Howard Stern is NOT My Friend

152,167 and counting. That’s how many “friends” Howard Stern has on his MySpace page the last time I checked.

The automated ticker on his “Add a Friend” feature must spin like a Tilt-A-Whirl on crystal meth, day and night. He’s got a “Thanks for adding me” post from every girl in the greater Los Angeles basin with a pierced labia and a webcam, and every mook in New Jersey that pays $29.95 a month to watch her. Then, they all pay for satellite radio so that they can be a part of the Stern community.

I guess all those people have their own reasons for wanting to be associated with a media figure like Stern or, more accurately put, to have an association with the intern he pays to update his MySpace page while he’s practicing transcendental meditation and hanging out at Scores.

For myself, I barely have time to wash my car or clean under my fingernails, much less giving a whole lot of energy to a MySpace page. I understand how indispensable the Internet has become as a tool for networking, and obviously, if you’re reading this on my blog, you’re entitled to say that I’m full of shit. I’m sure, sooner than later, I’ll end up on MySpace, too.

Part of my life is lived out on the small screen – just NOT the part that should be happening in real time and space. And certainly NOT on some weird group-schizophrenia-blog-gone-apeshit that reminds me of junior high.

I don’t need anyone to sign my yearbook or to have my ticket punched a couple of thousand times in order to feel validated and have never been the type of person that needs to feel like part of a tribe.

I just have some serious misgivings about how technology has changed the way we conduct personal, actual relationships. As much as the Internet and portals like MySpace can be a gateway to places normally inaccessible, you can end up like Alice down the Rabbit Hole, in a Wonderland where things are just NOT as they seem.

I dated this guy for awhile (someone I did NOT meet on the Internet) – let’s call him M.S.

Anyway, several weeks ago, he emailed me and mentioned that he is now “addicted to MySpace.” He gave me his page address and told me take a look.

I’m not going to say everything he put on his MySpace was totally deceptive. The only flat-out lie is his location; claiming the upscale address where his post office box resides and NOT the downtown neighborhood where he actually flops on a friend’s couch.

Most of what he posts is accurate on a superficial level. But given the opportunity to scratch beneath the surface; let’s just say I got a completely different take on his personality profile.

For instance, he says, “I help everyone.” Well, translate that suspiciously broad statement to mean, “I help everyone in the hopes they will help me right back by loaning me their car or letting me hang out for a few days.”

But B you’re not U going to get L that L subtext trying S to read between H the lines I of someone you T meet online.

I mean, he looks so cool and laid back in the pictures.

It’s only my opinion, but the reality is my opinion is based on experience and NOT on some PR hype I got off MySpace. And I think, while he’s harmless enough, he also seems to have some difficulty with relationships – especially the one he’s having with himself.

It’s ironic because he has “friends.” All 461 of them on his MySpace list. I know a few are actual acquaintances.

And though he claims to be quite an industry insider, I’m pretty sure Jenna Jameson and the Angelina Jolie are NOT texting him from their Treos. Madonna will probably NOT be giving him an onstage shout-out the next time she plays the Staples Center.

This is a grown-ass man with the grown-up equivalent of imaginary friends. Like when I was eight-years old and joined the Donny Osmond Fan Club and received a “personal” letter and signed photo from Donny himself.

Is it me, or is that absurd? Defining yourself by associations with famous people you don’t really know, so a bunch of anonymous Web-surfers (that don’t know you) will want to get to know you and become your new “friends.” Hell-ooooo? There really should be a post-modernist/MySpace definition of the word “friend.”

Because when 75% of the “friends” you have on MySpace are celebrity endorsements, I wonder if that has more to say about how really lonely you are.

Of course, socializing from your PC creates a comfortable safety zone. No one ever has to get close enough to know what you’re really like. It’s streamlined and efficient, with just enough emotional investment to send a post if you feel like it or simply delete when you don’t.

For M.S. and MyCrack addicts like him, posting and posing are probably about as much human interaction as they really want to deal with – just know that there’s a fine line between being insulated and isolated.

Then there’s the flipside; over-exposure in a beam of hot white light through a magnifying glass. It’s only a matter of time until someone gets burned.

I ‘m having sex with this guy I’ll call Z. Like everyone else in the industry, he’s using MySpace as an ersatz method for promoting a website, allowing accessibility and, of course, to pick up women.

And we did NOT meet online either, just for the record.

So, one day, I’m sitting naked at his kitchen counter on a bar stool, on a towel, buzzing with hormones and post-orgasmic electricity.

He insists I have some cranberry juice to ward off any urinary tract infection. Standing there naked, he pours a big glass. I like to look at him because he’s handsome, his body is very beautiful.

And he’s talking about work; he needs to drive more traffic, he needs more equipment, he needs to upgrade, etc.

“Well, Z,” I say. “If you can’t afford to pay someone to do it, then you’ll have to do it yourself and that’s gonna cut into the pussy time, sweetie. I mean, rent is pretty expensive and you’ve got that pussy magnet car…”

“You know, I don’t even need the car,” he says. “The porn girls don’t care – they have their own money. And the other women don’t care if I drive a Toyota…”

I ask what he wants with all these women and he seems befuddled. “It would just be nice if I could have three or four like you – you know, like friends. And then nine or ten more just for variety. That’s what keeps my head straight – the variety.”

Then, his thoughts turn dark, like a cloud passing over a rocky, slippery slope. “There’s this one girl – she’s over here four nights a week…”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-six... She goes to the grocery store and, well… it’s hard for a guy to say ‘no.’ But she’s out of town for work, Thank God – she said she’s in love with me and I’ve been really back-peddling since then.”

“Is that what you want from a woman? Someone to go to the store?”

“No. I don’t want a relationship – but if I did, I might have feelings for her.”

In reality, I already know about the girl – 21-years old and from a small Midwestern town – because she’s been posting on his MySpace page. Romantic messages in lover’s code sandwiched between the coy innuendos of a half-dozen other women in the variety pack.

Of course, one of the great features of MySpace is NOT only do you get to know every allegedly intimate detail revealed about your primary interest, you can also zero in on all their friends (a boon to pedophiles, stalkers and jealous women everywhere).

And, on her MySpace page; the ardent, funny responses of a man that finds the adoration of a wild, infatuated young girl as addictive as heroin.

She smokes cigarettes and parties and likes to kiss girls. She wants to be a millionaire by the end of the year.

I wonder if 21-year old girls from small Midwestern towns ever fantasize – like I do – about meeting a nice guy. Or is it just shits-and-giggles? Imaging that you’re top-of-the-roster and someday he’ll change and then, things will be different.

On her MySpace, she’s listed as “in a relationship.” On his, “single and looking.”

“You know, you can’t expect a young girl like that to have the kind of perspective it takes, to have a real relationship, especially with a guy like you…” I’m not sure if he noticed the far away look in my eyes, just then. He was busy on the computer, answering email.

Later, he hugged me, saying, “You know, that’s what I like about you. I can talk to you and I don’t have to hold back because, you know, you’re like a friend.”

I don’t go up on Z’s MySpace anymore, even if I want to check his calendar. If I want to know what he’s doing, I should just be able to ask him – we’re supposed to be friends.

The first few times I went up on his page, I realized I’d rather be found dead in a transparent latex cat suit with a gerbil up my ass, than to post any crush messages to him; like stained panties strung on a clothesline for the world to see.

And truthfully, it’s discouraging when he won’t answer his cell phone but he’s taken the time to post messages to a girl he hopes won’t fall in love with him. It’s really none of my business what they say to each other. We’re just friends.

Maybe I’m the freak. Maybe I am old-school. Maybe my expectations of friendship are so out-dated and over-estimated that disappointment is inevitable.

People are complicated; much more than scrapbook pages of digital photos, personality profiles, avatars and I-tunes. If you Google the phrase “make new friends” you’ll get 230,000,000 references in .20 seconds; everything from articles to guidelines, networking to message boards and whole websites for pimping your MySpace page with more bells and whistles to attract more hits and clicks.

But no matter how interactive, you can’t be friends in two dimensions. I guess most people are intelligent enough to realize the difference between reality and a computer-generated simulation. Sometimes, even in three dimensions – what you don’t realize is that you can know someone intimately, but never really know them at all.

I know a lot of people, so I took a mental tally the other day. I have less than a dozen friends on my list. They’re the people that keep in touch and don’t want anything much from me.

And no, Howard Stern is NOT one of them.