Facebook has finally got me
After a decade of stubborn resistance, it felt like a capitulation to the evil empire. And really, it was. I finally joined Facebook, and it was with decidedly mixed feelings that I set up my dinky little home page.
Why had I arrived so late at this particular party? In part, for companionship. As someone who works alone, I could see the attraction in accumulating a posse of longdistance digital mates with similar interests, obsessions, and senses of humour.
But, if I’m honest, it was also an act of shameless self-promotion. If you’re a journalist in the current media environment, a huge proportion of your audience is finding and sharing your stories via this platform.
To continue to shun Facebook as just another sneaky corporate who pimps one’s private info to advertisers was to cut myself off from a useful tool that would help me do my job.
And so, with a considerable feeling of defeat, this late adopter finally joined the club. My first posting alluded to my tender newbie status. ‘‘Be gentle with me, OK?’’, I pleaded. ‘‘I’m new here.’’
There was an initial mad flurry of activity as I friended critters whose names I recognised – writers, artists, bon vivants, music and beer geeks – and strangers stumbled across my name and requested digital mateship.
And then, it began: a trickle of incoming comments from more experienced Facebook users, warning me… about Facebook.
‘‘Welcome! Sucker’’, said one old mate. ‘‘You will be disappointed,’’ warned someone else. ‘‘Turn around now and remain unsullied’’.
Facecrack, Smackbook, Crackbook: Others derided the platform’s addictive qualities, and its potential to waste entire years of your life as you nodded out like a junkie over a stream of soporific ephemera injected daily via your newsfeed.
An Auckland graphic designer told me the place had gone to the dogs. ‘‘I’m hardly ever here any more. Facebook mostly sucks and is full of alt-right douchebags.’’ He attached a meme in which Obi-Wan Kenobi proclaims ‘‘Facebook: you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy!’’.
Elsewhere, some splendid metaphors were invoked. ‘‘Come on in!’’ wrote a mate from RNZ. ‘‘The water’s... Well, you know, of variable quality, actually, even though everyone pretends it’s ‘fine’: murky in places, snakes, sharks and crocodiles lurk below, and if it starts to sting, jump out immediately.’’ She finished with a cheery ‘‘Good Luck!’’
But there were some positives, too. People hit me with decent story ideas and interview contacts. Someone in Wellington wanted to record me for a podcast.
I was invited to join a clandestine group of radio, print and TV journalists who secretly run the country, or something. Hopefully, they’ll take a while before they discover I’m a hack and boot me out to make way for the next passing slab of journalistic fresh meat.
Four days in, I have nearly 600 new friends, about 50 of whom I know in real life. How will these friendships develop? I will keep you, er… posted.
Others derided the... potential to waste entire years of your life as you nodded out like a junkie over a stream of soporific ephemera.