Go to that link to see a little interview with Diane Hammond, who wrote Hannah's Dream. I watched the interview and am eager to spread the word about that book. So I hit COMMENT. But I can't leave a comment without being a member of MySpace.
I remember a former co-worker (and you know who you are) forcing me to join MySpace just so I could go look at HisSpace which, no offense, wasn't that interesting. That was several years ago. I received way too many emails from "Tom." I'd get so excited because I thought it was my brother Tom in Austin, from whom I hear almost nothing. But it was from some bogus cyber personality who isn't even a real person. "Tom" is the Customer Service Department at MySpace, and they're getting no prizes from me.
But fine. I want to support Hannah's Dream and her creator, so, god help me, I signed up again at MySpace because you didn't think I'd remember my password from all those years ago, did you? And I was happy (not) to go along with the whole thing. You want my school, even though that was forty years ago? Fine. I'll give you my school. But first I must pick my "city" in New York.
It's not listed.
Come on. It's got its own ZIP code (14550). It's true that the only traffic light is always blinking yellow on the drive-through side and always blinking red on the village side, but hey! it's got a library!
But that's part of the trouble, too. Even if Silver Springs (pop. 726) were listened in the drop-down menu, there would be no school. It's a centralized school, serving five villages and all the farms in between, and it's in Gainesville (pop. 300), not Silver Springs. Well, okay. It's in the middle of a potato field outside of Gainesville, but still ...
Okay. So I continued without my school. I even uploaded the grossly inaccurate but lovely photo that I use here on my blog. I worked my way back to the site of the Hammond interview. I prepared to comment.
Alas. I'm not the friend of whoever posted that interview. And I don't know how to become her friend. Oh boo hoo.
You can't holler down our rain barrel. You can't climb our cherry tree. You can't do something else but I can't remember what it is unless it's got something to do with sliding down our cellar door but that doesn't rhyme. If you won't be good to me.
Do you remember that song? Me neither (clearly). But that's how MySpace makes me feel. I picture a chubby little girl -- no more than six -- in a stiff, fifties dress, hands on hips, pouting and telling me I can't be her friend.
A pox on YourSpace!