I'm not sure how much I enjoyed Doonesbury this week as Gary Trudeau put Twitter squarely in his sights and skewered the always hapless and completely oblivious Roland Hedley (though I did appreciate the insight into the upside of going gray, dude).
I got one of these accounts through a link on one of my local newspaper's websites. I think I joined about a month ago. Spent a couple of days confused when I had messages, sort of like instant messages (I guess; I don't know how to do them with email so I don't) and felt bad I hadn't responded to discover that wasn't necessary a problem or bad thing. I was heartened by what I thought was a very interesting piece of narrowcasting within a broadband medium.
In theory, as my (very flawed) understanding (as it turned out) of all of this connectivity stuff worked, a reporter at the NY Times (yes, the Gray Lady twits or is it tweets? Arthur O how could you do this to yourself?) working on a story I was following, could, at least I think so, provide private insights into aspects of the story that weren't being published for mass consumption. A peek behind the curtain, so to speak.
VH1's Behind the Music without all the mandatory obsequious and sycophantic ego-stroking required so that copyright material might be used to dress up fawning and otherwise patronizing and trite observations. (I really like that show, can you tell?). Problem was I couldn't really control the flow of information from the Times' feeds, and all of it is limited to 140 character bursts. It was like reading the history of the world, being written in real time, by someone with Attention Deficit Disorder while locked in a cardboard box with a peephole perched in the backseat of a speeding automobile.
Since I like her music, I signed up to 'follow' (appears to be the same as stalk, except the object of your affection knows you're out there) Sara Bareilles, whose music I enjoy a great deal but not nearly as much as I used to. Getting notes about buying shoes and being referred to as 'you guys!' and learning that she was all warm and toasty after a bowl of noodles in New Orleans (I think) really exceeded my need to know and totally maxed out my need to care.
And again, old dog that I am, what's the etiquette for this stuff? Should I respond? She's not much older than my daughter, Michelle, who regards most people on the planet with a measured and jaundiced eye (I have no idea where she gets that from) and how much like a dad do I have to be to someone who's just dithering in the ether? Come to think, where the hell is her dad to tell her to pipe down? Why am I always baby-sitting other people's children? My own two barely survived my limited parental interference. What is the world coming to when I'm the lifeguard at the sanity pool?
And then the weekend before going for knee replacement surgery, through the same newspaper, I got my very own Facebook page (eeek!). It's like being in sixth grade again, and I had so much fun back then. I can't help but wonder what I'm missing in all of this (I am also in Linkedin, or however it's spelled for copyright purposes which I was signed up for about two years ago and still cannot understand) as all of these social networks are like the barbershop's infinity of mirrors trick enabling you to, indeed, see the back of your head while in the barber's chair, to infinity and beyond but once you've done that, what next?
When all the convergence and connectivity Kool-Aid started to get passed out in 70's, I'd have assumed by now we'd have found ways to better manage conflict, regulate weather, control pollution and feed the hungry. It seems to me the same tools that could have carved a second David or Pieta are being turned to produce Spinal Tap's Stonehenge and my very limited supply of Eleven's is almost entirely gone.
-bill kenny
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