Scene And Not Heard
Hi. I'm new to the group. My name is Jason. And I am addicted to Twitter.
By now, most of you are familiar with the micro-blogging site that acts as a forum for what you are doing/thinking/feeling right now. It's fast, efficient and a great way to catch up with your buds without having to contact them personally. In addition, the service allows other people to participate in your life from a distance without you having a portable neon sign reading STALKERS WELCOME hanging over your head. When strangers sign up to "follow" you on Twitter, it makes you feel more important than you actually are. One of the unsexiest things I do at AP is compile each issue's editorial budget. But Hassenpfeffer12 in Collapsed Colon, Montana, still thinks that's the most awesome thing on Earth. (Thanks, Hassy. But in this economy, ain't nuthin' sexy 'bout that.)
I've determined my attraction to Twitter comes from wanting to know about a recognized community where you have a personal affinity for the participants. For instance, I care more about Tim Karan's car problems than I do Joey Mihalczek's impending gig in the Circle K parking lot in Cankersore, Pennsylvania. But if I'm visiting the AP Moshpit--or any other message board-cum-information portal--I have to wade through every single inane comment everybody has to make, usually accompanied by some dumb band photo and a three-line sig-file daub of priceless poetry to come out of some Long Island goombah's tattered notebook. Clearly, 140 characters and all my peeps in line cannot be beaten. Not only do I avoid the bandwidth detritus I briefly touched on, I don't have to scroll through the drone static from chattering harpies who have this innate (and unwarranted) need to be heard, even though they have nothing to say.
If you're offended by that last comment, it means you're guilty. So let's break it down to extremes. On the one hand, you've got idiots who are bored, high or any combination of both, who demand to be heard. Like a dude complaining about Mindless Self Indulgence on a message board because MSI somehow inhibit his girl's ability to please him in bed. (Dude, it's because your girlie doesn't have a strong enough imagination to pretend she's Steve Righ's action gal and you're about as capable in bed as three garden slugs.) That's just tedious. On the hideous side, how about all of the comments from the shallow end of the gene pool, who, when learning about Hawthorne Heights' guitarist Casey Calvert's untimely death, just had to get in, "That band sucks, sorry 'bout the dude, tho'." They couldn't just show respect for a good person. Nope, they gotta prove how cool they are by demeaning Calvert's brothers in rock. Way to go, vermin. I bet you'd look real cool if you were, oh, burned alive. But I guess it's hard to move a mouse over to your favorite message board while coping with extremely charred muscle tissue.
So I decided I'm not gonna be part of the problem. If you wanna say my favorite band sucks, fine. I'm gonna look away, because life is too good to make me want to sacrifice prison to embed a splitting maul in the skull holding that gelatinous porridge you call "a brain." But me and my buds on Twitter are gonna have a field day dragging your carcass through a psychic cow pasture. No one's gotta see it or know about it. Suits us both fine, doesn't it?
By now, most of you are familiar with the micro-blogging site that acts as a forum for what you are doing/thinking/feeling right now. It's fast, efficient and a great way to catch up with your buds without having to contact them personally. In addition, the service allows other people to participate in your life from a distance without you having a portable neon sign reading STALKERS WELCOME hanging over your head. When strangers sign up to "follow" you on Twitter, it makes you feel more important than you actually are. One of the unsexiest things I do at AP is compile each issue's editorial budget. But Hassenpfeffer12 in Collapsed Colon, Montana, still thinks that's the most awesome thing on Earth. (Thanks, Hassy. But in this economy, ain't nuthin' sexy 'bout that.)
I've determined my attraction to Twitter comes from wanting to know about a recognized community where you have a personal affinity for the participants. For instance, I care more about Tim Karan's car problems than I do Joey Mihalczek's impending gig in the Circle K parking lot in Cankersore, Pennsylvania. But if I'm visiting the AP Moshpit--or any other message board-cum-information portal--I have to wade through every single inane comment everybody has to make, usually accompanied by some dumb band photo and a three-line sig-file daub of priceless poetry to come out of some Long Island goombah's tattered notebook. Clearly, 140 characters and all my peeps in line cannot be beaten. Not only do I avoid the bandwidth detritus I briefly touched on, I don't have to scroll through the drone static from chattering harpies who have this innate (and unwarranted) need to be heard, even though they have nothing to say.
If you're offended by that last comment, it means you're guilty. So let's break it down to extremes. On the one hand, you've got idiots who are bored, high or any combination of both, who demand to be heard. Like a dude complaining about Mindless Self Indulgence on a message board because MSI somehow inhibit his girl's ability to please him in bed. (Dude, it's because your girlie doesn't have a strong enough imagination to pretend she's Steve Righ's action gal and you're about as capable in bed as three garden slugs.) That's just tedious. On the hideous side, how about all of the comments from the shallow end of the gene pool, who, when learning about Hawthorne Heights' guitarist Casey Calvert's untimely death, just had to get in, "That band sucks, sorry 'bout the dude, tho'." They couldn't just show respect for a good person. Nope, they gotta prove how cool they are by demeaning Calvert's brothers in rock. Way to go, vermin. I bet you'd look real cool if you were, oh, burned alive. But I guess it's hard to move a mouse over to your favorite message board while coping with extremely charred muscle tissue.
So I decided I'm not gonna be part of the problem. If you wanna say my favorite band sucks, fine. I'm gonna look away, because life is too good to make me want to sacrifice prison to embed a splitting maul in the skull holding that gelatinous porridge you call "a brain." But me and my buds on Twitter are gonna have a field day dragging your carcass through a psychic cow pasture. No one's gotta see it or know about it. Suits us both fine, doesn't it?
4 Comments:
in a somewhat off topic comment question. I need 10 good reasons on why I should move from facebook to twitter? I don't want to add everyone I know again so if I don't see a point in Twitter I have no need to move. With that said I don't post on message boards for the reasons you point out.
You don't move from facebook to twitter, you use both. You can force your tweets into facebook via friendfreed or something similar. Then again, I think I last posted my status on Wednesday, so i am not a great example to follow.
Jason, what do you have to say about the new Facebook home page? It seems like they have transformed their 'status' function to the Twitter equivalent. What do you think this will potentially do to Twitter if anything?
@Brad: I'm really the last person in the world to give you an informed opinion on this because a) I rarely look at my Facebook page, b) my wife practically maintains it for me and c) like any free service, you get what you pay for. All I can say is that I like the immediacy of Twitter (140 characters, done!) and all the requisite Facebookian flair (poking, hugging, writing on the wall, "take the Favorite Cleaning Polish quiz") seems like detritus to me.
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