I accidentally removed Victor's comment to this post because I was trying to remove my own comment that had spelling errors. But he said that he didn't actually write the article on the Mummers. Cool. I'm sorry I said that he did. And that he wasn't the one who got Conrad kicked out of the Philadelphia Magazine offices. Fine. I am wrong.
But you bait all of this, Victor. And I still think it's weird that you would come at me on a discussion board. And I don't think my analysis of what you actually wrote is wrong. The OED is right. And I had no intention of ever carrying my annoyance about your blog post out in public space. You wanted to correct me in what I think is a non-public, anonymous forum. Dude, it's just weird. You wrote an article obviously meant to piss people off and then you want to hold me to the journalistic standards that you didn't uphold yourself. You had facts plenty wrong, which you have since fixed. But then you post something this morning that throws gas on the fire, so we are all distracted from what you ACTUALLY wrote. Then you go around trying to save your good name again. You like the fight more so than anyone else in all this, I think. But you can't erase what you actually do write in public by posting someone's FB comments to a magazine's blog. FB isn't exactly a magazine open to the public. Your writing on the blog is. And collectively your magazine seems to have some class issues going on according to my reading of it. And you don't want to address those at all. Fine. I don't care. I just wanted to say what I saw and I did. God Bless you. I wish you love and happiness. I will never ever comment on anything you write. But know that if you write something in public, you will be scrutinized.
And professionally speaking, is it Kosher for a journalist to publish someone's FB comments on a blog? This is a strange new world where the boundaries are no longer clear. It seems wrong. It just seems wrong that I think I am talking to my friends and the journalist who wrote the article I am critiquing is watching me. It's like someone peering in over the breakfast table.