Oh, to join the Cult of Hip. To walk into an independent record store feeling self-righteous enough to argue with disgruntled store clerks over the merits of the latest Belle ‘ Sebastian single. To rock the Converse All-Stars with a confidence that spills over like a cup of warm keg beer at a party for cool people. To have a wide, wide circle of friends connected through a web of technology, combined with a service that somehow mutated into warranting degrees of narcissism to which the world has never seen before!
I, apparently, want all of this. And Friendster, from what I hear, can give it to me. Let’s find out more.
Recently, several friends have asked, wearily, why I am not on Friendster. ‘Are you too good for it?’ they mock. ‘You just wait. It’s addictive as crack,’ one said with a tone of unmistakable desperation.
When the editor of my local paper back home sent me an email, insisting that I accept his invitation to join simply because ‘everyone else on this God-fearing earth is there,’ I decided, for research purposes, that I would become … a Friendster. Now, excuse me for a moment while I have a cathartic shaking fit in the bathtub to my Bright Eyes CD.
The reason that I approach something like Friendster which appears, from the outset, to be an innocent, even beneficial service with such trepidation is because it has become part of what I have already referred to earlier: the Cult of Hip.
Friendster, to its credit, is an online social networking service that connects people through networks of friends. It can be used for dating or just making new friends. These private networking communities can connect one friend to hundreds or thousands more. But really, I’m making it sound too nice
The real point of joining Friendster is the opportunity to create a personal profile not unlike the sort of thing available on America Online for your screen name. You upload a photo (don’t smile, look brooding; do not look directly at the camera, wear tight t-shirt with ironic phrasing visible), include your social status, age, location, favorite music and books, interests and a bit about yourself.
Then, people in your network are invited to write a testimonial for your profile often ingratiating, at times amusing. The devil calls it a hipster’s playground, and for once, I think Satan has a point even though he was wearing cuffed jeans and bragging about the size of his record collection when he mentioned it.
Currently, I have five people in my Friendster community, and through them I am connected to 103,791 people. Many of these individuals devote a large amount of space to their favorite bands, the majority of which are off independent record labels. In my music slot, I have written: ‘I listen to more indie-rock bands than you do. Now, be my friend.’ So far nobody new has offered companionship, though I can’t imagine why.
For favorite movies, where many Friendsters list films that have garnered numerous awards at Sundance festivals, I have chosen two heart-wrenching classics in their own right: Weekend at Bernie’s 2 and Glitter.
Under interests, I have listed defamation, defecation and being a dork. I’m sure some real winners will find me that way.
In my picture, I am smiling grinning profusely, actually and looking directly into the camera.
At least now I can say, with some hesitation, that I’ve made the effort to join and be social, to dip my feet in the freezing waters of Hipsterdom. But unless I find out that, through some inexplicable network that traverses the space-time continuum, I’m connected to Michael Jackson, I’m not checking my profile again.