It’s all so…so…so…breath-catchingly dramatic for These Kids. Like Wuthering Heights for the Manhattan Media Blogging Set.
I have been bemusedly reading all the sturm und drang going on with These Kids who now/used to/no longer/perhaps will again, again, write for Gawker and These Kids outside the Gawker bosom who write and love/hate/disdain/love again them. I realize that the term “These Kids” by its very nature of being uttered by me is condescending, so I’ll cop to that. It’s one of the perks of being older (a POV Spencer could not write about). But it’s condescension without the venial purpose of wagging my finger at or lording it over These Kids. Rather, it’s an ageist condescension marked by years of observance and having a life somewhat lived, something These Kids cannot possess. It’s benign condescension, if you will, without investment and without competition – I haven’t a nickel in the dime other than being an infrequent commenter in various rooms of the Gawker Mansion.
Hanging around people younger than I on the internet and in real life, I never cease to marvel at how MUCH IT ALL MEANS to These Kids in and among themselves. Was I like that? Is everyone like that? Maybe hyper-awareness of every single thing he and she and they and we and them and us and you and me are feeling is symptomatic of walking on the light side of the years granted you. Perhaps. It would be unfair of me to take callowness away from them, so I’m’a cut the youngsters a break.
With a caveat. One that I cannot imagine will be heeded nor, perhaps in the scheme of things, should it.
Stop. Honestly. Stop. Stop right now and turn your attention and talents away from each other and focus on something else. There are things that you may never get to do because right now, just now – time, time, time is on your side, but time is bitchy and selfish and fickle and before you know it, well…
You are writers. You know the rest.