Sunday: Kitchen, no magazine

July 6th, 2014

No Globe Magazine today because of the holiday, hence no column. It’s been an exciting week here as our apartment renovation was finally completed! We still need to paint and do the floors on the rooms that we’ve been living in, which will take another couple of weeks, but in the meantime we have space to move around in again, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and an outdoor deck. Last night we entertained our first guests, so exciting!

The Bostonian personality

July 1st, 2014

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?

Sunday’s column: Fill in the blank

June 29th, 2014

Today’s column is online here, and the first question–well, see for yourself:

My sibling requested that my spouse no longer attend family get-togethers. My sibling stated that my spouse creates tension and causes others to be on edge and uncomfortable. The fact is my sibling is correct. My spouse does not like to visit or host family but says we should be together on such occasions. Should I share this request with my spouse?

Readers, can you spot what’s missing? Yes! The reason that Spouse and Family don’t get along has been utterly omitted by the LW! This puts Miss Conduct, perhaps intentionally, behind a veil of ignorance, required to craft an answer that would work whether the Spouse is the innocent victim of bigots, a miserable and misanthropic lout, or a complicated person who simply can’t mesh gears with another group of complicated people and it’s no one’s fault, exactly.

I posted the question on my personal Facebook (Miss Conduct is here: befriend me!) to brainstorm on possible causes of the Spouse-Family disconnect, and one of my friends replied with an extraordinary insight:

I am the tense one when my husband’s family gathers. It’s not because I am a shitty person … it’s because I am FUCKING TERRIFIED because my family dynamic is so very different from theirs and I have an ingrained distrust of family. I like them very much and I feel like I should be able to get over this – but it isn’t exactly easy even when you don’t have a mixed race or same sex relationship. There are tons of issues faced by abuse survivors and dealing with functional families can be one of them.

I was so grateful she shared that.

Anyway, no matter how I turned it over in my mind, the reason for the disconnect does matter, and I wound up offering the LW a range of choices.

The Peculiar Incident of the Missing Problem reminded me of a similar column from a year ago, in which a Letter Writer asked, briefly and tantalizingly, “How soon does one tell a prospective love interest that you are a conspiracy theorist? I did a little too soon, with dire consequences“–without mentioning exactly which conspiracy theory she held to.* I finally decided that the real question wasn’t about the substance of her beliefs, but about the tricky dance of revealing any controversial opinion to a potentially significant other:

The fact that you’re open to dating outside the fold?–not to mention the whole “willing to write to the mainstream media for advice” thing–suggests that your conspiracy beliefs exist in a kind of psychological silo. They might matter in your relationship to the world at large, but not necessarily in your relationship to other individuals.

Learn to tune in to that vibe in others, especially those with whom you’d like to conspire in that special candlelit way. Some people see politics (or religion or economics or science) as impersonal and vain, irrelevant between friends, lovers, family. Other people find these abstract ideas to be fundamental to their self and values and could never choose a life partner with whom they disagreed on the basic nature of reality. Some folks couldn’t imagine dating a creationist?—?or not dating one. Others couldn’t imagine … well, how to end this example without making a terribly tasteless joke about the big bang.

The column was behind a paywall when this was originally published, so if you didn’t catch it before, you can read it now here.

*There are theories so noxious I would be hesitant to facilitate the romantic lives of their adherents, but said adherents probably wouldn’t be seeking advice from the likes of me.

Friday roundup

June 27th, 2014

There are so very, very many advice columnists and etiquette writers out there. I should know who they all are, but I don’t. I’d never heard of Amy Alkon, for example, a California etiquette & advice lady who takes a vigilante approach to manners policing. From the New York Times:

A peep does not exactly describe what Ms. Alkon did a few years ago after deciding Range Rovers, Chevy Tahoes and Cadillac Escalades had become a nuisance in her gentrifying neighborhood. She printed cards and tucked them under windshield wipers. They read in part: “Road-hogging, gas-guzzling, air-fouling vulgarian! Clearly you have an extremely small penis, or you wouldn’t drive such a monstrosity. For the adequately endowed, there are hybrids or electrics.”

The cards listed a phone number (since disconnected) on which she continued the rant with a recorded message. “Piggy, piggy, piggy,” it started

Read the entire article, she sounds like a dreadful person. But she’s got a syndicated column and I don’t, and she wrote two books and I’ve written one. Coincidence? At any rate, the article would be a good jumping-off point for a discussion about being nice versus being good. Ms. Alkon believes she is doing good, even if it means not being nice about it. We all know situations exist where you have to be the complainer, the buzzkill, the un-goer-along, in order to do the right thing. Agreement on what, exactly, those situations might be, is a different matter.

Another NYT article that’s been haunting me is this one about the parents of troubled sons:

Shootings in places like Isla Vista, Calif., and Newtown, Conn., have turned a spotlight on the mental health system, and particularly how it handles young, troubled males with an aggressive streak. About one in 100 teenagers fits this category, according to E. Jane Costello, a psychiatric epidemiologist at Duke University School of Medicine, and they often have multiple diagnoses and are resistant to treatment.

Most of these young men will never commit a violent crime, much less an atrocity. But the questions of how best to help them and how to pay for it are among the most intractable problems hanging over the system.

Thousands of families know this experience too well: No single diagnosis fits, no drug brings real relief, and if the teenager rejects the very idea of psychotherapy, there is little chance of lasting improvement.

Shorter version: Nothing works, and the families can’t afford it anyway. They simply live with a ticking time bomb. There are over 800 comments on the article. Some are from families that have troubled members like this. Some are from people whose lack of empathy is almost as terrifying as the disturbed young men portrayed in the article.

Slate looks at another aspect of developmental psychology: The fact that so many of the studies are done on the babies and children of privileged, mostly white Westerners:

While other children play “House” or “Doctor,” these Berkeley kids have been known to play a game called “Research.” One child holds a clipboard and asks other children to “play a game” while the child observes them and pretends to jot down notes. Some of these children have told me about their international travels, and several of the 3-year-olds have told me they can read.

Meanwhile, Emily Bazelton argues that these kids, and many others like them, are getting the clear message from their parents that achieving is more important than caring for other people:

While most parents and teachers have told other researchers in the past that they rank children’s capacity for caring above achievement, kids don’t believe them.I don Four out of five of the teens Making Caring Common surveyed said their parents cared more about achievement or happiness than caring. They saw teachers this way, too.

I don’t think parents are deliberately setting out to turn their kids into miniature Gordon Gekkos, but this rings true to me. Middle-class parents are nervous about their kids’ futures, reasonably so. There’s a lot of pressure to do well academically, to develop the toughness and work ethic that our competitive labor market demands. Also, it’s straight-up easier to praise and call attention to achievements. Trophies and prizes and scores are objective and easily interpreted and occur regularly. Empathy is harder to quantify and more difficult to interpret (was your kid being nice or a pushover, really?) and doesn’t occur on a neat schedule of standardized tests or away-v.-home games.

“Mad Men” is my day job, part I: Portability, or why Joan needs that money

June 26th, 2014

I mentioned earlier that “Mad Men” is basically the audio-visual supplement to my day job as a researcher at Harvard Business School. My boss, Boris Groysberg, primarily studies high achievers at professional-service firms. He’s particularly interested in how women advance in male-dominated environments.

You can see the relevance.


Dawn and Joan gaze in disgust and consternation at the face of the patriarchy (not shown).

Joan Harris has made some stunning advances, both professional and personal, this season. She handed over her administrative duties to the super-efficient Dawn, and promoted herself to “account man” with the support of Jim Cutler and Ken Cosgrove. (Joan’s whole process of becoming an account rep is a classroom-worthy case study of the importance and boundaries of relationships in the business world. Before she re-invented herself, Joan made sure she had support from above–a senior partner and the head of accounts backing her play–as well as someone to fill the role she was trying to step out of. Though not stated overtly, it’s clear that one of the reasons Joan chooses Dawn to succeed her as office manager is that, as one of only two or three African-American secretaries at the agency, Dawn isn’t looking for girlfriends in the secretarial pool or a husband in the executive suites. She focuses on doing excellent work and keeps herself aloof. Joan knows Dawn will be fair and stick to policy rather than doing favors and bending rules for her friends.)

Because of her professional rise, and greater honesty and warmth in her personal life, many critics have found it strange that Joan is also increasingly money-hungry and still deeply resentful of Don for keeping the firm from going public last season. This is where Boris’s work comes in.

Boris writes about portability: the extent to which a worker can move around in the labor market without losing value. You know who is portable in “Mad Men”? Don Draper, that’s who. Don’s power at Sterling Cooper Whatever MacGuffin Foo is based on the fact that any other agency would hire him in a heartbeat. He has a clear portfolio of accomplishments and the nature of his work is such that it can be done anywhere. Give him a file box of product research, a pad and pen, and Don Draper is ready for action.

You know who is not portable? Joan Harris. Joan has tremendous company-specific human capital: She knows everything about SC&P’s operations, clients, vulnerabilities, future projections. She has a deep understanding of the psychology of the people she works with. She has off-the-books leverage over name partner Roger Sterling.

If she moved to another firm, she would lose all of that. If she even could move to another firm. It’s doubtful she could take any clients with her if she did–she’s a new account rep and no one is especially loyal to her yet. While women are breaking into creative, client work is overwhelmingly male-dominated–as are most of the client businesses themselves–and Joan would be faced with the depressing, overwhelming task of making men take her seriously all over again if she were to try to start somewhere new. She could easily get a job as office manager elsewhere, but that would be a step down. Joan spent 16 years building her career at SC&P, and that work simply won’t transfer elsewhere.

This is why Joan so desperately wants the cash that a buyout–or a public offering, like Don blew up–represents. She’s a queen in her little kingdom of SC&P–a second-floor office! a 5% partnership!–but if anything happens to that little kingdom, and plenty has already, she goes back to being Head Secretary and Dirty-Joke Target at some other shop on Madison Avenue. Unlike Don, and even Peggy, she won’t have other agencies offering her comparable or better jobs. And unlike Roger, Jim, and the rest of the male partners, she doesn’t have any wealth to tide her over.

This is why she wants the buyout, and why she’s still so very angry at Don for spiking the public offering. Don has two forms of security: job portability and wealth. Joan knows–although she hasn’t found a b-school professor to give her the words for it yet–that she doesn’t have the former. It’s no wonder, as a single mother in the 1960s, that she’s so bound and determined to get herself the latter.

Is “sorry” the wrong number?

June 24th, 2014

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.

Sunday column: The role of the audience

June 22nd, 2014

Today’s column is online here. The second question is about a neighbor who harps on the Letter Writer’s parking. From my reply:

What do you think is motivating Florence? Personal animus against you? Or against something you represent? Does Florence appear to have a full life, with frequent opportunities to express herself? How would you describe the tone of her criticism: Worried? Superior? Helpful? This is a clue to how Florence sees herself. To know your enemy’s state of mind: Whether your goal be a battle won or a peace made, this must be your first step, grasshopper.

You and Florence are locked into a cycle of mutually assured aggravation. The trick you need to pull off is to briefly interrupt the cycle the next time it starts and treat Florence as your ally against this stupid meshugas that has developed between you. Almost as though there were some malicious third party sowing discord between you–you and Florence, who are such buddies at heart!

A crucial and overlooked aspect of being a good social actor is knowing how to cast your audience in a flattering role. Have you ever met someone at a party who told wonderful stories but nonetheless, you couldn’t wait to get away from? Chances are that person was casting you in the role of Goggling Peasant, shooting their tales over your head as though you couldn’t possibly have anything of similar value to contribute. It’s not a good look. Much better, when telling stories, to cast your interlocutor as a Trusted Confidant, someone who can marvel with you at the wonders you’ve witnessed and who, perhaps, might have avoided some of the traps you yourself have fallen into.

Sunday column: “Neighbors”

June 15th, 2014

Today’s column is online here. The second question is from a woman who got conversationally ambushed one night by her neighbor–”My next-door neighbor in my condo building came over and spilled her guts about her husband–cheating on her, being controlling and unkind. She talked for three hours straight”–and is wondering if one night’s conversation puts her on the hook to give yet more help if asked.

It doesn’t, and I pointed out that the neighbor might very well have been wanting to talk to a near-stranger anyway:

Occasionally you want to vent to someone who’s outside your normal social circle, so that gossip doesn’t start or people don’t ask “How are you?” with searching, compassionate eyes every time they see you for the rest of your life. You want a fresh perspective. You want someone who isn’t involved.

But her question does get at one of the difficulties of modern life. The Bible is full of injunctions about how to treat one’s “neighbor,” and whether you’re religious or not, those ideas make sense. We know we’re supposed to help each other, and offer aid and counsel. We know it takes a village.

We know we’re supposed to bring soup to someone when they’re sick. We just don’t know who.

When the Bible was written, and up until the past 100 years, you knew who your “neighbor” was. Your work colleagues, your friends, your extended family, your co-religionists–there was tremendous overlap between those groups, and that was your neighborhood. Nowadays, physical proximity and emotional attachment don’t necessarily go together. Your physical neighbors, whom you could help with chicken soup and lending power tools and babysitting now and then–you might not even know those people’s names. Meanwhile, your cousins and college roommates and other relationships of long emotional standing are scattered around the country. You can send them cards, or post a cartoon you know they’d like on their Facebook wall, or offer support and advice long-distance, but you can’t lend them your nicest party dress or take their dog for the weekend so they can get out of town.

(Oh, I also wrote a piece about long weekends that you might like.)

I don’t know what to do about that. It’s frustrating. I think it’s one of the factors that leads to a sense of social breakdown. Our physical environment doesn’t match up to our emotional reality.

Friday roundup

June 13th, 2014

A few random things:

Our apartment is being renovated, and is almost done, so I’m taking daily cyber-vacations on Pinterest and Apartment Therapy to help me envision the future. I’m obsessed with beverage dispensers. They’re so grown-up, so official. Beverage dispensers do for a party what big pearls do for an outfit: They let people know you mean business.

Internet nostalgia is A Thing, you might have noticed. Anna North thinks that it can be healthy, a kind of memento mori. We don’t encounter actual death and the cycles of nature the way we used to–but we’ll always have technology to make us feel old.

In any species, some individuals are going to be lousy parents. I learned this initially from my aunt, who bred German Shepherd dogs. Some of her dogs were attentive mothers who were sad when their puppies were taken away, while others were irritable with their offspring and happy to be rid of them. This fascinating article looks at how and why parenting ability–in humans and other species–varies across individuals:

It is not clear to me what makes this variability either – Selene, one of my best mothers, was the mother of one of my worst mothers. This doe had the experience of both good parenting and the genes for fabulous mothering, to the extent these things are heritable in goats, and she still was pretty much a loss.

Male parenting ability too is highly variable – we’ve had roosters who were incredibly diligent about bringing food to the babies and protecting them, bucks who stayed with the mothers and babies rather than foraging, and a goose father who got left to single parent when his partner took off for a neighboring pond, and did a fine job.

Author Sharon Astyk argues that parenting ability in humans might be likewise variable, which certainly jibes with my experience. We’ve all known parents who are simply good at it, even though they may have had lousy upbringings themselves, and no clear chance to learn a better way. My own parents would fit that bill. The problem, Astyk writes, is that “We tend to assume that all of us have some natural ability to parent, and if we didn’t, we wouldn’t – but the truth is that the level of insight that allows people to decide they would not be good parents is a rarer thing.”

I do have that level of insight, and people freak out when you tell them you don’t think you would have been a good mother. It’s like the worst thing you can say about yourself.

Some people find out they weren’t cut out for parenthood the hard way, which is one way of describing the slightly spoileriffic “Gidion’s Knot,” playing through June 22 at the Calderwood. What is the duty of a “good parent” when a child does something terrible? How do you assess risk where children are concerned? When does parental loyalty go too far?


Photo by Bridge Rep Co.

I can’t give away much more than that or it will give too much away, so between “Gidion’s Knot” and “Orange Is The New Black” I’ve been feeling spoiler-stuffed this week. It might make economic sense, but artistically and psychologically, releasing an entire season at once as Netflix does is just not optimal. Nobody knows when they can talk about anything! And the inevitable binge-watching detracts from the integrity of the individual episode.

The greatest condolence letter ever written

June 11th, 2014

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.

Manners change

June 10th, 2014

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.

Sunday column: Performers are people

June 8th, 2014

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.

OH HELL NO.

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.

Friday roundup

June 6th, 2014

Miss Conduct’s best reading for the week. First up, this article on Soylent, the new food-replacement beverage, and why people might want it, and why other people might fear it. Foodies and crunchy folk object to the social ramifications of food replacement, but as author Lee Hutchinson amusingly argues, “not every meal needs to be a festive life-affirming display of cultural pageantry where we march from kitchen to table bearing the carefully plated masterpieces of locally sourced delicacies while hidden speakers blare the “Circle of Life” song from the Lion King.”

I agree with him–and given my occasional stomach troubles, I plan to get me some Soylent to have on hand for those times I simply can’t eat:

[A] lot of people are turning to Soylent seeking rescue as much as they are seeking basic nutrition. Food can be a wonderful thing, but for people struggling with food-related issues, it can be like a damaging drug that you can never quite quit cold turkey.

Soylent is food methadone. It’s not quite the magic food pill from science fiction, but it does have a lot of that pill’s qualities. It’s satiating without being delicious; eating it won’t provide the endorphin rush that overeaters experience when gorging; and it’s easy to prepare. It’s a thing you can replace snacks or some meals with (or even all meals, if you want), without having to fight urges.

Hutchinson is writing about chronic overeaters, here, but there are all kinds of eating disorders, from the psychological to the physiological. As someone who has one, I can very much see the appeal of Soylent.

Most of the time, though, I’m not suffering from stomach problems, and then I really enjoy a good kale salad. You call this kale salad? I’m so honored that one of my oldest friends thought of me when he read that, and posted it on my Facebook. I’m totally doing it as an audition monologue. Kale is shakti.

My husband sent me this, and when he sends me anything about sports I always read it, because he knows I find the games themselves boring and incomprehensible. It’s about the “unwritten rules” of baseball–baseball etiquette, baseball corporate culture–and how such rules develop and sustain themselves, whether they’re any damn good for anyone or not. (Spoiler: They’re not, apparently.) From the piece:

Young players, most of whom are just worried about keeping their jobs and fitting in, will pick an older player to emulate. They pretty much have to since if they don’t fall in line with a veteran’s whims, they will get labeled selfish. Those young players will eventually come into their own, and turn into older players themselves with rookies looking up to them. They’ll perpetuate their received wisdom about what “playing the game the right way” entails, and on it will go, cycle after cycle, players learning to play the game correctly as first laid down by God knows who, with the nonbelievers being summarily shunned.

Some of those players will get traded to other teams where other leaders with different views have imprinted other rookies. Lockers rooms will face an unwritten code schism. Sects will form. Doctrines will mutate. In many ways, unwritten rules are like religious views, with different values assigned to different doctrines, all of which must be taken on faith. And just like with many religions, believers will embrace things for which they have no clue of the origins, just because they’ve been told to believe them, and that there will be hell to pay if they don’t.

Speaking of hell to pay, check out this long, thoughtful essay by a mother whose life got up-ended when she made the decision to leave her four-year-old child in a locked car on a 50-degree day for five minutes. Someone saw, someone called the cops, and months-long trauma ensued for the entire family. I knew things were bad, but as a non-parent I didn’t realize they were this bad. I wonder if there are many people for whom the questions “Do you want kids?” and “Do you want to raise kids in 21st-century America?” would have very different answers?

Book-wise, this review in Slate had me ordering “A Bintel Brief” immediately. My copy arrived last night:

Starting in 1906, the Forward began running an advice column for Eastern European Jewish immigrants to the tenements of New York City. The column, “A Bintel Brief”—Yiddish for “a bundle of letters”—gave the voiceless community a chance to ask about love and loss, to express the challenges and triumphs of assimilation into American life. Each letter in the column was selected and thoughtfully answered by the Forward’s legendary editor, Abraham Cahan, and the column now gives us a surprising picture of the everyday life of a disappeared turn-of-the-century culture.

And finally, I picked up Karen Joy Fowler’s We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves at the library and read it in one sitting. I’m honestly a little tired of the family-secrets, the you-don’t-really-know-your-spouse-daughter-brother genre that’s so popular nowadays, so I almost didn’t get this one because it sounded like more of the same: Why did my parents give my sister away? But oh, my, why they did! And what happened then! It’s a great read.

Happy weekend! Happy reading!

Why your parents buy your kid too many presents

June 5th, 2014

You may have seen this graph that’s been making the rounds, on how prices for necessities have risen while those for luxuries have fallen.

From the New York Times article:

Since the 1980s, for instance, the real price of a midrange color television has plummeted about tenfold, and televisions today are crisper, bigger, lighter and often Internet-connected. Similarly, the effective price of clothing, bicycles, small appliances, processed foods — virtually anything produced in a factory — has followed a downward trajectory. The result is that Americans can buy much more stuff at bargain prices.

Here’s what popped out at me: toys. It wasn’t on my radar before I became Miss Conduct, but every year I can count on a handful of letters–usually around Christmas, but some timed to birthdays or graduation/wedding season, like now–from parents whose own parents go overboard on gift-giving. I’m not the only one–addressing the issue has become something of a cottage industry at the NYT.

The above graph makes it so vividly clear why this happens. The highest increases have been in education and child care costs–that’s what your parents hear you complain about, or know that you worry about even if you don’t complain. And they might not be in a position to do anything about that. But toys! They can give toys! And such a bargain–you can’t afford not to buy them at these prices, really.

Because that’s what’s hard to break your mind from, that stubborn insistence that the economic conditions of your childhood were the “real” ones, and any subsequent change is a mere epiphenomenon to be exploited or ignored, but not actually adjusted to as though it were the new state of things. If toys were expensive and rare in your childhood and now they are plentiful and cheap, you do what people do in times of temporary plenty: you splurge and binge and give and hoard.

I have a tendency to do it with clothes, myself. As a lower-middle-class child in the 1970s, to paraphrase Woody Allen, my clothes were ugly and I had so few of them! Now I live in the age of Zara and 6pm and eBay, yet I’m still afflicted with the fear that this grey v-necked cardigan at a reasonable price might be the last grey v-necked cardigan at a reasonable price I ever see, so I had better buy it. And maybe get one in black and burgundy too, just in case. You never know–tomorrow everything could be made out of scratchy polyester and cost a month’s allowance again!

It doesn’t feel stupid, which it is. It feels wise. That’s the problem.

How do you make it special, not scary?

June 3rd, 2014

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.

Magic.

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?