BOO-YAH
Similar to looking back at an embarrassing period in your life through old photos or distant memories, we're eventually going to look back at this era, this generation, during conversations with our children, in seminars, documentaries, debriefings, and history books, and wonder what exactly happened. In many ways, we'll be remembered as the weirdo/goofball generation, a generation where Petyr Baelish, Ephialtes of Trachis, and Mir Jafar-Esque leeches rose to prominence and were handed social currency, authority, and a voice.
I am wholeheartedly convinced that over the last several years we've entered some type of Everything Everywhere All at Once alternate reality. Nothing can logically explain how some of these individuals were elevated, nor who decided they should be.
What makes this ordeal bittersweet is that, during moments when we genuinely needed them, some of these weirdos, alternative forms of journalism, and alternative media spaces were there for us. What makes this moment so frustrating is that many of the very platforms and personalities I criticize today once provided something genuinely valuable. As strange as it sounds, some of these mediums and personalities held us down.
There was a time when they filled gaps that traditional institutions either ignored or failed to address. Content creators covering television and film blessed us with deep dives into lore, creative breakdowns of Easter eggs, and thoughtful analyses of subtle themes, ideas, and messages that many of us missed. In some cases, post-episode podcasts became just as important as the content itself. They felt like purposeful extensions of the source material.
In music, sports, and popular culture, podcasts created opportunities for conversations that traditional media rarely provided. Artists and athletes were able to tell their stories in their own words, revealing creative processes, personal struggles, and perspectives that audiences had never heard before. We saw these individuals in vulnerable and comfortable environments, speaking candidly in ways traditional media rarely allowed. We gained insight into strategy, politics, social issues, and countless other subjects that help shape the world around us. These weren't just interviews; they were windows into worlds that had previously been inaccessible.
There was something organic about it. Something authentic.
There was a time when there was genuine beauty in what we were being given.
It felt natural.
But as happens with many successful cultural movements, visibility attracts opportunists. Like anything else in life, once something begins to grow organically, builds traction, and establishes a place within culture, the exploiters arrive. The vultures show up. Once spaces demonstrated their ability to capture attention, corporations, advertisers, and investment groups arrived looking for returns rather than substance. These entities often have little understanding of culture itself, they see follower counts, engagement numbers, and market opportunities. They don't necessarily understand what made something special, they simply see a potential return on investment.
In this case at hand, engagement became a commodity. Followers became currency. Influence became an industry
The result was predictable.
This is a significant reason why many of these mediums no longer serve us in the way they once did. Endeavors that began as passion projects became products. What started organically became commodified. It's a cycle as old as time.
Creators who once focused on thoughtful analysis became trapped by algorithms that rewarded speed over depth. The podcasters who built audiences through genuine curiosity discovered that controversy generated more views than preparation. The personalities who earned trust through authenticity began performing versions of themselves designed to maximize engagement.
In television and film discourse, "Rush culture" took hold. Being first became more important than being insightful.
In sports and music media, controversy became the product. Interviews were no longer designed to reveal new information but to generate clips, headlines, and viral moments.
At the same time, some personalities began mistaking access for expertise. Receiving backstage credentials became synonymous with understanding the creative process. Having a platform became synonymous with having authority. Being popular became confused with being knowledgeable. TikTok creators and content influencers now criticize material as though they are filmmakers, producers, and screenwriters themselves. Because they receive occasional access, some speak as though they possess genuine authority regarding how and why works are made. Likewise, artists and athletes, many of whom earned their social currency in entirely different field, have transitioned into media while behaving as though they are journalists. They expect the same access, credibility, and authority that actual journalists spend years developing.
Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But there are levels in every craft, every profession, and every field in life.
Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But expertise still matters. Preparation still matters. Experience still matters.
Somewhere along the way, these motherfuckers forgot the difference.
The hardest pill to swallow is that journalism itself has crossed into the celebrity, clout, and controversy realm.
Figures like Stephen A. Smith have, in my view, sacrificed elements of journalistic integrity in pursuit of fame and personal branding. The era of admirable figures such as Stuart Scott, Sway Calloway, and courageous field reporters feels increasingly distant. In many spaces, they have been replaced by controversy chasers, culture warriors, and personalities whose primary goal is attention rather than information.
Passion, preparation, and thoughtful questioning have become rare commodities.
I think about interviews like Michel Martin's conversation with Dave Chappelle. There was preparation. There was nuance. There was genuine curiosity. There was an effort to uncover something meaningful.
Too often today, what we receive instead are cookie-cutter interviews filled with rehearsed questions, recycled talking points, and conversations that reveal little of substance. The goal is not discovery. The goal is content.
What's even more concerning is how low expectations have fallen.
We have White House correspondents, political commentators, sports analysts, and media personalities operating on national television while demonstrating, at times, a shocking lack of preparation. We have sports analysts who clearly have not watched the games they're discussing, who don't know whether players are injured or sitting out, who confuse positions, statistics, and basic facts. We have political figures and officials contradicting themselves with claims that can be disproved through a simple search.
I yearn for thoughtful questions.
I yearn for professionalism.
I yearn for people who do their homework.
I yearn for journalists who are interested in discovering new information rather than manufacturing controversy.
Although figures like Nadeska Alexis and Leila Fadel help fill part of that void, I still feel like something is missing. Perhaps it's simply a matter of quantity. Perhaps there are too few of them.
As someone who grew up in the 1990s, when I think of journalism, I think of respect. I think of selflessness.
To me, journalists occupy a unique place within society. They are among the few people who are supposed to challenge power rather than serve it. They are governed not by popularity but by principles. They are the individuals who can question presidents, confront dictators, challenge institutions, and investigate wrongdoing.
They are the people who enter war zones carrying little more than a camera, a notebook, and the belief that the world deserves to know the truth. Ideally, a blue press vest should provide them with a degree of protection because their mission is considered sacred.
They are the voices of the voiceless.
The eyes of the blind.
The ears of the deaf.
They are moderators, messengers, and ambassadors of the people.
Journalism is not merely content. It is not merely entertainment. It is a craft, an art form, and a public service unlike any other, and it should be treated as such.
But like everything else in life, there is still reason to believe.
Like the heroes in a Star Wars film, the fight never truly ends.
Even now, there are journalists risking their lives to bring information to the public. In Gaza. In Sudan. In Lebanon. In countless places where telling the truth comes with genuine consequences.
On a smaller scale, there are podcasters, independent writers, former hosts, and creators with far smaller audiences than the clout chasers dominating headlines. They continue to produce thoughtful, researched, skill-based coverage of the subjects they love.
There are still people doing the work.
There are still people conducting research.
There are still people asking difficult questions.
There are still people chasing truth instead of attention.
And for as long as those people exist, there remains reason to keep believing in journalism.