Saturday, February 14, 2009

Dear's not me, it's you

I'm breaking up with MySpace.

Micro-blogging is the next social media. Didn’t initially grasp the concept of Facebook, thought it simply a “I want it now, few words as possible” approach to networking (which it absolutely is), condensing heartfelt tales into simple “Jodie has cramps that would make a nun cry” status updates. Happily, I’ve found a connection to old friends, from the 26-years-ago high school pals (in truth, there’s a handful you want back circling your circle, the rest, well you just want to see how things have panned out, yes?) There's the girl too pretty to be my friend; I loved her in spite of it, and she me. A decade+ later she moved not just 35 mere minutes down the highway to the cleanest part of suburbia, but to a galaxy of happily-ever-after and breeding and PTA’s. We're women friends now, and again. The college boy I shared a bond of music with, now the man who attempts to stump me at trivia as recently as online last night. Hope and plan to spend more time in 3D life with the locals, the newer friends and old with a zip code also beginning in “80.”

MySpace, meanwhile, has become saturated with gangstas and adults who can’t spell, moist with hookers and call girls. Want to jump into the nudie pool, advertise your ass free on MySpace. There a “Colorado Call Girl” who diaries in dirty detail and appears to be setting up a Tracy Lords or “Superhead” Steffans move; living, working and making bank in the industry, then selling out her sleaze, exposing the awful underbelly, pointing fingers for the fucking and getting published. Even fake sex sells.

I’ll miss the new MySpace music and keeping up with the bands I catch out often; knowing when and where they’ll play has kept my social life social. I still check in for new tracks from the guitar player, read and rejoice in his blog as he chronicles the recording of his first studio album. That he added me as a friend, yet never comments or replies to mine, simply means I’m still the girl clutching hankie to bosom off stage, asking to wipe the brow sweat between sets (reference to Denny Dillon and Saturday Night Fever for you pop culture vultures). Funny how many of my MySpace friends aren’t.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Tom.


Ignominious Bob said...
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Jodie Kash said...

I prefer the real thing, and test them on my teeth (real pearls feel gritty).

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