L ike many old people desperate to stay relevant, I made a Millennial friend. Only I hit the Millennial jackpot, which is the kind of jackpot that, instead of money, spits out excuses for why it doesn’t make enough money. So when Igor Hiller — who was <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfW-AjUh-w3/">an Instagram comedy star </a>, acted in the show Dear White People , <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/how-are-you-thinking-about-with-igor/id1114440532">started a podcast </a>, and is now a life coach — told me early this year that we needed to join Clubhouse right away so we could monetize our influence there, I did it.

Exclusive Club(house

We were the lucky early adopters, joining right after the live, audio-only social media app was seeded to the music and tech industries. Other people were paying up to $77 for the free invites we got. It was so elite that, in a demographically genius move the Soho House would envy, Clubhouse was only available on the iPhone.

Sorry, Androids

We’d have access to hundreds of simultaneous rooms of live chat, each a cross between a TED talk and a call-in radio show. Elon Musk, Oprah Winfrey, Tiffany Haddish, Mark Cuban, Mark Zuckerberg, Drake, and Jack Dorsey were hosting rooms, talking to randos. We, Igor said, could be the Clubhouse randos who become the Clubhouse somebodies. Millennials don’t merely fantasize about becoming famous. They fantasize about becoming famous on a medium that then becomes famous.

Reaching for the Stars

By April, Twitter entered talks to buy Clubhouse for $4 billion, which is more than the value of Air France, Six Flags, Sunoco, Shake Shack, or Fannie Mae. It turned Twitter down, instead raising a round of funding that also valued it at $4 billion. Clubhouse is now a sad, empty MySpace shell of social media. It’s sixtieth in the App Store’s “social networking” category, right behind Chispa, Skout, and Hit on Me!, which is an app that describes itself as a “video platform for people who look for new friends especially hot singles and get more followers” and I’m guessing is “for prostitutes.”

Sad Empty Shell

To find out how this happened, Igor and I hosted a Clubhouse room titled “What Happened to Clubhouse?” Did the app’s functionality not keep up? Did it get infested with political arguments? Did Clubhouse say something racist and get canceled? Only three people showed up to our “What Happened to Clubhouse?” room. One was my lovely wife Cassandra, and one left as soon as we asked him a question. But Mark Simmons stayed with us the whole hour, even though he was very busy driving to a one-year-old’s birthday party.

Public Opinion

He’d only been on Clubhouse a few times and was disappointed with the level of conversation. We added to that disappointment. Within minutes, instead of talking about Clubhouse, Igor was explaining crypto and I was talking about my new Tesla. There was some magnet in Clubhouse drawing us toward douchedom. After our room ended, I scrolled through the other rooms again. None of them interested me, and none were hosted by anyone I’d heard of.

The Draw Of Douchedom

Until then, I’d assumed Clubhouse withered because it was the Tiger King of apps, a pandemic lockdown fad for the bored and isolated. But the bored and isolated didn’t bail on TikTok. Clubhouse died because populism has its limits. If you’re going to fight the time-shifting culture and try to congregate a live audience, you need to limit your community. The currency isn’t content. It’s status. Only they were worse than financial hucksters. They were status hucksters.

Social Climbing

What happened to Clubhouse is what’s happening to all our institutions. When you remove the barriers for entry politics, business, and media, you get less a culture than a nightclub scene, where the Drakes and Mark Cubans sprint from hot new location to hot new location, trying to outrun the cryptopunk brokers. they bump into each other and collaborate on projects. When the trusted and untrustworthy mix, you reach a point where you avoid all institutions because you can’t trust anyone. Especially not a guy who hosts a Clubhouse room called ‘What Happened to Clubhouse?’ and talks about his car.

Bye, Felicia 👋

<figure><img alt="" src="https://miro.medium.com/max/500/1*99MHWLaMifU3BakQmyUmKA" width="680" height="453"><figcaption dir="auto">It used to be cool! Really!</figcaption></figure>Like many old people desperate to stay relevant, I made a Millennial friend. Only I hit the Millennial jackpot, which is the kind of jackpot that, instead of money, spits out excuses for why it doesn’t make enough money.So when Igor Hiller — who was <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfW-AjUh-w3/" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" dir="ltr">an Instagram comedy star</a>, acted in the show Dear White People, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/how-are-you-thinking-about-with-igor/id1114440532" rel="noopener ugc nofollow" dir="ltr">started a podcast</a>, and is now a life coach — told me early this year that we needed to join Clubhouse right away so we could monetize our influence there, I did it.We were the lucky early adopters, joining right after the live, audio-only social media app was seeded to the music and tech industries. Other people were paying up to $77 for the free invites we got. It was so elite that, in a demographically genius move the Soho House would envy, Clubhouse was only available on the iPhone.We’d have access to hundreds of simultaneous rooms of live chat, each a cross between a TED talk and a call-in radio show. Elon Musk, Oprah Winfrey, Tiffany Haddish, Mark Cuban, Mark Zuckerberg, Drake, and Jack Dorsey were hosting rooms, talking to randos. We, Igor said, could be the Clubhouse randos who become the Clubhouse somebodies. Millennials don’t merely fantasize about becoming famous. They fantasize about becoming famous on a medium that then becomes famous.By April, Twitter entered talks to buy Clubhouse for $4 billion, which is more than the value of Air France, Six Flags, Sunoco, Shake Shack, or Fannie Mae. It turned Twitter down, instead raising a round of funding that also valued it at $4 billion.Igor and I did not become powerful through our Clubhouse power base. But it wasn’t our fault. No one did. Clubhouse is now a sad, empty MySpace shell of social media. It’s sixtieth in the App Store’s “social networking” category, right behind Chispa, Skout, and Hit on Me!, which is an app that describes itself as a “video platform for people who look for new friends especially hot singles and get more followers” and I’m guessing is “for prostitutes.”To find out how this happened, Igor and I hosted a Clubhouse room titled “What Happened to Clubhouse?” Did the app’s functionality not keep up? Did it get infested with political arguments? Did Clubhouse say something racist and get canceled?Before our “What Happened to Clubhouse?” event even started, I had an idea of what had happened. I got on the app early and scrolled the other rooms that would compete for listeners. Clubhouse, which seemed like a place for the smart kids, had acquired the stink of a multilevel marketing scheme. All the rooms were hosted by crypto guys talking about how to flip Ethereum with NFTs. The second most popular room at that moment, with 420 people, was titled, “House passes $1.2 trillion infra bill – is bitcoin doomed?” Clubhouse descended, in mere weeks, from Silicon Valley to Miami.Only three people showed up to our “What Happened to Clubhouse?” room. One was my lovely wife Cassandra, and one left as soon as we asked him a question.But Mark Simmons stayed with us the whole hour, even though he was very busy driving to a one-year-old’s birthday party.He’d only been on Clubhouse a few times and was disappointed with the level of conversation. We added to that disappointment. Within minutes, instead of talking about Clubhouse, Igor was explaining crypto and I was talking about my new Tesla. There was some magnet in Clubhouse drawing us toward douchedom.“It was fun,” Mark said generously as he parked at the party. “It went off the rails. But it was interesting hearing about your old Mini Cooper.”After our room ended, I scrolled through the other rooms again. None of them interested me, and none were hosted by anyone I’d heard of.Until then, I’d assumed Clubhouse withered because it was the Tiger King of apps, a pandemic lockdown fad for the bored and isolated. But the bored and isolated didn’t bail on TikTok.Clubhouse died because populism has its limits. If you’re going to fight the time-shifting culture and try to congregate a live audience, you need to limit your community. The currency isn’t content. It’s status.Once anyone could join Clubhouse, the barrier for entry for starting a conference was even lower than renting a meeting room at an airport Hilton, so they were doomed to attract hucksters shelling time-shares.Only they were worse than financial hucksters. They were status hucksters.Igor’s friend, actor and comedian Leah Kilpatrick, was on every night for hours in the Spring. Also, for hours during the day.She often hung out in a room called “The Business Side of Acting” to get advice. “It felt like you were on a lunch break with a manager or agent. It felt very special. Something I’d been wanting for years,” she says.But when Leah raised her virtual Clubhouse hand to ask a question, the hosts told her not to expect free help. “Their energy toward certain audience members was cold and mean. And then their clients would come on and they’d say, ‘Oh my God it’s Joey! Joey is here everyone!’ It felt like another Hollywood punch in the gut.”Then Leah noticed that these hosts were on Clubhouse not only during their scheduled daily evening meeting, but during the afternoon as well. And late at night. And in the morning. “I thought, ‘They for sure have to be getting paid by Clubhouse or, worse case scenario, is it’s just them stroking their ego.’ I think it’s the ego one,” she says.Clubhouse felt like a bar filled with sleazy producers hitting on her. Only worse. “At least if you get laid they follow through. You can say, ‘I fucked you, remember?’ Here I’m still getting fucked, but not in a good way.” She hasn’t been on Clubhouse for a long time.What happened to Clubhouse is what’s happening to all our institutions. When you remove the barriers for entry in politics, business, and media, you get less a culture than a nightclub scene, where the Drakes and Mark Cubans sprint from hot new location to hot new location, trying to outrun the cryptopunk brokers. More and more, as they pass, they bump into each other and collaborate on projects. When the trusted and untrustworthy mix, you reach a point where you avoid all institutions because you can’t trust anyone. Especially not a guy who promises to host a Clubhouse room called ‘What Happened to Clubhouse?’ and talks about his car.

Like many old people desperate to stay relevant, I made a Millennial friend. Only I hit the Millennial jackpot, which is the kind of jackpot that, instead of money, spits out excuses for why it…

L ike many old people desperate to stay relevant, I made a Millennial friend. Only I hit the Millennial jackpot, which is the kind of jackpot that, instead of money, spits out excuses for why it doesn’t make enough money.

So when Igor Hiller — who was <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BfW-AjUh-w3/">an Instagram comedy star </a>, acted in the show Dear White People , <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/how-are-you-thinking-about-with-igor/id1114440532">started a podcast </a>, and is now a life coach — told me early this year that we needed to join Clubhouse right away so we could monetize our influence there, I did it.

By April, Twitter entered talks to buy Clubhouse for $4 billion, which is more than the value of Air France, Six Flags, Sunoco, Shake Shack, or Fannie Mae. It turned Twitter down, instead raising a round of funding that also valued it at $4 billion.

Igor and I did not become powerful through our Clubhouse power base. But it wasn’t our fault. No one did. Clubhouse is now a sad, empty MySpace shell of social media. It’s sixtieth in the App Store’s “social networking” category, right behind Chispa, Skout, and Hit on Me!, which is an app that describes itself as a “video platform for people who look for new friends especially hot singles and get more followers” and I’m guessing is “for prostitutes.”

To find out how this happened, Igor and I hosted a Clubhouse room titled “What Happened to Clubhouse?” Did the app’s functionality not keep up? Did it get infested with political arguments? Did Clubhouse say something racist and get canceled?

Before our “What Happened to Clubhouse?” event even started, I had an idea of what had happened. I got on the app early and scrolled the other rooms that would compete for listeners. Clubhouse, which seemed like a place for the smart kids, had acquired the stink of a multilevel marketing scheme. All the rooms were hosted by crypto guys talking about how to flip Ethereum with NFTs. The second most popular room at that moment, with 420 people, was titled, “House passes $1.2 trillion infra bill – is bitcoin doomed?” Clubhouse descended, in mere weeks, from Silicon Valley to Miami.

Only three people showed up to our “What Happened to Clubhouse?” room. One was my lovely wife Cassandra, and one left as soon as we asked him a question.

But Mark Simmons stayed with us the whole hour, even though he was very busy driving to a one-year-old’s birthday party.

He’d only been on Clubhouse a few times and was disappointed with the level of conversation. We added to that disappointment. Within minutes, instead of talking about Clubhouse, Igor was explaining crypto and I was talking about my new Tesla. There was some magnet in Clubhouse drawing us toward douchedom.

“It was fun,” Mark said generously as he parked at the party. “It went off the rails. But it was interesting hearing about your old Mini Cooper.”

After our room ended, I scrolled through the other rooms again. None of them interested me, and none were hosted by anyone I’d heard of.

Until then, I’d assumed Clubhouse withered because it was the Tiger King of apps, a pandemic lockdown fad for the bored and isolated. But the bored and isolated didn’t bail on TikTok.

Clubhouse died because populism has its limits. If you’re going to fight the time-shifting culture and try to congregate a live audience, you need to limit your community. The currency isn’t content. It’s status.

Once anyone could join Clubhouse, the barrier for entry for starting a conference was even lower than renting a meeting room at an airport Hilton, so they were doomed to attract hucksters shelling time-shares.

Only they were worse than financial hucksters. They were status hucksters.

Igor’s friend, actor and comedian Leah Kilpatrick, was on every night for hours in the Spring. Also, for hours during the day.

She often hung out in a room called “The Business Side of Acting” to get advice. “It felt like you were on a lunch break with a manager or agent. It felt very special. Something I’d been wanting for years,” she says.

But when Leah raised her virtual Clubhouse hand to ask a question, the hosts told her not to expect free help. “Their energy toward certain audience members was cold and mean. And then their clients would come on and they’d say, ‘Oh my God it’s Joey! Joey is here everyone!’ It felt like another Hollywood punch in the gut.”

Then Leah noticed that these hosts were on Clubhouse not only during their scheduled daily evening meeting, but during the afternoon as well. And late at night. And in the morning. “I thought, ‘They for sure have to be getting paid by Clubhouse or, worse case scenario, is it’s just them stroking their ego.’ I think it’s the ego one,” she says.

Clubhouse felt like a bar filled with sleazy producers hitting on her. Only worse. “At least if you get laid they follow through. You can say, ‘I fucked you, remember?’ Here I’m still getting fucked, but not in a good way.” She hasn’t been on Clubhouse for a long time.

What happened to Clubhouse is what’s happening to all our institutions. When you remove the barriers for entry in politics, business, and media, you get less a culture than a nightclub scene, where the Drakes and Mark Cubans sprint from hot new location to hot new location, trying to outrun the cryptopunk brokers. More and more, as they pass, they bump into each other and collaborate on projects. When the trusted and untrustworthy mix, you reach a point where you avoid all institutions because you can’t trust anyone. Especially not a guy who promises to host a Clubhouse room called ‘What Happened to Clubhouse?’ and talks about his car.

Bite-sized knowledge
to upgrade
your career

What Happened to Clubhouse?

Exclusive Club(house

Sorry, Androids

Reaching for the Stars

Sad Empty Shell

Public Opinion

The Draw Of Douchedom

Social Climbing

Bye, Felicia 👋

IDEAS ABOUT

MORE LIKE THIS

The Psychological Appeal of Clubhouse (Does it Work for Brands?) | DR. PAM RUTLEDGE | MEDIA PSYCHOLOGY

How to Let Go of Your Regrets | Mark Manson

How to Overcome Your Demons | Mark Manson

It's time to

READ

LIKE

A PRO!

Bite-sized knowledgeto upgradeyour career

What Happened to Clubhouse?

Exclusive Club(house

Sorry, Androids

Reaching for the Stars

Sad Empty Shell

Public Opinion

The Draw Of Douchedom

Social Climbing

Bye, Felicia 👋

IDEAS ABOUT

MORE LIKE THIS

The Psychological Appeal of Clubhouse (Does it Work for Brands?) | DR. PAM RUTLEDGE | MEDIA PSYCHOLOGY

How to Let Go of Your Regrets | Mark Manson

How to Overcome Your Demons | Mark Manson

It's time to

READ

LIKE

A PRO!

Bite-sized knowledge
to upgrade
your career