A blogger’s bloggy confessional about blogging and its bloggy complications turned out to be catnip for other bloggers who like blogging about blogs!

I’ve been trying to organize my thoughts about the infamous Emily Gould essay that the New York Times Magazine ran as its cover story this past weekend. My thoughts about it are complicated.

Emily Gould is a 26-year-old New Yorker and used to be co-editor of Gawker, the snarky New York media blog. (I don’t read Gawker regularly, so I’d never heard of her.) Her Times piece is an 8,000-word essay about how she had a blog, then got popular, then got picked to be co-editor of Gawker, then couldn’t deal with all the attention, then left Gawker and tried to become a regular blogger again. This is the cover story of the New York Times Magazine, mind you. It’s been roundly criticized all over the web as a piece of whiny narcissism, and some are wondering why it got printed, let alone why it deserved 8,000 words and the cover slot. Here are some of the more high-profile reactions.

My first reaction was that I hated the piece. Then I realized that part of my hatred was due to envy. Then I berated myself because sometimes I can be so judgmental. I don’t like it when I’m judgmental. After all, I don’t like it when people judge me, do I? And wouldn’t the world be a better place if we would all stop being so negative? There’s something very human about the urge to bad-mouth and look down on others. But does that make it okay?

But that’s my superego talking. Let’s get back to my id.

I saw the essay on the Times website late last week — it appeared online a few days in advance of the magazine — and my first thought was that I definitely wanted to read it, since I’m a blogger and I like reading about blog culture. So I read it over the weekend.

By the end of the first paragraph, I was turned off.

Back in 2006, when I was 24, my life was cozy and safe. I had just been promoted to associate editor at the publishing house where I’d been working since I graduated from college,

Oh, god. Another twentyomething wannabe writer trying to make it in the New York publishing scene.

and I was living with my boyfriend, Henry, and two cats in a grubby but spacious two-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

Cliché number 2: lives with boyfriend in Brooklyn. She’ll go on to describe Henry as “a lovably bumbling character, a bassist in a fledgling noise-rock band who said unexpectedly insightful things about the contestants on ‘Project Runway’ and then wondered aloud whether we had any snacks.” Great. Not only do they live in Brooklyn, but the boyfriend’s a hipster musician with an ironic sensibility. Is this real or is it from a fiction workshop? Too cute by half.

I spent most of my free time sitting with Henry in our cheery yellow living room on our stained Ikea couch, watching TV. And almost every day I updated my year-old blog, Emily Magazine, to let a few hundred people know what I was reading and watching and thinking about.

This is when the anger kicked in. WTF? Your blog has a few hundred readers? That’s not fair. If I exclude search engines, my blog probably gets no more than 100 hits a day.

Much later in the article, post-Gawker, Emily starts a new blog, and she writes:

Word had spread through my immediate circle of friends about the blog, and it was now getting a few hundred visitors a day

Jesus Christ. How big is your “immediate circle of friends”? You just toss that out there in passing, “a few hundred visitors a day,” as if it’s no biggie? Do you know how many bloggers would kill to have a few hundred visitors a day? Do you know that I’ve been blogging for more than seven years now and I give lots of care and attention to my posts and I can’t come near that number of visitors?

That’s when I started to think, hmm… do you think maybe you might be envious?

As I read on, my revulsion and envy were joined by fear, because I realized I had some things in common with Emily, some things that are not so attractive. I wondered: Is this what I sound like when I write about my thoughts and feelings? Do I sound this self-centered and whiny? Is this what a desire for attention gets you?

So reading the essay was like looking at a train wreck and into a funhouse mirror at the same time.

My question is, why did this essay get printed? At such length? And as the cover story? The editors probably thought it would be oh-so-insightful. Overthinkers and academics love to extrapolate from anecdotes and find Meaning everywhere, even when there isn’t any. See, New York Times readers? This is What Young People Are Like Today. People don’t care about privacy anymore! It’s true because this one person wrote about it in a first-person essay!

Indeed, it turns out that’s totally what they were trying to do:

Putting Emily’s story on the cover was not a tough call. One of the things we are most interested in at the magazine are those lifestyle issues — what we call Way We Live Now issues — that blend personal narratives with larger political or ethical or philosophical concerns. These are the kinds of things readers are engaged by on Sunday morning (or anytime, in cyberspace). How the Internet is re-describing how we understand privacy, intimacy and personal history is, I think, such an issue, and the fact that the story — an 8,000-word story — has already, in 6 [h]ours or so, attracted more than 600 comments (most of them having nothing to do with why we published the piece as a cover story) leads me to believe a lot of folks agree.

No. The reason it attracted more than 600 comments is because it was awful.

The thing is, it’s fine if you want to write about a cultural trend. But if a piece of art isn’t going to be informative, then it has to be aesthetically pleasing, and this one wasn’t. It can’t just be about the destination; it also has to be about the journey. And this journey was cringeworthy.

But can I tell you what really got me riled about this article? In case you thought I wasn’t riled up enough about it?

Emily Gould is taking readers’ questions and comments. Responses to selected questions will be posted at nytimes.com/magazine on Tuesday, May 27.

Cripes. Not only do you let her write an 8,000-word self-indulgent piece of crap, but then you’re going to have her respond to readers’ questions and comments? Wow, New York Times. Let’s just give her more attention. And you’re so hip and cool, aren’t you? You probably think that people are going to be oh so intrigued by her essay and are going to want to ask her all these Big Idea sorts of questions, since, you know, she’s clearly representative of this whole blogging culture? Since, you know, you’ve just proclaimed her as such?

Her responses are now posted. Okay — she seems to be very aware of how her piece has come across. Not a big surprise. But it’s nice to know she’s not clueless about it.

A couple more points.

The first point is, I know that I’m being judgmental here. And again, if I were in Emily’s shoes, I wouldn’t like it. I wouldn’t like having my essay called “an 8,000-word self-indulgent piece of crap.”

That’s what depresses me, though. Because this is my fantasy. I’m ashamed to say it, but part of me, some part deep down, the child that doesn’t feel it ever got enough love, craves this kind of attention. The kid in me would love to write the cover story for the New York Times Magazine and have it be all about me and my life and have it be read by thousands of people. Because it would mean that I exist, and I could make everyone love me! It’s an infantile urge — I don’t mean that in a bad way, I mean that it’s what an infant feels: that I am the center of attention and it’s all about me.

But look what happens when you get that attention. People rightfully attack you, because why the hell should other people care about you and your petty problems? What makes you so special? Because, you know, you’re not so special. And it turns out that even though you’ve gotten all this attention, people don’t love you.

So the fantasy is worthless. I realized this a few years ago. If I can ever manage to become a published writer, I’d rather write about history and politics. Not only do I find it interesting, but it’s healthier, because it’s something external to yourself.

The second point is, I realize that I’ve just spent over a thousand words giving attention to an article that I claim deserves no attention.

Damn you, you New York Times and your jujitsu. You tricked me!

In the current issue of New York Magazine, veteran journalist Pete Hamill writes beautifully about being friends with Robert F. Kennedy and witnessing his assassination, which happened 40 years ago next month.

By 11 p.m., it seemed clear that Kennedy had won California, a huge triumph that would erase the comparatively minor shame of defeat in Oregon. Now we were in Kennedy’s own room: Schulberg, Brian, Cesar Chavez, Newfield, Breslin. I remember squatting with my back against a wall. Kennedy was on the floor, back to a sofa, one arm resting on a raised knee, the other leg stretched out. Others came and went. Frank Mankiewicz handed him a sheet of paper. Maybe words for a speech. Maybe more results. The TV set was on, the sound off, showing Kennedy ahead. Most people had glasses in their hands. Beer. Harder stuff. Soft drinks.

The mood was light, almost giddy. Kennedy smiled and smiled, and laughed out loud at Breslin’s interminable New York joking. Then someone said, glancing at a watch, that it was time to go down. Kennedy stood up, buttoned his cuffs and his collar, went into the bathroom. Everybody else was standing now. Some went back to the larger room across the hall where television might offer a better view. Kennedy came out of the men’s room. He had combed his hair and donned a jacket. He was smiling broadly.

“Let’s go down,” he said.

How should we decide dicey constitutional issues? How should we decide whether or not a constitution requires that same-sex couples have the right to get married?

I was thinking about different ways judges interpreting the Constitution, and more specifically, about originalism. I noticed that the prolific judge Richard Posner has a new book out (as he always does), How Judges Think, and I was reading some discussion about it on Volokh.com. One commenter wrote:

[A particular critic of the book] asks why we shouldn’t choose the rules [for interpreting the Constitution] that are most “faithful” to history and text. Rules that are most “faithful” to separation of powers “principles.” Rules that are most “faithful” to the “properly” limited role of the judiciary.

… First, lets examine which of these things can be resolved with reference to the “original public meaning” of the Constitution and nothing else. First, the assertion that there even IS an original public meaning is somewhat retarded, because the “public” is an abstraction, not a real thing. Different individuals that constitute that thing we call the “public” have had different understandings of the Constitutions text (beyond the easy questions) from the very beginning. Exactly whose understanding do we privilege by labeling it as the “original public meaning.” You don’t really get anywhere with this move.

The originalist point of view says that because judges are not democratically elected, they should exercise restraint in interpreting ambiguous parts of the Constitution. As Odysseus straps himself to the mast in order to keep himself from heeding the Sirens’ call, judges need to grasp something so they don’t veer off course. What’s the “safest” way to interpret the Constitution? Once again, for instance: what’s the safest way for a judge to decide, without overstepping the bounds of judging, whether or not a constitution requires that same-sex couples and opposite-sex couples be treated equally for the purpose of marriage?

I tend to agree with the commenter above about the problems of “original public meaning.” But in addition to the question of whether there is an ascertainable “original public meaning,” there’s another question: why should judges try to be faithful to the “original public meaning” of the Constitution in the first place? Why should the “dead hand of the past,” is it is often called, carry more weight than the present?

The response is that the Constitution was ratified by “We the People,” and that when in doubt, you should defer to the people, because the Constitution should mean one specific thing unless “we the people” amend it. If we haven’t amended it, that means we don’t want the Constitution interpreted in a particular way. Judges aren’t elected, so they should defer to these majorities.

But that presumes that the desires of the majority are the most important factor. Yet as Glenn Greenwald points out, “strictly speaking, the U.S. is not a ‘democracy’ as much as it a ‘constitutional republic,’ precisely because constitutional guarantees trump democratic majorities.”

In other words, individual rights are important, and majorities can’t take them away.

The problem, though, is that if judges needn’t follow the majority will, but should instead try to apply constitutional rights, then you’re going to get a different result depending on who the actual judges are.

But what other way works, really? I respect originalism, because it attempts to give judges something to guide those decisions. But originalism doesn’t work because it can’t explain why a narrower interpretation of the Constitution is better than a wider interpretation without appealing to the founders and some notion of safety and conservatism, and in order to do that, it has to explain why those notions are the best things to appeal to.

Is it inherently better for judges to find that there is no constitutional right for same-sex couples to get married, or that there is such a right? You can’t answer that question without making a value judgment. Even if you try to escape that task by making a process-oriented judgment (i.e., when in doubt, listen to “We the People”) instead of a substantive value judgment, the decision to use one process or another still requires a value judgment, because you need a reason for choosing one process over another. So much of the quest of judicial theory is about finding ways for judges to make the safest decisions possible. But you can’t decide what criteria to use for that decisionmaking process without making a value judgment.

Judges can’t escape making value judgments. It’s inherent in judging, because it’s inherent in being human. There really is no solid, absolute answer out there. As strongly as I believe in same-sex couples’ right to get married, that’s the dirty little secret.

In a world without God — which I believe is our world — we humans have to decide all this stuff for ourselves.

My blog has a bunch of readers who are mysterious to me.

I know that I’ve got visitors beyond those who leave comments or send emails — I can tell from my referral stats. I’m not talking about the visits that come from search engines; I get a bunch of hits from people who come to my site via Google and don’t find what they’re looking for. I’m talking about the visits that come without any URL attached. Presumably these are people who come to my site by clicking on a browser bookmark or typing in the URL directly. I know nothing about them but their IP addresses.

I love it when readers, new or old, leave comments. And I love finding out who my readers are.

So, mysterious readers, this is your chance to tell me: who are you?

Among all the election hubbub in Kentucky and Oregon last night, it turns out that Portland, Oregon elected its first gay mayor, Sam Adams. (Not this Sam Adams or this one.) Portland will be the largest city in the U.S. ever to have a gay mayor.

He’s so cute, too. Andy sure is lucky to live there.

Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite actors, would have turned 100 years old today. I didn’t even realize it until I got home from work, flipped through the TV listings, saw that Turner Classic Movies was airing Jimmy Stewart movies all day, wondered why, and checked to see if it was his birthday.

Stewart is best known these days for Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life, but he also starred in two of my favorite Alfred Hitchcock movies — Rear Window and Vertigo (as well as the less celebrated Rope). Hitchcock famously cast him against type; in Rear Window and Vertigo, Stewart departs from his innocent, aw-shucks persona to play obsessive characters whose fixation verges on creepiness.

Stewart died in July 1997. I remember learning that he had died. Here’s his New York Times obituary.

R.I.P., Jimmy Stewart.

Because I spent three years living in Japan, I laughed my head off at the Digital Short from this weekend’s SNL.

Andrew Sullivan writes:

People can talk about activist liberal judges all they want. But the simple truth is that what has changed these past twenty years is not the nature of judges, but our collective understanding of what sexual orientation is. Behind all this is a deep, deep shift in our consciousness from thinking of gay people as defective straight people who perform certain sexual acts to their being the moral equivalent of heterosexuals, capable of forming relationships and building families as well as anyone. This is at the core of the generational divide: not that young people are more “liberal” or “progressive” than their parents. On an issue like abortion, they’re not. It is simply that the next generation has grown up with a different definition of who gay people are. They see gay people as interchangeable with straight people. They don’t think we’re inferior to them. Because they know us. …

Is this shift an ideological one? I don’t believe so. It’s an empirical one, based on increased knowledge of who gay people are. …