We naturally lead manicured lives, so that our favorite blogs and writers and friends all look and think and sound a lot like us. (While waiting in line for my cappuccino this weekend, I was ready to punch myself in the face, as I realized that everyone in line was wearing the exact same uniform: artfully frayed jeans, quirky printed t-shirts, flannel shirts, messy hair, etc. And we were all staring at the same gadget, and probably reading the same damn website. In other words, our pose of idiosyncratic uniqueness was a big charade.
I like the staccato of anger and vitriol that Twitter provides. I like being nasty as long as it has some basis in fact, at least most of the time. When someone says something inane, an easy mark in Twitterdom, I enjoy douche juicing them as if some kind of human skunk. There is also a certain amount of realistic self-preservation involved, as I realize that the businesses from which I make my living—books, magazines, and newspapers—are potentially crumbling.