You can't comment after stories on the Sun-Times anymore. You could, for a while, oh a decade ago. Maybe more. But it was a pain in the ass, and patrolling the racist, sexist, unkind remarks was a full-time job. There was no upside. Nobody said, "Yeah, I read the Sun-Times because the comments after stories are so interesting."
"Expressman" by Norman Rockwell
(Metropolitan Museum of Art)
Meanwhile, you couldn't have a story about a 6-year-old getting hit by a bus without having the lad taunted in the comments. They'd flip over a rock to expose a side of human life that is better left hidden.
I allow them on my blog because comments seem to encourage engagement, and vetting them is not particularly difficult. I also learn things — facts, ideas — from reading them, generally. Sometimes I'm torn whether something is so toxic and crazy that its entertainment value outweighs the unpleasantness of reading it.
I don't indulge jerks. I don't mind people telling me I'm mistaken, more or less politely — if they're telling me I'm mistaken because I'm a idiot, well, bad enough that I have to read it, it's funny that someone would think I'd want to share the news on my own blog. I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm an idiot, not ballyhoo it.
Sometimes I just don't feel like having a topic explored. The new Israeli policy on hanging Palestinians seems mind-boggling and grotesque, but that doesn't mean I want Grizz to expound upon it at length under an unrelated post. Sometimes people will be inspired to go on in-depth personal reminiscences — we're all old remember — and I tend to post those, though I'm not sure what they add to the conversation. When I reflect on my past, I begin by assuming that nobody but nobody cares what happened to me, and I have to find a way to make them care.
I allow them on my blog because comments seem to encourage engagement, and vetting them is not particularly difficult. I also learn things — facts, ideas — from reading them, generally. Sometimes I'm torn whether something is so toxic and crazy that its entertainment value outweighs the unpleasantness of reading it.
I don't indulge jerks. I don't mind people telling me I'm mistaken, more or less politely — if they're telling me I'm mistaken because I'm a idiot, well, bad enough that I have to read it, it's funny that someone would think I'd want to share the news on my own blog. I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm an idiot, not ballyhoo it.
Sometimes I just don't feel like having a topic explored. The new Israeli policy on hanging Palestinians seems mind-boggling and grotesque, but that doesn't mean I want Grizz to expound upon it at length under an unrelated post. Sometimes people will be inspired to go on in-depth personal reminiscences — we're all old remember — and I tend to post those, though I'm not sure what they add to the conversation. When I reflect on my past, I begin by assuming that nobody but nobody cares what happened to me, and I have to find a way to make them care.
Lately, when people sign up, in my little note thanking them, I invite them to comment — sincerely. I do appreciate people taking the time to read, and to comment, and feel a piece has resonated when it gets 20 or 30 comments and not just two or three.
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