Shrinking Violet: Don't Hate the Player...
Just a few things been runnin' through my head. Couldn't bring myself to go with the easy Brett Ratner jokes after he showed up in class (or whine about Gawker not posting my stalker item). Had ideas for dissertations on either "conspicuous procreation" or "the implosion of white flight," but after last week's post, I felt they were on the dry side (though I reserve the right to get back to them in the future). I also thought about writing something just for my new BFF Sterling about just how narcissistic I really am, but if my mother taught me anything, it's not to feed the trolls.
I have to be in class at 8:00 am for, of all things, an introduction to journalism. Attendence is mandatory! You must meet deadlines! And you will not misspell names! Which, of course, as a semi-professional scribbler, are all three things that I'm really, really bad at. I bet Andrea Peyser and Michael Goodwin meet all their deadlines and spell all their names right (or at least have people for that).
What's a blogger to do? Cry into a five dollar copy of the Sunday Times, I guess. While keeping a few months ahead of their technology coverage and wondering why I bother reading cultural, culinary and couture coverage about shit I'll never be able to afford, of course. Oh, and undercutting their entire business model. There is that.
Read more...Best required reading [PDF] of the class by far has been A.J. Liebling. The four more chapters of John Stuart Mill staring me in the face tonight (and conflicting with my promise to turn in a post to my employer) don't inspire quite the way he does. I can't count the number of times my parents reminded me that "Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one" as they cranked out revolutionary socialist literature on the mimeograph in the basement.
Rather quaint when he worries about media consolidation back in the day when New York had nine dailies, some of which probably ran in multiple editions throughout the day. Good times. And while this whole freedom to publish online thing could come to an end (or at least have the level of the playing field generously tipped) if the telcos have their way, I see little difference between being self-absorbed, transparently subjective and a touch salacious in pixels instead of print.
Or thorough, accurate and objective, if that's your thing -- I'm not here to judge. I was always more process oriented than goal oriented. Being a red with no cadre, I'm pretty used to being considered inconsequential. I'm probably most comfortable, when pissing into the wind. Filling the boss's content coffers for free when I could be getting paid to write or attending to mah edumecation is practically homeostasis, physiologically. Psychologically, well, let's just say I haven't seen a therapist since I left 'Frisco.
So until next week, by which time I hope the haters have figured out how to filter me out of their RSS feeds with Yahoo Pipes. Because I'd hate to be the guy who turns people away from penises, poetry and the sublime blend of bikini-clad models and rogue taxidermy.
I have to be in class at 8:00 am for, of all things, an introduction to journalism. Attendence is mandatory! You must meet deadlines! And you will not misspell names! Which, of course, as a semi-professional scribbler, are all three things that I'm really, really bad at. I bet Andrea Peyser and Michael Goodwin meet all their deadlines and spell all their names right (or at least have people for that).
What's a blogger to do? Cry into a five dollar copy of the Sunday Times, I guess. While keeping a few months ahead of their technology coverage and wondering why I bother reading cultural, culinary and couture coverage about shit I'll never be able to afford, of course. Oh, and undercutting their entire business model. There is that.
Read more...Best required reading [PDF] of the class by far has been A.J. Liebling. The four more chapters of John Stuart Mill staring me in the face tonight (and conflicting with my promise to turn in a post to my employer) don't inspire quite the way he does. I can't count the number of times my parents reminded me that "Freedom of the press is guaranteed only to those who own one" as they cranked out revolutionary socialist literature on the mimeograph in the basement.
Rather quaint when he worries about media consolidation back in the day when New York had nine dailies, some of which probably ran in multiple editions throughout the day. Good times. And while this whole freedom to publish online thing could come to an end (or at least have the level of the playing field generously tipped) if the telcos have their way, I see little difference between being self-absorbed, transparently subjective and a touch salacious in pixels instead of print.
Or thorough, accurate and objective, if that's your thing -- I'm not here to judge. I was always more process oriented than goal oriented. Being a red with no cadre, I'm pretty used to being considered inconsequential. I'm probably most comfortable, when pissing into the wind. Filling the boss's content coffers for free when I could be getting paid to write or attending to mah edumecation is practically homeostasis, physiologically. Psychologically, well, let's just say I haven't seen a therapist since I left 'Frisco.
So until next week, by which time I hope the haters have figured out how to filter me out of their RSS feeds with Yahoo Pipes. Because I'd hate to be the guy who turns people away from penises, poetry and the sublime blend of bikini-clad models and rogue taxidermy.
