The Exhaustion of Outrage
Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I was born into the wrong generation. It’s not just nostalgia talking—though I’ll admit I’ve got a soft spot for the way things used to feel. It’s the tonal shift in our culture, the way people treat each other, that’s got me thinking. Cynicism used to be cute, a little badge of wit you could wear with a smirk. Sarcasm had a playful bite, a way to spar without drawing blood. But now? It’s not fun anymore. The edge has dulled into something un-ironic and vitriolic, masquerading as humor but landing like a sucker punch. There was a time when disagreement had spirit—a dance, not a brawl. Today, it’s just noise.
The other day, I saw something that solidified it for me. A comedian—though I hesitate to call him that, more like a TikTok personality with a loud mouth—decided to ambush Alec Baldwin in the street. They bellowed insults, invoked the tragedy of “Rust” where cinematographer Halyna Hutchins lost her life, and filmed it all for the world to gawk at. I cringed. Sure, I can tip my hat to the guts it takes to pull off something so brazen—there’s a flicker of admiration for the sheer audacity. But guts don’t make it right. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe it’s a generational thing. Maybe I’m just out of step with a culture that’s sprinting toward something I don’t recognize. But this isn’t shock anymore—it’s tired and boring. It’s inhumane.
There was a version of me, years ago, who would’ve laughed until my sides hurt. Part of me still finds the boldness darkly funny, the way you can’t help but chuckle at a train wreck. But it’s lame now. Lame because it’s been done a hundred times. Lame because it happened within earshot of Baldwin’s kids, dragging a real tragedy into a cheap stunt. It’s not clever—it’s cruel. And as much as I’m no fan of Alec Baldwin, I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve lost sight of timing and basic decency. Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Social media’s turned the world into a stage, and everything’s a performance now—views, clicks, virality. We’re so busy chasing the algorithm that we’ve stopped asking what’s right or wrong. That concerns me.
It ties into something bigger, something I’ve been mulling over as a content creator myself. I’ve had my phases—two or three stints with decent-sized audiences online—and each one taught me something. The latest lesson? To play in this sandbox, you’ve got to be the worst version of yourself, even when you’re trying to do your best. The system rewards the loudest, the meanest, the most outrageous. It’s why I’ve come to admire people I disagree with—not the opportunists fishing for clout, but the ones with integrity, the pitbull journalists who dig for truth, not just blood. You have to respect that, even if their politics or worldview clash with yours. In a world of clicks and theatrics, we’ve forgotten where to draw the line.
We need to get back to civil discourse. We need to show respect for the people we disagree with, for the human experience itself. There’s a time and place to create content—push the envelope, stir the pot, make your mark. I’ve noticed something lately: the people who present themselves as caring and understanding online are often the meanest when it comes to those they don’t vibe with. It’s a hypocrisy that cuts deep.
The great Lenny Bruce nailed it years ago. He said, “The liberals can understand everything but people who don’t understand them.” It’s a line that’s stuck with me, a gut-punch of truth about how we pick and choose our empathy. He saw through the posturing.
I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I’m just yelling into the void, which is my entire gripe in the first place. It’s a world of echo chambers and any opposing viewpoint is vilified before it can ever be understood. It’s almost certain others feel this exhaustion too. When do we let a moment breathe instead of exploiting it? When do you trade the spotlight for a little grace? It’s time to find that line again.