Slice of Life

Facecrack

Yes, I indeed have a Facebook account.  Or membership.  I don't even know what you call it.  As an actual friend of mine (versus a Facebook friend) whom I e-mail regularly wrote a couple of weeks ago, "Facebook is pretty girlie. . . I think I'll go with it."  Facebook is a lot of things.  For me, it's a little too fucking weird for my taste.

To begin, it's an electronic stalking device.  Plain and simple.  I don't even want to know who has searched for me or plans to search for me just for the sake of knowing what I'm up to.  About a week after I signed up, I got a message from this guy I went to college with and am certain I did not have a single conversation with in 4 years, despite the fact that he was in my class and had the same major as I did.  The jist of his message was that he was requesting to "add" me as a friend "even though we weren't best buds or anything during college."

Best buds?

I really didn't know how to respond, nor did I care to respond.  I did not make an immediate decision to "accept" or "ignore" the request, choosing instead to think about the ramifications of announcing to the entire Facebook world that I was now "friends" with so-and-so, even though we hadn't seen or heard from one another in over 10 years, and even when we did have an opportunity to see or hear from one another on a daily basis, neither of us chose to afford ourselves of said opportunity.  Then my school's alumni magazine came out shortly after what I consider a "near miss" for purposes of Facebook.  In our class notes section, I am utterly shocked and amazed that Mr. Best Buds has the audacity to write that he job is going well and that he received "an outstanding" on his last "perf eval."

Perf eval?

I'm not shitting you.  He actually wrote that he received an outstanding on his last perf eval.  My shock and amazement was quickly overtaken by disgust, and I rushed to my computer to officially "ignore" this person, for purposes of Facebook and everything else as it relates to my life.  But Peter Perf Eval isn't the only person I have chosen to deny access to those details of my life I post on my Facebook page.  As a general rule, if I haven't talked to or about you in more than 10-15 years, I hate to break it to you, but you aren't and probably never were my friend.  Interested in seeing pictures of me now or my new son?  Well that's fucking weird.  Even weirder is the requests I do accept than never hear a thing from that person again.  Padding the stats, I suppose, as Facebook keeps a running tally of one's "friends."  Well whoopdie fucking doo.

As another general rule, I don't actively seek out people to "add" as my friend.  I find it fairly lame how Facebook makes an announcement to the Facebook world every time "so-and-so and so-and-so are now friends."  In other words, what google couldn't achieve during someone's downtime during work Facebook has achieved, namely getting a hit (and a face pic! oohhhh!) after plugging some relatively random person's name into a specialized search engine.  I wish you could create your own descriptions for people.  Like, "so-and-so and so-and-so went to graduate school together" or "so-and-so and so-and-so hooked up a few times in college but it got weird shortly thereafter."  You get the point.  Facebook claims to "help you connect and share with the people in your life."  I think that says it right there for me.  There are certainly people I was friends with at one time who I am now happy to be reconnected with through this social networking utility.  When I see a guy I played football with in college or the name of a fraternity brother, I'm genuinely psyched to get back in touch with these people given the special times we once shared and the resulting bonds that formed.  I've actually enjoyed getting back in touch with a number of people I went to high school with, both classmates of mine but many classmates of my brother; if you lived your high school years in the Sunshine Town you are forever bonded to those that came before and after you, irrespective of whether you chugged beers at The Pit or Goshen Ocean.  But jeezus, just because we had an intro psych class together back in the day doesn't make you my friend, and it certainly doesn't give you access to my current whereabouts and thoughts, demented as they may be.  There's a good reason there are people I haven't been in contact with in 10+ years.  There are too many other enjoyable ways to inflate my ego other than declaring online that me and somebody else "are not friends."  The most enjoyable way, perhaps, is writing on this blog.

The name Facecrack refers to the idea that it is apparently so widely popular and addicting to so many people.  For me, my Facebook addiction comes from the game Mafia Wars that I've added to my profile.  I've developed quite the little army, and with my recent purchase of a 5-star hotel on the beach, I'm bringing in almost $400K an hour and am taking out pimps faster than Rush Limbaugh can down a bottle of pain killers.  Man I am going to miss unemployment.

Thursdays with Dave

Back when I lived in Vermont I had a weekly tradition that involved grabbing a bite and some beers with a good friend, Dave. Incidentally, Dave was one of the very first people I met in Vermont shortly after I joined a gym down the street from our first apartment. It was October, 2001, and I remember that fall being a very numbing time, the after-effects of 9/11 still stinging, pretty much squelching the excitement I once had for what was the next phase in life.

Dave and I struck up a conversation when we were on the stationary bikes at the gym, both looking at classified sections in different newspapers. "Find anything in that one?" he asked me. I don't remember my response, but it was along the lines of it being the same thing week after week - nothing. What an ominous sign, looking back at that time; less than 2 months into my so-called "career" as an attorney, whatever the fuck that word is supposed to mean today (I retired from pining away for the Man on the bottom rungs of the corporate ladder long ago), I was looking for a new job. We ran into one another at least once a week and we soon discovered that we were both skiers, a timely find with my first of many long Vermont winters ahead of me. We would hit a handful of different mountains throughout the ski season and began incorporating what was my favorite event, our Thursday evening get togethers that took place at the same one spot about 95% of the time. Man do I miss that place. Some of my very favorite beers in the world and without question the best sweet potato fries in the universe. Damn.

Dave and I would generally talk about sports and work, family, and many times all the irrelevant, mindless bullshit in the world that people spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about. The latter category was usually a subset of the aforementioned "work" category. He lived down the street from me in a modest brick ranch home and had a roommate, whom I never met. He had two of the happiest, friendliest dogs I have ever met, Cody the yellow Lab and Molly the Golden Retriever. Shortly before we both moved, both dogs, well into their old age, each got some mysterious virus that the vets could never really put their finger on. Within about of month of each other, Dave had to say goodbye to Cody and Molly. Sad times.

The dinner conversation that stands out the most is when Dave told me that he is gay. What I remember most is that we were at our usual spot, having our usual brews and usual entrees, but it was one of the few times, if not the only time, that we were seated at a table instead of our usual corner seats at the bar. (Where one bartender made the absolute finest White Russian I have ever had, my dessert.) We're sitting there shooting the shit about nothing in particular and Dave says, with clear nervousness in his voice and body, "Now I don't mean to freak you out or anything, but there's something I have to tell you." Call me naive or ambivalent or whatever, but I had no idea - no clue whatsoever - about what Dave was about to tell me. In fact, in my head I was thinking that he was sick or having some type of major surgery given the gravity of his tone of voice. "I'm gay," he said. I know I cocked my head to one side and slightly recoiled, as if to say, "Oh, that's it?" but I immediately extended my hand, shook his firmly, and told him that I could care less and that he would always be a dear friend of mine. Later in the conversation I told Dave that there was something he should know about me, and that is I occasionally smoked a certain green leaf from time to time. We laughed, and I made the point that just as I could give a shit about Dave's sexual preference, he, too, probably gave a shit how I spent my time in my garage when the Wife goes to bed.

Dave and I talk about once a month, which is the most regularity with which I speak to anyone whom I consider a friend, to update one another on the latest news and gossip. I'm always eager to hear how his new life in Portland is treating him, which dinner spots and drinking holes he is going to to see if they overlap with my favorite spots during the time I called Portland home. His parents are both doing well and he gets to visit his brother in Boston with more regularity. His sister's son and daughter are both in grade school now, amazed at how fast they are growing up. We talk about getting together sometime for a football game and I'm certain we will make it happen at some point. I miss Dave, and I always make a point to tell him this, in particular how Thursdays just aren't the same anymore.

What I miss most about my Thursdays with Dave is that it was a time when I could just be myself, me in the truest me sense. No judgements, no bullshit, no condescending remarks of any kind. I hope that Dave felt he could also be himself, and I suppose this was more the case after he confided in me that he was gay, but I hope that when he saw how accepting and open I was with how I continued to feel about our friendship, there was some sense of retroactive relief that the time he was getting with me was just as genuine as it was on day 1. Thursdays definitely are not the same anymore; in fact, I can't even remember the last time I went out on a Thursday evening, drinks with some co-workers a few weeks ago, I think. But my Thursdays with Dave were much much more than a good meal and great beers or just getting out of the house to do something. Getting away from "all the bullshit" as we often remarked, talking about family and friendships and those life events that define each of us made it a very comfortable place to be, that can be tough to find at times. I just miss it.

Best Pic Ever

Just a small, small taste of the shenanigans that took place in Montreal a couple of weeks ago - great friends, great times.  On to St. Louis!

What are your thoughts on the new and improved Slice of Life?  A kinder, greener, Slice of Life if you will...

Blogroll Update

It's been a long time comin' but I've updated my blogroll with some longtime readers of the Slice who happen to be old friends from my high school days.  One of the best parts about having this blog is not only the new people it has connected me with all over the world but some of the old connections it has reestablished, oftentimes through a simple google search.  Incredibly, I have dinner plans tonight with one of the bloggers listed below, a dear friend whom I would spend hours with battling Tetris at the bowling alley (where I had my first cigarettes), indoor garage ball (where we made my brother cry on a daily basis), and my favorite, milk crate tackling outside the meat shop (where I almost pissed my pants the first time I ever witnessed this event).  With that being said, I am pleased to introduce you to:

Black Attic Arts:  Original artwork from my good friend Martin, an art teacher in Providence, Rhode Island who was one of my closest friends growing up in Hickville, Small State.  The stories are endless, many of which I hope to recount tonight over dinner and coctails.  If he continues to grow a beard and paint renditions of Premier Bush like this, my next visit with him will be at Guantanomo Bay.

Urban Renewal:  New to the blogosphere and rocking out topics from personal health to politics, meet my friend Chloe, a phenomenal trumpet player back in the day, too.  So inspired by her blogwork and zest for life that the Wife and I have decided to name our baby "Chloe Summer" if it is a girl, in honor of one of the Sunshine Town's finest.  Not really, but I hope she'll be happy we'd name our daughter Chloe nonetheless.  With respect to the baby news, the Wife and I have officially opted not to find out the sex of our baby, or, as my younger brother aptly puts it, "see if you have a carrot or not."  In talking to people who kept things a surprise versus those who found out the sex of their kids, there is a marked contrast between people who did it the old fashioned way and those that wanted to get a head start on getting the "right" clothes and color schemes for their newborns.  Good stuff.

Happy reading.