Archive for November, 2011

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A Couple Thoughts on Having an Audience

At the beginning of this blog’s existence, we actually tried, you know. I sent out rude mass emails to people I knew and didn’t know, begging for submissions. Ben, Trevor, and I spent two months arguing over the finer points of our Inflammatory Writ, which I now actively dislike. We delayed launch dates over design issues, we planned our “media strategy,” we talked about Advertising Opportunities! And then, I don’t know. I suppose we learned the hard way that the blogosphere of 2011 isn’t anything at all like the blogosphere of 2003 or 2004. There is no place for advancement without institutional backing. Getting links from other blogs just doesn’t happen, because the voices are all entrenched, and they all just link to one another all the time. Scott Lemieux said this about that, sez John Cole, and I’m all like, “No shit, I read that blog, too.” And while it’s fun to stay current, I pretty frequently feel like I’m stuck in an echo chamber.

(But then, hell, the most obscure blog I read is M. Bouffant’s, and he’s bigger than we are. I’m a victim of the fallacy I seek to correct, too, buddy. I get it. I’m complaining here, not absolving myself of guilt.)

The point being that I didn’t expect to wake up this morning to an outpouring of vitriol toward a rather simple plea from my co-editor — to wit, old dudes, plz chill out w/ all the dix in the locker room every once in a while, plz. I especially didn’t expect it because the post was a week+ old and had garnered little to no critical attention prior to today. But fortunately, I had told Trevor when he published it to “Feature that motherfucking shit,” and so he did, and so begins the saga that was today in the brief but sordid history of the website.com that is Brutish & Short.

Herewith!

Yesterday, Andrew Sullivan’s intern came to our site and said, “Heh, men’s locker rooms are weird,” (Because it was still featured at the top even though it was a week old, remember? Remember??? I DID THAT FEATURING PEOPLE, OR SUGGESTED IT, OR WHATEVER!) and proposed that Andrew Sullivan make a standalone post about this ever-relevant topic, to which Andrew Sullivan consented. Because sure, no big deal. (Thanks magical intern, btw, for you being you and rendering us hopeful every once in a great while in this time of great dying. *wink*) So, right, so then Andrew Sullivan wrapped up his day and we were a couple spots from the top, and so everyone came blitzkrieging into this place like there was no tomorrow, which there was, they had to just scroll down a bit further or wait for Andrew and his interns to wake up during real-tomorrow.

ANYWAY. So I wake up in real-tomorrow, which is today, I might add, and — BLAM!!! — buncha comments. A lot of them were stupid. A few of them were not. As I can happily report at this time — 12 hours and a hundred+ comments later – if you go through the thread (which is pretty hilarious in its own right), I think that the stupid-to-worthwhile ratio has evened out somewhat, which, begrudgingly as I may say it, makes me think slightly more highly of Sully’s audience. (FWIW, Ben also wrote to Sully and told him about the hilarity of the comments section, which prompted him to do a follow-up on the issue [in which he published Ben's letter, the last one], leading to 10,000+ views today. Hooray! [Again, to that magical intern out there reading us, we offer sincerest thanks.])

ANYWAY. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, right: this whole idea of an audience is interesting. Interesting in the sense that I immediately hated many of our most vocal audience members, and interesting in the sense that it was nice to have a fucking reaction for once. I mean, I didn’t even write the thing — Trevor did, all accolades go to him — but I was proud to be defending it. Typing in ALL CAPS to concern trolls is one of the most therapeutic intellectual salves in the world. I cannot stress this enough. JUST TYPE IN ALL CAPS, PREFACE IT WITH LOL, USE POOR GRAMER, & UR GOLD. Words to live by if you ever have to deal with popularity. Which we don’t, thankfully. Thank God.

But today we did. And it was rather revealing, for me at least. Today we saw Andrew Sullivan’s audience at our dinner tables, and did they get a joke? Did they investigate the author of the article they were responding to? No. No. They went bananas and called us names. Then we made fun of them, and then a few saner ones showed up telling everyone else to CHILL, and then a few more of those came preaching the same, and in the end it was about fifty-fifty, I’d say. Just about around fifty-fifty. But it was an uphill battle the whole way.

I understand, with an audience like Sullivan’s, the mechanism by which he believes what he believes. What I don’t understand is why he gives equal credence to nutters and nominally sane people. Never will.

To those of you who are nominally sane, welcome to Brutish & Short dot com, we welcome your patriotism and stick-to-it-ed-ness, and we wish you nothing but the best in your Internet livelihoods. To those of you who are nutters, plz gtfo. Thx.

0

Yer goddamn smartphone will spell the end of your freedom

Or so says Kieran Healy over at Crooked Timber. Apparently, Carrier IQ is some goddamn software company for goddamn smartphones, and apparently — APPARENTLY, PEOPLE — it’s been logging all your text messages, phone numbers dialed, and web searches and sending them back to its servers — even if you’re using HTTPS! Because why not?

Also, the Trevor in the below video is not our Trevor, otherwise he would have posted this. PLZ KEEP UR WRATH 4 HIM IN RELEBENT POSTS, PLZ.

0

Six degrees of vegetation

Pick any person in the world. No, not him. No, not her either. There you go: he’ll do. Do you know this person already? You do? Crap, okay, that’s not gonna work. Umm, fuck it, I don’t have a clever intro for this one; I just thought it was cool:

Facebook’s data analysis team has released the results of what it calls the largest social-networking study ever and discovered that only 4.74 people separate strangers from each other. That’s largely thanks to Facebook itself, of course, as well as other modern social networks.

“When considering even the most distant Facebook user in the Siberian tundra or the Peruvian rainforest, a friend of your friend probably knows a friend of their friend,” wrote the Facebook data team in a blog post explaining its research.

One possible result of this increased connectivity: perhaps the next generation will find it a little harder to drop remotely controlled bombs on the no-longer-anonymous masses.

0

SHOCKER: MoDo’s column today isn’t totally banal

It’s about Gingrich. Teaser:

…next to Romney, Gingrich seems authentic. Next to Herman Cain, Gingrich seems faithful. Next to Jon Huntsman, Gingrich seems conservative. Next to Michele Bachmann and Rick Perry, Gingrich actually does look like an intellectual. Unlike the governor of Texas, he surely knows the voting age. To paraphrase Raymond Chandler, if brains were elastic, Perry wouldn’t have enough to make suspenders for a parakeet.

In presidential campaigns, it’s all relative.

She goes on to concisely document all the ways in which Gingrich might actually be the biggest hypocrite and most preposterous human being in the world.

1

It may not look it, but plenty’s been going on this morning. If you’re jonesing for your morning fix of B&S sass, mosey on over to the comments section Tom mentioned last post. Lots of action.

My nominee for best comment so far has to go to Montino Bourbon (presumably, the one and only… pending confirmation):

I was born in 1942. I’m a veteran of the American army, a Prince of Rome, a master musician, and a Taoist adept. If you have the privilege of seeing me naked, you should get down and kiss the ground, and thank your lucky stars that you’ve seen at least one superior man in your life.

0

So Many Fine Comments!!!

I know that it’s still up top and that you can see that there are suddenly 39 comments on the piece, but Trevor’s post about locker room etiquette really hit a nerve with some of Andrew Sullivan’s readers, who swarmed in last night to do mature stuff like accuse him of being a closeted homosexual! Oh, also, they don’t care what he thinks, but they’re going to comment about how much they don’t care just to prove they don’t care! It’s wonderful, is what I’m saying. Check it out!

1

Back!

Sorry, I was busy in New York meeting my new relatives and watching my brother get married. It was a nice little city hall ceremony, and the gruff woman at station five — the one in front of the two chapels — warmed up quite a bit as she conducted her duties. There were quick “I dos,” my new sister-in-law threw the bouquet to my sister (the only single woman present), and we all went and had dim sum. Then we went and had coffee and gelatto in Little Italy. Then I don’t know what happened — I went with my mom up to the Guggenheim, dropped her off with a hug, walked to a bar on 86th and Lex, had two beers, and read the first sixty or seventy pages of Louis Menand’s “The Metaphysical Club.” Oh, then Sam called and I took a couple trains to Times Square, where he works as a studio engineer, and waited for him in another bar, continuing with my book. Then we went to Sam’s studio and shot the breeze about music and gear and artists he’s recorded. I took a shit on a toilet that Shakira very likely did a number one or two on (second coolest thing of the day, after the wedding). Then, I dunno. Got lost on the subway for an hour or so, figured out how to get back to Prospect Heights somehow, drank beers with NB Reilly on her rooftop, set a couple of mousetraps, made a $5 bet that I’d kill two mice that night, fell asleep hazy. Woke up this morning hazy — one dead mouse. I didn’t pay up. I walked to my brother’s spot, got soaked in the rain, changed my pants, and hopped in the car. I did 80 the whole way back. I made good time.

And now here I am, and my Google Reader has 378 unread items. “Mark all as read.”

0

Some commercials are good

You can ignore the cartoon toast...though I suppose it makes sense that it's caught in the grille. Ahem.

When I was 16 years old, I bought a 1974 Cadillac Eldorado convertible on eBay for $1,500, plus $700 shipping from Florida. (Yes, I’m an idiot.) The car arrived at 6:00 am Saturday morning at a nearby garage because the monstrous car carrier couldn’t navigate our town’s narrow streets any further. It had four flat tires, a dead battery, oil all over the windshield from a leak in the car above it, a shredded convertible top, and almost as much red rust as red paint (which, in my defense, wasn’t very obvious from the five lo-res photos included with the eBay description… Like I said, I’m an idiot.).

But goddamn did I love that car, and for seven years my dad and I did our best to keep it running — him more with his hands and me more with my wallet. However, with a less-than-reliable road record and gas mileage under 10 mpgs even in optimal conditions, the Caddy that was once considered the car of the future (cruise control; power seats, locks, and windows; and an electric trunk opener in 1974?) was never destined to be the car of my future. So when I moved from Mass to Conn in 2007 to be with my girlfriend, I bit the bumper and made the moderately heart-choice (braking?) decision to trade Caddy for Cavy (along with substantial additional cash considerations, of course) in order to enter the next “responsible” phase of my life. But though I don’t regret the decision in any way, that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the car from time to time, or that I wouldn’t jump at the chance to own it again someday — lifestyle and garage space permitting, of course.

Which is all basically a meandering, navel-gazing way of saying that this Chevy commercial almost made me cry:

I don’t remember how I happened to catch it on TV since my wife and I DVR almost everything these days and thus fast forward through 90 percent of all commercials, but I do remember knowing without question that the scenario and reactions were 100 percent authentic — no staging or scripting whatsoever.

Nonetheless, in an age where reality television has more writers than its scripted predecessor, it was nice to read this confirmation recently that Herb Younger was, indeed, reunited with his beloved Impala on September 17, 2011, exactly as you see in the commerical. If you click on the link, you can actually watch the extended version detailing his sons’ years-long search and the final emotional payoff. Fair warning though: if you’ve ever owned a car that you had to give up before you were ready, you may want a Kleenex. Or perhaps a Windex wipe.

0

Married…with crayons

Precisely because he wouldn’t want me to and as an excuse to re-post the following digital display of illustrative ingenuity, Brutish&Short congratulates resident artist Kieran O’Hare for his super-secret marriage to a real live person yesterday. Sorry to blow up your spot, K, but that’s what you get for not inviting me.

My question: does this mean more benders now, or fewer?

0

David Brooks wants you to decide to be dishonest with yourself

David Brooks:

There were many long, detailed essays by people who are experts at self-examination. They could finely calibrate each passing emotion. But these people often did not lead the happiest or most fulfilling lives. It’s not only that they were driven to introspection by bad events. Through self-obsession, they seemed to reinforce the very emotions, thoughts and habits they were trying to escape.

Many of the most impressive people, on the other hand, were strategic self-deceivers. When something bad was done to them, they forgot it, forgave it or were grateful for it. When it comes to self-narratives, honesty may not be the best policy.

To me, that the way we structure society rewards self-deception suggests more that there’s something seriously wrong with the way we structure society than with those who fail to strategically self-deceive. I also suspect that society’s system of rewarding particular kinds of self-serving self-deception (and punishing honest self-criticism) contributes a great deal to the anti-rational trends ultimately subverting advanced capitalist societies’ ability to govern themselves democratically (something Brooks has identified and lamented in dozens if not hundreds of columns by now).

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