Anti-structuralism and technological confusion for the postmodern geriatric
/In a world exclusive I can announce I joined Twitter today. I'm actually not sure why; I think predominantly I wanted to be informed of new articles by my favourite commentators but am still uncertain if you're 'alerted' by new tweets in some way (such as the buzzer that sounds on my phone when I get emails). If not, really, what's the point? But then again, that might entail a constant buzzing if the world of the wondrous and pre-eminent is as rife with happenings as we're lead to believe...
I tried to decipher the strange language used on the tweets or twitterings in some cases and was horrified to find a naked woman in a photo sent to Russell Brand. I don't quite know how I became privvy to the post as I most certainly didn't wish to be although it was intriguing to see the array of piercings. I am therefore assuming that such tweetings are indeed made public and wish her every luck in her attempt to bed the delectable Brand or become a page three girl or advertise her piercing parlour...
I am old. It's apparent, I know. It doesn't help that that is the litany I constantly get from my young adult children... "you're so old!" As though my 94 year old father is not old and therefore I am not actually THAT old. But I relent. I am old. I do not understand the social media as these young things reared on it do. I have trouble reading a Facebook page. It's just all so BUSY. There's things flashing and pictures everywhere and small boxes of various texts and icons; it's all so CONFUSING. What is all that shit?
It seems there's an infinite supply of mindless drivel and mind boggling trivia bombarding our senses from the moment the page opens. I feel like I've opened the door to my home and suddenly there is an entire cast of Glee belting out a showtune while dancing girls cavort amid streaming glitter and a parade of exotic animals trot between the orchestra, valiantly dodging the flaming brands being tossed by a troupe of jugglers dressed as jesters. Where to look? What to take in? What to discard?
And I found the whole thing quite disheartening in just having to sign up and make so many what seemed, monumental decisions; whom do I want to follow? I can only choose five? Well that's like that game of who would you invite to dinner if you could. Well, who would I if I can only have five and they have to be alive? Okay, I settled on that; it was my favourite commentators (no Russell was not one of them- that came later on a whim). Oh! Then I was offered another five. Well goodness me. I wouldn't have found the whole thing so traumatic if I knew you could have more.
I was momentarily toying with following Meryl Streep and then thought, well I do like Colin Farrell... but decided it would be too humiliating by far to follow them as though I were a breathless teenager with a crush. Too humiliating by a cosmonaut's mile. Really just too, too much. At my age. And THEN I saw Russell Brand on offer and just like when you're at the checkout and your stomach rumbles and your eye falls on the Cherry Ripes and Chokito bars, you relent and grab the impulse buy the megastores count on when they spend huge sums of money sending their twelve year old managers to interstate conferences that tackle the vital issue of Product Placement in Your Stores, Particularly Near Your Checkouts So That Customers Can't Resist Grabbing That One Thousandth Extra Thing They Really Don't Need.
I may "unfollow" (see, I can learn) Russell if I can't make out what the hell he's saying in the next couple of days. I notice, like myself, David Attenborough is far more discerning than to write something every five seconds and realises that no one, not even an avid fan, is interested in his bowel movements or his excitement at finding that M & S still sell his favourite sock brand. He hasn't tweeted since March. Besides, unlike myself, he has a life.
So feeling somewhat disappointed that there was no enlightening missive from David, I found I was being asked for a bio. Good heavens, what does one say about oneself? You wish to appear modest... you really shouldn't be blowing your own trumpet... So I looked at a few of the bios of people I'm now following. They all had impressive employment credentials, current activism roles, or found there was no necessity to mention anything about themselves as they're so famous. What was I to put? Any list of my interests sounded lame. My trumpet blowing days... no they're not over; they never arrived, unheralded or otherwise. What am I doing among such illustrious company? Who gives a infinitesimal hoot what a small chicken from Chookshit New South Wales thinks?
I knew that any moment now, the Twitter Accounting Department would come across my newly appointed membership and realise that an intruder had breached the ranks of the rich and famous. I was momentarily excited by what hackers must feel when they violate the firewall (or whatever it is that protects the empires of the great and enviable). Then I realised that the next 'alert' I would receive on my phone was to alert me of the email informing me of a cancelled account and that my twittering days were over before they'd barely begun.
I would never have time to disentangle the mayhem of icons and jargon. I would never get closer to the magnificent and notables again. It was time to race through my readings of their tweeterings, but curse my oldness, I couldn't rush anywhere with all the arthritis and with the geriatric confusion could not make head nor tail of it all in any case. Bah humbug! I don't belong there anyway!
Still, while I'm waiting for the 'alert', I'll just check on what Colin's up to and find out if Meryl's had that bowel movement yet... and what the hell, I might actually have an enfeebled rebellious moment and tweet something by Sub-Atomic Avian with Nothing Much to Say from Chickenshit New South Wales while I'm at it.