Just last month, China announced that residents living within a 17-mile radius of Shanghai would be permitted to participate in the same mindless posting enjoyed by the rest of the free world. Today our friends to the east have modified this policy, in a move that many, even in the United States, are hoping goes viral. Here is the official statement out of Beijing:
IN ORDER TO CREATE A BETTER, LESS CROWDED FACEBOOK ENVIRONMENT, ACTIVITY WILL BE LIMITED TO ONE POST PER FAMILY PER DAY. WE BUILT A GREAT WALL ONCE BEFORE; IF WE REFRAIN FROM POSTING PICTURES OF THE NOODLE BOWL WE HAD FOR LUNCH, WE CAN DO IT AGAIN. CHINA WILL NOT PUBLISH CANDY CRUSH SCORES, “CHECK-INS” AT HOTSPOTS LIKE “MA YU CHING’S PLUMBER’S WORLD,” OR ADORABLE PICTURES OF ANIMALS (SEE NOODLE BOWL).
WE SUGGEST THAT FAMILIES WHO FEEL THE NEED TO WRITE MORE THAN ONE DAILY POST DONATE THEIR EXCESS VERBIAGE TO LESS FORTUNATE FAMILIES WITH NOTHING TO SAY. PENALTIES FOR FACEBOOK OVERAGES RANGE FROM INVALIDATING GROUPONS TO FORCED STERILIZATION OF ALL HARD DRIVES.
LASTLY, FOR THOSE WHO MUST POST PICTURES ON “THROWBACK THURSDAY,” WE SUGGEST THIS PARTICULAR THURSDAY AS A PROTOTYPE:
When I joined the social media game a little more than a year ago, I naively went to my local godaddy store to purchase the website name requiring the least amount of thinking on anybody’s part — mainly mine. But I was soon to face the cold, hard reality that the mother of all Bruce Ferber website names had already been taken. Sadly, bruceferber.com gets you nowhere near my first novel, my amusing little blog, or that awesome photo of me in Venice. Instead, it guides the hapless internet surfer to an insurance office in Malverne, NY, where a bald man with a mustache will try to sell you term life and an umbrella poiicy.
I, the author, have been reduced to a lowly…
I’ve got to tell you, it didn’t sit so well at first — not only did I feel like there was something wrong with me, godaddy actually got me to pay them money to be on the waiting list for bruceferber.com, should something untimely happen to the New York insurance office. But little by little, I began to embrace my new identity. Who was to say that a dot.com was any better than a dot.net? Slowly, I began to hear about other dot.nets, and while we never became a formal support group, it was pretty much understood that we had each others’ backs. Just the other day, I sent my favorite Spotify playlist to dalailama.net just to cheer him up. Dude knows it’ll be a cold day in hell before he gets his hands on that dot.com. And then he was nice enough to remind me that we dot.nets are becoming more and more accepted by mainstream society. Ah, how we rejoiced the day the Pope said it wasn’t for him to judge whether a dot.com was superior to a dot.net!
And now, what we all agree on, is how glad we are not to be a part of this new bunch of stragglers, unleashed by the government’s recent approval of the suffix… dot.tv. What kind of a lame suffix is that? It’s apparently so lame that it has brought dot.coms and dot.nets together, co-mingling in bars that formerly only catered to either one or the other. As for me, I must admit that I’ve taken no small pleasure knowing that in some far corner of the world, there’s a bruceferber.tv who’d sell his own mother to be bruceferber.net.
For those of you who are not already aware, self-promotion is a war. Those of us pushing a new book or CD battle ferociously for precious few seconds of your attention, hoping that our pitch will somehow pique your interest in our passion. We dutifully re-configure our souls for the Facebook wall, then cross our fingers that we’ll strike a magic chord, enticing you to join us on our creative journey. But as in any war, victory cannot be ours unless we know who else lines the battlefield.
Enter the “Food Posters,” those staunch members of the Facebook tribe who need you to know everything they cooked for breakfast, or more puzzling yet, simply what they ate for breakfast. At last count, the FP’s outnumbered novelists by 100,000 to 1, which wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t beg the question: “Is my novel as good as that French Toast? Sure, I put everything I had into creating deep and complex characters, but look at the way the butter melts into the syrup. It’s mesmerizing. Who am I kidding? There’s no contest here.”
I surrender unequivocally, declaring a TKO for the French Toast. Then, as I proceed to drown in melancholy, I suddenly remember that it is just a picture of French Toast — which has undoubtedly been eaten or is ice-cold by now. Not so my novel. This is a work that will live on in people’s hearts forever! Or at least until lunch, when somebody posts a bitchin’ club sandwich.