My name is Chris, and I'm a Facebook Stalker...
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Like home
I worked in radio for more than a decade. Nothing high profile, like a morning show host or anything. My job was more behind-the-scenes, and mostly entailed planning and managing events and promotions. My first gig was at Cities 97, a Minneapolis "adult album alternative" radio station, when I was in my twenties. The playlist included a lot of music from local bands, and one of my favorites was The Jayhawks. They had been around since the 80s, but I didn't really discover them until the 90s, when I saw them perform live. I copped their "Tomorrow The Green Grass" CD from our music director--free music was one of the perks of the job--and played it over and over. I quickly fell in love with every song, and got to see the band play live again on several occasions (another job perk).
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
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