Over at Brainstorm, David Barash describes sitting through a very bad lecture. We’ve all been there.
Here is a taste:
I recently attended a conference, which will not be named, at which one of the speakers (who also will not be named) delivered – or rather, subjected his audience to – what might well be the world’s worst lecture since the first glob of pretentious, self-involved, scholarly goo crawled out of the primordial, pre-Socratic ooze. I’m exaggerating at least a teeny bit, but you all know what I mean. To be sure, there’s nothing novel about attending a bad lecture, but I can’t help wondering whether it is one of those experiences that are so widely shared that they are taken for granted, yet worth examining. Like that proverbial and hypothetical fish, who, if asked to describe her world, would probably not volunteer that “it’s wet down here,” tedious talks are all too often the unexamined ocean in which we swim.
In this case, the speaker elaborated upon material that bore no connection whatever to the theme of the conference. Yet, obliviously on he droned. Nor did he connect, even glancingly, with any of the preceding speakers. Obliviously on he droned. The audience grew increasingly restive, shifting positions, getting up for refreshments, whispering among themselves, while – yes – obliviously on he droned. Not surprisingly, extensive PowerPoint slides repeated nearly every word the speaker uttered, interrupted occasionally by flow-charts purporting to clarify things, yet consisting of literally dozens of unreadable little boxes. Obliviously on he droned.
The moderator – for whom I developed increasing sympathy – attempted on FOUR different occasions to interrupt him, suggesting that he “wrap things up.” Each time, the speaker responded by saying something along the lines of “Yes, of course. Let me just make this final point …” Whereupon, obliviously on he droned. Impervious. Unstoppable. Like a heavily laden supertanker bereft of rudder and thus unable to change course, yet lacking any obvious means of propulsion, he nonetheless continued to glide relentlessly along simply by virtue of his vast verbal inertia, breasting the increasingly conspicuous waves of audience discontent. Oblivious. Droning.
Periodically, he enlivened his presentation – and got something approaching the audience’s grateful attention – by announcing those blessed words, “In summary …” but it quickly became clear that this was merely a verbal mirage; he was simply summarizing section 3.8 of his unfolding verbal monotony. Obliviously on and on and on he droned.
Earlier, I had decided to leave my laptop at home, so as to pay closer attention to the various presentations. Bad move! With it, I would at least have been able to check my e-mail or read The New York Times, all the while possibly giving the impression of taking notes. I couldn’t even close my eyes, for fear that I might well fall asleep, and then snore. (It was a small room.)…
Have you ever attended a lecture like this? Let’s hear about it.
I attended one session at the most recent Joint Statistical Meetings where there were four presenters (a fifth didn't bother to show up). There were roughly six of us in the audience. The first three presenters were young men, just finishing their PhDs. Each gave clearly thought out presentations of their research. Even the one that I could not follow because of the nature of his work was interesting enough to catch the general idea. The fourth presenter was much older, a fellow of the American Statistical Association. I assumed that this might be interesting. I was wrong. He opened Word, and pulled up a copy of a paper (from what it appeared). He then proceeded to scroll through the paper (it was 8.5×11, not landscape) reading selected lines. There was no flow. It was not obvious why certain paragraphs and formulae were worth sharing, and what we were missing by not seeing/hearing the rest. I got lost very early, and nothing happened to get me back. He spoke in a monotone, and didn't seem overly excited by anything he was telling us about. I ended up giving up and trying to discreetly check phone. I texted a friend, and fellow statistician, that I was in dire distress. Thankfully, I managed to stay awake and survived the ordeal. – Sam