Tag Archives: etiquette

Chris Rock on comedy and cell phones

Everyone I know and read has been posting this Chris Rock interview and wow, I can see why. Chris Rock is the smartest man in the world and we should let him do whatever the hell he wants.

The interview, conducted by Frank Rich, covers a lot of territory, from race to parenthood to money. Rock also talks show business, of course, and the chilling effect that smart phones have had on standup comedy:

A few days ago I was talking with Patton Oswalt, and he was exercised about the new reality that any comedian who is trying out material that’s a little out there can be fucked by someone who blasts it on Twitter or a social network.

I know Dave Chappelle bans everybody’s phone when he plays a club. I haven’t gone that far, but I may have to, to get an act together for a tour.

Does it force you into some sort of self-censorship?

It does. I swear I just had a conversation with the people at the Comedy Cellar about how we can make cell phones into cigarettes. If you would have told me years ago that they were going to get rid of smoking in comedy clubs, I would have thought you were crazy.

It is scary, because the thing about comedians is that you’re the only ones who practice in front of a crowd. Prince doesn’t run a demo on the radio. But in stand-up, the demo gets out. There are a few guys good enough to write a perfect act and get onstage, but everybody else workshops it and workshops it, and it can get real messy. It can get downright offensive. Before everyone had a recording device and was wired like fucking Sammy the Bull, you’d say something that went too far, and you’d go, “Oh, I went too far,” and you would just brush it off. But if you think you don’t have room to make mistakes, it’s going to lead to safer, gooier stand-up. You can’t think the thoughts you want to think if you think you’re being watched.

I pushed back on this, mentally, at first, because my knee-jerk response is to blow off anything that even smacks of a whine about “political correctness.” This instinct is usually a sound one, especially when dealing with comedians. I’ve met plenty who would rather accuse you of having no sense of humor than consider that their joke might not have been funny, and who can’t tell the difference between genuine just-heard-God’s-own-truth laughter and the nervous, tittering, just-heard-a-mother-superior-fart laughter.

But Rock is right, as usual. Some comics may merely bemoan not being able to use race and sex slurs onstage, but smartphones could have a chilling effect in other ways. I used to do standup for a while in the mid-90s, and had Twitter and smartphones been around back then, I probably wouldn’t have done it. I had a day job doing publicity for a theater company, and while an organization like that doesn’t care if you do creative stuff in your off-hours, my boss might have cared if he’d known I was making jokes about him, if Twitter had been there to make him care. How many other wannabe comedians have day jobs? You think “edgy material,” nowadays, you think of hot-button race and gender stuff, but frankly, for any given comedian, who knows what the hot-button material is? Maybe it’s talking about their families of origin, or day jobs, or the church they go to, or what their childhood was like. Something they don’t want to have be part of their Permanent Internet Record, not yet.

Chris Rock makes another point:

And by the way: An audience that’s not laughing is the biggest indictment that something’s too far. No comedian’s ever done a joke that bombs all the time and kept doing it. Nobody in the history of stand-up. Not one guy.

Yep. Audiences have only one source of power in the audience-comic transaction, but it’s the most potent core-of-the-sun power there is. The power not to laugh. That’s what you do with the guy who’s making rape jokes onstage. If you want better comedians, you have to have better audiences. This is harder. It’s harder to control your own instinctive, etiquette-trained nervous giggle than it is to shame someone on Twitter. But if you want other people to modify their behavior, you may have to modify yours as well. With bad comics, stony silence is the only appropriate response.

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Scheduling problems

A friend of mine posted on Facebook earlier this week,

Why do all the theater companies in Greater Boston do all their “family friendly” stuff in November and December? Most of it isn’t even holiday-related. Don’t they know there’s a vast expanse of time from January to May, which is when families actually have time and are looking for stuff to do?

What a great question! Theater companies ought to take it under consideration. So should you, as the artistic director of your own life, when you’re making social plans. Everyone’s booked solid in December, and then come long, dark January and February, with no real holidays and no special events and very few people traveling. Those are great months to throw parties! Don’t send your invites until after Christmas, though, or they’ll disappear into the general slush pile.

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The etiquette of talking about geeky things

I love this article from io9 on the seven deadly sins of talking about pop culture, from “non-consensual spoilers” to “letting random controversies get in the way of judging the work on its own merits.” Number six, “Not recognizing that pop culture has real-world meanings,” is my favorite:

Even if a story takes place 1000 years in the future on another planet, it’s still talking about the here and now, to some extent. It’s still commenting on our society and our institutions, and it’s in dialogue with other works created beforehand. Some people enjoy geeking out about the implications of a piece of pop culture, or picking apart the ways that something is flawed or problematic. And some people don’t necessarily enjoy doing that, but feel a need to do so because it’s a pervasive piece of pop culture that is speaking to or about them in a way that they need to address. So it’s a “sin” to deny other people’s right to analyze and criticize pop culture–particularly when they’re commenting on how it deals with race or gender or sexuality. In particular, it’s weird to tell people not to overthink something because “it’s just a movie”–we’re geeks, overthinking is what we do. And saying that mindless, uncritical appreciation is the only way to engage with mainstream culture is tantamount to saying that we should recognize no difference between, say, The Empire Strikes Back and The Phantom Menace. They’re both Star Wars movies, they both have explosions, and there are cool set pieces in both — but the moment you start thinking critically, you notice some differences between them.

I’ve never understood why attempts to analyze pop culture make some people viscerally angry. I don’t like sports, but I don’t wade into the comments section of sports blogs and angrily demand why everyone has to analyze the game to death. Sports are important–not to me, but to a lot of people. And some people enhance their enjoyment by analyzing and critiquing how the game could have been played different, or better. It’s not hard to understand that. I think everyone understands that, when it comes to sports. Why do people react so differently when it’s movies and books that other people want to critique?

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The Bostonian personality

Commented to a friend from Kansas this morning that she really ought to consider moving out here, as her personality would fit much better in New England, which led me to muse on one of my favorite muse-snacks, the Boston personality. Here’s what I see, almost 20 years after I made the move from the Midwest myself:

Bostonians value honestly over tact and would rather discuss their opinions than their emotions. We expect people to have some kind of clear identity, whether it’s ethnic, professional, religious, or whatever. We have an innate understanding of multiple intelligences. This moderates the intellectual snobbery people expect from the city, although it also means, in practice, that most of us are easily intimidated by each other: I’ve seen physicists scared of actresses, lawyers intimidated by chefs. We have no ability to move through space in a coordinated and efficient fashion, whether on foot or by car or bike, in striking contrast to New Yorkers, who navigate their city like schools of fish. Despite our terrible street signage, Bostonians place a high value on information and think that giving people the full and accurate intel to make a decision is an important etiquette practice. (The homeless people have more informative signs in Boston than in any large city I’ve been to.) We are somewhat antisocial, although to us it feel more like respecting other people’s privacy, and avoiding the awkwardness that we secretly believe is inherent in every social interaction. (It’s no coincidence that half the cast of “The Office” came from Newton.) Bostonians will ghost at a party because we don’t want to put the host through an awkward goodbye when he’s deep in a conversation about string theory or the Sox with another guest.

What do you think? Am I right? What would you add?

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Is “sorry” the wrong number?

Anna North–I like this woman’s writing!–has a piece up summarizing reactions to the Pantene “Sorry” commercial:

In part, she points out, the women in the commercial aren’t actually apologizing:

The linguist Deborah Tannen tells her the word often isn’t an admission of guilt; it’s merely a way of “taking into account the presence of another person.” The woman in the Pantene ad who apologizes when a man bumps her elbow doesn’t really think she’s done a bad thing — she’s just politely acknowledging the man’s existence. But men don’t tend to reciprocate with their own sorrying. Ms. Tannen says:

“I see this as the more general phenomenon that language almost never means what the dictionary definition says; it’s used the way others use it — as a ritual. But those who don’t share the ritual tend to take the words literally. Since American men don’t tend to use ‘sorry’ this way, they mistakenly take women’s use of it literally, as an apology.”

Just because the men are getting it “wrong” doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stop doing it anyway, of course. North defends the casual “sorry” as an expression of empathy–“At its best, ‘sorry’ may be an expression of caring for someone else — whether it’s a real admission of wrongdoing or just a simple acknowledgment that sometimes two people have to occupy the same cramped waiting room.”

I’m not buying it, though. I think the auto-sorry blurs the line between empathy and culpability in a bad way. We all know what a crappy apology sounds like–“I’m sorry you were offended,” that kind of thing, in which the miscreant uses the proper apology words but never invests in them. The auto-sorry devalues the language of apology in a similar way, albeit with a kinder intent. You can’t possibly be sorry for your physical existence in a shared space with another human being, as in regretful of your choices and determined not to let that happen again, so don’t say you are.

The English language has a phrase for those situations in which you want to acknowledge another person’s possible inconvenience without assuming blame for it: “Excuse me.”

Save the “sorrys” for actual apologies.

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The greatest condolence letter ever written

Look what we got on Monday, from a girl in the neighborhood who was a big fan of our Milo. Count the ways–from graphic design to advanced empathy–that this letter excels.

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Manners change

My favorite etiquette reference book, the 17th edition of Emily Post, copyrighted 2004, begins thus:

“While scientific and medical advancements have made life easier over the years, the stresses and strains that have come with population density, technological advancements, all-pervasive news and entertainment media, and a redefinition of the family have resulted in a whole new set of challenges. People behave no worse than they used to (rudeness and other social offenses are nothing new), but the pressures of modern life make it all the more difficult to stay civil.”

My fifth edition 1943 Emily Post Blue Book ends with this:

“Etiquette like our living language is seemingly rigid but actually fluid. The times in which we live rare constantly producing new and, therefore, puzzling situations. We gladly accept forms that are helpful but we have little patience with those whose purpose is the preservation of form for form’s sake. It has long been my particular occupation not only to urge keeping those precepts and customs of practical use and to discard those which no longer serve, but also to meet the new problems constantly arising. It is this increasing fusing together of the new with the old, that has kept this book from becoming a collection of dry-dust maxims, to which ‘Finis’ might otherwise have been written twenty years ago.”

My friend Lisa, an English professor at Emmanuel College, gave me a wonderful 1962 Chandler Guide to Beauty, Style, and Poise, which features the following in its etiquette section:

“In our present-day society, social usage is a dynamic, changing cog in the wheel of social progress. It is interesting to refer to ‘The Ladies’ Guide to True Politeness and Correct Manners’ by Miss Leslie. In 1864, a lady did not go out by herself after dark, She sent her male caller home by ten o’clock and never called him by his first name. She would not think of corresponding with any man except her husband or a member of her family. Nowadays the telephone, radio and television, to mention just a few inventions, have changed our way of living and our social usages as well. In large cities, it is even considered proper now for a young woman to go to a man’s apartment for dinner, because it is his home.”

Change is the only constant! Do you have any etiquette books, old or new? Do they include a passage about how times have changed and manners must be based on common sense and kindness rather than clinging to old conventions? My book has a rather lengthy one, of course. At the time I thought I might have actually said something new. Now I’m merely content to have said it well.

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Sunday column: Performers are people

Today’s column is online here. This is the second question, and the beginning of my answer:

At a concert in a small venue, when the artist asks for requests, is it rude to request a well known cover by the artist as opposed to one of his original songs? Assuming the cover by the artist is relatively popular as a recording but is obviously not his own music.
R.J. Canton, OH

Miss Conduct wants to throw flowers and bravos at you, R.J. for your understanding that live performers are human beings, and not meat-based streaming platforms for music and spoken-word poetry. Live music, theater, or comedy should be seen as a social event, not as a consumer experience.

I wrote this column shortly after reading a piece by Tim Parks in the New York Review of Books in which the author gets himself trapped–temporarily, but for much longer than he, or you, or the Supreme Court’s legal fiction of the “reasonable person,” would ever desire–at a dreadful avant garde production of “Six Characters in Search of an Author.” I clicked on the article expecting a hurr durr, experimental theater is stoopid screed, but it was a good deal smarter than that.

The performing arts are inherently social in a way that, say, literature and painting aren’t, because the artists are right there in the room with you. They can see you. This creates a certain pressure to conform to social norms–having Capt’n Crunch staring at you can affect your behavior, never mind Blanche DuBois–including sticking around and acting like you’re paying attention at least until intermission. And this can open audiences up to artistic experiences they might not otherwise have.

Parks points out that not every work of art is instantly pleasing. Some take time to get into. In a museum or gallery, there is no social pressure to continue to gaze at a painting that doesn’t immediately thrill your eye. You glance and move on. Imagine if the artists were all standing next to their work, though! You’d feel bad to do that. So you’d look at everything longer, and maybe ask a few questions to be nice. (This is what the “poster sessions” of scientific conferences are like.) You might end up developing a great and genuine fondness for some paintings that didn’t grab you at all at first.

Theater does exert that social pressure:

In the theater on the other hand the flesh-and-blood presence of the actors, good or bad as they may be, creates a sense of reality and immediacy, a heightened state of attention. Having paid for your seat, having promised yourself a special evening, and finding yourself sitting in the middle of a long row beside others who have also paid and promised themselves a special evening, others whom you imagine have similar interests to your own, people willing to spend time and money supporting avant-garde culture, a community almost—in these circumstances you are probably always going to hang on at least thirty minutes, however bewildered and sceptical you may be. And thirty minutes should be enough for Beckett’s enchantments to begin to work. Simply the emotional experience of being in the theater, the sense of occasion, the positive atmosphere of people engaging in an intellectual pursuit together, provides the necessary momentum for tackling the great enigma of Beckett’s work.

Park’s column influenced my choice of and answer to that question, and then after I’d turned it in, this happened:

An actor in a Santa Clarita, Calif. production of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” was fired Saturday after physically removing a heckler in the audience who lobbed anti-gay slurs at the cast for nearly half of the show.

John Lacy, who played Big Daddy in Tennessee Williams’ classic play that tackles homophobia among other themes, was fired after jumping off stage and physically confronting an audience member who repeatedly made noise and yelled “fag” during emotionally tense scenes, according to audience members’ accounts of the incident on Facebook.

The show apparently continued following the confrontation and concluded to a standing ovation. Lacy was apparently not let go until after the performance.


Where in the name of Joseph Papp was the producer? The front-of-house management? The stage manager? Mr. Lacy should not have escalated–responding to words with hands is never the right thing to do–but he was absolutely in the right to do something, and the fact that he chose an unwise something is not on him. A person who is disrupted in the middle of a task that requires 100% of their emotional, physical, and intellectual energy is not wholly responsible for how they respond to that disruption. Mr. Lacy should have been protected by management, and since he wasn’t, there is no way in hell that he should have been punished for protecting his fellow actor, the dignity of his craft, and the rest of the audience’s right to enjoy the play in peace. (There has been, if not a happy ending, at least a silver lining to the whole story reported here.)

This story enraged me, because it seems less about an isolated case of extremely bad theater etiquette than it does part of a whole complex of entitlement. Every student who has ever demanded a grade as though that is what tuition pays for. Every customer who thinks they’re always right. Every blog commenter who whines that the blogger isn’t writing about what they, the commenter, thinks is important.

The customer isn’t always right.
The customer isn’t always even a customer.
Sometimes the customer is a participant.

And that is a much bigger and better thing to be. Live up to it.

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How do you make it special, not scary?

Arts marketers and party hosts face a similar dilemma: How do you make a special occasion feel truly special, without intimidating people?

Everyone wants moments, artifacts, that are special, above and apart from the normal humdrum of life. All week we drink water from a glass; on Shabbat we drink wine from a goblet. It’s human nature, it’s what parties and art and religion are for. All cultures have special events.

And then, for some reason, in the US in the 21st century, we have that basic human need but we hate it. We worry. What if I don’t know how to eat the special food? What if I don’t know the steps to the special dance? What if I don’t have enough money for the special clothes? What if I don’t even know what the special clothes should be? Performance anxiety around special events is natural–all the world’s a stage, but during a wedding or fancy dinner party the spotlights get turned up all the way. That natural performance anxiety is intensified, here and now, by all the usual culprits: increasing diversity, which means a breakdown of commonly held social customs; increasing inequality and economic doldrums that make people insecure about their social status; the unflattering contrast between one’s performance in meatspace and the carefully filtered and curated image one can project on social media; and probably ever so many more reasons.

We need special events, we love special events, but we hate them because they make us feel afraid of failure, and failure in 21st century America is not an option.

Do you see the position this puts hosts, and arts marketers into?

Parties are special events. Art is a special event. How do you get guests and clients to join you on that elevated plane?

I was walking around Newbury Street with a friend one day and wanted to stop in one of my favorite art galleries. My friend–whose scientific and literary accomplishments are so impressive she can admit to virtually any other ignorance with no shame–said that she had never been in an art gallery, and was therefore vaguely intimidated to go into this one. I told her it was just like a museum except you get treated like a potential customer instead of a potential vandal–and that if you see something you truly love you could actually buy it–which convinced her to join me.

This wasn’t some underserved urban youth, you understand, this is a woman with a PhD who grew up on the Upper West Side. The fact that she’d never been in an art gallery isn’t a problem. The fact that she felt put off by the idea of entering one really, really is.

Some gallery owners have found a fascinating way around the special-is-scary dilemma–art trucks:

[M]obile owners say they are trying to avoid the confines — and politics — of the gallery system; to help people think about art in different ways; or to reach more communities, especially those with young and old people who tend not to visit art districts. That was what motivated Berge Zobian of Providence, R.I., to create his truck in 2012, equipped with 44 linear feet of exhibition space, a stereo system, security cameras, projection monitors and even a bar for making coffee. On one occasion he took 40 paintings to a church, one priced at $35,000.

Look at this picture, also from the NYT article.

You want to go in there. Of course you do. How could you not? It looks like a doorway to Narnia. It looks like a gypsy caravan. It looks magical.


Is that it? How do we make things magical? How do we bust people out of their self-consciousness about etiquette and appearance and get them to focus on the magic of the moment?

I like the art trucks, I like them very much. I like the gothic-themed party I threw a few winters ago, when people were asked to wear “Formal dress … from any era, in any state of repair.” One way of keeping things special-but-not-scary would be introducing this kind of ironic distance. Yes, we’re dressing up, but we’re playing dress-up. Everyone knows those aren’t your real clothes. Art trucks are inherently ironic–it’s art! In a truck!

But irony can’t be the entire answer. It’s reactive–the art trucks wouldn’t be ironic if we didn’t have knowledge and expectations about art galleries to upend. A razor-slashed prom gown and ratted hair (I looked amazing at my Midwinter Macabre!) needs a vision of formal dress to contrast itself to. And irony always holds something back, which ultimately is antithetical to creating a truly special occasion. You can’t always play dress-up. Sometimes you need to actually dress up.

Information helps. I subscribe to Central Square Theater, and before shows, you get an email reminder with information about parking and restaurants. The theater lobby and restrooms are papered with signs telling the audience the show’s running time per act and how long the intermission is. This weekend I attended a wedding at which a large board with the day’s schedule of events painted on it was propped up where everyone could see. These things are helpful, and beyond that, they set a tone. In addition to the facts the convey, such signs say, “There is relevant information about this event that you may not have known when you walked in. That is perfectly understandable. Feel free to ask if you need more help.”

Irony and information–two ways you can make an event special without being scary. But those aren’t full solutions to the dilemma, just the tools I happen to have in my kit. What’s in yours?

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Blogging returns!

I’m back!

And so is the blog. For a year. We’ll see after that.

The Boston Globe and the Boston.com website got divorced this spring, and the Globe got custody of me, which means that Miss Conduct doesn’t have a blog on Boston.com anymore. (My column still runs in the newspaper, both print and online.)

The thing about blogging is that it’s such an open-ended endeavor. Are you posting too much? Not enough? Being interestingly varied? Yet staying on topic? What’s the end goal of any blog, besides a large number of readers to be disappointed when the blogger quits? Which almost everyone who blogs does, sooner or later, unless they’re getting paid.

And when people quit blogging, they tend to abandon their blogs for long stretches of time first, or start re-running old material, or generally behaving not like people who are bringing it home to a triumphant conclusion, but people desperately trying to gun an engine intent on sputtering to its death. I’ve done it myself. I think if we’re ending our blogs like that, maybe we somehow didn’t start them right.

So here’s my new idea: I’m going to blog in this space until next June, when I’ll decide whether or not to keep going. I’d like to get picked up as a blogger by another publication by then, or find some other way of supporting the blog. If not, I’ll re-evaluate, but having an end date in mind will, I think, help keep me focused and energetic.

The blog’s new tagline will be, “The Art & Science of Social Behavior,” and that’s what it will be about: the intersection of the arts, the social sciences, and everyday life. I hope you’ll enjoy it, and read and comment often. Coming up this week:

– Do the right clothes and props make you better at your job?
– “Mad Men” explains everything about my other job
– Why your parents buy your kids too many presents

Also, today’s “Miss Conduct” column is online here—a threefer, this week—and you can catch up on past ones here, now without a paywall to worry about (here’s information on subscribing to the Globe). I hid a little Easter egg in the column for Monty Python fans.

Welcome back! We’re going to have fun.

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A polite correction

A reader writes:

I know how you feel about correcting others’ grammar, but I’ve been noticing a particular recurring mistake for years. I just need to get it off my chest, as it always immediately distracts me from what you’re writing. (I’ve read both your blogs and your column for as long as you’ve written them.) You write “here’s” or “there’s” when the construction should be plural (“here are” or “there are”). A recent example is your use of “Here’s palettes…” in the entry of 4/13/2011.

Obviously I mostly enjoy your writing, or else I wouldn’t continue to read. I just hope you might be more mindful of this in the future.

Thank you! This is an apt correction, politely delivered. My subjects and verbs may not always agree, but I can’t argue with what this writer points out. I will try to be more aware of here’ses and there’ses in my writing. (I suspect the problem has to do with finishing a different sentence on the screen than I had begun writing in my head.) And correcting the writer of a public blog is different than interrupting a friend in the middle of a dramatic or comedic tale in order to nitpick her grammar.

[I do, however, continue to reserve the right to use “they” as a singular when necessary. I realize it’s technically incorrect, but it seems more natural and euphonious than alternatives. So don’t bother trying to reform me on that.]

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My friend will put me out of business

My friend Jennifer House wrote this the other day:

I am thinking of going into business – creating greeting cards for shy neighbors.

“Are your enthusiastically amorous neighbors keeping you up at night?”
Poetic ANSWER – slip this under their door:

“Life without love is no life at all —but please move your headboard away from the wall.”

I’m a good advice columnist, but I’m no poet. Jennifer is.

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Exile, fandom, acne, hair, dance

And I’m back, everyone! The break was nice, although I never had any sort of great Passover-y moment of revelation. One thing I found myself thinking of a lot was the people who were born and died during those 40 years in the wilderness, who had no memory of Egypt and didn’t live long enough to see the Promised Land. I’ve never greatly identified with Moses — the Lord is always sayething unto him, for one thing, and the Lord doesn’t sayeth unto me very often, if at all. But those cynical Gen-Xers of Exodus, tired of the Greatest Generation’s war stories, wondering if they’re anything to hope for, really … them, I get.

Some good reading from last week: this article in the Globe about fandom. It focuses on sports fans, but many of the dynamics are true of fans of anything else (a celebrity, a television show, a band) as well. Are you a “fan” of anything, to the point of buying a t-shirt, following someone on Twitter, or joining a group (online or off) for the purposes of discussing that thing? I’ve become a fairly avid fan of several television shows, most notably “Deadwood,” to the point of writing fan fiction and buying a “Star & Bullock Hardware” shirt.

A piece in Slate on why humans are the only animals to have acne, and also the only ones that would be psychologically bothered by it. (Evolution is a cruel trickster.) New treatments have made acne rarer among teens, but that very fact might increase the suffering of those who can’t afford treatment, or for whom nothing has been successful.

I was fascinated to read that blogger S.E. Smith recently cut her long hair very short, and found that she was darned near considered antisocial for wanting to keep it her business what she did with the ponytail. Specifically, she faced a lot of pressure to donate her hair, a practice which has gone from being a nifty option for people suddenly in possession of a braid no longer attached to their head, to becoming near-mandatory, the default option. The thing you have to explain if you don’t do it.

This bothers me. A great deal. Two years ago, I wrote about a New Yorker article on people who donate kidneys to strangers. My reaction to it then was strong and visceral, and has since become more focused. This notion of one’s body as a resource that may be owed to strangers is deeply problematic. As I wrote two years ago:

I would not donate a kidney to a stranger, nor do I feel any sense of a moral call to do so merely on the grounds that I could. My body and its functions are not some form of wealth that I am hoarding like Scrooge McDuck: they are constitutive of my identity. They are ME. And no one has an a priori right to my blood, my organs, my womb. I may choose to share, but that is my choice. Having two kidneys when others have none is not the same has having two loaves of bread when others have none. The body is different. I do not owe anyone access to my body.

As an etiquette matter, let’s all take note that “Did you donate your hair?” is a question better left unasked.

Finally, on a less existential note, let this hilarious pantomime/interpretive dance by David Armand brighten your Monday. I love this guy’s work! Am I the only one who finds brilliantly talented physical comedians way sexy? (See also: Danny Pudi.)

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Direct communication

I did an e-mail interview last week in which I was asked “to come up with a couple situations, in your experience, that don’t necessarily require the most polite response. It would also be great if you could comment on how to handle them … This small piece is going within a larger piece about etiquette, so we wanted to highlight the situations where you shouldn’t allow yourself to be walked all over.”

There was more to it than that, but this was the basic idea. Which I found a frustrating question, because I think that’s a misreading of what “politeness” is. Here’s what I wrote in response:

Politeness is always important, but you can assert yourself while being civil and kind about it. Some people think that “good manners” means being terribly euphemistic and fancy all the time, but it really doesn’t. A well-mannered person is a person who can change her style to suit the occasion. Here are some times when direct communication is the best:

1. When you are in charge. When you are the boss (whether at work, hosting a party, or running a community event), act like it. This doesn’t mean barking commands — but it does mean giving clear directives and feedback. You aren’t being “polite” by making other people read your mind or reassure you that you’re really in control.

2. When “subtle hints don’t work.” As an advice columnist, I am constantly amazed by the number of people who write to me about clueless co-workers, spouses, roommates, or neighbors, whose behavior drives the Letter Writer righteously batty, and who don’t pick up on “hints” to change.

If hinting doesn’t work, stop hinting! There’s nothing wrong with asking a co-worker not to microwave broccoli because the smell bothers you; or telling your spouse that silly as it may be, Valentine’s Day is important to you, so get some game next year; or asking a roommate not to use the last of your milk.

3. When the answer is “No.” A “no” can be final and commanding (to a pushy stranger at a bar) or sweet and regretful (to a friend who wants you to volunteer yet again to organize the school auction), but when “No” is the answer you need to give, give it. Apologize only if necessary, and never offer excuses.

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Bye Bye 101

A friend of mine, a very Distinguished Professor, posted the following on Facebook last week:

I went to a fine dinner at the Charles Hotel this evening, which, among other things was to recognize the outstanding [Distinguished Area of Study] students. I sat next to two of them, who seemed nice enough, but toward the end of the meal they just got up and walked out while I was talking to the person on my other side. Prize winning [Distinguished University] seniors need to learn to say Bye Bye

Obviously, my friend is right. And yet, why do I have a certain sympathy for the vanishing valedictorians? Perhaps they were arrogant, or self-absorbed, or oblivious to the needs of others. Or perhaps they were painfully self-conscious, and somehow — unconsciously, irrationally — believed that they could escape the evening without notice, despite the fact that it was in their honor.

Like the lady who hit my friend with the door, and who believed if she didn’t apologize, he might not notice.

I hate to admit it, but I have a streak of that in me. Just a tiny bit, enough to understand.

How about you?

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