Why Is Gawker So Mean?
They're just jealous, is all. That's the thesis of the widely undigested New York article on Gawker by Vanessa Grigoriadis. Of the small number of substantive mainstream pieces about Gawker, Grigoriadis's comes closest to attempting something interesting. But in the end -- or really, by the first section break -- it's hobbled by the need to make anyone care about Gawker who isn't already invested in Gawker, emotionally and/or professionally. The thesis about Gawker serving as an outlet for "the anxiety and class rage of New York's creative underclass" is backburnered in order to bring up scads of background, then resurrected as a convenient (and mostly visual) metaphor ... angry mobs gathered around allegorical "tumbrels" are mentioned twice, as a way to describe Gawker's audience and commenter population. To viciously paraphrase, Gawker and its readers and commenters just want to have fun tearing down successful or prominent journalists, celebrities, socialites, et cetera, because such people don't deserve public approbation or even anonymity if they do something stupid. From there, Grigoriadis can't help widening her scope and widening it again and again and again, until we're viewing the vista of Modern Success through the prism of Gawker and vice versa. This landscape of topicality has led to many who otherwise might really dig (or dig into) the Gawker article finding themselves unmoved about its generalities. I can sympathize, as it's very tempting when writing about Gawker to write about what Gawker means, man. I can barely restrain myself from going there, even when just writing about an article about Gawker. But instead of considering what Gawker means, I'd rather dwell on something which has always seemed obvious to me, even though it's trotted out all the time as an imponderable: why Gawker is mean.
Complaints about Gawker's meanness resurface on a regular basis, often ignited by a particular instance -- the Gawker Stalker map, publishing idiotic emails from helpless wage slaves, making fun of women's appearances, banning commenters, or (as in Grigoriadis's lede) mocking newly married couples. Unwarranted meanness is probably the most commonly aired Gawker grievance throughout its history. How come? Why is Gawker like it is, mommy?
First, I want to dispense with the rage of the creative underclass. Using Gawker's public Sitemeter stats as a useful approximation, the site received about 7.5 million visitors in September 2007. Let's discount 90% of those visitors, for whatever reason you care to name. That still leaves 750,ooo visitors in a month. How many people work in publishing and media in New York? Or in any creative capacity whatsoever? How many of these actually are or merely consider themselves part of an "underclass"? How many of them are full of anxiety and class rage? And how many of any of these subgroups read Gawker?
These non-numbers are specious, but so what. Despite Gawker's presumptively advertiser-attractive audience demographics, I'd be willing to bet that the clear majority -- perhaps the vast majority -- of its readers (and even its commenters) do not hold a creative job, could not be considered "underclass," or do not live in New York, or some or all of these. Still, it's fair to say that a high proportion of people in those niches do read Gawker, and they get demonstrably excited (or excised) when Gawker writes about them or their friends. However influential they may be, though, they're not but a small fraction of Gawker's audience, even considering the site's expansion beyond the fields of Manhattan media gossip. Why would all those other people read Gawker? Because Gawker says mean things?
True, but that's just the face of it. Gawker is at its salacious best when posting things that certain people would freely say at a party, in conversation, or among friends and colleagues, but would never commit to print. Sometimes those things are indeed mean, but just as often, it's the act of saying them that's considered mean. It's a violation of confidence or etiquette or journalistic standards or Queensberry rules or whatever.
Insiders used to hint at such things with blind items in gossip columns, while outsiders just scratched their heads. These days, to call Gawker outsidery would be patently ludicrous. There's almost no event, function, or party where Gawker can't gain legitimate, credentialed entry, even if the organizers know full well to expect an ass-beating in tomorrow's post. Gawker publicity is now always good publicity for those looking to get their name or book or project out there. Gawker's editors have congenial access to full media hierarchies all over town. Major mainstream media pays strict attention to Gawker and tries (and often fails) to guard its ugly side from exposure on the site. Gawker personnel are treated like minor lordlings of New York.
All of which makes Gawker's itinerant meanness so hard to take for some. Why hasn't Gawker grown out of this, anyway? They're one of us now! Why are they still so mean? That's easy. If Gawker didn't say mean things, meanly, it would cease to be of much interest to anyone, creative underclass or not. When someone says something mean in your presence, you're included in a pseudo-confidence -- because of course they wouldn't say something like that to just anyone. Gawker says mean things publicly to its audience, and even if the audience has no stake at all in the proceedings, they still get a frisson of gossipy inclusion.
Despite what people may think, a mean blog is not always easy or enjoyable to write. Of course, it can be loads of fun when dispensing a righteous comeuppance. But that sort of thing is all over the map now -- it's open season on practically any celebrity, or writer, or other public fuckup. Gawker's distinguishing stock in trade continues to be saying mean and/or surprising things about people who normally don't get such treatment. Ill-considered email forwards, embarrassing online dating profiles, sappy portrayals of children, whispered party faux pas -- all fair game. Gawker can "own" a nobody it elevates to infamy much more effectively than they can publish something memorably insulting about Lindsay Lohan. That's why posts on the Next Big Douchebag routinely get more traffic than most anything about actual big-time celebs or "real" public figures. And that's Gawker at its meanest, picking on the small fry. But they're not doing anything differently than a casual websurfer forwarding a stupid photo to his friends and cracking wise about same. It's just that Gawker now has millions of friends, and that's what makes them mean.
In her article, Grigoriadis frustratingly almost touches on this a number of times, but never quite gets there. She even brushes up against the issue of Gawker's commenter population, which can be far, far more venomous than Gawker ever was. The commenters and their influence on Gawker are a whole other story, really. But aside from the things they actually say, the commenters' influence on Gawker's particular meanness is practically nil. Gawker may encourage the commenters to be extra-mean, actively or passively. But the actual meanness of Gawker posts themselves, while a fluctuating commodity, hasn't really trended any differently.
I don't endorse or condemn meanness as a method; everyone reacts to such things personally and case-by-case. But Gawker's meanness is practically its essence, so to question why it exists is to question why Gawker exists, and that's obviously because people like to read it. As long as Gawker remains willing to violate most any genteel confidence or illusory anonymity, they'll have the advantage of their targets and the loyalty of their readers.
