Usenet’s “community” status also derived from the fact that many of its users shared similar real-life experiences: They were computer enthusiasts and/or university affiliates who had invested a lot of time learning to access the service. In short, they were nerds; many were fans of Monty Python, the absurdist British sketch-comedy group, and took every opportunity to profess their fandom. “A lot of people who didn’t have a clue what to do to create conversation would just . . . recite entire Monty Python routines verbatim,” remembers one informal historian whom Brunton quotes. “A particular favorite was the ‘spam, spam, spam, spammity spam’ one because people could just type it once and just use the up-arrow key to repeat it. Hence, ‘spamming’ was flooding a chat room with that sort of clutter.”

“Clutter” is an apt term. Like the discarded clothes that accumulate on the floor of a teenager’s bedroom, making it hard to find the car keys, spam accumulates online, hindering access to salient information: the personal email that gets lost among hundreds of junk messages, the well-researched article that Google buries in favor of content-farm drivel. Brunton describes spam not just in terms of unwanted ads, but as a mindset: “The word ‘spam’ served to identify a way of thinking and doing online that was lazy, indiscriminate, and a waste of the time and attention of others.”

In the early days of digital networks, those distractions were fairly benign. Endless Monty Python routines might be annoying, but they’re not actively malicious. But as the general public discovered the Internet in the mid-1990s, “spam” came to refer to unwanted email solicitations: oddly punctuated missives promising easy money or longer-lasting erections. Entrepreneurs would send millions of messages in hopes of eliciting a few responses from naïve or distracted users who might actually believe that some deposed Nigerian prince would reward them if they helped him transfer some funds. The opportunity cost was low, and the potential rewards were high. Spam was everywhere.

Brunton traces the growth of email spam and introduces us to some of the most prolific spammers: “a few high school students, a failing Neo-Nazi, an ex-mit artificial intelligence (AI) graduate student currently in hiding.” He uses a Tennessee-based spammer named Rodona Garst as an archetype of people who approached the Internet not from a standpoint of what they could give to it, but what they could get from it. I think Garst, who sent billions of spam messages before leaving the industry amid lawsuits, also represents those millions of ordinary people who were discovering the Internet in the mid-to-late 1990s through services like aol, which made getting online as easy as running a floppy disc that came in the mail.

But things that are easily acquired are generally not held dear. Early Usenet participants had to deal with rudimentary machines, slow connections, and nongraphical interfaces in order to participate. This fostered a sense of mutual ownership, and this sense of ownership helped foster a sense of community, a sense that they were all in it together. The millions of point-and-click aol users would never have described themselves in those terms. They were customers of a subscription service, not collaborators in a mutual enterprise.

Garst and her colleagues shared Canter and Siegel’s mindset. And as the Internet has grown, that mindset has only become more prominent. Near the end of the book, Brunton argues that “spam” now encompasses all sorts of efforts to “exploit existing aggregations of human attention,” from email solicitations to mindless social-media chatter to business strategies from billion-dollar corporations. Brunton analyzes the search-engine-optimized, mostly worthless content produced by places like Demand Media and aol, and likens it to Canter and Siegel’s output. “There is something in the disposable and opportunistic nature of the material produced, and the mingling of automated and human infrastructure used to produce it,” he writes, “that seems similar—a cynical project to monopolize the conversation and commandeer the space of relevant information.”


And that’s the point. Spam, in whatever form it might take, is something that doesn’t listen, that only wants to talk at you. The spam mentality rejects collaborative dialogue and hard-won wisdom in favor of ease and expedience. And little by little, as that sort of behavior is normalized, the Internet changes. There are fewer opportunities to listen, learn, and collaborate; more people shouting to be heard. Until all you’ve got left is an infinite space filled with infinite pitchmen, incessantly cutting one another off and changing the subject, like some McLaughlin Group episode that never ends.

Justin Peters is editor-at-large of the Columbia Journalism Review.