And how do you do all of that on top of migrating the entire Onion website to WordPress?
If you, too, immediately thought “well what the hell was it, then, if not The ‘Press???,” the answer is… fucking Kinja.
The Editorial Process
Ben Collins: …I just want to walk through their daily process for writing headlines. They come in every day. There’s either one or two meetings depending on the day, and then they write — usually, it’s around 190 headlines. They are put into a Google form and completely anonymized. Then, from there, it’s trimmed down a little bit by one of the editors per day. Then, they go in the room, and they read them out loud, all of them, and if it gets a laugh or if it’s like that’s something that’s a character we’re going to bring back or they got to talk through it, they check it off, and then they whittle those down over and over and over again. And by the end of the meeting, there’s usually — what, Danielle? — like 10 max, 5 to 10?
Danielle Strle: Yeah, tops.
BC: Around there. And then, those get written out, and if the copy’s not good or if it’s just a nib or something, that gets whittled down to three or four per day. And that comes from that contributor network that has legit famous people in it, or it comes from the people in the room. And then only after all that did they go back, and they’re like, “That guy wrote that thing.” That’s how meritocratic this is.
I was reminded yesterday - as I am very, very occasionally - about a thing I blasted out on The Psalms in early August 2019 about my early childhood mobility from the traditional to the trendy, contemporary side of protestant Christianity. It’s still one of my favorites, but I’ve long since conceded that it’s only of any interest/entertainment to a relatively narrow range of my peers, so please don’t force yourself…
I did, however, find the ability of whatever LLM is powering Craft’s “AI Assistant” to comprehend (pretty much uniquely lol) and … proceed to falsify (when asked with its “Continue Writing” feature) an intriguing, if entirely reiterative, continuation:
The intersection between technology and faith is nothing new, and perhaps it is inevitable in an era where our connections to both our gods and our gadgets are increasingly mediated through screens and silicon. What is new, however, is the seamlessness with which these two realms have merged, and The Crossing embodies this synthesis to a near-parodic degree. The seamless integration of Apple’s design philosophy with ecclesiastical function speaks volumes about the state of modern worship. No longer are these spiritual gatherings confined to the quaint confines of rustic chapels; today, they are multi-sensory experiences designed for optimal engagement, just like any leading tech product rollout.
It’s no hyperbole to suggest that Sunday morning services at The Crossing could double as master classes in brand management and user experience design. From the staged lighting and choreographed worship sessions to the polished presentations and strategically positioned merchandise (yes, they’ve got their own line of inspirational swag), every detail has been meticulously curated to amplify the message - or sell the product, depending on your perspective.
As my teenage self begrudgingly shuffled into the expansive auditorium, clutching my first-generation iPhone, I couldn’t help but draw stark comparisons between the well-oiled machinery of The Crossing and the corporate monoliths we were being taught to admire. I watched as Pastor Dave - or was it Keith? They were nearly indistinguishable in their uniform of casual-business attire - delivered his message with the fervor of a seasoned CEO revealing quarterly earnings. The Sunday service was less about divine transcendence and more about slick performance, interwoven with all the trappings of modern corporate culture.
This observation delves deeper into the heart of what has become a glaring reality of modern American Christianity: the commercialization of faith. The lines between spiritual guidance and consumer satisfaction have blurred to the point where the two are now practically indistinguishable. Churches like The Crossing operate on a model that mirrors any successful enterprise: attract, engage, convert, and retain. Loyal congregation members are not unlike loyal customers, ensuring a steady stream of revenue—whether through donations, event tickets, or branded merchandise.
In the glow of LED screens and under the hum of advanced AV systems, I found myself questioning not the existence of a higher power, but the mechanisms through which that power was being marketed to us. Was the message of love, redemption, and faith being overshadowed by the efficiencies and profit motives of a capitalist framework? The irony was not lost on me that a place—supposedly meant for transcending earthly desires—had become an exemplar of earthly success, complete with its own suite of digital tools and marketing tactics.
Even as I distanced myself from The Crossing and its tech-savvy congregation, I couldn’t ignore the lingering impact of its polished presentation. Each visit etched a deeper groove into my skeptical mind; each sermon reinforced the astounding adaptability of organized religion. It wasn’t hard to imagine a future where the sacred and the secular would become even more intertwined, blurring the lines until they were indistinguishable.
Ultimately, the spectacle of The Crossing was not just a reflection of faith’s evolving landscape but a broader commentary on the pervasive reach of corporate culture into every facet of our lives. In a world where even our spiritual journeys are mediated through technological interfaces and business models, the boundaries of the sacred and the profane continue to shift with each innovation. Whether this is a cause for celebration or concern depends largely on one’s perspective, but one thing is certain: the days of simplistic, unmediated worship are long behind us, replaced by a new paradigm that is as captivating as it is complex.
Some time in late Summer 2021, I stumbled into another of the handful of nigh-inconceivable conversation opportunities which Twitter Spaces would offer me.
Marquis Trill - someone I’m still not 100% convinced I actually remembered from the ~2012 Twitter Epoch - decided to just fuckin go on Spaces one day for the first time. And - as per the nature of Spaces - I guess I just hopped in the mf too.
Eventually in this recording, you’ll hear me pipe in… and continue to intermittently throughout its duration. I remember being genuinely fascinated with the experience in the moment, but it’s not exactly easy listening (shame) in retrospect lol.
Here’s the metadata from the Space I retained, though I doubt it will ever be actionable again:
Title: “Financial Freedom and Success! Let’s talk about it. Come ready”
Original Spaces URL - [https://twitter.com/i/spaces/1OdKrVzWDvlKXAnnouncement](https://twitter.com/i/spaces/1OdKrVzWDvlKXAnnouncement)
Original Tweet URL - [https://twitter.com/6BillionPeople/status/1422696022220886016](https://twitter.com/6BillionPeople/status/1422696022220886016)
Below is an excerpt from my just-republished 2019 Volkswagen Atlas Review detailing my singular encounter with capital-r Road Rage in the entirety of my ~year driving for Uber/Lyft.
My only authentic Road Rage experience in some 5000 miles of rideshare driving occurred on All Hallow’s Eve when I stopped - no more illegally than usual - on the opposite corner from a popular downtown Mexican restaurant called The Nap with hazards and all courtesy interior lights shining. The car immediately behind me hesitated no more than necessary, but the Biggest Big Infiniti behind them (a QX80 - the Atlas' competitor) just… stopped. There was honking and frenzied, hoarse screaming of what the fuck are you doing? and such.
I responded with pleasantly amused but relatively-encouraging glances at the impersonal black mass of the Infiniti’s windshield through my mirrors. I rolled down the Atlas' driver’s side window and politely gestured that they go around me, but failed to coax any movement whatsoever from the ugly behemoth through at least two full cycles of the nearby traffic light. There must be some aquatic authority in the bulbous black ass of the QX80, for no one behind it seemed willing to pass either. The driver waited significantly longer than you’d imagine before emerging, huffy. She was wearing a classic poofy black North Face vest some sort of slate gray turtleneck. Nothing below these were stimulating enough to retain any memory of. Uggs?
How positive are you that the truth has absolutely zero consequence: contrasted silver-beige eyeliner and little eye contact, dirty-ish straight blonde hair over a spray-tanned face, exhibiting zero anxious tics or hesitation. She was obviously the New Matriarch, and she was obviously much more of an authority on traffic law than I. As she approached, she scanned the street as one naturally does when they enter a busy one… except it was completely empty, thanks to her blockade. She first informed me that I was “not supposed” to be stopped there. I tried to listen and respond with as much sincerity as possible as I realized all at once that my behavior had genuinely perturbed this woman - that her choice to leave the huge hideous warmth of the guppy wagon to speak as humans to one another required great courage.
I inserted the next logical question which I’d been screaming telepathically: can you not get around me? I began to pity her when I then saw in her face the distinct possibility that going around as a concept had not occurred to her whatsoever. She stuttered a wee bit in retorting “I could go around, but I don’t want to get a ticket.” Here, one of the most fascinating avenues of suburban psychology is explored: Guppy Mom is not being ingenuine with this expression, nor has she had an untoward experience with law enforcement, ever. Guppy Mom did know her excuse was bullshit - nobody has ever been written a traffic citation for carefully circumventing an obstacle in the road. Given the opportunity to interrogate this kernel of entirely uncompromising obedience to utterly delusional traffic law superstitions, I think we’d simply discover a life of unnaturally positive interactions with LEOs. We must conclude, then, that the source of her fear was either myself or the Atlas.
Granted, to her I am still a Young Man, and am therefore instinctively programmed to believe myself more informed than literally everyone - even the very foundational architects of modern civilization. Her Stucco Highness may have felt a representative of these builders (edgy take: she is in fact their servant.) Her own folks surely complain regularly about their distaste for disrespect, and my gig-economy, Austin Powers-looking ass was somehow disrespecting the order laid down by her would be (entirely fantastical) forefathers. Though her expression of her quaint fear of such “ugliness” (if you will) is hard-headed, an ugliest decision of hers (or her kin) idled behind me, its giant seafood-looking mouth gaping, unhinged.
in This Present Time I can have regular interactions with my adolescent celebrity crush that I *actually* would not be able to convince my 14-year-old self are real. not because of their significance but the opposite.
calling her mom is like... the only even remotely reasonable outcome, btw. she *is* a mom several times over, now. and 46.
and by "crush," i mean... at least 30% of my total cumulative mental energy was spent repeating "I am so in love with Sienna Guillory" for *years.*
imagine telling that person "one day, you're gonna wish her happy mother's day every year in a text box. she will call you 'bub.'"
I'm pretty sure it would make him suicidal.
(but the outfits would save his life at the last moment.)
It came to my attention today that my good friend Sonny Moore (commonly known as Skrillex) Tweeted “E” from his BlackBerry at 0732 CST on May 15th, 2010. If I’m ever given the opportunity to interview him, I’ll begin by questioning his choice in smartphones. (Can you imagine how awful the Twitter for BlackBerry client must’ve looked in 2010?)
From what I’ve sampled of his art, I’m confident he’s an emotionally intelligent man, and probably not house producer Joel Zimmerman (commonly known as Deadmau5.) The most arresting evidence supporting this supposition is hair. Sonny Moore is not house producer Joel Zimmerman. I could be wrong, of course, but that’d only mean that both Sonny Moore and house producer Joel Zimmerman possess a slightly above-average ability to slow time and examine us as we obliviously go about our lives in slow motion. It could even be possible that house producer Joel Zimmerman is examining my big ole' ears at this very moment in mild distaste. I guess I’d be able to hear him if he scoffed, but I think it would be down-pitched and extraordinarily terrifying.
Considering, allow me to tangent shortly and ask house producer Joel Zimmerman to keep any newfound otorhinolaryngological judgments to himself, if at all possible. If you must speak, Mr. Joel Zimmerman, please try your best not to frighten me.
Lots of individuals in my circles frequently chide Skrillex about his alleged misunderstanding of corporeality. While it is true that he’s been known to occasionally forgo performing at events in favor of desperately demanding answers from his audience to questions like “how big am I?” “how are we able to breathe in here?” and “who is the whispering lady who turns off the sun?!” I don’t think he is befit of such a reputation. In fact, I think Skrillex’s ability to make his irresistible clanking is one we should all aspire to hone. While we are kept on edge sometimes by the day-to-day stresses of contemporary life, Skrillex is able to clank them away and see the world from the broadest, slowest perspective - as a demigod.
