Video killed the radio star

I have this thing about vlogging, or, as it's more commonly explained, video logging. It's not that I hate it, per se. It's that I'm a blogging (in itself an overused portmanteau) purist. Blogging was invented so as to publicly share thoughts. At least with web logging, there's a way to edit and draft.

I'm sure you all remember that Leave Britney Alone guy. That was vlogging at its worst, and I've seen some terrible things out there. This man was very upset that Britney Spears continues to be noticed acting stupid. He emotionally made his plea for us, by which I mean you, to stop poking fun at the tired old popstar with one vehement cry; "Leave Britney alone!" The world linked to this man and his video up and down to next Sunday, and by then he was an American icon. Promptly after that, he disappeared. Had his words been written, considered, and worked over and over again, perhaps we would have remembered him further. Perhaps the people of the future, in their uniform tunics and named after letters, would have heard of Leave Britney Alone guy and his writing would become the next Odyssey.

However, he didn't write it. He shouted it over the channels of Youtube.

I'm not insinuating that this man is a vlogger. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that he was just an angry man with a blonde wig, non-waterproof mascara, and a camcorder. But it's the philosophy of the thing. Anybody can vlog. Anybody with an iMac or a webcam can release stupid video after stupid video about how Girl McLastname is fat, or how George Bush is like, soooo dumb. Even worse, there's a whole section of pee-water pool in the blogiverse (I made that one up myself!) where the political bloggers lie, and do we really need them to be less articulate, less planned?

In my eyes, there is a clear-cut hierarchy of shared opinion. At the bottom is journaling. Next to that is vlogging. As the list progresses, there's things like blogging and electronic comments, letters to the Editor and essays written for humor or to be part of the New Yorker. But undoubtedly, undeniably, the top is reserved for This American Life.

My mom's been listening to This American Life forever. I can remember long drives home from my grandma's house to the tune of Ira Glass's voice, or the similar voices of other writers. I can remember why I started paying attention, David Sedaris. Always I have held in high regard the programming on This American Life. This is past essay writing. This is past radio announcing. This is the two being put together in what must be a rehearsal nightmare, and the stories of people like me, who have had strange and terrible experiences that are almost unbelievable.

My English teacher recommended I try to put together a recent tale for submission into This American Life. He asked if I'd heard of it, said it was good fun, and linked me to a playable archive of every episode. "Of course," I wanted to cry, "of course I've heard of it!" But unfortunately, I was alone in my bedroom, and nobody would have been there to hear my exclamations besides the lowly lamps and bedsheets, which I don't entirely trust.

However, my English teacher is well aware of this web log. He has past commented upon it in a great fit of anonymity. He has even mentioned it in class, saying, "I'm trying not to give Brighton something to write about." Since then, I have always been cautious of what I write, thinking to myself, What Would M.A.T. Think, And Does He Know That His Initials Are Ridiculously Similar To His First Name? I say this because, in writing this post tonight, I hoped he would read it, and know that I too have indulged in This American Life, without me having to play awkward teenager and say it aloud.

But mostly I had hoped he wouldn't think I was partial to all types of logging, not video, nor rainforest.