25 November 2014

Building on the thing I just said: I can’t think of a single modern writer who is interesting or has some balls. Especially when it comes to journalists. Where is the weird stuff? And I don’t care about ‘Vice.’ I think ‘Vice’ is gimmicky and put-on.

Remember when ‘Rolling Stone’ did stuff that people actually cared about? Remember when any publication at all featured writing by actual human beings who thought about stuff and experienced stuff and listened to music and read books and drove cars and motorcycles way too fast and stayed up later than 10 pm?

I’ll tell you what: I sure am tired of this generation of writers, and I don’t even know who they are. I can’t really think of a single one. Dave Eggers, maybe? God, that guy. Everything I read now is so gutless and groomed. It’s hollow and dissolves in your hands. It all feels like something you’d take off the shelf at Target. This is a world of ukuleles and granola and haircuts you pay for and clothing taken off the mannequin. Jesus, where are the people? Where is the blood? I don’t know!

I’m going to write things—a lot of things—and put them on the internet for free, on a single domain, under a single name, and hope the right people find it. I want to write the stuff that I can’t find anywhere, stuff that is mostly gone and dead now. And there’s no reason for it to be gone and dead. The world may have moved past it, but it needs to exist. God damn it! What else can you do?