Do you remember when Tony Blair said he couldn't use a computer? I
do, because it infuriated me. At the time, he was leader of one the
world's largest economies and democracies, and there he was, smirking
gleefully about the fact that he couldn't operate the most versatile
tool ever created. Quite pathetic.
That's not me. I'm not quite a geek, but I am pretty well wired. I've designed and built websites, can code a little bit, was emailing in the late nineties, was an early adopter of broadband and so on. So, please believe me when I say that, unlike Mr. Blair, I'm no luddite. So why don't I get Facebook?
Sure, I understand what it is, and even have some knowledge of its advertising model. I also have an account, because in the past, various clients expected it. But faced with the site itself, I'd be better off with the blueprints for a nuclear submarine.
I was reminded of this befuddlement this morning, when I received an email from Facebook telling me I had two messages and one poke. Incidentally, the word 'poke' has the same schoolboy double-meaning in America as it does here -so you can tell Facebook was built by students. Anyway, I receive this message every morning. Because I don't engage with Facebook in any active way, those numbers rarely change. However, I know the messages are 'friend' requests from former school colleagues (and if they happen to be reading this, I certainly don't intend any rudeness, but come on fellas, it was 35 years ago). The 'poke', and it is the only one I have ever received, came from someone I know very well, and he sent it five years ago. Yes, five years since he clicked the button, and Facebook still emails me daily about it!
Most mornings, I delete the message along with all the badly spelt notices telling me the FBI has a million dollar cheque waiting. This morning though, I clicked on it, just to see if there was any way I could stop the notifications.
The click took me to, what I assume to be my Facebook homepage. Laid out in all their glory, were postings from people I only vaguely recognise, telling me they were waiting for friends in coffee shops; endless pictures of babies doing baby things; a few promotional messages from months ago and some ads. Then there was a menu of buttons for feeds, searches, gifts, music, games and other things, on the left. On the right, a huge string of people with thumbnail photos, most of whom I didn't recognise. So here's my question: what am I supposed to do?
I tweet. In fact, I tweet rather too much (@ROCKINGVICAR if you're interested). That social facility had me hooked in about an hour. Its remit is beautifully simple: give the world something pithy, emotional or engaging in 140 characters. As a writer, that's a challenge I cannot refuse.
I suppose Twitter is only second to Google in elegant simplicity. For all its owners' faults, you have to admire the Google homepage. One logo, one box in which to type. So minimal, it conquered the world. Facebook feels like the exact opposite. As though the Zuckerberg gang can't stop thinking of stuff to stick on the site. So much stuff, it's all but impossible to decide on a worthwhile activity. It's like a breakfast buffet - eggs, no sausages, no fruit salad, no yoghurt, no porridge. Actually, I'm not that hungry.
I never did work out how to stop the messages and poking. The realisation that I still didn't really understand the Facebook appeal drove me away long before I could investigate that operation.
Of course, Facebook has conquered the world too. The problem clearly lies with me, and I can't help feeling I must be missing something - but missing it I surely am.
That's not me. I'm not quite a geek, but I am pretty well wired. I've designed and built websites, can code a little bit, was emailing in the late nineties, was an early adopter of broadband and so on. So, please believe me when I say that, unlike Mr. Blair, I'm no luddite. So why don't I get Facebook?
Sure, I understand what it is, and even have some knowledge of its advertising model. I also have an account, because in the past, various clients expected it. But faced with the site itself, I'd be better off with the blueprints for a nuclear submarine.
I was reminded of this befuddlement this morning, when I received an email from Facebook telling me I had two messages and one poke. Incidentally, the word 'poke' has the same schoolboy double-meaning in America as it does here -so you can tell Facebook was built by students. Anyway, I receive this message every morning. Because I don't engage with Facebook in any active way, those numbers rarely change. However, I know the messages are 'friend' requests from former school colleagues (and if they happen to be reading this, I certainly don't intend any rudeness, but come on fellas, it was 35 years ago). The 'poke', and it is the only one I have ever received, came from someone I know very well, and he sent it five years ago. Yes, five years since he clicked the button, and Facebook still emails me daily about it!
Most mornings, I delete the message along with all the badly spelt notices telling me the FBI has a million dollar cheque waiting. This morning though, I clicked on it, just to see if there was any way I could stop the notifications.
The click took me to, what I assume to be my Facebook homepage. Laid out in all their glory, were postings from people I only vaguely recognise, telling me they were waiting for friends in coffee shops; endless pictures of babies doing baby things; a few promotional messages from months ago and some ads. Then there was a menu of buttons for feeds, searches, gifts, music, games and other things, on the left. On the right, a huge string of people with thumbnail photos, most of whom I didn't recognise. So here's my question: what am I supposed to do?
I tweet. In fact, I tweet rather too much (@ROCKINGVICAR if you're interested). That social facility had me hooked in about an hour. Its remit is beautifully simple: give the world something pithy, emotional or engaging in 140 characters. As a writer, that's a challenge I cannot refuse.
I suppose Twitter is only second to Google in elegant simplicity. For all its owners' faults, you have to admire the Google homepage. One logo, one box in which to type. So minimal, it conquered the world. Facebook feels like the exact opposite. As though the Zuckerberg gang can't stop thinking of stuff to stick on the site. So much stuff, it's all but impossible to decide on a worthwhile activity. It's like a breakfast buffet - eggs, no sausages, no fruit salad, no yoghurt, no porridge. Actually, I'm not that hungry.
I never did work out how to stop the messages and poking. The realisation that I still didn't really understand the Facebook appeal drove me away long before I could investigate that operation.
Of course, Facebook has conquered the world too. The problem clearly lies with me, and I can't help feeling I must be missing something - but missing it I surely am.
