Venkat Balasubramani wondered whether we were twins separated at birth when he sent me a link to the Washington Post’s Gene Weingarten’s column.  While the resemblance is uncanny, there is no familial ties.  That said, he could be my brother.

Dear Leslie:

I am honored that you have chosen me as the subject of your journalism school graduate thesis. At the behest of your instructor, you e-mailed me to ask how I’ve “built my personal brand over the years.” I’m answering with this column.

The best way to build a brand is to take a three-foot length of malleable iron and get one end red-hot. Then, apply it vigorously to the buttocks of the instructor who gave you this question. You want a nice, meaty sizzle.

Heh. The old smack ’em with literalism. Nice start.

These are financially troubled times for our profession, Leslie — times that test our character — and it is disheartening to learn that journalism schools are responding to this challenge by urging their students to market themselves like Cheez Doodles.

This is a place where Weingarten and I part ways.  My references are  always to Cheetos rather than Cheez Doodles.  It’s not that I take issue with Cheez Doodles, but I prefer to use one word rather than two.  Weingarten tends to be a bit long winded on his cheesey snack foods.

We are slowly redefining our craft so it is no longer a calling but a commodity. From this execrable marketing trend arises the term you ask me about: “branding.”

Let’s step back a minute, Leslie, and let that expression marinate in its own fetid sauce. Let us contemplate its meaning and the devastating weight of its implications.

But he’s talking about journalism, not law.  OMG, you mean the Slackoisie have expanded their reach into other fields of endeavor!?!  Ruh roh.  Aside to Gene: “fetid sauce,: nice.

When I was a hungry young reporter in the 1970s, I thought of myself as a superman, an invincible crusader for truth and justice — even though, looking back at old pictures, I now see that I resembled an emaciated weasel in unattractive clothing. My goals, however, were unambiguous, and heroic: 1) Get great stories that improve the world. 2) Get famous. 3) Get doe-eyed young women to lean in close and whisper, “Take me.”

Note the order. First came the work.

Whoa.  Doe-eyed young women, lean in closer, whisper “take me?”  I hope this is a journalism thing, and it’s not that I missed that step.

Now, the first goal seems to be self-promotion — the fame part, the “brand.” That’s because we know that, in this frenetic fight for eyeballs at all costs, the attribute that is most rewarded is screeching ubiquity, not talent. It is why Snooki — who is quite possibly literally a moron — has a best-selling book. It is why the media superstars of today are no longer people such as Bob Woodward, who break big stories, but people like Bill O’Reilly, who yell about them.

I see we have a new applicant for the curmudgeon’s club.  And a damn fine application it is.