By Araceli Cruz
By Tessa Stuart
By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man.
For a living.
Eleven years ago, in college, I discovered the Internet on a dummy terminal. Within five minutes, I managed to get myself "killed" in a multiuser game. I don't remember what I did to deserve death, but I did it extremely well.
I spent the next decade soaked in flames and have made a career out of it.
As companies try to build their brands through newsgroups, e-mail feedback, and Web forums, the job title "Professional Flamer" stands ready to be penciled into the office hierarchy, right under "Chief Yahoo" and just over "Minister of Indie Culture." In service to our employers, we flamers slither across the Interneta realm where rudeness is a form of currencyand take out the customers, competitors, and wannabes who target businesses out of misplaced rage or the need to feel important.
White-shirted execs don't want to dirty their hands with the kinds of ugly, eviscerating messages we plant. PR flacks still don't know how to deal with online haters, much less which ones to take seriously. Flamers know. We emerge informally from marketing departments, help desks, the ranks of committed freelancers and system administrators. When an attacker needs to be smacked down, we volunteer. After a while, our talent for spewing vitriol gets noticed, encouraged, and exploited, sometimes even becoming an official part of our jobs. We don't often get paid for the extra work, except in the sheer joy we feel for a job well done. We, too, have misplaced rage and the need to feel important, but we have corporations backing our missives, the way a terrorist driving a truck bomb through a crowded thoroughfare has God on his side.
Sander Hicks, the publisher of Soft Skull Press, once asked me to flame a minor figure in the rock pantheon. The artist was angry because his unsolicited manuscript hadn't been met with the solicitude he felt he deserved, so he flamed first, calling Soft Skull "fucked up," "phony," and "disrespectful." "The godfather of punk is out to kill me now," Hicks wrote to me. "Could we please either write him a formal rejection letter or just flame him?"
We could. Officially acting as a senior editor, I flamed him over e-mail and bounced his manuscript. He never wrote back. It's not always that easy.
Dostoyevsky ranted about flames way back in 1864, in Notes From the Underground. "When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy," he wrote. I wish I felt that good. Instead, flames eat away at me.
A meeting with friends ends early because I know there is e-mail waiting for me, someone out there needing to be crushed. Dinner with my girlfriend is interrupted because someone flamed one of my online columns and hasn't yet been soundly refuted. When writing, I chew on my fingers until they bleed, then spend the next morning cleaning my keyboard with a Q-tip. Somewhere along the line, this compulsion became a job. Now I can respect myself, just not in the mornings.
I write columns for two popular underground Web sitesDisinformation (www.disinfo.com) and the Greenwich Village Gazette (www.nycny.com). Feedback from my readers is nasty, brutish, and short, but I've begun to seek it out. My positive review of violent anti-Nazi organizations provoked a windfall; an army of liberals denounced me for being worse than a Nazi for applauding attacks on Nazis. I fired back: "If beating up a Nazi makes one worse than a Nazi, then what does that make the Warsaw ghetto fighters, who actually shot some Nazis? You do realize that your logic leads right to the crematorium and the mass grave, don't you?"
With every flame, my employers rack up the Web hits, as my articles are referred to time and again by the very people who insist my work be stricken from the Net. Will I call my opponents shit-flinging bonobos, threaten lawsuits, accuse them of illiteracy, or insist that I am much better looking than that old has-been Deborah Harry, as long as the conversation keeps going? Of course I will, and I will get a few more hits every time.
Flames are even becoming a standard part of public relations. Chris Owens, late of Creative Labs's marketing, ran the news servers for the company. The newsgroups superficially resembled Usenet newsgroups, but with one crucial difference: Instead of being in the public domain, these groups were owned and operated by the company, for the company's benefit. Owens stoically withstood the flames from customers who couldn't get their Soundblasters to work. When Creative's production schedule clashed with reality, Owens, a technical marketing engineer, was the public face of the firm. When someone wouldn't read the manual, Owens had to go over basic instructions step-by-step. And he wasn't allowed to retaliate. Months after he left the job, I ask him if he ever flamed the clientele. "No," he says, "and when I did, I did it subtly."