Despite declaring that I do not imbibe by myself last week, tragic times call for pathetic measures; I spent the greater part of my Sunday afternoon intoxicating at Tryst, alone. I was all dressed up in black (though sadly, I did not resemble an erotic vulture), like some flashback to 1989, right down to the eyeliner-as-eyeshadow-tactic for that extra corpse-y effect.
My favorite way to waste a lazy Sunday is with one fat newspaper and several cups of milky coffee. After a phonecall from home bearing bad news, those props were replaced by this iBook and several pint glasses of milky coffee + alcohol, on the rocks. That was one slightly bright spot on an otherwise bleak day; what I was chugging was delicious and that’s because it was by my design. Sort of. Okay fine, the drink that I want to take credit for right now is but a slight variation on the powerhouse “Martin Blanco” cocktail I’ve been fond of forever at Tryst (iced vanilla vodka + espresso + kahlua + amaretto + milk…shaken violently). Amaretto di Saronno was my Father’s favorite liqueur and I didn’t want to taste it on a day when I was already glum. I improvised.
“Would it be possible to get Bailey’s instead of the Amaretto?”
My waiter paused and then smiled, as if he suddenly approved of such a manoeuver. “SURE.”
Later, when one of his co-workers asked me what I would call this elixir I was re-ordering for the third time, I tipsily blurted out “Martin O’blanco!” and she loved it. So there you have it. Since one of my goals in life is to get something on a menu either named after or otherwise attached to me (I’d totally settle for getting a mention in a menu “description”, which is something I think Tryst does), I take my barely-witty nomenclating of half-creative cocktails seriously enough to torture you with it.
As satisfying (and veg-happy) as Tryst’s menu is, I craved something different. I had devoured Amsterdam Falafel earlier in the day for lunch; I was suddenly consumed with memories of the fantastic gobi I had enjoyed there and I wanted more. I’m like that; if I dig something I will eat it over and over and over (PB + J, every day, grade 1-12) again. I do that with movies, too. And books. Especially suitable ones. Amsterdam it would be. I told the purveyor of O’blanco that I’d be back in 30 minutes and I left.
Though I have learned my lesson and no longer wear anything remotely cute while on 18th street, lest I encourage the invasive jerks who plague my new ‘hood with their assault attempts, all my modest, flesh-concealing layers were barely adequate for the autumn chill. I keep forgetting that it’s October and that I should expect to shiver accordingly. Or, you know, wear a jacket.
“Ay, Mami…where you going? Come on in.” Three confused desi promoters speak Latin to me half-heartedly. It’s Sunday night and the strip is dead. I think they’re more bored than serious. I smile as I pass them, right before one of them asks the other, “Was she Indian?” That’s the question of the day, apparently. At Tryst, I had been approached at different times by two Ethiopian men who inquired about my ethnicity with exquisite politeness, even as I coldly attempted to block them (well, everyone) out via noise-cancelling ‘phones which were blaring my favorite Pixies album of all time. I separately disappointed each of them with my answer that I was all brownz, but the second one was more desperate to make a connection with this potential Sheba.
“We look…same!”
I smiled faintly. I had spent the afternoon trying not to cry; regrettably, I was in no mood to be my usual bubbly, hyper, Cornholio-lite self.
“Really! People ask me…I am Indian!”
I nodded at him. He looked a little desi, but I would’ve been able to tell that his Orthodox church didn’t feature a portrait of Parumala Thirumeni. Maybe I’m more attuned to all of this, though.
I tried to be gentle. “I’m…in the middle of something. It was so nice talking to you. Have a good evening.”
“I thought you were Ethiopian!”
“I know.”
I hated disengaging from the conversation so abruptly, but I did anyway, because I had to. As I approached Amsterdam, I replayed the entire convo one more time. Had I been mean? IÂ’ve been somewhat paranoid about this lately, ever since some craven moron lied about me on a comment thread here. It annoyed me, in part because no one had called him out on his obviously BS assertion that I am a snob who would diss and dismiss someone for being a paralegal. Maybe it was so pathetic and ridiculous it wasn’t worth addressing? I don’t know. I do know that I try to be kind to everyone, not that such a thing is easy to do or something I’m flawless at…whatevs. I began to wonder if all this second-guessing and mental rewinding were indicators of low blood sugar and hunger-induced insanity, just as I jogged up the metal stairs.
No line. Sweeeet. The kid behind the counter resembles Puffy’s unfortunate new album cover, right down to the mirror-covered eyes. I ignore him and lovingly give the counter a visual caress, taking in the perfect condiments, the tzatziki, the hummus, the Turkish and Israeli salads…and then I see it: an empty stainless steel container. No. Come ON. Slightly panicked, I look up and ask, “No Cauliflower???” just as Puffy announces, “we’re all out of that…just ran out, actually.”
I’m forlorn. Gobi is the only reason I came BACK. This is the exact moment he chooses to ask me, “Where you from?”
“California,” I reply somewhat pointedly. I’m in no mood. How could he be fully stocked with everything BUT gobi?
“No. I mean…”
One of my eyebrows climbs skyward in anticipation.
He’s careful. “Where is…your family originally from?”
“India.”
“Yeah, I thought so…though I also thought you were Ethiopian.”
“Are you guys temporarily out? Like if I come back later tonight…?”
He’s apologetic. “Nothin’ ‘til tomorrow.”
Drat. Damn. Sigh.
“Thanks anyway…I’ll-“
“We have eggplant!”
“I…see that. I loathe eggplant, but I appreciate the attempt at substitution.”
“Oh…well if you hate eggplant…”
Right. I nod at him and walk out, slightly worried about where IÂ’m going to snatch dinner, before more Trysting.
I’ve lived in DC on and off since 1999, the year I commenced grad school at GW. I’ve gone out in Adams Morgan for almost as many years. I have never, however, had a Jumbo Slice and for this transgression the Washington Post among other “authorities” would have you believe that I’m not authentically chocolate. I’m not pressed. Those slices are terrifying, easily double the size of the already-generous pieces of pie I used to drive all the way to Berkeley to get from Blondie’s. And each of those purveyors of jumbo-sity is, well, somewhat filthy. But then, so is the Morg.
I’m now starving. So famished, I briefly consider life as an omnivore before disgusting myself with such blasphemous thoughts. I’ve passed one pizza joint and I’m coming up on the second; there are a total of three on 18th street, each of which claims to be the “original”.
Send me a sign, I whimper to the universe. Should I try this noxious culinary offering? Do I dare? Will I find an unwelcome present among the toppings? Eeeeeew.
I’m walking past the middle “original” Jumbo slice and then the air shifts slightly; the heavens part and while this cliché requires singing angels, let’s replace them with yodeling, jagged Carnatic trilling, just to be down with the brown.
The man behind the counter is desi.
My browndar is going off like Naomi Campbell at a new assistant. That does it. I am so going in, especially now that heÂ’s smiling at me so happily. Is it the dorky braided hair? The lack of visible skin? The Merrells instead of stripper shoes? The fact that I share some amount of culture with him? IÂ’m sure IÂ’m about to find out.
The three people who are already devouring fat-laden slabs of carbohydrates are trashed and this reminds me to mentally kill the last of my buzz. He’s looking at me and seeing “good girl”, and like I always am in such situations, I’m full of a desire to go with it, no matter how inaccurate.
I smile widely as I approach the counter. HeÂ’s tickled.
“Hello there.”
“Hi!”
“What would you like?”
“What kind do you have?”
”Cheese and pepperoni, only.”
“A slice of plain, please.”
He nods with approval and hollers something unintelligible after turning away.
“Vere you are from?”
“My parents are from India—“
“I know. Vere?”
“South India…” he’s looking at me expectantly so I continue. I long ago learned that not everyone’s heard of Kerala, though this fact shocks the fecal matter out of me, to this day.
“They are from Kerala.”
“But you are from Amreeka.”
I smile and nod. Yeggzactly.
“You know where I am from? Punjab.”
I had a feeling this was the case; something about this Uncleji’s face. Suddenly, it’s Martin O’Blanco’s last stand and I’m buzzing again. I know this, because two things happen when I’m tipsy/faded: I talk like I’m four and I speak multiple languages. Rather well. Or so we discovered at Davis after doing an experiment where I drank two zimas before every Spanish conversation class for a month. My grade jumped to an A-, as I grew way chatty and rolled my “R”s like I was Manish Vij or something.
“KIDDHAN!” I chirp, as foggy, faraway memories of UC Davis engulf me: I’m surrounded by the past as I remember celebrating Baisakhi, being the only non-Sikh kudi in the fashion show, Safri Boys CDs ruined by loving abuse i.e. use, tasting rajmah for the first time, crying when my bf whispered a tragedy about two lovers named Heer and Ranjha in my quivering ear, wearing my first Indian outfit which wasnÂ’t a sari…
My college sweetheart, who was so nice I dated him twice, was Jat Sikh. My then best friend was also Punjabi. Between the two of them (and their family members), I had marinated in the language. I always feel a pure sense of comfort when I hear Punjabi, vs. my reaction to hearing Hindi, which makes me freeze at first, then feel wary.
Not that it needs to be stated, but IÂ’m a sentimental drunk, too.
I donÂ’t remember now what I babbled to Uncleji in my fourth-rate Punjabi, but he was smiling at me tenderly.
“My dear, I am from the Punjab which is in Pakistan. I am a Muslim. We do not say ‘Kiddhan’, as such. But it is still sweet to hear you in this place.” He’s looking warily at the belligerent, excessively loud drunkards behind me, the kindness leaving his face rapidly…it rushes back when his eyes land on me. He leans over the counter, looks at me intently and then says, “Ve are the same, beti. Neighbors. Now tell me what my neighbor’s daughter is studying.”
“I’m done with school…for now.”
This receives instant approval.
“Veddy good. Always put education first. You will get Master’s?”
IÂ’m digging him fiercely, not just because he has such a distinguished face, but also because he didnÂ’t mention professional degrees.
“I have one, Uncle…”
“Ha! Excellent. You will take your PhD.”
I have relatives who donÂ’t believe in me or encourage me this much.
“Here we go! You ever have this before?”
I nod negatively.
“You will not be hungry, I promise you.” He triumphantly hands over a slice of cheese pizza so large, it doesn’t fit on TWO paper plates laid side-by-side. Good lord.
IÂ’m scared to even carry this gooey behemoth, but I do, making my way over to a filthy counter which immediately makes me miss Blondies. I refer to the OLD Blondies, i.e. the one which existed c. 1990-1997. I donÂ’t go there anymore. ItÂ’s not the same and neither is this. But at least Blondies bolts their grated parmesan cheese, red pepper, garlic powder et al to clean counters. Here and now, I see four random pepperoni dotting the space where I am loathe to lay even these paper products I know I am about to toss. Blech. What I would give to see rock and roll history as art, next to the jewel in the UC system right about now…
It truly is a massive amount of pizza to consume all at once and I try not to think of the bad reviews and articles IÂ’ve read online, regarding such establishments. To distract myself, I revisit conversations which IÂ’ve had this evening, each of which is more than happy to burst out of my memory to torment me. Each exchange involves a question about my ethnicity, specifically a curious query regarding whether or not I am Ethiopian.
I start to weird out slightly; IÂ’ve always thought (and been told) that I look very desi, so thatÂ’s the first thing which springs to mind. Then I try and force context in to my brainÂ…IÂ’m running around little Ethiopia with an Orthodox crossÂ…itÂ’s totally understandable that IÂ’d make people wonder. Still, if I don’t look South Asian…
“Escuse me…beta?”
I turn, surprised, towards the voice at the counter.
“Is okay?”
He saw me and knew me immediately; realizing this makes me instantly happy and I am flooded with a sense of love for this stranger.
“Yes, Uncleji. I’m totally okay.”
He beams at me.
“You visit again?”
“Sure. I don’t get nearly enough opportunities to practice my Punjabi.”
He grins and says, “Kiddhan!” in response. We both know that I probably won’t be back, because much to his relief and my elderly pragmatism, I don’t go out in the Morg on Friday and Saturday nights, which are the traditional times for eating Jumbo-style. He looks at me with all the doting affection of a Father and I get it, as I wrinkle my nose. He wouldn’t mind seeing me again, but he’d prefer that he didn’t. No worries. The pizza is okay…but it’s no Ray’s. Or Blondie’s, c. 1990. I wrap up the detritus, toss it in a huge bin and take my apparently-Ethiopian kundi on home.
Aah lighten up folks.
Whether itÂ’s literary or not, who cares. Besides who died and made you the expert?
I enjoyed it and sometimes I wish that Anna would stop blogging, just to lock herself in a room and write that perfect-on-a-rainy-day novel.
Despite the bleak undertone I thought “above” was crackling and so true. I have a love hate relationship with UncleÂ’s and Aunties but when they express their concern itÂ’s.. well heart-warming to know that perfect strangers care.
I think this is no less offensive than ridiculous assertions like – Desi guys cant handle opinionated women or women who make more money than them, desi men prefer submissive women etc.
Infact PGs statement is not as offensive because her original comment was filled with enough disclaimers and caveats, whereas some people make blanket statements without bothering to insert a simple IMO. So, lets not hate on PG so much. Teek hai?
ANNA – Its Friday and we are waiting…
A N N A,
A very poignant and contemplative piece. Please continue writing pieces like this.
Having said this, I want to jump to a different sub-thread. Apologies for going off-topic — I do not wish to be misunderstood as defending the anonymous trolls above — but I’ve been with the Rhetorical-rigour Police for too long in my life to resist addressing the following to:
razib:
That is a bad analogy. A blogsite cannot be likened to a house party. Given the nature of the forum, it is more like a poetry slam. I have seen a lot of rudeness at the latter, which — I hasten to add — is inexcusable; but it happens. So… I agree with your sentiment, but please find a better analogy next time 😉
Sorry for the threadjack, folks! But: a) I get the impression, Razib, that you have some connection with the sciences (right?), where bad analogies can be disastrous; and b) You’ve used the dinner-party analogy once before — I forget when — and it irked like hell!! In view of (b), this seemed like a golden opportunity for an intervention; that’s all.
Ravi,
You’re missing the point. Anna is not a professional journalist. This is not an online newspaper. It’s just a bunch of South Asian friends based in the US who have got together to run an informal blog which is aimed at having articles and discussions which would be of interest to some degree or other to people of a South Asian background, especially those living in the West and most of all those in the United States.
It’s a privately-owned website. It’s not owned or funded by the general public or by the US Government.
Therefore, in that sense it really is a private party inside someone’s house, where they happen to have an open-front-door policy. The Mutineers have an obligation to be good hosts and ensure that events inside their house go smoothly, but commenters also have an obligation to be good houseguests by not taking advantage of their hosts’ good nature and not harassing other guests.
Anna is an ordinary person who obviously likes writing and for various reasons occasionally posts articles on this blog. The rest of us don’t have to agree with what she writes, and we can either ignore the contents or politely state what we think is wrong about the articles, but it’s fundamentally a matter of basic human decency not to be a jerk towards Anna. Furthermore, it’s sadistic to kick someone when they’re down.
Posting an article on a publicly-available website and allowing other people to respond does not make Anna exempt from deserving compassion and sensitivity. Neither does being from the same ethnic background as her — South Asians are notorious for taking gross liberties with other South Asians just because they share the same ethnicity and/or religious affiliation.
It’s not rocket science, it’s just common sense and a more civilised and humane way to behave. Anna has done absolutely nothing to deserve such insensitivity.
mr. singh: common sense ain’t so common 😉
Ah, bu it is rocket science.
Jai,
I know I’ve been caught up in this thread and have been spending way too much time. Let me make a few things clear. I love SM. I love each and everyone’s posts and admire how well each one is researched and how relevant the issues are. I cannot appreciate enough the amount of work the macacas put on each article. I tried blogging and know how hard it is to write one single article that is coherent. I try writing five sentences in a comment and realize that there are ten grammatical errors after posting. So I know this is hard work. They spend hours doing this and all for free because I fathom they like it. They must like the interaction and the flow of ideas coming from the fellow south asian community. I am not kidding when I say for the most part I get my news from this site.
I don’t consider this a non-professional site. Although Anna is not a professional journalist like you say that is only because she doesn’t get paid for it. Based on her writing I think she’s got the talent and could be writing for several good magazines. Please don’t liken SM to a private party. I just don’t like that analogy. When you say a private party I get an image that this is more like a soviet style party and you have say “Yay” everytime. I never meant to be insensitive to her and you can point to any line in my earlier comments. What I was trying to say was there are different kinds people here and you can’t please them all. But her tone to PB’s comment was very dismissive( as is his comment to her post). But as the one who put her work out to be seen by everyone, IMO she needed to be more tolerant. All along my suggestion to Anna is you’ve got to take the good with bad. That’s all I’m saying.
Here’s the deal: Anna, Jai, Razib or any of the mutineers( hey, that includes peanutbutter as well), if you guys are ever in Chicago, send me an email. I’ll buy you a coffee to make up for my perceived insensitivity.
Keep up the good work.
while I agree that commenters here should practice civility, the house party analogy has its issues. I don’t put signs in front of my house saying “We’re having a party come on in” There’s no aggressive public invitation. That being said, an invitation for educated, well thought out commentary will also invite uneducated, reprehensible commentary as well. And you might even get some folks who’re in between.
happy friday mr. kobayashi…
darnit…all along i thought it was brain surgery… doh! back to the drawing boards… or chalk boards..if we want to stop speaking like baba hari dass. happy diwali everyone..
A happy Friday to you too, Chick Pea.
A heavy mist is general all over the city today. Puts one in a ruminative mood. Be good to each other. Eat some good food, give the cab driver an extra tip.
Ravi,
The problem with your approach is it does not provide for different interactions based on the type of post it is. For example, in an opinion piece it would be bad form to have to toe a “party line”. In those cases, the forum becomes just an echo chamber (although I think conformity does happen even with the best of intentions).
But this post was personal in nature, and the criticisms are not about some seperatable issue that is apart from the subject matter of the post. They way I see it, we’ve been given the chance to read someone give their personal story in the way they choose to present it. Its quite different to critisize this versus an opinion piece. What is more, it is somewhat troubling thing is that indeed these kinds of reactions happen more often to posts written by Anna. I believe Maureen Dowd at the NY Times had a recent column where she described the shocking lack of respect she has found for female columnists and writers in her career, and I think there is some of that here in terms of the quite disproportionate vitriol that regularly appears on the comments section of Anna’s posts. If it was not aparrent that these comments are intended to wound, it might be a case for critique as to how open SM is to non-mainstream voices. But in these cases, I think the best response is to call deliberate attempts to hurt something’s feelings, deliberate attempts to hurt someone’s feelings.
Ravi, You were all class on that one! I absolutely admire the way you put your thoughts across. Thanks for showing us that you can disagree without being disrespectful.
Job well done! B
Anna enjoy your posts.
Bengali (#33) I usually get the “Where are you from?” question from Fijian Indians, some of whom have never even heard of Bangladesh. There’s nothing more disconcerting than explaining to a brown person that Bangladesh is not in India.
It is equally disconcerting to explain to a brown person, who has never even heard of Fiji, that yes, there are Indians in Fiji.
Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah, something sarcastic, blah blah blah, brown pride, blah, blah, is a proxy for my own issues, blah blah blah blah
Ironically, you write like an overgrown frat boy who is just mad he’s not white.
Aah. So she should have turned the other cheek. Ravi you should comment more, your comments get better with practice.
clearly sahej is really maureen dowd in drag.
My reaction was to what you said, you were rude and so was I. You are hyper-sensitive about desi-ness and feel threatened whenever anyone says something good about white people
analogies don’t capture the full flavor of running a blog. they also don’t capture the variation between blogs. and they don’t capture the variation of posts within a blog. for those of your offering a ‘dissent’ from the ‘party line,’ imagine that you spent 2 hours composing something. imagine it was emotional. now, you do offer up the forum for comments, but the first comment is along the linkes of “wow, what a waste of time.” the first comment is what, 15 characters? 15 seconds of the commenters time? is this the sort of ‘critique’ that one opens up comment boards for? especially in light of the fact that no one is forcing one to read, no one is demanding payment for what one reads.
again, as i’ve noted in the past, most of the people offering constructive criticisms of this blog don’t seem to run a blog themselves.
” imagine that you spent 2 hours composing something. imagine it was emotional. now, you do offer up the forum for comments, but the first comment is along the linkes of “wow, what a waste of time.” the first comment is what, 15 characters? 15 seconds of the commenters time?”
I hope people remember this the next time they walk out of a movie with “that sucked” as the first thing out of their mouth.
Robert Greene, the writer of “48 Laws of Power” “33 Strategies of War” and the “Art of Seduction”, recently wrote about debate tactics on his blog.
The guy has been attacked from various ‘moral’ sources for writing those books, which IMHO have an amoral/apolitical agenda (he is a Democrat and for those interested in strategic vision, his posts on Karl Rove are interesting). He’s been called evil, manipulative, whatnot. In the post, he outlines something that seems pretty rampant here at times:
I hope people remember this the next time they walk out of a movie with “that sucked” as the first thing out of their mouth.
yeah, especially if they didn’t pay money for the privilege.
123
Did you pay for the movie?
Checking out this blog in the morning has become a comforting ritual to me, though I don’t post comments too often. This thread may be waning now (I missed yesterday), but I just wanted to add that I so enjoy Anna’s posts. I’m pretty surprised at the hate. Anna’s reflective musings are the kind that stay with me for a long time. The fact that her posts always generate tons of comments speaks to the effect that her nostalgic eloquence has on people. I like the other bloggers just fine, but I probably wouldn’t be as addicted to SM if there wasn’t the chance that Anna had offered us another intimate snapshot into her life. Anna is simply sublime.
What you said was totally out of the blue, like Tourette’s. Fuck! Shit! Piss! I hate Maureen Dowd!
I can totally relate 🙂 This is why I really enjoyed this particular post.
clearning throat Are all you muchachos done flexing at each other?
bidi, have you and HMF ever gotten into an argument? if so, can you point me to the thread?
tx
people people..
we are not in a damn schoolyard throwing sand in each other’s eyes…
the bean says :go eat some candy/choco/sugar/mitthai/whatever…sugar does wonders…that or go outside and see the sun for a few minutes… it is calming… or go hug someone.. hell… GROUP HUG..or as the infamous entourage says…hug it out b*tches!..
we all have differing opinions…and that is what makes the world go around…but it’s getting to be quite a preschool..
it’s the start of a new year… for those who celebrate diwali..and those who don’t…it’s a new day.. celebrate..
“Kidhan” its origin is in “Doaba” region of Punjab. Most punjabi immigrants are from Doaba region, thus second Gen has picked up this greeting. Not to be used informally, an uncle might not appreciate it.
All right my bad.
Sorry for the arguement.
…brown.
Ignore my ignorance, but what does “Kiddhan” mean in Hindi or English.
Thanks
Happy Diwali and Saal Mubarak!
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening. IT’S A FRIDAY. WOOT WOOT!!!
Loosely, it means “wassup”. Though I’m sure 10 other variations will soon be posted =)
Ignore my ignorance, but what does “Kiddhan” mean in Hindi or English.
Beti in Hindi, or Daughter in English.
A generic, very commonly used affectionate term for a girl in a fatherly way. Not necessarily confined to Punjab (though a Punjabi word), but often used in NW India (Punjab, Haryana, Delhi, bordering parts of UP, etc.)
I guess 138 is right.
For 139, it must be kuddhan
Kiddhan literally means ‘how’ (like ‘kaise’ in Hindi). The more formal Punjabi word for ‘how’ is ‘kiven’.
We’ll if you truly want to represent, its always “ki gal hai…. praji”..or
Chak de phatte
Anna, I know this thread is about done but as I am new to SM as of last month, I had to say it-your stuff keeps me coming back. The ‘what is feels like for a girl’ post echoed in my mind for days. This one will as well. I actually got lobbed several ‘where are you froms?’ within hours of reading your post …and again, here you are, articulating my feelngs so well that reading an Anna post provides catharsis. I’m your sista in pain…
Paying for something doesn’t entitle you to make the same type of crass, sweeping statements. While it wasn’t clear, I was actually referring to short and independent cinema, put together by struggling people. Not big blockbuster studio flicks, although even those shouldn’t be subjected to the same type of crassness in my view. What if someone supported SM financially? Does it entitle them to make those 15 word statements?
Now I know that the bloggers have a hard enough time as it is, but what about implementing a comment system like that used by Slashdot? Might improve the quality of posts here….
I could help out if needed….
I think the first time I ever checked out a blog, it was about a year ago, and it was Anna’s. I really can’t recall the topic of her post, except to say I found the solipsism therin both sloppy and puerile. The internet is good place to drop any pretence of etiquette, and I wrote to her say exactly that. I got an email back saying “you suck donkey d**k.
I was furious, not so much by her vitriol, but really because I had such an intense reaction to an incorporeal persona. I had probed carelessly, and had provoked a personal insult. In the aftermath of this, I felt guilty, morally assailed by the conviction that I had gotten some sort of bad karma stuck to myself by insulting someone who was an absolute stranger to me.
I canÂ’t figure out why people like Anna write blog, and I donÂ’t particularly feel like I need to. IÂ’ve heard the clichés about committing some act that reaches for posterity, or a moribund fixation on commiserating in public in the age of connections. Perhaps. But for the cats who feel the need to spill their passive agressive guts out, just don’t. At itÂ’s very worst, itÂ’s just static karma, a bunch of disembodied shouts going nowhere.
but what about implementing a comment system like that used by Slashdot? Might improve the quality of posts here….
i’ve suggested this too. i think SM is just too popular for the posters to handle all the modding. SCOOP is a nice option too.
I like practically all of Anna’s posts. If you did a sepia all time top twenty, she’d – imo- have more than half, and its a damn good bunch to begin with,
No. No, it’s not. How dare you say something to someone online that you wouldn’t say to their face; if the thought of looking someone in the eye while making whatever comment you are about to type gives you pause, that’s a sign.
On this site, dropping “any pretenSe of etiquette” causes more friction, negativity and cocktail party-marring shittiness than anything else. Courtesy is always appreciated, whether you can see the person you are interacting with or not.
For the same reason people like you and I “read blog”
protect your neck indeed.
No.
Regarding blockbusters, i think it might be justified for some bollywood movies…esp if everyone involved in its making said “This movie is different”.
Is the universe round ?. If we threadjack enough, will we get back to where we started ?
Oh my GOD I cannot believe you guys are still beating this poor horse. This whole issue should have been settled and moved beyond in the first ten comments.
There’s a little thing called netiquette, and part of it goes like this:
The internet is open to everyone (er, who has access, that is). You don’t have to look at, read, or watch anything that you don’t like. If you don’t like something, then just don’t partake in it. If you dislike and/or disagree with it, AND want to engage in a constructive conversation about it, act like an adult and don’t hide behind false names. Don’t make immature little comments that are intended to hurt rather than to provoke serious consideration of your words. And most importantly, when you come across people who absolutely refuse to obey these simple rules, DON’T FEED THE TROLLS.
Anna presented a well-written, interesting piece, and THAT’S what we ought to be discussing, don’t you think? I find it pointless and frankly disrespectful to her to allow ourselves to get so wrapped up in petty issues like troll comments.
I just don’t understand what the big issue is here, I mean if you don’t like the post it should be okay to say so that you don’t and then state your personally-non-offensive-constructive-criticism. That’s all, don’t nobody gotta agree or disagree with Anna or even like her. I mean she is doing her job and if you don’t like it dats coo, just don’t go on being crazy and nasty about what kinda person she is. You can say what you wanna say dawg but don’t go on offendin’ nobody… know I’m sayin…