For some reason, on the comments' thread here, Feodor demonstrates a truly remarkable hard-on for me. I can only ask, in all seriousness and with all due respect, "What's your fucking problem, dude?"
While the whole thing is kind of odd, and at the remove of several hours a little less annoying, I still wonder where it all came from. I did find it funny that every guess about me, my life, who I am as a person, my personal and intellectual history - every little bit Feodor thought he could glean from reading what I've written - is pretty much wrong. Were I the kind of person to take offense at his petty moral scoldings, I would be particularly offended by the whole "a couple black friends" jibe. That kind of came out of nowhere. The complaint about word use - he actually takes me to task for saying the Holocaust Museum is "chock-a-block" with items - is almost silly. As for his armchair moralist quip, all moralists are armchair moralists, which is why I am not one, nor do I play one on my blog. I find it odd that he insists I read a book, I hint that I might have read a book, then makes fun of me for mentioning I might have done exactly what he demands I do in the first place. Not that reading, or the number of books anyone has read matters one whit for me. As Alan says, "Who cares?" It's kind of like his wondering where I went to seminary, I tell him, even giving him the mailing address for the place, and he waves a dismissive hand.
It's like Marshall Art with better spelling.
So, I have invited him here, I have asked my question, I have staked out my complaint, and I want an answer. What gives, man?
