Thursday, May 30, 2013

7 Steps To Win (internet) Debates.

Applied Wisdom
Picture yourself browsing the Web.
You are in a smooth mood, and even your e-mail spam folder looks friendlier than usual.
You read here and there, then a blog post catches your attention. Interested in the topic, the content is not enough and you move to the comments, and leave a piece of your mind for the whole world to read.

The next day, someone has replied the written equivalent to spraying your face with bear mace while flinging rotten eggs at your dog.  Your mood is now a smoking pile recursive bitterness. You know that the commenter might be baiting you, it might be the most blatant troll ever… but this time, you don't care.

You put on your boxing gloves, then discard them because, like, it's really not meant for touch typing… then you go on with The Debate.

But wait. Looking wise in a wise debate is easy (in my case, I achieve that by skillfully shutting my mouth), but looking like an idiot  in a debate turned into the Battle Of Verdun is even easier. So how will you proceed?

1) Know your surroundings
You're going to war. And as a good warrior, you do not want to walk into enemy territory only to get blitzed by a waiting, hungry batalion.
In other words: If you intend to affirm your atheist views on a born-again Christian forum, the only thing you will get out of the debate is a headache and potentially a broken keyboard.

2) Keep your cool

Remember that crazy cat lady from the Simpsons? Yup, that's what you look like when you lose your cool. In any kind of debate.
Avoid sarcasm, insults, walls of texts, nervous typos…  You are the Barry White of rhetoric, you want to smother your opponent between a mattress of silky logic and a pillow of sensual common sense. All night.

3) Stay on topic

This is a difficult one. Trolls are gifted creatures when it comes to lead you astray, on their own ground, and swallow you whole. If the debate is about the correct amount of milk in a banana milk-shake, they will try getting you on a guilt trip about banana farmers work condition. Do not fall for it, even if, yes, it's kind of dumb to eat radioactive fruits.

4) Do not use fallacies

Logical fallacies are the kinks and crooks of debating.
They look good, they smell good, they taste even better and politicians all over the world use them regularly.
That alone should be enough as a warning, unless you want to become rather fat, and old before your time.
As a reminder, here is a list of logical fallacies. When you have time, read it through, you'll be surprised by how many you may have used without even knowing it.

5) Remember the basics


Present your argument, support it with verifiable facts, expose the logic and conclude. Truth is: it's as simple as it sounds. 


Most internet arguments climb to the top, then take a leap of faith.
(source)


There will probably be some legwork involved and, if your opponent uses the despicable "5 years old who asks why after every answer" technique, you will need to go pretty far and might end up trying to demonstrate that, yes, the sky is indeed blue. Well, at least the light filtered through the stratosphere is blue, it's really all in the gaz. Wait… what do you mean by "sky"?


When you have come that far, maybe it's the right moment to...

6) Know when to let go

You've kept calm, focused, logical, polite, clear in your argumentation and still this little, pretentious heap of hubris is still denying the superiority of Sega graphics during the pre-Sony era?
You have spent most the afternoon trying to explain that no, inflatable dartboards are not durable knife throwing targets?
Most importantly, half the article's comment section is about people getting tired of you arguing?

It means that either you're wrong, and there is no shame is admitting it (Although, I'm sorry, but the sprite flickering from the Nintendo Entertainment System graphic chipset was just ridiculous), either you're just talking to a wall and you are that close to moving in with the cat lady.  

You now have have a choice: either walk toward a dignified retreat from a battle no one gives a damn about, or linger on until the nice young men in their clean white coats come to take you to the funny farm.

7) The ULTIMATE WIN

Just let it go man, don't post, don't reply, you don't care.
This is the internet, where all females are males and where all teenage girls are FBI agents. Go do something else, have a beer, dance naked in the snow... You don't need to be acknowleged there.

No, you don't.
No, seriously.
It's all in your brain, it's no real community.
Yeah? Go talk to Maslow about that, see what he'll tell you.

Ok, I see. Well I'm waiting for you in the comment section then.
It's ON!


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7 Steps to Win (internet) Debates, Text and Picture by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

Interview: In Bed With Knutt the Unscarred.

Knutt The Unscarred
on his way to the Day Spa.
(source)
In this special issue of Without A Lemon, we are delighted to feature one of the most accomplished men of this decade: Knutt The Unscarred, Norse warrior extraordinaire, who has agreed for an interview in spite of his busy agenda.

WaL : Good morning, Mr.Knutt. Thanks for agreeing to this interview!

Knutt: Greeting, puny man. May you find honorable death on the battlefield.

WaL: Hum. Yes. That sounds reasonable… Now, Knutt, so our readers can learn more about what you do, and why we are interviewing you for a creative writing blog, could you introduce yourself?

Knutt: Your readers should know Knutt already.

WaL: Well… they should, shouldn't they. But for the few of them who have just learned to read?

Knutt: I do not like repeating myself. But I am magnanimous. I am a Knutt the Unscarred, holder of the world record for successive brawls and battles without receiving any wound.
I am also author of the bestselling New-York Times book: "A kick in the Knutt: dodging your way through life"

WaL: This is very impressive, Knutt.

Knutt: A lifetime achievement.

WaL : Although this is remarkable, we do know about one other great feature you have achieved, yet you seem reluctant to discuss the topic. Would you care telling us why?

Knutt: I do not know what you are speaking of. Knutt is a renowned warrior with a seamless technique. It is enough for puny men to know.

WaL: Well, not really. Knutt, you have been the ambassador of Gorgeous Him Skin Care Cosmetics and an idol of the metrosexual community, worldwide, for the last five years. Don't you think it is worth talking about?

Knutt: I do not.

WaL: Don't be so hard on yourself. Look at you. That perfect complexion, the fine grain of your epiderm despite hours of shaving with a double bladed battle ax, the perfect smoothness of muscles and sinews carefully kept away from body hairs… It has to mean something!

Knutt: It means I fight and I win, and I never bring a scar home. And then I shave and pose for the puny men's balms. Because a Norse Warrior has to eat 5 times a day and feast 5 times a night, and that is an expensive lifestyle.

WaL: You are talking about it like it's a bad thing!

Knutt: My brother lost a toe last year. My village made the bone into a necklace for his wife to wear. My brother does not pose for balms. My village is very proud.

WaL: This is terrible!

Knutt: Yes. When Knutt goes back to his village, men who are not puny and have fur on their chin and chest, they laugh. They say Knutt should stop fighting and start polishing puny men's shoes since Knutt is so good at caring for skin. Bjørn The Bald came home with an eye patch last week, he got a wife now.

WaL: No, no that's not what I meant! It's terrible that people wear other people's toes as a necklace!

Knutt: Not the truth. Toes and fingers are very good for pendents, ears get all dry and forearms are too heavy. Sister in law is very proud.

WaL: I wouldn't be proud of that! You are a public figure, doesn't it count for something!

Knutt: AH! Counting! In my village we count SCARS! They are proof of valor! And what is my name? Knutt the UNSCARRED. They call me Baby Butt Knutt! You know not of the shame! What I would give for the slashing of a sword across my face! Having my ear bitten off while struggling against a mass of enemies!

WaL: But… aren't you happy that you can come home without ever being hurt?

Knutt: KNUTT IS ALWAYS HURT AT THE VILLAGE! KNUTT HURTS! INSIDE!

WaL: I think we are getting a little carried away Knutt. Please drop the ax.

Knutt: PUNY MAN HAS NO HEART! KNUTT FEELINGS SCARRED BY CRUEL WORDS!

At that point of the interview, Without A Lemon wasn't able to collect Knutt's opinions due to his sitting down and prostrated rambling.

Our readers will be happy to know that our favorite Warrior Of Smoothness has recovered and will be giving away signed copies of his books along with samples of Gorgeous Him skin care cream at our redaction, next Wednesday, proving one more time that Gorgeous Him is the brand for sensitive skins and sensitive souls!




More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

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In Bed WIth Knut The Unscarred by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Monday, May 20, 2013

Survive this.

There are some evenings…

You just happen to tilt you head back and dusk is already right in front of your face.
Sometimes it’s just you, sometimes, some dude taps on your shoulder and while pointing straight upward he goes “Hey…look at that!”

And of course you’re gonna look, ‘cause what’s to see is just not real.

The sun is suddenly more than a big ball of flaming gas, the clouds more than some vapor. This red hot blood spread across the sky seems to come right from your veins.

You gaze into this huge scenery and you realize that it’s taking everything away. No more endless commute to your office, no more bitching for your missing pencil sharpener, no more reports, boss, todesangst… Damn… for what it’s worth girls don’t even have boobs anymore.
Right that moment, it’s all burning along with the clouds and slowly sinking.

Then you just have enough time to blink twice and it’s dark already. Daddy Sun is gone to his other family.

You’re still there though, staring at nothing, feeling your existential mess creep back up your spine, cramped between the pencil sharpener and some girl’s boobs.

What are you supposed to do then?

You’ve just been the enlightened Zen monk from the movie for a full minute, and now papa’s gone home, you’re back to your old whiny self. Suck it up.

How are you supposed to return to your everyday’s plasma screen craving and internet porn when you feel you’ve just been dumped by the Sky itself?

I mean… how are you supposed to survive a sunset? 

More info, more cake and still no lemon at Without a Lemon's Facebook Page

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Survive this. by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Damn Bird

I wasn't feeling particularly well.
I woke up with a slight nausea, a major headache and, sign that something was definitely wrong with me, no appetite.

There is no better moment than breakfast. When you face your morning stamina-booster, your own kingly meal of whatever you want. But not that day. The king was gone off-castle and a vague after taste of moat was all that was left.

What had I been doing? My daily life was nothing more than the usual routine: wake up, go to work, leave work, slack, sleep.
No reason to get sick, or exceedingly tired. No reason to lose my regal appetite.

"Forget it" I thought. Maybe some sunlight would help.

Windows. Open… Bird?

I live downtown. I'm lucky enough to be able to see the sky from my window instead of some anonymous grey tower, but I'd never thought I'd see a bird perched on my balcony first thing in the morning.
A parrot, at that.

Not in the mood means not in the mood.
At any other time I would have stared while trying to work-out at least a dozen ways to keep it around.
I just gave it a blank stare and said "Oh, so Polly wants a biscuit, uh?"

It answered by bobbing its head up and down a couple of time and gave me a beady-eyed look.
"Suit yourself, yaaar." said I while heading for the kitchen, hoping caffeine would help me back to my senses.

I was halfway done filling my cup when I heard Polly (I had to give it that name, didn't I?) utter something -The last thing I'd have expected from a parrot.
"You're going to die".

Was it the blinding headache, the general gloom in which I woke up or had I simply gone mad?
"Say what, bird?"
- "You're going to die"
I was still sane, after all.
"Your owner must be the life of parties everywhere…"

I decided it was too creepy for my sleepy self, and proceeded to ignore the creature.
I also remarkably failed in doing so.

Polly was there every morning. Perched on the railing of my balcony, looking at me with one inquisitive bird eye and bobbing its head. And every morning, the same sentence.
"You are going to die"

Curiously enough, my appetite didn't come back. My headaches were persistent, and after a couple of weeks I found myself unable to commute to work. And every morning, the same sentence.
"You are going to die"

I tried everything.
I threw an ashtray at it once and caused an accident down my street.
I sprayed it with deodorant, blew cigarette smoke at it, sprayed it with ice cold water (which equally displeased pedestrians underneath), screamed at it.
Nothing.
Each and every morning, Polly the Deathsayer would greet me with its very own quote of the day.

Four months in, I had lost lots of weight and all of my job. My savings were growing thin. Not that I went out a lot, or even ate anything expensive. The only thing I craved for was parrot soup.

"You are going to die".
That time, I exploded.
"Listen, feathery fuckup from hell! I am NOT going to die anytime soon! I am NOT going to let you ruin my mornings anymore, I am going to get out, enjoy my life, find a new job and when I do I'll make sure to bake you in a pie and share you with my colleagues!"

- "Dare. Yaaaar"
That was Polly.

I nearly lost my balance and the curtain of anger in front of my eyes suddenly dropped.
"Say what?" I asked, haggard.

- "Dare you. Yaaaar."

The harsh, raucous voice was ringing more like a threat than a challenge. I felt my blood going once again all the way to my face.

"Or else what?", I asked, furious.
- "You are going to die"

Ok, back to track one, I thought. Well, it was about time I did something for myself in any case. I took a shower, clipped my nails and went out for a stroll.
Back to my apartment I sent enough job applications to keep a small village of HR people busy for a week, exercised enough to ache for a year and went to sleep.

Time passed. My appetite reborn. The king was back from the Holy Land and devouring his harvest, venison and vassals.
I didn't care. I had found another job, took care of my body, met people regularly and, all in all I was happy… almost happy.

For every morning, when I opened my windows, I could still find Polly, ready to inject into my day a steady dose of misery. The daily remainder that yes "You are going to die".

Some things must be put to a stop.
Ignoring the parasitic parrot wasn't enough.

So one morning, Polly and I had a talk.
"Ok, Polly. I AM going to die. We're ALL going to die, though I hope you do that way before me. So what?"

-"You're going to die, what is your life for?"

"My life's for being lived! That's why it's called life! Now what do you want from me?!"
It looked at me, taking a half crouched stance. Stood still.

-"I want you to wake up!"
And bit my hand. Hard.

I woke up.
I woke up hungry.
I woke up and nothing had happened. My hand had gone to sleep and I was feeling pins and needles reminding my body of its own existence, the same way my insane dream had reminded me of mine.

I had just been taught a life lesson by an imaginary Socratic avian.

Damn bird...
 

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Damn Bird - Picture and Text by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

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Sunday, May 12, 2013

The Hornet

Spiders.
Worms.
Birds.
Masks.
Hornets.
Fire.

Phobias. These thin, tender spots where you mind once bruised, and never completely healed. A lucky few do not, cannot know the feeling. Happy fearless ones… I am not one of you. My panic button has wings. It's in the list: I hate hornets.

Lately, they started to get into my room and inspect the ceiling, looking for something I hope they'll never find, lest they tell their hornet friends and swarm in.
It starts with the noise. I won't mistake that one noise for anything else. It doesn't buzz, it rumbles. To me it's an alarm, carrying the promise of panic and the looming threat of an explosion of pain.
My hands, my legs, my shoulders… my face. I don't want any of it to be injected with fever inducing neurotoxin.
As soon as it gets in, my eyes escape my control and follow the arabesque of the little winged needle.
Until it escapes from my sights.
I, then, can hear it without knowing where it really is.

It's nowhere, and for that precise reason, it's everywhere.

Is that a tingle I feel on my hand? My leg? The back of my neck?
Or is the hornet in the process of repeatedly stabbing me, spreading its poison in my veins?

The noise stopped.
Has it landed? Where?

On me? On my pillow? Under my blanket? Just near enough to sting me if I move the wrong way?

I see it again. It appeared from nowhere. I swear, I swear it's looking right into my eyes. It's too close. Way too close.
I know, I have to stay calm, not move. That's easy, I'm frozen in fear.

Does it feel it, my blinding fear?
Insects have different senses from us, they can see a broader spectrum of light, smell a broader spectrum of smells… Even if I don't move, will it see me as the terror-glowing, panic-smelling lump of dread I feel myself to be?
I know it's a predator. And like the predator it is, I know it can read it, smudged all over my body: STING ME.

It recedes to a corner of the room… I rush for the door. Two meters of confusion and adrenalin.
I'm safe.
For now.

I come back to my senses.
It's over.

Two weeks ago, I felt a bug crawling on the back my bald skull.
Reflex. I flicked it off.
I couldn't identify it until it landed on the floor.
A red hornet.

Phobia.

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The Hornet by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.