Michael B. Duff

I can’t believe I missed this, the Spencer Morgan puff piece about Rex Sorgatz.

I latched onto Rex last year as a kind of reluctant champion for oversharing. I stuck with him because I see his progression as a kind of pseudo-underdog story.

Internet whiz kid who’s not really a kid anymore. Reconstructed nerd and unlikely ladies’ man tromping in from some godawful village in the Midwest? A self-confessed overshare addict with a history of self-indulgent blog posts?

New York should hate this man. New York should destroy this man. New York should chew this man up and leave nothing but hipster bones and a pair of black frames.

I see Rex’s life as an extended episode of New York Survivor. Every day he manages to move forward without imploding, overdosing or sinking into obscurity, I count it as a victory for the Rest of Us, the poor dumb masses in Flyover Country, toiling in obscurity while New York pretends it’s the only city on Earth.

I have a Rex Sorgatz fame clock on my desk, and every time I see an article like this, I give him another 15 minutes.

Morgan’s piece is a fascinating puzzle. The comments on this thing are so raw, so merciless, I wonder if Spencer was trying to destroy Rex with shallow praise.

I call it a puff piece. One commenter called it a hit piece. If you run it through the right filter, it can be read either way. Take it literally and you assume Morgan loves his subject. Give it a New York twist and you can read it as an exercise in social sabotage.

Whatever you think about it, pause and reflect please… We are living in an age where a web designer can be the subject of a celebrity profile.

This is progress, ladies and gentlemen. We are elevating a class of people who have no idea how to be celebrities.

Maybe Rex is the vanguard of a Midwestern invasion. Or maybe he’s just another human sacrifice. Either way, I’m pulling for him.

Good luck, Rex. My clock says 14:30.