Sarah Williams: Sometimes, meaningless gestures are all we have.“
Better
Politics, celebrity gossip, business headlines, tech punditry, odd news, and user-generated content.
These are the chew toys that have made me sad and tired and cynical.
Each, in its own way, contributes to the imperative that we constantly expand our portfolio of shallow but strongly-held opinions about nearly everything. Then we’re supposed to post something about it. Somewhere.
From businesses we’ve never heard of, to countries we’ve never visited, to infants who’ve had the random misfortune to be born into a family that’s on TV — it’s all grist for obvious jokes and shortsighted commentary that, for at least a few minutes, helps both the maker and the consumer feel a little less bored, a little less vulnerable, and a little less disconnected. For a minute, anyway, it makes us feel more alive. Does me, anyway.
But, in my observation, the long-term effect of each of these can be surprisingly different.
What makes you feel less bored soon makes you into an addict. What makes you feel less vulnerable can easily turn you into a dick. And the things that are meant to make you feel more connected today often turn out to be insubstantial time sinks — empty, programmatic encouragements to groom and refine your personality while sitting alone at a screen.
Don’t get me wrong. Gumming the edges of popular culture and occasionally rolling the results into a wicked spitball has a noble tradition that includes the best work of of Voltaire, Dorothy Parker, Oscar Wilde, and a handful of people I count as good friends and brilliant editors. There’s nothing wrong with fucking shit up every single day. But you have to bring some art to it. Not just typing.
What worries me are the consequences of a diet comprised mostly of fake-connectedness, makebelieve insight, and unedited first drafts of everything. I think it’s making us small. I know that whenever I become aware of it, I realize how small it can make me. So, I’ve come to despise it.
With this diet metaphor in mind, I want to, if you like, start eating better. But, I also want to start growing a tastier tomato — regardless of how easy it is to pick, package, ship, or vend. The tomato is the story, my friend.
This doesn’t mean I’ll be liveblogging a lot of ham-fisted attempts to turn “everything” off. But it does mean making mindful decisions about the quality of any input that I check repeatedly — as well as any “stuff” I produce. Everything. From news sources to entertainment programming, and from ephemeral web content down to each email message I decide to respond to. The shit has to go, inclusive.
I’m not particularly interested in making a showy public movement out of this (as usual, this post is much more for me than it is for you; otherwise I’d put it where it would get some attention). And, to be honest, I don’t have a specific agenda for what I want to do all that differently, apart from what I’m already trying to do every day:
- identify and destroy small-return bullshit;
- shut off anything that’s noisier than it is useful;
- make brutally fast decisions about what I don’t need to be doing;
- avoid anything that feels like fake sincerity (esp. where it may touch money);
- demand personal focus on making good things;
- put a handful of real people near the center of everything.
All I know right now is that I want to do all of it better. Everything better. Better, better.
To underscore, I have no plan to stop making dick jokes or to swear off ragging people who clearly have it coming to them. It’s just that it’s important to me to make world-class dick jokes and to rag the worthy in a way that no one is expecting. I want to become an evangelist for hard work and editing, and I want to get to a place where it shows in everything that I do, make, and share. Yes, even if it makes me sound like a fancy guy who just doesn’t get it. Fuck it.
So, yes. I am cutting way back on trips to the steam table of half-finished, half-useful, half-ideas that I both make and consume. And, with respect, I encourage you to consider doing the same; especially if that all-you-can-eat buffet of snark and streaming produces (or encourages) anything short of your “A” game.
If I’m not laughing at your joke, complimenting your insight, or leading the Standing O for something you spent 10 seconds pecking up on your phone, it may not be because I don’t get it; it may be because I think we’re both capable of better and just need to find the courage to say so. In as many characters as it takes.
mental quicksand
If there was ever a doubt that there are 2 America’s, a trip to Fordham Road today confirmed my suspicion that all is not well in Neverland. When I first moved to the Bronx, I didn’t venture very far off the beaten track. Riverdale is one thing, but my experience with the rest of the borough has been less than enchanting. But I let the cable bill go until the last minute. I had no choice but to make the pilgrimage. I was surprised to discover that my local bus would escort me there without a transfer. But I had visions of ghettos dancing in my overactive imagination. I recall meeting a friend at the subway stop during a day trip to the Bronx Zoo. She made me a nervous wreck that day. I remember her grabbing my wrist and running all the way to the animal sanctuary. I thought she was being silly. There was so much activity in this business district, nobody seemed to be paying attention to the freak in the bright green jeans. But she insisted my life was in danger, so I played along. 15 years later, I am back in the neighborhood. First of all, I didn’t not feel the least bit threatened. I struck up a conversation with two older ladies on mass transportation. But I certainly didn’t feel right at home, either. I got the same vibe that I experience on the 4 train. There was a palpable desperation in the air, combined with an urban bravado. But what shocked me was the long line. Initially, I thought the queue stretched down the block. But I was mistaken, that was the waiting list for Con Ed. Cablevision was a short stump of bodies, but it was a false friend. Once inside the sales office, the people were snaked around the perimeter of this “service center”. I was surprisingly patient. I would like to think that my bedside reader The Power Of Now had finally taken effect. But the fact is that I was absorbed in an amazing novel. Still, I had a strange sense of dread and paranoia. I can’t describe the feeling of aimless depression that sent a shiver down my spine. There were people with “real problems”. I like to joke that I am completely broke, this time last week my available bank balance was 7 cents. Not kidding! But there is always a light at the end of my tunnel. The very next day I was back in business. But I’m not convinced that the majority of this tough crowd have such good luck. Perhaps, I’m projecting my own fiscal anxiety on the unwashed masses. But I did have a ominous sensation while waiting to pay for my silver package. The upside to this strange journey was that I was very grateful to be home. Never again will I take for granted the relatively lush surroundings of my hood.This whole Sarah Palin thing is a joke, right?
Each time I see a picture of Sarah Palin and her young family, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her and them, because I think that they have no idea what’s about to hit them. I’ve a feeling that the rumor that her most recent child, born a mere 4 months ago, is actually the child of her 16 year old daughter and that the family is covering it up is going to become a big, big deal. Not that the fact that she and McCain had only met once very briefly six months ago before he chose her to be his VP, that the crux of her experience comes from serving as mayor of a town with a population of 700, or that she’s currently under investigation for malfeasance in office isn’t enough to cast doubt on the wisdom of her selection, but c’mon, this rumor playing out as truth would absolutely sink McCain, as his judgmental abilities would then be exposed as downright Mr. Magoo-ish.
And I wouldn’t be surprised for a second if there were some nude photos of her taken back during her college days out there somewhere. Just a hunch.
“Bree announce to her friends that she’s pregnant. However, it is in fact Danielle who is pregnant, but Bree plans to raise the child as her own to avoid scandal by wearing a series of false bellies and keeping Danielle hidden in a convent until she gives birth.”
Is it just me or does this scandal smack of Desperate Housewives Season Four? I always knew the Van De Kamps were Republicans.
There are 199 “Nick Douglas” or “Nicholas Douglas”es in the U.S. Only one Thor Muller (friend), one Lockhart Steele (former editor), one Cole Stryker (friend and he’s in England right now so I guess that makes none). Lucky bastards.
(via Thor Muller)
I was disappointed to discover that there are only 546 people in the U.S. named Stephen Dixon. I know at least 3 persons myself. Although I am quite certain that there is only 1 Sebastian Junior. At least that’s what the artist formerly known as Google tells me.
