It started with a gray hair. A single strand.
It reflected off the bathroom’s fluorescent light and into the mirror, streaking like a comet through deep space.
This must be an anomaly, but still. It was the only gray hair on my 25-year-old head. But that was the moment I began to feel the youth seeping from my being, and so began what will be a lifelong search for the hissing valve.
That’s when I decided to join MySpace.
MySpace.com is the social networking Web site frequented by America’s youth. Think of it as a digital bulletin board: Users customize their home page with pictures and music clips, and people you designate as “friends” are able to post messages and photos on your site. With some 95 million participants worldwide, MySpace recently became the most visited Web domain for U.S. users. It has transcended the realm of pop culture phenomenon — it’s now a neologism, as in “do you MySpace?” on par with “mapquest it” and “googling.”
In other words, it’s hip and cool. And I wanted a piece before I collect Social Security, if it’s still in business.
For the longest time, I fought the temptation to join. One, it all seemed terribly high school. More importantly, there have been numerous accounts of employers disciplining staff for posting content not in line with company standards. I’ve heard of job seekers being turned down because of incriminating pictures interviewers found on their MySpace page.
Still, the prospect of an improved social life was exciting. In my wildest dreams, MySpace would turn me into the social butterfly I wanted to be. My schedule book would become so full, I would no longer have to lie and say, “Umm, of course I’ve got plans Friday night” — just to appear less desperate.
So in late April, I dived into this strange and strangely exciting world of MySpace.
The first part was easy. I signed up (it’s free), uploaded my least-embarrassing photo and sat back.
As I found out, the essence of MySpace involves searching for people you know and inviting them to become your online “friend.” If they oblige, congratulations! A counter displaying the number of friends you have increases, and their photos automatically appear on your page. Now they can leave messages and pictures to their hearts’ content.
Jesse, whom I’ve known since 6th grade, became friend No. 1.
Andy, a high school confidant who now sells tractors for a living, was friend No. 2.
Compared with the 13-year-old MySpacer out there with hundreds of friends, two is a sad, pathetic number. I sought out others from high school I considered true friends (people who would pick me up at the airport). By night’s end, I added six more names. My counter ticked up; their photos appeared on my page.
But searching for friends was half the equation. I wanted other people to seek me out; have them invite me as their friend. In the following days, a half dozen or so people tracked me down. Some I knew and some I can’t remember, but it was flattering all the same.
I finally understood why millions of teenagers are obsessed with MySpace: The site represents a self-aggrandizing view of one’s social standing in the world, and nothing boosts the ego more than the ability to quantify your popularity. By early May, my friend count was 20.
Curiosity quickly became an obsession. I bookmarked the site, reflexively checking the page every five minutes for new messages. I typed in random names from my high school yearbook and was surprised at how many classmates were MySpacing (about a third of my graduating class).
As I made my online presence known, names from the past appeared on the computer screen. Jennifer, the first girl I took to a high school dance, tracked me down and filled me in on her life since I last saw her five years ago. She’s married with three beautiful children. Alissa, a physics lab partner, was a civil engineer for the FAA. Sherry, a girl I met in college, was a morning news anchor in Arizona.
The potential for finding new friends was enormous. One college buddy, Jackson, told me how girls would come up to him at bars and ask for his MySpace Web address. How brilliant! It’s the telephone number on a napkin for the 21st Century.
My expectations grew even higher. Every aspect of my social life — dates, party notices, get-togethers, notes of congratulation, sending Christmas cards — would be aggregated into binary code on a one-stop-shop Internet site. I could accomplish everything with a click of the index finger.
Three months after joining MySpace, my anti-social behavior reached a new low. I relied on the site to send birthday greetings. Birthday greetings! I’ve never been lazier.
Jennifer got in touch with me a week after the birth of her third son, Kalai. Flowers should have been the least I could send. Instead, I dropped her a note on MySpace.
I found out my friend Annie recently completed her first marathon in San Diego — a tremendous feat that took years of toil and training to accomplish. A year ago, I would have written a card. What I sent took 30 seconds to write and send off.
Even the most fraternal of male activities, trash talking, found a home on MySpace. The impact of leaving a voice mail and dissing my fellow fantasy baseball players was lost.
In times of war, the notion that soldiers would pen letters to loved ones was the epitome of romance. These notes were cherished, stored in shoeboxes and passed down for future generations. Nobody regards a hard drive as a treasured romantic memento.
The intimacy of communication, then, is the victim of technology. One could trace this devolving lineage, each more impersonal than the previous: face-to-face contact, letters, phone, e-mail, instant messaging, text messaging, and now, MySpace.
Many people requested that I add them on my MySpace page as a friend, but I never heard from them again after I clicked `OK.’ One supposed friend never responded to multiple notes I sent. I felt cheap and used, just another notch on their digital bedpost.
Worst yet, I haven’t gotten any dates out of it. The folks I associate with seem to have just missed MySpace-mania, even though many twentysomethings I talked to said a majority of their friends (I kept hearing 75 percent) were members.
Today, the friend counter on my page stands at 35. It has been steady for a while now.
If anything, the site has reconnected me with lost friends, people I certainly didn’t expect to hear from again. And for the investment placed on the setup (a half-hour of my time, no money spent), it was worthwhile.
But as the 18th Century English literary figure Samuel Johnson said, “Hope is itself a species of happiness … and expectations improperly indulged, must end in disappointment.”
I had expected MySpace to be a cure-all for my social inadequacies, but I realized — as with all things in life — that I have to put some effort into it.
To become a friend (and not by the MySpace definition), perhaps I should pick up the phone. Or write a letter. Maybe send some flowers. I still have Jennifer’s home address somewhere.
As for the MySpace page, it’ll stay active for the time being, but I shouldn’t set my expectations for the site so high. I wouldn’t want my hair to turn gray over it.
———-
kpang@tribune.com
Kevin Pang can also be reached at myspace.com/kevinthepang.
