I’m probably going to need some crutches to sustain my balance by the force of some of the reactions I will get to this post. I particularly look forward to the responses of the fiery ‘independents’, you know yourselves and, though sorely tempted, I will not mention any names – I do not feel particularly brave.
This post has been prompted by the expectations of women that men be more romantic. A few men, it must be recognized, work really hard to be romantic in their relationships and I believe they succeed, and I doff my hat to you. For the rest of us…
Women state they yearn for men to be more romantic, loving, tender, devoted, warm, gentle and adoring, yet there is also the expectation for us to be these strong, testosterone-fuelled ‘mighty igors’ who go to work all day, hunter gatherers that provide for the home (although I readily acknowledge that the equation has changed somewhat since many women work and contribute to the home). As a man, especially in Nigeria and the rest of Africa, you are expected to work. I lie. You are expected to GO TO work – none of that working from home modernist trifle. That’s why housewives vastly outnumber househusbands all over the world, and although the concept of the househusband is slowly gathering acceptance here, your life is in the hands of the almighty if you are a househusband in Nigeria because you will be viewed as a dosser. Even some of my fiery independents mentioned above would baulk at the idea of their partners being househusbands.
I imagine one of those pretty, muscle-bound male models they use in the glossies going down on one knee in front of a woman with a single red rose gritted between his teeth, then getting up to make breakfast for her in bed, preparing the children for school, doing the dishes, preparing himself for work – he will spend two hours in front of the mirror, I guess, eyebrows have got to be plucked, trimmed, shaped and sleeked back perfectly - going to do an honest day’s job at the office, getting back home, doing the ‘how was your day honey’ bit, serenading his partner with one or two Teddy Pendergrass songs (ok, ok, Ne-Yo or Mario – I’m old), preparing dinner, finally having a shower. Of course, those are enough to turn a woman on, however that man is simply a figment of my imagination.
So many men turn into Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde so they can fit the image described above. A friend who used to live in DC and about whom mutual friends complained because he was a totally changed man when his girlfriend (now wife) was around is a case in point. I witnessed it first hand on a holiday and thought he had become two people. This was a chap who was the life of any party and the joker in any group but was reduced to saying just ‘hi’ to his friends when his girlfriend was about. I mean, literally, “hi”.
An acquaintance used to lie to his wife that he was driving mini cabs (kabu kabu) nightly. On his way from wherever in the early hours, he would go to the cashpoint for some money and drop it on the dining table with whatever coins he had in his pocket, to appear like the night's takings.
There are also so many men who lie to their partners in order to go out: they lie about overtime, working nights, about some friend having a disaster, having to go view a property in ‘Manchester’ (your choice: England or Massachusetts), about a friend being suicidal, therefore, they have to stay with him awhile, all because they feel they will not fit the ‘romantic’ mould should they simply say; I’m going out Friday for a few hours. Women seem to see this type of man as more 'romantic' because he has not said: I'm going out for a few drinks.
God save you if you’re in actual fact a starry-eyed male individual when you think you’re being a romantic. Years ago, I heard a woman say to her female companion: “I’m really sick to the back teeth of Tunde; as soon as I get in, he starts rubbing himself against me like a cat. Can’t he just leave me alone and look for a girlfriend or something?” This was said in a church, mind you
Saturday, 23 February 2008
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Irritating Habits
A few weeks ago, I put up a post about revolting habits and one of the comments, from 30+ I believe, suggested I put on a warning sign for readers. 30+, you know I love you but one would have thought the word ‘revolting’ was enough of a warning.
For these irritating habits, no warning is needed, they are just as described on the label: things I find irritating and sometimes annoying.
Media Words
Some words have crept into the Nigeria media usage, which makes me just want to ‘commit’. Words like:
* ‘sanitize’ - “…in a bid to sanitize…”
* ‘actualise’ – “he wanted to actualise his mandate…”
* ‘mobilisation fee’ – “the company collected a 50% mobilisation fee…”
Contemporary Language
* ‘Basically’ – how I have come to dislike that word
* ‘To be honest…’ – spoken by the patently deceitful
* ‘Let me have your digits…’ – said mainly by men of a certain ilk to request a woman’s telephone number. Digits? Next, you’ll be asking for binary numbers. Are there some people out there who actually respond to that sort of request?
* ‘I just came by to say “Thanks for stopping by my blog/Thanks for stopping by/Thanks for your comments on my blog”…’ – for crying out loud, just return the visit as a matter of politeness, if you find it interesting and engaging, by all means leave a comment, if you don’t, quietly slink back to what floats your boat, but do not visit some person’s blog simply to say “I just came by to say thanks for stopping by my blog”. Gosh, it does annoy me so!
Deeds
* People who ‘flash’ you in order to speak to you. I experienced this a lot in Nigeria and they even flash me from Nigeria in London. I just look at the sky in wonder and beseech God to provide me with an answer to why anyone would want to speak with me but ask me to pay for the experience. The last time my family member ‘flashed’, I called her deliberately and asked why she could not invest N500 to speak with me. I continue to thank God that the people I know now do not do that.
* Nigerians who clap when a plane lands in Lagos. If you need to say a prayer of thanks, why not do it privately? If you want to congratulate the pilot for bringing the plane down in one piece, why don’t you inform a steward who will let the captain know? The amazing thing is that these same passengers will not clap on their return journeys to London or wherever.
* Our people who buy food e.g. roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria (hmm…London chicken, tasty!). Many years ago on a trip to Lagos, when it was still fashionable for the airlines to deliver your luggage one week after your arrival, I went to the airport to collect my bags and you will never believe the stench in the hall where the luggage were left. It was like a sewer run riot. I immediately remembered an ‘aunty’ who had told me a few weeks earlier that she got roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria, and trying to persuade her that chicken in Nigeria is actually tastier was like pulling teeth without anaesthetic.
For these irritating habits, no warning is needed, they are just as described on the label: things I find irritating and sometimes annoying.
Media Words
Some words have crept into the Nigeria media usage, which makes me just want to ‘commit’. Words like:
* ‘sanitize’ - “…in a bid to sanitize…”
* ‘actualise’ – “he wanted to actualise his mandate…”
* ‘mobilisation fee’ – “the company collected a 50% mobilisation fee…”
Contemporary Language
* ‘Basically’ – how I have come to dislike that word
* ‘To be honest…’ – spoken by the patently deceitful
* ‘Let me have your digits…’ – said mainly by men of a certain ilk to request a woman’s telephone number. Digits? Next, you’ll be asking for binary numbers. Are there some people out there who actually respond to that sort of request?
* ‘I just came by to say “Thanks for stopping by my blog/Thanks for stopping by/Thanks for your comments on my blog”…’ – for crying out loud, just return the visit as a matter of politeness, if you find it interesting and engaging, by all means leave a comment, if you don’t, quietly slink back to what floats your boat, but do not visit some person’s blog simply to say “I just came by to say thanks for stopping by my blog”. Gosh, it does annoy me so!
Deeds
* People who ‘flash’ you in order to speak to you. I experienced this a lot in Nigeria and they even flash me from Nigeria in London. I just look at the sky in wonder and beseech God to provide me with an answer to why anyone would want to speak with me but ask me to pay for the experience. The last time my family member ‘flashed’, I called her deliberately and asked why she could not invest N500 to speak with me. I continue to thank God that the people I know now do not do that.
* Nigerians who clap when a plane lands in Lagos. If you need to say a prayer of thanks, why not do it privately? If you want to congratulate the pilot for bringing the plane down in one piece, why don’t you inform a steward who will let the captain know? The amazing thing is that these same passengers will not clap on their return journeys to London or wherever.
* Our people who buy food e.g. roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria (hmm…London chicken, tasty!). Many years ago on a trip to Lagos, when it was still fashionable for the airlines to deliver your luggage one week after your arrival, I went to the airport to collect my bags and you will never believe the stench in the hall where the luggage were left. It was like a sewer run riot. I immediately remembered an ‘aunty’ who had told me a few weeks earlier that she got roast chicken from Selfridges to take to Nigeria, and trying to persuade her that chicken in Nigeria is actually tastier was like pulling teeth without anaesthetic.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
How Not To Get Into Trouble
I had wanted to update the ‘I knew I was in Trouble’ post for a couple of days now but could muster neither the physical nor mental capacity; what with spending my working day chatting, driving, atimes dealing with the obnoxious, telephoning and sometimes actually working, the evenings are a sort of recuperative wind-down-in-front-of a news, sports or nature channel before bed. Except for most Fridays. And Saturdays.
I ‘listened’ to the comments on that post and found them to be wise counsel, so I limited my involvement.
Mr A was arraigned at Uxbridge magistrates’ court on the Monday of last week and, though he had some friends present as well as legal counsel (who thought it prudent to allow the state-appointed solicitor to continue with the case), was not granted bail because when coming into the UK, he had stated to the immigration authorities he would be staying in a hotel – thus, no fixed abode. So off to Sutton prison he went and was assigned a prisoner number (I never even knew there was a prison at Sutton).
By the time the case came up last Friday, the prosecutor had Mr A’s life on paper – educational institutions he attended (in Nigeria!), age (52), employment details, everything. It was instructive that she (prosecutor) tacitly acknowledged that he was not suspected of being a terrorist but someone who made a stupid mistake, and the law had to take it’s course.
Mr A, on a trip to the Philippines last year, had purchased the offending belt because he thought it was ‘funky’, looked young and was ideal to hold up his jeans. Unfortunately for him, it was a survival belt with a knife, fork, tin opener, nail clipper, lighter, torchlight, pen, etc; you know the type, bona fide James Bond material. The only things it did not have were toilet paper and WMD. Sadly, one of his friends who’s been here 14 years had seen him retrieve a ‘weapon’ from the belt days before his depature, commented on the belt being unusual and Mr A responded that it was his ‘travelling belt’, yet did not have the sense to point out the inherent danger.
The judge found him guilty, sentenced him to the minimum 14 days in prison and released him as he had spent the mandatory half (7 days). He left for Lagos the same day.
I called him last night to commiserate and offer my sorrow, if only he knew my blog friends had instructed me to ask if he wanted the cutlery for live chicken and amala. He seemed happy but said: emu London yin dani o, eni rimi nibe mo (hold on to your London, you will never see me there again).
I ‘listened’ to the comments on that post and found them to be wise counsel, so I limited my involvement.
Mr A was arraigned at Uxbridge magistrates’ court on the Monday of last week and, though he had some friends present as well as legal counsel (who thought it prudent to allow the state-appointed solicitor to continue with the case), was not granted bail because when coming into the UK, he had stated to the immigration authorities he would be staying in a hotel – thus, no fixed abode. So off to Sutton prison he went and was assigned a prisoner number (I never even knew there was a prison at Sutton).
By the time the case came up last Friday, the prosecutor had Mr A’s life on paper – educational institutions he attended (in Nigeria!), age (52), employment details, everything. It was instructive that she (prosecutor) tacitly acknowledged that he was not suspected of being a terrorist but someone who made a stupid mistake, and the law had to take it’s course.
Mr A, on a trip to the Philippines last year, had purchased the offending belt because he thought it was ‘funky’, looked young and was ideal to hold up his jeans. Unfortunately for him, it was a survival belt with a knife, fork, tin opener, nail clipper, lighter, torchlight, pen, etc; you know the type, bona fide James Bond material. The only things it did not have were toilet paper and WMD. Sadly, one of his friends who’s been here 14 years had seen him retrieve a ‘weapon’ from the belt days before his depature, commented on the belt being unusual and Mr A responded that it was his ‘travelling belt’, yet did not have the sense to point out the inherent danger.
The judge found him guilty, sentenced him to the minimum 14 days in prison and released him as he had spent the mandatory half (7 days). He left for Lagos the same day.
I called him last night to commiserate and offer my sorrow, if only he knew my blog friends had instructed me to ask if he wanted the cutlery for live chicken and amala. He seemed happy but said: emu London yin dani o, eni rimi nibe mo (hold on to your London, you will never see me there again).
Friday, 25 January 2008
I knew I was in trouble…
…today Friday, January 25 2008, 8.45pm –
- when I received a text from a young friend’s wife saying: “Uncle Jinta, it’s me, B, please call me back, very urgent”. My phone had rung twice displaying a ‘withheld’ number which I never answer unless in a foul mood (and though still in the office, my mood was not foul, after all, it’s a Friday). I consider if you really want to speak with me, you will display your number. Then it rang twice again, displaying a number I did not know. Call me bizarre but if I don’t know your number, I still do not answer the phone unless my mood is dark. I keep all numbers: friend, foe, antagonist, ex-wife, beast, lover, ex-wife’s lover, the wife of ex-wife's lover, assassin, just so I know who to avoid and those I would really like to speak to, etc. I’m also paranoid about taking unknown calls, thanks largely to trauma, which is another story entirely; but I digress.
I had not been in the office all day and got in at 6pm to catch up with my paperwork, respond to e-mails and listen to my phone messages. When I saw the text, I had a premonition that it would serve as a disruption to my Friday beer drinking, but because B is someone I like, I called her back…
“Thanks for calling me back, I could not think of anyone else to call”. I said: before you go on, I do not like surprises – you know my ticker’s weak from the continuous battle with my lovely ex wife who’s determined to clean me out if she can’t kill me with jazz, heart attack or high blood pressure – and I do not like bad news. If anyone’s dead, go bury them, I don’t need to know who it is and if you want me to contribute to buying a coffin, heck, I’ll even pay for the entire coffin and all arrangements, just please don’t spoil my Friday.
“No, no, it’s not that. You know Mr. A was due to return to Nigeria at 12 noon today, he was not allowed to board the aircraft and was arrested at the airport. His wife just made a frantic call to me from Lagos. I tried to call W (my husband) but his phone’s off”. Which airport? “I don’t know”. Why was he arrested? “Oh, his wife wasn’t too clear, but it appears he had a knife and a fork hidden in his belt, he was informed that he has to go to court”. A knife and a what…? Hidden where…?
Now, I had met Mr A, W’s uncle a couple of times on his 9 day trip to London. He appears to me to be a responsible middle-aged very slightly built gentleman who is an engineer in one of the bigger private companies in Nigeria. We even had a Star Lager swigging, marinated chicken and Kebab scoffing send-off for him last night at the Gold Coast Bar and Restaurant, a Ghanaian concern which is local to me at home and at work in South Norwood. I like him. I promised to visit him on my next trip home and he, in turn, promised to exact revenge for me getting him drunk.
This does not make sense; do you see why I do not like surprises? Right now, I’m still thinking of how it concerns me and I have concluded that, whatever happens, W has to come out of hibernation before any movement. I’m literally on my way out the door to do my Friday thing, will be meeting friends at Mahogany something or the other in Lea Bridge Road.
- when I received a text from a young friend’s wife saying: “Uncle Jinta, it’s me, B, please call me back, very urgent”. My phone had rung twice displaying a ‘withheld’ number which I never answer unless in a foul mood (and though still in the office, my mood was not foul, after all, it’s a Friday). I consider if you really want to speak with me, you will display your number. Then it rang twice again, displaying a number I did not know. Call me bizarre but if I don’t know your number, I still do not answer the phone unless my mood is dark. I keep all numbers: friend, foe, antagonist, ex-wife, beast, lover, ex-wife’s lover, the wife of ex-wife's lover, assassin, just so I know who to avoid and those I would really like to speak to, etc. I’m also paranoid about taking unknown calls, thanks largely to trauma, which is another story entirely; but I digress.
I had not been in the office all day and got in at 6pm to catch up with my paperwork, respond to e-mails and listen to my phone messages. When I saw the text, I had a premonition that it would serve as a disruption to my Friday beer drinking, but because B is someone I like, I called her back…
“Thanks for calling me back, I could not think of anyone else to call”. I said: before you go on, I do not like surprises – you know my ticker’s weak from the continuous battle with my lovely ex wife who’s determined to clean me out if she can’t kill me with jazz, heart attack or high blood pressure – and I do not like bad news. If anyone’s dead, go bury them, I don’t need to know who it is and if you want me to contribute to buying a coffin, heck, I’ll even pay for the entire coffin and all arrangements, just please don’t spoil my Friday.
“No, no, it’s not that. You know Mr. A was due to return to Nigeria at 12 noon today, he was not allowed to board the aircraft and was arrested at the airport. His wife just made a frantic call to me from Lagos. I tried to call W (my husband) but his phone’s off”. Which airport? “I don’t know”. Why was he arrested? “Oh, his wife wasn’t too clear, but it appears he had a knife and a fork hidden in his belt, he was informed that he has to go to court”. A knife and a what…? Hidden where…?
Now, I had met Mr A, W’s uncle a couple of times on his 9 day trip to London. He appears to me to be a responsible middle-aged very slightly built gentleman who is an engineer in one of the bigger private companies in Nigeria. We even had a Star Lager swigging, marinated chicken and Kebab scoffing send-off for him last night at the Gold Coast Bar and Restaurant, a Ghanaian concern which is local to me at home and at work in South Norwood. I like him. I promised to visit him on my next trip home and he, in turn, promised to exact revenge for me getting him drunk.
This does not make sense; do you see why I do not like surprises? Right now, I’m still thinking of how it concerns me and I have concluded that, whatever happens, W has to come out of hibernation before any movement. I’m literally on my way out the door to do my Friday thing, will be meeting friends at Mahogany something or the other in Lea Bridge Road.
Monday, 21 January 2008
Snake Girl
Someone sent this to me today and I was at a point between fascination, fear, witnessing the impossible, more fear, amazement and more fear.
What do you think?
What do you think?
Friday, 11 January 2008
Revolting Habits
I’m not a queasy person and will steadily look at and tolerate things that would make most people grimace, cringe or wince with discomfort; however, an incident occurred lately that got me thinking of repulsive habits.
1. Last Saturday I went to West Ham, to a place I normally go to listen to my taste of Afro hip-hop and r‘n’b. It’s not exactly an upmarket place but it suits my quest for anonymity. I stood hugging Remi and fondling Stella (for the uninitiated, that is sipping Remy Martin brandy and using Stella Artois beer as a chaser).
Then this giant of a man comes and stands right in front of me, so close I can smell his three day old sweat and my arm brushes against his back each time I took a swig of my beer, which does not appear to bother him. He looks like Idi Amin and stands like Mandingo so my inclination to tap him on the back and request he find his own space was cowed. I glanced back and a couple were standing there; I would have invaded their space had I moved back. While I am contemplating how to deal with this colossus and looking at the back of his head with the huge folds of skin where the head joins his shoulders (he has no neck), he suddenly plants his fingers behind his head, uses thumb and middle finger to part the biggest crease of skin and scratches away at the now exposed crust with his index finger…I could imagine the flakes of previously imprisoned dead matter falling into my brandy and I felt sick.
Found my way home and could not eat for thinking about disgusting habits.
2. On my way to work in the tube about 12 years ago, I was absent-mindedly looking at this well-dressed couple. The man was picking his nose and sucking the contents into his mouth. Ugh! I took a hard look at both of them and wondered why a woman so elegant did not see anything wrong with her man’s actions and, as if to answer my question, she dug her elbow into her side, pointed her index finger toward her face, proceeded to pick the bogey stuck between the corner of her eye and the bridge of her nose, and, I kid you not, put it into her mouth. That was the first time I saw that done and the last time anyone saw me in the London Underground.
3. A disgusting habit here is spit cleaning. That is when someone puts his or her finger to their mouth to obtain some spittle in order to clean a mark on their body. Years ago a girl tried to help me clean marks to the sides of my face caused by tears streaming from my eyes because of bitterly cold winds, with her own spit, mind you, and my reaction was fierce. I’ve seen mothers use spittle to clean marks on their children. Ahh! I feel sick.
4. About public loo hygiene. Let me tell you ladies out there, when you go out, about 70% or more of blokes using the loo do not wash their hands afterwards. I don’t care what we say; I see it, every time, and stand in wonder. This probably happens with the ladies as well, however, I’ve not been fortunate to find myself in a ladies’ loo yet. Clubs, pubs, airports, restaurants, bars, everywhere, dirty, grubby, MRSA infected fingers are coming out to embrace you.
5. Eating loudly. I have an acquaintance here that chomps through food like he’s just been released from Guantanamo or Kirikiri. I’ve tried the power of suggestion several times and even told him outright a couple of times, but he appears to take offence when I correct him. Suffice to say, I cannot eat when he is.
That’s my list of disgusting habits. I felt a little unsettled so I thought: why go through this on your own when your blog friends are out there to share with?
1. Last Saturday I went to West Ham, to a place I normally go to listen to my taste of Afro hip-hop and r‘n’b. It’s not exactly an upmarket place but it suits my quest for anonymity. I stood hugging Remi and fondling Stella (for the uninitiated, that is sipping Remy Martin brandy and using Stella Artois beer as a chaser).
Then this giant of a man comes and stands right in front of me, so close I can smell his three day old sweat and my arm brushes against his back each time I took a swig of my beer, which does not appear to bother him. He looks like Idi Amin and stands like Mandingo so my inclination to tap him on the back and request he find his own space was cowed. I glanced back and a couple were standing there; I would have invaded their space had I moved back. While I am contemplating how to deal with this colossus and looking at the back of his head with the huge folds of skin where the head joins his shoulders (he has no neck), he suddenly plants his fingers behind his head, uses thumb and middle finger to part the biggest crease of skin and scratches away at the now exposed crust with his index finger…I could imagine the flakes of previously imprisoned dead matter falling into my brandy and I felt sick.
Found my way home and could not eat for thinking about disgusting habits.
2. On my way to work in the tube about 12 years ago, I was absent-mindedly looking at this well-dressed couple. The man was picking his nose and sucking the contents into his mouth. Ugh! I took a hard look at both of them and wondered why a woman so elegant did not see anything wrong with her man’s actions and, as if to answer my question, she dug her elbow into her side, pointed her index finger toward her face, proceeded to pick the bogey stuck between the corner of her eye and the bridge of her nose, and, I kid you not, put it into her mouth. That was the first time I saw that done and the last time anyone saw me in the London Underground.
3. A disgusting habit here is spit cleaning. That is when someone puts his or her finger to their mouth to obtain some spittle in order to clean a mark on their body. Years ago a girl tried to help me clean marks to the sides of my face caused by tears streaming from my eyes because of bitterly cold winds, with her own spit, mind you, and my reaction was fierce. I’ve seen mothers use spittle to clean marks on their children. Ahh! I feel sick.
4. About public loo hygiene. Let me tell you ladies out there, when you go out, about 70% or more of blokes using the loo do not wash their hands afterwards. I don’t care what we say; I see it, every time, and stand in wonder. This probably happens with the ladies as well, however, I’ve not been fortunate to find myself in a ladies’ loo yet. Clubs, pubs, airports, restaurants, bars, everywhere, dirty, grubby, MRSA infected fingers are coming out to embrace you.
5. Eating loudly. I have an acquaintance here that chomps through food like he’s just been released from Guantanamo or Kirikiri. I’ve tried the power of suggestion several times and even told him outright a couple of times, but he appears to take offence when I correct him. Suffice to say, I cannot eat when he is.
That’s my list of disgusting habits. I felt a little unsettled so I thought: why go through this on your own when your blog friends are out there to share with?
Saturday, 5 January 2008
Prose To Darkness
When I noticed some blogs with comments moderation enabled I wondered why, in the interest of free expression, one'd need to do that. I recognised the fact, then and now, that out there are some who cannot employ temperate language when they feel strongly about something, when angered or when they take an issue personally, as we all tend to do from time to time. I also know that some comments left may be totally inappropriate, way too personal for this medium or may even border on blackmail.
With the above in mind and even though I totally validate the reasons why some will moderate their comments - there are too many unhinged people out there and, believe me, I've seen and met my share - I resolved never to moderate comments on this blog. I can literally see a couple of my friends in blogshere raising their eyebrows and saying: you wait, you'll eat your words and I think I agree with you because, as I write, I feel it in my water that you're right.
What has influenced my thinking is the knowledge, acquired over the past two years or so, that we have less to fear from those people I described in the first paragraph than those who are hidden from us, (some of whom smile at us in reality and are our best friends at work and at play, and who we share our stories with and they know most things about us, the ones who really understand us, them), those with really ulterior hang-ups, total dead-beats with sinister chips on their narrow shoulders fermenting evil machinations and wallowing in the stench of their murkiness.
I have broadly divided visitors to various blogs into separate categories below:
1. The Curious – they just ‘surf’ (how I hate that word) and look around various blogs. Like reading a newspaper, they do not leave comments.
2. The Passive – this category mostly wander unto your site by linking to comments you leave at other sites. Some leave comments, some do not. Some come back, others stay away. Some want to come back later to blogs they find interesting but cannot find the path with which they navigated to the blog, as has happened to me. Some ‘stalk’ your blog in a not unpleasant way.
3. The Active – some who know you only on blogshere, virtual friends with whom we develop friendships and affections for their writing styles and ideas, others know your person. At other times, we meet virtually and become friends in reality. Mostly, they leave comments, sometimes they cannot be bothered.
4. The Baddies – this group have some things in common apart from the love of darkness. They generally think they’re clever; they monitor your blog so closely they could be your shadow. They’re around so often they could be stuck on with super glue. They never leave comments but follow your ‘trail’, seeing what you’ve been up to and trying to determine your next move. They are always there, rabid little heretics who may actually be deaconesses in church; greedy dead-enders slinking around in darkness. If you listen closely, you can hear them clicking on to your site. I can see you! Oh yes! Every time you come to my site I smell you, you leave a rancid bovine smell when you log off, much like your paraphernalia of jazz you thought you were hiding from me. You, daughter of darkness, the daughter of an abomination of a mother who knows both husband and boyfriend, killer of Abel and his first son, importer of jazz, the bad fruit does not fall far from the rotten tree. I smell you. Every time you come on, you leave a nasty taste in my mouth.
With the above in mind and even though I totally validate the reasons why some will moderate their comments - there are too many unhinged people out there and, believe me, I've seen and met my share - I resolved never to moderate comments on this blog. I can literally see a couple of my friends in blogshere raising their eyebrows and saying: you wait, you'll eat your words and I think I agree with you because, as I write, I feel it in my water that you're right.
What has influenced my thinking is the knowledge, acquired over the past two years or so, that we have less to fear from those people I described in the first paragraph than those who are hidden from us, (some of whom smile at us in reality and are our best friends at work and at play, and who we share our stories with and they know most things about us, the ones who really understand us, them), those with really ulterior hang-ups, total dead-beats with sinister chips on their narrow shoulders fermenting evil machinations and wallowing in the stench of their murkiness.
I have broadly divided visitors to various blogs into separate categories below:
1. The Curious – they just ‘surf’ (how I hate that word) and look around various blogs. Like reading a newspaper, they do not leave comments.
2. The Passive – this category mostly wander unto your site by linking to comments you leave at other sites. Some leave comments, some do not. Some come back, others stay away. Some want to come back later to blogs they find interesting but cannot find the path with which they navigated to the blog, as has happened to me. Some ‘stalk’ your blog in a not unpleasant way.
3. The Active – some who know you only on blogshere, virtual friends with whom we develop friendships and affections for their writing styles and ideas, others know your person. At other times, we meet virtually and become friends in reality. Mostly, they leave comments, sometimes they cannot be bothered.
4. The Baddies – this group have some things in common apart from the love of darkness. They generally think they’re clever; they monitor your blog so closely they could be your shadow. They’re around so often they could be stuck on with super glue. They never leave comments but follow your ‘trail’, seeing what you’ve been up to and trying to determine your next move. They are always there, rabid little heretics who may actually be deaconesses in church; greedy dead-enders slinking around in darkness. If you listen closely, you can hear them clicking on to your site. I can see you! Oh yes! Every time you come to my site I smell you, you leave a rancid bovine smell when you log off, much like your paraphernalia of jazz you thought you were hiding from me. You, daughter of darkness, the daughter of an abomination of a mother who knows both husband and boyfriend, killer of Abel and his first son, importer of jazz, the bad fruit does not fall far from the rotten tree. I smell you. Every time you come on, you leave a nasty taste in my mouth.
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