Niall’s Weblog

After a year of Association for Computing Machinery “professional-level” membership ($200 / year) I’ve decided not to renew. Why not? A number of things really rubbed me up the wrong way about the ACM.

First of all, I had been looking forward to having an @acm.org email alias which I could use as a neutral and professional contact address on personal cards. Unfortunately, the ACM gave me a completely useless address which included an apostrophe in it! Yes, RFC 821 allows this, but such an alias is horribly prone to mis-typing and is difficult to remember. It simply wouldn’t work on a business card. There was no way, as far as I could see, to change the alias. I could have called them up and shouted at them to change it I suppose, but I really didn’t have time to bother with that sort of thing.

Secondly, they had the nerve to mail me ads for dental insurance. I assumed since I had received a letter from the ACM - a supposedly serious and useful professional organisation - that it would be something of actual value - such as perhaps an invitation to a conference or something of that nature. Nope - they are trying to sell me dental insurance. I already had dental insurance, and even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have appreciated the spam from an organisation which is supposed to be helping my career as a computer scientist, not flogging on insurance. I found it incredibly cheeky that after paying them $200, they would send me such garbage.

Thirdly, their publications are terrible. “Communications of the ACM” literally makes me nauseous. Its chocked full of industry advertisements and vapid, content-free articles. For a publication which is supposed to be of practical value, its pages are surprisingly full of utter trash - titles straight out of some Sokal hoax paper such as “amoeba-based neurocomputing with chaotic dynamics”. Come on. Their other magazine, “Queue” is similarly full of rubbish, but of a slightly different nature. Its articles are criticism-free, glorified adverts for various large computer vendors. Vendors get to trot out all sorts of insane new technologies, sure to be “the next big thing” while puppy-dog like interviewers stare wide-eyed.

Overall, the ACM reeks of an organisation which was once probably authentic, and useful, but has now utterly sold out to industry and become effectively an advertising racket specifically targetting professionals in computer-related fields. Not only do they provide very little content (beyond their digital library, which can be accessed from various public libraries for free in any case) but they are over-priced and actively engage in cheeky, rude maneuvers like trying to sell on insurance. Sorry ACM, but you won’t be getting any more of my money.

On our boat, cold, in the midst of a particularly lonely sea. Clouds sitting overhead, fat fearsome and lazy, refused to let any sun filter through. Biscoe was standing on the deck, eyes dulled by the frozen wind, struggling for a matchstick to set his meagre smoke alight. Both hands were in pockets, clenched against the heartless temperature - he knew one must be sacrificed to the elements, in order that the smoke be lit. But the hiss was overwhelming, that primitive engine spewing forth steady clouds of smoke, chuffing on and on through the endless swathes of water, wasted and useless. Now and then a great clanging would come, as the hull punched through some nonsensical underwater ice pack. He resigned to his fate, removing one hand - his left - first from the pocket, then from its own tender glove. Steam rose up from that now-empty glove hole in a childish imitation of the grand machine’s chimney stack. Vapours are at the essence of our construction, much the same as any good boat, Biscoe thought, as he inhaled the product of the cigarette’s own combustion.

“Lad!” Biscoe shouted through the unfriendly air. “Lad! What do you make of that”. He pointed the lad toward what he had been regarding. It looked like a very vague dash in the sea at the horizon. A dirty smudge on an otherwise flawless daguerreotype. The lad peered and peered, trembling terribly through his too-thin clothes, until he, too, saw the smudge. “Could it be real, sir?” said the lad, “could it be land?”. Biscoe took another drag through his lips, holding the warm smoke in his own lungs for a long moment, before spewing forth another cloud of smoke. “Yes, lad, its land. I’d say its Enderby Land”. At that very moment, a great cachalot breached by the aft of the boat.