Coming to the end of a long and curious decade, we could talk about so many of the things it's wrought. We could talk of Facebook friends and Twitter followers, of the all-seeing eye of Google or the all-beguiling iPhone. But I want to talk about Gary Brolsma instead. Because if you want to tell the story of what happened in the oughts, look at the boy who danced the Numa Numa.
You know Gary Brolsma. In 2004, he was a round, reclusive young man. One evening, he sat down in his bedroom, put on his headphones and pressed "play" on a piece of catchy Moldovan pop music, chiefly notable for repeating what sounds like the words, "Numa Numa yay!"
Then he all but exploded in front of his webcam. He bounced in his chair; he waved his arms; he mugged the lyrics with the abandon that comes out only when someone doesn't realize he's about to become a global item.
Mr. Brolsma uploaded his video to a minor video-sharing site. What he thought would be a recording of marginal interest became globally popular. (In the days before YouTube, the very idea of viral video was a novelty.) He also became a worldwide curiosity. The news media arrived at his doorstep, discovering one profoundly embarrassed teenager.
Even as the song and the video both wormed their way into mainstream pop culture, the story reeked of derision. Mr. Brolsma became a charter member of the freaks-and-geeks club of YouTube celebrities that briefly threatened to overrun popular culture a few years ago (remember Star Wars kid?). South Park eventually lampooned the YouTube crowd in an episode in which all the stars wind up fighting to the death. Society, the episode intimated, would be no worse off for the loss.
Mr. Brolsma could have left bad enough alone. Instead, he embraced the fact that the universe, in its wisdom, had appointed him the Numa Numa kid. He released a succession of follow-up videos, creating a network of websites to support his new band and other creative ventures. Cleverly, they all play up the fact that he seems to be a genuinely sweet, shy, roly-poly character - the underdog everyone can get behind.
And then, a couple of months ago, the most wonderful thing appeared online: a video filmed in October at an U.S. college football game. It's half-time at Michigan State, 75,000 people are in the stands and the marching band is on the field. Up to a podium at the front of the stadium steps a round young man. It's Gary Brolsma, there to conduct the band in a rendition of his timeless classic. Partway through, he turns to the crowd, puts down his baton, and with a look of deliberation, leads the band through the same arm-waving dance he captured six years ago.
Trumpets and trombones, by the hundreds, wave through the air in sync with him. Sousaphonists hop up and down in rhythm. From the videographer's perch, halfway up the stands, the crowd's pumping arms can be seen following the lead of the guy who was once a laughingstock. As his image is projected on the big screen, the crowd roars with delight. It's a triumph.
I watch this and wonder: Does society shape the Internet, or does the Internet shape society? It's a question that underlies so much of what's proved vexing in this still-young century. So much of what the Web has thrown at us has proved unsettling. So many of the ways it works seem arbitrary and capricious. Can we bend this tool to our will, or is it destined to alter the way we relate to each other in ways that are beyond our control and beyond our comprehension?
The story of the Numa Numa kid points us toward an answer. On the one hand, it is a reminder of so many of the changes that have swept over us. We have a new form of mass culture, one that works independently of the broadcast media. We've seen the rise of user-created adaptations and remixes as vectors for propagating things that tickle us. We live in the age of social media, of crowd dynamics, of mass whimsy.
On the other hand, the more things change, the more potent that aphorism about things staying the same seems to become. The Numa Numa kid reminds us that we're always looking for new ways to tell old stories. Every tale worth telling boils down to just a few fundamentals: love, revenge, betrayal, redemption. You could say that the tale of Mr. Brolsma is about technology or viral videos or the power of the crowd, or social media. But fans at football games don't cheer for social media.
They cheered because the fat kid made good.
Social media have already transformed so much, and yet I can promise you that no matter what changes those media undergo in the years to come, we will use them to keep telling the same stories over and over. That's the horror of the future, and the beauty, too. We'll still be us.