A few years ago, I had to take a 4 am flight for work; I scheduled a Lyft pickup the night before. The driver who came was a stocky white guy who the Lyft app told me was coming from about 20 minutes away, the suburbs; when he arrived, he told me he had driven all the way out from Eden Prairie because of my photo on the app, and things went downhill from there. It was an uncomfortable ride, and also I had to get to the airport and if I ended the trip there was a good chance no other driver was nearby at 3 am on a weekday. I navigated the conversation politely, staying friendly and vague, until he asked what I did for work. "I work in media," I said; I always stay vague about my job with strangers, for a lot of reasons. His pleasure and animation were visible even from the backseat; "Uh oh; you don't make that fake news, do you?" We were still a good 15 minutes out from the airport and I should have just rolled with it, but it pushed some kind of button. "Is that a big concern of yours? Fake news?" I asked instead, not Minnesota nice. He muttered something, irritated at not getting the response he was hoping for, and I made my flight just fine. It stuck with me, though, his reaction; not fear or suspicion at the specter of fake news, but glee, satisfaction.
fake news/real problems
fake news/real problems
fake news/real problems
A few years ago, I had to take a 4 am flight for work; I scheduled a Lyft pickup the night before. The driver who came was a stocky white guy who the Lyft app told me was coming from about 20 minutes away, the suburbs; when he arrived, he told me he had driven all the way out from Eden Prairie because of my photo on the app, and things went downhill from there. It was an uncomfortable ride, and also I had to get to the airport and if I ended the trip there was a good chance no other driver was nearby at 3 am on a weekday. I navigated the conversation politely, staying friendly and vague, until he asked what I did for work. "I work in media," I said; I always stay vague about my job with strangers, for a lot of reasons. His pleasure and animation were visible even from the backseat; "Uh oh; you don't make that fake news, do you?" We were still a good 15 minutes out from the airport and I should have just rolled with it, but it pushed some kind of button. "Is that a big concern of yours? Fake news?" I asked instead, not Minnesota nice. He muttered something, irritated at not getting the response he was hoping for, and I made my flight just fine. It stuck with me, though, his reaction; not fear or suspicion at the specter of fake news, but glee, satisfaction.