student translated into concern for the health of my (aging) body, and the unsightly possibility of a burgeoning waist--for, as we all know, comfort = calories. The least offending food that would bring some measure of consulation was Sundubu Chigae, or Korean tofu soup. [Editor's note: there is a great Korean tofu house on Artesia and Norwalk, within walking distance of Pam's! They have free, all-you-can-eat soft-serve frozen yogurt (chocolate and vanilla) for dessert.]

As I ingested my sundubu, I was filled with ambivalence. On one hand, I was very grateful for such a delicious--and healthful--meal; on the other, I felt entirely pathetic for: (a) being the type of person who turns to food to make himself feel better; (b) having been rejected from all the grad schools thus far; (c) not having a better coping mechanism; (d) allowing my vanity to prevent my eating something deep fried and lathered in butter.

Fortunately, the tofu house is close to Pam's, so I walked right over for some real, human sympathy after my meal. After dropping off Daniel at his home, the conversation went something like this:

P: Do you wanna come sit up in front?
J: No, that's ok; you can chauffeur me.
P: Ok, Ms. Daisy!
J: I guess that makes you Morgan Freeman...
P: I was just gonna say that!
J: Well, I guess that makes me Jessica Tandy...except she's old. And a woman. And dead. And I'm none of those things!
P: ...and you'll never have a chance to be one of them.
J: Right. Let's hope I'm never old. Hahaha! I'll have to remember to blog about this.

Right on target

The recent weather (and my upcoming trip through the Japanese and Chinese capitals) compelled me to purchase a new umbrella, one that: a) would easilly fit into a suitcase or backpack; b) was not hideously ugly; and c) folded easilly. The nearest Target, according to the Prius GPS was somewhere on Whittier Boulevard.

As I drove west along Whittier, I noticed the street becoming more and more...dare I say "ghetto"? Ghetto both in the common vernacular meaning, and in the original sense of "a section of a city occupied by a minority group who live there especially because of social, economic, or legal pressure." An absolute hispanic ghetto. Where was I? "We're not in Kansas, any more, Toto," I mumbled to myself.

Checking the GPS, I noted that I was in "Los Angeles," but certainly not a part of Los Angeles recognizable to me. I'm so far east, I protested to the GPS. How can I be in Los Angeles and still be so far...Oh. Of course. This wasn't the Westside, with it's Jaguar-packed boulevards, trendy boutiques, and sidewalks filled with the umbrella-covered tables of cute outdoor bistros catering to local yuppy WASPs. This was east L.A. The very "East L.A." of Cheech and Chong fame.

Ok, I reassured myself, how bad can it be? This is Target. From the outside, it looked similar enough to a typical Target, so I allowed my shoulder muscles and clenched hands to relax a little as I felt some apprehension leave my body. Stepping into the store, I found that the store front was just that—a front. It had the façade of being normal, when in fact, I had stepped into the Twilight Zone.

Besides the obvious demographic disparities one might expect between an east L.A. and a Cerritos Target, the two most conspicuous differences were that: a) this store was uncommonly crowded; and b) there were babies everywhere. When I relayed this information to Pam, she seemed unimpressed by the former observation, but was taken aback by the latter. “Were they there without parents?” She asked. “Were there just babies, and no adults?”

I replied in the negative, but I could not have been less astonished if they were just orphaned babies crawling all over. Taking a few deep breaths, I overcame my initial culture shock and tried to get my bearings; the floor plan of this store was quite different from the Target on Bloomfield and Del Amo. As I moved in search of the umbrellas, I noticed that there were other, smaller differences. The aisles of this branch seemed narrower, as if to pack in more merchandise per square foot. This same concern was also reflected in the garment racks, which were overloaded with clothes, making it difficult to take a jacket off the rack without creating a small avalanche of apparel. On top of that, many of the clothes were hanger-less; they were left simply strewn about on the floor, in piles, slung over racks…In the center of the store was a copious selection of car seats and baby carriages, though this seemed not disproportional to their clientele (babies in droves).

There were no umbrellas in the east L.A. Target. Maybe it never rains in east L.A., I conjectured. Only 3.7 miles down the road, I arrived at a second Target--this one in Pico Rivera. May I just say that east Los Angeles makes Pico Rivera look like Beverly Hills? The Pico Rivera Target is a proper Target, indeed. Upon entering, one is greeted by the pleasant aroma of popcorn wafting over from the snack area. Directly behind the cashiers are the greeting cards. Staring in the 8 o’clock corner (and moving clockwise), you arrive at: the grocery/mini-mart section; household cleaning goods; the small electronic goods and kitchen appliances; furniture, rugs, and lamps; bedding and towels; luggage; power tools, and the do-it-yourself home improvement section; toys; magazines and books; cameras, televisions, CDs, and audio/video equipment; and finally cosmetics and toiletries. In the center are the clothing sections, divided into men’s, women’s, children’s, and a proportionally-sized infant clothing area. [Anyone who has visited the Bloomfield/Del Amo Target will recognize this particular layout.]

Glad to have found the umbrellas in the “accessories” section near the “jewelry boat," I left happily with my purchase.










From the outside, who can tell the difference...

Waffles vs Thermals (the real issue)

As if the waffle vs thermal debate didn't get enough analysis in the previous entry, I have looked into the root cause of my fixation with that particular issue.

[Editor's disclaimer: I can not promise that this entry will be appealing or even remotely interesting to all readers. The syntax, for the most part, however, is delightful, so if that's enough to keep your interest, read on. All others, beware.]

I think the willingness to settle for imperfect (often inaccurate) expression is a manifestation of "the dumbing of America." (Not a term I coined myself, but it's just so catchy...) As the stewards of humanity's most expansive vocabulary (600,000 words), should we not uphold its lexicon and promote its precise and proper usage? As native speakers of the most widely studied second language--and the modern lingua franca--do we not feel an obligation to act as good-speech ambassadors to foreigners studying our mother tongue, an obligation to be exemplary? It is with much dismay, that I observe that many who have partaken in the joy that is English do not share in my feelings of responsibility.

No doubt these sentiments sound rather hokey--and more than a little arrogant--but lend the thought even the smallest patch of land in your mind in which to germinate, and I think you will watch the seed of truth grow. I, myself, often take English for granted. I treat it not as an art to be studied and cultivated, but as a tool for communication. As an SAT instructor, I often view the ability to handle English as a lucrative opportunity, rather than a God-given gift to give words and shape to my otherwise formless thoughts. Most days I don't think about it at all.

Professor Yao, a Taiwanese native and my Chinese professor at UCLA, and I had many conversations in her office both during and after my tenure as her student. (Although she is fluent in English, Yao always forced me to speak Mandarin with her, even after I finished her class.) One day we were both discussing our love for our respective mother tongues, and she began to lament the degeneracy a certain Group is bringing upon the Chinese language. In an effort to bring universal literacy to the people, she said, the Group has begun eliminating old, recondite characters and words. That gloriously complex, and beautiful language is being stripped of its rich history, and pared down to a minimalist ideal, so that it may serve its Master and disseminate propaganda more efficiently. Although Yao laoshi is lively, fiery woman, as she recounted this story, her eyes gave forth just enough moisture to produce a blury covering over her dark brown irides. Soon, she lamented, there will be little left of her language; it is to be replaced by its thin, pallid, barely recognizable skeleton. "They have 1.3 billion people; we have 23 million. What can I do? They are sending the majority of Chinese professors to teach Chinese around the world; who do you think will have more influence over the Chinese that students learn?"

I told her I feel the same way about English. I told her that its misuse and mishandeling in the popular media--on television and the radio, in movies, commericials, and magazines--is outpacing the correct use of the language. Some words are disappearing from our lexicons entirely. These, however, might be receiving a better fate than some of their brothers, whose meanings are so entirely mangled that one can hardly knows what a speaker means by them any more.

I concede that this type of lowest common denomiator language has its benefits. Its aims are sometimes egalitarian in that it promotes all people--regardless of age, income, education or social standing--to understand and participate in the usage of English. Its effects are often democratic, in as far as it acheives its egalitarian aims.

These advantages notwithstanding, I am dismayed at the usual cause of this slippage (laziness). This "race to the bottom" to appeal to everyone, to bring meaning and understanding to all, is really stripping everyone of what can be--and should be treated as--a wonderful and delightful linguistic experience. Rather than promoting idiodyssey [yes, my own neologism] and force the most adept speakers to stoop, can't the media aim a little higher, and thereby encourage everyone to rise?

Waffles vs Thermals (the surface issue)

I am not above buying something simply because it becomes someone else, so when David Eng came to church looking notably dashing in grey waffle shirt recently (worn under a printed logo T), I decided I could use a grey waffle shirt as well. The weather is cool, I reasoned, and it will be a nice layering piece.

When informed of my decision, Alvin squinted a little to indicate unfamiliarity with the term (or perhaps to question whether I had mispoken) and asked, ""What's a waffle shirt?"

Thus began a protracted (and occasionally vitriolic) debate over whether I was in search of a waffle shirt, or a "thermal." Alvin insisted that a long sleeve knit with the waffle pattern is a "thermal," while I maintained that said pattern constitutes a waffle shirt, hence the name. In China (and here in America), many shirts lacking that specific knit pattern are sold as "thermals," a term which denotes function, not style. Similarly, a shirt with a waffle pattern isn't necessarily a "thermal;" it need only sport the gentle, boxy ribbing that befits the name.

So Alvin met me at the mall recently, for a dual shopping/Ryan Conferido-sighting. I found a nice grey waffle shirt in one store, but it was for women; I asked the salesperson if they carried a similar shirt for men. Negative. Sensing his moment of vindication at hand, Alvin picked up the shirt and, with uncommon alacrity, asked, "So what would you call this shirt? A 'waffle shirt'?"

The worker, bless his ignorant heart, responded, "You mean a thermal?"

Sweet was the triumphant look on Alvin's face as those words alighted from the salesman's lips. "He said it's a thermal. He knows fashion--he works in the industry!"

My response, albeit a bit shameful in retrospect, holds a measure of truth. My eyebrows knit themselves together in a superior scowl, as I angrily replied, "What does he know? He's just an Express worker--who makes minimum wage. Don't make him out to be the end-all-be-all, gospel-truth-speaking arbitrator of fashion." [One of my literature professors once said that the power to name things is the power to control them. Perhaps that is why we argued so vehemently over such a petty issue...then again, who wants the power to control waffle shirts?]

Treating the retail worker like a walking fashion dictionary is bit like seeking the gastronomic opinions of someone just because he is a fry cook at the local fast food franchise. "What's the difference between french fries and the pommes frites sold by Parisian street vendors," you might ask him (a world of difference, from everything I've heard). And he would likely shrug his shoulders, and say "pommes frites? Never heard of 'em. You mean french fries?" The salesperson at the GAP and the cashier at McDonald's weren't hired because of their expertise in their respective fields of employment. They hold their positions not because they have degrees from the Culinary Institute of America, nor because their runway show took the world by storm at last year's Paris Fashion Week, but by virtue of the fact that they are willing to accept low wages for relatively low skilled labor. The reply of the worker, while providing a dubious sort of "evidence" for Alvin's argument, was by no means a coup d'état to mine. It had the "man-on-the-street" type of credibility, but not the "couture guru Carson Kressley" type.

Not to belabor this point, but the sophistry used in the aforementioned argument brought no small amount of vexation to me. If you approached the typical retail worker, and for a shirt with an interior-contrast collar and cuff, a top with a biased print pattern, or slingback kitten heels, she would likely give you the same blank stare as if you had spoken to her in an African click language. Most major department stores aren't much better. I asked a worker at Macy*s once if they had a certain DKNY gradient-dyed, hidden placket, short sleeve shirt in stock, and she had no idea what I was talking about.

In sum, people who work in an industry are not necessarily expert in that industry, and may not be the keepers of its jargon; they cannot always be relied upon to split hairs over the difference between Angora goat wool and Angora rabbit wool, or between french fries and pommes frites.