In Your Face?

Like Britpop, ‘24’ and books by Bret Easton Ellis, some bandwagons provide a far more entertaining ride long after the initial furore surrounding them has died down. Last week, I thought I had Yuppie Flu; next summer, I’ll be wearing those vile, ungainly, neon plastic clogs that everybody suddenly seems to be shuffling around in today – that’s how ‘on trend’ I am. So, the current media saturation of professional and personal opinion regarding the thrills, spills and bellyaches of the various available routes through the modern communications maze usually only grabs my attention when it makes me laugh: the bloggers have taken over the (political) asylum, schoolkids have yet again written their exam essays in txt msg 4mat and “my millionaire entrepreneur Internet lover turned out to be a coprophiliac bigamist!” (ah well, at least in the world of dating, some things never change).

But after months spent being equally dismissive about the latest fad to seduce the children of the techno age, I’ve succumbed to pressure from a ‘community’ that’s taken up far more column inches, airtime and energy than the zeroes version of schooldays desktop compass-etching should merit. I’ve spent the past few days being tagged, ragged and poked. I’ve displayed an exhaustive rundown of my likes, dislikes and career history (ha!) for all the world to see, had buns thrown at me, and have been busy erasing the vile personal insults that are regularly scrawled all over my wall. Yesterday, Marc Bolan contacted me from beyond the grave (at last!). Oh yes, it’s all happening on Facebook. Not quite as arty as MySpace and nowhere near as fascinating or resourceful as YouTube and Wikepedia, this time-sapping activity combines texting, MSN messaging and dumbed down pub banter, all dressed up as a self-styled, online ‘social utility’. So why am I filled with an ineffable sense of joy every time a new ‘friend’ attaches themselves to me? Why do I come over all touchy-feely when I sign in in the morning and learn that Lottie is feeling ‘gorgeous’ today, while Kitty is busy cleaning? And why do I feel the need to tell all who stumble across my profile that I’m ‘lovely’?

Because I'm only human. Because, like most people, I want to fit in, be popular, care and be cared about. I want my opinions, observations, worries and plans – however ridiculous, misinformed, humble or grand – to be registered somewhere else other than only in my own head. I've got my work, this blog and a very active social life to keep me busy, happy and fulfilled, but if I don’t want to be alone – at 4am, say, or during that ripe-for-procrastination, mid-morning lull – I no longer have to be; I have instant access to what’s going on, not in the “who’s responsible for how many deaths today” way that the news provides me with, but in my own, immediate orbit. Did my teenage niece have a good night out on the town? Did Lyn finish that script before the deadline? Has William agreed that ‘The Las’ do indeed deserve to come before ‘A Flock of Seagulls’ but after ‘Wah!’ in the top 10 list of ‘Great Scousers in Pop’?

Of course, we could all send each other emails about such pressing matters, pick up the phone and ramble ‘live’ or even – hey! – choose face to face over Facebook. But I'm not going to make lame excuses for my current addiction by saying that that time, distance and energy prevents us all from doing so. I’d rather be honest about it: we’re lazy, we want to be immortal, and Facebook lets us believe we matter.

If you’re of the opinion that hell is other people, neither Facebook nor any member of its extended family is for you. If, however, you’re an ego-driven narcissist with time on your hands, there’s plenty of room on the bandwagon.