MySpace, MyA@$#!

The moment I realized MySpace had taken over the world was when I discovered the official United States Marine Corps page. Although the military had long advertised on the site, it is now using a flashy MySpace page, complete with streaming video of boot camp and war, to recruit young people.

I knew the social networking site attracted more than just teenyboppers, musicians, pedophiles and hyper-expressive professionals. Politicians, athletes and nationally known comedians have all found a niche on the site, too. But I had no idea that the US military had decided to acknowledge MySpace’s importance as a strategic resource. Combine that acknowledgement with the reality that Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp., the same entity controlling the Fox News Channel, owns MySpace and suddenly my paranoia about the site doesn’t seem so irrational.

And that’s only part of why I hate MySpace.

It’s hard to go a day without hearing something about MySpace. Whether it’s a news article on some teenage girl running off with an older man she met there or a new acquaintance asking me to join his or her “friends list,” it is impossible to ignore its pervasiveness. With more than 95 million users — and growing by about 500,000 new users a week — MySpace is more than just a fad for the digitally inclined. It seems everyone has a page (even Burger King). If you don’t, the site likely has already claimed someone in your family, probably the youngest member.

In the last year, MySpace has seen its stature grow. Music buffs around the country are praising the site’s ability to attract fans to previously unheard-of bands. Athletes and politicians are joining to enhance their networking. The only site as ubiquitous is search engine Google, but even that is losing ground: In July, MySpace became the No. 1 website in the United States, overtaking Google and Yahoo in number of visitors.

Everyone seems to love MySpace.

Except for me.

I hate MySpace. And up until recently, when it was decided I would join the site for this story, I had narrowly managed to avoid its clutches.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t agree with alarmist legislators or district attorneys from Texas trying to clamp down on access to MySpace, so frightened by any organization that can bring together millions of angst-ridden teenagers to let loose their lives on the world. I think the idea of pissing off older authority figures is great. The impetus that pushes teenagers to create heady pain-filled MySpace pages is the same one that made my friends create sub-par death metal tapes, fanzines and offensive homemade T-shirts.

And I’m no technophobe, either. I love the idea of having your own website to share your rose- or shit-colored view on the world with throngs of strangers.

But MySpace is a little more insidious than just “a place for friends.” The most frightening aspect isn’t the cyber-crazies or attack of the multi-colored and badly designed websites; it is the way the site is easing its sinister tentacle-like circuits into everything from music, sports and politics to how we interact in the public sphere. MySpace has become more than a tool to create sketchy relationships; it is a weapon used to destroy reputations, a political tactic to persuade voters, yet another marketing ploy to take our innermost thoughts and turn them into slick advertising materials.

The most chilling aspect of MySpace is its omnipresence. You can no longer ignore the site lest you be ignored by it, and by default, the rest of the connected world. MySpace is like the Star Trek series villains the Borg — it will not be satisfied until it has assimilated every last one of us. One by one, my friends have fallen into the digital black hole, forced to suck up valuable time better spent in front of the TV or loitering outside gas stations. Once caught, there is no other form of contact with these people without joining the cult yourself.

All of this, of course, has gotten progressively worse. Just in the time it will take to read this article, about 4,500 users will have joined. MySpace is not steadily growing; it is charging ahead exponentially.

MySpace’s nefarious intent can be summed up in one outdated name — Rupert. Last year, MySpace sold to News Corp., the Rupert Murdoch-owned outfit that includes the Fox News Channel, for $580 million. An influential website that reaches into millions of lives is one thing; the same site owned by the king of right-wing sleazy journalism sets up the Armageddon.

So, in a daunting display of selflessness, I decided to embed myself inside the army of MySpacers in an effort to infiltrate this modern-day Borg ship. It would be terrifying, and I risked being swallowed whole by all the comments, instant messaging and friends list, possibly losing any semblance of real human interaction, but I was willing to take the chance.

If I don’t return, IM my mom.

Day 1. There really is not much to starting a MySpace profile. You sign up using your e-mail address and the site guides you through the short steps to create a personal page.

First, the picture. Although not required, the true MySpacer posts a picture that personifies who they are. There are basically four types of MySpace profile pictures: the crooked self-photo via cell phone (the more cleavage, the better); the substituted pet photo (extra points for a zoo animal); the blatant copyright violation (a defaced SpongeBob or presidential figure); and the group photo (usually taken at a kegger).

I decide on a black-and-white photo taken when I first arrived in Florida.

Next, I add my demographic information. MySpace wants to know if you are married, single or a swinger; gay, straight or bi; your occupation and yearly salary; and your education level and schools attended.

Most of these I choose not to fill out. I find myself not wanting to divulge personal information for the rest of the world to see. I’m also bothered by having to fit my life into a pre-approved MySpace template — I don’t watch TV, my musical tastes are too varied to list, and I don’t have any “heroes.”

Still, I fill out my profile as expected, press “submit,” and voila! — I’m inducted into the largest digital cult in history.

I sit staring at my finished profile for a moment and realize I already have a friend. Oh yes, it’s Tom Anderson — the site’s creator. Tom is everyone’s friend. As part of the code that makes up the site, Tom is automatically added to your friend’s list when you create a page. This way, even the loneliest of us don’t have to go friendless. I can’t say I’m excited to be just another notch on Tom’s belt o’ friends. So I delete him, purely out of spite.

I’m about to sign out of my page and return to the real world when I receive a message: “Kiki would like to be added to your MySpace friends list.” I don’t know a Kiki, so before I approve or deny Kiki’s request for friendship, I decide to click on the profile to see what Kiki is all about. She is a 15-year-old girl from Ocala. I deny friendship. Less than two hours into MySpace world and I’ve already come too close to statutory rape. I’m done for today.

Day 2. Despite the near-trauma of my first day, I decide to join the other multitudes of MySpacers in what appears to be the No. 1 activity on MySpace — stalking ex-classmates online.

At first, I am apprehensive about finding old friends and acquaintances. One of the main reasons I did not keep a MySpace account is my old-fashioned view of privacy; that is, I like it.

My fear arises from the site’s exceptional ability to attract all those freaks from high school I’ve tried so hard to forget. Sure, it’s great to find that your cheating first love ended up a fat hairdresser in a Largo trailer park. But at the risk of finding another classmate who you dumped and now has stolen her jailed boyfriend’s car to drive 1,500 miles to show up at your doorstep claiming she bore your love child? No, thank you.

The search is enlightening, if not a bit disturbing. Most of the people I sat next to while attending a tiny Central Florida high school ended up in the military. One of them, a guy I barely remember, has an interesting motto: “U.S. Marines … Travel agents to Allah … Kill ’em all.” Now I remember why I left.

A search of my Iowa high school yields more lighthearted results: An avowed Satanist I dated became a lesbian; the sweet straight-edge girl I had a crush on is drunk in every one of her pictures; ex-girlfriends are married to gnarled farmers; and another is essentially whoring herself out through the site.

I see the attraction of MySpace: spying on people you know and laughing at their growing misfortune in life. It’s the ultimate reality TV show. I just don’t understand why anyone would put themselves through that kind of torture.

I’d rather risk isolation.

Day 3. While perusing my friends’ profiles today, I come across what is soon to be some psychology student’s thesis — the effect of MySpace on relationships. The Web is full of sites detailing the sad stories of lovers ruined by the cyber meat market that is MySpace. Even the simple question of “dating status” could provoke an argument, as it did with my girlfriend and me. A search of her page revealed a “single” status, while mine remained “in a relationship.” I convince myself it was a simple mistake — “single” is the default setting unless you change it manually — but in weaker relationships where the line between single and monogamy is hazy, it could start a tug of war between trust and noncommitment issues.

On the other end of the spectrum, some MySpacers use the site strictly to find serious relationships. Can love be found traipsing through someone’s favorite TV shows? If the recent online marriage proposal by Limp Biskit frontman Fred Durst to a Rhode Island woman is any indication, it will get much, much worse.

Day 4. Today is yet another MySpace low point. I received a message from an old friend today who found me on the site. A former cheerleader at my Iowa high school, she says MySpace is an easy way for her to contact friends back home. But she declines my friendship, because she is working for a US senator and does not want anything remotely damaging to appear on her site. I have been digitally dissed.

I respect my friend’s wariness, though. Despite a new survey from the National Association of Colleges and Employers suggesting 27 percent of employers check out potential employees on MySpace, the site’s users do not seem to get it: If your friends can find you and see it, so can a company’s human resources department.

The list of people fired because of MySpace indiscretions runs long:

• Marion County Sheriff’s deputy Brian Quinn was fired over wearing his uniform in a MySpace photo.

• Administrators at a Las Vegas Catholic high school permanently sent home a teacher after they discovered he declared himself gay on his personal MySpace account.

• St. Petersburg Times’ upper management fired writer Gina Vivinetto after she posted comments on a Ronda Storms parody MySpace page.

How long until my bosses figure out I like the movie Office Space? With MySpace, any employee’s days are numbered. Or at least their staplers are threatened.

Day 5. The mass invites — MySpace’s version of junk mail — have gone from a trickle to an all-out waterfall of chain letters, band invites and random “u r soooo hottt” missives. From Internet-savvy politicians in states I’ve never visited to bands with a particular heinous brand of sonic mayhem, everyone seems to want to be on my friends list. But there are no true friends in MySpace, only self-absorbed users collecting friends like baseball cards. The cheapening of friendship has made me cynical, so I make Burger King my No. 1 friend.

The rest of you can go to hell.

Day 6. One of my new “friends” tries to pressure me into starting a blog. But I know better. Rupert Murdoch did not purchase the site for its ad revenue potential; he wanted to mine the profiles for marketing data. Every time a newcomer signs up, News Corp. has the profile of a real consumer complete with age, marital status, education level, occupation, salary and interests ranging from music to television. Since MySpace attracts a larger, and more valuable, demographic than any phone or mail survey could hope to achieve, it’s not too outrageous to suspect that clothing and record companies could use this data, along with ideas culled from photos and blogs, to advance their bottom line.

In fact, it was just a couple of months ago that MySpace changed its terms-of-use contract from claiming ownership to anything posted on the site (including music) to allowing artists to retain their rights. If not for the keen eye of musician Billy Bragg, and the firestorm he started after pulling his songs from the site, MySpace might still be claiming ownership of every piece of music, video and text uploaded. Is it too far-fetched to think they might surreptitiously change the terms again? I won’t take the chance. I don’t need to advance someone else’s business or marketing scheme through my blog. Especially not a blog on MySpace.

Day 7. With just fewer than 100 profile views and 24 friends, my week exploring the virtual juggernaut is over. I’m happy to escape with my life. One can’t argue the success of the site in just three years, but at what cost? MySpace is like an untested drug distributed to the masses; we won’t know its vicious side effects for years to come. Its success has already resulted in a number of Frankenstein sites, the worst being Wal-Mart’s recently released “The Hub,” a sanitized version of MySpace allowing users to show off photos, music and their favorite Wal-Mart gear. The site’s members, affectionately called “Hubsters,” also have a chance to win an appearance in a Wal-Mart television commercial. As if being a “Hubster” wasn’t embarrassing enough.

Fuck MySpace and those who espouse its alleged greatness. I may have made 24 “friends” in one week, but I still hate the damn site. Sharing it with countless pedophiles made me feel dirty, and I have this unwavering paranoia that something I post on the site will come back to haunt me. Of course, that is the least of my worries.

In a rare interview with a PBS journalist last month, Murdoch admitted he will introduce the site to 11 more countries, specifically targeting heavily populated India and China. He suggested the site could inject democracy into the latter’s communist regime. I think he has much bigger plans.

After Indians and Chinese join the MySpace network, the site could easily boast more than a billion users. With the entire world connected, News Corp. will enter into government contracts to collect taxes, issue passports and perform online surveillance. Halliburton will merge with News Corp. to launch cyber-attacks on stubborn world leaders, deleting their friends lists and forcing them to fill out mind-numbing “How hot is he?” surveys. All news and opinion will come straight to MySpace pages, available in a microchip inserted into our wrists for convenience. Then, while laughing maniacally and folding his ironclad hands together, Murdoch will unleash his most devious plot — the MySpace digital re-education camp. It will brainwash friends and family and turn them into mindless, flag-waving drones.

My advice to all you MySpacers: Get out now, while you can.

This story originally appeared in Weekly Planet, CL’s sister paper in Tampa. Alex Pickett’s MySpace page is at www.myspace.com/tampaurbanexplorer.

This article appears in Sep 13-19, 2006.