It’s not really a surprise. We hate them, after all:

Where is the mystery about Rahm stories? Mainstream media reporters hate hippie bloggers. Don’t know why.

No small part of our cultural blood feuds in America is the idea that somebody else’s life calls into question one’s own choices. The stay at home moms hate the working mothers, and vice versa; the childless and childfree hate the parents and vice versa; the marrieds and the singles are perpetually lobbing grenades at each other; and the reporters hate the bloggers. It’s all because each is convinced the other has the better end of it and we’re fools for getting stuck in our rotten lives. It’s all because each is convinced the other makes them look stupid or wrongheaded, like they’re wasting their time.

It’s all insecurity, and nobody but nobody is insecure like a writer. We’re all secretly afraid that what we do is kind of bullshit, anyway, no matter how much we may blather about the need to remember history and whatnot. I mean, when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, my skills as a scribe will not exactly be in great demand, you know? Should some Day after Tomorrow 2012 Deep Impact scenario manifest, I will be the first to tell you that you should all just kill and eat me and not feel bad about it.

Plenty of print and TV journalists raise legitimate points about the
future of journalism and the future of news in an age of free
information and I’m not talking about healthy debate. I’m talking about
the tribal, Joke Line-like bullshit mudfights that go on in the pages
of the trades, like the ChicagoNow stuff I mentioned a couple of posts
ago. One of the reasons I’m still blogging is that it still gives me the thrill, the collaborative joyous thrill-of-the-chase high that reporting used to. We’re all struggling financially out here, but we are having a whole lot of fucking fun figuring out how to cover the bills and still cover the stories, how to build communities and places for collaboration, how to craft a voice that speaks for people who can’t speak for themselves.

And to reporters beaten down by financial crises they’re not allowed to even attempt to fix, crises caused on purpose then blamed on elemental forces beyond human control, that joyous chaos that is the ultimate affront. Not only are we doing whatever the fuck we please, but we’re loving it! How dare we? It must be suspect. We must be shameful in some way. Somebody else doing something completely different and enjoying it, when you’re miserable where you are, is like a smack in the face with a big wet fish. In the face of that person’s joy, how can I go on as I am? It should be okay to ask yourself that question, and take or not take the answer.

I mean, I think if you don’t like your life you should change it no matter the impetus, but it’s hard to ask and easier to answer: You don’t have to feel bad about yourself because the other person just sucks. After all, they write on the Internet, and don’t have a big paycheck, and probably wear pajamas. Hippies.

A.