Does This Blog Make My Ass Look Big?

Ever feel... insecure?

Uncertain?

...............................................

Not-so-fresh?

Of course you do-- you're bloggers, and most of you are female. So feeling insecure and not-so-fresh is practically your business, for Christ's sake. You're constantly in a positively feral search for validation, comfort, rote flattery and cuddles if you can get them.

And I don't blame you. I likes me that shit, too.

(Espech the cuddles. Totes and natch.)

It's funny-- if you ever take the time to look back and reflect on why you started blogging (just pretend you're being interviewed on CBS Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood, alone in your room, like I used to do when I was twelve) you might be surprised by what your motives were back then, if you can remember back that far because of all those drugs you did to get you through your early twenties.

I remember vividly why I started my old blog. I did it as a kneejerk response to the anger and rage I felt against the exclusive girls Catholic school I subbed at for a month whose Lord High Penguin found "something on my Google" that contained obscenities and ordered me (on my last day of scheduled teaching) not to return to campus.

"Fuck that cunt," I said to my wife after I had recovered from the shock of my first official dismissal, and after doing, if you'll pardon my self-aggrandizement, a wonderful job with my students, "I'm not changing who I am for anybody-- I'm just going to be anonymous about it."

Aaaaand that's what I did, and that's why I did it.

I didn't know anything about blogging when I started and, two-ish years later, I still don't. Well, I know there are rules and etiquette, about commenting and responding to comments, and there are time-tested theories about cultivating followers and gaining recognition, promoting other bloggers, promoting yourself, scoring book deals, eschewing mediocrity, purchasing domain names and social networking.

But, really, I don't know anything. I just blog because it feels good.

But, is it the clickety clackety of the keyboard keys that feels good? Is it surfing through endless layers of pop culture and anti-pop culture and headlines and family minutae in search of a bloggable blogglette that feels good?

No.

It's the COMMENTS!

Because, in comments, there is validation. And cyber-cuddles. Get over here, Ms. Snuffleschmump! Gimme a squelch!

When I started blogging, I had no idea what comments were, and what their point was. Though my old blog is shut down and forever spirited away, I suspect that, if I were to raise it from the dead and check, it was probably, like, five months before I ever got my first comment. When I did, it was like Jesus rays streaming through the clouds of my mind. It was like when you shit so hard that you see Technicolor spots. It was like an angel tickling my asshole with a quail feather while singing like Eddi Reader.

I was like, "Oh."

Something clicked. And, at the same time, something snapped. This was what blogging was all about, I realized.

And, at the same time, I must have more of it.

Comments on my writing have always been, well, unsatisfying. I used to bang out questionable stories, poems, and sketches on typewriters, word processors and, eventually, computers upstairs in the play room and I would come downstairs all triumphant with my six or seven pages of profanity-laced material about men in suits behaving in bizarre ways, and I would read the material to my parents, seated dutifully in the living room.

"That's very nice," was my mother's stock reply. My father, generally speaking, needed a second or third reading to prompt any response, being Israeli and all.

I routinely fell in love with English teachers and, later, professors. Not in the I-wanna-prematurely-ejaculate-all-over-your-back way (I only wanted to do that to my 11th grade math teacher) but in the I-want-you-to-love-and-respect-me-and-admire-my-talents way. See, I have this thing for intelligent authority figures, of whatever gender-- doesn't matter. I crave their recognition and their adulation, and I began to realize, slowly-- very slowly-- that the reason I wrote creatively was exclusively for the reaction from these individuals. I craved their intelligent, witty, and supportive comments.

When my creative writing seminar professor in college called me a genius, I was seized by an unshakeable desire to legally adopt her daughter.

And now, here I am, bereft of my coveted intellectual authority figures, but still doing the same damn fool old thing-- writing for, well, I suppose it's love. What kind? Well, I don't know. The "That's nice" comments from my mother are conspicuously absent from this blog because, well, I can't show it to her, even though she wouldn't be surprised by anything in it-- she would just be furious that it's out in public. And I doubt that any of my old professors and/or teachers read this blog, though that would make things very interesting.

You're here, of course. And that means a lot to me, as I think I've mentioned. I hope this doesn't give your weirdsies, or put you in the uncomfortable and regrettable position of feeling compelled to comment all or even some of the time, because you know that I'm sitting in my home office or my office office kneading my knuckles and turning my lips into that pathetic, pursed frown, hoping for a glimmer of validation. Because I wouldn't want you to say something nice, just because you think you should. I just want you to know why I blog, because I think that all of us should be asking ourselves that question, even if the answer is kind of odd, or kind of painful, or kind of absurd, or kind of cute.

You... do think I'm cute. Right?

Please, Stalk Me

I recently read a discussion post on www.20sb.net about "blog stalkers."

Like most discussions that take place on this board, replete with enticing, hard-hitting topics like "Longest You've Gone Without Sex?", "How Ugly Are You?", "I Want to Discover More Girly Blogs!" and, my favorite, "Should Canada's Anthem Become Gender-Neutral?" I was definitely moved and intrigued by a discussion on the burgeoning phenomenon of "blog stalkers."

I have to go on the record at this point and admit that I'm not sure I understand the term. I mean, I know there are people out there who read my blog every day, and they make comments about the things that I write-- personal stuff!-- and some of these people even go so far as to "follow" me.

I mean, skeevy times, right?

Here's the thing: I thought that's what bloggers... wanted.

Maybe I'm wrong, but don't we obsessively self-promote, self-adulate, ardently seek the approval and consistent praise of total strangers? Don't we welcome them into our lives by opening ourselves up like a mid-March crocus? I mean... I thought that's what we did.

So I got to thinking, because no one on that particular discussion board was able to adequately elucidate exactly what a blog stalker was-- what is the difference between a blog follower and a blog stalker.

Well, I thought about this for a long time, and I came to the conclusion that there are a lot of similarities, and only a couple differences.

SIMILARITIES:

Blog followers & blog stalkers...

* read your blog obsessively

* comment frequently

* tell their friends, acquaintances, neighbors, comrades-in-arms, postal inspectors about your blog

* are almost always female

* have a vested interest in what you have to say

* can't squeeze out their morning loaf until they've read your blog at least three times

* more often than not read your blog at least semi-nude

DIFFERENCES

* Blog followers give you positive attention, blog stalkers give you negative attention

* Blog followers may sometimes end their comments with "I love you." Blog stalkers may sometimes end their comments with "Mo' cut you."

If there are other things that set blog followers and blog stalkers apart, I couldn't figure out what those traits might be. Maybe I just haven't had enough experience with blog stalkers. I once had a bunch of people get mad at me for a negative review I wrote about the band, "Hoots & Hellmouth" but they forgot about me after the next time they got high.

I sometimes have followers of My Masonic Apron write me 20sb messages or g-mails about this or that, and they sometimes mention feeling guilty about coming off "stalkerish." And I have to pretty much laugh that off until one of them shows up on my doorstep wearing a masonic apron with my picture embroidered on it and bloody pig's head as a facemask. Because, really-- the internet and the blogosphere has very much blurred the line between fan, follower, friend, stalker and everything in between. These designations just aren't as clear-cut as they once were. My creative writing teacher hiding in J.D. Salinger's bushes wearing camouflage make-up and eating tinned tuna for three weeks? Stalker. I mean, come on-- that's easy.

Someone in Alberta checking your blog four times a day? Maybe they're just a fan with O.C.D. Who knows, right? And maybe I'm a reverse-stalker for checking my blog stats so much. Maybe I'm fucking stalking YOU! Well, folksies... what are you going to do? Bust out a cyber-restraining order against me? That I can't come within five thousand IP addresses from yours? Tell it to the judge, sweetheart.

Do me a favor, though, in the meantime: get me some more stalkers. Or followers. Or whatever. I could use the attention; positive or otherwise.

No Comment

You guys are really super-doop good to me-- you know that?

You read-- you're loyal. You comment, some of you, and they're mostly insightful, interesting, engaging comments. Every now and then I'll get innocently flirted with, and that's always good for my ego. Sometimes you'll crack a joke, or reference an item in a column that's 200 posts ago, and that's pretty good for my ego, too. You're nice to me and respectful of each other, and you never ever whine that I'm not much for commenting on comments, probably because you know it's kind of a pet peeve of mine and that, if I have a comment that I feel requires one back, I'll leave one.

In short, you don't expect a lot of me and, in that respect, you're rather like my middle school math teachers. Except that I'm sure most of you shave regularly.

And there are a couple of you out there who stand up to me, calling me out on my rampant, AIDS-like hypocrisy, and I'm most grateful for those of you. (Not that I want all of you to start doing it, that would be a total suckfest.) Yesterday, Colleen was catching up on some of my blogs after returning from her vacation (I know that because, all of a sudden, seven comments showed up in my inbox on blogs from a week ago, not because I look through her mail and obsessively finger her kitchen utensils while she's at work) and she left a comment on a blog of mine about how much I hate my job-- a subject I touch on with frequency and aplomb. After reading my tautly-paragraphed whinings about my passive-aggressive chair and my boss that smells like farts, she responded with:

"'Boohoo, I'm one of the 90% of Americans who has a full-time job.'

Quit your bellyaching. And be grateful for your malodorous chair."

Oops. Was it something I said?

Of course, Colleen's right-- I'm a complete and utter crybaby because, no matter whether my office chair smells like fresh-baked croissants, industrial varnishing, or goat excrement, at least I have an office chair to befoul forty hours every week. Did it ever occur to me that under or un-employed individuals might take exception to a post about how much I hate work in a climate when 10.2% of Americans are unemployed? Yes-- the same way some of my pathetic, acne-ridden, hopelessly single readers might get turned off when I write schmoopie blooperings about my disgustingly adorable marriage, the same way my poor, unfortunate reader who tools around in a funkified, rusted out shell of a1987 Ford Festiva might get his panties in a barb when I complain about the fate to which I have been consigned-- a 2001 Chrysler PT Loser.

Here's the thing-- Colleen said something. She even managed to do it in a cute, hey-you're-a-jerk-but-it's-okay kind of way. In case you haven't realized, I can be pretty insensitive sometimes, I can run off at the mouth and I can alienate-- it has been known to happen. Hey-- I lost my best friend simply by opening my mouth. So, I know that.

I know.

And I don't want to lose any of you. I've lost too much in my life already. So, long story short, stick around. And open your mouths when you need to.

I still hate my job, of course-- that doesn't change a thing, and nothing changes.

The Dickhead

So, I was sitting in the waiting room of my allergist's office, and this dickhead looks at me and goes, "I like your mustache, man."

The dickhead had a mop of wild, dark curls and couldn't have been more than a junior in high school.

I stared at him with a look that I hoped would turn him into a pillar of salt, or at least a stick of margarine.

To fill the awkward silence he added, "It's cool."

I continued staring at him until he gave up whatever it was he was trying to accomplish with me and walked to the opposite end of the waiting room and sat down next to some taught woman who, I presume, was his mom. I resumed pretending to watch "Bee Movie" which was playing at impossible decibels on the 40-inch, wall-mounted flat-screen in front of me.

(I still, at 29, go to my pediatric allergist's office, but some of you already know that.)

As "Bee Movie" played, the teen proceeded to make comments about the film in an extremely loud manner, since I was the only other person in the waiting room other than his mom, I can only assume, for my "benefit," usually to the effect of, "WHAT EXACTLY IS THE POINT OF THIS MOVIE?" "YEAH, LIKE WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BELIEVE THAT BEES HAVE THAT KIND OF ADVANCED TECHNOLOGY?" and "WHY WAS THIS MOVIE MADE?"

While I admired his intellectual curiousity, I was bothered by his running rhetorical commentary. I'm curious, too. I could very well have asked, loudly, "WHY WERE YOU BORN?" (and, since his mummy was there, I might have actually gotten an answer, too) but I didn't. Because I have dignity, restraint, and a modicum of motherfucking class.

This dickhead reminded me of what I was like in high school-- acerbic, brash, accustomed to sharing my point of view with people who most likely didn't give a shit (uh-oh, is that what I'm doing right now?) and I shuddered at the similarities that existed between him and the high school version of me.

The only thing that made high school me different from this dickhead were his boldness in approaching someone in a public place to make a comment about their facial hair and his propensity to speak very loudly in a public place.

I didn't, and don't, speak loudly pretty much anywhere, and I have never and would never approach a random person and make a flip comment to them about any aspect of their appearance for fear that they would produce a Glock and promptly shoot me in the face.

I was, however, in high school, pretty fucking annoying. The adjectives "sarcastic," "disingenuous," "sophomoric," "scatalogical," "apathetic," and "unattractive" could all be easily applied to a photograph of me, circa 1997. I didn't have a lot of pleasant things to say, and I kept most of those myself. A bit of it managed to slip out in my senior year yearbook quote. Quoting comedian George Gobel, I wrote:

"Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes? That's kind of how I feel about high school."

For most of my life up to that point, and unfortunately beyond, I have vacillated about my self-opinion, and my thoughts on the matter have spanned the extremes, ranging from an intense, burning self-loathing to feeling that I was the only person my age with a brain at all-- that I was somehow special, and this quote selection is a good example of both sentiments. A high school student in 1998 knowing who George Gobel was: definitely unique. A high school student in any era feeling out-of-place: definitely not.

As I sat in the doctor's office waiting room, no doubt Swine Flu seeping through my trousers and up my ass, I stared at this curly-haired dickhead and wondered if he knew who George Gobel was, and if he ever felt like he was the ill-matched Florsheims to the universe's immaculate tux. Then I realized that I didn't care.

I wanted to say, "It's for a play" in reference to my mustache after he'd made the comment about it, but I didn't because I realized that he didn't care. I wouldn't have benefited in any way from explaining the facial hair's origins or purpose-- like having a gay mustache is made somehow less gay by the knowledge that it is being grown for a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta. I also wanted to say, "Go fuck yourself, you smarmy, smug shitsack," but I don't think his mother or the receptionist would have appreciated such language in front of an animated black and yellow Jerry Seinfeld with wings.

Ironically, I didn't have a negative reaction when my nurse called me in and made a comment about my mustache, nor did I have fleeting, vulgar thoughts when my allergist walked through the door and did a comic double-take upon seeing me. I did tell him it was for a play, and then I tried to sell him tickets. He politely declined.

"My wife, frankly, enjoys the theatre more than I do."

I wanted to tell him that I didn't enjoy "Bee Movie" or the kid in the waiting room either, but that I obediently sat through both, but I didn't. I did perk up when he asked me a funny question while he was examining my ears.

"Do people make comments?" he asked, I guess meaning people other than him.

"Yes," I said, "in fact, some schmuck kid just did in the waiting room."

Eeeeeee-Mail

Following Mrs. Apron's suggestion, as I am often known to do, I have created an email address specifically for use by you beautiful people who happen to frequent or even just randomly pop by this blog.

mymasonicapron@gmail.com

She thought it would be nice if people who came by here had some way to communicate with me other than by just leaving comments in the comment section (that's okay, too, by the way, sweetumsdeetums).

Personally, I had no idea that "private" communication with me might be a goal for any of you punkos but, if it is, then here's your opportunity.

Maybe you want to tell me off for my frequent use of obscenities and sporadic unlicensed use of pictures of Andy Rooney. If you do, I doubt you'd want to do it in the form of an email. Wouldn't you want to do it in the comment section so other readers could reply with their own chorus of "Ooooh, DAMNs!" and "No, you di-ints!"

Maybe you want to write in to ask me for advice. If you do want my advice, I'm happy to give it. But, before writing in with some inane personal problem of yours relating to your coworker's b.o. or some tiff you're having with your BFF, I suggest you read one of my prior "Dear Apron" columns, just so you know what you're getting into by coming to me for "help."

Maybe you want to send me a private missive stating your emphatic desire to undulate against my lanky, hairy, boney, Jewish body. Well, that would be very flattering, but I'm totally married, in case you missed that whole Mrs. Apron thing.

Maybe you want to send me some insane, incoherent, rambling diatribe about how the government is plotting to take away our freedoms and how doctors are all conspiring to turn our kids into Aspergian chickenchildren who do nothing but incessantly fwap their arms around and talk about cargo trains in meticulous detail. I mean-- sure. Go ahead. I'd rather read that shit than do work.

Maybe you want to send me your latest manuscript that has been repeatedly turned down by every literary agent, manager, publisher, and editor in New York. That's okay, too. I mean, you show me yours, I'll show you mine.

Maybe you want to write me a poem or something gay like that-- and that's cool.

Fag.

Maybe you want to send me a compliment, an encouraging pat on the back to let me know that this blog is the only reason you get out of bed in the morning, that it's better than peach cobbler and freshly blown-out birthday cake candles and French amateur porn and Volvo seats, all rolled into one. I wouldn't mind hearing that from you. Every ego needs a kick in the ass, as opposed to a knee in the junk, every now and again.

Maybe you want to offer a suggestion. I'm open to suggestions. I would, however, like to point out that "Why don't you just fuck the fuck off?" isn't really a suggestion, nor is it a question, in spite of the punctuation.

Whatever you want to say, tie up your apron and give it to me at mymasonicapron@gmail.com.

The email, little poodiedoos, is open for business.

Unless It's Mean

I pissed somebody off in the blogosphere recently.

This should not be altogether surprising.

I don't like upsetting people, but it happens. In my insatiable quest to be humorous and entertaining, I realize that I will inevitably rustle a feather or two. It can't be helped. I mean, some people are sensitive. And others are Catholic. I think one or two people might even be a combination of the two.

See what I mean?

I wrote a comment on a blog that hamhandedly suggested that someone's 90-year-old grandfather might have "something in common" with a beautiful, blue Beta fish which, unfortunately, had a life-altering ailment. This person thought I meant that her grandfather was "on the way out, like the fish." That wasn't what I meant, but my remark wasn't carefully thought out, keeping in tradition with 99.7% of the remarks I make on any given day, and the young lady freaked on me, old school. Well, I guess actually it was more like "new school" since it was done in the comment section of a blog and utilized a keyboard, as opposed to on the mulch pile at an elementary school playground, utilizing fists, and/or a tire-iron.

Flip comments get people into trouble all the time, but they shouldn't. Look at the tumult and backlash that poor Joe Biden created when he said on the Today Show that he would advise his family members not to get on a subway or a plane during the apex of the swine flu outbreak. People freaked-- namely, people who routinely get on planes and subways, because they don't want their way of life jeopardized or questioned, even if it's for their own good. So everybody went ape on Big-Mouth Joe. I don't see what the big deal is. If I had kids, I would bar them air, ground and sea travel as well, and I would place them in isolation during such an outbreak, home-schooling them while wearing matching wet suits and scuba-gear.

Part of the problem isn't just the people who make flip or cavalier comments, it's the people on the receiving end. There are some people out there, lots of them, actually, who like to get offended. They enjoy being outraged, or slighted, or indignant. They, well, kind of get off on it. You know who I'm talking about-- the woman who hears someone swearing in the bread aisle at the supermarket. She thins her lips, crosses her arms in front of her chest and exclaims, "Well, I never!"

Sure you've evered, biatch, and don't tell me you haven't.

There are just these people out there who will look for any excuse to get their nose out-of-joint. And that's okay, really-- that's their thing. Some people have a fetish like that. Other people are obsessed with... other things. There's a woman on my street who, every time she sees me picking up my dog's shit, she thanks me and launches headlong into a monologue about how her husband would have stepped in that if I hadn't picked it up. I've heard this now several times.

That, I guess, is her thing. And I admit that it makes me feel awkward and weird to stand there holding a bag of shit while I get praised for it in a rather mechanised, rehearsed style-- but I also admit that it's damn better than getting laughed at and ridiculed by the young, black children in the ghetto for picking up after my dog.

I think it's kind of funny that there are some bloggers out there who are very sensitive to anything less than ego-enhancing praise left in their Comment section. I mean, it says "Comments," right? It doesn't say "Affirmations" or "Supportive, redundant missives." If a blog is a place for you to say anything you damn well please, then your comment section should, really, be a place for your readers to say anything they damn well please. There's a blogger out there whose comment section has a warning that reads something like, "Leave it here. Unless it's mean. Then either click that red box/circle in the top corner, or try email." So, it's okay to be mean to you in an email, as long as your readers don't have to see it? Hell, we all know they'll see the mean comment the very next day, when you write a blog post about how mean someone was to you, and you lambast them with all the clever retorts you were able to brew up in your head during the night.

Come on. "Unless it's mean?" Grow up, buttsuck.

Maybe it's because I used to frequently engage in the socially ill-advised practice of writing editorials and commentaries, and a book that advocated for the continued imprisonment of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal that "mean comments" really don't bother me very much. I've had people threaten to kill me, and my family. I had one person threaten to burn my house down, and he even went so far as to mention my neighborhood, which kind of freaked me out, but it never happened. At a book signing event, the book store received threats and contracted the services of two uniformed police officers and one plainclothes officer to protect me and others who might have been caught in the cross-fire. Nothing bad ever happened, because most people are just angry and full of shit-- only a choice few are actually armed and insane. But those episodes, the hate and vitriol that has been spewed in my direction by people who love freedom of speech as long as you agree with them has definitely changed my view on the whole commenting thing.

Mean comments? Sure. Why not? You're allowed, aren't you?

On the old blog, I wrote a review of a concert I attended with Mrs. Apron. The opening act was Sean Hoots. I didn't like him, I thought he was a phony and a narcissist, so I wrote about it. A couple months later, his friendlettes and hangersons littered the comment section of that blog post with criticisms of my review, some were downright abusive. Did I delete their comments or tell them to stop "being mean" to me? Fuck no. I just let them go on and on, and, in doing that, I was able to let them show everyone else how petty, obsessive and stupid they were. See? People generally take care of things like that themselves-- especially idiots and assholes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: lighten up, world. Don't be afraid to speak your mind, especially here. If you don't like something, speak up. I don't mind. I'll still love you in the morning. You don't have to stop reading just because I made a comment that offended you, or burned you, or pissed you off or made you put your dog in a headlock. It's okay. We're human. We do that shit to each other. But don't just read things you agree with, and don't just leave warm and fuzzy comments that mimmick everybody else's. Don't be afraid to stir up the pot. Don't be afraid to disagree.

Don't be reluctant to speak your mind-- because nobody's going to do it for you. The blog is the champion of mind-speaking. So speak it, bitch.

Comics, Comments & Chowderheads

We all have morning routines.

Part of my wife's morning routine is going to http://gocomics.com/ to read the stimulating offerings of some of America's most noteworthy doodlers.

She reads two comics daily: FoxTrot and For Better or For Worse.

It's nice, I think, for gocomics to put comics online for those of us who are too cheap and/or too young to purchase an actual newspaper. It's kind of sad, being in that age and income bracket-- some of my favorite memories of childhood revolved around eating cereal around the dining room table with my sister while getting milk droplets on the comic pages while my father screamed at us for "goddamn crunching" our Cinnamon Toast Crunch or whatever it was too loudly. But, those days are over, and thank God for the internet.

Anyway, not only does gocomics provide a place for you to catch up on the latest antics of G. B. Trudeau's highbrow clan and that sassy black kid from Boondocks, it also allows you to create an account, an avatar and this, then, enables you to leave comments under the comic of your choice after you've finished reading it.

Now why, one might wonder, would you want to do that exactly? Is it because you're bored? Perhaps unemployed? Maybe the power of Christ compels you? Maybe you just love to comment. If that's the case, then get your fat fucking asses over here-- stop wasting time leaving a note every time Hobbes makes a hiney-burp.

Seriously-- why do we need a place to comment on comics webpages? What is it, exactly, about the daily happenings of Paige, Jason, the iguana, and Peter's blind girlfriend that moves people to spend time commenting on? Not only do people comment on the comics, but they engage in discourse and, sometimes, heated argument over a storyline, plot device or piece of dialogue in one of the comics. I mean: look at yourselves. You're commenting... on a comic. You're investing yourselves deeply enough to make an emotional reply based on the products of somebody else's imagination.

Is it just me, or is that a cry for help?

They leave comments for each other, they debate, the interpolate and extrapolate, they take it all far too seriously. Not only that, they leave comments for the cartoonists-- as if Bill Amend or Berkley Breathead (no, it's not pronounced that way) were trolling gocomics regularly, thirsting for the sentiments, requests, criticisms and comments spewed forth from the avatars of their fans. Word to the wise: they don't.

At least... I hope they don't.

Commenting on internet pages is an interesting phenomenon. Everybody wants their voices heard, and the internet, with its endless amounts of space provides room for everyone. This is good and bad. I don't want to talk out of both sides of my mouth, because, well, here I am, but still I feel like not every website in the universe needs a comment function (please comment on this).

Another example is newspaper websites.

You might be too young to remember this, but there once was a time that, if you read an article that moved you or that you didn't like, if something in a newspaper story caught your ire or your fancy, you took fifteen minutes out of your day to compose a letter to the editor. If said letter was even slightly articulate, remotely timely and/or partially logical, in a day or two, it might actually wind up in print in the Editorial/Opinion Page. This, dear children, is how people used to make their voices heard. Now, every slackass shitstain with an IP address and at least one free hand can make an offensive, idiotic, irrelevant, oftentimes abusive comment on a newspaper's webpage.

The Oakland Tribune's website has the following message before each of its comment sections:

"Please keep your comments respectful of others by avoiding name-calling and other inappropriate remarks."

You're tempted to think, is that really necessary? Are we little children? Can we really not be trusted to behave ourselves on the online comment section of a newspaper? Must we be told to "avoid name-calling and other inappropriate remarks?"

Name-calling?

Really?

Really.

I'd post some of the unbelievably obscene, ridiculous, hurtful and just plain fucking stupid comments people made after the four police officers in Oakland were gunned down, but why give these questionable individuals more webspace than they deserve?

I know we all have things to say, and that we're all just dying to be heard, but can't we find more constructive ways to speak our minds than by commenting on the quality of the birthday gift Andy Fox got for her husband-- or by spewing racist venom all over America's failing newspaper websites?

I mean, just who's listening anyway?