ILL HUMOR | BY IAN SHOALES new media
Apparently, since much of the Salon staff once worked for the San Francisco Examiner, and because executive editor Gary Kamiya had written an online elegy for Herb Caen, the New Republic has decided that, as the subhead to this article put it, "The new media long for the good old days." So Salon now represents an interface between old journalism (a k a "New Journalism") and the brave new cyberjournalism that tomorrow will inevitably bring. Now there's a hideous responsibility for you. Moreover, the New Republic fears that Salon might not survive because of Salon's childlike longing for the days of Herb Caen, Mike Royko and Murray Kempton, days when shoe leather meant something, when a room wasn't a room unless it was smoke-filled, when even the cabby on the street called you "Inkslinger," "Spats" or "Johnny Deadline." The article concludes: "Although the magazine is based here, it's not really a San Francisco publication. Rather, like all things cyber, it is at once everywhere and nowhere, a site that transcends its inhabitants' destinies only because it is utterly removed from and indifferent to those destinies. Although Kamiya's words were beautiful, to Salon readers who didn't follow Caen -- which would be most Salon readers -- the piece probably didn't mean much. Unless they happened to notice what was really going on: new media was planting its lips on the corpse of the old media, wistfully -- and hopefully, as if to catch the elusive spirit before it vanishes for good." Huh. So new media is (are?) mouth-kissing old dead media in order to catch the bright elusive butterfly of newsprint one last time? Creepy. Well, speaking personally, regarding the segue from old media to new, my transformation from "writer" to "content provider" is pretty much complete. (The stitches come out Tuesday, and the programmers assure me no scars will be visible.) But now what am I supposed to write about? I can't write about the place I live, because it won't mean anything to you. Because I am everywhere and nowhere, like the Shadow, or God, I am forced to write about everything and nothing. Fear not, inhabitants, I will try to be there for you. On the other hand, old media seemed vaporous enough even before it (they?) went cyber. We had society columns, gossip, chatty movie, music and theater reviews and breezy headlines. We had gassy opinions long before we had e-mail; we had blather when the Web wasn't even a mote in the Internet's eye. So everything has always been nothing. And anything has always gone. So what's the big deal? Know what the trouble is? We don't have the clichés together yet. Everybody knows the old media clichés, but those of new media have yet to be discovered. We need to feel like we can curl up with the new media, much the way America used to lie down with Walter Winchell. Why don't we think up some new clichés right now? I'm sure we'll all feel a lot better. OLD MEDIA: Tiny smoky rooms lit by one single greasy bulb. NEW MEDIA: Large smoke-free rooms separated by cubicles, lit by garish fluorescent lights. OLD: "Lay off the mayor if you know what's good for you." NEW: "Our attorneys will be in contact with you." OLD: "Hold the front page!" NEW: "What's a front page?" OLD: "Get me rewrite!" NEW: "Install Auto Correct!" OLD: "I got a story here that's gonna rip this town apart!" NEW: "I got a story here!" OLD: Clattering of keys on battered old Royal. NEW: Strangled screech of modem. OLD: "Come on, Chief, give me a chance! I can handle this story!" NEW: "OK Chief! Whatever!" OLD: Cheap damp stogie, unlit, clamped firmly in the corner of the mouth. NEW: Smoldering Havana cigar, savored for its rich, full taste. OLD: Porkpie hat. NEW: No hats, unless worn ironically. OLD: Rumpled fedora. NEW: No hats. We have an unofficial policy, OK? OLD: Drip-dry suit. NEW: Faded T-shirt with name of now-defunct software company, obtained as a "gimme" at 1991 convention. OLD: Poker. NEW: Doom. OLD: Heavy drinking. NEW: Heavy consumption of Diet Pepsi. OLD: Phone tips from whispery informants. NEW: Voice mail. OLD: Drunken fistfight with editor. NEW: Flaming editor via e-mail. OLD: Drunken fistfight with publisher. NEW: Wine and cheese reception for investors. OLD: Crude jokes and profanity. NEW: Looking around carefully before uttering crude jokes and profanity. OLD: Heavy smoking. NEW: Mooching cigarettes at parties. OLD: Feet up on battered desk, revealing holes in soles. NEW: Feet up on battered workstation, revealing shoes to be cheap Nike knockoffs. OLD: Stubby pencil and notepad. NEW: Laptop. OLD: Hip flask. NEW: Bottled water. OLD: Feature writers share office space. NEW: Feature writers share a LAN. OLD: Many reporters have alternate identities as superheroes. NEW: Many reporters long for a lucrative book deal. OLD: Paul Harvey. NEW: Paul Harvey on RealAudio. OLD: Who, what, when, where, why. NEW: What? Whatever.
Merle Kessler's CD, "I Gotta Go," is a collection of commentaries that in the author's opinion sounded best when read really fast into a microphone. It is on the 2.13.61 label (Henry Rollins' label) and theoretically available in fine record stores everywhere, but it can also be ordered through Steve Baker at 1-800-989-DUCK, or through 2.13.6's Web site. |
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