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On the ethiquette of fansnark
Aug. 2nd, 2005 12:08 pm(Is that a real word? Probably not, but it's a dandy portmanteau.)
Well, that previous topic certainly went over like a Humvee attempting donuts. Alas. Still, it's tangentially connected to another meander I've been nursing for a while, or at least enough to provide an excuse for gratuitous segue.
Due to generous infusions of Miss Manners since childhood, I subscribe somewhat to the etiquette-based approach to ethics, or perhaps the ethics-based approach to etiquette. (Neither of these explains the four different types of place-setting spoons in my flatware set, but hush.) Either way, the sustained energetic contempt for Other Fans that's traditional in some quarters just gives me a crawly phobic sensation for which I can't find a good parallel, other than most people's reactions when I reminisce about my occasional childhood raids on gypsy-moth nests, in which I'd poke a hole through the tough silk roof of their tent and down through several layers, and then reach in and wiggle my fingers around the warm, squirming mass of damp fuzzy caterpillars. It's not that I don't delight in brief spluttering fits of snarkage, but marathons of snark just feel WRONG to me. As per usual practice, I've managed to sort out several rationalizations which may or may not be accurate, as opposed to handy cover stories for whatever visceral trigger is tucked away like a child's hand in caterpillars. ( Read more... )
Well, that previous topic certainly went over like a Humvee attempting donuts. Alas. Still, it's tangentially connected to another meander I've been nursing for a while, or at least enough to provide an excuse for gratuitous segue.
Due to generous infusions of Miss Manners since childhood, I subscribe somewhat to the etiquette-based approach to ethics, or perhaps the ethics-based approach to etiquette. (Neither of these explains the four different types of place-setting spoons in my flatware set, but hush.) Either way, the sustained energetic contempt for Other Fans that's traditional in some quarters just gives me a crawly phobic sensation for which I can't find a good parallel, other than most people's reactions when I reminisce about my occasional childhood raids on gypsy-moth nests, in which I'd poke a hole through the tough silk roof of their tent and down through several layers, and then reach in and wiggle my fingers around the warm, squirming mass of damp fuzzy caterpillars. It's not that I don't delight in brief spluttering fits of snarkage, but marathons of snark just feel WRONG to me. As per usual practice, I've managed to sort out several rationalizations which may or may not be accurate, as opposed to handy cover stories for whatever visceral trigger is tucked away like a child's hand in caterpillars. ( Read more... )