At the end of last week, in a generous frame of mind that, on reflection, might’ve been hasty, I made a case that the most believable media “offerings” are bylined opinion columns—ghost-written garbage for politicians don’t count—since the writer (often, but not always, well-remunerated) crafts an argument, perhaps sends it to an editor, and if they’re lucky people will read it and comment pro or con.
I used Peter Beinart’s latest plea for Palestinian rights in The New York Times as an example, and even if he pegged his frequently published views on the subject to Zohran Mamdani’s three-dollar-bill mayoral campaign (a NYC resident, Beinart didn’t disclose his preference in the race, a chicken-shit omission), he advanced his agenda. It was one-sided, but in contrast to the “fog of war” (or duplicitous) coverage of the Mideast war that appear on the front pages—print and digital—of the Times, Wall Street Journal and Washington Post, which have a scintilla (the genteel word) of veracity, Beinart’s essay was worth a skimmer. (I included the Post out of habit, and recurring generosity, even if Jeff Bezos’ newspaper doesn’t matter much anymore.)
Here’s where it gets tricky (or faulty on my part). In my good-guy guise, awarding Beinart a half-nod, I neglected to mention the worthless bylined “Guest Opinions” in the Times that’re exercises in self-abuse, or more commonly known as jerking off.
The “evergreen” is a long-derided journalistic staple, usually when a reporter or columnist has come up dry at deadline and writes with his or her toes, but as recently as, say, 2004, they didn’t appear with today’s frequency. Now, green, green, green, grass of home or tambourine is the norm and it’ll be ever so. That goes for social media as well: so many self-appointed town criers post about events that’re at least 12 hours old, as if they woke up and put on Paul Revere’s hat. A Canadian man on Twitter, a conservative, let me (one of his many followers) know long after the fact that devout Christian Clayton Kershaw recorded strikeout #3000. What was the point? Was he just clearing his throat via a keyboard, working up to a paragraph (absent nuance) about the death of David Lynch?
It’s confusing, just like those people, suffering from a health or financial reversals, asking the “Twitter/X Community” to “spare a prayer for me if you can.” My barely-above rudimentary knowledge of religion (church and Sunday school until I was 13) says that the Almighty—cruel to be kind or kind to be cruel—isn’t stingy with now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep devotees issuing as many prayers as he or she wants.
The latest “I Wrote a Thing” infraction I came across in the Times, courtesy of neuroscientist Emily Falk, was, under the (now standard) misleading headline “Here Is the Science of Why You Doomscroll.” In fact, the near-extinction word “doomscroll” is mentioned just once in the column and Falk was referring to herself, not “You.” Bad, bad, bad headline writer! This is the damage that started with USA Today in the 1980s and then reading-time-five-minutes magazines like Entertainment Weekly in the 1990s—the very short, dumbed-down articles that knocked consumers over the head that “We’re All in This Together.”
The gist: Falk was “paralyzed” after Trump’s budget cuts to universities, including her University of Pennsylvania, and “lay in bed, doomscrolling—stress, after all, changes how the valuation system functions.” Thanks for sharing, Doctor, but I don’t give a fuck.
Rallying, she writes: “[By] making choices based on your goals and values, you’ll influence not just yourself but also those around you. Achieving hard things and experiencing joy in the process can go hand in hand, especially when we work together.” Mercifully, she didn’t quote the famous late-1960s Youngbloods song (trite, but more than redeemed by 1969’s “Darkness, Darkness”), but did add this Almighty-inspired advice: “[I]t’s easier to swap social media for reading when you have a regularly scheduled book club with friends.”
I’m told by colleagues that the Times has gone skinflint on freelance fees (because the company’s skint, at least for “content”), but for Dr. Falk this was catharsis (that no one needs) and that is… priceless.
The photo above was taken at Tribeca’s now-closed Riverrun, a hangout for a wide swath of patrons, including a sizable contingent of New York Press employees and friends. Left to right: see Hunter, Danny (whiz bartender) and Julie (winsome Australian waitress) on what must’ve been a slow summer Saturday afternoon.
No one I knew there was in a book club, although it was a time when Jay McInerney (underrated), Tama Janowitz, Bret Easton Ellis and Tom Wolfe came up in conversation. I don’t believe the word “doomscrolling” was yet coined, but that could be accomplished by reading the Times or (bias mine) the Village Voice. The food at Riverrun was decent, but it was the bonhomie that counted. On rare occasions I took my very young son Nicky to the bar, and the staff kindly excused his mild trouble-making of cracking hard-boiled eggs and throwing the pieces on the floor, while I nursed a pint. That’s heroic!
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Ted Turner is Time’s Man of the Year; The Los Angeles Times’ David Shaw wins the Criticism Pulitzer; Montreal Expos pitcher Dennis Martinez hurls perfect game; Chuck Knoblauch is American League’s Rookie of the Year; South Africa’s readmitted to the International Cricket Council; John Daly wins the PGA Championship; Get the Picture debuts on Nickelodeon; the Pittsburgh Penguins win the Stanley Cup; the body of President Zachary Taylor, who died in 1850, is exhumed; Offset is born and Johnny Thunders dies; Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho and P.J. O’Rourke’s Parliament of Whores are published; and Ben Okri’s The Famished Road wins the Booker Prize.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023