For eccentric creative types, twitter made a certain amount of sense six years ago as a place to exchange bon mots and kooky life observations, or even attempt a cyber-mediated equivalent of Gertrude Stein or Samuel Beckett, that is to say, some kind of imperfect, populist literature. Or crit, even. Once professional media types embraced twitter ("hey, this crazy thing the kids invented really helps us talk to our colleagues and filter current events!") it made less sense for bohemians to be on there, rubbing squishy shoulders with all that hard, ratiocinative careerism.
And now, it's pure stupidity to be putting time and energy into it since it's no longer a quaint startup that could sink or swim but an IPO'd juggernaut exploiting users for advertising "eyeballs." Now, those bon mots, kooky thoughts, and unvetted literary efforts pay for one undeserving executive to have a fabulous home on a craggy cliff overlooking San Francisco Bay, and another to tear down a historic house to put in a pricy, state of the art "green home." Not on the backs of our labors, rentier pigs.
And let's not leave out that, if one is the least bit political-minded (or even if you aren't), you are creating a repository of thoughts to be algorithmically combed and sifted for hints of subversion by agents more interested in you than in actual, hard-to-catch criminals. The idea that you are supposed to "check in" to "maintain a presence" feels like parole or home imprisonment.
Coming soon, part two: back to the e-zine underground.