Webupon

I figured out “You Tube” wasn’t a Bono fan site only about a year after the high-water mark of that craze hit. And watching people hurt themselves is always funny.
MySpace
was pretty cool until my only friend requests were from “ladies” who promised me a good time only when I gave out my credit card number and proved I was over eighteen. Chatting, well I can handle the fact that my dream girl who shares my interests may very well be a shirtless fat guy who could shave his back and make enough pelts to warm an entire village. Web-camming? It’s kinda old school Star Trekky. I can dig that. FTPs and music file sharing? I figure if no one buys my music, then I sure as Hell am not going to pay for any. Things even out. Perez Hilton? I won’t even go there.

Facebook, however, I knew was bad news from the get go. I went to great lengths to avoid that monster, despite the repeated accolades from my friends and email prompts. I fought the pull towards it, but inevitably, like slowing down for a car wreck, I was drawn in. It was for a good reason, or so I told myself; I lost a studio engineer’s email address. So I used Facebook to contact him. Of course, I had to become a member to do so.

Not two days later, they started creeping in. One, soon two friend requests. I allowed them to join my Facebook universe, not thinking of consequence. Suddenly 10, 20… Thirty of those bastards that I hated in high school, ignored for years on purpose, were poking me, quizzing me, sending me a variation of the same message, “Are you still playing music and writing?”

I felt the condescending tone from these innocuous words, like being stung when smelling a flower. The girls all had different last names than I remembered, or at least hyphenated hybrids, half of them single, all of them flashing pictures of their kids. The guys were wearing backwards facing ball caps with oil-rig stains in their crow’s feet, bragging about their cash and living creative “wish-I-would’ves” vicariously through my broke ass.

So is it really so bad to be contacted in this manner? Well, no. Can’t I just ignore the prompts and invites in my ebox? You bet, one would think. But here’s where the tragedy enters the fray.

I was a tad, shall we say, promiscuous in my early years. Safe sex was not yet a fad, strippers liked band guys over bikers, and groupies went for the long-haired rockers instead of blinged-out fashion conscious rappers. Granted, I may have accumulated enough Club Z point at the VD clinic to get a free gas barbecue, but hey! Good times, good times.

So what’s the problem, you, dear reader, are probably asking? Just ignore Facebook and eventually people will get the hint, right? Not quite. Let me introduce you to the next phase of litigation: Facebook paternity suits. Yep, it seems that a few of those kids in the family photos have my eyes. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? I’m probably guilty on at least two counts. Thank God my blood type is “O”, common enough to raise doubt in court. Settle down. Remember, I’m broke.

This leads me to wonder how many others will be tracked down in this manner. What can this lead to? There is no longer any way to hide, justified or no. Big brother is really watching. Facebook is dangerous. I should’ve used someone else’s picture in my profile.