I never meant to work in technology. I was raised in a different kind of valley, the kind of valley with a paved river, soundstages on the horizon and a theme park tucked in between headquarters of billion-dollar media companies.
I grew up impressed by those who prided themselves on selling art of all kinds, or at least trying to. I witnessed the hard workers selling fruit on the highways, in line at Pink's, buying fleece blankets with portraits of wolves and black candles with the Virgin Mary painted on the side.
Here, there is none of that. People here care about pageviews and leader boards and ROI and innovation and disruption. Show business is a quaint delusion, Old World. In themed bars and in warehouses where entry is determined by a combination of Klout score and wristband possession.
There are strong opinions, college dropouts, strip malls, alleys with dumpsters and makeshift tents. Food trucks, cover bands, specialty cocktails, photo booths, fire dancers, Shawn Parker and other influencers, hashtags, Burning Man, Bay Bridge, together we are giant, blah blah blah.
I can't help but swallow some of the water here. I find myself caring about touch screens and product launches and Steve Ballmer. But do I really, or am i caught in a distortion field of a paycheck and my naivete?
I find myself spending time in bed with the LA equivalent of a reality TV star. He beams with the promise of himself, fueled by an admiration of his mantra and his member. It's part charming, part infuriating, and I am ambivalent. I adjust to his whims, I accept his lack of traditional social conventions in kind for flushed cheeks and companionship.
I meet a blogger that has sworn off a year without the internet, and he is Elijah. Hipster Christian, horn-rimmed glasses, divulging that his main concern is catching up on a curriculum of Greek literature, not breaking news. Word counts, gamification, pre-briefs, factory tours - these are nothing to him. He tries to do one thing, and do it very well.
"Picking up the phone is good journalism," he says. It's conversation, it's escaping the manic panic, the FOMO herd, that is paramount to him. He doesn't even text message. He survives a cataclysmic storm with the purchase of junk food and candlelight. He is ebullient. He is dreamy. He looks me in the eye and tells me, "You shouldn't let journalists be mean to you."
And with that, I have a Carrie-like realization that my career of choice is just like my goddamn love life. Why must it always come back to that?
"You shouldn't have to work so much," says a friend after I wax neurotic on that point. "For what they pay us, if you don't have time to pursue a real relationship - that's not OK. Don't work so much."
I grew up impressed by those who prided themselves on selling art of all kinds, or at least trying to. I witnessed the hard workers selling fruit on the highways, in line at Pink's, buying fleece blankets with portraits of wolves and black candles with the Virgin Mary painted on the side.
Here, there is none of that. People here care about pageviews and leader boards and ROI and innovation and disruption. Show business is a quaint delusion, Old World. In themed bars and in warehouses where entry is determined by a combination of Klout score and wristband possession.
There are strong opinions, college dropouts, strip malls, alleys with dumpsters and makeshift tents. Food trucks, cover bands, specialty cocktails, photo booths, fire dancers, Shawn Parker and other influencers, hashtags, Burning Man, Bay Bridge, together we are giant, blah blah blah.
I can't help but swallow some of the water here. I find myself caring about touch screens and product launches and Steve Ballmer. But do I really, or am i caught in a distortion field of a paycheck and my naivete?
I find myself spending time in bed with the LA equivalent of a reality TV star. He beams with the promise of himself, fueled by an admiration of his mantra and his member. It's part charming, part infuriating, and I am ambivalent. I adjust to his whims, I accept his lack of traditional social conventions in kind for flushed cheeks and companionship.
I meet a blogger that has sworn off a year without the internet, and he is Elijah. Hipster Christian, horn-rimmed glasses, divulging that his main concern is catching up on a curriculum of Greek literature, not breaking news. Word counts, gamification, pre-briefs, factory tours - these are nothing to him. He tries to do one thing, and do it very well.
"Picking up the phone is good journalism," he says. It's conversation, it's escaping the manic panic, the FOMO herd, that is paramount to him. He doesn't even text message. He survives a cataclysmic storm with the purchase of junk food and candlelight. He is ebullient. He is dreamy. He looks me in the eye and tells me, "You shouldn't let journalists be mean to you."
And with that, I have a Carrie-like realization that my career of choice is just like my goddamn love life. Why must it always come back to that?
"You shouldn't have to work so much," says a friend after I wax neurotic on that point. "For what they pay us, if you don't have time to pursue a real relationship - that's not OK. Don't work so much."
