There’s this, which is a sterling example of Content, which differs from content in that it contains nothing: listicles, and How-To articles on ad-laced sites, and meme aggregation, and the Daily Tweet Roundup. The innertubes needs to have things thrown into it constantly–it likes to feel refreshed–and it’s not going to sit around waiting for you to have something so pedestrian as a thought.
And it’s not a Hot Take, either. A Hot Take has more to it than this collection of sequential words: there’s an opinion in a Hot Take, or at least a strongly-stated position. A side is taken, even if it’s deliberately the dumbest side so that the passions of dummies will be inflamed, dumbly.
Whereas this is Content: it occupies three or four scroll-downs on the mouse, and evinces a familiarity with the subject. All the tropes are covered: the dating, the fashion, the fashion bandanas. The article is written in a comedic style, and doesn’t get bogged down in jokes or ideas.
The only reason I’m annoyed (actually doubly-annoyed: fuck you for making me defend John Mayer, Sam Donsky) is that the entire conceit of the Content is wrong. It’s structured as “advice to Josh about how to get his career back on track” so that he could, you know, play stadiums or something like that, and there’s not one mention of what Johnny Checkers did on his summer vacation. The writer forces a Trump joke, so I’ll force a Trump analogy: it’s like writing an article about Donald and ignoring the past year.
In closing, fuck you again for making me defend John Mayer.
Also: fuck you, John Mayer, for becoming a Grateful Dead and forcing me to defend you. I do not want to be defending you, John Mayer; not when you do bullshit like this:
Are you happy, San Donsky? You made me defend this. I don’t even know what the fuck this is. I mean: it’s not just plain ol’ beads on a string; George Frost used his signature design methods; there’s a deer involved in this somehow. And the beads? Special beads. African beads, and those are the most soulful and authentic beads in all the beading world.
O, Lord, how far we’ve all sunk.