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Ah, Beekay, you keep it classy. Maybe it was dumb to resurrect a post two years fallow instead of creating a new thread for Oktoberfest 2010, but must you always be such a raging cunt clot? A simple, "Please create a new thread for this," would have sufficed. There was no need to add a pissy, "This is pointless" and a haughty, ominous, "Don't do it again." That's just ego-driven power-tripping and gratuitous wang-waving. Yes, we know you're the head bitch in charge of this here sandbox. Must you remind us of it every time someone posts something that doesn't absolutely conform to your lofty standards? It's bad enough listening to your endless screeds about animal rights and welfare.
Then again, this is the woman who ordered posters to stop talking about the unexpected deaths of Peter Steele and the drummer from Avenged Sevenfold in the Bad News thread because the deaths of celebrities weren't more important than the deaths of ordinary people, and with so much death and suffering in the world, why should two dead rock stars get so much attention?
You, madame, are a self-important imbecile. No, the deaths of two rock musicians aren't more important than the death of a single mother in Oakland or a plumber in Sioux Falls or a Sherpa in Tibet, but they are more visible, and people are more likely to react to a loss they can see than to one about which they have heard. If someone were to tell me that a plumber in Sioux Falls lost a wrestling match with an alligator that crawled out of a sewer pipe because his sole means of defense, an electric pipe snake, gave up the ghost at an inopportune moment, then I would certainly feel sorry that he died, and so horribly, but the sorrow would be abstract and accompanied by a vague sense of black relief that it wasn't me in a sewer pipe and bringing a plumbing snake to a gator fight.
If, however, you were to tell me that Van Man had returned from the grave and succeeded in running down Stephen King, I would cry like a fool. Theoretically, I shouldn't be any more affected by his death than by the death of the random plumber; after all, I don't have a connection to either of them. But humans seldom adhere to neat theories, and whether I ought or not, I'm going to grieve more deeply for Uncle Stevie because there exists a false connection between us. I haven't exchanged so much as gas with him, and yet I have come to "know" him through his books. It's a false, grossly incomplete knowledge, smoke and mirrors--or in this case, ink and pages--but it is still more real and immediate than the plumber whose grinning asscrack I never beheld.
His death will be more immediate for me because I will understand its implications for me. It will mean that his fecund, glorious imagination is no more, that there will be no more chances to curl in my reading spot on a rainy night and crack the cover on a King hardcover the size of the DSM-IV. It means bool. The end. Grief is a natural, necessary, cathartic emotion, and the world would be poorer for its absence, but it is also selfish, a kinder manifestation of Narcissus at his pool. We mourn the things that matter to us and dismiss the things that don't. It's how it is. It's how we survive.
So getting shirty because people react more strongly to the death of someone they "know" than to a more anonymous death is a waste of time. It won't make people care more about the dead plumber than the dead musician to which they felt a connection.
It will, however, make you look like a pompous tool with deep-rooted control issues.
It will be interesting to see how long it takes her to micromanage the forum into the ground. I give it six months.
ETA: Beekay on the fact that the most recent posting of her fic has only gotten one review in twelve whole hours:
^ Thanks for leaving the only comment. That sure says something.
That your fic sucks, and even if it didn't, your lazy formatting is rage-inducing?
Jesus Christ, fucking suck it up. It's all right to think those things(I do so frequently), but it's poor form to whine aloud. Being an admin doesn't guarantee you an ass-kissing from the other posters when it comes to your fannish creativity. It usually earns some moist, bilabial currency, I'll grant you, and the fact that your butt-licking coffers are nearly empty does, indeed, say something. Childish dullard.
If she holds to her usual pattern, she'll threaten to stop writing unless peoplekiss her ass leave reviews, and if she hasn't received those reviews within an hour, she'll take her ball and go home on the butthurt train to Doucheville.
Then again, this is the woman who ordered posters to stop talking about the unexpected deaths of Peter Steele and the drummer from Avenged Sevenfold in the Bad News thread because the deaths of celebrities weren't more important than the deaths of ordinary people, and with so much death and suffering in the world, why should two dead rock stars get so much attention?
You, madame, are a self-important imbecile. No, the deaths of two rock musicians aren't more important than the death of a single mother in Oakland or a plumber in Sioux Falls or a Sherpa in Tibet, but they are more visible, and people are more likely to react to a loss they can see than to one about which they have heard. If someone were to tell me that a plumber in Sioux Falls lost a wrestling match with an alligator that crawled out of a sewer pipe because his sole means of defense, an electric pipe snake, gave up the ghost at an inopportune moment, then I would certainly feel sorry that he died, and so horribly, but the sorrow would be abstract and accompanied by a vague sense of black relief that it wasn't me in a sewer pipe and bringing a plumbing snake to a gator fight.
If, however, you were to tell me that Van Man had returned from the grave and succeeded in running down Stephen King, I would cry like a fool. Theoretically, I shouldn't be any more affected by his death than by the death of the random plumber; after all, I don't have a connection to either of them. But humans seldom adhere to neat theories, and whether I ought or not, I'm going to grieve more deeply for Uncle Stevie because there exists a false connection between us. I haven't exchanged so much as gas with him, and yet I have come to "know" him through his books. It's a false, grossly incomplete knowledge, smoke and mirrors--or in this case, ink and pages--but it is still more real and immediate than the plumber whose grinning asscrack I never beheld.
His death will be more immediate for me because I will understand its implications for me. It will mean that his fecund, glorious imagination is no more, that there will be no more chances to curl in my reading spot on a rainy night and crack the cover on a King hardcover the size of the DSM-IV. It means bool. The end. Grief is a natural, necessary, cathartic emotion, and the world would be poorer for its absence, but it is also selfish, a kinder manifestation of Narcissus at his pool. We mourn the things that matter to us and dismiss the things that don't. It's how it is. It's how we survive.
So getting shirty because people react more strongly to the death of someone they "know" than to a more anonymous death is a waste of time. It won't make people care more about the dead plumber than the dead musician to which they felt a connection.
It will, however, make you look like a pompous tool with deep-rooted control issues.
It will be interesting to see how long it takes her to micromanage the forum into the ground. I give it six months.
ETA: Beekay on the fact that the most recent posting of her fic has only gotten one review in twelve whole hours:
^ Thanks for leaving the only comment. That sure says something.
Jesus Christ, fucking suck it up. It's all right to think those things(I do so frequently), but it's poor form to whine aloud. Being an admin doesn't guarantee you an ass-kissing from the other posters when it comes to your fannish creativity. It usually earns some moist, bilabial currency, I'll grant you, and the fact that your butt-licking coffers are nearly empty does, indeed, say something. Childish dullard.
If she holds to her usual pattern, she'll threaten to stop writing unless people
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