A few weeks back, I was stomping around the French Quarter with my cousins. I was pointing out interesting architecture and giving general history lessons to my cousin’s three boys. Street medians are called divisions in New Orleans. Earth-shattering stuff like that.
We passed a woman using a public phone. Without changing my tour-guide tone I said, “And that boys is the last woman on earth who doesn’t own a cell phone.” There but for the grace of God, go I.
Sometimes I feel like the last person on earth without a MySpace account. Pros and cons aside, it has become a matter of pride, a test of wills. I feel the pressure. Every page says I’m already in their “extended network.” I’m so close I can smell ’em.
I don’t genuinely hate MySpace. It is a source of endless entertainment to see the lousy layouts, dancing widgets, and general disarray of some pages. Sometimes I wonder if there is a contest running that requires your MySpace page to have as much crap as possible stuffed into it. Is there a prize for putting pink text on top of heart-strewn wallpaper? There must be bonus points for giving the reader a seizure with blinking widgets.
The only thing left that makes me want to join MySpace is the building urge to show people what a decent webpage looks like. But who am I kidding? You can’t argue rationally with someone with Hello Kitty stamped all over their page. Argh! It makes me want to drink before 5PM.