And even on My Space, a haven for shameless voluptuaries, Jackson stands out.
His profile page is plastered with photographs of him out on the town in a series of increasingly preposterous getups, like a walking outtake, accompanied by one busty woman after another—some of his 1,818 “friends.” His name assaults you in an oversize pink-and-black font that could have been ripped from a Def Leppard album cover. He meets me at the door of Sutra clad in a designer camouflage-pants-and-jacket number, a handcuff awash in gold and bling on one wrist and a watch with a giant fake-gold dollar sign covering its face on the other.
Jackson’s hair is exactly as advertised on My Space: a spiked mullet that adds four or five inches to his stature.“Wassuuuup!?
,” Jackson yelps in a boyish voice that calls to mind his best-known character—David Hasselhoff’s son, Hobie, on the syndicated lifeguard drama Leading me through the labyrinth of sofa-lined alcoves, he makes it known that he is the toast of the club. He breaks out into a spontaneous dance every few seconds. Moments later, Jackson is back with another blonde, this one not quite as tall.
Faster than would seem possible, My Space has become a “lifestyle choice,” as co-founders Chris De Wolfe and Tom Anderson, otherwise unpretentious guys who occasionally lapse into marketing-speak, like to say.