And now, A Very Special Friendster Dating Story.

The blog works.

A large group of friends made up of a typical sampling of the overall New York demographic (eight Vassar graduates and one very smart older brother) were sitting outside at a Park Slope bar during the height of the Friendster craze (fifteen minutes and .01 seconds ago, as the clichéd, Warholian math works out), and I outlined what I thought the problem with the site was, which I will quote here in its entirety. Sidebar: when you put yourself in quotes, you LOVE yourself. But anyway:

“We can dance around it all we want and say that we’re on it just to run user searches on other people who can also quote Clue in its entirety — which is also everyone I ALREADY KNOW — but the true intent of that site is for one purpose and one purpose alone: to get me laid. And hi. It’s not working. Because unlike specifically-purposed online dating sites, this one hides behind a layer of bizarre social propriety, as if to say, ‘A long-term relationship would be fine and all, but it’s just not as fulfilling as getting a witty testimonial from a co-worker. By the way, don’t I look sexy and mysterious in this picture of me taken five years ago?’ Screw that noise. It’s a dating service and I intend to use it as such.”

So I customized my gallery to find someone who looked, acted, and quoted Clue just as I did, and found a candidate who lived six blocks away. His name was dan. Our date was weird and he never called. So, dan? If you’re out there? And you’ve learned how to read? I want my good name back. And I’ve never meant that with such damning literalness.

I’m pulling the plug on the count of 3. And I can count backwards with alarming speed.

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