how wikipedia betrayed me (and america) − 10 March, 2006
I'm a smart guy. No really, I am. Despite the fact that I graduated from a college no one outside of Central Ohio has ever heard of, with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Musical Theatre (yes, such a ridiculous degree exists), I'm fairly certain I could hold my own and do moderately well as a contestant on Jeopardy.
And isn't that the gameshow polestar by which we should measure all intelligence levels? It certainly isn't The Price is Right, where contestants regularly guesstimate how much a tube of Preparation H goes for these days (being sure to factor in California sales tax). And it sure as hell isn't Hollywood Squares where the most difficult challenge on that show has got to be stomaching the site of Bruce Vilanch, and the fact that even his double chin has a double chin. On Jeopardy, I might actually come home with more than just a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Especially if by some stroke of fortuitous luck there was a clerical error and I found myself pitted against those teenage players.
I would fucking cream those kids.
In any event, despite surpassing my questionable pedigree, it just so happened that on March 10, 2006 I was publicly bested and resultantly humiliated by a Canadian.
Yes, a Canadian.
And sadly, this wasn't a curling competition. No. Had it been, I'd gladly hang up my pushbroom thingee and concede. This was a question of intelligence. And the venerable wikipedia.com, on which I've spent many joy-filled hours shirking my corporate dayjob responsibilities, provided the facts that hastened my most embarrassing defeat to date. A defeat not only fingering me as an ignorant imbecile, but the whole of America as well.
My friend Brad was having a party. He's Canadian by birth (though I don't hold it against him) and has been living in the states for quite some time. He's Cambridge educated I believe, reads historical non-fiction like it's going out of style, is a lawyer at some hoity-toity Los Angeles firm, and is a regular commentator on all things law-related for Leeza Gibbons' radio show. (I threw that last factoid in there not because it's impressive really, just because it's hilarious.) Oh, and Brad has a cute ass. (I threw that last factoid in there not because it's hilarious really, just because it's impressive.) Sure Brad says things like "aboot" and "soorry," and on occasion will punctuate his sentences with "eh?" but on him it's adorable. You look past the colloquial mispronunciations (which otherwise might make you think you're talking to a dimwit) and you love him for it.
My esteem for Brad is further heightened by the fact that he's uber-intelligent. Much like another similarly affected orator with Canadian origins; Mr. Alex Trebek. Though Brad is younger, quite a bit shorter and... well, his ass is much firmer and higher.
And there you have it readers. My story has already come full circle.
So... Brad had a party. The usual suspects were all in attendance, as was a guest of Brad's from "up north" who was in town for the weekend named Paul. They had been high school chums apparently, but while Brad had gone on to enviable educational victories abroad, Paul had stayed behind pursuing his education in the land of hockey, hosers and (universal) healthcare.
Now it may be a character flaw of mine (and I readily admit that I do have a few), but I have a habit of sizing people up within a few moments of meeting them. Occasionally, I even do it on sight. And more often than not, I safely conclude that I'm their intellectual better. (Keep in mind, I live in Los Angeles where meeting someone of Brad's caliber is a definite rarity.) My mother would probably say that you "shouldn't judge a book by its cover," but she lives in Ohio. In LA, I would argue that "cover-judging" is a skill and a necessity. For instance, mentioning an interesting article you happened to read in The Economist to an overstyled twentysomething in capri pants and a Shakira t-shirt is just asking for trouble. Instead, you observe your target, make your snap judgment, and adjust your approach accordingly. In this case, I would suggest breaking the ice by saying, "You know what I like? Sour gummy worms." Believe me, you'll get farther.
And so, I sized up Paul. There was nothing particularly telling about his outward appearance, nor was his conversation very indicative. This was however a gay party. And at a gay party, or anytime you have a "faggle" gathered together, it's safe to assume that the general scope of the conversation will be more Hilary Duff and less Hillary Clinton. In my less-than-humble estimation, Paul fell within that exact gay subset. The fact that he was Canadian, in my mind, only confirmed his inclusion. Stereotypes tend to be based somewhat on fact, people. And stereotypes involving inhabitants of "America Jr." aren't incredibly glowing intelligence-wise.
For some reason a banal conversation I was mildly tolerating turned to the subject of currency. Specifically, the superiority and ubiquity of American currency, and how Canadians will gladly accept US tender at the drop of a hat, while state-side businesses flatly refuse to do the reverse.
Paul then piped up and said something about how he "really liked the new ten dollar bill."
"Huh?" someone asked.
"Your new ten dollar bill. It's been re-designed." Paul answered. "When I exchanged my currency at the airport they gave me these crisp, new American bills. They're colorful. They have all this red in them now."
With that he produced one out of his wallet and passed it around for all to see. And it was true! The current American obsession with makeovers had extended itself all the way into the US Mint, to dazzling effect. Alexander Hamilton had been supersized, softened and airbrushed like a Maxim cover model. He had also been having an incredibly good hair day apparently, as his new and improved image was now perfectly, windsweptedly coiffed. The whole thing was highlighted beautifully, just as Paul had said, with a ribbon of red ink.
"Wow." uttered someone. "He's actually kind of handsome now."
"Yeah. Hamilton was definitely one of the hotter Presidents." I said. "Definitely the hottest one on currency."
The gays nodded and gave their unspoken assent. All except for Paul.
"Alexander Hamilton was never President." he said.
"Yes he was. He was like fourth or fifth or something." I retorted.
"No, I don't think he was ever President."
At this point I probably should have left well enough alone. After all, any of the homos within earshot were on my side. Whether or not they had any significant knowledge of the succession of American presidents, my argument was plausible, if not airtight. My pride however, was at stake. A gauntlet had been thrown and I accepted the invitation to duel. I was certain of my eventual victory. So certain in fact, that I even presented Paul with a possible mistake in his reasoning.
"You're probably thinking of Benjamin Franklin. He's on our 100 dollar bill, but was never President."
By doing this, I not only asserted my historical knowledge but deftly positioned myself on the offensive. It was The United States vs. Canada. A geeky, gameshow match-up of Olympic proportions. The credibility of my upper-middle class education was hanging in the balance.
"Well that's true but I'm fairly certain that Alexander Hamilton was never President." Paul responded.
I probably audibly guffawed, and still thinking I was 100% in the right, proceeded to dig myself a little deeper.
"It went Washington, Adams, Jefferson, someone else like Buchanan or Van Buren, and then Hamilton. He ended up getting into a duel with Aaron Burr, whom he shot and killed."
"Actually, if I remember correctly," Paul remained calm, "Burr killed him in a duel, not the other way around. And Alexander Hamilton was the first Treasurer of your country and that's why they put him on the ten dollar bill."
Your country. He had said. (Though to Paul's credit, he hadn't said it maliciously.)
"Oh, what do you know?" I railed. "YOU'RE FROM CANADA! I've lived my entire life here. I'm sure I know a little bit more about American history than you do! Puh-lease."
And with that Brad was called on to settle the argument. Being the intelligent Canuck-cum-Briton-cum-Yankee that he is, he deferred to the agreed-upon omnipotence of wikipedia.com. (In retrospect, I have half a mind to think he knew I was in the wrong from the very beginning, but wisely decided to feign ignorance and let an inanimate webventure seal my fate.) He retreated to his bedroom (where every bachelor gay and straight keeps his computer these days ... I don't think I need to tell you why), while I poured myself another Bombay Sapphire & Tonic. Paul demurely busied himself at the hors d'oeuvre table.
Brad emerged several minutes later with the verdict. A hush fell over the party.
"According to Wikipedia," he stated matter-of-factly, "Alexander Hamilton was never President of the United States. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury and that's what got him on the ten dollar bill."
Mortified, I grasped at a straw.
"But he did shoot Aaron Burr in a duel and killed him." I paused. "Right?"
"Um, no." Brad replied with more than a little pity in his voice. "Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton and Hamilton died the next day."
The most profound embarrassment I have ever experienced in my entire life, prevents me from remembering exactly what happened next. Suffice to say that Paul, who had been entirely gracious through my whole unprovoked attack on his education (and motherland), probably patted me on the back as any good sport would do whether he won or lost. I'm sure I apologized as well, making light of the quality of public schooling in the United States, all the while looking for other party-goers who initially agreed with me about Alexander Hamilton. (I was looking to displace and disseminate some of the shame I was feeling.)
Regardless, my defeat shook me to the core and I will never look at wikipedia or Canadians the same way ever again.
Stupid, know-it-all, maple leaf-loving jerks.
And isn't that the gameshow polestar by which we should measure all intelligence levels? It certainly isn't The Price is Right, where contestants regularly guesstimate how much a tube of Preparation H goes for these days (being sure to factor in California sales tax). And it sure as hell isn't Hollywood Squares where the most difficult challenge on that show has got to be stomaching the site of Bruce Vilanch, and the fact that even his double chin has a double chin. On Jeopardy, I might actually come home with more than just a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Especially if by some stroke of fortuitous luck there was a clerical error and I found myself pitted against those teenage players.
I would fucking cream those kids.
In any event, despite surpassing my questionable pedigree, it just so happened that on March 10, 2006 I was publicly bested and resultantly humiliated by a Canadian.
Yes, a Canadian.
And sadly, this wasn't a curling competition. No. Had it been, I'd gladly hang up my pushbroom thingee and concede. This was a question of intelligence. And the venerable wikipedia.com, on which I've spent many joy-filled hours shirking my corporate dayjob responsibilities, provided the facts that hastened my most embarrassing defeat to date. A defeat not only fingering me as an ignorant imbecile, but the whole of America as well.
My friend Brad was having a party. He's Canadian by birth (though I don't hold it against him) and has been living in the states for quite some time. He's Cambridge educated I believe, reads historical non-fiction like it's going out of style, is a lawyer at some hoity-toity Los Angeles firm, and is a regular commentator on all things law-related for Leeza Gibbons' radio show. (I threw that last factoid in there not because it's impressive really, just because it's hilarious.) Oh, and Brad has a cute ass. (I threw that last factoid in there not because it's hilarious really, just because it's impressive.) Sure Brad says things like "aboot" and "soorry," and on occasion will punctuate his sentences with "eh?" but on him it's adorable. You look past the colloquial mispronunciations (which otherwise might make you think you're talking to a dimwit) and you love him for it.
My esteem for Brad is further heightened by the fact that he's uber-intelligent. Much like another similarly affected orator with Canadian origins; Mr. Alex Trebek. Though Brad is younger, quite a bit shorter and... well, his ass is much firmer and higher.
And there you have it readers. My story has already come full circle.
So... Brad had a party. The usual suspects were all in attendance, as was a guest of Brad's from "up north" who was in town for the weekend named Paul. They had been high school chums apparently, but while Brad had gone on to enviable educational victories abroad, Paul had stayed behind pursuing his education in the land of hockey, hosers and (universal) healthcare.
Now it may be a character flaw of mine (and I readily admit that I do have a few), but I have a habit of sizing people up within a few moments of meeting them. Occasionally, I even do it on sight. And more often than not, I safely conclude that I'm their intellectual better. (Keep in mind, I live in Los Angeles where meeting someone of Brad's caliber is a definite rarity.) My mother would probably say that you "shouldn't judge a book by its cover," but she lives in Ohio. In LA, I would argue that "cover-judging" is a skill and a necessity. For instance, mentioning an interesting article you happened to read in The Economist to an overstyled twentysomething in capri pants and a Shakira t-shirt is just asking for trouble. Instead, you observe your target, make your snap judgment, and adjust your approach accordingly. In this case, I would suggest breaking the ice by saying, "You know what I like? Sour gummy worms." Believe me, you'll get farther.
And so, I sized up Paul. There was nothing particularly telling about his outward appearance, nor was his conversation very indicative. This was however a gay party. And at a gay party, or anytime you have a "faggle" gathered together, it's safe to assume that the general scope of the conversation will be more Hilary Duff and less Hillary Clinton. In my less-than-humble estimation, Paul fell within that exact gay subset. The fact that he was Canadian, in my mind, only confirmed his inclusion. Stereotypes tend to be based somewhat on fact, people. And stereotypes involving inhabitants of "America Jr." aren't incredibly glowing intelligence-wise.
For some reason a banal conversation I was mildly tolerating turned to the subject of currency. Specifically, the superiority and ubiquity of American currency, and how Canadians will gladly accept US tender at the drop of a hat, while state-side businesses flatly refuse to do the reverse.
Paul then piped up and said something about how he "really liked the new ten dollar bill."
"Huh?" someone asked.
"Your new ten dollar bill. It's been re-designed." Paul answered. "When I exchanged my currency at the airport they gave me these crisp, new American bills. They're colorful. They have all this red in them now."
With that he produced one out of his wallet and passed it around for all to see. And it was true! The current American obsession with makeovers had extended itself all the way into the US Mint, to dazzling effect. Alexander Hamilton had been supersized, softened and airbrushed like a Maxim cover model. He had also been having an incredibly good hair day apparently, as his new and improved image was now perfectly, windsweptedly coiffed. The whole thing was highlighted beautifully, just as Paul had said, with a ribbon of red ink.
"Wow." uttered someone. "He's actually kind of handsome now."
"Yeah. Hamilton was definitely one of the hotter Presidents." I said. "Definitely the hottest one on currency."
The gays nodded and gave their unspoken assent. All except for Paul.
"Alexander Hamilton was never President." he said.
"Yes he was. He was like fourth or fifth or something." I retorted.
"No, I don't think he was ever President."
At this point I probably should have left well enough alone. After all, any of the homos within earshot were on my side. Whether or not they had any significant knowledge of the succession of American presidents, my argument was plausible, if not airtight. My pride however, was at stake. A gauntlet had been thrown and I accepted the invitation to duel. I was certain of my eventual victory. So certain in fact, that I even presented Paul with a possible mistake in his reasoning.
"You're probably thinking of Benjamin Franklin. He's on our 100 dollar bill, but was never President."
By doing this, I not only asserted my historical knowledge but deftly positioned myself on the offensive. It was The United States vs. Canada. A geeky, gameshow match-up of Olympic proportions. The credibility of my upper-middle class education was hanging in the balance.
"Well that's true but I'm fairly certain that Alexander Hamilton was never President." Paul responded.
I probably audibly guffawed, and still thinking I was 100% in the right, proceeded to dig myself a little deeper.
"It went Washington, Adams, Jefferson, someone else like Buchanan or Van Buren, and then Hamilton. He ended up getting into a duel with Aaron Burr, whom he shot and killed."
"Actually, if I remember correctly," Paul remained calm, "Burr killed him in a duel, not the other way around. And Alexander Hamilton was the first Treasurer of your country and that's why they put him on the ten dollar bill."
Your country. He had said. (Though to Paul's credit, he hadn't said it maliciously.)
"Oh, what do you know?" I railed. "YOU'RE FROM CANADA! I've lived my entire life here. I'm sure I know a little bit more about American history than you do! Puh-lease."
And with that Brad was called on to settle the argument. Being the intelligent Canuck-cum-Briton-cum-Yankee that he is, he deferred to the agreed-upon omnipotence of wikipedia.com. (In retrospect, I have half a mind to think he knew I was in the wrong from the very beginning, but wisely decided to feign ignorance and let an inanimate webventure seal my fate.) He retreated to his bedroom (where every bachelor gay and straight keeps his computer these days ... I don't think I need to tell you why), while I poured myself another Bombay Sapphire & Tonic. Paul demurely busied himself at the hors d'oeuvre table.
Brad emerged several minutes later with the verdict. A hush fell over the party.
"According to Wikipedia," he stated matter-of-factly, "Alexander Hamilton was never President of the United States. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury and that's what got him on the ten dollar bill."
Mortified, I grasped at a straw.
"But he did shoot Aaron Burr in a duel and killed him." I paused. "Right?"
"Um, no." Brad replied with more than a little pity in his voice. "Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton and Hamilton died the next day."
The most profound embarrassment I have ever experienced in my entire life, prevents me from remembering exactly what happened next. Suffice to say that Paul, who had been entirely gracious through my whole unprovoked attack on his education (and motherland), probably patted me on the back as any good sport would do whether he won or lost. I'm sure I apologized as well, making light of the quality of public schooling in the United States, all the while looking for other party-goers who initially agreed with me about Alexander Hamilton. (I was looking to displace and disseminate some of the shame I was feeling.)
Regardless, my defeat shook me to the core and I will never look at wikipedia or Canadians the same way ever again.
Stupid, know-it-all, maple leaf-loving jerks.
alexander's makeover
Comments:
The Benigma (July 18, 2006. 04:28am)
Despite the fact that I dis The Price Is Right in the above story, I'm not ashamed to admit that Plinko totally rules.