Sad As Hell is Â ostensibly a book review for Gary Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story, Alice Gregory writes an essay that finally captures what I’ve felt around the edges of my daily life for the last few years.
I have the sensation, as do my friends, that to function as a proficient human, you must both â€œkeep upâ€ with the internet and pursue more serious, analogÂ interests. I blog about real life; I talk about the internet. Itâ€™s so exhausting to exist on both registers, especially while holding down a job. It feels like tedious work to be merely conversationally competent. I make myself schedules, breaking down my commute to its most elemental parts and assigning each leg of my journey something different to absorb: podcast, Instapaper article, real novel of real worth, real magazine of dubious worth. Iâ€™m pretty tired by the time I get to work at 9 AM.
This was my exact commute to Aruba. From Shteyngart:
â€œWith each post, each tap of the screen, each drag and click,â€ he confesses, â€œI am becoming a different personâ€”solitary where I was once gregarious; a content provider where I at least once imagined myself an artist; nervous and constantly updated where I once knew the world through sleepy, half-shut eyes . . . With each passing year, scientists estimate that I lose between 6 and 8 percent of my personality.â€
And finally, the impact that chosen isolation, in all those stolen moments on the sidewalk or in the cafe, has on us:
Shteyngart says the first thing that happened when he bought an iPhone â€œwas that New York fell away . . . It disappeared. Poof.â€ Thatâ€™s the first thing I noticed too: the city disappeared, along with any will to experience. New York, so densely populated and supposedly sleepless, must be the most efficient place to hone observational powers. But those powers are now dulled in me. I find myself preferring the blogs of remote strangers to my own observations of present ones. Gone are the tacit alliances with fellow subway riders, the brief evolution of sympathy with pedestrians. That predictable progress of unspoken affinity is now interrupted by an impulse to either refresh a page or to take a website-worthy photo. I have the nervous hand-tics of a junkie.Â For someone whose interest in other peopleâ€™s private lives was once endless, I sure do ignore them a lot now.
A manifesto for the digital age (and a decent book review to boot).
You should, like, strongly considerÂ applying to work for this guy:
We want to add some talent to the Sarasota Herald-Tribune investigative team. Every serious candidate should have a proven track record of conceiving, reporting and writing stellar investigative pieces that provoke change. However, our ideal candidate has also cursed out an editor, had spokespeople hang up on them in anger and threatened to resign at least once because some fool wanted to screw around with their perfect lede.
We do a mix of quick hit investigative work when events call for it and mini-projects that might run for a few days. But every year we like to put together a project way too ambitious for a paper our size because we dream that one day Walt Bogdanich will have to say: â€œI canâ€™t believe the Sarasota Whatever-Tribune cost me my 20thPulitzer.â€ As many of you already know, those kinds of projects can be hellish, soul-sucking, doubt-inducing affairs. But if youâ€™re the type of sicko who likes holing up in a tiny, closed Â office with reporters of questionable hygiene to build databases from scratch by hand-entering thousands of pages of documents to take on powerful people and institutions that wish you were dead, all for the glorious reward of having readers pick up the paper and glance at your potential prize-winning epic as they flip their way to the Jumbleâ€¦ well, if that sounds like journalism Heaven, then youâ€™re our kind of sicko.
For those unaware of Floridaâ€™s reputation, itâ€™s arguably the best news state in the country and not just because of the great public records laws. We have all kinds of corruption, violence and scumbaggery. The 9/11 terrorists trained here. Bush read My Pet Goat here. Our elections are colossal clusterfucks. Our new governor once ran a health care company that got hit with a record fine because of rampant Medicare fraud. We have hurricanes, wildfires, tar balls, bedbugs, diseased citrus trees and an entire town overrun by giant roaches (only one of those things is made up). And we have Disney World and beaches, so bring the whole family.
Send questions, or a resume/cover letter/links to clips to my email address below. If you already have your dream job, please pass this along to someone whose skills you covet. Thanks.
1741 Main St.
Sarasota FL,Â 34236
[via Mother Jones]