If you can’t understand how MySpace is still the largest and fastest-growing social networking site, you must not know someone who’s been in thirty-two different bands that all have a furiously self-important MySpace page to broadcast their bad songs and moody group photos. Consider yourself lucky.
Every time three greasy teenagers say “we should start a band,” a MySpace page gets its wings.
Then they record one shitty ballad in a suburban development two-car garage using the artsy one’s MacBook Pro (which Daddy graciously paid for with the same corporate account that regularly writes off Mommy’s three-martini lunch habit as an “entertainment expense”) and they post it on their MySpace and add all eight of their friends to their top eight before the bassist decides, in a fit of bong-rip egoism, that he needs more creative freedom and the drummer loses interest because he’s already fucked the lead singer’s girlfriend, and they go their separate ways in search of short-lived emo-pop-punk-screaming glory.
Two months later, Repeat.
This is what my eleven-year-old cousin has to look forward to.