Hey gang. A funny thing happened on the way to the Internet today. It turns out that New York magazine ran a little feature this week on a certain lil’ snarky weblog-that-begat-all-blogs: Gawker (proper.)
Traditionally, this sort of “eye on the media” is left to The Editorialiste since this is what he goes to school for. However, we had a brief discussion and realized that this is in fact my area of expertise. You may say, “But Mitchel! How do you do media analysis, aside from poorly?”
And I say, “But reader! This revenge-feature is totally focusing on the common man affected and thus empowered by new media — eye ee, me, Mitchel Stevens. Do you see what I did there?”
And so, perhaps in homage to another great mind of our times, I have decided to liveblog my reading off New York magazine’s latest feature, “Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass.”
7:00 a.m.: Wake up. Mouth tastes like gin, again. Fuck. Promised self I wouldn’t do that on a Sunday night anymore. It’s not the good gin, either, but the shitty type that comes in the same bottle as the good stuff. Fuck. Head hurts.
7:30 a.m.: Wake up again after falling back to sleep. Mouth tastes like cigarettes, gin and ass. Ugh.
8:00 a.m.: Finally get out of bed.
8:05 a.m.: Do morning online job. Open Gmail.
8:06 a.m.: Open link to New York magazine piece.
8:08 a.m.: Wait, aren’t I the “creative underclass?”
8:10 a.m.: Jesus Christ, Vanessa “GRIG” Grigoriadis is a whiny person. I once worked as a researcher for her. Like talking to an early morning stoner.
MS: So, what are you looking for?
VG: Ok, so I need the stuff no one else knows.
VG: Seriously, the kind of things no one checks for.
VG: Stuff on message boards, on MySpace pages. If it’s on there, I need it.
MS: Ok. So mainly the Internet stuff.
MS: Ok, got it.
3 DAYS LATER…
VG: Why did you forward me all these MySpace pages?
MS: You wanted the MySpace stuff.
VG: I already know this. God, listen, I need stuff from the MySpace pages that people don’t know about. I need the real stuff.
VG: You know, the underground.
Right. OK, back to liveblogging.
8:12 a.m.: This entire opening is a disclosure about how THE GRIG was burned by Gawker and had to explain to her mother-in-law what a blog was? WTF.
8:15 a.m.: “Like most journalists, I tend to have a defeatist attitude about Gawker, dismissing it as the Mystery Science Theater 3000 of journalism,” in the not too distant future, about 2007 A.D., there was a shitty trend piece, about bloggers like you and me….LA LA LA.
8:20 a.m.: blah blah blah, Gawker once was written by someone else... "Sicha, a handsome ex-gallerist who spends his downtime gardening on
8:21 a.m.: Make coffee.
8:34 a.m.: Page two of the online article has Emily “Hey, guise, totally edgy since I give the middle fi—LOOK AT MY BREASTS. I AM NEEDY” Gould, Choire Sicha and Julia Allison. Is it bad I mock Emily? Shit, now I really feel bad. Because she’s moody, guys. Working is hard. Fuck. I feel bad. Sorry, Emily. I mean, I don’t mean to be bitchy. Your work is tough, I know. I freelance too. And blah blah, Josh made fun of Neal Pollack’s kid. Whatever, it takes a proud iPhone clad douche to knock on a little kid. But I really feel like a prick. I know the rooftop photoshoot was probably after days of convincing by Nikola “Teh L Magazine Greatest Photog” Tamindzic. And omg, all you ever knew how to do was write! Me too! Oh, man, I think we’d totally be friends. Do you notice how THE GRIG is making you out to be the human side of OMG GAWKER because you are the soulful one, Em. You’re totes the human side.
And you know, fuck Jimmy Kimmel fo…wait.
Hold the fuck on.
9:20 a.m.: No, wait, it’s still there. You make $55,000 a year? Seriously. You make $55,000 a year, wrote a book and are complaining that you have to work? I understand you have to pay freelancer’s taxes. I know what that is. I get receipts every time I buy a MetroCard.
But you are COMPLAINING about making that much money? What the fuck? You’re like every other punk kid I knew: oh boo hoo, life is hard—except for this shit-load amount of money I make! Oh, life is hard! I need to go have appetizers at a classy restaurant! Life is pain! I need to have a Pink Panty Dropper.
9:24 a.m.: Seriously. WTF. Why don’t you complain about your job more.
9:26 a.m.: Yeah,
9:30 a.m.: I’m on page 3 of the online article. What does this article have to do with the “creative underclass?” So far, this has been about THE GRIG being pissed her mother-in-law googled her son and blames THE GRIG. Not to mention—and I skipped ahead here—that THE GRIG made friends with Emily Gould and loves Choire Sicha’s sexy underwear. Well, we all love Choire’s underwear. It’s what we see when we “apply” for work at Gawker. Whatever.
But this article? It’s a pity. This is the prime example of old media trying attack online. Especially when online outlets such as this—and especially with the reasoning that Alex Balk didn’t mean to leave for Radar magazine, but was forced to leave regarding a post me made—show that online is indeed better.
Shit, I give up on this whole “liveblogging” thing. I can’t stomach THE GRIG’s story, nor how she attempts to humanize poor Emily as the scarred, lonely little girl in a big scary man’s second life. Maybe THE GRIG forgot that most people in media make below $28 K when it comes to work. After all, how much did she make for this corporate blowjob? Maybe she cut off some cash for her tubby hubby.
It should be no surprise that Gawker has yet to comment on the article that cites some in the office are drug users or like to have sex. What a shock! At least we know one thing—Richard Blakely, one of Gawker’s videographers, doesn’t wear tight white pants. Right, Alex Goldberg?
But I digress. I tried to get in contact* with the kids at Gawker in the interest of journalism and integrity and web 2.0. Sadly, no amount of uppers, downers or gin could attract Sicha, the guy with a Serge Gainsborough tat or Lil’ Miss “I make 55 K. SO DEPRESSING. WAAAAAAAAMBULANCE.”
Sigh. Anyway, the Gawker kids haven’t even discussed the piece on their site yet. So far it was just “omg, alex pareene is here. Omg, these things are going on. Omg, we are not going to acknowledge the 500-lb pink elephant in the room. Omg, CMJ is so totally for young people!”
Oh, Gawker. You’re so adorable. Like a $55,000 worth of adorable. But not nearly as adorable as how tubby THE GRIG’s husband is.
*Note: Mitchel Stevens did not try at all to talk to the editors at Gawker. In fact, he sort of just played Bona Drag for an hour, drank some gin and then sat around refreshing his Gmail while googling himself. Mitchel Stevens really didn’t feel inspired this time. Mitchel Stevens wants breakfast.