The SF Weekly looks at Jonathan Abrams, the guy who started Friendster to get a date and can’t stand it when the freaks, the absurd, and the creative types take over.
In the final analysis, Friendster is Jonathan Abrams’ beach party, and he gets to decide who is acceptable and who isn’t. He built his site as a way of getting himself dates, not to chat with a Jesus impersonator.
As we talk, Abrams admits that Friendster’s success has killed his social life; it’s more than a little ironic that he has his very own dating site, but no time to date. He asks me if I have any cute single friends. I do, and one’s even a Friendster member. But I have to point out that her online picture is of a funny little schmoo-like shark head. Abrams rolls his eyes and opens up my profile page to look at my collection of friends, many of whom present distinctly nonhuman miens.
“Oh, I get it. Your friends are all smartass types,” he says in exasperation. He types a message to my shark-faced friend. “Hi Kerry,” he writes. “Your profile looks interesting. Too bad you have such a silly picture.”
I predict that Friendster will crash and burn into a broke ghost town the second he completes the purge.
