The Community-Building Curmudgeon

The Bulwark's Jonathan V. Last

Honestly, this is the face of a would be cult leader.

If The Bulwark—an unexpected place of real belonging about which I’ve previously written—has a beating heart, it’s Editor Jonathan V. Last (or JVL, as he is more commonly known).¹

He’s not exactly an archetype for that designation. He’d probably say he’s more like its liver. A case could be made, especially by he who *almost* went to medical school. He got much closer to law school, though, with his incredibly high LSAT scores.

I’ve never met him, but I have spent hours and hours and hours with JVL. I know he is obsessed with baseball and watches and Batman. I know he is a Swiftie (I found out, but could have predicted, that his favorite album is reputation because he is “emo like that”). I know his kids’ (nick)names and activities, and I know he never, ever says their real names. I know he is #kenough. I know his verbal ticks and peculiarities so well I decided to attempt an impersonation (the key is over-enunciation and just pitch-black darkness).

Of course, I also know his political views, which run apocalyptic and misanthropic. And, given the last almost-decade, fair enough. I, too, have come to the conclusion that democracy’s biggest downside is also its main requirement: The People. We can’t live with or without them. And they give themselves away (to a sociopath). See the thorn twist in the side of our constitutional republic.

JVL and his podcast “best friend” Sarah Longwell are like C3PO and R2D2, Sarah peppy and gung-ho to try, try, try (unlike R2, she does speak human English) and JVL raining down skepticism and foreboding on her chirpy parade in highly articulate fashion.

He claims not only to dislike The People but also to hold little affection for people. He’s practically allergic to engaging with them in person (all my attempts to meet him in the flesh have failed spectacularly).²

“I really was built for the hermitage,” he says. “COVID proved the thesis. I’ve arranged my life very carefully so that everything I need and most of the things I want are within the four walls of my home.”

Forgive the typo which I am too lazy to fix. I can’t speak Yoda. “Jim Swift IS”

If you read JVL, you also know that he is an astoundingly good, prolific writer, churning out five newsletters a week that are uniformly insightful and creative.³ I would be remiss not to mention that, because being a writer is what means the most to JVL. And he is very, very good at it, but I don’t have to tell him that.

But I also know JVL as someone who cares a great deal, for his family, his friends, his work, his colleagues, his audience, his country. On first glance, that may seem in contrast to his uber-intellectual, unapologetically elitist, curmudgeonly persona, but in truth, it’s highly consistent, and in fact, it’s the essence of JVL’s character. To be as disappointed in people as JVL is, you have to care in the first place. JVL never comes across as a cynic, with that air of detachment and invulnerability. JVL cares.

That came through clearly when I asked him about the founding of The Bulwark after the owner of The Weekly Standard, where JVL and some other Bulwarkians previously worked, suddenly shut it down. I asked JVL, who had worked there for the entirety of his professional life, how it felt to have such a curve ball thrown in his face.

“I don’t want to oversell this, but it was the second or third darkest moment of my adult life,” he says. “One of my reactions..was to harden my heart and swear that I would never give myself over emotionally and spiritually to a job again. That held for a long while. For the first 2 or 3 years of the Bulwark, I said it was just a temp job.” But he finally “let the walls down.” He credits his “ride or die,” publisher/R2D2 Sarah Longwell—”one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met”—with that.

So, yes, JVL cares. If you’ve listened to as much Bulwark podcasting as I have, you know it comes through the ear buds as loudly and clearly as his abrupt, slightly maniacal laugh. And in his caring, he exudes a contagious warmth, whether he means to or not.⁴ People adore him whether he wants them to or not.⁵

And, with his colleagues, he’s built a community, whether he or they intended to or not. And he says they did not. “It just happened,” he says. “A year into the Bulwark I thought something special was happening. Eighteen months in I was certain of it.”

His take on The Bulwark’s success and his own place in the listeners’ hearts is predictably utilitarian. The Bulwark stumbled “by accident” into the right formula for the current, shaky state of journalism by keeping things small, maintaining a high standard for all content—“we never wanted any filler”—and being a voice for the times. “[We were] born at a moment of maximum political dislocation, when all of a sudden everything in America—including our democracy itself—was up for grabs,” he explains.

In other words, there were a lot of politically, culturally, tribally homeless people looking for a home. The Bulwark has become that home by doing the right things at the right time in the right way.

As to why people love him so much? “It’s just the medium,” he told me. “Audio-based products create a very weird, unidirectional intimacy.”

Call me a hopeless Myers-Briggs F,⁶ but I just think there’s more to it all than that. And there’s more to JVL’s role than talented purveyor of high-level content and brilliant takes. No one voluntarily listens to hours and hours of a person talking just because they’re smart or even funny (he’s that too! Don’t let that showboat Tim Miller distract you!). They have to like the person. They have to feel a loyalty to the person. They have to feel a genuine bond. They have to feel like the person cares about them.

And whether he means to or not, JVL communicates that to people. Mainly by paying attention to us.⁷ People love attention. They love it even more when people they admire pay attention to them. If you comment on the Triad or send JVL an email, you’re probably going to get a response (his wife—yep, we all know and love Shannon, too! —calls him “inbox zero.”) I hate to tell you, JVL, but that only encourages us to write to you more. Yesterday’s Triad, for example, has 644 comments (so far).

The readers love engaging with JVL directly, but in the process, we start engaging with each other. We have gotten to know each other (Hi Andrew! Midge! Maryah! Dee Dee! Kate! so many friends). We’ll be more likely to show up to the livestream on Thursday nights, so we can chat with our friends. We have lots of inside jokes (and one particularly deranged fan has made several parodies at this point…We talk about how weird she is behind her back.)

JVL made that space. I don’t care what he says he did or wanted to do or why, but he built us a place to belong.

And for some of us, he’s been a true friend, even at a distance. Beyond the quick replies—and sometimes retorts; if you’re rude, he will call you out or even kick you out, that’s part of the community—he cares about you personally when given a chance. If your uncle is sick in the hospital, JVL might ask you which hospital and take the time to research whether that is the best one in the area or what level of care he might get. He might offer sincere prayers as a quietly devout person of deep faith. Shannon, too, by the way. Shannon Last is a heart-of-gold type.

JVL considers these interactions “part of the contract a writer has with a reader.” “If someone takes the time to read what you wrote in good faith and wants to engage you on it—you owe it to them to engage in return,” he says, citing the sometimes years’ long correspondence that earlier generations of writers carried on with readers. “So I’ve always tried to answer letters, and then emails, from readers. It takes an enormous amount of time every day and I’m at the point where I probably only reply to 60 percent or 70 percent of the emails I get because the volume has gotten so large.”

He admits that he, too, has made some “real friends” along the way. “These accidental friendships have been totally unexpected. I never thought I would value these relationships. And yet I do. Very much.”

Also— “I’m a hugger.”

JVL considers that part of being a decent human (well, the hugging is just out of left field). He claims the misanthrope routine is “not schtick," but it is a “personal failing.” “We’re supposed to like people,” he says. “We’re all God’s children, and we’re put here to help each other out and love one another. The fact that I don’t is a mark of my own bad character. So I’m working on that.”

You’re doing just fine, JVL.

Please consider joining this amazing community working to protect and defend democracy for future generations of Americans and having a lot of fun along the way!

---

For the true JVL stans, here’s our entire Q&A:

1. I'm interested in what it felt like to lose your job and a source of community in short order like that. I'm sure it helped that you weren't alone, and you all pretty quickly regrouped--Did that bond you as a group/do you think that's part of the Bulwark magic?  

I started work at TWS when I was 22 and never left until it closed. It was the only job I’d ever had as an adult and I spent 20 years there. When I started working at TWS I needed to shave maybe once a week. When the magazine shut down, I had four kids. I had spent nearly half of my entire life at the Standard.

I say all of this to give you a sense of how deeply it was part of my identity. Quite apart from the fact that I had a family to support and I looked up and realized that midway through my career, my chosen profession was a dying industry.

I don’t want to oversell this, but it was the second or third darkest moment of my adult life and one of my reactions to the magazine shutting down was to harden my heart and swear that I would never give myself over emotionally and spiritually to a job again.

That held for a long while. For the first 2 or 3 years of the Bulwark, I said it was just a temp job and I’d be leaving to work for Apple of Facebook or some place else before the end of the month.

For me, there was a moment in our third year when I finally decided to give my whole heart to the Bulwark, to let myself just be in love with the project. I could look at the calendar and find the actual day for you, believe it or not. And the reason I finally let the walls down was Sarah Longwell. I believed in her. She’s one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met. And I decided that I wanted to ride or die with her.

 2. Was creating community a conscious strategy at the Bulwark from the beginning, or was it something that just kind of happened? If the former, how did you all discuss doing that? If the latter, how did that start to take shape? When did you start noticing, wow, this is more than just a publication? 

It just happened.

In the beginning, it was just a website, a podcast (Charlie’s show) and my newsletter. (Charlie’s newsletter came after.) First we had a thousand people on the list, then 12,000, then 20,000. It grew very quickly. People would write back to me. And I tried my best to respond to these replies, for reasons I’ll explain in a minute.

Then people started sending us money.

In the beginning we were a non-profit and we had a couple of big, institutional donors and then a bunch of medium-large donors. But suddenly normal people just started sending us money. $5, $100. We had a link to a site called DonorBox and we never mentioned it—but people found it.

Sarah and I started a podcast which would become the Secret podcast and it was very much a speakeasy that we did as a thank you to those donors. We’d record a show, I’d email a link to the list of donors, and then a week later, I’d delete the podcast. It was ephemeral and casual and Sarah and I were getting to know each other on the show.

People really responded to the Secret show. Lots more emails. Lots of conversations. There’s an intimacy to audio products that’s different from every other medium.

A year into the Bulwark I thought something special was happening. 18 months in I was certain of it.

3. We all know you as the Bulwark's resident curmudgeon. But of course, most of us also know that's really a schtick (I mean, you do kind of despise voters, but that sh*t is earned). For all your claims of misanthropy and hermit living, you pretty obviously put a lot of effort into your relationships with family, friends, colleagues, and, yes, your readers/listeners. You secretly love people, don't you (Shhh, we won't tell anyone)? 

You must realize that, on the Bulwark front, this effort pays off in engagement, yet it always comes across as genuine. Do you really like us or are you just using us for the clicks? 

It’s not schtick.

I’m introverted by nature, which means while I can be charming in public when I have to be, it takes a great deal of energy. After a live event, for instance, I need to crawl into a cocoon for 10 hours. 

And I really was built for the hermitage. I’d always thought that, but COVID proved the thesis. I’ve arranged my life very carefully so that everything I need and most of the things I want are within the four walls of my home. I’m very lucky to have that and I never take it for granted.

David Remnick was interviewed once and asked how he was able to edit the New Yorker, write great pieces, and be a parent who went to his kids’ soccer games. And his response was something like, “I work and I have my family. I don’t have hobbies. I don’t build model ships. Isn’t that how everyone does it?” And that’s me, more or less. 

However, despite all of that, one of the complicating factors is that while I don’t like people, I do realize that this is a personal failing. We’re supposed to like people. We’re all God’s children and we’re put here to help each other out and love one another. The fact that I don’t is a mark of my own bad character.

So I’m working on that.

As far as “engagement,” I swear to you that this is something I could not care less about. 

Seriously, though, do you find with people, you always get out what you put in/is it always worth the time and effort? What sort of effort comes naturally to you and what do you have to be more deliberate about? How do you factor in the time it takes to foster relationships/how do you manage that side of things? 

When it comes to “engagement” and the Bulwark, though, there is a very different thing at play.

I came up wanting—desperately—to be a writer. A real writer. A Tom Wolfe or George Will or Joan Didion. And one of the things that—at least prior to the internet—most real writers did was correspondence. They wrote stuff. People read the stuff. Some people sent letters responding to the stuff. The writers then sent letters back in return.

I always viewed this is part of the contract a writer has with a reader. If someone takes the time to read what you wrote in good faith and wants to engage you on it—you owe it to them to engage in return. 

That’s where letters to the editor pages started in magazines and newspapers. In the more high-toned publications the exchanges of letters could go on for weeks. (In some old conservative journal—maybe the Public Interest?--George Will and Donald Kagan had an exchange of letters that went on for six months about baseball. If you can find that thing, it is AMAZING.

So I’ve always tried to answer letters, and then emails, from readers. It takes an enormous amount of time every day and I’m at the point where I probably only reply to 60 percent or 70 percent of the emails I get because the volume has gotten so large.

But the upside is that from this correspondence I’ve made some real friends. Or at least “real” in the way people used to mean it when they sent paper letters by post. Real enough that I know about their lives and they know about mine and we check in on each other aside from talking about politics.

And for me, the joy I’ve gotten from these accidental friendships has been totally unexpected. I never thought I would value these relationships. And yet I do. Very much.

4. Why do you think we are all so attached to you guys? I mean, I have a lot of actual friends in real life, believe it or not, but I know I'm not alone in saying that I feel a strange closeness to you guys (even to Tim, who doggedly refuses to follow me on social media). I feel like I know you all so well, even though rationally, I understand that's not true. Is that crazy and weird for you? Are you gonna have to get security pretty soon (to be clear, I have no stalking plans, but I can't speak for everyone else)? 

The answer to this is actually simple: It’s just the medium. Audio-based products create a very weird, unidirectional intimacy. If you listen to someone regularly, their voice is with you in your home, or your car. Maybe you listen to them while you’re showering or brushing your teeth. And over time, you learn a lot about their lives.

Then you meet that person and you know a very large amount about them, but they know next to nothing about you.

This is why, when I meet someone who listens to the Bulwark, I always feel a little strange because I’m peppering them with questions about themselves: Where are you from? Do you have kids? When did you realize Trump was a sociopath? 

I realize that for some people, they’re like, “No, I want to ask you questions, JVL.” But what’s happening is that I’m trying to play catch-up and learn about them so we can be on more equal footing so that we can connect..

Anyway, I know all of this because I, too, listen to many podcasts and I am in the same boat when I meet someone I listen to twice a week. I feel like I know everything about them and they don’t even know my name and it’s weird and a little awkward. At least at first.

But you just have to push past the initial awkwardness and then it’s fine.

For instance: When I meet someone who listens to the show, but who I email with from time to time, we’re like old friends from the jump. Normally I will hug them.

I’m a hugger.

5. I was going to ask what your rules of thumb are for defining and maintaining good community values, but you pretty much answered that in today's Triad (unlike Sarah, I read it every day). Any further comment? Any further thoughts about cultivating/allowing diversity of opinion while remaining civil? 

I don’t really care about diversity of opinion, but I do care about civility. And my big concern is that scale is the enemy of civility.

I worry that even in a group that is heavily weighted towards thoughtfulness, there is a certain size above which any public commons will become a garbage heap.

And I further worry that we’re close to that point at the Bulwark. If so, it’s on me to actively police the comments and ban people if needed. But I’d like some help. I’d be grateful if, whenever you see someone doing even juvenile name calling, you email me with a link to the comment. Narc them out so I can drop the hammer.

6. The Bulwark is succeeding while other outlets are struggling. I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for that (including great content, of course), but I really do believe it's the sense of community and friendship the audience feels with you all and each other. Do you think there are lessons here for others in the media? As you have expanded/as you continue to expand, is it harder to maintain this culture/can it be scaled up?

I am sorry but I have a very different view of our success: I think the economics of media no longer work for mid-size publications.

You can be a small, niche publication like the Bulwark and succeed by finding an audience of people who share your mission and can support between maybe 5 and 50 employees.

Or you can be the New York Times, and succeed by having 200 employees just in the Opinion section, in addition to a bunch of cooking newsletters and Wordle and the Athletic.

But you can’t be anything in between. There just isn’t a way to sustain a primarily print media organization with between 100 and 500 employees. There aren’t enough people willing to support that nut through subscriptions and there isn’t enough ad revenue to make up for the rest.

So that’s the biggest thing we got right. But it’s important to note that we didn’t do that on purpose. Remember: We started as a non-profit and only became a for-profit company after we launched Bulwark+ and discovered a business model that we thought would work.

The second thing we got right (also by accident) was that from the beginning, we never wanted any filler. Everything we did was supposed to be good enough for the highlight reel.

And the third thing we got right was being born at a moment of maximum political dislocation, when all of a sudden everything in America—including our democracy itself—was up for grabs. Chaos is a ladder and all that.

By getting those things right we had the chance to succeed if we executed well, which I think we have. And then, because we executed well, we had the chance to make it if we found our audience.

So when I look at this parade of things that had to go right for us to make it, it’s pretty obvious why we’re so grateful to our audience. We feel like we are them. It’s just that writing and podcasting and stuff is our jobs while they have straight jobs. But otherwise, we’re the same people with the same values and moral commitments.

7. You guys seem to genuinely like each other and have such great chemistry, which is another key to your success. Who do you secretly hate though (it's Tim, isn't it)? What do you think is the key to good chemistry--is it just innate personality compatibility or can you cultivate it with people? 

I’ve been very, very lucky to only work with a handful of people I didn’t like, and none of them at the Bulwark.

Two things about the Bulwark: We are a small shop and when you’re small you have to be very intentional about new hires. It isn’t enough that they add value to the product—they have to fit personally, because it’s like they’re getting adopted into the family. So we’ve had a “no assholes” rule from the start. Everyone who walks through the door at the Bulwark is good people. And some of us—Mona Charen and A.B. Stoddard, for example—are damn near saints.⁸

But here is another thing I believe in my heart: I’ve never worked for General Foods. I’ve only been in very small, intimate, product-based offices where ideas were our stock and trade. So I view the workplace as a family and even if you don’t like someone in your family, you’re supposed to love them.

And they don’t stop being part of the family just because they get a job somewhere else. 

8. On a more philosophical level--what's the balance between homogeneity and diversity in terms of creating connection and community? I've been in/seen toxic cultures on both ends of that spectrum (excessive need for conformity on one side, obsession with individuality/difference on the other). Do you think the Bulwark's political centrism translates to this kind of balance as well/is one reason why there's such a feeling of authentic community? 

I worry about us becoming too monolithic. From the beginning our audience was an ideological mix from center-right to center-left. I hope that never changes because having the community not be an place for people to perform while hoping for clapter is important. 

I think in the healthiest communities, people share some very deep commitments, but in the layer above that, there’s a lot of diversity of opinion—which keeps everyone from assuming that everyone else agrees with them. Which in turn, keeps everyone polite.

9. Just generally looking out at America, why do you think people feel lonely and disconnected? Or do you think that narrative is overblown? In your own life, when have you felt the loneliest and why? What did you do about it? On the flip side, when have you felt the most belonging and why? What did you do to cultivate it? (if that's too personal, feel free to skip)

Technology and economics, ftw. It’s all the Putnam Bowling Alone, mixed with the Bishop Big Sort, with a sprinkle of Facebook added in. People feel lonely and disconnected because they are lonely and disconnected. 

I was loneliest in college, which was the worst four years of my life. Graduating cured everything. Once I got out and got a job, it was the best day of my life. And every day after that got even better. So any time you meet me, you’re probably meeting me on the best day of my life.

10. I realize you maybe aren't the best person to ask this so--What advice would Sarah have for maintaining relationships with Trump supporters (I know you would just shoot them all into the sun)? Is there anything we can do to influence them, or should we not even try, in favor of peaceable living? Or, what is the most effective way to shoot someone into the sun? 

This is a misapprehension: I would bet dollars to donuts that I spend much more time around MAGA than anyone else at the Bulwark. We are deeply involved in our parish and like most other American Catholic churches right now, I’d guess >90% of the people there are Trumpers.

I have two iron rules for dealing with this: 1) Never talk about politics, period, in any form. 2) Try to be the best version of myself. I firmly believe that the best way to convert people politically is to be the kind of person who people from the other side like and appreciate so that, if they ever discover that you have different political beliefs, it surprises them and maybe makes them rethink their priors.

11. Who is your favorite Bulwark fan, and why is it me? Any pointers for my impression of you (it's really more of a caricature but whatever)? 

Honestly, very hard. You, obviously. But also Rita and Addison and DDD and Travis and Elliott and other Travis. There are probably a couple dozen readers I’m very close with.

12. What is the plan for getting Sarah Longwell elected President? Or--how about this--A West Wing-style show in which the Bulwark gang is in the White House. How would you cast that? Who would be Josh Lyman? I think you'd be Leo, maybe Toby, but what do you think. 

I’m Toby. That’s my role and I’ve always understood it. Tim is Sam. Mona is Leo. AB is Alison Janey. Jim is Josh Lyman. I’m going to stop now.

and lastly--HOW ARE YOU ALWAYS RIGHT?! Are you a secret Extra Terrestrial? An Old Testament Prophet (Amos perhaps? oooh if you were a Old Testament prophet, who would it be)? Or do you just control reality itself? It is creepy, and I need you to go ahead and predict that Biden will win reelection so we can avoid another anti-anxiety med prescription. 

There’s no way to talk about this without sounding very conceited. So I’ll just say this: My secret is that I hate myself. But I also admire myself.

1. In honor of JVL, I’m going to use a lot of footnotes here.

2. To date, I have missed him at last year’s Principles First (he had a kidney stone), twice on visits to “his city” NYC, at a DC Bulwark event (his FIL passed), and at a New Year’s party to which we were both invited. We will both be at PF again this year, but he has pledged to run like the wind out of there after his panel. I may have to hide behind a door and pop out.

3. To get The Triad, you’ve got to subscribe to Bulwark+, which you really should do. If you can’t afford it, reach out to them, they will set you up anyway.

4. He does not.

5. He does not.

6. JVL, true to type, doesn’t know or care anything about the MBTI; trust me, though, he’s an INTJ, iykyk. I am an ENFJ, incidentally. You probably could have guessed that.

7. FWIW, Tim Miller pays very little attention to any of us.

8. Can confirm.