In a world drowned in an endless flood of information, the author, a seasoned journalist, found himself challenged by an unexpected phone call from Scientology’s media relations head, David Bloomberg. The call was a direct response to a column the author had penned for the Toronto Star, where he dared to question a proposed Canadian law concerning hate crimes. The law aimed to criminalize symbols of hate and protests that incite fear, a move the author found to be governmental overreach. To illustrate his point, he presented scenarios, including a hypothetical protest outside a Church of Scientology asking about the whereabouts of Shelly Miscavige, the mysteriously absent wife of the church’s leader. This seemingly innocuous example struck a nerve, leading to Bloomberg’s call, where he vehemently refuted the implication that Miscavige was missing, citing an LAPD investigation that declared the claim unfounded. He accused the author of irresponsibility and likened his reporting to amplifying vile hate speech, a comparison that left the author flabbergasted. This incident highlighted a growing problem: in an age of “fake news” and “misinformation,” who decides what’s true, and who, like the author, becomes “the problem” for simply raising a question?
The author describes how the modern information landscape has devolved into a “bubbling tar pit of nonsense, fakery, and bullshit.” He argues that traditional solutions like fact-checking, media literacy, and platform moderation are no longer sufficient to combat the sheer volume and insidious nature of misinformation. Research suggests that people, even when aware they are sharing false information, do so anyway, especially if it fuels their outrage. This phenomenon, where emotional resonance trumps factual accuracy, reveals a deep-seated human tendency. Another study found that repeated exposure to even false information makes it harder to distinguish from truth over time, a process amplified for older adults but not exclusive to them. These findings paint a bleak picture: misinformation isn’t an external disease but an inherent flaw in how humans process information, especially in the online realm. The author waves a white flag, declaring that “we’ve lost the battle against misinformation,” and, somewhat provocatively, suggests that “maybe that’s okay.”
The essay then delves into the dramatic transformation of our information ecosystem. Historically, controlled systems, like newspapers and reputable institutions, served as arbiters of truth, and the sheer volume of information was manageable. But the internet has replaced these intermediaries, creating a hyper-information environment where separating truth from lies in real-time is nearly impossible. Faced with this overwhelming deluge, people resort to shortcuts: some trust only official sources, others follow chosen influencers, and many simply rely on their gut feelings and emotions. This has led to a decline in traditional journalism, which, in an attempt to compete for attention, has adopted the very tactics that contribute to the problem: perpetual “BREAKING NEWS” and articles designed for maximum engagement. The influencer economy, rather than simplifying, has only added to the cacophony, driven by a constant need to produce content that provokes strong reactions.
Social media platforms, the author argues, are key architects of this chaotic landscape. Designed to maximize engagement, they actively encourage “rage, slop, lies, and addiction,” knowing that anger drives interaction. The author points to the alliance between the Trump administration and “Big Tech,” suggesting that this partnership has further eroded the credibility of traditional journalism while empowering conspiracists and digital influencers. This alarming trend is not confined to the US; it’s a global phenomenon. In the UK, race riots were reportedly fueled by misinformation on social media, while in Europe and Australia, far-right political figures capitalize on public anxiety and the overwhelming information overload by offering simplistic, emotionally charged narratives. The author concludes that the rise of these “charlatan politicians” is not merely a byproduct of bad information, but a direct consequence of an excess of information, leading people to “opt for simplicity. (And anger.)”
The author then critically examines the emerging idea of Artificial Intelligence as a new “gatekeeper” of truth. He vehemently rejects the notion, arguing that AI models and chatbots, despite their sophisticated appearance, are inherently “leeches.” They consume a mix of objective journalism, social media chatter, and outright misinformation, churning out “slop” that varies in quality but is ultimately manipulated by firms seeking to maximize engagement and push their own agendas. He recalls a billboard promoting an AI that promises “every fact were already checked,” and sarcastically states, “I don’t have to imagine, I remember it well. It was a thing called the newspaper.” This highlights his deep skepticism about the ability of technology, especially AI, to solve a problem that is fundamentally human.
In a surprisingly liberating turn, the author suggests an off-ramp from this “informational hell”: consume less information. He longs for a time when a morning newspaper and an evening newscast provided a structured, time-limited engagement with news, devoid of the constant obligation to check for updates or absorb a relentless stream of geopolitics, gossip, and bickering. He argues that the internet, despite decentralizing conversation and democratizing truth-seeking, has not made us happier or smarter. Instead, it has abstracted information, divorcing it from its real-world origins and allowing emotional responses to override factual engagement. He laments the loss of trust in traditional arbiters of truth – newspapers, academics, doctors, and experts – and proposes an “informational diet,” where individuals and institutions become more discerning, engaging with information offline or far from the toxic online systems. While acknowledging the ongoing “war to fight,” he believes the only way to win future battles is to disengage from the “unreal fields of the oligarch-and-despot-dominated internet.” His “Luddite radicalization” is a plea for a more mindful, less overwhelming approach to information in an age where endless data has become an oppressive burden.