Petty vices

I read a great article in WIRED magazine this week about how the magazine, Vice, has an online television station that's breaking some interesting -- if twisted -- stories.

I'm familiar with Vice the way most writers are: I heard about them, I picked up an issue at someplace and flipped through. That's the extent of my knowledge. It was tailored to an audience that watched "Jackass" more than someone who reads Time Magazine. Not interested.

Founded in Montreal in 1994 by a recovering heroin addict and two welfare cheats, Vice has since evolved into a caustic cocktail of provocation, hedonism, and arrogance. (Sample headlines: "The Vice Guide to Shagging Muslims," "Latino Is the New Black," and "A Guy Who Was on Acid for a Whole Year.")

Riveting.

This article was less about the magazine and more about their new online venture, which apparently is uncovering some interesting, hard-hitting, topics.

VBS stage-dives into its coverage, dispatching amateur reporters — armed with little more than a camera, designer sunglasses, and a pair of steel cubes — to travel to the places that more-seasoned correspondents wouldn't be caught dead in for fear of... well, being caught dead. Like the streets of Baghdad, way outside the Green Zone. Or a black-market arms bazaar in Pakistan. Or the toxic remains of Chernobyl. Most of the VBS staff has no experience in journalism or television production, which may explain the absence of network news staples: no makeup, no artificial lighting, no handheld microphones, and — most crucially — no bones about being totally biased.

Needless to say, they offer some interesting stuff, but they have not diverged from their mainstream load of unbelievable high amounts of shit.

But once again, I am reminded that I am lucky to live in a country where anyone can be a "journalist" if given the right inducements...

"You can have poo-poo, ca-ca, bum-bums, and tits, but you've also got to have other things."