Comments Policy

Executive Summary

The comments section of this blog will never play host to a full-fledged Little Green Footballs-style noise machine. Too much freaking work for an ad-free spare-time blog.

That does not necessarily mean that I do not want to interact with you, however, dear readers.

It’s just that one learns, through bitter life experience, that the schnorrers are legion.

So if you write to me and do not hear back, you can assume one of two things

  1. I would rather not waste my precious time and bandwidth on the bullshit you are trying to peddle me as bullshinola, because time is money because life is short; or
  2. I am just busy and distracted, and I live at the moment in another hemisphere, where stampeding zebus and rogue APCs occasionally knock down my broadband service — so keep trying, I am anxious to hear from all fellow members of the international humanist conspiracy.

Because:

“Everyone strives after the law,” says the man, “so how is that in these many years no one except me has requested entry?” The gatekeeper sees that the man is already dying and, in order to reach his diminishing sense of hearing, he shouts at him, “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.”

Rationale

You are here as a guest.

This is my personal domain.

And the schnorrers are legion.

Yes, it would be much appreciated if you tipped me to the gross idiocy of any really, really stupid ideas I am contemplating putting into action.

I do try not to believe in falsehoods. If you see that I have drunk some bad Kool-Aid, by all means, let me know and I will give it the old redline treatment.

Or if you gave me minimal credit in the event that you take an idea I have only managed to mangle — you will find many here — and actually make it work.

But basically, I have a perfect right — within the bounds of reason, law and morality, of course — to say “no shirt, no shoes, no service.”

I suppose now I will have the Church of Naked Savagery after me screaming that I am unfair to naked savages.

But look, that was just a metaphor.

In fact, I am naked as I write this.

But as I have constantly warned you — perhaps I should work up some boilerplate language on this — this is not painstaking & systematic professional reporting on public cases & controversies of the kind that you pay professional news and information organizations to provide you, because they do the due diligence so you don’t have to.

I do happen to work sometimes as a cog in the machine of painstaking & systematic professional reporting on public cases & controversies, it is true.

But I am not doing it now.

This is just another stupid blog.

A rough-draft user’s manual to the interface between my brain and the networks, which is why I license it as GNU free documentation.

I write it in my spare time.

And principally for my own use and amusement, as a commonplace book.

Journalism, translation, and other forms of well-governed, quality-controlled public communications are what I get paid to do.

And hard freaking labor it is, too.

RED HERRING: Sketches, and even snatches, of actual amateur journalistic activity may appear in parts here and there in these postings, but you are caveated, lector, to receive it all as no more, or less, than a simulacrum of journalism in Husserlian brackets.

Call it metajournalism if you must.

To me, it is just my commonplace book, where I write down anything & everything that crosses my mind, from pointless brain-farts to the odd bacchanalian bubble of brilliance.

I later go back, time permitting, and try to decide what, if anything, is worth actually developing into some real journalism.

You are welcome to read over my shoulder.

But you do not get to sign the guestbook unless I invite you in.

Because the schnorrers are legion.

The abusers of hospitality and collegiality.

I do think it might be interesting and useful for a citizen journalist to get behind the scenes and see, for better or worse, just how the sausage gets made in the alleged mind of a guy like me, who notices picky details for a living.

But NB: this is not the sausage.

This is just the grinder.

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