Comments II

There are any number of things I do which I shouldn’t: mindlessly pick the scab on my wrist during a curriculum meeting so that I start bleeding profusely while talking about outcomes assessment with my colleagues; submit a bid for another Pendleton shirt on eBay, even though I’ve got more than I can ever wear in this lifetime; drink a Mai-Tai as a nightcap to an evening of beer-drinking in order to get up my courage for performing “Renegade” by Styxx, to name a few.

But all of these pale in comparison as bad decision-making to my regular, and always ill-advised choice to read the “Comments” section of online articles on The New York Times, Stranger Slog, Seattle Times, and other sources of internet news and commentary.

You think that once burned, twice shy would be my mode of operation, especially when it’s more like ten thousand times burned.  

Consider the countless occasions on which I’ve idly clicked to read the Comments on an article about bicycle commuting or higher pay for teachers or some sort of path to citizenship for undocumented immigrants and have been rewarded by the most caustic, small-minded, and unoriginal responses from commenters who seem to have nothing better to do with their lives than spew reactionary venom from the basements of their parents’ split-level rambler in Arizona or wherever the hell it is they’re doing so.

It never makes me feel good, so I’m not sure why I do it.  Probably, there’s a bit of “rubbernecking” going on; I can’t help but stare at the massive 20-car pileup of human interaction as I go past; apparently, I want my expectations that people will fail to meet my expectations for critical thinking, civility, and proper punctuation to be met.

There’s always that guy (inevitably, a guy) whose comments make my blood boil and steam pour from my ears; and you can be sure if he commented upon this, it would be even worse.

Vacation

I am, really for the first time in almost a year, on vacation.

Woo-hoo.

I realize skeptics will look askance and opine: “But weren’t you on sabbatical from September to April?  What about that?”

To which I will admit: “Yes, indeed I was, but that’s just the point.  During all that time, I was under contract and for most of it, fulfilling the responsibilities associated with my Fulbright grant.  I never had a day off; I was always representing my school, my country, and the discipline of Philosophy for Children.  During any of that period, had I been arrested, the headlines (well, probably the page four sub-head) would have noted that it was college professor/Fulbright grantee, David A. Shapiro, who had allegedly done whatever.”

Now, though, I’m off-contract, a private citizen, who no other responsibilities or affiliations than those I give myself.  I’m free, in other words, to fully fuck up on my own time.

Not that I have any particular plans to do so; I’d like a quiet summer of fiction-reading, pot-smoking, and lake-swimming.  Spending time in police custody would certainly put a damper on that way of life.

Still, it’s liberating to not be a representative of anything but myself.  I’m relieved that, for the next three months or so, my actions do not reflect on the integrity of the US State Department or Cascadia College or even the American Philosophical Association.  I can no longer damage their reputations just by besmirching mine.  Now, it’s up to them to look bad on their own.

Of course, this doesn’t mean my peccadillos can’t make anyone but me look bad; should I embarrass myself with unfortunate behavior, I suppose that will reflect poorly on middle-aged White males of Western European and Jewish ancestry.  

But really, here’s a group that’s already done a stellar job of making themselves look less than spectacular; surely nothing I can do will make us look any worse than we do now.