Generally all I have to say to such people is "Naff off, you asinine twunt" or "Who the chuffbiscuit are you?" or "I am about as interested in your shop/business/website as I am in eating bat faeces." I know lots of you lovely people are on Twitter and find it entertaining and even useful, and I was, naturally, fascinated by it when my riots doodad was being retweeted all over the place, but I just don't have the attention span required to scroll through all the half-conversations and inanities you have to sift to get to a few crumbs of interest. I don't have any heroes, at least not any who'd be likely to have Twitter accounts, so don't like the 'celeb' angle, either. The ubiquity resulting from it has put me off people I used to quiet like, such as Stephen Fry.
FB has its uses, but I still really like Livejournal. I've never got in to reading any other blogs or websites, either, though I suspect I would if I had an office job.
When I said, in my last post, that I thought nostalgia was the last refuge of the mediocre, I wasn't talk about retro tastes or the desire to study the past. Had I meant the latter I wouldn't have been so fascinated by Leigh Fermor's travel writing in the first place. I meant the tendency to wallow in and romanticise the past, especially one's own past. and especially if that involves droning on about how good music was in the eighties. Unless it's the eighteen eighties, of course.