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Technology can act as a kind of cupid—bringing together people who would otherwise never meet. But sometimes it becomes evident that maybe they were never meant to meet and maybe all that time spent in front of a keyboard would be better spent actually in the physical presence of another human being. Besides, with so many heavy issues to discuss in this space, it’s nice to know that occasionally SP can lighten up and offer a public service—in this case, we can act as a sort of personals ad.
Stuck on MySpace
By Greg Russ
Please allow me to state the obvious: The popularity of MySpace is spreading faster than the 1918 Spanish Flu. From some dork sitting in his basement writing computer code with his hand down his pants to whoever the present world overlord is, we can all thank MySpace creator Tom Anderson for ruining our lives.
Since I joined MySpace in August 2004, my exercise routine has become nonexistent and my daily calorie intake has tripled. There’s no better way to pass the time while waiting for a new message from that hot girl in the Ukraine than by going to the kitchen for a string-cheese/Jell-O pudding cup/Cool Ranch Doritos snack.
While MySpace does have benefits—it’s a convenient way for a person to keep in touch with friends and creepily meet new people—it also opens the door to a paradoxical universe where body-building, silk-shirt-wearing “playas” join forces with anti-social, self-loathing outcasts and hit on girls with nothing but a keyboard and sheer wit (or lack thereof) with which to defend themselves. All one has to do is click on the “Browse” tab, insert a zip code, and voilà—a virtual catalogue of women. Handpick those that tickle your fancy and send a slew of messages with fabricated tales on how the two of you seem to have so much in common, something like “Your profile says you like Sylvia Plath, and wouldn’t you know it? I do, too!”
Pathetic and yet, funny. And, being on the radio, I thought it’d be entertaining to randomly send out such messages in hopes of getting responses to read on the air. Following form, I proceeded to forward the following message to at least 25 different contacts: “Yo, I’m writing u becuz I think ur hott. Ur profile iz interesting and gets me thinking. I like deep conversation. Hit me back.”
While the replies were minimal, I did get a few telling me to rot in hell, and one suggesting I “burn [my] face off with chlorine.”
Satisfied with the material, I presented it and then never thought about it again. That is, until the other night when I unexpectedly ran into one of the recipients. She recognized me from my profile picture, approached and proceeded to berate me in front of her friends and mine, quoting the message and labeling me as a cyberspace stalker. In a sad, convoluted, last-ditch effort to shake this newly-found title, I tried to explain the circumstances. She didn’t buy it.
With a sick twist of fate, I’m now perceived as the dork that sits in his basement with his hand down his pants. Only I’m not writing computer programs that will make me millions of dollars, I’m looking for a girlfriend. And despite the trouble and shame MySpace has caused me, I still sign on religiously. It’s an addiction, and I’m in deep. A Percocet dependency would have been so much nicer. At least then I could’ve collapsed on my bed in a state of mental euphoria without the pain of carpal tunnel syndrome.
Greg Russ is a 99X DJ known on air as “Dekker.”
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