Or Help to Half-a-Crown
Duncan Ringill

I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.    –Jane Austen

 

drama1Summerstock theater takes its name from the season in which it runs.  Why is it not acted during the school year?  Too much else going on, of course.  Summer theater has a reputation for being uncool and inept.

Does that describe (the Northern Hemisphere’s) EVE summers?  Not much going on where you are in the game?  Peace declarations getting you down?

No worries.  Ours is a game of Internet spaceships, and Internet means drama.  Where there is none, we will create it.  Where there is any extant, we will nurture it into full flower, whence cometh the turgid little morality play known as Gamergate.

Mabrick takes NoizyGamer to task elegantly, not for bringing it up, but for caring about the Wrong Thing.  Me?  I’d only heard bits and pieces, and had already written the matter off, as Nosy does, as a teapot-encased Tempest Fleet Issue.  My own prejudices were confirmed as I stepped out into that particular cesspool for the first time today.  The plaintiff begins his case with a great show of concern for trust in the community rather than as a rant against a jilting ex-lover, then goes on to offer little more than the aforementioned rant and a lot of privileged conversations.  Neither party comes off well.

Whatever the Internet makes of this is not going to be pretty.  No doubt I’m more than fashionably late to this party, and the stank is already into the Web’s air conditioning.  It’ll be there for them as wants it.

silos1Mabrick is hunting other prey today, however.  A nice man-he-killed detour through Remarque reminds us to poke our heads up, prairie-doglike, from our respective silos, and see things from multiple viewpoints.  ‘Kay.  Sure you want to do that?  The blogosphere is a bunch of people, real though they be, blindly feeling their way toward a description of the elephant in the living room.  Tweet!  Illegal mixing of metaphors–fifteen yards!

Listen to them all, suggests Mabrick, if you would approach the truth.  I won’t doubt him; I would only question the wisdom of diving deeply into every online melodrama.  Sometimes–most times–the rot is external to you, and not worth a figurative missile launch, much less a thoroughly researched one.

The stink gets on you and into you.  Sometimes one helps one’s fellow man best by utterly ignoring his follies.