I can’t say I’m enjoying my new gig as a would-be creator. But these days, I don’t have much choice
Reels, as they call them. Where I say things, with one of those obnoxiously tiny microphones with the fuzzy head on top. I remember when microphones were gigantic tubular monstrosities that you couldn’t accidentally swallow without a pretty substantial effort and a handful of God-given talent.
Why am I making Reels? Because if I don’t, I’ll die in obscurity, penniless and alone. The global creative industry revolves around video content on social media, forcing even a mildly attractive middle-aged divorced parent to try to be a star just to pay the bills.
If I can turn into a well-compensated influencer by peddling my complaints about the new Burbank airport terminal, I will. I can either try to swim in the fetid pool of the attention economy or get eaten by a shark who posts TikToks about carb-conscious dieting.
In fact, I really, really don’t. I feel what gen Z might refer to as cringe whenever I open up CapCut and try to cobble together a coherent thesis while my head floats in front of a green screen.
It’s so easy to squirt a Reel out, and the medium so thoroughly demands the aesthetic feel rough, that it’s almost like a mockery of the idea of creation. My Uber Eats order didn’t include the Diet Coke I ordered? Let me do a Reel about how mad I am. Too much air in my bag of potato chips?
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