Thursday, February 01, 2007


We once had a fight at the club that started because one guy denied another guy’s friend request on MySpace. According to Italian witnesses, one Guido walked right up to the other Guido, demanded to know why his friend request was denied, then punched the poor fellow in the face. Rumor had it, in fact, that the spurned MySpacer had actually come to the club that night for the sole purpose of finding this guy and giving him a piece of his mind.

Bouncers being bouncers, we ridiculed this situation for weeks. We milked the fucker for all the comedic value it was worth. At the time, I don’t think I’d ever even logged onto MySpace, and had no idea it meant so much to so many local degenerates. I can verify this, too. Shortly after this happened, the entire MySpace phenomenon was explained to me, in detail, by the girl who works at the front desk in my gym. Her version of things was seconded by a gaggle of meathead jerkoffs who proceeded to regale me with tales of their many MySpace conquests.

Still, to hit someone because of a perceived slight on a social networking site? What the fuck is that? The floodgates of sanctimony burst open yet again:

There’s a war in Iraq there’s a war in Afghanistan the buildings were bombed my friends are dodging roadside bombs people are sick people are dying cancer is killing us genocide in Africa slavery in Burma tsunami in Phuket massive tragedy in New Orleans…

And Guido’s willing to go to jail for MySpace. I was incredulous…until it happened to me.

I caught myself, though. It only took a few seconds – certainly too short a period to premeditate an assault. As “Clint” would say, I flashed. But I’m okay, thanks.

There’s a “writer” whose blog I read fairly regularly. I think he’s a pretty funny guy. We even know a few people in common. I sent him a friend request, and a little missive saying that I enjoyed his writing, and received no response, although I noted that my message was read. For thirty days, his little profile picture stayed there in my pending request box all by itself.

Assuming this to be some sort of oversight, I tried again. Same result – message read, no reply, little picture in pending request box for thirty days. What the fuck?

So yeah, I got a little pissed. You’d be surprised at what it does to you, at least in the thirty seconds after you’ve realized what’s happened. Of course, the thing that differentiates us from the typical Guido is the fact that we don’t allow this anger to compel us to carry out any ill-conceived club-whacking scenarios as a result. Unlike them, we get over it – which, as you’re probably thinking, is exactly what I’ve proven by blathering on about it for nearly five-hundred words.

As always, my friends, another example of how the really cool people don’t ride the Long Island Railroad.