I just commented under a nom de guerre at the Volokh Conspiracy, defending in my limp-wristed sort of way a criticism Eugene Volokh leveled at Earl Ofari Hutchinson.
And it occurred to me that I haven't read anything Hutchinson wrote in years. I used to read Hutchinson's opinion pieces, quite frequently, at Salon, and thought him one of their better writers. He may still write there, for all I know. I could read Salon despite the paywall and the ads, as my wife is a paying subscriber or whatever they call them, and she's stored her password on the laptop from which I post this. But why bother? Life is too short to waste time on Salon unless it's linked on a message board or a blog that matters to me.
And yet I referred to Volokh, whose existence I didn't know of when I was reading Salon (I don't have the sort of law practice where citing law review articles is helpful, as in my experience most law professors know less about insurance than most accountants), as "Eugene." Because he's deigned to respond to my comments on his blog a time or two. And I get all, tingly when that happens. Hell, I get all tingly when Ezra deigns to respond to what I write here.
But Earl Ofari Hutchinson, a professional journalist at an edgy journalism website whose writing I like, he's dead to me now. I'm an old man of forty. The twenty-year-olds behind me are probably reading Plogs, or Schlogs, or something.
No wonder all the big journalists think we're in a recession.