Johnny Newport (The Moth) is carrying the consciousness of the oft-failed man native to 2015. Strictly from a visual standpoint he looks like he may be kept in a nice package, but this is not so. Johnny Newport has two feet on the warpath and probably smells like last night’s street tacos.
Johnny knows that his devil-may-care attitude is unfair—to himself and to others—but but this is precisely the origin for the voice of an unbridled generation of privilege; the 21st-century-livers that intimately know they have squandered (squandered what? How can we say definitively and with any assurance despite knowing that a squandering has, indeed, befallen?), and will continue to do so, happily.
His writing? Johnny has turned his unique worldview into a cohesive observation on the plight of the modern man. His writing is not calculated to make you laugh, but you will. This can only be a cue that his words have touched the inner soul and pulled out something that had once been discovered, likely with a fine, brushed instrument, before it was buried again. His well-placed words will have you turning pages faster than you did when you were first given your high-school yearbook and you wanted to make sure your picture was agreeable to your hormones.