I was tagged this week to write something, which is not something I usually do, but since it fits in nicely with what I was already going to write, I decided to get down with the get down.
There’s been recent drama on Myspace. People claiming that they aren’t who we thought they were. There have been a bazillion blogs about it and people are even changing their names in support or whatever. I’m not going to get into it because there are already enough blogs about it. Plus, I’d rather spend my time doing more important things, like drinking at nine a.m.
But I do have to give my opinion, because oddly enough, the timing couldn’t be better. I wanted to write a blog about freedom this week and everything that’s been going on falls right into my topic.
People complain about Myspace, as they should. The site screws people over all the time and allows other complete crackheads to get away with sending you messages about how they want to suck your toes. But, it also does a valuable service. It allows us to be free.
You know that amendment? The first one? It’s garbage. It’s just words, written on an old brittle piece of toilet paper by ye olde slave rapers. I wonder if they knew how insane people would go in future generations, reading and rereading their words. Looking for hidden meanings and messages. Trying to interpret things written hundreds of years ago and apply them to current day problems. I might not have been all that great in history, (I thought the great depression was when all the neighborhood drug dealers were out of supplies) but I’m pretty sure that John “I’m going to sign my name really big on every piece of paper I find” Hancock didn’t have the internet or myspace blogs in mind. Thomas “Once you go black you never go back”
But, there was an oasis. And that oasis was Myspace. It was a place that allowed people to say what they want, when they want. But then things started to change. Shit got corporate. Now you’re not allowed to say anything that will offend other people, regardless of whether you have the right or not.
I remember a few months ago, seeing a bulletin going around trying to have a group that didn’t support the troops, (a very tired phrase I might add. Just saying you support the troops isn’t the same as actually doing something! If you support the troops, then send them some booze. I promise you, that action will speak louder than words or ugly-ass magnet ribbons ever could.) kicked off of Myspace. Why? Because they said something people didn’t want to hear.
If I created a page where I talked about nothing but having sex with corpses, I would be gone faster than greasy fried food in front of Rosie O’Donnell. Luckily necrophilia isn’t what I’m about, so I’m not too worried. But the point is that we can’t say what we want to.
Those bloggers I was talking about at the beginning, they conducted excellent social experiments, writing blogs as assumed characters. It made some people furious when they came out. Why? Because they don’t understand that the internet is a place where people can be anonymous, they can create entire universes and act anyway they please within them. That’s the beauty of the internet. It doesn’t just bring pedophiles and Chris Hanson together, it also is a place where people can live out their imaginations. Sometimes this leads to wonderful things, like Snake on a Plane. Sometimes it leads to stupid things, like Lonelygirl15, or that dumb ass video about the bride cutting her hair off in front of her friends, (remember that garbage? What ever happened that that chick? Did her acting career take off like she wanted?) The point is that until we are all forced to have webcams and use identity chips, tread with caution. Watch where you step and what you chose to believe on the internet. I can’t believe we still need to tell people that.
But enough of my rambling jibba-jabba. Time to fulfill my duties as a tagged person. My job: to tell six habits or facts about myself that are odd or weird. Should be easy, I’m sure I’ve got plenty of weird habits. Including writing a stupid blog on Myspace, (but I won’t count that as one of the six.) Here goes:
- I have a compulsion to tap out syllables and beats on the fingers of my left hand. Often, when watching television, or having a conversation with people, the fingers on my left hand will move with the words. And I always need for the syllables to end in an even number, preferably four. I don’t know why I do this. It’s never gotten me laid.
- As I’ve mentioned before, I have a phobia against live performances of any kind. Yet I thrive when it comes to speaking improvisationally in front of big crowds.
- I’m allergic to nuts and peanuts. I’m also allergic to all seafood, fish and shellfish. But my allergies to seafood are all in my head. I used to eat fried shrimp when I was a kid and I loved salmon. Then, one day, my mother told me that I was allergic to all that stuff. So now I am. That’s all it took. When I came back from
the first time, she told me that I wasn’t really allergic to seafood, (wasn’t that nice of her?) but doesn’t work that way. I can’t just stop being allergic to something when my body has turned words into reality. Iraq
- I still watch Saturday Morning Cartoons, religiously. I’ve almost written a few blogs about it, I still may. On just about any given Saturday morning, you’ll know where to find me and what I’m doing. Even if I didn’t get to sleep unto four a.m. I’m still up at eight, (then right back to bed at noon).
- I wear my high school class ring on the ring finger of my left hand. I graduated nine years ago. Why do I still wear it? Why do I wear it on the finger where people usually put their wedding rings? I’m sure I’ve missed out on a few adventures because women thought I was married. It’s never gotten me laid either.
- I am a fiend for bad movies. I love ‘em. The worse the better. Ever heard of Sorry I domed your son? I bet you haven’t. That shit is terrible, (by the way, domed means shot in the head, yeah, I thought it was the other thing too.) My favorite show is Mystery Science Theater 3000.
Now, I’ve given six weird facts about myself. It’s up to you to decide if they are true or if they are clever fabrications I designed to make myself look like a moron. What do you think?