John Rubio

New World Disorder

The internet . . . it seemed like such a great idea! Seems almost like communism now. No, no, not the grouchy old "fear everything with shifty eyes" judgment--just the "great in theory, bad in practice" cliche. A virtual world of information literally at your fingertips; a well of waiting education. But also a dumping site, a dungheap, a den of the failed and the foolish. A place where wisdom and wit can be published on the same page as rancor and idiocy, as in the case above. Of course, I know Shepherd is the only one actually being "published." He is the only one who's proven himself with an education and a career, with experience and talent. He's a critic and a wordsmith who has caught the eye of those who will pay you to print your words. That's what publishing is: an act of trust based on your skill, trust that your words and ideas are worth the cost of buying and printing because they will attract readers. Publishing is trust in one's brilliance. I just thought we needed a refresher course because we're on the internet right now--a place where "publishing" has been depleted down to the denominator of merely hitting a button. Publishing is a light switch, a bomb lever, toilet flush. There's no trust when the amateur flock to blogs with the deluded notions that they are writers. There's no recognition of skill by an approved authority; just blind assumption, just a willingness to impose. There is no trust when buffoons like "beszlebrox" post what no doubt sounded like comic genius in their minimal brains. There is only the acme of cowardice on display here. To come to a place of peaceful insight, to enter an intelligent conversation you were not invited to, and infect your ignorance. No one wants you here beszlebrox; no one thinks you're funny, except perhaps more of the unwanted. We do not trust you. We do not believe in you. Because you are a taint, a blemish, a fly in the soup. You've laid it out for us: "This is the best I can do. I can't write like what I'm childishly criticizing. I can't tell a joke. I can't make you laugh. I can't make you think. This is all I am. This poor vocabulary on a computer screen. This timid set of unclean letters. This waste." We hear you. Now go away.
— December 19, 2009 7:02 a.m.

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