On the dance floors of Output in Brooklyn, Fabric in London, or Berghain in Berlin, a new vice emerged: the Instagram story (launched in 2013, perfected in 2014). We filmed confetti drops. We captured bottle sparks. We posted blurry videos of the DJ’s laptop. The actual vice wasn’t the alcohol or the late hour—it was the fear of being unpresenced. If you didn’t post it, did you even go out?
On the drama side, True Detective (HBO) aired its first season. While set in rural Louisiana, its philosophical underpinning—the "vice" of cosmic pessimism—infected city media. Rust Cohle’s rants about human consciousness being a "evolutionary mistake" became the go-to caption for urban Instagram photos of skyscrapers at dusk. In 2014, the cities weren't just corrupt; they were nihilistic loops. On the dance floors of Output in Brooklyn,
Urbanites didn’t just watch shows; they consumed them like a pack of cigarettes on a fire escape. True Detective (HBO) gave us Rust Cohle’s nihilistic monologues, which we quoted at rooftop parties like scripture. Fargo turned Minnesota nice into a blood sport. And The Affair made infidelity look like a slow, beautiful car crash. We posted blurry videos of the DJ’s laptop