Sorry Instagram...

I have debated for awhile whether to publicly voice my opinion on this subject, since I have quite a few friends who use Instagram. But, I can't contain my inner curmudgeon any longer. Just note that, for the most part, I would consider those on my friend's list (Facebook, Google+, etc...) who post Instagram photos to be either artistic or have a background in photography (and have the expensive equipment to prove it) or, at the very least, don't abuse it. And if you think none of the above apply to you… I should expect albums full of tearful self portraits, cried into the "1977" filter, after reading this.

Let's just get this out of the way: I DO NOT like Instagram. One bit. Back in the day, like way back in 2009, in order to produce professional-grade photos you had to either A) know what you were doing or B) spend time with a professional (aka: expensive) photo editor in post-production. I fall into the latter category, as I have a hard time not taking blurry, off-kilter, amateur photos with my finger partially covering the lens, but can make up for it with my trusty Photoshop sidekick and some precious free time. And a college degree in art (hey, at least it's good for something besides spirit-crushing debt).

Neither of those apply anymore. Now any 6th grader with a camera phone, a dopey grin and Instagram can take a mediocre photo (at best), hit the big, red "EASY" button and produce a work of art. Even worse is giving this tool to someone with a slightly inflated ego and exaggerated self worth. That is one REALLY bad combo, like Taco Bell food and an overnight camping trip. And much like the disgusting outcome of my analogy, now we have the privilege to look at pages and pages of self portraits featuring close-ups of pouty facial expressions like soiled sleeping bags draped over a makeshift clothesline behind the tent. And 2 years ago, we would have NO idea how many arm-extended, narcissistic art galleries or bathroom mirror bound photo albums you've filled, except now with a tap of the finger, you can unleash your creations en masse into the world for all of us to enjoy. And by "enjoy" I mean "stifle the nauseating groans long enough to scroll past your frivolous status updates so we can get to important information on Farmville 2 and something about crops withering." Here's my personal gauge: 1, 2 or 3... great. North of 30... seek help.

I can never take this back.
And no amount of Instagram filters
could ever make this NOT embarrassing.
So, no. I do not have an Instagram account, nor do I plan to sign up for that service any time soon. A service which exists, as far as I can tell, solely to make art degrees obsolete and contribute to a generation of children who will never know what it was like to have ONE class photo taken a year, and if you happened to be sporting a spiked-haircut mullet and a sweater that day… tough. You have to live with that for the rest of your life. And developing film was too cumbersome (and expensive) to take dozens and dozens of self portraits to showcase every outfit you'll ever purchase from here to eternity. And I'm pretty sure the Wild West didn't have an Olive Garden, so please don't try to trick us with your wild-west-style never-ending pasta bowl. Besides, I get all of my plated-food photos with commentary/drama needs fulfilled with Facebook.

I won't even go into all the poor, former Glamour Shots employees lining up at the local Workforce Development Center to collect their unemployment checks.

And that concludes my old-man rant. Now I'll just sit here and cry into my diploma. It's remarkable soft.


  1. I totally agree with your oldy moldy complaints. Why the bathroom mirror portraits alone make me shake my cane in anger and futility.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Shut Up About Game Pass

Cutting the Cord—or—Charter is like Syphilis, Except There's a Cure

How I Spent My Tuesday Night