Being Choosy About Online Spaces

Over the last few years I have grappled with the size and scope of my digital footprint. I had more than a few “Nate, you’re better than this” moments while reading two books in particular. No Filter by Bloomberg writer Sarah Frier, got me off of Instagram and now I avoid the entire Facebook Suite of apps. Although, leaving WhatsApp while living overseas is nearly impossible because of how integrated it is into commerce here and because family back home seem disinclined to learn how to navigate Signal.

Frier came on the podcast and I found the truthpaste she squeezed undeniable. Her book and our conversation came down to three key points: 

• Algorithmic social media gives us each our own version of “the truth”, feeding our egos, biases, and prejudices;

• This is contributing to political polarization and escalating political violence, undermining our democracy and fraying the fabric of our society; 

• We have no idea what the long-term implications of any of this are—it is unprecedented in human history—but all seems quite bad.

A fourth point that I walked away from our conversation realizing is that our continued use of these platforms makes us complicit in the societal havoc they wreak.

A little later, I read The Age of Surveillance Capitalism by Shoshana Zuboff. She built on Frier’s ideas as part of a larger critique of post-industrial, late-stage capitalism. While Frier’s book was largely about the societal harm that algorithmic social media heaps upon us, Zuboff leaned into privacy violations and how our data is sold by and to some of the worst among us. I was struck repeatedly by the idea there’s a whole segment of bad actors who produce nothing, but make billions serving up data on our private comms, movements, and purchases to the highest bidder.

It was after finishing Zuboff’s book that I left Twitter for the first time. It was after Elon Musk’s purchase of the platform that I left for good and started writing this newsletter. 

Defenders of Musk say he’s a champion of free speech but that claim doesn’t stand up under scruitiny. Musk’s vision of free speech is a limited one. He doesn’t mean the freedom to criticize him—that can get you banned or your verification revoked. He doesn’t mean the freedom to build competing platforms—that can get your API access revoked. He doesn’t mean the ability to organize online anti-fascist networks—that can get you exiled to Mastodon. He, like many on the online right, see free speech as a one way street—a guarantee they and people they like can say whatever troll-y nonsense they want no matter how racist, vile, or bigoted it is.

It’s these issues of free speech and platform choice that I want to center today. 

I chose to write on Substack because I didn’t want to be on a platform that I felt was a Nazi Bar. I wouldn't go to a bar that knowingly served Nazis. I wouldn’t go to a church that knowingly welcomed Nazis. I wouldn’t work at a school that knowingly hired Nazis. This made the decision to leave Twitter and write here an easy one.

But this week Substack introduced their Notes feature and… oh, boy.

Substack pre-Notes was a business product. They, the service provider, distribute the newsletter. I, the writer, am responsible for the content. If you, the customer, find my takes unacceptable, you can unsub.

But Notes is different; it is a Twitter clone, another network with an algorithmic timeline. With that comes the need for robust content moderation. I get this. You probably get this but somehow the folks at Substack don’t. 

This week in an interview with the Verge, Substack co-founder & CEO Chris Best fell all over himself trying to answer very basic questions about what kind of content they’d allow on Notes. 

The question “hypothetically, can someone promote genocide on your platform?” shouldn’t be a hard one, but for Best (and too many tech bros) it is. 

I found this really disappointing. This week, a handful of subscribers asked if I will be using Notes. My answer is “nope.” I am not excited about the Notes product. Most of you read the newsletter in your email inbox, the old fashioned way (I get great data on this). You all don’t generally use the Substack app and I don’t plan on using Notes until they can prove it won’t be a Nazi Bar.

One way of reading all of this is that “Nate’s just fragile” and is seeking or creating bubbles or safe spaces. That framing is juvenile AF. It’s not about fragility, it is about being discerning with the company you keep and places you give your time and business.  

How the Culture of the WWE Took Over US Politics

Throughout my career, the Sunday evening work session has become a ritual. I sit down at about four o'clock and start prepping for the week ahead. For atmosphere, I usually have some combination of Law & Order, soccer, or wrestling in the background. Wrestling is actually perfect for productivity. You can focus on your task and mostly tune it out. The crowd and announcers will signal you to tune in for the chair shot, occasional shooting star press, or the finishing move. WrestleMania XXXIX happened last week at SoFi Stadium in LA, so it was my background this weekend. 

Wrestling is theater. It’s a scripted soap opera (in tights) with feats of athleticism and risks that defy common sense. But for a person with my worldview, enjoying the product is complicated. You could build an encyclopedia of the racist and xenophobic gimmicks that have been used over the years (see below). Women’s bodies are habitually objectified. The people in charge of the two major promotions (AEW and WWE) are billionaires of questionable character, both born into wealth.

It goes deeper than that. If you look at their biographies, Donald Trump and Vince McMahon’s resumes are largely indistinguishable up until about 2015. Both inherited businesses from their fathers: Trump a real estate empire, McMahon the then WWF. Both spent much of their careers awash is scandal. McMahon was indicted in federal court in 1994, charged with providing steroids to wrestlers. He was forced to resign as chairman of WWE in 2022, after it came to light that he, like Trump, paid hush money to a mistress. Their lives are intertwined in other ways. Trump made several appearances in the WWE and was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2013 and McMahon’s wife served as a member of Trump’s Whitehouse, as administrator of the Small Business Administration. 

They are basically the same dude and I find both loathsome. I wouldn’t want someone of their character as a colleague at work or representing me in public office. 

Despite this I enjoy wrestling and can largely ignore its excesses because I understand it’s all an act. Everything is scripted, the animosity is a pantomime. The audience is mostly in on the joke. But increasingly, I find myself using the language of wrestling to describe our unfortunate period of American politics. 

When I see conservative culture warriors attacking teachers or the LGBTQ+ community, I see heels generating cheap heat. A heel in wrestling parlance is a villain in a storyline and heat is the negative response they desire from the crowd—bad guys want crowds to boo them—they want to be hated. The “own the libs” aesthetic of the modern GOP is indistinguishable from a heel wrestling promo. Earning the scorn of the establishment, helps them get more over, the wrestling term for gaining popularity, with their base. Why else would we have politicians wearing AR15 pins into congress days after school shootings? It’s heel nonsense, meant to spark outrage.

The more we revile them, the more their supporters revere them.  

The clip above is a masterclass in cheap heat, Elias earning deafening boos insulting a crowd in Seattle on Monday Night Raw in 2018.

The word kayfabe refers to the illusion that wrestling is real, unscripted—that it’s a competitive sport. When we puncture that veneer and address the sport as the scripted drama, we call it breaking kayfabe. The feigned outrages that rise up in our politics everyday feel like kayfabe. Look at events this week in Tennessee: two Black Democratic legislators were expelled from the House for breaking rules on decorum while participating in a protest against gun violence. Rep. Andrew Farmer, who has a voice that is simultaneously reminiscent of Foghorn Leghorn and a plantation owner, condemned their actions in this video.

Farmer, maintaining kayfabe, pretended to be outraged by the protest, treating it as an unprecedented breach of decorum. Rep. Justin Pearson, one of the expelled members, rightly called out the expulsion as what it was—a racially motivated power grab, overturning the will of voters in Memphis. Pearson’s response was a shoot, an unscripted breaking of kayfabe, bringing real life elements into the storyline. Pearson highlighted the hypocrisy of the GOP majority, expelling him while keeping people in the chamber accused of grave misconduct. 

I’m already dreading the ever expanding 2024 campaign that is taking shape right now. Collectively we face a number of overlapping crises and find ourselves in serious times but have a deeply unserious political culture.

But for better or worse, I am an institutionalist. I believe in democratic institutions and that government can help solve problems and make society better. But I find myself caring less and less about US national politics as it becomes more and more like pro-wrestling.

I have more to say about wrestling and politics, in particular about how progressive politicians should embrace the populist message of Dusty Rhodes’s Hard Times promo. But that will have to wait until next week.

The Already Forgotten War

I am not the first member of my family to spend time in the Gulf. 

In 1991, when I was in seventh grade, my mom’s Army Reserve Unit, the 50th General Hospital, was activated for the first time since the Normandy landing. She was deployed to Saudi Arabia as a part of Operation Desert Shield to provide medical care in support of what would become the first of two US military invasions of Iraq. 

Military service is a tradition in my family. My father was a Warrant Officer in the Army and this was his route to the PNW. My brother was in the Army. My uncle was an Airmen, my step-father was drafted into the Army and wounded in the Vietnam War. I split the difference between my uncle and my mother and I enlisted in the US Air Force Reserves after high school. It felt like what I was supposed to do and I figured it would help pay for college. I enjoyed my time in the military. It gave me my first taste of travel—much of it in Texas.

But by mid-2002 the terrain changed. I publicly opposed the impending war in Iraq and my commentary about the war made for awkward situations during the waning days of my enlistment. I remember reading Norman Soloman’s Target Iraq and trying to explain the ways public opinion was being shaped in support of the war. I remember reading a PDF copy of Chomsky’s What Uncle Sam Really Wants and giving people highlighted copies of excerpts of the text. In 2003, I decided not to reenlist. I had become more a “college kid” than an “Airman”—those two aspects of my life having been at tension for years.

As the war went on, I remember being enraged listening to pols & pundits say “no one knew…” or “who could have foreseen…” as body counts soared and the nation soured on the war. It’s odd how clear those memories from twenty years ago are in my head because it seems like we’ve collectively forgotten about the Iraq War. 

The Iraq invasion was based on false premises from the jump.  The war was catastrophic, costing the lives of hundreds of thousands of Iraqis, wasting an estimated 2.4 trillion USD ($2,400,000,000,000) dollars of taxpayer money, and destabilizing much of the region. The war undermined American legitimacy in the region. It created a power vacuum that allowed extremist groups like ISIS to rise and allowed Iran to make the new government in Iraq another of its client states. The war inspired the largest protests in human history, damaging America's reputation and credibility with its allies. 

The Iraq invasion was a disastrous decision, a bipartisan blunder that passed  77-23 in the US Senate. All but the Ron Paul brand of Republicans were champions of the war and nearly 60% of Congressional Democrats supported it. My own Senator Maria Cantwell voted for it; 2016 Democratic Nominee, Hillary Clinton voted for it; Joe Biden voted for it, calling it “not a rush to war but a march to peace and stability.” But no one in the US political establishment ever faced any consequences for this failure. The cost was paid by the people of Iraq and the 7,000 US servicemembers and military contractors who died in the conflict. 

For my older students, the invasion is like Watergate is for people my age: a formative event with lasting repercussions that happened before I was born, like a memory belonging to someone else.

The Iraq War was the moment I learned America is allergic to holding people in power accountable. We saw this again during the 2008 crisis, poor Covid pandemic management, and are seeing it again with the current bank liquidity crisis. This allergy is arguably the defining characteristic of America’s political culture.