The pop-culture phenomenon known as MySpace is many things to many people. It’s a meeting place, a meat market, a sounding board, a billboard, a free commercial, a political forum and even a news reporting tool (I swear this is why I initially signed on).
Everyone who’s anyone has a MySpace page. Movie stars, rock stars, wanna-be stars, has-beens, would-bes and presidential hopefuls.
Every band from Bon Jovi (member since December 29, 2004) to the world’s greatest band ever, U2 (member since August 20, 2004), have MySpace pages. (Of course, U2 has 1.4 million “friends” while Bon Jovi only has about 98,000.)
Comedian Dane Cook has a page. So does “21 Jump Street” heartthrob turned Oscar nominated actor Johnny Depp (who by the way, has 13 tattoos – I’d love to see every one of them up close). And nowadays you can’t leave a movie theater without being bombarded with MySpace addresses for the next blockbuster.
Hillary Clinton 2008, no doubt trying to Rock the Youth Vote, has laid out her platform for the virgin voters. You can even buy campaign paraphernalia like an adorable figure-flattering pink and white baseball shirt and “Hillary the First Lady President 2008” button. (More on this in a future blog.) Yes, Barack Obama has one, too. If MySpace “friends” are any indication of who between the two will secure the Democratic nomination, Barack is blowing Hillary away with 32,326 cyber friends to her 19,666 as of this writing.
You see MySpace is everyone’s space. It’s one big cyber party.
But MySpace is also something more for the older, lesser known crowd. It’s a reunion.
I admit since signing on for the first time last year, I’ve become a bit of cyber stalker, lost on the site’s pages for hours at a time. (Remember, the first step is admitting the problem.) I, of course, don’t use it anything like the youth of today do. With the simple click of the mouse, they set up their “top friends” allowing them to quickly shun whoever they fought with last in the school hallway or give a shout out to their BFF of the moment, as well as proclaim their love for the object of their desire au jour. It’s sort of how us children of the 80s used note-passing, friendship pins and cassette mix tapes all at once.
Now, I troll the pages searching for former schoolmates. That's what I was doing when I bumped into an old friend a few weeks ago.
I clicked this guy Russ’ page. He’s a little older than me but I kinda remember him. So there I was spying on his list of friends and there he was: Todd Evans, the brother of one of my best buddies from high school. My heart sunk. Meredith and I had lost touch a couple of years ago. Though our relationship had been nearly reduced to Christmas Card Buddies, I was devastated a couple of holiday seasons ago when my card went unanswered. If Mere didn’t send a card, she always, always called around the holidays. And always we fell into a conversation that felt like we had talked the day before.
She was the kind of friend who you'd duck into a bathroom with at a high school or college party to have a deep, drunken conversation. It always went something like this: “Dude, I love you. You’re the best. You’re going to be in my wedding.”
The first time we lost touch was when my wedding invitation went unanswered. (She never got it because she moved from Seattle.) Shortly after I got hitched to the love of my life she called. Shaken, she told me she just found out I was married and she was sorry she missed the Big Day.
More than a decade later, I couldn’t find her again until I stumbled upon her brother. I sent him a message through MySpace and two weeks later he sent me Meredith’s phone number. She's getting married, he wrote.
I left Meredith a voice mail Saturday. She called me Monday. It was like we talked the day before. Her wedding is June 19th. I’m going make darn sure I’m there to see her say “I do.” Drunken Bathroom Conferences between girls are just as binding as pinkie swearing.
See, MySpace ain’t that evil.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
State of Confusion
I must admit I have a hard time listening to President Dubya for a 30-second sound bite, let alone nearly an hour. Whenever I see his shifty eyes or hear that voice on television, a weird, uneasy feeling washes over me. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m about to peel a Band-Aid off my skin. I want it over quick.
But there I was Tuesday night perched upon my couch awaiting one historical moment after another.
Each was less riveting than the last.
Still, this was the moment I had been waiting for since Tom Foley sat behind President Clinton during the State of the Union Address. Finally, once again, a Democrat sat in the coveted and powerful, leather chair. And this time, for the FIRST time, it was a WOMAN. Hooray! Bra burners unite.
After House Speaker Nancy Pelosi briefly introduced the President with some pleasantries sprinkled on top, it was the President’s turn to speak (Oh joy).
“And tonight, I have a high privilege and distinct honor of my own -- as the first President to begin the State of the Union message with these words: Madam Speaker.”
While Pelosi practically leaped out of her seat to meet the wild applause, I half expected to hear Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” blasting through the chamber
What you want
(oo) Baby, I got
(oo) What you need
(oo) Do you know I got it?
(oo) All I'm askin'
(oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)
After I emerged from my quick karaoke fantasy, I watched Pelosi carefully and with a smile on my face. What an achievement, I thought. What poise. What a lovely shade of green. What the heck?
As Dubya mumbled in the background (Seriously. You know most eyes were on Pelosi, he was merely background noise.), it happened. At first I thought our new Speaker was chewing gum. But I kept watching. Occasionally, it stopped. Then she did again. Only stranger.
The President said something about working across the aisle. (Hmmm, maybe I missed him tripping on the carpet on the way in to the chamber.) Then he said something about low unemployment and low inflation and oh yeah, something about higher wages (Clearly, he hasn’t studied my paycheck). But Pelosi’s face was still in the frame. Her lips moved toward the right of her face, sort of crooked.
At times, it’s true, she did smile that brilliant smile. But with each minute that passed and with each Bushism she had to digest with the world watching her, the stranger it got. Bush continued talking about this and that and something about sending 20,000 more American soldiers to their deaths in Iraq (No, he didn’t mention sending the twins.) He said something about fighting AIDS and gave obligatory props to several stand-out Americans. (By the way, how can you not LOVE the Subway hero? I think he actually mouthed “You’re the man,” to the President.)
After all that yammering by Bush, I finally figured out what was up with Pelosi. She wasn’t sitting there chewing gum. She was chewing on what Dubya was saying. Not only that, I think at times, she was actually eating her face.
My only conclusion - because I have the utmost respect for the woman - is this was the result of holding in all that booing. Perhaps it would’ve been better to let it all out. But hey, Bush did say something about conserving gas.
But there I was Tuesday night perched upon my couch awaiting one historical moment after another.
Each was less riveting than the last.
Still, this was the moment I had been waiting for since Tom Foley sat behind President Clinton during the State of the Union Address. Finally, once again, a Democrat sat in the coveted and powerful, leather chair. And this time, for the FIRST time, it was a WOMAN. Hooray! Bra burners unite.
After House Speaker Nancy Pelosi briefly introduced the President with some pleasantries sprinkled on top, it was the President’s turn to speak (Oh joy).
“And tonight, I have a high privilege and distinct honor of my own -- as the first President to begin the State of the Union message with these words: Madam Speaker.”
While Pelosi practically leaped out of her seat to meet the wild applause, I half expected to hear Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” blasting through the chamber
What you want
(oo) Baby, I got
(oo) What you need
(oo) Do you know I got it?
(oo) All I'm askin'
(oo) Is for a little respect when you come home (just a little bit)
Hey baby (just a little bit) when you get home
(just a little bit) mister (just a little bit)
After I emerged from my quick karaoke fantasy, I watched Pelosi carefully and with a smile on my face. What an achievement, I thought. What poise. What a lovely shade of green. What the heck?
As Dubya mumbled in the background (Seriously. You know most eyes were on Pelosi, he was merely background noise.), it happened. At first I thought our new Speaker was chewing gum. But I kept watching. Occasionally, it stopped. Then she did again. Only stranger.
The President said something about working across the aisle. (Hmmm, maybe I missed him tripping on the carpet on the way in to the chamber.) Then he said something about low unemployment and low inflation and oh yeah, something about higher wages (Clearly, he hasn’t studied my paycheck). But Pelosi’s face was still in the frame. Her lips moved toward the right of her face, sort of crooked.
At times, it’s true, she did smile that brilliant smile. But with each minute that passed and with each Bushism she had to digest with the world watching her, the stranger it got. Bush continued talking about this and that and something about sending 20,000 more American soldiers to their deaths in Iraq (No, he didn’t mention sending the twins.) He said something about fighting AIDS and gave obligatory props to several stand-out Americans. (By the way, how can you not LOVE the Subway hero? I think he actually mouthed “You’re the man,” to the President.)
After all that yammering by Bush, I finally figured out what was up with Pelosi. She wasn’t sitting there chewing gum. She was chewing on what Dubya was saying. Not only that, I think at times, she was actually eating her face.
My only conclusion - because I have the utmost respect for the woman - is this was the result of holding in all that booing. Perhaps it would’ve been better to let it all out. But hey, Bush did say something about conserving gas.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Hold the applause puleeze, I'm just gettin' started
Once upon a time in a land far, far away when I was say 30 pounds lighter, thousands upon thousands of dollars less in debt and able to drink like six more beers in a night than I can now (don’t get me wrong, I still puked them up the next morning), a silly college in the Northeast actually let me wax poet with my own column. I wrote about everything from my love affair with Diet Pepsi (DP for short) to more serious topics such as abortion rights vs. its use for birth control. I even got a little taste of fame.
I remember going to a party (God only knows whose) at a brownstone on Beacon Hill and overhearing a couple of fellow co-eds talking about MY COLUMN. Of course, I introduced myself and let them bask in my coolness. They said, “You’re Simply Read?” Only they pronounced “read” like present tense, rather than past or red, which is how I meant it, playing off my reddish-auburn hair and that really bad 80s’ band (I never claimed to be a genius). I corrected them, of course, with a smile, pushing my curls behind me ear with one hand and holding a keg beer in the other. They were down right giddy. “I LOVE your column,” one of them said, only more like Luhh-uve. “I read it every week.” It was amazing in a city as big as Boston I stumbled upon my only two fans. Of course I did a lot of stumbling in those days.
So, I got to thinking the other day and came up with a brilliant, though, far from original idea of starting my own blog. Why not join the millions of other boneheads who think someone actually wants to read what they write and/or actually cares what they have to say? Frankly, I don’t even care if I’m talking to myself. I do it enough anyway, just ask my husband who artfully tunes me out on a regular basis. (Just kidding, Honey. I know you’d NEVER do that.) I know this is no column but dammit I still have a lot to say. Ask anyone who knows me. The other reason is I love to write and some crazy company actually pays me to do so but there are far too many restraints to write what I want to write about and how I want to write it. Oh, and perhaps the most important reason is that I’ve got a lot of crap swirling in this tiny brain of mine that seems to stop me up daily. I’m hoping this exercise in writing will be a cathartic one.
In the spirit of always living in my past, I’m calling my blog Simply Re(a)d. Though my hair has darkened over the years (Simply Brown just really doesn’t work) I thought I’d try the same name but I’m hoping the parentheses are the key to the correct pronunciation.
This is an opportunity to use my creative license, at least the permit, and talk about things I care about or just have fun using words. I’m not sure how often I’ll post but I’ll try to at least once a week. And I’m even more uncertain where this journey will take me. Readers (wishful thinking) might learn a thing or two about me (even if they don’t want to but I’ll try to steer clear from TMI syndrome - that’s “Too Much Information” for those of you who are a little slow.) One thing I know for sure this is my playground. So grab a swing and join me. Here we go!
I remember going to a party (God only knows whose) at a brownstone on Beacon Hill and overhearing a couple of fellow co-eds talking about MY COLUMN. Of course, I introduced myself and let them bask in my coolness. They said, “You’re Simply Read?” Only they pronounced “read” like present tense, rather than past or red, which is how I meant it, playing off my reddish-auburn hair and that really bad 80s’ band (I never claimed to be a genius). I corrected them, of course, with a smile, pushing my curls behind me ear with one hand and holding a keg beer in the other. They were down right giddy. “I LOVE your column,” one of them said, only more like Luhh-uve. “I read it every week.” It was amazing in a city as big as Boston I stumbled upon my only two fans. Of course I did a lot of stumbling in those days.
So, I got to thinking the other day and came up with a brilliant, though, far from original idea of starting my own blog. Why not join the millions of other boneheads who think someone actually wants to read what they write and/or actually cares what they have to say? Frankly, I don’t even care if I’m talking to myself. I do it enough anyway, just ask my husband who artfully tunes me out on a regular basis. (Just kidding, Honey. I know you’d NEVER do that.) I know this is no column but dammit I still have a lot to say. Ask anyone who knows me. The other reason is I love to write and some crazy company actually pays me to do so but there are far too many restraints to write what I want to write about and how I want to write it. Oh, and perhaps the most important reason is that I’ve got a lot of crap swirling in this tiny brain of mine that seems to stop me up daily. I’m hoping this exercise in writing will be a cathartic one.
In the spirit of always living in my past, I’m calling my blog Simply Re(a)d. Though my hair has darkened over the years (Simply Brown just really doesn’t work) I thought I’d try the same name but I’m hoping the parentheses are the key to the correct pronunciation.
This is an opportunity to use my creative license, at least the permit, and talk about things I care about or just have fun using words. I’m not sure how often I’ll post but I’ll try to at least once a week. And I’m even more uncertain where this journey will take me. Readers (wishful thinking) might learn a thing or two about me (even if they don’t want to but I’ll try to steer clear from TMI syndrome - that’s “Too Much Information” for those of you who are a little slow.) One thing I know for sure this is my playground. So grab a swing and join me. Here we go!
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